Eric fumbled with the buttons on the arm rest of the stolen Nissan. A blast of humid night air hit him. It smelled like charred beef.

      “Snow Bunny, can you hear me?” Adrenaline shot his voice up a few octaves.

       “Loud and clear, Earth Worm. What the hell happened?” She jumped off the bed and pressed her forehead against the hotel window, searching the Miami skyline as if she could find him.

       “You said there were no guards!” Glancing in the rear view mirror had become his latest tick as he navigated the short grid of turns toward the highway. “FYI, there were two freakin’ guards, Snow Bunny! Two!”

       “Shit.” Long bit of silence. “Sorry. But, you got out with the samples, right?”

       Eric slipped the cool-pack full of vials from his black canvas jacket, tossing them onto the seat beside him.

       “Affirmative.” Sarcasm and fear. He cranked up the air. “I think someone’s following me.”

       “Earth worm, listen to me.” Her voice was measured, painfully calm. “Eric…the hard part is over. Now you just have to get that evidence to the Sun’s reporter. He’s there waiting. Just keep driving, that’s all you have to do. You know how important this is. You’re the messenger; this has to get out to the public.”

       He wiped at his nose, checked the rear view mirror and jerked the wheel hard right, swerving over two lanes and jumping onto I-75 at the last minute. The suspected black van didn’t make it.

       “Yeah, the messenger of death.” And then louder, so she could hear him, “getting onto Alligator Alley now.”

       “Okay. Good. Anyone behind you?”

       “Negative. You know what they’ll do if they catch me, right?”

       “They won’t. Just drive. One hour and it’ll be out of your hands. We’re doing the right thing. They are monsters. And Eric…”

       “Yeah?”

       “Don’t let those vials break.”

       He cranked up the radio so he couldn’t hear the pounding in his chest or the blood rushing through his head.  It was almost three in the morning so traffic was light, but still, every time lights appeared behind him, he held his breath until they passed.

       The road was a long straight ribbon of blacktop cutting through the Everglades. Metal fencing bordering both sides of the highway flew by in intermitten flashes. He suddenly longed for a couple short months ago when all he had to worry about was passing his Chem. II final.  

       Ding ding. Eric moved his attention from the road to the dashboard. A tiny red light glared at him.

        “What the…?” His heart did a flip flop and almost stopped. “C..c..come in. Snow Bunny? Angela!”

       “What, what’s wrong? Are they behind you?”

       “I’m almost out of gas.” No response. “Did you hear me?”

      “You stole a car that was on empty?!”

       “I didn’t exactly have time to check.”

       “There are no gas stations on Alligator Alley.”

       “Oh god.”

       “Okay, go as far as you can and then…you’ll have to walk. I have to think.”

       Eric slowed the car down to 55 mph. He had heard this was the most gas efficient speed. Things were becoming very surreal and he was getting numb from the terror, feeling nothing but the sensation of a cold sweat.

       And then he heard it. The unmistakable thump thump thump of a chopper. He knew this was no coincidence. They were looking for him. The car began to putter. Slamming his hands on the steering wheel, he eased it off the road and brought it to rest close to the fence. He killed the lights.

       “Angela?” Static. “Angela!” Were they blocking the radio signal? Now he really did feel paranoid. He ripped off the headset and hid it under the seat. Maybe he could save her, at least. Let them think he was acting alone.

       As a spotlight from the helicopter came into view, sweeping back and forth like two wicked, alien eyes, his face became slick with tears. This was not going to end well for him.

       Grabbing the cool-pack, he opened the door and began to run. When he was out of breath, he said a little prayer and scaled the fence. The top part, being angled down, was a bit difficult, but he soon found himself crash landing with a thud in the tall grasses beside the waterway.

       The chopper was close now, but within a few minutes he heard something even more terrifying. Squealing tires, car doors…dogs. He collapsed against the fence. It was over. They would find him and make him disappear. After all this, he had failed.

        Two eyes, glowing the color of moonlight appeared in the dark waters before silently submerging again.

      He suddenly knew what he had to do. This had to make headlines one way or another. A few infected gators would do the trick. They couldn’t stop that in time to cover it up. He ripped open the cool pack with his teeth and one by one, unsealed the vials and drank them.    

       Fighting the blinding pain now coursing through him, Eric slid forward until his feet, then his legs and finally his arms were submerged in the warm, murky waters.

       He felt the gator only as a violent jerk on his leg, then a wicked roll into the darkness.

        The word ‘normal’ tastes like soured milk. My best friend, Anna, is coconut flavored. The machine they called a ‘SonicSite 4000′, which will prune my crossed neurons with pulses of sound, tastes like pea soup with too much pepper. The word strap tastes like cold molasses.

