OK, how are you doing? she said. Remember a time when you were burned alive.

Here we go again, Frank thought. He had already remembered the time he was burned alive by a flamethrower in World War I. He was an infantryman. They had let him burn for two minutes before they mercifully emptied a machine gun into him, tearing his body into flaming scraps of meat.

Then there was the house fire in the 1700s. It was bitter cold and everyone had gone to sleep when a spark from the coal fire had set the place aflame. Everybody slept dreamily while they burned, intoxicated by the fumes, not sure whether or not it was really happening.

The last time was the most distant. A rival tribe had attacked the cave of his clan in the night, set fire to brush thrown inside and blocked the entrance. All the bodies were piled together next to the barricade, charred to a crisp. He was not sure if he could remember further back than that. He told her that. All she said was Fine — remember a time when you were burned alive.

She watched the tiny needle on the meter. It stopped and hovered. What’s that? Frank was at a loss.

I don’t know, he said. I don’t remember anything.

She looked at the needle again. It was frantic but otherwise stayed mostly where it was.

What’s that? she asked again.

Frank started to remember. He was a commander of the Galactic rebellion, flying a Storm Fighter and leading a squadron of 60 men. Deep into a reconnaissance flight inside Sector G they had encountered Subots — hundreds of small but lethal deep space drones armed with armor evaporating lasers and programmed to destroy on sight any ships without federation credentials. By the time the Subots were detected there was no time to take evasive action. They would have to engage.

The Subots launched flurries of Plutonium laser ordinance that instantaneously annihilated half his ships. Frank ordered a retreat, commanded those too badly hit to self-destruct, and regrouped the rest of the ships for a counter assault using a small moon as cover. They flew into Attack Formation V and activated the Theta sequence, opening a ray field that destroyed enough Subots so that they could fly past them and head directly to their control ship, a massive Panther Class Star Orbiter with a crew of 100,000 men and the energy of seven suns. Too late they realized it was a trap.

The Panther erected its defense shield and unleashed thousands of Firelight particles that eviscerated the ships like they were made of tin. Frank took a hit that sliced through his fighter and cut off his legs at the knees. His craft was set ablaze, a fireball hurtling towards the surface of the giant ship.

In intense pain but conscious, Frank ordered all able pilots to attack the main Panther Orbiter port terminal. He grimaced in agony and dropped the electrodes.

Frank, I need you to pick up the electrodes, she said. Frank screamed.

What the hell are you talking about? I’m on fire over here! I’m dying!

The needle had not moved. She adjusted the sensitivity booster.

Frank, she said again, calmly, I need you to pick up the electrodes.

Frank picked up the electrodes and immediately took another hit, disabling his remaining defenses, his ship disintegrating as he raced towards collision with the Panther. His communications were gone and he could no longer see around him. He had gone Dark Zero, fighter down. He screamed as the flames engulfed him. His Thermo suit melted and his skin began to liquefy into jelly. His insides were boiling.

Frank thrashed and kicked in his chair. He uttered vile curses and wished his mother to hell. He projected an acrid plume of green liquid across the table and shat his pants. Then everything went blank.

In another second he was just sitting there, covered in sweat, disheveled and smelling of rankness. His hands were bloodied from crushing the metal electrodes. He had the taste of bile in his mouth. Tears streamed down his eyes and he had drooled his shirt. In a few moments he recovered himself, and somehow, he felt at peace. Calm. He looked across the table. Drenched in puke, she smiled back at him. The needle was floating freely.

OK, she said. How are you doing?

Clear was originally published in The Story Hall on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Now watch me close, Frank said. You got your magazine clip, fully loaded. Put it in the grip, ram it home. Make sure it’s in there good. This pin releases it, see? It just drops right out. Put it in there and pull the slide back. OK, it’s cocked. You got a round in the chamber, so aim it at the floor. Don’t put your finger inside the trigger guard unless you intend to pull the trigger. Otherwise keep it outside and straight like this, see? When you want to fire, put your finger on the trigger, aim, hold your breath, and squeeze. Now you’re going to get a little kick so hold your left hand around your right hand tight, like this, so you’re ready for the recoil.

The gun popped. Across the garage a tiny hole appeared in the black silhouette where the bullet hit the concrete bunker. Dead center head shot. He handed the gun to his boy.

