shortstoriesbycarynnicole - Tumblr blog

[shortstoriesbycarynnicole]

Zoan and the Applewood Cemetery

Caryn Nicole Wells

"I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this century and among those who are still men.”-H.P. Lovecraft in “The Outsider”

Prologue

There is no midnight or creature or scene more terrifying than the first day on a new job. If awaiting mysteries of the day ahead was not frightening enough, my morning was suspended by the dreaded floating ellipses. I tossed my phone to the side and pulled the covers over my head. Buried in the black bedding and the dark of the previous night, I'd considered several methods of disengagement. I could tell him that is was me and not him, but that wasn't true. It was him. 

I'd sat with the confusion. He'd sit with having caused it. 

I’d considered the snarky one line insult, but suppressed the childish instinct. Then there's the endless paragraph; the problem's full analysis leading up to my abrupt exit. Not being a fan of any option, I dragged my index finger across the screen and typed, "I don't think this is working". I threw back the comforter and placed my feet on the frigid floor. I walked to the window and wrapped my arms around my torso as I stared at the blanket of snow that hid the grass. The sky was dreary; unsmiling and grey. The audible wind preluded another eminent snowfall. The leafless trees scowled at the news and sacrificed their thinnest branches in protest. This was an abysmal morning, and perfectly so. 

I made my way around the bed that clung to the stark white walls. There was green of course; my beloved peace lilies, and the eyes of my feline friend, Geechee who walked right past and leapt onto the bed. She shimmied to settle in, creating a polyester cast of herself in the comforter. I rolled my eyes and thanked her for letting me borrow her bed. She yawned in response and I headed to the shower.

I forced my curls into a neat bun and reached for my makeup pouch. Any other day, it'd be a bold black wing and death smudge. But, I decided to go for a thin liner and neutral tones instead. I was already wearing black and felt it inappropriate to arrive at the cemetery dressed as queen of the damned. I added a sheer hint of gold to my toffee colored cheekbones and to the inner corners of my grayish brown eyes. I zipped myself into the black dress I'd chosen, made my bed with Geechee in it, filled her majesty's bowls with tuna and water, and headed for the door. 

The snow bit my nose as I walked to my car. I smiled to myself as I removed the snow cover. I'd learned the hard way and was glad I made the investment. My glee came to an end when I climbed into the front. I should've warmed the car before getting in and instantly regretted not doing so. My 98' Camry groaned as I turned the key. The heating system woke from slumber, emitting a burning smell. I entered the address to Applewood Cemetery into my phone's GPS. The snow tires crept backwards as I rolled out of the driveway and down the icy street in the direction of the graveyards.

The fog parted to reveal an encroaching mass of tombstones that shared their color with the grey skies above. They stood stately and capped with snow, waving past as I turned onto the drive. I followed the winding path through the soundless home of the fallen. At the center of the sea was a magnificent mausoleum. It mimicked the Acropolis with its carved biblical scenes sitting atop columns that scraped the heavens. I wanted to marvel but time did not allow. I kept driving to the office as the onboarding email instructed. A thin black man in a winterproof coat and gloves waved me onward. I was certain this was Mr. Mitchell Landry, Director of Operations at Applewood Cemetery. His face was long and his cheeks hollowed in. His eyes were sunken even further. Suddenly, I regretted my undead makeup styling. 

I parked where he pointed and ventured into the snow to greet him. He introduced himself and shook my hand as we hurried towards the office door. The administration building was sterile but warm. I was instructed to leave my belongings at the plain wooden desk at the front that would be mine. He introduced me to the groundskeeper and in-house funeral director, then gave me the tour of the rest of the building; which past the two offices was a hallway and a bathroom. I would answer the phone, accept payments, and forward plot reservation calls to management with unpatronizing sensitivity, which was paramount. 

The first day was quiet and I was just fine with being paid $23 an hour to answer the seven phone calls in eight hours. As I said my goodbyes at the end of thee day, I wondered if Isaiah had responded to my text. By now, the sun was bright overhead and the wind not as cruel. I got into my car and checked my phone. I had twelve new texts. The first was from Isaiah:

"Can we talk about this? Lucky's @ 5:30?"

I didn't want to see him. One look and I'd fall back in love, having just recently fallen out. I'd lied to myself that day in the park when we passed by a wedding party. His eyes lit up and I knew was over. It's amazing that two people can be so perfectly paired, but wanting two different things can end it all. I replied:

"I can't. Sorry. Geechee has a vet appointment."

I started my car and headed home to my warm bed and perfectly healthy cat. 

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

Mr. Landry sprinted through the door muttering under his breath in a panic. I asked if I could be of assistance. He shook his head and kept repeating as he strode towards his office door, "Mrs. Mudge.....Mrs. Mudge."

Ophelia Mudge was short plump black woman with an impressive collection of theatrical hats. She carried her yapping Pomeranian "Priscilla" everywhere she traveled, including the cemetery's office building. She spoke with her nose in the air and was particular about everything. As such, she'd made a strange request, wanting a graveside service and her late husband Elphias lowered into the ground. They'd purchased mausoleum spaces, but the principle of the thing. $10,000 later, Mr. Landry agreed. Mrs. Mudge always got what she wanted. I was certain it was another ridiculous request that made her husband choke on a wishbone and expire. 

HIs funeral was today. We were expected to attend.

The gravesite was a somber scene as cries rose from the tent. Mr. Mudge' s enormous canvased portrait was surrounded by an excessive amount of yellow. The flowers, ribbons, and casket were all canary. It looked more like a wedding than a funeral, but Mrs. Mudge had been clear with her demands. The ceremony lasted far too long. The eulogy was more an ode to Mrs. Mudge than the deceased. The soloist was pitchy whilst singing all twelve verses of a hymn I do not know. But, Mrs. Mudge sat dog-in-lap, swaying from side to side with her eyes closed as guest after guest sang her praises in their remarks. 

The funeral came to a close and Mr. Landry motioned to the grave workers to ceremonially lower the casket as requested. Soil was sprinkled onto the steel box and the crowd erupted in horror when Priscilla the Pomeranian leapt from Mrs. Mudge's lap and chased the falling dirt into the hole. Mrs. Mudge screamed in terror as she chased after Priscilla. A pallbearer tried to stop Mrs. Mudge, but her momentum threw them both into a six foot freefall. It took every ounce of strength to keep from l laughing. I didn't want to be fired because of a Pomeranian. I smoothed my skirt, stared at the ground, and clasped my hands together as tightly as I could. 

I lifted my gaze to see Mr. Landry sprinting to the scene; his shoulders shaking from stifling snickers himself. "Jesus, help us", he said as he ran. "Jesus, help us." 

A broken wrist, one rolled ankle, and a dog still yapping from a limousine window later, I grabbed my coat and bag and keys, and decided to use the restroom before I left. I'd be stuck in traffic for at least an hour with no rest stops along this particular stretch of the highway. I went to the sink to wash my hands and heard a voice on the other side of the wall. It was Mr. Landry who was clearly on the phone saying to proceed with the cremation of Mr. Mudge, and not only Mr. Mudge but the rest of the bodies in the mausoleum. 

He was receiving more calls than he had spaces and needed to make room. The ashes were to be discarded and none would be the wiser. He'd chain the entry, require families to schedule visitations (for added privacy, of course), and switch the name plates as they came and went. 

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

I sat in the standstill with an overwhelming sense of sorrow for the deceased and their families. I wanted to stay out of it. I wanted to say something. Even if I did, I had no idea of how to go about advocating for the dead.....but I knew someone who did.

Shit. 

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

Isaiah answered the phone immediately and seemed to hoped I'd called about us. His family was from New Orleans, making him the first and only option. People don't tend to make conversation of such things, save for those who know how. He didn't say much except who to see. "Take the next exit", he said dryly.

I thanked him.

He hung up. 

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

I took a deep breath as I entered the store. The smell of sage and incense overtook my senses as I wandered around the corner of the damp and dimly lit establishment. Dreamcatchers hung from the walls with feathers cascading down the wooden panels. Assortments of crystals surrounded a hand carved skull priced at $630. I placed it down carefully and walked over to the bookshelf; plant etymology textbooks, non-fiction works on North American faiths, and historical accounts of women rulers lined the shelves. I nearly jumped when a black woman appeared out of nowhere. She stared at me with piercing eyes and said nothing at first. She was stupidly stunning and powerful even in silence. She smelled of lavender, had flowers in her long, pressed hair, and stood two feet grounded with her hands behind her back. 

Finally, she smiled having searched my eyes for.....something. I asked if she was Narcissa, this woman I'd only ever heard about. She nodded once and asked if I needed assistance. I told her I wanted to protect the dead. She squinted, turned her head to one side, and responded saying, "The only way to protect the dead is to preserve the memory of them." She straightened and smiled warmly. "Share their wisdom with future generations, and keep their legacy alive."

She smiled again and pointed at the cash register. If I needed further assistance, that's where she'd be. 

Desperate, I called after her shouting the horror I'd heard today. I said again, "I want to protect the dead." She stopped for a second, her back still turned and eventually walked back over. She stared at me again, and I was beginning to feel uneasy. At this, she smiled and told me to wait where I stood. She disappeared into another part of the store and returned with marigolds (a flower known to reconnect our world to the deceased), in hand. 

"We protect the dead by honoring them. The universe does the rest."

I reached for my wallet to pay for the flowers, but she placed her hand out in protest, smiled, and walked away again. 

What the hell?!?!

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

That night, I drove back through the cemetery covered in darkness and fog. I stopped at the site of Mr. Mudge's funeral, placed the marigolds by the tent, and turned to leave. I stopped and apologized on Mr. Landry's behalf and let it be known that they were not alone.

As I walked back to my car, the wind picked up and nearly knocked me to the ground. 

I wasn't alone either. 

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

Saturday morning, 9am:

I'd slept more soundly than I ever had and planned to continue my rest. I'd have to return to work on Monday and didn't quite know how to feel about the knowing. I rolled over, hoping to resume my respite, but Geechee kneaded my blankets and my phone beeped twice. I had two new notifications: 

Partially destroyed autopsy report showed traces of arsenic in Elphias Mudge's blood. Coroner called for exhumation of the body. Mudge's widow, Ophelia now in police custody. 

2. Mitchell Landry arrested as mausoleum plots of Elphias Mudge and others lay empty. Officials hope to intercept illegal cremations and return ashes to the respectful families. 

PART TWO

“Quoting this a quarrel so immorally implies we’re equal opponents and we both antagonize; don’t call it lover’s quarrel.”-Moses Sumney singing “Quarrel”

By now, the snow had warmed and fell from the sky as frigid tears. Spring was inching slowly forth; a wave at is churning with a nudge from the moon. The rain showed no interest in retreat and its stubbornness made for a dreary morning commute. Being friend to this kind of weather, I settled into the AM radio’s cafe jazz station and the smell of black coffee that swirled around my travel mug as the drive met the unpaved road leading to Applewood Cemetery’s business office. 

I braved the rainfall and cold and sludge and walked through the front door into the welcoming warm current. I placed my umbrella on the rack and took a seat at my desk. I took another sip of coffee and exhaled into the transition when Mrs. Rebecca Forbes emerged from her office and clapped twice for everyone’s attention. Mrs. Forbes was a white woman with brown hair, and of medium height and build. She was pleasant enough unless something went wrong, then her veins would pop bright blue to match her eyes. She took a hands-off approach with the families of the deceased, leaving most of the business to the funeral homes. It wasn’t for her not caring, but we’d barely survived the post-Landry press attacks. I’d been instructed to answer “no comment” as Mrs. Forbes met with each family and launched a recovery campaign. This was our first graveside funeral in months. We were to be at our very best. When Mrs. Forbes retreated, I logged into my computer and perused the obituary for today’s observance:

Homegoing Service for Miles T. Richards; husband to Sherlene, father to Miles Jr., father-in-law to Raven, and grandfather to Michael, Michelle, and Narcissa. 

————————————————————————————————

We stood beneath the tent as the rain brewed to consistency. The music of Miles Davis flowed from the speakers as a parade of black people in black attire under black umbrellas marched slowly behind a glossy black casket. They carried single flames as they approached Mr. Richards’ final resting place. Narcissa sat in the second row and stared straight ahead. The emotion swelled as silent tears spread through the gathered. The eulogy was performed by a family friend who remembered Miles Richards for his wisdom, dry humor, and suave demeanor. As the dearly departed was lowered into the ground, the master of ceremony set fire to herbs that washed a strong scent of mint and moss over everyone in attendance. 

I inhaled deeply and was overcome by the unity in reverence. The family stood one by one to say their final goodbyes; each person dropping a single black rose into the earth. When the flower fell, they walked into the rain that doused the candles they carried. When the light went out, the mourners reinstated their umbrellas and walked solemnly to the line of limousines. Narcissa was the last of the immediate family to leave, closing her eyes as she walked into the rain. When she returned to herself, I caught her eyes and gave a sympathetic smile. She nodded and continued to the car. 

Back at the office, Mrs. Forbes went on for hours about the strange and stunning send-off, and of the latter she was right. 

The ceremony was beautiful. I’d not expected anything less. 

————————————————————————————————-

I closed the door behind me and leaned against the wood. Even those in love with the downpour can’t escape the effects of the cold. I rubbed my hands together to create warmth as my body adjusted to the indoor climate. Geechee strutted to the door and I picked her up as always. Isaiah understood the cat’s naturally snooty carriage, but still thinks she shouldn’t be so entertained. He emerged from the bathroom having arrived before me. His commute is shorter than mine and I much prefer the sight of him to an empty house. I’d called after the headlines and told him about my conversation with Narcissa. We talked for the remainder of the day and decided to pick up where we’d left off. I put Geechee down and reached for Isaiah who pulled me into his chest smelling of sandalwood and basil. 

He’d ordered something for dinner that smelled like warmth on a cold day, and I was grateful for his job being close, his lease being up, and U-haul trucks. 

The night crept on; floating over Coltrane like a stray leaf being carried by the breeze. We sat on either sides of the table, taking bites to fill the silence and sips of red wine to wash the it down. We’d still not talked. 

We’d kiss goodbye in the mornings and embrace at the end of the day. There was love in the evenings, but it was more because of the plummeting temperatures, or the wine being a temprary tension starter. We were being held together by weather and memories, delaying the inevitable. If we were going to make it, one of us would have to fold. 

Tonight didn’t seem to want the conversation, so I told him about work.

I detailed the beautiful sendoff, to which he suggested I reach out to Narcissa. I agreed and smiled, and he returned mine with a grin that was stunning as ever, but distant. Later that evening, the silence found its end in sleep. Isaiah snored rhythmically as I combed the internet for Narcissa’s contact information. There was nothing. 

The store had a website, but there was no avenue for access save for an option to leave a name, returning email address, and brief comment on the “contact page”.

I left my information, condolences, and an invitation to have coffee sometime soon. I felt it may have been a bit too much or the wrong occasion for such an offering. I turned off the lamp and snuggled as close as I could to Isaiah without waking him. I closed my eyes and my phone chimed on the nightstand. I had one new email notification from Narcissa Richards:

Thank you for the kind words. WiseBean on Elm….Saturday at noon?

——————————————————————————————————

I ordered a caramel macchiato and cloud of black drifted by the storefront’s streetview window. Narcissa wore a skirt that swept the ground as she walked, and a black tank top she’d capped with a simple silver chain. Her eyeliner was sharp and her lipstick the color of blood. She had a way of being both under and overwhelming at the same time. We greeted one another at the register and she ordered a cubano, double shot; no sweetener. 

We sat and I offered additional condolences. I gave her a bouquet of marigolds I’d picked up the night before. She was genuinely moved and sad and optimistic like the waning storm she carried in her aura. We talked about the funeral and things one would expect with someone like Narcissa: the phases of the moon, germination of lunar plants, practical applications of various religious philosophies, and her feline friend she called “Cat-Von-D” after her favorite beauty influence. As the coffee ran low, I asked the question I’d been dying to ask since the wind blew in the cemetery the night before the news broke.

“Is it all real?” I asked, feeling stupid as the words fell out of my mouth. “The stuff on television….the creatures, the magic…”

She said neither yes or no, but there’s always truth in fantasy. 

She smiled and reached for her cup and purse. 

I’d forgotten she does this, being both kind and nasty in her dismissals. I grabbed my cup and exhaled loudly. She rolled her eyes standing, but I’d gotten to her. As we walked to the door, she mentioned that werewolves in stories are routinely male. Wryly, she asked if I knew of any men who turned into nocturnal beasts beneath black skies. 

She raised an eyebrow. 

I forgot she knew Isaiah, and it was I who’d fallen into her trap with my attempt to set one. She asked about him, so I told her about the silence and painfully empty affections; also that one of us would have to cave, to which she responded, “Not necessarily.” 

If we truly loved one another, we would find a way to fill the silence with new understanding. From that understanding we’d evolve into being better to one another. If I continue to say words like “cave’, compromise will always feel like death and the relationship will die. 

I exhaled again, but without motive. 

I squinted at her, still dizzy from the madness that was this perfectly confusing woman. “And, sirens……are they real?” I asked smirking and expected a puzzling retort. Instead, her brown eyes glowed amber for a second as she took another sip from her cardboard cup.