       “Won’t it be nice to read a book without all those pesky associations?”

       My eyes move to the vanilla crème nurse above me. Her voice is warm, but her fingertips are cold as she presses them into my scalp. Or is she pressing bits of metal onto my head? I don’t really want to know. The large, round donut machine they’re going to stick my head into is scary enough.

       Are they pesky? I don’t think so, but everyone else seems to. To me, they just are. As a square has four sides, the word book tastes like buttered toffee.

       “I don’t know,” I sigh. “If you couldn’t taste apple pie, would you still eat it?”

       She was light and thoughtful. “Well, I suppose not. Wouldn’t be worth the effort and hip expansion.”

       My doctor would have said, “Tasting an apple pie is normal, tasting a book is not.” Which is why I’m here. To become normal.

       The word sad tastes like black licorice.

       “You may feel a slight pressure on your scalp. How are you doing? Is the valium kicking in yet?”

       My face crinkles involuntarily.

       “Are you okay?”

       “Yes.” Valium is onion flavored. I wish they would just call it a pill. Tart grass, much nicer. I am trying to relax, doing breathing exercises, having faith in those who know better. Those who know what normal is.

       Faith. Tastes like perfume. Now I recall the one that really got me in trouble. The one where mom found out I wasn’t normal. The Lord’s Prayer. It tastes like raw bacon. I threw up on the children’s choir director in front of three hundred horrified church goers. 

       I hear the doctor’s soft shoes on the linoleum before I hear his voice.

       “Is our girl ready?”

       “Yes, Dr. Bryant.”

       “Dr. Bryant,” I repeat. I savor the taste of lemon cheesecake; let it linger on my tongue. A tear slips, slides down my neck. My legs begin to shake.

       I close my eyes and let go. 

      “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

       “It’s a ripped wing.”

       “No, not the damn butterfly, Gracie. You. What’s wrong with you.”

       A faint rustle in the shoe box moves Gracie’s attention from the computer screen. She peers in.  One burnt orange wing beats frantically against the side.

      “No, no, pretty girl. Shhhh,” she whispers into the box. Then to her husband, “You’ve startled her. She needs a calm environment.” She hums until its wings settle down into a slow, rhythmic pulse. It crawls onto the mushy pear she’s given it to eat. Satisfied, she goes back to the screen.

       Hal throws up his hands and leaves her.

       Dusk arrives behind the closed bedroom blinds. Gracie has amassed the needed supplies and begins the operation. Leaving the lights dim and Clair de Lune playing in the background, she pinches the wings together, lifts the creature from the box and pins her down on a towel with a looped wire hanger around her head, thorax and abdomen.

       “Comfy dear?” She carefully fans out the ripped forewing. “Don’t worry, this won’t hurt a bit. Scary, though. I know. You don’t know what’s happening, what I’m doing to your body. Sometimes I wonder if that’s better…ignorance.” Clipping a tiny rectangle from cardstock, she measures it against the tear, trims it a bit smaller. “There, that should do it.” With a toothpick, she carefully spreads adhesive on the makeshift bandage. While she waits for it to dry, she watches the tiny legs twitch, the antennae swim in the air.

       “Fascinating creature, you are. Filled with poison and yet fragile, fragile as the ones who come to eat you and die.” Gracie squeezes her eyes closed so as not to flood her patient. “Okay,” she wipes at her cheeks and straightens her back. “Ready for phase two.” 

        Making sure the black veins line up, she pinches the tiny rectangle with tweezers and positions it over the tear. This takes a few attempts and she has to hold her breath to keep her hand from shaking.

       “I believe you will survive,” she whispers. Her attention wanders to her own hand; skin as thin as the butterfly’s wing, puffy blue veins like ropes running its length. “Such a short journey. We must…,” she takes in a breath. “Yes! That’s it. You must finish your journey! No reason for you to sit around this house. Oh, but it’s probably too cold for you now.” She lifts the wire hanger and encourages the monarch to turn over. “Well, go on. They should work now.” The wings shutter once, sweep up and down. Once. Then twice. Then she is airborne.

       “Yes!” Gracie claps, gray eyes glistening. She watches the creature flutter around the room for a few minutes, landing on her pink rose bed spread. “Haldon!”

       Hal rushes into the room, one hand on his chest, wide eyes darting about.

       “What’s wrong?” Gracie asks, when she sees his face.

       “What’s wrong?” he drops his hand to his hip. “What do you mean what’s wrong? You’re the one who yelled for me.”

       “Oh,” She ignores his tone. Behind the anger is fear, she knows. She also knows it is better he doesn’t know exactly what he has to fear. Like the butterfly. Ignorance is a gift.

       “Will you drive me to that truck stop on Central Avenue?”