OK, he said. Now you try it.

Jason took the pistol. It wasn’t his first gun — he already had a revolver and a carbine — but this was his first 9 mm, the one he had wanted for his birthday — a Beretta. The gun felt different with the full clip and he had to get used to the heaviness of it. He got it level, pointed it at the silhouette, held his breath and squeezed the trigger, missing the target high to the right.

Sorry dad, he said. Yeah, his father mused. Not like shooting the Zombie — their nickname for his Taurus 85 polymer revolver, a lighter weapon he could handle more accurately.

Give it another shot, his father said. Run the clip.

Jason aimed the Beretta and fired, allowing enough time between shots to realign his sighting. He got the shots down onto the paper and scored a torso hit before he pulled a click.

You’re getting it, his father said. OK, break it down.

Jason’s father had already showed him this part a few times and he was getting better at it. He dropped the empty clip, found the disassembly lever, pulled the slide back and eased it forward until it lifted off the frame. He separated the guide rod, recoil spring and barrel from the slide. His father showed him how to clean and oil the pieces then watched as Jason worked backwards, putting the Beretta together again. He shoved in a new clip and pulled the slide back, loading the chamber.

Good job, Frank said. Go get the Zombie. We’ll shoot it off after lunch.

In the kitchen Rose Marie had set a bountiful table. They went at the food voraciously, talking through packed mouths about wheel guns and clip loaders and the different kinds of ammo they could shoot.

For my next birthday can I have an AK-47?, Jason chirped up, slurping hot soup. His mother gave his father a sidelong look.

That is completely out of the question Jason, she said, pouring them glasses of apple juice, spilling it. She eyed him in a way that told him she wasn’t going to back down this time. Not this time. She had had enough.

A hunting carbine is one thing, and I even went along with the pistols — both of them — but this is too much, she said. You’re not bringing an assault rifle into this house.

Frank dumped a big spoonful of mashed potatoes on his plate. Did I say he could have it?, he said, stuffing some into his mouth.

You didn’t say no, she said, glowering.

Well, look, why don’t we wait and see?, Frank said. I mean, it’s just another gun, and any gun is safe as long as you handle it safely. What do you think we’ve been doing all morning?

She flared.

A house full of guns and I can’t trouble you to even buy a gun lock because you think it’s unmanly.

Frank raised his finger. Unnecessary. Nobody I know uses those things, and you don’t need them if…

She slammed her fist down on the table. You would actually consider bringing a war weapon around our children?

It was then that she looked around and noticed the empty place.

Where’s Tara?, she said.

I thought she was in here with you, Frank said, woofing down casserole.

She walked over to the garage door. Her three-year-old was standing at the workbench staring down the barrel of the Beretta. She screamed. Jason and Frank looked at each other at the same time and thought the same thing in the same instant that Tara put a round through her eye.

Optional But Recommended was originally published in The Story Hall on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Well, Symphony said. I’m going out with Monica tonight so you better get your ass over here in an hour and bring me what I want and maybe we can talk later, but only if you make me happy. She hung up the phone.

There are times in a man’s life when he is absolutely certain of the existence of God. For Albert this was one of those times. Albert was an idiot. He accepted that. He had said something stupid in the heat of argument and then had the further audacity not to apologize on the spot. She told him to go to hell. During the three weeks he spent there he came to realize that she was the sun, moon and stars, and that he was utterly undeserving of her.

Symphony was a portrait in grace, class and manners. She had gone to a Manhattan prep school and some college in Switzerland. She came from money and worked as a model, not for the money, but because the world would not let her escape her lanky good looks — the perfect angular chin and poised features of her nose and cheek bones, a face that radiated intellect and confidence. How Albert ended up with her was a mystery of the universe.

Albert had spied her at a Starbucks and, as she was more given to something like Panda dung tea than coffee, explained to her the difference between a plain Espresso and an Espresso Con Panna. She had been out of the United States so long that she was like a melody looking for a harmony and only finding dissonance.

She was not of the world but inhabited it like some alien creature — beautiful and strange, frightening and alluring. For some reason known only to the God of Fools she fell for him and his comic, quirky orbit of acting auditions and stage rehearsals for off-off Broadway plays that never got reviewed. This only endeared him to her, that he pursued his craft with purity and purpose and that he gave his heart and soul to work that most people would never see.