“Yes.”

At this, I didn’t respond from not having the stamina for another journey, but I was already curious; wanting to walk away, and to stay. 

She nodded. 

“If you’re not busy tomorrow, you should come by the shop. I’ve just ordered something I think you’d be interested in.”

I agreed without hesitation. We said our goodbyes and headed off in two separate directions. 

————————————————————————————————-—-

I arrived home to a scene that resembled something from a storybook. The sitting rooms were lit with candles that smelled of vanilla and rum. The overhead lights were dimmed to rustic gold as Isaiah kneeled in the center of a ring of long-stemmed roses. I knew what would happen next, but was shaken by my unexpected resolve. Instead of disappointment, I felt the makings of a new beginnings and relief that he’d found the courage without the prerequisite conversation. 

I dropped my belongings to the floor and rushed over; agreeing before he could make the speech that tends to prelude these moments. We embraced for what seemed like an eternity; an embrace that grew to a consummation of home we’d found in one another. 

——————————————————————————————————

The night was soundless as we slept in total darkness. I woke and stared at the reflection of the moon as it bounced from the edges of the diamond I wore. Elation turned to wonder as I recalled every word Narcissa had spoken. 

Had she known?

I tapped Isaiah’s shoulder and he woke. I asked him the question I was surprised I’d not yet asked, “How did you meet Narcissa?”

He sighed and said they’d met at LSU, dated for four years, and moved here together. At this, I turned on the lamp and sat with my back against the headboard. I stared at him and he understood the cue. 

His retelling of her was as expected; this mystical creature with blood stained lips, a thirst for knowledge, and an intoxicating aura. She was grounded but free, disciplined but uncaring, calculated but wild. Their passion had no regard for the time of day, and she dreamed in a way that inspired some, but drove others to fury. They worked hard at these aspiration; she opened her shop and he’d been in his career long enough to turn the respect he’d earned into his own consulting firm. But, they split and he remained at his desk. 

I asked him what happened. 

He turned to me and smiled, “I met you.”

I sat in silence having experienced the magic of this woman for myself. I bit my lip knowing I dulled in comparison and stared at the wall confused at his genuine happiness. He read my thoughts and rolled his eyes. 

“Narcissa is the sea; uncharted and tumultuous, having endless depth and adventure. But, I saw a future with you because you are everything she isn’t. You are my rock.”and tumultuous, having endless depth and adventure. But, I saw a future with you because you are everything she isn’t. You are my rock.”

[shortstoriesbycarynnicole]

Narcissa's Tale: The B-Sides

Caryn Nicole Wells (South Carolina, 2022)

“It was just a colour out of space—a frightful messenger from unformed realms of infinity beyond all Nature as we know it; from realms whose mere existence stuns the brain and numbs us with the black extra-cosmic gulfs it throws open before our frenzied eyes.”- H.P. Lovecraft in "The Colour Out of Space"

PART ONE

The smoke was thicker than it had been earlier in the week; this was the first Friday of the month and bills had stolen the last check. The next exhale would cost another fifty hours of toil, so they’d inhale to hold them over while drowning their misery in poison. Narcissa knew why they showed every week as her reasons were the same. She’d picked a thin skirt the color of winter earth and paired it with a white tank top she tucked in at the waist. She painted her lips red because she always did. The color drew jeers of ‘tacky’ but it was her favorite; and tacky, she thought, not to mind one’s own business just the same. 

As society chooses to enforce certain perceived social graces over others, she had chosen her set list to fit her own agenda. She’d sing her purgatory for herself and for those whose hearts shared the cell. The lovebirds in the crowd would be transported to a time before their present bliss; falling more in love with their beloved at the end of every song. She stared at herself in the dressing room mirror and took a few deep breaths. The lights flashed in the small damp room; briefly hiding the shag carpet and vintage festival posters to warn five minutes. 

She looked into her own brown eyes and did what women do; sending her ear to her shoulder and running her hands down her frame while imaging there’d be more love with less, and less lust. The vanity light hung six bulbs with only three in working order. A fourth flickered yellow, but buzzed the green of cartoon vomit. She’d learned to live with short lived dissonance and was thankful for her gift. She’d paint a master artist’s night sky; under which the crowd would disappear until their time to applaud the effort. It was horrendous, but she’d bow and smile anyway: flirt with the bartender, and head home with or without him. 

She overturned the palo santo and crushed the burn to ashes in an ornate shell. She pressed her palms together at heart’s center, closed her eyes and inhaled once more. 

She centered herself with a six syllable chant; the effect of which would reveal itself in its own time as she surrendered her will to ancestors who weren’t hers. Wisdom had taught her reverence of all elders (save for the Romans), and she trusted her fate to all who still held court, those who knew better than to pay for salvation in gold-

those whose eyes stared frontward at a forty-five degree tilt, never bowing five times eastward or tracking the moon’s ebb and flow.

A knock on the door interrupted her meditation. She knew it was important, or the caller would not have come.

“Nars….”, the drummer stood at the door with sorrow in his eyes. She was shaken again by his expression. They’d had a fling years back and he never took anything seriously. 

“Your mother is on line one…..it’s about your grandfather.”

PART TWO

The wind blew eastward, lifting Narcissa’s long black waves in the flow. She traveled by foot to work every morning, and today would be no different. The cold seeped through her pores, wrapping her heart in the frigidity. She felt everything to her core as if her skin were a broken window that couldn’t close. Her response to the news had been a long night’s sleep and an hour to have her semi-permanent acupuncture needle replaced. She’d upgraded from weekly visits when she moved to the city; still keeping twice monthly appointments for the full work up. 

A near-death experience had changed her life; teaching her the weaponization of the body in the silencing of the mind. The wind kissed her cheek and she smiled at the kindness. Still, she stopped into Wise Bean for something warm. She stood in line, glancing down the length of her arm to the local paper’s coverage of the coming city elections. The conservative candidate promised protests if the vote went the other way; this once honored gathering of men seldom heard now reduced to temper tantrums. 

She lifted her gaze to meet the eyes of the barista bathed in brown. His chestnut skin glistened under the low lighting of the cafe’. He was of medium build and all the more beautiful in the steam machine’s whistle, blue. He smiled and asked for her order, adding a flash of pearl to the opulence. She ordered a Cubano, no sugar, and he requested her name for the cup. She offered the response and he smirked, but sweetly, asking if Narcissa was the name she’d been born with. She gave a knowing nod; one foot dangling from the cloud she’d climbed in his eyes. Her dream state was restored when he pointed at the plastic attached to his shirt. 

His name was Lucius. 

He grinned and glanced her over where she stood, in a pink midi satin skirt and cream toned sweater tucked into one side. She paid in cash and drifted to the pickup area. The canisters of caramel were an extension of his arm as they hurried in and out of the sea of steam and noise. He called her name when her order was ready. They lingered in the goodbye and she wondered if he was still watching as she headed towards the door. She looked over her shoulder, finding Lucius with his back turned; rushing to save the neighborhood from the winter air and morning stress. 

She continued on foot in the direction of her store, removing her phone from her purse as she walked. She had five missed calls from Isaiah and a text requesting to talk. They’d been friends for a lifetime, but he’d moved on. She was trying to do the same; not to a someone, though not against it. More into a new season of her life and opportunities to rediscover herself. She reached her store’s front door and took the key from her purse. She went to toss the coffee cup into the garbage can by the entrance. She took the last sip and lowered her hand. 

And there, under her forefinger were ten digits and the initial, “L”.

—————————————————————————————————

Narcissa began her days as she always did; lighting sage and various incense, holding her hands in padma mudra to open her heart to all who would enter. Her morning meditation was disrupted by the sound of the door hitting the bell that hung above it. She peered from the back as a face she recognized from social media searched the shelves: another girl with a funny name-

Isaiah’s new girlfriend, Zoan. 

—————————————————————————————————

PART THREE

TADASANA.

Narcissa stood at the top of her rose gold mat, gripping the polyurethane with the balls of her feet; ten toes pointing towards the heavens. She’d been treating herself well in single life, and enjoying the distance from Isaiah.

He’d call and she wouldn’t answer, so he kept calling. She figured he’d stop eventually, when his uncertainty about moving forward with Zoan dwindled to an ember. But, his wavering seemed to have escalated to pulsing insecurity; made evident by his sending the doe-eyed pixie to her doorstep.

FORWARD FOLD.

Isaiah knew the answer to the question she’d carried. Narcissa inhaled slowly and controlled through her nose and forced the air back out the same way. He’d used his new love to force his way back into her story. She knew his tactics and felt pity for the girl who played tough for the world, seemingly having no idea that she comes of as petulant; the kind of person advanced by circumstance and still believes she’s earned it in earnest. 

HALFWAY LENGTHEN.

Narcissa lifted her gaze to the front of her mat, surrendering to the background music’s addition to the sensation. Sometimes, it was beautiful. 

FORWARD FOLD.

Narcissa lowered her hands to the ground, shooting her feet back to land in a high plank.

CHATURANGA DANDASANA.

He really sent his unsuspecting mate into her lair. 

It was clear that Zoan had no knowledge of their past relationship, or his current calls. Narcissa shined her chest open, tucked her toes, and lifted her hips to the ceiling.

DOWNWARD FACING DOG. 

Her phone rang at that moment and she knew it was Isaiah. She stepped her right foot between her grounded hands; reaching high above her head. She reached to the dresser without moving her feet and slid the button on the side to stop the device from sounding.

WARRIOR ONE.

—————————————————————————————————

Narcissa enjoyed cooking for herself, but pitied the pour soul the universe would assign as her soulmate. She didn’t do soul food; the way to his heart, or so she’d been told. She’d marinated a chicken breast for the length of the day and set it in the pan to sear. She turned back to her island on the down count of a lofi beat: ambient hip-hop and jazz with no words. She chopped two kinds of lettuce, peppercorns, cherry tomatoes, black olives, red onions, and a block of feta cheese. She tossed the ingredients one by one in a large bowl that sat atop her rustic wooden trimmings. 

She stared at her forest green couch from the kitchen, adorned with a vibrant knit blanket she’d purchased from a street vendor. She had mass canes, peace lilies, and pothos that wrapped around the distance of her living room; warming the tan carpet that returned the gesture. One canvas of various matte and glittering brown stripes hung above the fireplace. Apartments have no yard, so she brought the earth inside. Her moment of gratefulness ended abruptly when her mother called. There’d be a family gathering in the morning. Her grandfather’s condition was worsening and they’d all agreed to come together. 

She rolled her eyes and said ‘okay’, ending the call as she transferred the poultry to a plate to cool. Her phone buzzed as she removed the Greek dressing from the fridge. She turned towards the new message from Lucius. 

She’d reached out when she’d arrived home, washed up, and dressed out for yoga; sending a text between the bathroom mirror and the unrollling of the mat that read:

“Best Cubano I’ve ever had.”

He’d responded, “Best Cubano I’ve ever made.”

—————————————————————————————————-

Three knocks let Lucius into Narcissa’s apartment. He carried a bottle of wine and a plastic container of garlic bread he’d picked up from the store on the way over. She kindly explained that she didn’t drink. He kindly abstained in solidarity. Through dinner, he flowed between information and flirtation. He was a Casanova of a different kind; being charming without the intentional oozing of bravado. Narcissa put her guard up in response. He’d done nothing wrong but be brilliant, and she wasn’t going to allow herself to be taken by his waves. She responded to his questions about her life, the store, and her inner most self with falsely polite reserve. He peered directly at her; not through her and searching for the truth, but holding her to it without crossing the boundary she’d set. She sighed and opened.

She told Lucius about her grandfather and the gathering set for the morning. She explained that she’d been treating these events as vacation days; taking hot baths, bathing in oils, and enjoying documentaries in her pajamas on knit blankets. She wished she could blame her absence on an excess of drama, but that wasn’t true. 

She glanced at the seemingly good man through the flutters of her lashes; waiting for the lecture on the importance of family and being present. Instead, he leaned in, rested his chin on one hand, and told her that she was born an individual; that the creator gives everyone their own space in this world and she owed no explanation for her choices concerning her life gift.

It was then that she decided to allow herself to be taken.

—————————————————————————————————

Narcissa woke to smooth jazz she’d timed to drift from her alarm on the weekends. She turned to Lucius who still slept, and beautifully so. She journeyed to the kitchen, removing her good coffee from its shelf. She matched the tablespoons to water and pressed the button marked “brew”. She traveled to the bathroom as the aroma filled the air. She turned on the lights revealing brown, marble counters and quaint rustic fixings. She smoothed her hair with a brush, took a swig of mouthwash, and applied eye cream to the late night evidence. 

She added a touch of liquid rouge to look less like a corpse; finding herself drowning in femininity-

a mood that’d evaded her for some time. 

It was then that she decided to move on definitively. She’d take Isaiah’s queen. 

She placed a call to the local police, repeating all that Zoan had said about Applewood Cemetery, Mrs. Mudge, and the conversation she overheard. No more visits.

She crept back into her room and into bed; snuggling in towards Lucius who wrapped her tightly in his arms, half sleeping. Narcissa’s phone buzzed as soon as she placed her head on her pillow. 

Isaiah’s text appeared on her Lock Screen. 

“Who’s the guy in your bed?”

PART FOUR

Narcissa sat at a bar table in the back corner of Wise Bean. It was less busy on Sundays; with the bossa nova whisking by like late winter flurries. She stared into the soul of her coffee cup, contents unknown. Lucius promised a surprise and delivered a cylinder of black woody thunderstorm air and a hint of biting moss. She’d never considered the provenance of the coffee she drank before today; before the last person to know her retold the story in caffeinated prose. 

She didn’t feel like the unpaved roads of a country she’d only dreamed seeing. She didn’t look it today, either; pulling a emerald sweatshirt over a linen skirt, platting her hair into two braids that hung from her shoulder, and wearing the oversized square glasses she seldom let people see. Still, Lucius carried the cup with a grin and twiddled the tail of one braid between his index finger and thumb before turning heel and returning to his duties. They’d agreed upon her absence from the family event taking place an hour west. Narcissa was overwhelmed with relief when he’d offered the hideaway. 

She’d brought a book for the day; a true-crime story about misdeeds and the small town that kept the secret. But, she made it to page ten before scrolling between the news articles she’d caused, and the text Isaiah sent. 

They shared a floor. She kept repeating that to herself to make his intrusion seem less so. She was moving on and knew that while his interference potential was far from benign, his priority was getting inside her head. Narcissa’s next thought was wishing she’d sent Zoan home with some kind of aphrodisiac. 

Lucius returned to her table and took the seat that faced hers. She’d not noticed until someone dropped a tray across the room. She jumped and clasped her chest, and was brought back to center by a friendly smile from the handsome barista. He asked her what was bothering her, and she lengthened her posture to conceal the angst. 

She instantly regretted the move when Lucius raised an eyebrow. He was smarter than that, and she hoped he wouldn’t be insulted by her paltry attempt at deceit. She lied and said she felt guilty about not showing up for her family, but thanked him for letting her park there for the day. If she and Lucius became a thing and the Isaiah problem worsened, she’d tell him. 

This wasn’t the time. 

Lucius smiled and stood. His break was over. He said there was no need for thanks, and winked on his way back to the counter. 

Narcissa’s phone rang, snatching her from the warmth, as well. She didn’t bother to look at the number and assumed it was Isaiah. She snapped a furious “What?!?”, and was instantly filled with shame. 

It was her grandfather. 

The family had left for the day, and he’d really like to see her. 

PART FIVE

Narcissa moved with the westbound winds as she left Wise Bean as it stood; bustling and unchanged by her lingering. The scene agreed with Lucius as he also remained unchanged; nodding upward and smiling as she left through the crowd, unable to peel himself away to give a proper goodbye. Narcissa inhaled sharply through her nose with a restriction in her throat, forcing the issue. Her intentional conjuring of fresh prana raised her awareness as she made peace with her powerlessness to control Isaiah, her grandfather, or the strangers passing by long enough for the fresh air to be of benefit; and her walk not for naught. 

Narcissa set her gaze on the hidden sky that peeked through the manmade loft. With God as man, and man as God the sky fought not at all for divinity. Such surrender, she thought, for the heavens to be silent; the Old Testament was clear about God and these things. He'd wiped others out for lesser expressions of mortal hubris. So, she resigned to believe he was either not, or gave up hope. The priesthood built their communities around vaults of lofty connections. 

With signatures as grace, and grace a song, it mattered not. 

Her searching the clouds for signs of life came to an abrupt end when the blade of her shoulder met the tricep of a stranger. She turned to beg excuse, but he beat her to it. She smiled and nodded at the brown-eyed, brown gentleman; his white shirt covering the belt line of cargo shorts, and a yoga mat over his shoulder. He smiled back as Narcissa studied the mat; knowing everything about him from the choice. It was the color of ancient emerald with no trimmings but the logo, 6mm or 7mm thick, and suede-topped to the touch. He followed her eyes to the shoulder strap; pointing at it, then her, then it. She confirmed the shared interest with another grin as the stranger outstretched his hand. Suspended in time with the street still going on, he introduced himself as a name Narcissa heard, but didn't hear. He pulled her in and smiled as she coyly shook his hand. His eyes surveyed her entire being, from the top of her head to her toes. His attention lingered at the spots she drilled; his smile widening in appreciation. 