       “Plaza 23?”

       “Yeah, that’s the one.”

       His shoulders slump. He looks for a moment like he is going to ask her why, but then he just shakes his head. “Yes, Grace. If it will make you happy, I’ll drive you to the truck stop.”

       Three days later, she gets the call.

       “Hi, is this Miss Grace Adams?”

       “Yes.”

       “Hey, this is Mac Barnes…the truckdriver?” He pauses.  He can’t see the hope welling up in her swollen eyes, the Kleenex clutched to her mouth. “Well, I ah, just called to give you the good news.”

       Gracie exhales. Her lungs ache like she’s been holding her breath for three days.

      “She made it to Florida?”

       “Yep. Dropped her off in a place with lots of wild flowers near Ocala. I watched her fly off. She’s good. Should be able to migrate with the rest of ‘em. That’s something, huh?”

        “Oh, thank you, Mac. Thank you for giving her a ride.”

       “No problem. You take care now.”

       Gracie hangs up and looks over at her husband of thirty years. It’s time.  She can face it now. Now that she remembers how to hope for the impossible.

 “Hal,” she slips her hand into his and braces herself for the flood of his grief. She holds onto the image of the broken butterfly now hundreds of miles away, continuing on her journey. “Dr. Brennan has given me three months. It’s cancer.”

 (based on a true tale of butterfly heroes)

        Much of my life has played out in one rehab circle or another, so you can take my story or leave it. All I can do is tell it, tell the truth…and the truth is, I’m not even sure I believe it.

      My mother was one of those people who collected souls. Vagrants, husbands kicked out for the night, down and out relatives, everyone and anyone was welcomed to grab a meal or a bed in her old farmhouse. As you can imagine, this opened up our world–me and my two brothers—exposing us to endless possibilities through stories and illegal substances. Instead of our minds being stuffed with skewed parental beliefs, closed off and capped…we soared, we expanded, we soaked up lore and logic, creating an environment where anything could happen. And eventually something did.

       It began with a dream.

       I could see myself sleeping; blanket tossed on the floor, one arm thrown over my head, chest rising and falling in soothing slow motion. Then I could see the wall alongside my bed breathing; white plaster pushing out, sucking back in. IN. OUT. Eventually, the bulge expanded like a balloon and began to move. It slid toward the adjacent wall and turned the corner, ending up behind my headboard. I watched beads of sweat form on my sleeping self’s forehead. My breathing became jagged, more like panting. Suddenly, large hands pushed through the wall as if the wall was giving birth, stretching out, reaching for my sleeping self. Blood trickled down the arms in thin channels, rolled over the knuckles and dripped from the fingertips onto my white pillow. I tried to scream, ‘Wake up!’ No sound would come. My sleeping self whimpered as the hands wrapped around my throat. I wheezed, my air cut off, my eyes bulging under the pressure.

       Brrrrring. Brrrrrring. Brrrrring.

       Startled, I jumped up and slammed my hand down on the alarm, knocking it to the floor. Something wet remained on my face. I ran into the bathroom and collapsed in relief. Tears….no blood. I checked my neck.  No signs of being strangled by some lunatic behind the wall.

       “Just a bad dream.” I reassured myself. “A really bad dream.”

       My hands were still shaking as I buttered my toast at breakfast.

       “You all right, Joan?”

       “Fine, Mother.” I rolled my eyes. Why was she always so observant?

       A week later, I wasn’t feeling so fine. I was still having the dream, only it was starting to cross some kind of barrier. What do I mean? I really have no idea. All I know is, it was becoming stronger, breaking through to the physical world. The hands were beginning to leave marks. Finger imprints on my neck that I would wait to fade before heading downstairs for breakfast.

       I decided to move my bed to the center of the room.

       There was a new guy at the table that morning. He looked like I felt: sleepless and scared out of his mind. I glanced at him as I reached for the butter.

       “He’s your cousin, Marti, from New York. Say hi.”

       “Hey,” I waved. He looked fried. Mother smiled and began to make small talk with him about his bus ride, some family up north, whatever. I was just glad she had someone else to worry about that morning. I was in no mood for her scrutinizing. I glanced at my older brothers, realizing they were unusually quiet.

       “What’s wrong with you two?” They both looked drained of blood.

       “Nothing,” Jacob answered without looking up. Bobby ignored me.

       No snappy comebacks or cut downs? Something was definitely wrong.

       Brrrrring. Brrrrrring. Brrrrring.

       I jerked up, gasping for air. It hadn’t worked. The bloody arms had just stretched, gotten longer to reach me. This time they tried to drag me from my bed. I ran from the room and slammed the door behind me.

       That morning at breakfast, I had an idea.