But it was her success in the fashion world and his scraping by at the bottom of the acting world that ate at him in secret and that finally burst full into the open when in a drunken rage of jealousy he shouted at her: You are nothing but a spoiled child of looted money, undeserved privilege, and the corruption of your class.

She blinked at the accusation, wondering how he managed to fit all these ideas into the same sentence. She came back with a seething rejoinder: Only savagery and unrestrained lust between barnyard animals could have concocted a creature so full of self loathing and unrequited envy, but apparently appropriate for such a simple-minded Louisiana mutt as you — a veiled reference to his mixed-blood New Orleans Creole heritage, he presumed.

Albert was still trying to decipher the enormity of the insult when, during his time in hell, he realized that she was his dream of a lifetime — warm and radiant as a fire built in a clearing of soft virgin snow, as perfect as a fine cut diamond, as ephemeral as a fleeting memory, a wonder.

He finally had the good sense to call her up and beg.

She let him go on and finally set the terms of his surrender. Beside himself with joy, he showed up at her door thirty minutes later with a bottle of Dom Pérignon and a box of Italian chocolate truffles, dressed in only a jacket, boxers, a silk necktie, and a large red bow around his erect penis.

When she opened the door he flung open his jacket, beaming. They stared at each other for a second.

You are such a horse’s ass, she said at last. He was stunned.

I thought you… She let him stew in his juices for a moment.

I said makeup set. The one by Dior. Are you dense?

He lost his erection and the bow tied to his cock dropped to the floor. She gave him a look of utter pity and slammed the door shut in his face.

Albert stood there looking like a fool, too stupefied to get his feet to move.

Then, to his complete amazement, in the next moment she opened the door, grabbed him by the tie and pulled him inside, slamming the door behind them.

Horse’s ass that he was, she decided she was not going to go without.

Makeup Sex was originally published in P.S. I Love You on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Jasper was just a kid really, and an orphan. He didn’t know better than to say what he said about seeing what he saw. And he didn’t know better than to open the door of a man’s room without knocking if that door was closed.

Mae told all her male customers to keep the doors to their rooms closed because she didn’t want to know their business and she wasn’t much interested in knowing what those rooms smelled like in a boarding house full of single men. She didn’t go into any of them unless the men asked her to come in and clean up or unless one of them died.

Mae only had one good rule: no women up in her house. Jasper didn’t know that because nobody told him. Nobody figured he knew what to do with no woman anyway and nobody was trying to tell him. He’d find out soon enough on his own.

Freddie never asked Mae to clean up his room. He mostly kept to himself. The only person he spent any time with was Jasper because Jasper was trying to learn how to play the blues harp and Freddie was an old hand at it so he started teaching the boy what he knew. That’s how Jasper got to spend so much time in Freddie’s room until he started going in there without knocking if he heard Freddie playing the harp.

Freddie wasn’t playing the harp tonight but Jasper went in anyway to tell him Mae had rung the dinner bell. When he opened the door he froze. A pretty, young woman Jasper had never seen before was sitting on the bed next to Freddie. Jasper had also never seen a naked woman before. She looked up at him but said nothing, holding him in huge curious eyes.

The woman had a syringe in her hand. She turned back to what she was doing and stuck it in Freddie’s arm. Jasper watched as it filled with bright red blood. She finally spoke to him. Are you just going to stand there in the door? Freddie looked at him. Close the door, he said. What Freddie meant was get the hell out of here and close the door but Jasper didn’t get that. He stepped into the room and closed the door.

The young woman pushed the blood back into Freddie’s arm and watched him closely as Freddie’s eyes started to roll. What you doing in here? Freddie mumbled. Look at me when I’m talking to you. Jasper was mesmerized by what was happening but also by this woman, who was like no one he had ever seen before. He forced himself to look at Freddie. Miss Mae rung the dinner bell, he said. Freddie snorted. Don’t want none of that woman’s nasty cooking, he said. He gave Jasper a cold look.