She'd been surprised that in her dropping weight, her curves were more pronounced; her rigid abdomen giving way to whispers of teasing invitations. She followed his gaze back to eye level, and heard his tightening grip through the hollows of her ears. She was transported to a time much later than this, with the moon overhead and shining through the heat. She felt his fingers in her back and scratched his shoulder with her nails; a top that spun for hours, churned by shared endurance and duly earned strength. 

The wind whipped Narcissa from the musing, and she pulled her hand away. She turned on her heels, inhaling sharply again to regain herself. He called after her, asking which studio she belonged to. She pointed in the direction of his heading to her beloved second home, and he responded by asking if she planned to join his Saturday morning class. He was a guest teacher in town for two weeks; wishing to see her there, and hoping to grab lunch after class. Narcissa flirted that her acceptance of post-savasana outings were always determined by her endorphin levels, which were only high if the class was good. He chuckled, offered a nod in prayer mudra, and promised a quality ninety minutes. They shook hands once again, and turned away at the same time. 

Narcissa's nerve endings sang while she bathed in the vision, turning the corner to colder winds as her pace quickened home. The people passing by seemed less busy than before, and the outdoor restaurant patrons ever gleeful. The temperature dropped and brought her slowly back to her unfortunate reality. She'd promised to drive two hours to the country in the morning. She sighed as the thought settled in. Her grandfather made no effort to sound feeble, which only made her feel worse. He was being strong and fair; knowing her well and giving her the choice. He was smart that way; giving her space, to bend her will. 

Isaiah never caught on. He'd push without ceasing, tire himself, and call her exhausting behind her back. Lucius was smarter, and it didn't take him long to figure it out. He'd have to go, soon. She didn't know him well enough to let him be that comfortable quite so early. 

She kept going down the street, backing slowly from the idea; dangling just over possibility of cutting ties, resigning to let it play out and trust the universe to speak in its time. She smiled at the lights as they danced through the patrons; food parishioners under awnings, making toasts and grabbing at bread plates. The golden flecks of light bounced through a set of curls she recognized as belonging to Zoan. She slowed her pace to a labored stride as she approached the back of her new acquaintance's head. 

Zoan sat across from a man Narcissa knew to be Isaiah's boss. Their body language was unromantic, but friendly. Narcissa quickened her pace to not seem out of place, and scurried by with an ear to their conversation. Zoan reassured Mr. Taylor that Isaiah had no interest in opening his own firm. If offered the promotion, he'd take it. Mr. Taylor responded, certain that Isaiah was married to his entrepreneurial intentions. 

Zoan promised she'd 'take care' of any remaining distractions. 

Mr. Taylor should proceed with the offer. 

PART SIX

The house at the far end of the street stood silent as words unspoken; pondering its contents and praising its value in anticipation of a response to the revelation. The morning sun would relieve the night as it always had through time, so the wise knew well not to waste moonlight with the day's impending truth. Through the window, from down the quiet street, a woman could be seen standing over her stove. She stirred a pot with a wooden spoon. Her labor was slowed as there was no rush, so preparation was assumed. Her brown skin glowed over the low, open flame. Her coils brushed the shoulders of the thin plaid dress she wore. The apron tied around her waist was stained, frayed, and aged. Only love could leave that kind of mark, as it does in all its work. 

She swayed from left to right, appearing to hum over the rising steam. It blew in the direction of another room lit with a warm light emanating from the floor. A child with curls like her mother slept soundly, her blankets rising and falling to the rhythm of her breath. She drooled silver dreams as she clung to a blue, fuzzy bear that appeared to have lost an eye. Only love could leave that kind of mark, too. 

The mother leaned in over the stove and sniffed the pot's damp air. She nodded once, seemingly pleased with her work, and walked over to a box in the corner. She lifted it with audible clangs of glass and set it on the table; lifting her head sharply and to the left as if she'd heard something in the distance. Her shoulders relaxed as she dropped her gaze back to the work at hand while men in black surrounded her house, the spectator's secret and chagrin. One kicked in the door with no warning and held the woman at the end of a gun. The others rushed down the hall as she pleaded that her child be unharmed. The woman was handcuffed and led out of the door as the child was snatched from her bed. She screamed after her mother who was stuffed into the back of a car, powerless to soothe the frightened wails of her daughter. 

Narcissa woke from her dream, sitting straight up in her bed. Beads of sweat cooled her forehead as she heaved. The little girl's cries echoed in her mind as she placed her feet on the ground. Her damp hair clung to the back of her neck as she fought to catch her breath. She turned on the lamp and walked to her bathroom; turning the sink knob marked "C" and splashing the water on her face. She stared at herself as her breath returned to normal and pulled the shower curtain back to reveal the tile. She turned a second knob until steam filled the bathroom, and stepped in to wash the dream down the drain. 

She stood under the torrent and stared into the eye of the shower head. She'd hung fresh lavender and eucalyptus from the steel and waited for the steam to stir the scent. She sighed and reached for the soap as she dreaded the day ahead, sure that the dream was born from her mind running in anxious anticipation of the family visit. 

PART SEVEN

The highway was busy as ever with people going and coming from their routine destinations; accepting the open road as liberty while paying taxes to be told how to live. A mile into the stretch, traffic came to a stop and the six lanes of drivers sat in brewing frustration. Narcissa turned the radio off as the outside noise began to swell. She never understood the honking with each car in front of the next no less able to force mobility. She thought of listening to sounds of rainwater set to ambient harmonics, but she was stuck and that choice would only make her want to sleep or have to pee. The gridlock provided no allowance for either urge. She sat and moved an inch when able until an hour revealed the wreck. She drove past slowly, as everyone did, to see four cars smashed into the backs of one another; panicked drivers on the side of the road speaking frantically into their phones. 

She took the next exit out of town and was glad to see calmer seas. She turned to the folk station and played it low, removing her sunglasses as she drove away from the sun. She checked her rearview mirror to see the same car she'd been in front of for the past ten miles. She'd have thought nothing of it but, the vehicle's behavior was strange. They followed at a distance, but not as a tentative driver. It seemed a watchful creep that made her shoulders tense and rise. She turned the music up and did her best to shake the thought, but her efforts proved futile as her discomfort only heightened. She took a left away from her path to test the car behind her. It took the same left a few beats after, so she took a random right. The car followed again and slowed its speed. Narcissa pressed the gas for distance. The car sped up for the first time the whole trip, and she took another unplanned turn. The car followed and slowed again, seeming to know it 'd been made. Narcissa pulled into a gas station a few feet ahead, and the driver sped past the establishment. A man in a hat, shades, and gloves was driving the car. She had no way of telling his race or build, or if it was a man at all. 

She thought of dialing an emergency line, but it'd probably do no good. She instantly thought of Isaiah, and if it was him, she'd deal with him later. She backed out of the station and made her way to correct the path. She sighed relief as she kept on her way without the disturbance of strange road fellows. 

She turned into the neighborhood that she rarely ever saw. It was nothing like the city and the quiet made her miss the concrete. She grown accustomed to the noise, having trained herself to befriend it. The suburbs were the enemy now, leaving too much room for thought and providing little inspiration. She made a left onto her grandfather's street and gasped as she approached. Emergency professionals pushed a gurney carrying a body that was covering from its feet to the crown of its head. She pulled over and ran to the scene, asking the medic team for a report. They told her they'd received an alert after her grandfather pushed the call button he wore around his neck. She walked up to the gurney as they pulled back the sheet. She burst into tears and placed her forehead onto his. One of the medics stroked her back and said they'd called the family. They'd be arriving soon and they were sorry for her loss. The other asked if she was "Narcissa" and pulled a letter from his jacket when she confirmed. He'd died with it in his hands, and they saw no need to give it to estate personnel with her standing there in person. She took the letter and stood in the driveway as the patriarch was wheeled away. She wiped at her tears and hurried back to her car. She closed the door and sat in silence. 

She thought of opening the letter there, but didn't want to risk of seeing anyone else. She started her car and drove back home with regret filling her entire being and no blankets to hide under for the next two hours. 

PART EIGHT

To Narcissa, my favourite and most beloved,

In these final hours, I've not the strength to cover the past. Just know that I cherish the memories of your growth from your birth. You've become so beautiful and brave and independent. And while that has taken you away from me, I feel your spirit when the wind blows and I am honored to call you blood.

(Narcissa sat in silence as the tears began to flow; the sun wrapping her in warmth as she leaned into her bedpost for support.)

You are of me, as I too swam against the violent tide; every man marching towards the moving post, catching pennies from the sky. And with my having done it for so long, it is my responsibility to impart to you this wisdom. 

There are wolves in these streams. 

As you push forward with your comrades in white, with their greasy hair, linen clothes, and their guitars, only you will be hunted. Your skin will betray you as you try to rise above; as you separate yourself from the conversations that feed the profitable dissent. There is no separation without our participation, no factory workforce without our submission. Your meditation will be your sin, and your magnetism, your crime. You are too powerful, beloved. And so, you must now make a choice. You can turn and succumb to the riverbend, or you can take flight. Fighting is always and ever an option, but it'd be a waste of your time and your gifts. 

There is a man who lives at the edge of town. I've given him your name. He brokers the freedom of our independent minds. He is an ally. He can be trusted. And, he is expecting you. I've held onto my one favor in this town, and saved it for this purpose. If you so choose, your number will be called, and you will Migrate. If you so choose, you will be fine and free so long as you don't left the comforts of freedom return you to the stream.

You have five days beyond my lowering to find yourself at the construction headquarters behind the labs.

Ask for Eli. 

All my love,

Pop

PART NINE

Narcissa opened the studio door and caught a nose full of incense and floral-based cleanser. She wiped her feet on the welcome mat and walked to the front desk. Wooden and stately, it stood at the center of the entrance dressed with oak floors and walls that matched their docking. The blonde-haired receptionist offered a chipper, "Hey Nars!", and Narcissa returned the greeting. She preferred her name be uttered in full and couldn't remember who had shortened it. But, "Nars" was better than "Cissy" or "Cissa", so she let it slide. She tapped the kiosk screen to reveal the classes and selected the time of her arrival. She walked past the sea of winding pothos and down the hall to the classroom on the right. 

Light, ambient music met her at the doorway as she scanned the room for her favorite spot. The back corner by the window was waiting for her as always. She loved this studio for many reasons, but the distant yet courteous camaraderie of the natives was the main selling point. She placed her water bottle onto the floor and rolled out her mat and towel. Her skin was beginning to warm in the heated room as she sat at the center of her nude colored mat. A few more joined the waiting class as the clock hand inched toward the minute. 

When it did, the stranger she'd met on the street graced the crowd with his presence and offered affirmations and invitations of challenge and reflection. He rolled out his own mat and took a seat at the front of the class. He led the class in the three-part breath and began the flow in child's pose. As Narcissa relaxed her heart space closer to the earth, it shattered and memories of her grandfather flooded her entire being. She'd expected to be emotional today, but not at the start and not quite so violently. 

She recalled his chili and cornbread recipe, their weekends in the forest where he taught her the scientific names of plants and how to use them, and the way he taught her to believe. He kept a copy of the King James Version on a bookshelf by a framed Four of Cups displayed reversed in a frame. "The love of money is the root of all evil," he'd quote, and nod in agreement of the sentiment. She stopped short of tears as she transitioned into Warrior II. The music that usually eased her grew louder as her heartbeat quickened; pounding mercilessly into her ears. She thought of leaving but was too far from the door and didn't want to disrupt her classmates. 

She closed her eyes to still herself and felt a hand at the bend of her waist. The instructor, whose name she now remembered to be Bodhi, slid his bare foot into her back instep and gently corrected her posture. He lifted her foot with his last few toes and placed it back down as the ambient chords resolved. She felt his breath on the back of her neck as he buoyed her arms to release them. She opened her eyes, immediately sending her energy into her back foot. "Breathe", he said, giving her waist a light squeeze; his hand traveling to her hips to gently guide them square before drifting away. She exhaled the tension and stored the memories in the recesses of her mind, and all that was left was the love. She settled into practice and surrendered to weightlessness. 

Practice ended with a unison "Namaste", and the students all headed their separate ways. Narcissa headed to the community showers, slid into her waterproof slippers, and stepped in closing the curtain. She peeled her sweaty leggings from her body and stood motionless under the hot water as the music continued to play. She reached for her sponge and goat's milk soap, and scrubbed as the suds washed down the drain. Once everything was clean from her hair to her toes, she rinsed herself and stood there motionless once again. She could still feel the light pressure of Bodhi's hands on her frame. Physical touch was her love language; her healing and her downfall. And she knew he was the same by the thoughtfulness of his reach. He hadn't stressed to be appropriate, nor had he crossed the line; speaking the language the gift-givers, wordsmiths, clingers, and servicemen do not know. She wrapped herself in the her towel and hugged herself to dry off. She quickly covered herself in lotion and her armpits in deodorant. Narcissa slipped into a loose dress, changed into a pair of sandals, sprayed "Nomade" by Chloe into the air, and walked through the scent. 

She emerged from the dimly lit bathroom and onto the pathway out, nearly turning the corner to the exit when Bodhi called after her. His invitation for lunch still stood, as he slung his gym bag over his shoulder. He smelled of pine and patchouli having just showered himself. She stared into his sparkling eyes and pondered the invitation. She had a lot to consider and much to do. Her grief was still fresh, she thought of Lucius and what it was and wasn't, and then there was this Eli character to look into. But, something about Bodhi brought her ease, and she needed that in the moment. She agreed, and he placed his hand into the small of her back, gently guiding her out as they bid farewell to the fellow yogis. 

The air was crisp as he opened the door, and the smile on her face disappeared instantly at the sight of Isaiah standing beneath the awning. 

"We need to talk", he said. 

PART TEN

The sun bore down on the confrontation as the former lovers stood in silence. Narcissa stared into his irises and felt everything at once: anger for his being there, fury for his tracking her, sympathy from knowing that he'd made the wrong choice, and more sympathy for this being the result of his moment of realization. His eyes were pleading as they always did when he didn't know what to do next. He had a bad habit of betting the lot on greener sod; with no center of his own to lean on. So, he'd power forward and realize that, too, that she'd been his lighthouse on turbulent seas. Then, he'd put her through hell to change the truth of her necessity and convince himself that he alone was the source of his stability. 

She didn't know what he wanted, but she knew exactly what she wanted. And for the first time since she met him, that's what mattered. 

"Bodhi, this is my....cousin, Isaiah", she said. Isaiah's face fell as he shook Bodhi's hand; the gesture carried out with his eyes still on Narcissa. "Isaiah has a lot of exciting things going on," she smiled, and forced her eyes to light and took a breath to make it true.

".....a great job and a great girlfriend." 

Bodhi nodded, smiled, and congratulated a now glowering Isaiah on his bliss with a chummy pat on the arm. "Everything's happening so fast," she grinned and continued. "I told him to try yoga and mediation to help him find center in transitional times; to help him move forward and start anew."

Bodhi smiled back at Narcissa, his pupils widening as he wrapped his arm around her waist. He looked back at Isaiah and smiled, "Absolutely.....but this studio is at capacity, so you may want to try the studio on Elm," he smiled at Isaiah, then Narcissa. "It's great, and they have a drop-in option. No membership required."

Isaiah blinked a few times, smirked, and nodded. 

"Shall we?", Bodhi said as he offered Narcissa his arm. She took it and smiled, waving back at Isaiah as the two headed to the cafe across the street. 

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

He ordered for them both; an act of chivalry she never understood. But, she allowed it and stared at the beautiful selection. A kale salad with basil dressing, and a lavender hibiscus tea topped with a purple flower. They talked about the class, his home studio, and the weather. He was a climber and felt it was a perfect day for a hike. He talked about his upbringing with his father, the librarian. He didn't speak of his mother, but had a sister who worked in agriculture, and a brother who taught middle school aged kids. 

He kept reminding her of her beauty and that it'd been his pleasure, their chance encounter. He was glad she'd come to the class and even more that she'd joined him for lunch. In the wake of his perfection, Narcissa had never felt less deserving. She spent her weekends in jazz clubs as he slept under the stars. She'd washed the smell of cigarette smoke from her hair as he swam in frigid, hidden lakes. She listened as he spoke and wondered if her sudden self consciousness was from proximity to him or a remnant of the past; an emotion stirred from having just seen Isaiah with her now feeling Bodhi was out of her league. She was trying, ardently so, every single day for wholeness. She was working. She was striving. She was trying to be better. But even her best seemed like it wouldn't be enough. She knew he hadn't said it. He may not have even had such a thought, but that didn't stop hers from haunting the moment. She'd be the girl who nearly fell apart in class. And he was the knight who helped a stranded damsel on the way to fetch his princess. 

He grabbed the check at the end of the meal and helped her from her chair. He held her hand as they walked out the door. And she squeezed his fingers to savor the moment; his interest, she was sure, would be short lived. His was a yogi's world and he had options; beautiful girls throwing themselves at his feet. And despite her hard work, she hated her curves again. Her mind fast forwarded home to either the mat or the fridge. She knew she'd react one way or another; either with more determination or resign.