       “Mom, I think Marti should sleep in my room. I’ll sleep on the couch for awhile. It doesn’t look like he’s getting much rest.”

       “How thoughtful of you, Joan.” She beamed at Marti, who really did look like he could use somebody to knock him on the skull and put him out for a few days. Anyway, I knew this would work because mother was always trying to instill unselfishness in us. She looked at my brothers and I noticed her smile wane.

       “You two sick or something?”

       “Can’t sleep, stupid nightmares,” Bobby grunted. Jacob reached over and popped him in the arm. “Ow!”

       “Jacob, don’t hit your brother.”

       At this point, I had dropped my toast and my jaw. Nightmares?

       “Hands?”

       With that one word, I had silenced both my brothers and watched terror widen their eyes for the first time in my life. I nodded. It felt good not to be crazy, at least.

       A week later there was a new guy at the table. He was tall, pale with minty, round eyes; almost otherworldly.

      “This is Samael.”

       We all stared at her. Just ‘Samael,’ no long lost cousin, uncle, friend, grocery store bum?

       “You all right, Mom?”

       “Yes, of course.”

       We glanced at each other and then at Samael.

       He was calmly reaching for the butter, with mom smiling beside him like she was on something. I felt my face drain, my heart begin to race. His hands were large, each knuckle and vein very familiar to me. I glanced up the stairs.

       “Mother? Where’s cousin Marti?”

      “I don’t know.” She looked confused suddenly. “I guess he decided to move on.”

       Samael’s eyes gleamed. My brothers and I excused ourselves from the table, making our way upstairs one at a time, trying not to draw Samael’s attention.

       Then we all stood around my bed, staring at the blood spots dried brown on the pillow. Bobby began to cry.

       Bobby doesn’t remember it happening like this. He became a psychiatrist.  Jacob remembers it being worse. He became a priest.

       And me? Well…I became a writer.

(photo credit: Hendrike)

      Fiona heard Roger come home, recognized the soft thud of his suitcase tossed on the bed.

       “Fiona? Where are you, Darling?” He joined her on their bedroom balcony, wrapping his arms around her and kissing the top of her head. “Of course. Out here listening to the whispers of the sea again?”

       “Yes,” she said.

       “I’ve brought you something back from Ireland.” He kneeled down in front of her.

       Fiona pulled her watery green eyes from the ocean to stare at his outstretched hand. Surprise reshaped her mouth.

       “It’s sea glass. I thought of you the moment I saw it.”

       Fiona reached out and carefully lifted a piece from his palm. A tiny vibration tickled her fingertips. “Oh,” she whispered, the surprise deepening.

       “It’s good to see you smile.” He took her hand and slipped the remaining pieces of smooth, cool glass into her palm. “Like emeralds, aren’t they? The same color as your eyes.” He closed her palm around them and kissed her fingers.

       Fiona gasped as a more intense vibration moved through her hand, her arm and then branched out to consume her body, warming it from the inside out. The whispers she usually had to struggle to hear were whisked into her mind by the vibrations, suddenly as clear as a bell: Hoooommmmeeee.

       “Home,” she repeated.

       “Yes, Darling. I’m home.”

       Over the next few weeks, Roger watched as his wife blossomed. She stopped spending her days as a lost, sad soul on the balcony and began haunting their marble mansion restlessly. Her voice echoed through the rooms as she sang strange and mystical tunes with a voice so sweet, it made his heart swell, his eyes tear.

       ‘By fire and wind and sea and rain,

       Beloved, he made me

       With hands of light,

       And feathers of flight

       Come close, come close to thee’

      He began to find more and more sea glass; in jars on the kitchen counter, on her nightstand, glittering in the potted plants and even around her neck.

       She looked up from making a salad as he stood staring at her on the other side of the kitchen island.

       “Yes?” she said, the corner of her mouth pushing up in a seductive smile.

       Roger’s heart skipped. “Wow, Fiona, you look amazing.” And she did. Her skin glowed like a pearl, her red hair lay in waves cascading around the curves of her shoulders and her eyes…he could get lost in her eyes. They glittered with ancient secrets and the light of a million stars. Who was this woman? He moved his gaze to the sea glass necklace.

      “I’m glad you liked my gift so much, Darling. Where did you get more?”

       “Ebay.” Her smile widened and she moved her attention back to slicing cucumbers.

       He shivered as he thought about the old village woman he had bought the sea glass from and her broken English warning:

       ‘In the wrong hands, it will bring out one’s true nature. Connect that person to their imprisoned soul.’

       Well, if this was his wife’s true nature, he thought as he looked lovingly upon the gorgeous creature in front of him, then he could live with the old lady’s warning coming to fruition.

       Or so he thought.