If I ever see you doing this I’ll kill you, Freddie said. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he went quiet. The pretty, young woman looked at Jasper in a way he didn’t understand. She dropped Freddie’s arm and stood up, facing Jasper, long straight hair flowing down her naked body. She started walking towards him with the syringe. He panicked but could not take his eyes off her. He backed into the door and grabbed behind him until he grasped the doorknob.

She was still walking towards him when he flung the door open and stumbled out of the room and down the stairs. Mae was putting food on plates.

You call Freddie? Mae said. Jasper sat down and started stuffing turnip greens in his mouth.

He talking to his girlfriend, Jasper said, swallowing. The men all stopped eating and stared at him. Jasper stopped chewing his food, watching them.

Mae looked at him mean, then dropped the pot of greens and headed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. All the men looked at Jasper in a way that let him know he had done something wrong but nobody said nothing to him. They all waited.

After a few minutes, Mae came back down the stairs. When she got back to the dining room she stared at Jasper again even meaner than before and breathing heavy.

What you tell me that lie for? Mae said. Freddie’s room was locked. I used my key. He was in there by himself.

Jasper dropped his cornbread and started to stutter. All the men were staring at him.

Wasn’t no lie, he sputtered. He was talking to his girlfriend. You can ask him.

Mae gave him the evil eye again.

Well, how the hell I’m ’sposed to do that? she said. The man dead.

Something A Boy Said was originally published in Lit Up on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

He’s a fucking snitch! I know he is! Kill this muthafucka, man! You need to waste this bitch!

A long dead silence. Anthony had had his say. Now it was Leon’s turn, but Luther told somebody to get Leon a drink first, the way Michael Corleone did in The Godfather before he whacked Carlo Rizzi. Leon’s eyes were wide and frightened, which would be the case with any man tied naked to a chair with three loaded guns pointed to his head. Somebody poured a shot of bourbon down his throat. He choked on the burn and coughed, but it lessened his fear enough to speak.

The hell with you, he growled at Anthony. I ain’t no fucking snitch. Somebody set us up. Somebody knew we was hitting that grocery store tonight. The police was shooting at all of us. Why they shooting at me if I tipped ’em off?

Anthony found renewed rage.

Because they don’t give a fuck about your sorry ass, Anthony said. You think they give a shit if they kill you on the side? You one dumb son of a bitch. Kill this fool, Luther. I’ll do it my damn self.

Luther waved him off and gave him a look like it’s time for you to shut the fuck up now. Anthony shut the fuck up.

Luther looked Leon in the eyes. He had not known this boy more than a few months but had let him into his inner circle because he liked the kid, still a teenager. Now he wondered whether he had been played for a fool. Luther didn’t like being played for a fool and didn’t like getting fucked by anybody but Mrs. Luther.

No matter how much he liked this boy, Luther needed to know what he was dealing with here, and who. Two men had been killed tonight. He needed to know how that happened. The supermarket was an inside job. It was supposed to be clean. Leon had a man working in the store. Now that man was missing. The money was not in the store safe like he said it was. They got set up, and somebody had to pay for this, starting with Leon. He looked the boy in the eyes dead square and leaned forward.

If I thought Anthony was right I would cut your heart out right now, he said, but I got no proof, so it’s like this. He held out his hand. Somebody give me a gun.

An hour later they were parked on a busy street near downtown, the traffic still plodding along at a snail’s pace even at this late hour. People were either on the way home or on the way out to enjoy a Friday night out on the town. Luther pulled the semi-automatic pistol from his waistband and racked it, putting a bullet in the chamber. Then he removed the clip and handed the gun to Leon.

Look at me muthafucka, he said. You got one bullet in this gun. Now I don’t know if what Anthony’s dumb ass trying to tell me is the truth or not. All I know is this was your job tonight. We got ratted out. Jesse and T-Bone are dead. I didn’t get no money and everybody looking at you, so this is how it plays out. You walk across the street and do what you need to do; then I know you ain’t no snitch. I’ll let you live but you get the hell out of my town, tonight. But you miss? He draws down on you and you dead. On the other hand, if you miss and get away, I’m gonna kill your mother, your father, your brothers and sisters, everybody in your whole fucking family. If they got pets I will kill them too. Then I will hunt you down and I will kill you slow. I will cut off your fucking cock and shove it down your throat until you choke to death. Are you listening to me son?