Bodhi kissed her cheek as he bid farewell, offering to walk her home. It wasn't far, so she declined with a smile meant to conceal the truth; that she'd be placing a call to her acupuncturist who also served as a decent shrink in moments like these. He reached both arms around her waist and pulled her into his chest, and she clung to his defined and solid arms for life itself. She inhaled sharply as he pulled away, agreeing to see him in class tomorrow and have a cup of coffee after. 

She walked towards the wind and realized he hadn't asked for her number. She stared at her phone and exhaled her disappointment; she hadn't figured he would. She adjusted her postured, lifted her chin, and decided that would be the last time she saw him. He was guest teacher and would return back to his burrow. She'd skip tomorrow's studio class, practice alone, and avoid the mirror even if it meant showering in the dark. Her phone buzzed in her hand as she turned onto her street. It was a number she didn't recognize, but the caller ID read, "Lower Third Construction". She answered and a male voice asked her name, "Hello, Narcissa?". She confirmed. "This is Eli."

[shortstoriesbycarynnicole]

Zoan and the Balcom Family

Caryn Nicole Wells (South Carolina, 2023)

“The world is indeed comic, but the joke is on mankind.”- H.P. Lovecraft

Prologue

"Miss White, 

Thank you for your request to join our compelling pool of applicants. 

As a reminder, your signature on the at-will submission confirms your voluntary participation and the agreed upon code of absolute silence and discretion concerning all matters and correspondences, including this letter. 

A car will arrive at your place of dwelling at 10am, Saturday. Do not keep the driver waiting as tardiness will be noted. A dress will arrive this afternoon in the size you notated on the request form. All applicants will wear identical clothings that will be provided, as we strive to enforce equity and eliminate impartiality throughout the process. 

Please pull your hair into a neat bun with no bangs or loose strands to frame the face. Shorter lengths of hair will need to be straightened and tucked behind the ears. Makeup is your choice, but know that your styling will be noted. Please refrain from obscene perfumes or lotions. Light and barely noticeable scents are preferred. 

We expect most interviews to last an hour. Please clear your afternoon to avoid disruption, just in case.

When you arrive at our home, please make your way to the side entrance. You will be met by a family representative and provided further instruction. 

Again, confidentiality and discretion are mandatory and will be enforced. 

We look forward to your arrival,

Elaine Balcom

Secretary to the Balcom Family"

Part One

As life before a newborn unfolds more darkly and unknown than our bright and patronizing celebrations, so did the winding road Zoan traveled to the Balcom Family residence. The trees were towers that did so over its uninvited guests, marking their territory with fallen leaves as a gentle warning to turn back.

The gate was no less daunting, standing black and vast. The bushes blew gently beneath the dark grey skies as the driver entered the code. The iron parted to reveal another pathway, this one longer than the one before; like a long and twisted truth follows a theatrical and dimly lit lie.

The path then stopped at the foot of a concrete driveway. Wider than the sea, it seemed, it gave way to rolling lawn on both sides. The green went on for miles each way and ombréd as it went; first of springtime green made dark by the skies into summer’s slightly darker shade, and onward to autumn’s emerald before turning black beneath the shadows.

The car crept past the topiary spirals; arrogant and fluffed, they pointed upward to they sky. The flowerbeds kneeling at their feet weren’t any less haughty than their masters. They played the sun with persuasive conviction, and the topiaries played God commanding the hue.

The house that sat in the midst of it all followed suit and kept the theme. Being both of heaven and of man, it stood a mirror facing a mirror, reflecting its own image.

Three stories of red brick wet with dew were topped by grayish roofing. The water droplets were kept in place by the lukewarm autumn air. Zoan had expected columns, but the Balcom’s had gone with earth. Mint green vines grabbed the building at the base and slithered up the front with great audacity, choking the ten windows in their rows. The overgrown cottage knew its history well, and kept the secrets to itself by way of a modern door.

The stark white fixture was guarded by cameras peeking out from the doorbell and down onto the knob. Three short steps were both a welcome and a smirk; proving no barrier to entry but holding one side-mouth’s corner upturned.

The door at the side looked much like the first, only one step shorter but just as smug. The driver opened the passenger door and Zoan stepped into the gravel. The grey had given way to the ground after the houses’s introduction, and the driver walked her gingerly to a second.

He knocked on the door three times and took a strong step back, wrapping his right, closed fist in his palm and resting the gesture at his belt. A thin black woman with skin the color of undisturbed sleep opened the door and surveyed Zoan from head to toe. Her lipstick had a hint of orange while remaining otherwise neutral. Her lips parted to reveal her perfect teeth as she smiled at Zoan in approval. The smile made sparkles in her deep brown eyes just above her thin nose and overly sharpened cupid’s bow.

The severity was matched by her solid French bun. She’d twisted her hair and pinned it there, and it gleamed by way of its Abyssinian color.

She thanked the driver who nodded and turned heel. She watched the vehicle drive away and turned her gaze to Zoan. And without expression of any kind, she introduced herself.

“Good morning, Miss White. I’m Elaine Balcom.”

She stepped into the home and stretched her arm into the foyer; the contents of which were shrouded in darkness from the point where Zoan was standing.

“Welcome.”

Part Two

Zoan followed Elaine Balcom through the home's side entrance; a crow's feather on storm winds overwhelmed by the display of divine supremacy; supremacy which was echoed in the way Elaine walked. Her short swift strides and perfectly upright position prevented her overly tight dress from conveying emotions besides severity. 

The floors were wooden, aged, and worn and anchored the decor with sage humility. The door led to a hallway that seemed to narrow as it went. Chandeliers hung above the two as they ventured onward to their date. Much like the outside of the house, the bare walls and antique floors were pristinely juxtaposed to the grandeur of the light fixtures. 

The hallway led to another door that answered to the gatekeeper's brass key. Elaine Balcom stretched her arm into the room. "Someone will be with you shortly", she said before backing away with her unblinking eyes still fixed into Zoan's; her head turned to one side as she pulled the knob with her right hand and guided the wooden barricade with her left to prevent it from speaking as it shut.

Zoan turned from the door to find herself standing in a library. Tens of thousands of books covered every inch of the walls; an astute display of oppression by the shelves that were walls themselves but housing something much more important. The library was lit by lanterns and with the room having no windows, the amber hue was warm in its intent. But, the Balcom's had been certain to assert their ownership over the manmade sources of light; succumbing to their entrapment, the light bulbs gave spotlight to the room's decor. 

Rustic lamps of six feet tall lit an inviting leather couch and matching armchair. The desk in the corner laid bare save for a sculpted iron crow and a single pen. A small wooden table sat alone in the adjacent corner holding an antique record player spinning a circle of wax that sounded Grace Bumbry’s rendition of "Habañera", filling the otherwise frigid room with stirring romance and glistening technique. 

Zoan walked to the sofa and took a seat, straightening the skirt of her dress as she sat. The tea length assignment was fitted at the neck, bust, and waist before flaring outward from her midline to her calves. The dress' length and long sleeves that covered her wrists kept the imagination from traveling past her hands and ankles. She stared at her reflection at the top of a crystal decanter on the table before her. She'd pulled her hair back into a bun and opted to forgo foundation to let her chestnut colored skin glimmer on its own. She had, however, concealed her dark circles from a lack of sleep the night before. Wonder had gotten the best of dreams and she'd erased all signs of restlessness with the product and a beauty sponge. 

She wore mascara and a thin line of black, and swiped a bit of gold onto her cheekbones. In a bold and unexpected move, she'd painted her lips in red. She'd surprised herself with the choice and was fearful of the response with a hint of curiosity. The decanter was filled with red wine and sat before an empty crystal glass. A silver tray held grapes, meats, and speciality cheeses. On the side of the tray, a vase filled with water stood behind a glass Zoan believed was meant for her. She sat there for the next thirty minutes, looking over her shoulder at the door as Jessye Norman bended earth elements to her will and Kathleen Battle made daring ascent to the heavens. 

She stared at the food but resisted the urge. She'd steer clear of the wine, but poured the water and took a few sips. Another fifteen minutes passed, and another as she stood to stretch her legs; glancing at the door once more before reclaiming her seat. A knock on the door made her jump as Elaine Balcom reentered the room. "Miss White.....", she spoke again without expression. "Your queuer is busy this afternoon and cannot see you today."

Zoan tried to hide her disappointment and frustration and offered understanding as Elaine Balcom ushered her from the room. The driver waited where he'd dropped her off, opened the door, climbed into the car himself, and drove back down the drive away from Elaine Balcom who stood watch over the exit.

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

The driver pulled to the front of Zoan's building. He turned to her silently and presented her with an envelope before opening her door to let her out. Zoan watched the driver creep away as she opened the eggshell papers sealed with a waxen melt branded with a "B". 

"Miss White,

Congratulations on your advancement beyond the observation portion of the process. The driver will fetch you at the same time tomorrow. He will wait for ten minutes before leaving your residence. Should you not wish to continue, simply stay indoors. 

Please wash the dress in cold water, machine dry the same with light spin, and present in identical fashion tomorrow.

A gentle reminder of the confidentiality agreement and warm regards,

Elaine Balcom

Secretary to the Balcom Family"

Part Three

The hallway seemed larger than it had the day before as Zoan followed Elaine through the corridor. Suffocating at the tail end, it seemed to crack and give as they passed through. It laid lifeless and discarded as the sentient beings emerged with curiosity into the now familiar library. 

The room smelled of wisdom with the base note being bourbon. There were stains on the Persian that had been lifted with lye and spilled again, and lifted twice more before settling in to be heard but not seen as the amber lanterns mocked the whiskey’s forgotten hue. The leather smelled of stories equally read, recollected, and retold. Each one a secret or lesson exposed before melding into the hide.

Zoan took a seat in the midst of the memories as Elaine Balcom headed for the door and closed it silently behind. The inticing charcuterie had been replaced with a single notebook; the wine with two pencils sharpened fiercely to their points. The sterility of the scene gave Zoan’s breath a quicker pace. Desperate for comfort, she turned her ears to yesterday’s soaring sounds, but the turntable lay still and unmoving; Debussy resting at the side of the dormant needle. 

Zoan found solace in the thought that the library’s last inhabitant may have shared her anxiety, given the selection. She leaned diagonally toward the machine in search of wear, hoping to learn more about her unlisted hosts; ‘Nocturne in E Minor’ for the wounded soul, ‘Reverie’ for the hopeful and yearning heart, and ‘Suite pour le piano’ for the erudite mind in search of cerebral stimuli in the highly adventurous and lesser known piece. Her curiosity was cured by the abrupt entrance of a short, stout woman dressed in grey. 

Her brown eyes were sunken into her mahogany skin. Her eyebrows had been plucked to obscurity, leaving her mostly expressionless; her exaggerated jawline forced to overcompensate for the otherwise lack of facial character. The frock she wore was designer but ill-fitting, serving more as a prison than a home with the overwhelming lack of tailoring drowning any semblance of a shape in threads that cost a fortune by the yard. 

Zoan thought ‘Stravinsky’ as the woman hurried past and took a seat at the desk. She’d considered other composers before deciding on the one, but the woman was drab and far too sexless to be moved by Puccini’s heroines. It seemed she hadn’t been kissed in years with even the smartest Debussy carrying wishes of romance in its winds. 

Without looking up at Zoan, the woman curtly introduced herself as Regina Balcom. Her voice crackled like campfire sat in front of a lonely woman gone outside in search of warmth that had evaded her, and love the same. She pointed at the notebook and Zoan promptly picked it up; the woman’s eyes still fixed on the proctor’s pages before her. 

“First question.”

The woman waited without looking up, and Zoan took the cue to grab a pencil; cracking the spiral to find the pages already numbered. “Applicant #27” was the header; each horizontally listed index followed by enough lines to fit a paragraph’s response.

First question: Toni Morrison refers to this novel and its main character in her famed essay “God’s Language” included in her award-winning anthology “The Source of Self Regard.”

Zoan stared at Regina Balcom who still stared at the page before her. A beat went by as the second query went forth asking of peaks, molecules, and carbons before the inquiry switched to calculus. The test carried on for two hours with each ask harder than the last; the climates of places rarely mentioned and the politics of countries not allied with the West.

She found a bit of reprieve in art, but the respite was temporary; having been forced beyond the museum walls to the buildings themselves, their architectural histories, and the men commissioned with the task. Archeological findings of the 17th century, a recounting of European rulers, and the death circumstances of sages and prophets. 

Regina Balcom slammed her notebook shut and the snap bounced from book to book; catching the laughter of the authors, running them down the wooden sleeves of the shelves, and cascading towards hell but stopping at the floor to bury Zoan’s feet in embarrassment.

Part Four

Zoan stared through the window of the Lincoln at her brownstone as the car pulled in front of the flat. She'd spent the entire ride fighting with her tears; playing the dam that'd seen its fair share of storms, with the maintenance being pushed back and back before a hurricane exposed the folly of procrastination. 

She looked for the driver to pass the next envelope of instructions, but he stared firmly onward through the shield with two hands resting on the steering wheel. Zoan bolted from the car and up the stairs as the driver pulled slowly away; like sugar added to a Cajun rout, her petulance was in stark contrast to the behavior of the Balcom's employ. 

She hurried to her unit and closed her door as calmly as she could. She'd prove to herself that she was better than today, if to nobody but herself. She stared at the walls that had been painted two weeks prior. There'd been a waiting list for "Rockies White" and she'd waited two months for the arrival. The shade was meant to mimic mountain winters and it carried out the quest with enviable precision. 

It matched the white of the snow while capturing the nuance of glistening boulders; finished with whimpering grey of January skies and the barely blue runoff from midday warmth. It was well worth the wait, and calmed her as she entered. She'd left the walls bare save for a canvas that wanted to be a Pollock. 

The steel appliances only intensified the theme as she passed by the kitchen to the right. She journeyed past the black countertops and grey furniture in the living room, straight onward to her bedroom where everything was beige. She thought of throwing herself into the comforter, but decided to be more mature. She walked to the dresser and opened the top drawer; pulling a satin nightgown from the chest.

She disrobed to nothing and slipped the comfort over her head. She stared at herself in the vanity mirror before heading to her nightstand at the side of the bed. She removed a pack of makeup wipes from the top drawer and walked back to the mirror; removing a wipe and dissolving each unanswered question in her melting eyeliner and bleeding lip. Zoan considered checking her emails and glanced in the direction of her laptop, but there'd only be more questions for her coworkers and boss; ones she'd have the answers to, which would only plummet her further into feelings of insurmountable inadequacy. 

She still had cooking to do for the week, so she'd uplift herself in the kitchen and sear her futility in a non-stick pan. When she arrived at the room where'd she'd redeem herself, she opened the fridge to find she'd not done her shopping. The Balcom's had stolen her time along with her pride. She turned back to her bedroom to change; straightening her posture in mustered agency and feigned annoyance. 

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

She'd chosen a pair of jeans and an oversized t-shirt for her trip to the market. She'd be one of many; not making any fuss, but wore her red lipstick to avoid complete obscurity. The crowds of people parted like fresh waters at river forks; meandering down grocery aisles in search of sustenance or emotional suppressants, depending on the day. At the entrance of the store, a man approached a purposefully abandoned piano. He sat a triangular case on the lid and removed an aged violin. His skin was brown and bursting with depth as the flamed tops of evening ends; set to candlelight and Schubert's Lizst transcriptions. He wore black denims and a white t-shirt, with a pair of brown Timberland boots and black leather cuffs at the ankles. 

His hair was locked and fell down his back as he placed his chin on the rest. Zoan thought of walking past as she hadn't come to linger, but curiosity stopped her at the feet of the street musician. He played Satie, which was odd for violin, but embellished arpeggios between the breaths of slumber and despair. He drew a crowd of consumers who dropped crumbled dollar bills into his case. 

Zoan stood as long as she could and secretly hoped that she'd be seen; yearning for some form of acknowledgement from a most unreasonable source. But the violinist was transported by his own sounds, and rightfully; never opening his eyes to his bustling surroundings, and Zoan being one in the number.

She gathered her senses and hurried into the store; grabbing a forrest green basket at the door. She made her way quickly though the produce plots; grabbing two bags of cherries, a cup of chopped coconut, four champagne mangoes, and 32 ounces of pomegranate flavored kombucha. Fresh green beans with an assortment of herbs were chosen to pair with the rice and fresh Atlantic salmon she'd prepare. She made her way to the seafood counter, placed her order, and waited for the cut. The station was filling quickly and the people filed in; the noise level growing to a low volume roar, with some customers being less patient than others and some a bit more picky.

A woman with a crying child on her hip bumped Zoan as she pushed through to the front, bumping into Zoan and sending her crashing into another; a domino top that continued to the very end of the line. Zoan's elbow was caught by the man behind her, which she knew by the width of his grasp. He helped her adjust and she turned to thank him, finding herself staring into the eyes of the Balcom family's driver.

She stood with her eyebrows lifted as he grinned at her in recognition. Unshaken by the encounter, he offered a polite greeting; one that did very little to curb Zoan's flushing and sudden anxiety. She'd not paid much attention and felt ashamed at her entitlement. She reminded herself that discretion was part of his job description, and that seeing him in this way, in a plaid shirt, jeans, and loafers was a more humanizing form. 