       “Fiona?” he called, peeling off his wet tie and dress shirt. “I’m home. That’s some storm out there, huh?” No answer. Steam was seeping from beneath the bathroom door. “Fiona?” He opened the door cautiously. Through the steam, he could see his wife stretched out in the spa tub, unmoving. His heart did a back flip in his chest. It seemed he was moving in slow motion as he crossed the white tiled floor, tripping over emptied cans of sea salt to stand above her body.

       Her eyes were closed, her hair fanned out around her like fire, her skin an eerie green glow. It took him a moment to realize the color was coming from all the sea glass she was laying on. The tub was half full with it. And then he noticed something that horrified him. He could barely take in a breath. His mind struggled to grasp what he was seeing. Falling to his knees, he peered through the water at the large cuts in her abdomen, beneath her ribs. Open wounds so deep he could see the pink of her organs.

       “Oh my god, Fiona,” he cried, his hands moving helplessly in the air. Shock giving way to grief. Should he try to lift her? Should he try CPR? Where was the blood?

      “What did you do?” And then he cocked his head and leaned closer, his face inches from the water. There was slight movement. The cuts were opening and closing. Almost like she was breathing…

       He glanced at her face as her eyes popped opened.  Her lips parted in a grotesque smile that exposed a mouth full of pointy teeth.

       Roger screamed and thrashed as she tore flesh from bone, feasting until the twitching stopped and the only sound was the storm still raging outside.

       And then she began to sing.

    Bernard Smith lowered his suitcase quietly onto the porch he had lovingly repainted this summer.  He wasn’t sure what he was going to say to his family.  Nothing had changed on the outside of his life; the sun hung dutifully behind their house, birds chirped, a slight chill let him know Fall had arrived. Nothing could stop the flow of time, the changing of the seasons. The world would go on. But he knew inside the cozy Cape Cod, in the world he and his wife built for their family, everything was at a full stop. There would be no more Friday paychecks, no more security.

      He was back from training his replacement and his job was over, his career was over. He had spent the last month posting and reposting his resume on Monsterjobs, Dice, I.T.-Jobs-R-Freakin’-Us. Fifteen years of experience and no calls.

      “Hi, Honey,” he forced a tired smile. “I’m back.”

      She was stirring oatmeal at the stove, staring out the window. She turned slightly and let him kiss her warm cheek. He wanted to slide his arms around her, bury his face in her dark, almond-scented hair, but he knew this would only scare her, make her worry.

      He was going to try to squeeze out something sunny and hopeful, but he suddenly realized something didn’t seem right. He looked around the kitchen and it hit him. His entrance had been way too quiet.

      “Honey, where’s the dog?”

      “Oh,” she said, briefly smiling. “Duke required so much money for you know…food, vet care, grooming.” She turned back to stirring the oatmeal. “I got rid of him. We now have a fish.”

      Bernard stared at the back of his wife’s head in disbelief. “But…but fish can’t bark when someone’s at the door…or…play with the kids…and you can’t pet a fish to relieve stress.”

      “We have to think of the bottom line, Bernie. Fish are cheaper.”

      A tall, skinny teenager wondered into the kitchen. “Hey, Mom. Breakfast ready?” He glanced at Bernard.

      “Say hi to your father, Dear.”

      “Hey, Dad.”

      Bernard walked across the kitchen and stood next to his wife with his arms folded.“Honey?”

      “Yes?”

      “Who is that?”

      “Mitchell, our son.”

      Bernard tried not to yell or shake his wife. There had to be some explanation for all this madness. “Okay. Honey. Eleanor, when I left two weeks ago, we had one son and one daughter. Our son, Mitchell, was only nine months old. This is not our son.”

      “Well, of course not, silly. He couldn’t have grown up that fast. But I replaced him. This way, we skip all the cost of diapers, baby food, doctor visits.” She turned suddenly, flinging oatmeal as she waved the spoon at him. “Do you know they say it costs a million dollars to raise a child! A million dollars. Mitchell is almost seventeen. Do you know how much money we’ve saved?”

      “But he’s not our child! Our responsibility is to OUR child! This boy has his own parents…” Bernard began to look around the room for a hidden camera. “Oh, I get it.” He smiled at Mitchell. “Right.” He decided to play along. “The bottom line.” That did sound like a good name for one of those hidden camera shows.

      He peered around the corner into the living room, where their four year old daughter is usually playing on the couch with her dolls. “And Lilly? I suppose you replaced her, too? Seeing as how she would require so much more money to raise than say…a hamster?” He chuckled to himself, wiping the sweat from his brow with a dishtowel.

      His wife turned to stare at him. “I didn’t even think of a hamster!” Just then, a fuzzy ball of fur with mischievous blue eyes sauntered in and rubbed itself on his pant leg. “No, no, I went with a kitten like the Jacobson’s next door. We have to stay competitive in these times, right Bernie.”