Leon knew Luther well enough. He didn’t need to question what was being said to him. He took the gun and got out of the car. Anthony followed him, holding a Heckler under his sweatshirt. Another carload of men sat a block away, cutting off any attempt Leon might make to escape. Leon had no choice. He tightened his grip on the pistol and walked over to the car. He tapped on the window. It cracked open barely enough for him to see in at the lone man sitting there, watching him with a hard wary look. Leon cleared his throat.

Excuse me officer, he said.

DeadmanEndgame was originally published in The Junction on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

They lusted for each other on first sight, flirting with their eyes in furtive stolen glances at the sold-out concert. Van looked at women in a way that made them all think he only wanted to be with whoever he was looking at in that particular moment, and they all believed him.

He could have had any one of them, but Lara was something special, a stunning ingénue so beautiful that when he looked down on her from the stage the entire audience disappeared except for her. Van knew how to overdo it when he decided he wanted one of them, and tonight he overdid everything he had overdone before — dropping to his knees, moaning, crying, ripping off his clothes.

By intermission the stage was littered with a colorful array of women’s unmentionables; by the end of the show women had simply fainted and had to be carried out on stretchers. Van put on a good show that night, and like always, he signed autographs outside his dressing room for as long as anybody was still there holding out a photo or a CD with his picture on it.

Lara was there clutching his first three albums, each cover in mint condition though she had worn the vinyl down so bad that none of the records played anymore. She held back, letting all the women go before her, have their turn, have their pictures taken with Van, have them escorted giddily to the exit door until she was the last one there waiting.

She was not a woman without those necessary skills it takes to catch a man, especially when that man was all too willing to be captured, and Van had already been captivated that night. Then again, so had she. Van had not only expected to see her backstage, he had anticipated it, dismissing his hangers-on and bailing on the after-hours party. Watching them try to play it cool, it was difficult to tell who was the prey and who was the hunter.

I see you like the old school, he said, scribbling his name across the LPs. What about them new joints? You ain’t feeling them?

He flashed the smile that made women sizzle and melt, but Lara had her own dazzle and charm.

The new joints are fine but they’re not who you are, she said. I don’t care how much you dress it up. You’ll always be the old school guy on these three records.

Van liked that. She knew how to stroke him and he let himself be played for a change. At the end of the day, he knew who would be calling the tune.

Lara left in a taxi with friends, which Van took as misdirection since she had discreetly slipped him a little note with her phone number on it. When he finally got to his limousine Van pulled out the note and hit her digits. She picked up on the first ring.

Let’s have a late dinner, he said.

She said sure and he picked her up at her apartment and took her to a quiet restaurant in Little Italy that made a simply divine linguine and scampi which they washed down with bottles of Prosecco and Chianti. Later, as the driver cruised downtown, Van made them martinis from the limo bar then rolled up a fat spliff.

They got weeded out, half-naked, and crazy.

They were making out heavy by the time Van said Take us to the hotel. They were giggling like schoolchildren when they got out but the driver paid no mind to that since that’s not what he was paid to mind. He decided to park and get some sleep. He was always on call when Van was in town.

He was awakened by a knock on the window, unsure how long he had slept. He got out and opened the door.

Why didn’t y’all just call down? he said. Van went to sleep, Lara said dryly, otherwise not seeming to think anything about that one way or the other.

She got in the car and lit a cigarette; something the driver had not seen her do all night. Shall I take you home? he said.

She was silent for a few seconds and then told him where to go. He turned around and stared at her. Her hair was mussed but otherwise, she looked fine. He asked her to repeat that. She did.

He turned around and started driving without another word. She picked up the limo phone in the back seat and punched in three numbers.

Hello? she said when she got through to someone, expelling a long plume of smoke.

I’m calling to report a rape.

Mercury Falling was originally published in Intimately Intricate on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Consuela watched as Brooks studied his map on the street, obviously lost. After a moment she walked over to him. Hey, you lost Mister?, she asked. Where you trying to get to?

Brooks was struck by her oval face, her petite build and the extraordinary way in which she was dressed — blues and greens mixed with orange and red and purple — reminding him of some wild forest bird, magnificent and exploding in layers of exotic color. She pointed out to him the way he should go, then twittered him a siren look. His heart fluttered.