He was beautiful, this man she'd hardly seen with his coffee colored skin and perfect fade. He smelled of bergamot and fresh rainfall in deep woods. His eyes were the color of sandpaper and sparkled with severity. She nodded, smiled, and offered a polite response as she turned away from him and back to the counter, desperate for some form of distraction. But the driver wouldn't leave her be, and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned and stared back into his eyes; forcing a second smile to conceal her hopelessness. 

"How'd it go?" he asked. Zoan's blood turned to frost as she realized the depth of the Balcom bench. Who were these people that even the driver knew more than he seemed; with him cracking a sinister smile at the acknowledgement of her own. Her number was called and she turned from the man, hurrying to collect her purchase. 

"I failed", she said, turning back to the man as the seafood sommelier stepped from around the corner to hand deliver packages of freshly wrapped fish to her conversation partner. 

He smiled at Zoan as the clerk walked away.

"The proctored test, maybe", he said. "But the true test....no."

He turned heel for the door, putting his AirPods into his ear. As he did, Zoan saw his song selection on his iPhone screen.

"Clair de lune" by Claude Debussy. 

Part Five

Zoan carried the paper grocery bag with two arms at her front. It was light enough to use the handles without fearing they would give, but her encounter with the Balcom's chauffeur left her feeling as an incandescent beam of light in search of a lantern's home. As if the lanterns were a clan of aristocrats born and bound in predetermined privilege; and despite their tempting brilliance, it seemed safer to stay lost and not want for home than to seek one there. And safer still, though her limbs could only move so fast to carry her to her home.

She shuffled through the crowd as quickly as she could with each smiling face seeming more Hyde-esque than jovial; as if they we're all sharing a joke of her tortuous day and her naivety in considering reengagement with the Balcom's. It was a teacup spinning without restraint; this sea of careless people in the architect's circular plan. She hurried past the violinist, whose lightning ascents of chromatic tones only heightened her disorientation. She heaved as she hastened away from his anxious revelry, purposefully selected to impress. 

Zoan's heartbeat warned of an encore performance from her tears. They had played the matinee, taking their own lives at the sight of Zoan's proverbial death; now knowing what it meant to plummet to hell from what once was a tale of unbridled innocence and blissful rebellion. 

The music stopped midstring with such silence that Zoan's feet stopped at the command. The violinist placed the instrument on top of the piano when Zoan turned in the direction of her path's betrayal. He took a seat on the bench and begun a slow but tedious melody, with both hands working with and against each other to inspire her recovered regality. 

Ravel.

The violinist moved through the piece written for a buried princess with unmatched sensitivity. He glanced up from the piano at Zoan and offered the only genuine smile she’d seen since switching her satin for polyester and venturing from her home.  

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

"Ms. Elaine Balcom,

I humbly request to continue with the application process, despite my proctored test scores leaving much to be desired. If this correspondence is to go unanswered, it has been my distinct honor to have been invited into your magnificent home.

Regards,

Zoan White"

Zoan placed the letter in the her mailbox and lifted the red flag to alert the mailman of outgoing envelopes. She returned to her unit, climbed into bed, and pulled the metal string to steal the light from the lamp on her nightstand. 

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

The driver waited outside Zoan's home at 10am exactly. 

He opened his door as she journeyed down the steps; walking around to the side. He opened her car door; both hands placed on the chrome in an overt show of professionalism. Zoan smiled and offered a chipper 'hello', but the driver stared past her and down the street, not saying a word. He closed the door in such a way that made Zoan jump at the sound. She fastened her seatbelt as safety and ceremony required; with safety filling most of the intent as the driver's departure from his grocery store demeanor made her feel less at ease than she had the first day they met. 

He adjusted his mirror, still refusing to acknowledge Zoan in the reflective glass as he turned the key and into the road. Zoan followed his lead and sat back into the seat; folding her hands in her lap and straightening her posture to the moment. To make matters worse, the sky was clear; brilliantly blue with one cloud sat beside the sun and a few others trailing behind in a game of celestial tag that'd last for hours. It seemed a message from the heavens that it had no hand in what would transpire this day. It only had room to care for itself and needed a day of leisure to recover from its toil. 

The trees were no different as they whipped by, green and effervescent and blowing in the wind. The Balcom mansion was more beautiful than Zoan remembered; her second chance beaming over the lawn and melting the driver's steel display into liquid mercury.

Elaine Balcom greeted Zoan at the door in her brown skin and black. She nodded to the driver who sped from the home in such a manner that made Zoan's heart fling backwards into her spine, beating rapidly to claw its way out and escape with the Lincoln. But, Elaine Balcom's eyes were still and her smile spread across her face, reaching for both ears as she waved Zoan into the library.

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

Zoan waited in the library as she had before; this time wandering the ornate rugs instead of taking a seat. She'd very little pride, and felt that she would lose her remaining gall in the cushion of a chair; sinking with it beneath the unknown, both of the day and the questions she'd not answered. The library was silent like before, only adding to the suspense; with the browns in their decorative majority being nearly dark enough to be black, forming a line just above the abyss and finding the suspension more terrifying than the darkness itself. 

She walked to the side table that house the record player. Maintaining her posture, she tilted her chin downward to discover the last scholar's source of inspiration. Squaring her shoulders and lifting her brow, she raised the other in response to the collection of pieces by American composers; Bernstein, Barber, and Copeland to name a few. Someone had a sense of adventure; musings of wild explorations, undiscovered lands, and threats of unabashed exploits stemming from untamed manish wonder. 

A mirror hung on the wall and Zoan raised her eyes to meet her own gaze. She looked at her oxblood lipstick shade and felt she shared the listener's propensity for danger; not the dark and senseless sort, more the greying of clouds before a lightning strike or a single red bird in a magnolia orchard, perched amongst the emerald and white and warning that everything wasn't as perfect as it seemed. 

The door opened in the mirror and sat in mystery for a moment, with Zoan straightening herself in expectation of another judgemental woman's gaze. She turned and faced the door, clasping her hands together at her waist. She looked to her shoes, aligned her feet, and refocused her attention to the door as a man in khakis pants, a black buttoned down shirt, and a black belt, with his black locks flowing down his back as they had the first day she saw him; violin in hand and under the spell of the music that poured from his soul.

He closed the door and stood at the opposite end of the room; he introduced himself as Alastair Balcom and offered praise of Zoan's persistence, despite the assist from "the family".

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

He was magnificent as Zoan's feet disallowed her movement in his presence once again. She resisted the urge to adjust her hair and regretted not doing so in the mirror, having wasted time admiring her perfectly bloody lip instead; the secret to the shade was not at all the framed red, but the many layers of jet black liner that made her kiss resemble the spill from a dagger's betrayal.

Zoan's attention returned to her host as he took a few steps forward. He explained that he would be the proctor for the day, as this was his home, he'd inherited it from his father, and the final say was his. He walked to the table in the center of the room where Zoan had already been observed, and had failed the daunting exam. He motioned to the floor on the opposite side of the table. Zoan made her way to the spot as commanded.

His eyes glistening with petrifying intensity; like standing before an ocean at tide, being mesmerized by the beauty and humbled by the might. He spoke in a kind but metal-toned voice, one that put her at ease and turned her blood to ice; as his eyes had, and his music. 

He smelled of oak and evergreen, and it was clear that he was freshly bathed. He'd topped the morning routine with a scent that resembled midnight; brooding with night and pregnant with day, it teetered on the line between past and present, familiar and foreign. He pointed at the books on the table; a count of five hard bound efforts were stacked on top of one another between the room's two occupants. 

Her task was to simply put them back where they belonged; and a single misplaced book would disqualify her definitively. This was her redemption and there would be no second salvation. Zoan stared into the library and wished she'd spent less thought on the music. She picked up the copies of 'Moby Dick', 'Things Fall Apart', 'Pride and Prejudice', 'Wuthering Heights', and 'Othello'; feeling Master Balcom's eyes embedded into her spine as she journeyed to the shelves. 

Naturally, she found herself towards the end of the shelves from where she stood. Her eyes came to a copy of 'Romeo and Juliet' that was wedged between Chaucer and Hughes. Alphabetical was not the order, as she hadn't thought it would be. Nothing was simple with this family that lived their lives at the edge of the true and the fantastic. She considered the syllabic rhythms of the titles and the count of letters in the author's last names, but no pattern was evident. She determined that the shelves were organized to reflect Alastair Balcom's preference, but that seemed unlikely; with a copy of the Kama Sutra wedged between Pablo Neruda and a history of Ancient Greek architecture; a biography of Lewis Carroll between 'The Scarlet Letter' and a music theory textbook. 

An hour went by with Balcom standing by the table with his arms folded at his chest. At one point, Elaine Balcom brought him a cup of coffee and ran her hand down his bicep as she walked away, her eyes forming an expression of which Zoan hadn't thought she was capable; somewhere between lust and pleading with them being far from the same, but related. 

Alastair Balcom kept a darkened eye fixed on Elaine as she walked out of the room. He slowly turned his head back to Zoan, took a sip of coffee and raised his arm, pretending to check his watch before looking back at Zoan. Deciding there was reason, but not one she understood, she placed the books anywhere they fit, returned back to the table, and folded her arms to mimic Master Balcom's former stance. He smirked at her petulance and asked if her decision was final. She forgot herself and fussed that it hadn't made sense; that if he wanted to find the books he'd have to search for them. 

He sat, placing the coffee on the table and motioning to the space beside him. Zoan stiffened her shoulders and took the seat, sending her host into a chuckle at her demeanor. He offered Zoan a cup of coffee, but she'd had enough of the games. She stood and marched towards the door, and Alastair called after her that she'd passed the final exam. Zoan slowly turned, embarrassed at her tantrum and offered profuse apologies. In a stunning gesture, he offered apologies of his own; knowing the tests were trying and tiresome, but of the utmost importance. Zoan took a seat with her host.

The library had no reason. 

It was designed that way for the reader to go searching for what he or she wanted, but be forced to settle beyond their favorites and reach for something else mid-search; a labyrinth created as each book was read and placed somewhere else, with some placements being remembered but the room otherwise forcing curiosity upon settled, erudite minds. Most applicants came in and tried to assign rhyme where there wasn't any. But all the knowledge in the world lays dormant and without purpose in a mind that cannot see beauty in chaos; one so filled with fact and fixed that it is no longer receptive to the world and its mysteries. 

All members of the Balcom Family were blood, save for Elaine. She was the first of their efforts to find new minds to mold. Master Balcom made clear that he liked Zoan because she was responsive; not overthinking or under, somewhat fluid but far from stupid. Zoan softened at the compliment; accepting her position amongst the elitists and speaking with Master Balcom about her upcoming lessons, their shared taste in music, and their appreciate of African-American influences on modern innovations. They leaned closer to one another with their noses inches apart as Elaine Balcom served a two course lunch and a three course dinner and desert. 

They shared a bottle of decades old wine, and Zoan was sent home the same way she came; in the backseat, behind a driver who now smiled and nodded in welcome. 

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

Zoan emerged from her shower and swapped her towel for a pink, silk nightgown with lace trim. She switched off the lights with only the flame of a vanilla scented candle forming a restless spotlight on the ceiling as she settled into the bedding's warmth. Every inch of her skin crawled with current as she turned to eye the envelope containing a welcome letter, a lesson schedule, a notice that she'd be issued a key to her new home, directions for the dry cleaning and pressing of her new wardrobe, and a trajectory for her studies which would culminate in a doctoral degree from the institution of Balcom legacy. 

She passed a stream of air threw her lips to kill the light from the candle. She then drifted into sleeplessness as she'd seen Alastair Balcom had worn no ring.

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

The driver dropped Zoan at the home's side entrance as always. He sped off and Zoan stood there alone; a departure from what had been, with Elaine Balcom nowhere in sight. She knocked on the door, but no one came. She walked to the front and repeated the request for entry. Her second attempt remained unanswered. 

She ventured to the backyard in search of a doorway, and as expected was met by rolling lawns of various greens interrupted by tedious rose bushes and a fountain in mid-celebration as she made her way to the door. 

A clicking sound happened behind her before she had a chance to knock. Elaine Balcom stood with a revolver in her hand, the barrel pointed at Zoan's nose. Her eyes were lit and animalistic as she seethed between her teeth; her blonde hair now seeming more a false halo and her immaculate brown skin, an awful trick. She heaved that she had worked too hard, studied too long, and done everything she could to earn an official change of last name. Alastair was beginning to notice her and Zoan would not get in the way. 

She took another breath and Zoan closed her eyes; regretting her curiosity and not following her senses away from these people. 

The gun went off and rang through the trees; first a lightning strike before the thunder that echoed through the acres. 

Zoan opened her eyes to Elaine Balcom's lifeless limbs strewn across the green, with Zoan's own lipstick shade pouring from the open wound in her head. Zoan gasped and covered her mouth as she turned to see Regina Balcom standing in the trees with gun smoke circling her face. She stepped from the woods and over to Elaine's body; the gravel drive crackling in mourning beneath her flats as she crept. She looked at Elaine with unmatched severity. 

"Stupid girl", she said before jerking her head to Zoan. "You're not here for that, yes?"

Zoan nodded fiercely with her hands in the air before entering the home at Regina Balcom's direction. Zoan struggled to catch her breath as she made her way to the library. She shook her head several times and entered the room; holding one hand in the other to prevent them from shaking. 

She was met by the strange chords of a composer she didn't recognized as Alastair Balcom conducted the music that poured from the speakers around the room; the sound clearly preventing him from hearing the outside goings on. 

And there he was; perfectly bathed in amber light wearing brown loafers, a pair of jeans, and a white buttoned down shirt with the first two undone.

He lifted a geography textbook and smiled at Zoan. 

The music stopped as he sipped a perfect cup of coffee from the perfect mug in his perfect hands.

He grinned to reveal his perfect teeth.

"Right....shall we begin?"

[shortstoriesbycarynnicole]

Zoan and the Road to Nowhere

Caryn Nicole Wells (South Carolina, June 2023)

“That is not dead which can eternal lie, And with strange aeons even death may die.” - H.P Lovecraft in “The Call of Cthulhu”

Prologue

There was never a time when I didn’t love him.

And if there were such a day, I imagine it would be something like the earth before the sun; dark and probably real, but not enough to deserve a reoccurring thought.

I remember the day we met and how ethereal he was when he spoke; that he did so with a calming grace and smile from his knowing I would never be the same. I remember that day as if it were my every recollection; a day I was blissfully doomed to repeat until a divine revelation is uncovered.

I can’t forget the day we met for its striking singularity, but even more for what happened the day after.

Part One

God is rain.

From birth we are told of men in ages past who claim to have encountered God in the flesh; by fire, and by way of four-legged beasts. But God, in what seems to me a fraught disappointment, rarely makes such announcements save for the tears.

Most of us wish for sun rays, and are more likely than not the cause of the disappointment. But I hate the sun and feel it inferior to the presence of God. And it rained this morning when I most needed a sign, some kind of confirmation in the wake of yesterday’s encounter.

I stood in line at the farmer’s market having picked the best of what had been picked, and was preparing a lovely dinner for one. I’d found an artisan salad in a cookbook I bought but never opened. Like many others, it sat on my shelves wanting to be perused and replaced from either the recipe being beyond my reach, or the ingredients beyond my budget. But I could manage a colorful salad with a simple homemade dressing, accessible enough to invoke a temptation to photograph the plate and post it to my feed.

There wasn’t much there, but we all play the king; sharing the most unimportant bits of our day, as if through the screen and menial things we could change someone else’s life.

And there, in the midst of the green gems and sweet red spheres was a man right where he belonged; with the other gifts that man and woman can make, but only partially. He was brown as damp soil and wore a loose, caramel pant with an off-white linen shirt. He approached the line with a locally-made green tea and a basket of vibrant strawberries.

He’d come all this way for a snack, it seemed, and his eyes matched the mindfulness in their own nearly black color. Like the night sky making a rare appearance during the day, his long fingers danced like tails of stars as he stroked his cleanly shaven chin. He was brilliant as an oak with the majesty of the sea; enough to warrant a commissioned score as he moved through this marriage of men and earth.

I glanced over my shoulder to smile at this stranger and he returned it with a warmth that sent fire to my hands. His cheeks lit with gold as the corners of his mouth turned upwards meet them. And without prompting, he introduced himself as Embry.

He’d pick me up at 10am to take a drive up the mountain, to a lookout he loved for its heaven’s eye view. I’d bring the salad, and he’d bring the berries and picnic blanket.

————————————————

I’d just finished straightening my curls and clipping them back with pearl-like barrettes, four on each clip and one on both sides, when he arrived. I’d slipped into my best jeans and a light grey sweater. I wore a comfy outdoor shoe, but brought a pair of hiking boots just in case. And to further introduce myself, I wore a bright red lip. It wasn’t appropriate for the outdoor venue, but he should know that about myself; that I reserve what is appropriate for formalities and circumstance.

Otherwise, the color was an extension of myself; both brightening the mood and darkening it depending on the happening and opinions of present company.