      Bernard began to tremble as he studied his wife’s face for the first time: the permanent smile, the vacant stare that reminded him of a wave less ocean. Yep, Eleanor had left the building.

      He reached out and gently took both her hands, turning her toward him. “Eleanor. Where are our children?”

      The teenaged Mitchell was nodding from behind Eleanor. He stuck a finger in the oatmeal and popped it in his mouth. “Sacrificed on the alter of the bottom line, dude…I mean, Dad.”

      An image of his children strapped down to his corporate boss’s desk was the last image in his mind before his wife’s smile blurred and his head hit the tile floor.

       I should have known the sweet sound of jazz music wafting from a town all-but closed up for the night would be trouble. I should have made Lizbeth walk to the next town when our car engine refused to turn over at the gas station. I should have got down on one knee and slipped that damn diamond ring onto her finger right there in front of the ninety year old deaf gas station attendant. What I did instead was let her lead us right into our last moments together.

       “What are you thinking about?” Lizbeth purrs at me now.

       ‘I hope you can’t read my mind,’ is what I’m thinking.  I glance at her. She isn’t smiling. I don’t bother answering her. What’s the use? Instead, I think about the last time I saw her smile.

       “Oh, come on. It’ll be an adventure.” She had said, pulling at my arm.

       “I don’t know. What about the car?”

       “Well, it’s not going anywhere tonight, obviously.”

       “Fine.” I wasn’t too upset. I enjoyed giving her what she wanted. In exchange I got her smile.

       As we walked down the sidewalk, hand in hand, passed the closed shops, palm trees swaying above us, I began to think maybe this was the universe…fate or whatever giving me a romantic place to pop the question. I stroked the ring in my pocket, feeling good about my secret.

       Warm light, cigar smoke and jazz poured out of the opened door. We stepped in and glanced around. The place was cozy. A couple of tables with red velvet table clothes, flickering candles, a long bar with a few patrons grooving along with the music. The bartender watched us take a seat at an empty table and nodded at the waitress.

       We were huddled together with a small paper menu in front of the candlelight. I had never heard of any of the wines on there.

       “Evening, folks. What can I get you?”

       “What do you recommend?”

       “Well, we have a good honey wine if you want simple.” At this point I saw her eyes dart to the bartender. “Or the raspberry delight is good if you want something frozen.”

       Why did she seem so nervous?

       “I didn’t know you could make wine out of honey,” Lizbeth said.

       “You can make wine out of things you wouldn’t believe,” the waitress mumbled.

       “Well, I’ll try the honey wine.”

       “And for you, sir?”

       “Water, please.” I don’t know why, but I was suddenly feeling like I needed to stay on my toes.

       Halfway through that glass of honey wine, Lizbeth gasped. “Oh, isn’t that just exquisite!”

       I was still thinking about the fact I had never heard her use the word “exquisite” before as she got up and lifted a black and gold mask from the corner of the bar. She was turning it back and forth, admiring it as it glittered in the candlelight. I stuck a finger in my ear and shook my head like a dog. What is that? Voices? It sounded like thousands of whispering voices entwined in the music and they were getting louder.

       “Liz?” I called. The bartender was standing in front of her now. I thought maybe he was going to tell her she wasn’t suppose to be touching the décor, but instead he motioned to her and she lifted it to her face. “Oh, Lizbeth.” I stood up, feeling anxious and realizing that the voices had stopped, but so had the music. I glanced around and everyone was smiling at Lizbeth.

       She suddenly whirled around and my heart skipped a few hundred beats. The mask was moving, molding itself to her face. It didn’t seem solid, more like gold and silver threads as fine as spider webs spreading in waves over her face. Her eyes were closed. My feet felt like lead. I watched helplessly as the bartender came around the bar, kneeled down on one knee before her and held up a glass of red wine. Without opening her eyes, she accepted the glass and titled it toward her lips.

       “She has been chosen.” The waitress was standing behind me. Her words knocked me in the back of the head like a baseball bat and I fell forward, my feet suddenly free.

       “Lizbeth, don’t!”

       I pushed the bartender to one side and grabbed her by the shoulders. She dropped the empty glass and her eyes popped open. I fell back. Her eyes were slick black orbs, shiny and wet.

       “Oh my god.”

       I watched in disbelief as they began to dull and shift to a cool green.

       She smiled at me then. “I accept. I will be your god.”

       The mask seemed to lose its shine, too and she reached up and plucked it off her face, tossing it back onto the bar. I couldn’t stop staring at her mouth, stained red, a stringy chuck of something stuck in her tooth.