Can I buy you a drink?, he said, a tad eagerly. Consuela had hoped for that very response. Why not, she said, I know a cute little place with the best margaritas you can find.

She took him to a bar called Outlandos d’Amour a few blocks away, down a flight of stairs into a cool, dimly lit room, empty save for an old bearded man tending bar amid a ramble of rock music blaring from a jukebox. Consuela called the waiter and ordered margaritas. She told him to keep the jukebox going. Michael Jackson, she said. I am in love with him.

They talked and drank luscious foamy margaritas that made Consuela more beautiful by the moment, certainly more chatty, until, four hours after they had come in, she excused herself to the ladies room. As soon as she left the waiter came over. Excuse me, Senor, he said. Your check.

Brooks looked at the bill and staggered out of his chair. What the hell is this?, he nearly yelled. The waiter was calm. It is your bill, he said politely. Brooks fumed. The hell it is, he spat. I’m not paying this. They argued. Brooks shoved past him to leave.

In an instant the waiter and a man standing in the shadows grabbed him and dragged him out a back door into an alley, where they began to beat him. Brooks fought back but was no match for two strong men. He fell into a pile of garbage. The waiter approached him with a baseball bat. You will please pay your bill, Senor, he said. Fuck you, Brooks said, spitting blood. The waiter touched Brooks’ cheek with the bat, then slowly raised it above his head.

Stop.

Brooks looked to the back door of the bar. It was the old bearded barman. Brooks struggled to his feet. I’m going to sue both of you assholes, he told them. I know my rights. The barman approached. Call the police, Brooks said. They attacked me. The barman slowly stroked his beard, then spoke.

Sir, he said in eloquent English. Did you not come into this bar of your own free will with this woman?

Brooks was dumbfounded. What are you talking about?, he said. So what? We had some drinks, but what the fuck. I didn’t drink $2,500 worth of margaritas.

The barman was also polite. Sir, he said. Do you not know the woman you came in with? That kind of woman is far from ordinary. Such a woman will fulfill your every desire. Truly, anything you want from such a woman, she will give it.

Brooks was yelling. What the fuck are you talking about? I didn’t do anything with her. We just talked.

The barman was unperturbed.

Sir, he said, it was there for you all the time, at every moment. Because you did not ask does not mean she was not yours to do with as you pleased. And such pleasures, I can assure you, men would die for. If you did not request them, you nonetheless occupied her time, and her time is as valuable as the gifts she is able to bestow. He turned to go. Please, if you do not mind, he said. You owe a debt. One way or the other that debt will be paid.

He walked away. Brooks looked into the cold eyes of the two men who began to slowly walk towards him now, but Consuela was aware of none of it. She had flown many blocks away from the bar, and was eyeing a dapper older gentleman in a grey suit getting his shoes shined by a young boy who smiled to her. She smiled back and walked towards the man, a foreigner who looked as if he might like some companionship in such a large city as this.

Little Wing was originally published in Lit Up on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I’ve just been thinking and doing a lot of soul searching lately, and I think I made a big mistake, Samantha. I think the biggest mistake a man can make in life is finding his soul mate and then losing her, and the worst part of that is losing her because he was too dumb to see in the first place that he was looking his soul mate right in the eyes. That’s the mistake I made.

OK, I figured I could spend the rest of my sorry life regretting that or I could do something about it. The only reason I’m calling you up is because I can’t wait, not one more second. I’m going out right now to buy you the biggest diamond ring in the store. Then I’m going to come over there and get down on my knees and do what I should have done then, and hope it’s not too late.

Now I know what you’re thinking, Sam. I know we had some disagreements and maybe we had a couple of fights, but when you really think about them, none of them were all that serious were they? What did we disagree about? When to have kids, how many, whether to raise them Catholic or Jewish? Stuff like that. That’s all normal stuff.

And I mean, I never really cared that you make more money than me if you don’t care. I got a good job that I’m happy with and I do well at it. I don’t need more money. What I need is you, and I finally realize that. OK I was thinking maybe I could have been a little more supportive sometimes. Your job is so stressful, and I don’t think I really understood at the time how much stress you were really under. I understand that now.