He rang the bell and I scampered to the door; past the framed photos my friends and I at our graduate school commencement, my parents and brothers at their 50th wedding anniversary, and one recently restored of my grandmother holding me shortly after my birth.

My heels in girlish glee refused to touch the floor underneath as I opened the door to Embry standing on the steps. He was wearing jeans himself, a cream sweater, and a sturdy pair of outdoor shoes. He kissed both of my cheeks as the rain continued to whisper. It was light and timid and not enough to cancel, though he wouldn’t have, he said-

even if the ocean and sky had traded posts and the former fell.

My toffee skin crawled with hope as he offered an arm and walked me to his car.

Part Two

We stopped for coffee at the foot of the gorge; a neighborhood café before the highway retreats to its own. The small cottage had been repurposed, and was hidden at the feet of storytellers; the mountains’ gate made of trees with rings that spiraled to the clouds, their secrets guarded by scales of bark that prided themselves on loyalty. 

They waved as we waited behind the car that ordered before us. The rain bathed us all in Appalachian hymns; either a healing or heed, to be determined by the listener. Embry had ordered a jet black coffee. He’d asked for the boldest flavor; its notes of drums and post-colonial celebration. I followed suit and he passed the piping cup with a smile. The rain swooned; falling sideways against my window as we left its presence and found dry land between two walls of green towers on a narrow, two lane road.

We sipped our coffee and spoke over the steam. He’d moved from the city to get away from the noise, having found the liberal agenda more aggressive than he thought; rich, like minds more vicious in their knowing and unwillingness to receive that they don’t, actually. I offered that here was no better, maybe worse. The chosen ones have convinced themselves that they are under attack, from their needing a reason to relive the wars that bred them on this land; the angst being a manifestation of environmental trauma, now deeply coded in their genetic sequencing and causing them to stir without cause. 

And there we were, in the middle of the compass, two people without tribes from having too much understanding. He smiled again at the unity, and the rain waned to a coo; ourselves and nature locked in a waltz, in a room with no door and no ceiling. 

The heavens were the only way out; our only choice, to climb. 

So, we continued. 

Part Three

We rode in silence for awhile. 

Not for a lack of curiosity, but the conversations had peaked; the basics had been covered after the formal introductions. Any further, and we’d have to explore the depths; trading histories most unsuitable for the circumstance.

It occurred to me that it was all unsuitable; that a different outing would have been trimmed at both ends to accommodate the long kept tradition of the first promenade. I quieted my mind and swore to myself that if this day led to nowhere and we never spoke again, I would not agree to such a trip without knowing someone enough to fill the road.

To shake myself from the slight regret, I focused my attention to the path ahead. Had we been somewhere else, there’d be a door, a roof, and no rain. 

Embry drove carefully; his hands precisely placed on the clock. The walls of trees gave way to rock on one side, and the second lane to his right now clung to the mountainside with no barricade. The view was breathtaking, as he said it would be. The earth glimmered beneath the reflective droplets that covered endless miles of majesty. I marveled at nature’s showing off, and Embry gave a smile; saying he was glad to not have canceled for the rain. 

Descending clouds kissed the tops of trees, and I wondered what he’d say if we’d been here for some time; if the scene would inspire a memory he hadn’t shared, with all else having been spilt onto our pillowcases that kept the secrets.

We kept climbing to the sound of NPR filling the silence. The radio personalities were reviewing non-fiction book releases. The sterility of the speech made the scene all the more wondrous. The crisp air rushing through our open windows, black birds flying in and out of granite colored clouds, and the sky no longer sobbing but refusing reveal its blue, all smoothed the mountains edge to make us one with our surroundings; belonging truly there and not behind the doors of brick-and-mortar homes.

My eyes were fixed on the passing rock streaming past like film being pulled from its spool. I was lost in the movement when the slide began to slow. I turned to Embry who wore an expression of onslaught dismay. I changed my gaze to the windshield to see what had caused his change in mood; a fresh landslide blocking our path.

Part Four

We sat in silence for awhile, staring at the mass before us; overgrown rocks held together by slathers of drenched clay. A few smaller rocks filled the spaces between the jagged edges of the boulders; this tapestry of soil having been thrown from the loft and doomed to haunt earthen travelers while conducting the rain in a symphony. 

It stood there with its arms outstretched from the mountainside to the cliff. The windshield wipers did little to clear the rain’s obstructive rhythms and its falling with a violence as an answer to the mass. We were trapped and unable to seek refuge with those who’d also ventured this way; to see for themselves what’d caused God to cast his benevolence for the one, and then us all. 

Melancholic piano oozed over the air vents as NPR moved past the books to present its own argument in the debate of God versus himself; his regretting, quite possibly, his creating the gifted hand.

Embry lifted his own and raised his phone to his eye line. It beeped twice to indicate there being no signal; and with no hope and to still offer aid, I raised my phone that also clued that we were alone on the border of stars and flames.

The grayish blue of the darkened sky forced us to confront our unfamiliarity in the solitude. The sun had moved; once hidden by the storm, it found revival in the tan leather seats that were brighter in the darkness. 

—————————————————————————-

The rain’s song ended and Embry began his own; apologizing profusely for the ruined day, but the fault was not his. He was a man, and despite the majesty woven into his skin and the oneiric chromaticism of his baritone, he was still human; ever humbled, and always, by the hand of God. And I said as much in my thanking him for what had been a beautiful day, and still was as it began to retire.

Embry smiled and reached for my hand. I stared at his skin for a moment before placing my palm in his. He clasped my fingers and the blood rushed upwards through my veins and into my quickening heartbeat. If I would be so kind to trust him once more, there was a small town one mile north. There’d be service there, or someone would have a phone. He’d given me no reason not to trust him, and an uphill trek on foot through the mountains to a place I’d never seen made the date all the more wondrous. 

If I didn’t return home with the makings of something new, I’d have an amazing story to tell. 

I nodded and Emby grabbed the umbrellas from the backseat of his car. He smiled at me once more and we both opened our doors to the mountain.

Part Four

We sat in silence for awhile, staring at the mass before us; overgrown rocks held together by slathers of drenched clay. A few smaller rocks filled the spaces between the jagged edges of the boulders; this tapestry of soil having been thrown from the loft and doomed to haunt earthen travelers while conducting the rain in a symphony. 

It stood there with its arms outstretched from the mountainside to the cliff. The windshield wipers did little to clear the rain's obstructive rhythms, its falling with a violence as an answer to the mass. We were trapped and unable to seek refuge with those who'd also ventured this way; to see for themselves what'd caused God to cast his benevolence for the one, and then us all. 

Melancholic piano oozed over the air vents as NPR moved past the books to present its own argument in the debate of God versus himself; his regretting, quite possibly, his creating the gifted hand.

Embry lifted his own and raised his phone to his eye line. It beeped twice to indicate there being no signal; and with no hope and to still offer aid, I raised my phone that also clued that we were alone on the border of stars and flames.

The grayish blue of the darkened sky forced us to confront our unfamiliarity in the solitude. The sun had moved; once hidden by the storm, it found revival in the tan leather seats that were brighter in the darkness. 

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

The rain's song ended and Embry began his own; apologizing profusely for the ruined day, but the fault was not his. He was a man, and despite the majesty woven into his skin and the oneiric chromaticism of his baritone, he was still human; ever humbled, and always, by the hand of God. And I said as much in my thanking him for what had been a beautiful day, and still was as it began to retire.

Embry smiled and reached for my hand. I stared at his skin for a moment before placing my palm in his. He clasped my fingers and the blood rushed upwards through my veins and into my quickening heartbeat. If I would be so kind to trust him once more, there was a small town one mile north. There'd be service there, or someone would have a phone. He'd given me no reason not to trust him, and an uphill trek on foot through the mountains to a place I'd never seen made the date all the more wondrous. 

If I didn't return home with the makings of something new, I'd have an amazing story to tell. 

I nodded and Emby grabbed the umbrellas from the backseat of his car. He smiled at me once more and we both opened our doors to the mountain. 

Part Five

We kept to the curb closest to the rocks, leaving chards of ourselves for the road to keep; bits of crusted mud falling off our jeans from having to climb the boulders. The umbrellas were canes as the rain turned to a grave fog. It surrounded us; forcing us closer, clinging to one another at the shoulder.

Embry seemed less a mystery as he continued in his brooding; perhaps on the disappointment or his feeling he'd endangered me, though it mattered not. I'd shared my feelings twice now, with the only option to prove my contentment being far beyond the reach of our status-

a lingering kiss, a suggested longing, a searching gaze, and a smile's finding a new role in intimacy. 

But, I didn't know him. 

We kept onward as the sun retired to its bath; its lower half behind the pines and its crown still visible for its not having committed to rest. The painted sign led us off the main road and onto gravel. The trees shivered in the frigid air, rustling in the wind that carried Embry's scent to my attention. 

The moss was pungent and refined; centered by the evergreens and anchored by the bark. His pulse flew through his body, and mailed his essence by way of his skin. The heat came first; his warmth scorching the earth beneath us, leaving shallow footsteps in the ground. Whatever he'd washed his sweater in was warring with hints of sweat; mixing with the earth and clearing my mind to a trance. 

I reached for his arm, and he smiled as he closed his elbow around mine; placing his right hand on his torso as we continued our journey forward. The hill was steep and he offered to stop for rest; completely unaware that he'd caused my dizziness, and not the ascent to the hidden town. 

Or such was my assumption, as he'd been so perfectly formal. But I had played the debutante, and he couldn't hear my thoughts, either. The tunnel of aventurine forestry let out at a sign that offered welcome. The town of 'Kindling' was quaint and still, with no cars coming in or out. The sky, now sharing its color with the ocean's tide, covered a gas station with tractors out front, a methodist church, and a few houses lining what seemed a street that led to additional dwellings. The stars were hidden behind the clouds, providing no illumination to the circular landing that looked to be the center of the town. 

Dampened gold poured from the windows of the church, coating the grass and stretching its fingers in the direction of the convenience store. Fluorescents picked up where the ember faded to hints, providing us with a heading that we took at a quicker pace; no longer a pair in the throws of leisure, we hurried past the four gas pumps in Kindling.

Embry opened the door of the off-white building, beneath the harsh and flickering lights that spilled over the awning. I stepped inside to the three rows of food, health, and emergency goods guarded by the walls of refrigeration and the drinks they contained. Embry asked if he could buy me something, and I remembered the lunch we'd packed. The day had veered so far from convenient, and here we were standing between potato chips and a cash register. But I was committed if he was, to see this curious day to the end. He smiled and turned to the counter; where no one stood amongst the chewing gum and Advil.

A brown sign by a stack of boxed playing cards instructed us to ring the bell for service. The 'ding' filled the room and Embry retracted his hand; placing it in the curve of my waist, planting it firmly and intentionally as I softened beneath his grasp. Somehow, this moment was more romantic than the drive and hypnotic rain, the two of us standing to the left of Slim Jims and trashy tabloids. 

A white man in a white shirt and brown suspenders emerged from nowhere; his belly falling over his belt and his beard over his collar. His eyes were blue like the summer sky and piercing like its heat. He glanced us over and asked if we were buying anything. Embry explained our being stranded and asked if we could use the phone. A woman in a checkered dress joined the man where he stood; leaning into the shelves behind the counter with her lips pursed and eyes just as piercing. He smiled to reveal his true intent, and said they had no phone. 

The woman smirked as she stared at me; her eyes then drifting the phone hanging on the wall. I tried my luck, despite my sense, and asked if there were someone in town who could follow us with tractor. The woman lifted her brow and said all of residents were out on holiday. The shopowner asked again if we were buying anything, placing both hands on the counter and leaning forward. 

Embry thanked them for their time, and ushered me out of the door. We walked quickly from the store and Embry removed his phone from his pocket. With it now having service, he placed an emergency call. 

There'd been another landslide. We'd barely missed as it fell behind us on the way up the mountain. Emergency assists had been dispatched to the lower landslide, but it would take a few hours to remove it. There was a town called Kindling in our vicinity and we were advised to seek shelter there, or work with the locals who had experience with this kind of thing; keeping tractors on hand to clear the road for their comings and goings. 

We thanked the dispatcher and headed silently towards the path, past the rows of tractors and a church full of people singing:

"Oh, to grace how great a debtor; daily I'm constrained to be. 

Let thy goodness, like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to thee."

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

The stars had won their war with the clouds by the time we returned to the vehicle. Embry opened my door, and I turned to him in the gap. I searched his eyes for shared emotion, though I couldn't identify my own. He answered not my current thought, but the one I'd had from earlier; taking me into his arms and pressing his lips into mine. We lingered for a moment before releasing into a wordless, wrapped embrace; one we both desperately needed.

We pulled away and I lowered myself into the car. He gently closed the door and walked to the driver's side. 

Part Six

We sat facing the barrier to the day Embry had planned; his head leaning into the rest and his eyes closed in silence. We held hands over the center console; intertwined, I stroked his index finger with my own. His breath slowed and his shoulders climbed down from their height. He opened his eyes and turned to me. I returned the moment, saying nothing. 

We still hadn't spoken, which said more than words; with neither of us forcing a love language that wasn't ours, transferring all that would be said through the grooves of our tangled fingers. The air vents pelted us with frigid breath; icing the heat and bringing us both back to reality. 

He closed his eyes, opened them again, and told me to get out of the car. He was going to try to turn it around, and thought I should stand by the rocks. I mimicked his stance, leaning my head back into the rest. I copied his deep and solemn breath, and said I preferred to stay; that I valued his life as he did mine, and he'd be more careful with me present. 

He postured to object, but saw the certainty in my eyes. He kissed my hand, and then my forehead before turning towards the wheel. I buckled my seatbelt and quickly let go of the strap. I wasn't going to display distrust; and he did the same, but for confidence's sake. Evenly matched, the two of us reset our seats. Embry put the car in reverse and drove backwards; placing several feet between ourselves and the landslide. 

He drove forward towards the mass and turned the wheel to the left. The headlight on my side met the center of the rocks as Embry put the car in reverse again, driving us back towards the mountain. He drew a deep breath and crept slowly forward; my headlight meeting the corner of the landslide, the wheel on Embry's side hanging slightly over the cliff. 

He put the car in reverse a third time, and we went back towards the mountain; with the reflection of the break lights bouncing off the rocks and glaring into the rearview mirror. 

Embry took a deep breath, lifted his gaze to the windshield, and put the car in drive. He crept forward as far as we could go, but not far enough to make a turn. He placed the car back in reverse and tapped gently on the gas, but the car jolted back and sent us flying into the mountain. We bounced off the rock and the car yanked forward, with both front wheels now hanging over the edge of the cliff. 

I caught a glimpse of the ground from glory before Embry snatched the gear in reverse, and slammed his feet on the gas. The car lurched forward and Embry threw his right arm across my chest before hitting the gas again. 

The back tires squealed before dragging us back onto the road. Embry threw both hands on the wheel, turning frantically to straighten us into the leaving lane. 

We pulled a few feet down the mountain and Embry stopped the car. He stared straight forward for a moment, before throwing off his seatbelt, opening the door, and getting out. He doubled over and heaved; I leapt from my seat to join him. I placed one hand on his back and the other on my chest, still trying to recover my own senses after our almost certain free-fall. 

Embry straightened and took another breath before turning to me. He grabbed my waist and tugged me into his chest. I responded with two arms around his neck, and he kissed me with a fierceness that stole my last remaining breath. I gave it freely and gave into the loss; feeling my feet taking a few steps towards the mountain. With my back pressing into the rock, Embry grabbed both of my arms and pinned my wrists to one another above my head. 

The makings of gems dug into my skin as the embrace continued; bringing us back from the corner of life and death, and back to where we'd started, but on more familiar ground. 

He released my arms and then my lips; our foreheads pressed together as we exchanged proximity's breath. And we stayed there for a minute, maybe an hour; with either being less than the eternity of the wheels' spinning over the edge of the cliff.

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

We pulled into my driveway and sat silently, again. Embry turned off the car and we listened to the cicadas' invisible melodies. He grabbed my hand and stroked my knuckles with his thumb. He offered to sit for as long as I pleased. I voiced my thought that he we should decompress in our homes; wash away the day and sleep it off, the scent of pine and panic. 

He agreed and opened his car door before making his way to mine. He walked me to the door, and I turned the key to open it before turning back to Embry. He took both of my hands in his and planted a kiss on my lips, then my forehead again. 

I told him to drive safely and he laughed at the thought. He waved from the walk, and stopped midway; turning back to me. 

There'd be sun tomorrow and no change of rain. He'd like, if I was willing, to try the trip a second time. 

I smiled and nodded. 

He'd pick me up at 10. 

[shortstoriesbycarynnicole]

Zoan and the Neighbors

Caryn Nicole Wells (South Carolina, 2022)

“I have looked upon all that the universe has to hold of horror, and even the skies of spring and the flowers of summer must ever afterward be poison to me.”-H.P. Lovecraft in “The Call of Cthulhu”

1.

I woke to morning fog slinking though the window; slow and sage it carried the weightless what-had-been to the dawn. Drowning in a sea of sheets and comforters and throws, I set my gaze upon my love who heaved silently without stirring. His back was turned to me as he slept, but we'd not begun the night with distance. There'd been stolen glances that grew to danger, and danger grew to battle. The cotton waves surrendered and sleep took the night. Our dreams tossed limbs and pillows asunder; a black wind beneath slumbering skies.