       “You have something,” I motioned to my own teeth, “stuck…”

       “Enough,” she hissed. The music started back up and she walked to the door. “Come, I’m ready to see the world.”

       She stepped out into the moonlight. The waitress slipped in front of me and placed something hard and warm between my palms.There were tears in her eyes. I moved toward the door on shaky legs, glancing at the tiny glass perfume bottle in my hands. As I slipped it in my pocket, I heard it clink against the ring and almost broke right there.

       I didn’t. I’m being strong.

       “Oooo,” she gasped, placing a warm hand on my leg. “Pull in, over there. I want to try one of those.”

       “Yes, dear.”

      I have only come here because I am following instructions and not the ones from my court appointed attorney. Well, maybe “instructions” is the wrong word. They are more like signs. You see, I am trying to save my soul.

       How do I know there is such thing as a soul? I know because I can feel mine trying to scratch and claw its way free from the confines of my body, its prison. And I know it is a thing separate from my mind, because my mind is its tormenter. I wonder if this is what it is to be crazy?

       The woman trying to find out if I’m crazy is Dr. Leeds. She has done the socially acceptable things to make me comfortable: body-temp water in a paper cup, skin-so-soft handshake, flat-lined voice as uniform as her teeth. As she pulls some cards from her desk, she is using her voice, but I am concentrating on those teeth. They are bringing me closer to clarity than her words can.

       I lift my fingers to press my own teeth and then walk them around the mask of my skin. Pressing harder, I feel the bone, the skull, the eye sockets. Hm. This is all that will be left of me one day. A skull like those in the science books and museums which have been excavated and displayed for the purpose of teaching, of learning. Of learning that time marches on. That we exist in a blink of an eye.

       I jump. She has cleared her throat loudly. This means she is unhappy, and I need to pay attention to her. I will try.

       She pulls up a chair beside me. “Okay, Mr. Collins. I’m going to place a card in front of you, and I want you to tell me your first impression of it, all right?”

       I want to touch her teeth. They are so close now. I grip my hands together and nod instead.

       Her sun-freckled arm moves smoothly to place the card in front of me, and I feel my soul fling itself violently at its cage, its wings beating my ribs. My chair scrapes the wood flooring as I thrust myself back from the image on the card. I can feel the heat of her stare now which means I have done something wrong. I feel myself shrinking, sucked inward by the vortex of her disappointment.

       “Why don’t you tell me what you see?”

       I shake my head vigorously as I watch the black ink splotches unfold their wings, their beaks screaming, trying to rip free from the face of death placed between them. The black face of death grips them like a vice between his teeth. I know there is no escape.

       “Okay, we’ll just move on then.” She takes the screaming birds away and places a second card in front of me.

       Blood. Blood everywhere! I begin to shake and look away. My skin is becoming slick with fear. I stare at the starchy white curtains behind her desk. I try to make my mind a white space, too.

       “Mr. Collins? Mr. Collins? Are you all right?”

       I can smell her worry. It smells like lemons. It breezes through my mind, quieting it. My soul quivers in its cage, exhausted.

       “Okay. Why don’t we just talk for a bit.” She returns to her place behind the desk and slips the cards back in a drawer.

       I know what I have to do now. Those cards were given to me as a path to the last image I need to see. A path to the answer. The signs are always so clever. I feel my lips pulling away from my teeth in what I believe to be a smile. By the look on Dr. Leeds paling face, I am wrong.

      The gun is heavier and cooler in my hand than it was in my jacket pocket. She screams as she pushes herself away from the desk, trying to put distance between her and death. It is the scream of the black birds. I pull the trigger. The loud bang silences the screams. The smell of burnt powder and flesh, the tang of blood replaces the smell of lemons.

      I barely notice the late doctor’s secretary open the door and stumble back out of the room.

       Dr. Leeds’ soul is free now. It has flown from the hole in her chest. I can’t help myself. I lean over her and run my finger under her lip. Her teeth are hard like bone and still damp. Then I see it. The last sign! I scoot backwards and stare at the blood splatter on the white curtains. She has sacrificed herself to give me one last image. Her blood is alive, running like veins along the fabric, spelling out words for me. Instructions, after all. Of course! I am in charge of my own destiny. Escape is possible. Thank you, Dr. Leeds.

       I hold the still warm gun barrel to my chest and free my own soul.

  The woman awoke with no clothing and no memory. She stared up at the dense, black sky, afraid to move, trying to clear the fog from her head. Her pale body lay, curled up like a fetus, inside blackened ribs that had washed ashore from some long ago shipwreck. The smell of saltwater was familiar enough. She used this to dig into her memories, to try and bring forth something else familiar.

     “Who am I?” she choked, squeezing her eyes shut against the fear. “How did I get here?”