And you know, really the last thing, Samantha, is that you’re just better than me. You’re smarter, you’ve got better people skills, and you’re just, nicer. I’m not such a nice guy. I understand that. But I’m not so bad now like before; people change, and come on, I’m not a complete bozo, am I? I mean, I do have some good qualities, don’t I?

Alright I know I tried to cook you dinner that one time and the kitchen didn’t come out so good, but I tried didn’t I? I bought you a whole new kitchen. And I fixed your car myself after I had that accident in it so I hope you’re not still holding that against me. Alright and maybe I didn’t show up a few times for dates but what was it? Two?

I know I had some meetings maybe I forgot to tell you about but now I don’t work as much as I used to. I take more time to smell the roses and pay attention to what’s important in life, like the people I love, and I love you, Samantha. I always have and I always will, and if you let me, I’ll come over there right now and do what I should have done a long time ago. Is it too late for us, Sam?

Brian, have you been drinking? Samantha said when he was done. Brian was stunned. Is that all you have to say after all that? Samantha exhaled noisily, undeterred. I want to know, she said. Are you off the wagon? Brian was deeply hurt. I’m deeply hurt, he said. You think just because…

Goddammit, she said. GODDAMMIT! I knew it. I hate it when you do this shit, Brian. What the hell are you DOING?! You’re drunk and you have the NERVE to call me up? Have you forgotten how big of a jerk you were? We’d make a date and I wouldn’t see you for weeks! You burned down my house for Chrissakes, when you were cooking… She stopped mid sentence. Brian knew what was coming.

Brian, have you been smoking crack? Brian was completely put out. I cannot believe you, he said. I call you up from my heart and…

Goddamit!, she said. I knew it. I don’t hear from you in five years and you call me up completely out of your fucking mind. Have you forgotten I am married and have six kids now? Have you forgotten I’m a Mormon and I live in fucking Pasadena? What were you going to do, take the subway over from Central Station!? Goddamit! You are SUCH a fucking ASSHOLE! You FUCKING FUCKING ASSHOLE! If you EVER…

Brian hung up the phone. He hated when she got like this.

Marry Me Yesterday was originally published in Intimately Intricate on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Sandi and Kay were 70 feet under water and nearing an hour into the dive when Sandi signaled they should head back. She had forgotten to check her air and noticed she probably had just enough to make it back to where they had taken off. It was that crab she had chased a while back. It was fun, but she had foolishly burned up too much oxygen and the crab had gotten away anyway. Still they had five crabs between them and had decided to look around and see who was out tonight.

They stopped by the cave and said hello to Myrtle, the huge octopus that lived there. Sometimes they brought her fish. Tonight they just said hello and watched her slow leaden movements in their headlamps and looked at each other like they sometimes did when the realization hit them suddenly like it sometimes did — hey wow, we’re breathing underwater.

Sandi made the low air sign, pumping a raised fist in front of her chest, then swirled her index finger in a circle to signal the turnaround. Kay touched her thumb and index fingers together. Sandi returned it and took the lead. That was their rule; the one lowest on air always took the lead. Kay was a fish; she could stay underwater for more than an hour and still have half her air left. They had been dive buddies for three years now with almost a hundred dives together, all at night, where they could see fish that do not come out in the day, weird looking creatures with luminescent eyes and odd-shaped bodies.

On moonlit nights they could see schools of fish floating above them as if they were flying through air. The night water was unusually peaceful and beautiful even though visibility was less than in the day. They had both headlamps and hand lights, but they had dived this part of Puget Sound often enough that they had it virtually memorized. Something passed them in a flash and they smiled at each other, recognizing the water seal who had been trailing them, playing hide and seek.

Sandi was checking her air and depth, following the graded bottom as it ascended toward the pier when she looked behind her and did not see Kay’s light. She realized she had broken an important rule between them, never to lose eye contact with each other for more than a minute. She could not remember how long she had been swimming without looking back for Kay; she was preoccupied with her near empty tank. She raced behind her, fanning her light left and right, looking for Kay’s headlamp. She made circles in the water, but didn’t see her. She swam back further, trying to see through the low visibility and the darkness.