I leaned into the scent of him and buried my nose in his shoulder, inhaling sharply the smell of sandalwood and his air dried fatigue. The sun turned his blue skin to oak, solid to liquid as it ran with golden flecks in the light.

He'd wake soon and want coffee.

I planted a kiss to the back of his neck and snuck out of bed to let linger the signal for sleep to cease. I slipped my arm into satin sleeves and scurried down the hall, tracing my fingers along the walls that warned they'd seen the times and would remain after our leaving or our demise.

Whichever comes first.

We moved in two weeks prior, but the house still wasn't home; not for lack of love or customization, but for the house itself. The counters, cabinets, and crown molding seemed unwilling to succumb to ownership. I can't say the feeling was one of unwelcome, more the structure's knowing something we didn't; that we wouldn't be here long, and made no efforts towards familiarity. I knew the feeling and embraced the domestic estrangement.

Yusef proposed last year and I politely declined. I love him more than words can say, but 'wife' is a word I don't care for. 'Partner' is too informal for what we are, and 'girlfriend' far too juvenile. He is my love, and I am his; strong enough to mean consistency, but distant enough for the flames to survive the revolving winter's cold. I've no fear of monogamy, but monotony; and seem share the sentiment with this house that's seen every kind of love, and is thus unimpressed with our vague labels and post-midnight retiring.

Alit with morning sun, the kitchen appeared at the end of the hall. I turned in the direction of the rays and the coffeemaker, sure that I'd set it to 'wake' before bed, and disappointed to find it untrue. I pressed the button marked 'bold' and tip-toed to the cabinets; the hardwood floors that matched my skin were grounded and there was no threat of waking Yusef. It was the warmth of the sun, the satin against my shins, and the love that made me lift in envy of the birds.

Still, he knew my feelings on the white dress, and "Will you marry me?" is easier than sonnets for some.

I opened the small wooden door whilst staring at the diamond I'd agreed to wear. The two mugs I'd gathered nearly slipped my grasp when I closed the cabinet to reveal Yusef standing at my side. My heart plummeted to the depths; a painless death that would still be a preferred way to go had I not been resurrected by the embrace of him who'd played the reaper.

He clung to me as we walked towards the scent of the brewing arabica. I poured both cups, still trapped in his arms. It was an imprisonment I couldn't live without; this jealous attempt at flight and early mourning. We made our way to the wooden table in the corner. He pulled my chair towards him and my heart plummeted a second time. Though not as far as the earth below, it stopped in the midst of my butterflies' unrest.

We lingered in each other's eyes as we ran our plans for the day. We'd buy a tree, though neither of us believed, and a pie to be polite.

The neighbors had requested we join their annual holiday dinner party. The entire neighborhood was invited, so we would attend.

2.

The road was silent and shivering in the cold. Tears of deceased snow ran past us down the hill as the laughing sun gave way to a kinder moon. The wind picked up and concealed the click of my heels meeting the concrete. They were last year's gift; these 6 inch daggers that bled beneath the soles. I'd paired them with a red dress that resembled revenge and knew it'd cause a soundless stir. The trees blew backward bending towards us, and I scoffed at their disapproval.

Nature always feels its place is to guide women from birth, but I towed the line between proper and rare with Yusef in mind concerning both.

My ode to Eve would be received, but not welcomed; like the snake, the apple, and the downfall of man that followed. Yusef was beautiful as always. His shoulders carried proud in the black jacket, shirt, and pants. He always wore all black.

So, I always wore red.

The house was lively and aglow as we approached.

There was no shortness of ornament or atmospheric overwhelm. The grass shimmered beneath the string lights that clung to every inch of the two-story white home. Poinsettias lined the walkway and an overly excited wreath dressed the wooden door at the center of the porch that wrapped the expanse. Lanterns topped with red velvet bows lit every window, and a stately Christmas tree could be seen from the yard. The glass barrier caught glittering shards of silver from the bulbs. Yusef rang the bell, adjusted his jacket, and placed an arm around my waist. Never a fan of crowds, his reassurance felt unsure. I felt my fingers tighten around the pie's aluminum holster.

A tall black man with a clean shave and low cut woolen curls opened the door with a blinding smile. He ushered us into the house that save for the trimmings, looked like fall. The hardwood floors were buffed and shining. The ecru walls offered welcome as our host introduced himself. We followed Dr. Darius Lincoln through the crowd and glanced at one another, agreeing in silence that we'd been a bit self-consumed beneath the cotton sheets and ceiling fan shadows. Our glances turned to grins as we weaved through the labyrinth of nameless faces. Our journey ended at the base of a grand staircase; at the sparkling feet of a vision in white. Dr. Lincoln gestured to his wife as if she were an artifact thought to be a myth unearthed in archaeological discovery: and there she stood in glory, most deserving of the pomp.

Her dress cinched at the waist and cascaded down her long thin legs to rest at her calves. Her bangles caught the light from above and bounced it to her necklace. Her pronounced collarbones supported wide, appropriate straps, and her brown skin's golden glow seemed more from within than a byproduct of the surrounding opulence.

She gestured to another guest; an elegant flick of her wrist through the air. Her subject obeyed, took the pie from my hands, and scurried off in what looked to be the direction of the kitchen. She shook Yusef’s hand and mine with a frigid comfort that vanished when she withdrew. She stretched her arms in both directions and encouraged our unrestricted enjoyment of her home. Yusef thanked her grace and we walked into the bustling festivities. My love and I are home bodies, and perfectly matched in that way. We said brief hellos, made our way through the food line, and found a cozy corner. He was alluring as ever tonight, and yet I could not keep my gaze from wandering to the lady of the house. She walked on air and spoke with her hands as if the beauty of her words could not be heard without an accompanying wave.

Her posture was impossibly correct as she and Dr. Lincoln stood where we left them; welcoming another couple as they had done so with us. When the latecomers disappeared into the crowd, Dr. Lincoln turned to his wife with a hunger in his eyes. He placed his lips to her forehead to which she responded with a smile and slight curtsy. He took both of her hands; holding one and placing the other on his shoulder. He pulled her into the frame and she followed his seamless steps. They danced through the suspended seconds they filled with the silent exchange of memories.

My trance was broken when Yusef leaned in towards me and whispered that I was the most beautiful woman in room. This wasn't the first time he'd offered such a compliment. But, it was the first time I didn't believe it.

He stared into my eyes and beckoned without words. I nodded, also ready to leave but secretly longing to stay. Dr. Lincoln met us midway through the vestibule as we made our way to the door. Ever the gentlemen, he didn't ask our reason for leaving, but said we must do lunch and we mustn't be strangers. Yusef agreed and we ventured off into the night. I stole one final glance at Mrs. Lincoln who threw her head back in laughter at something a guest said. She pressed her fingers into her chest as her stately bun dipped toward the earth and back; a swan's final stretch of its span before settling into sleep. As we made our home I believe Yusef spoke of the nice people and their nice home, yet all heard was the piercing echo of this perfect woman's perfect laugh.

3.

I woke to the same fog and the same sun and the same man, but the house seemed more inviting. The walls glowed with possibility as I considered a layer of paint.

The coffeemaker felt cold and quick, a French press would be more fitting in its stead. The buttons on the plastic removed the magic from the routine; new mugs of course, when the press comes in, and plants for added life. I pressed the button marked "bold" and waited by the kitchen window. I stared down the road to the Lincoln's house. It was more stunning than ever in the day. A knock disrupted my trance, and I scampered to the sound while adjusting my robe for security. I opened the door every so slightly to find Dr. Lincoln standing on the porch. He was proud as ever in pair of olive pants and a cream sweater vest. He thanked us for attending the soiree and carried cupcakes as a return for the pie. I accepted the gift and watched him leave as Yusef appeared behind me. "That was nice of them", he said, walking off with the treats as I slowly closed the door to this perfect man his and perfect clothes.

4.

With the new paint drying and the kitchenware installed, I turned my attention to the closet. I worked well into the night feeling a bit. too old for most of my options. The unfit items would go to the salvage store.

Yusef slept alone.

5.

Yusef went golfing. I'm not sure who with.

I took the day to attend to the hardwood floors. They needed a cleaning and polish with them being the last remaining imperfection. I grabbed an apron from my new collection and filled a pail with wood soap and water. I'd start in the bedroom and worked my way out. I hummed as I pushed the brush back and forth. A loose board caught my attention, so I pried it upward with my ungloved hand. At the base of the floor, I saw a piece of paper slightly mildewed and creased at the middle. I unfolded the thing that seemed to have come from the pages of an old diary. It was dated two years back and read:

"Dear diary,

Last night, Mrs. Lincoln dropped by while Walt was still at work. 'Dropped' being the operative word because she nearly beat the door down in rage. Her eyes were dark and her breath was labored. I asked of her state and offered her a glass of water. She raised her finger to my nose and threatened my very life.

'If you ever show up to an event of mine in a dress that short again, you'll be buried in it.'

She stormed away and I cried until Walt returned. He suggested the woman was old fashioned and maybe a nice gesture would fix the misunderstanding. I ordered roses from the florist and took them to Mrs. Lincoln's door. I knocked but nobody answered. I peered through all of the windows to find the house empty and cold with no furniture in sight. I went to the home of the Lincoln's other neighbors they stared at me, confused. They said no one had lived there for decades and that the previous owners were long gone. They'd passed the house down their daughter who didn't want it, and her son who didn't, either. It was still in the family name, but sat vacant. They pitied me and offered me in, so I joined them and told them about the party. They sighed and said they'd heard it before, that my house always sold for cheap because of the gas leak. People kept moving out after seeing apparitions, but the Lincoln's were a first.

Walt and I are leaving today. We've had our share of ghosts.

(…and neighborly invitations.)

Ever thine,

Penelope Sanders"

6.

I dropped my brush and pail and glove and ran down to the Lincoln's. As written, the house was empty and uninhabited with no furniture in sight. I ran back home and waited for Yusef who read the page in silence. He grabbed my hand and I followed him to the table. He didn't pull my chair this time, but stared at me with sad eyes and said, "I'm not happy here, Zoan."

So, we left.

7.

Back in the city, we spent the day unpacking and decorating our new loft. Here, the French press was more a feature than a theme, and we swore to never speak of the suburbs or the Lincoln's ever again. I took a box of unpacked books and headed to the shelf. I lifted "Othello" in hardback cover and a piece of parchment slipped out, falling to the ground.

It read:

"MERRY CHRISTMAS, NEIGHBORS,

It's that time of year!

Please join us at our annual holiday dinner party in semi-formal attire! We look forward to seeing you at 12 Magnolia Lane on the Day of our Lord, December 18th, 2021.

Festivities start at 7pm.

Ever thine,

Mrs. Margaret C. Lincoln"

[shortstoriesbycarynnicole]

Zoan and the Vanguard

Caryn Nicole Wells (Colorado, 2021)

For the women who smash glass ceilings and the men who hold the ladders

Prologue

The Raingate opens every Thursday at noon. The Vanguard voted and settled that this time was not disruptive to the normal goings-on and happenstance. Karishma Wentworth, the Vanguardʼs Environmental Chair, lost seven ancestors to Katrina. Once elected to her Chair, she vowed that Grateful would never know flood devastation. The Raingate was installed at mountainʼs peak to catch the rain and repurpose the fallen water for commercial irrigation. To keep Grateful green, a release feature was installed. Once every week, on Thursdays at midday, the captured water was freed.

Zoan scampered through the streets on this late summerʼs eve, quite peeved at this sighting of rain. Beneath the moon, neon signs flashed, “RAINGATE MALFUNCTION” as the water fell on Friday night, unplanned. Itʼd taken two hours to straighten her hair. Another hour to fix her face. Zoan was naturally beautiful, and she would not have been annoyed if she had chosen a lesser favorite pair of heels. She opted for her whimsical, mismatched pair of pumps. The box came with one fuchsia heel and one lime.

The “Rogue Bis” shoe by SJP had earned vintage status twenty years prior. She had paid five times the original $395 for the find. Her hair would revert to curls. She could re- powder her nose. But Zoan was unwilling to subject her shoes to rain damage. She took them off and zipped from covered alleyway to awning, with three blocks left to reach Whirl.

In the daytime, Grateful gleamed with post-modern tenacity. Every building scraping the sky without remorse. The reconstruction had been overseen by Wendy Carpenter, the Vanguardʼs Infrastructure Chair. Sheʼd chosen New York City, circa 1927, as the architectural inspiration for the new Grateful. Numbered streets ran east-to- west and noun streets, north-to-south, making the city grid easier to navigate. And it was, fairly so, unless the Raingate opened at an inconvenient time, like a buzzing and expectant Friday night.

One block away from her destination, Zoan stopped at the corner of 3rd and Harriet. She ducked under a corner-store awning to view the statue in the square. Celine dʼ Arc, the Vanguardʼs Art Chair, commissioned seven statues to honor Gratefulʼs governing body; each statue with a different design and theme: Environment, Health, Infrastructure, Human Management, History, Economics, and Art. One statue for each woman-held Chair of the Vanguard.

In the center of the square, stood the statue to commemorate Gratefulʼs History. At the base of the 30-foot structure, copper flames licked the ankles of a 20-foot-woman, 5-feet- wide. The woman, who stood unphased by the fire underneath, held a book in her left hand, and a diamond star in her right. Zoan darted from the awning and up final the block, reaching the bright red, high rise called Whirl. The rain glistened beneath her feet as she splashed her way indoors, showing her Placement Card to the bouncer standing guard. He waved her onward as she slid into her shoes and down the hallway to the thumping disco sound. Two leather doors in a solid gold frame opened inward to invite Zoan to the scene.

Three hundred and fifty people met beneath crystal globes, lit with pink neon lights in the center. The walls, painted red, covered in glowing neon paint brought the bright lights of nighttime Grateful indoors. An ancient song was blasting. “I Want Love” by Jessie J, prevented any real conversation from taking place. Pink drinks in glass goblets were served to men and women alike as they flirted underneath the strobing lights. Zoan, in dark-wash jeans and a white, satin camisole, slid onto an open bar seat at the end.

The bartender who knew her well brought a whiskey-sour double and a coaster, placing both in front of Zoan. She smiled and she nodded as she opened her purse to pay. The bartender shook her head and pointed across the bar. A woman dressed in black, wearing circular rose-colored glasses, smiled and raised her drink as a toast to Zoan. Zoan nodded back at the stranger and took a sip to be polite. The woman left her seat, turning the corner in Zoanʼs direction. Zoanʼs phone buzzed in her pocket and she read the received text, “Iʼm out back”. She put her drink back down on the bar. The stranger reached out her hand, Zoan shook it and replied and rose from her seat, saying, “Iʼm meeting someone here. Thanks for the drink”, as the woman approached. She didnʼt wait to hear a response before squeezing her way through the dance floor, past the bathrooms in the hall, and out the backdoor.

The alleyway was black, save for the shimmer of the rain. Zoan used the light from her phone to aid her sight. A man in a hoodie approached without saying hello and removed a silver compact from his pocket. Zoan grabbed the shiny disk from the man she knew as “Dub” and opened it to check the quality of the product. Thirty blue pills, one for each day of the month, sealed between plastic and foil. She reached into her purse, removing $3000 cash. She handed it to the man and turned to leave. “If you need a reason to use those, give me a call”, the man smirked after her. Zoan said nothing, rolled her eyes, and went back the way she came. She hurried through the dancing crowd to reclaim her seat. She pushed the abandoned drink to the center of the bar. She ordered a cosmopolitan and opened a tab. The fast-working bartender brought Zoan the pink-ish drink and placed it on a coaster like before.

Zoan took her first sip and stared at the coaster sheʼd been given. A reflective, rainbow square featuring the face of Quinn Sandoval, the Vanguardʼs Health Chair, stared back at Zoan from the wooden bar. She gave the middle finger to the bitch whoʼd banned birth control and flipped the coaster over, hiding the image. Zoan took a few more sips and let the atmosphere transport her to a place where there were no diamond stars or regulations.

Chapter One

Zoan woke to the sun that snuck into the open window. Its rays exacerbated the painful pounding in her head. The room spun clockwise as she rolled out of the bed. Her feet found her camisole at the base of the footboard. Her eyes met her shoes strewn across the bedroom floor. She wriggled into the jeans she had worn the night before. With her satin camisole still damp from the rain. She decided to borrow a shirt. Zoan tiptoed to the closet and grabbed the nicest one she could find; a starched-white, collared, menʼs work shirt with steam pressed cuffs. She rolled the sleeves to her elbows and tucked the front-end into her jeans. She fluffed her hair and dashed out the door before Pete could realize she was gone. Or maybe his name was Shawn.

She knew had to leave quickly or heʼd ask her to stay for breakfast. Zoan hated morning dates and she hadnʼt come to talk. She wouldʼve felt bad about taking the shirt if he had been any good. Sheʼd bring it back, or sheʼd send it back. 

Definitely, send it back.