     After a brief spell of letting warm tears fall, she crawled out from beneath the oaken skeleton, wincing as she stretched out arms and legs that seemed as petrified as the wood. Straining to see through the darkness, she squinted down the long stretch of sand to her right and then her left. There was no sign of movement. She was alone. A chilled wind brushed against her exposed body and she began to shiver uncontrollably. Clothes. She had to find clothes.

      She pushed herself off the damp sand, wrapped her arms around bare breasts and struggle up the beach toward the dunes, hoping to find a house or road, some sign of civilization. She stumbled along the beach grass until a narrow path emerged. Picking her way carefully, barefooted and nearly blind from the moonless night, she finally stepped onto blacktop. A road! Relief flooded through her. The long shape of a building could be seen to her right, but there were no lights on. No street lamps, no cars? Odd. Just a long stretch of darkness, with unfamiliar shapes and shadows as far as she could see either way. Was this a deserted town? Something felt very wrong.

    She hesitated as she stared toward the building. Well, what choice did she have? She couldn’t just stand there naked and freezing to death. With a growing sense of dread, she forced herself to walk. She concentrated on the sound of crashing surf and tried to ignore the sharp bites of broken shells under her steps, once again wrestling with her own mind. There was something lurking at the edge of her memory, something large that invoked anxiety even as she struggled to reach it.

     She reached the building first. It was an abandoned hotel, its windows boarded up with faded gray plywood, rusted railing curling away from a sagging porch. Luckily, the first door she tried had weathered enough to kick open. Trembling, more now from fear than cold, she stepped into the musty room. To her surprise, it was intact. She moved quickly– pulling a stiff sheet off the bed, wrapping it around herself and searching for some clue as to where she was. There was a phone on the nightstand, the cord hanging lifeless on the warped wood flooring. Nothing! Nothing in the drawer, nothing to tell her where the hell she was. This can’t be happening. Rusted mattress springs groaned in protest as she lowered herself onto the bed, defeated. What now? She began to pull at the seaweed matted in her hair, sliding it absentmindedly from her tangled strands.

     When she looked up, a man stood quietly in the doorway watching her. She stared at him, too startled to run.

     “Are you…real?”

     He nodded and moved to sit beside her on the bed. Her heart pounded in her chest as so many thoughts ran through her mind…scream, run, jump up, impossible…that she was paralyzed. He didn’t seem to want to harm her. A large silver band around his wrist had his full attention.

     “Excuse me?”

    He turned toward her, distracted. “Yes?”

      “Do you know…where this place is?”

     “Not where, Miss Shillings, but when.”

     “Miss Shillings? Is that my name? Do you know me?” She shook her head. “I must be dreaming.”

     He dropped his arm, staring at her curiously. “A great man had a dream once, turned out to be reality. Tesla. You know of him? “

     “No.”

     “What is the last thing you remember?”

     As she looked in his dark eyes, a flash of lighting lit up her mind. “Oh,” she said, struggling to hold on to the memory. “A storm? I think there was a storm.”

     “Yes. There were two actually.”

     “Two? But what do you mean? Look, I…I can’t remember where I live. You know me, you must know where I live.” Hope began to replace fear. “You can get me home, right?”

     “It’s not time yet.”

     Thunder rumbled in the distance. The wind picked up and blew her hair off her shoulders.

     She felt tears stinging her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

     “We don’t either,” he sighed. “Not really. For some reason, this region is highly susceptible to the effects of geomagnetic storms. Once in a while, a lighting strike happens to coincide perfectly with this phenomenon…we’ve figured out this much from his research.” He glanced at the sheet wrapped around her and nodded. “Flesh has a different frequency than inorganic material…they never seem to travel together.”

    “Flesh?” The woman blinked, her face draining of color. “Oh my god, I’ve gone mad, haven’t I? Or, am I dead?! I’m dead!” She stood up and began to hyperventilate.

     “Miss Shillings, you must calm yourself.” The man stood up with her. Just then a flash of lightning lit up the room and thunder shook the walls.

    “It’s okay,” he said, glancing at the metal band again. “My success rate is very high. I’m good at what I do.”

     “What do you do?” she asked, as a hard rain began to beat the roof and ground around them.

    “I get people like you home.”

     A loud ring behind her made her jump back, and she stumbled into the man. He steadied her, then quickly went to the ringing phone. As he spoke into the receiver, she stared in disbelief at the exposed, unplugged cord. I have gone mad.

     He hung up the phone and whirled around, smiled at her and held his hand toward the door. “Shall we, Miss Shillings?”

     She glanced at the sheets of rain outside being blown sideways by the wind. “Shall we…?”

     “Get you home, of course.”

     “Of course.” She nodded and stepped out into the storm. What choice did she have?