There she was, her headlamp making little erratic motions in one spot. Sandi raced to her and made eye contact. Kay gave her a forward fist pump — danger — and only then did Sandi see what it was. There was netting in the water and Kay was caught in it; her arms could not reach the scissors strapped to her wetsuit. Sandi reached her own scissors and attacked the net, slicing it away from Kay, and, just when she was done, realized she was not sucking air.

She gave Kay the I need oxygen signal, pointing to her regulator. Before Kay could reach her spare regulator, Sandi panicked. She clutched Kay’s regulator and pulled it out. They fought over it as it bubbled wildly between them in the semi-dark.

Kay swung her elbow around and hit Sandi in the face, stunning her, but calming her down. Kay grabbed the regulator, stuck it in Sandi’s mouth and inflated her own BC, hanging onto Sandi as they both shot upwards. Kay held her breath while Sandi took a few good pulls and regained her senses, then made the I need air sign and pulled the regulator out of Sandi’s mouth and put it into her own. Sandi understood. Her eyes were clear again. She made the OK sign. They spiraled up towards the surface, glowing high above them in the silvery moonlight.

Beautiful Air was originally published in Literally Literary on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

She woke up and lay there in the dark for a moment, listening. Then she opened her eyes. Without moving, she peered out into the darkness. There was someone in the room. She thought she had heard something, and she could hear pretty well, especially at night.

In every house she had ever lived in she remembered not so much how it looked but how it sounded. Even the smallest creaking of wood in another part of the house or the brushing of a tree branch in the wind against the kitchen window she could hear. It was like every place had a kind of sonic fingerprint that made it uniquely its own, different from any other place — but she was not in her own home now. She did not know where she was or who had brought her here, but whoever it was, he was in the room.

Sylvia tried to remember, forcing her mind to clear from sleep while she scanned the silence and the darkness. She had gotten off the plane and climbed into a taxi. The driver had turned to her and she had asked him where she was.

“Where do you want to go?” the driver had asked her.

“No”, she said. “I mean what city am I in?”

The driver had shrugged. “What city do you want to be in?”

She had become angry. “Just take me to a hotel”, she told him.

She tried to remember how she had gotten so confused that she slept through the flight and didn’t get off the plane when she was supposed to. She remembered the wine, how strong it was, like somebody had put something in it. She had told the stewardess to take it away and then she must have fallen asleep after that. When she woke up there was nobody else on the plane and she just walked out into the airport and onto the street. She hailed a cab.

As the taxi drove through the city she dug into her purse looking for her cell phone. It wasn’t there. Shit.

The driver stopped and spoke to her, telling her she had to get out here.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I cannot go further,” he said.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because this is the end”, he said.

He drove off and left her standing on the street. It started to rain even though the sky was deep blue and the sun shone brightly.

Sylvia remembered running into a small café across the street where people were smoking and talking. She was soaking wet and a man gave her a towel. He asked her if she wanted anything to drink and she remembered she had left her purse in the taxi.

The man gave her a long look. “You must be in trouble”, he said. “Where are you going?”

She wanted to tell him where she was going but she didn’t remember anymore.

“I don’t know where I’m going”, she said. “Can you help me? I don’t have any money.”

The man had taken her to a table and ordered food. “First you must eat”, he said. “The food is good here.” He ordered a bottle of red wine and gave her a cigarette.

“Can you tell me where I am?” she asked him.

He held a lit match while she pulled on the cigarette. “Where do you want to be?” he asked.

“That again?” she said. “Does everybody here have the same answer to that question?”

She wanted to leave but didn’t know where to go. She didn’t even know where she was. Food came. Some kind of meat in some kind of sauce. She ate two helpings and drank two glasses of the wine. Then she remembered the wine on the plane. She looked at the man sitting across from her.

“You were very hungry,” he said. “And now you are sleepy. Do you want to sleep?”

When she woke up again she was in the room alone and it was locked. She could see out the window but it wouldn’t open. Somebody slid some food under the door that evening, and the next morning, and for days after that but nobody spoke to her. She started banging on the door but nobody answered.

After a while she forgot how long she had been in the room or who had brought her there but she remembered the man from the restaurant who gave her the wine, and now he had come into the room and was pulling back the blanket. She started screaming. That brought her out of it. She opened her eyes and lay there in the dark for a moment, listening.

Night and Day was originally published in Lit Up on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.