Zoan opened her purse: one phone, one wallet, one round and silver compact. She swallowed a blue pill and dove into the elevator. She took a slow, deep breath as the steel doors closed behind her. She scampered out the door and onto the sidewalk.

The sun was even brighter on the corner of 9th and Athena as she wandered up the block towards her home. The high rises stood at attention as she strutted cheerfully by, passing under the flashing lights of Hinterland. The actor-singer-dancers made their way to the stage door, carrying costumes and stage makeup in their hands. The last show sheʼd seen was ʻMother and Matriarch: The Birth of Grateful.ʼ Zoan had waited at the front of a five hour line to purchase opening night tickets. She'd bought out a box to sit alone.

She glided up the red-velvet stairs in a vintage, Oscar de la Renta gown. The sweeping, black skirt rose to sequins at her knees. Bursts of blue and whispers of red exploded onto a sparkling gold corset, featuring blinding dusts of sequins down the sleeves. Zoan ordered sparkling water with a hint of mint and lime. The usher offered his arm and escorted her to her seat. She sat to the east of three commanding, consuming chandeliers; each one handcrafted with fifty-thousand crystals that sent the light to dance. In the box across the way, Céline dʼArc and her staff sat laughing over bubbling drinks and cheese trays. Zoan longed to hear the joke that had caused such a stir.

The house lights dimmed. The Playbillʼs list of players were the best of Grateful talent, but Zoan hadnʼt gone to watch the show. Sheʼd come to see the conductor lift his baton from the pit and lead the instrumentalists through the opening orchestra suite. E- flat major served a sweetness with a sudden dash of strength. Violins brought relief that was interrupted by the regality of sustained French horn. The brass worked its way down chromatic scale, landing at the feet of the timpani. The rumble of the drum warned of the coming harmonic climax that brought a single tear to Zoanʼs eye. The emotional release was followed by a floating mist of flute and a finishing moan of cello at the end. The conductor lowered his baton half staff and the musicians followed suit. Zoan's night had come and gone with the musical introit. Sheʼd gotten what she came for and did not bother with the rest. She drifted down the theatre steps and onto the sidewalk, waltzing into the warm night that ended for her there.

The Hinterland was not nearly as grand in the blazing light of day. This, Zoan thought, they had in common. The concrete burned beneath the heat as Zoan rushed onward home. Her mission was disrupted by a shouting in the square. She followed the cries up the street past the History square, to find scores of people cheering at a stage. The crowd obstructed her view so she climbed and stood on a bench seat, using her hand to shade her eyes from the sun. A tall and slender brunette stood at a microphone, arms outstretched. Her eyes were a piercing blue that promised fear and disrespect. The people, mostly women, leaned further into her aura; inhaling her superiority. The woman at the microphone spoke in a high-pitched squeal that had become Barbie Stanfieldʼs key identifier. She wore a tight, pink latex dress, leaving nothing to the imagination. Her surgically enhanced breasts bounced with her bright, cartoonish consonants. Her perfect teeth sparkled as she spoke.

“People of Grateful...it is my distinct honor to announce that I am challenging Quinn Sandoval for her Health Chair post!” The crowd erupted with roaring cheers. Barbie stood in silence, basking in the praise. The campaign decor sheʼd chosen was inappropriate, but on-brand. The streetlights were wrapped in pink feather boas. The stage was dressed in glitter that speckled across the city concrete. The mic stand was covered in cheap imitation crystals that reminded Zoan of the dollhouse Barbie owned as a child.

The Stanfields were a well-respected pillar of the new Grateful. Her father, biologist Joseph Stanfield was the brain behind the Raingate. His dissertation, “Taming the Elements: A Study of Environmental Synergy” caught the selective attention of the Vanguard. Dr. Stanfield was commissioned to complete the project and did so in eight months. Zoan never met him personally, only seeing him in passing. But her sharpest childhood memory was of him; not necessarily of him, but what happened after he disappeared. Barbie cried uncontrollably for the next seven days. Her mother failed to console her child and herself. The dollhouse Joseph bought and had been the envy of the playground, now sat vacant and growing downward into the Stanfieldʼs front lawn.

Three houses down from Zoanʼs, witnesses gathered in the lawn. The Stanfield patriarch had last been seen in the driverʼs seat of his vintage Tesla. The report was inconclusive. Heʼd driven off into the night, and Joseph Stanfield was never seen or heard from again. 

ʻA great loss for Gratefulʼ flashed on every available screen. Three days later, the world kept spinning. Meredith Stanfield, beloved wife and attentive mother, assumed the top position at Stanfield Laboratories. Barbie was a rare sight after that. She spent her days at the Academy for Gifted Girls and her afternoons and weekends in private tutoring. Barbie graduated from the Academy as itʼs 45th Valedictorian. She followed a full scholarship to the Ember School of Science, studying organic chemistry: pre-med track. She accepted a surgical fellowship at Mother of Mercy Hospital, becoming the foremost fetal surgeon in Grateful. Sheʼd graced the cover ʻDoctorʼs Monthlyʼ an unprecedented thirteen times. But, Barbieʼs Vanguard ambitions, no one saw coming.

The crowd fell to silence when Barbie stepped back to the microphone. The feedback failed to shake the crowd as they leaned even further into her platform. She took the stage alone with the exception of one other. A tall and thin black woman, dressed more aptly than her politician wife, graced the far-right side of the stage. Stacey Stanfield, architect, and woman who never smiled, stood firmly with her hands clamped together. Her jeweled fingers rested on her wide-legged pants. Zoan had seen them in this yearʼs edition of the vintage Calvin Klein catalogue, selling for an easy $1500. Finishing the look were her envious 1-carat diamonds, twinkling singular and stately in each ear. She looked proudly on as Barbie continued her speech.

“Women of Grateful...I am proud to stand before you today and announce this new beginning. Grateful rose from the ashes of a world destroyed by war. And here we boldly stand as a beacon of what can be....of whatʼs to come.”

The crowd gave a civilized clap that tapered into silence. Stacey wheeled a covered cart onto the stage to Barbieʼs side. Barbie lifted the sheet to reveal 7 glass vials filled with shining blue liquid to the stopper.

“Welcome to the revolution!”, she screeched, arms held high with dramatic pause. The crowd didnʼt respond and Zoan laughed to herself at the silence. If the Evita stance was the revolution, she knew where this was headed. Clearly, Barbie was high.

“This blue baby is a single-dose injection called the HC-42 vaccine.” Zoanʼs eyebrows raised to her forehead. She was more surprised by her own intrigue than the mystery ink Barbie held. “This one shot will revolutionize womenʼs health and usher us into a bright future.” Stacey stood, palms together and smiling. Zoan waited for them to break out into song.

“The HC-42 vaccine is formulated to suppress motherly instinct, reduce emotional reaction, extend attention span, and reduce needed sleep to one hour per day. We, the founders and protectors of Grateful, must continue our quest for success! We must expand our borders! We must breach new frontiers! We must increase our knowledge! We must innovate! And thus, there is no time to procreate!”

The crowd erupted into boundless cheers and some in thankful tears. Zoan watched the jubilance wash over the crowd. She wondered if she was the only woman who felt a tinge of shock, or even fear. She scanned the crowd and met the eye of a woman in all black, peering up at her from the circular, rose-colored spectacles sheʼd seen last night. The woman removed her glasses, sending Zoanʼs blood straight to her brain. Quinn Sandoval smiled and nodded at Zoan who remained shocked and speechless. Quinn turned back to the stage. Zoan followed her gaze back to Barbie.

“We will vaccinate our daughters at birth and prepare them for the future! We are the future. We are Grateful!”

Barbie placed her right hand to her chest and then straight upward to the sun. “To the Mother!”, she yelled. The crowd echoed her gesture and sentiment with one unified voice. “To the Mother!” 

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

Zoan arrived at her loft after a long walk home. She placed her thumb on the reader that turned the lock. She closed the door behind her, leaning onto it for support, sliding down and sitting on the marble floor. White and black tiles spread throughout her apartment, adding a glossed and checkered busyness to the nest. Two sharp, houndstooth chairs sat on either side of her couch; long and white, covered in velvet with no cushion. The idea was interrupted by pink throw pillows, which were gently offset by a sapphire coffee table. The jewel-topped centerpiece introduced the granite fireplace. Blue velvet ottomans sat at its feet.

The loftʼs ceiling itself was a deepened shade of gold, hand carved into cubic tiles of glimmer. Zoan stared into the opulence and inhaled sharply. Her eyes met a mounted oak frame. The stained, glassed wood held a thin, square receipt reading “402” in bolded ink. Itʼd been three years since the annual lottery that brought Zoan to Grateful Metro. Three years that felt like three, long days all rolled into one.

She'd stood in the queue with the rest of the “25ʼs” and took a numbered ticket "402". London Clark, the Human Management Chair, a round white woman with silver hair, stood in a grey pantsuit before the crowd. Of the 900 hopefuls, only three numbers were called.

78, 639, and 402.

Two black men and Zoan were moving from Lower Third to a shining new life in Grateful Metro. They were escorted from the crowd and bussed immediately to their new homes. The first gate closed behind them, then the second, and the third. When they arrived in Grateful Metro, they were issued keys to their homes, Metro Placement IDʼs, and new names.

Lower Third children dream of winning Migration placement from their first learning about it at age 10. Parents were prohibited from discussing it at all, and the penalty of such was a year behind bars. The Vanguard thought it best to limit exposure of such hopes, as to not distract the children from their duties.

Zoan stood and walked to the bathroom. “Shower on.” The water fell. Steam filled the room as Zoan disrobed and walked to the mirror. She placed her jewelry on the countertop and stared into her reflection. Her curls looked three feet tall as the rain had washed them in. The heat opened the pores of her toffee-colored skin. She looked into her deep brown eyes that took up most of her face. She parted her lips to sigh; their fullness caving to the gesture. She turned towards the shower and stepped in. The water drenched her hair as she reached for her shampoo. She lathered and thought about of the days before campaigns and vaccines.

After conditioner, two body washes, a sugar scrub and a body oil, Zoan left the shower and headed to her closet. She picked a grey, sleeved, flannel dress sheʼd never wear outside. She pulled it over her head and smoothed it straight. She poured a shot of bourbon from her vase-shaped decanter sitting on an engraved dresser made of glass. The dresser matched the nightstand by her California King; white pillows, white sheets, and a white comforter made of fur.

Above the bed was a window overlooking Grateful Metro. She peered through the glass and found the park where Barbie spoke. She took a sip of bourbon, and another after that. She took an unsure seat at the edge of her bed. The mirror above her dresser flashed a familiar ten-digit number. The neon blinking was followed by a faint ringing. She ignored the notification until the ring and flash subsided. “Play voicemail.”

The mirror beeped and a voice she knew began to speak.

“Hey, itʼs Eli”, the playback said. And before Zoan had a chance to feel, the mirror, lights, and HVAC powered down. Bright red lights flooded her home and her curtains zipped shut, blocking any outside light from streaming in. The television in the wall clicked on and Zoan rolled her eyes. An artificial, female voice flooded the speakers in her room.

“THIS IS AN AWARENESS FROM THE VANGUARD.”

London Clark appeared on the screen in her signature, grey suit, her eyes squinted severely, and her arms firmly folded.

She spoke, “Tenant 402, youʼve used 90 hours of your Weekly Out-of-Nest Allotment. You have 10 hours left before mandatory quarantine takes effect. Please be advised.”

Zoan sighed as the Lower Third hijacked her running thoughts. Theyʼd had no curfew and no campaign rallies. But theyʼd also had no food.

“No extra time is given. Unused hours do not roll over. And lastly, Out-of-Nest hours cannot be saved, sold, or shared.”

The lights returned to normal, and the curtains drew to light.

London Clark nodded, “To the Mother.”

Chapter Two

Zoan grabbed her keys and marched to her door. She smirked at the Fendi furniture filling her designer prison cell. She scampered down the stairs, into the buildingʼs parking garage and pressed the panic button on the fob to find her car. The BMW X4 Coupe responded to the call from the corner. She journeyed to the edge of the garage and slid into the driverʼs seat. She turned the key and backed into the lane. One floor down, and six more to go, Zoan reached for the GPS to set her course. She felt a tugging to her left and stopped mid-circle to the exit, pulling the tail of her grey dress out of the door. She fluffed her hair in the rear-view mirror and applied her favorite lip gloss. She found her aviator shades in the leather, center console. She picked a vintage song to match the mood. "Hello," the songstress cooed. "It's me..." 

She pressed the glasses into her nose and pushed her foot down on the gas. 

The skyscrapers that lined the main road formed a tunnel leading out. The shade from the steel masses darkened the way. Zoan set her lights to ʻautoʼ and the asphalt came to life, giving brightness to the slow-encroaching night. The silence of the engine pulled her into introspection. She critiqued her last three years until her thoughts began to attack.

“Call Eli” Zoan said to the digital assistant. The dial tone rang four times before he answered.

“This is Eli”, he said with a voice that calmed her soul. “Hey”, Zoan responded, hoping to counter his formalities.

“Who is this?” Eli asked with an accusatory tone. “Me....Zoan”, she said and prayed that he was joking.

Eli released a low-toned laugh that Zoan hadnʼt heard in a year. “Are you borrowing someoneʼs phone?” he asked, and Zoan felt like an idiot. Sheʼd just bought the car two weeks ago. He wouldnʼt have the number. “No. Iʼm calling from my car. Iʼm on the way to your house now.” Her response led to silence that lasted longer than she expected.

“Umm...okay. I guess thatʼs fine. You didnʼt have to come all the way out here. You couldʼve just called me back.”

His words made perfect sense and she knew heʼd seen right through her. The visit was not for him, but for herself.

“Itʼs Saturday”, Eli continued. “What are your Out-of-Nest hours looking like?” Zoan knew that if she told the truth, heʼd tell her to turn around. Eli was never one to break the rules or ruffle any feathers. He was calculated and planned, and she almost never was. Their differences were both their attraction and demise. 

“I have time," Zoan shook her head in disapproval of her own falsehood. "Iʼve had a boring week.” 

Zoan shook her head in disapproval of her own falsehood.

“Okay. Cool. Well, call me back when you get to the gate. And put the phone on speaker.”

Eliʼs concern made Zoan wish she hadnʼt lied before. “Iʼm pulling up now.” This part was true. Sheʼd arrived at the gate and felt a sunken feeling.

The gate was 20 feet tall with pointed spikes that trimmed its peak. Motion censored floodlights lined the gate from east to west. Armed guards sat in lofted towers, 10 feet above the gate. A ground guard waved her forward to the entrance.

The guard shined her flashlight through the windshield as she approached the driverʼs side. Zoan rolled her window down and placed her hands on the wheel.

“Placement Card”, she barked.

Zoan said, “Iʼm reaching for it now.” She made no sudden movements and retrieved the card from overhead.

The guard looked at Zoan, to the card, and back at Zoan. “And youʼve not been here this year, correct?” Zoan shook her head no and stared straight ahead, her hands still on the wheel. The guard squinted her eyes and gave Zoanʼs card to the gate attendant. “Run it,” she barked again with a voice that made Zoan jump.

The attendant did as she was told and the guard searched Zoanʼs car, opening the backdoors, then the trunk.

The attendant said, “Sheʼs good.”

The guardwoman returned the card to Zoan, saying “This is it for the year. Once you leave, donʼt come back.”

Zoan nodded in reply as the gate opened before her. She breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled into Lower Third.

“You okay?” Eli whispered. Zoan was too shaken to immediately respond. “Zoan?” He called again, this time louder and more concerned. “Zora!!!” He yelled. And Zoan snapped out of her haze. She hadnʼt heard that name in three years and hearing it now brought her comfort. “Iʼm okay,” she finally said. “I just really hate that gate.” “Yeah. We all do”, Eli said as Zoan turned her air conditioning all the way up.

The blast of cool air calmed her as she passed through neighborhoods. She hadnʼt seen an actual house in a year. Children played in the yards of the vinyl-paneled houses. Music poured from open windows and into the street. One rain drop splattered on the windshield, then another, and another until the downpour restricted Zoanʼs vision and her wipers were deployed. The rain fell without pattern or design and slowed Zoanʼs heart to its normal pace. She hadnʼt seen a natural rainfall in three years.

Zoan turned towards Eliʼs house and saw a floating, neon sign, reading “Stanfield Laboratories” on her right. The concrete building had no windows and only one door at the front, from which a line that wrapped around the mass was forming. Two buildings down, she saw the house where Barbie had been raised. And three doors down from there, she saw her old home. She drove quickly past to beat the memories flowing in. She took a left, then a right to Eliʼs street. She parked out front and he met her at the door.

He enwrapped her in a long and overdue hug. He stepped back to take her in and she stared into his face. She wondered what he was thinking, but it didnʼt really matter. His eyes were pools of sand and his skin several shades lighter than hers. His warmth caught the sun and shone it back into her eyes. He peered down from one foot taller and said, “Hello. Welcome home.”

He took her hand and led her to his dining room to sit. The wooden table felt like Christmas beneath her hands. He asked if she cared for a glass of water. She nodded and Eli vanished into the small and homely kitchen. Zoan looked at the oak wood cabinets and Eliʼs paintings on the wall. Heʼd always been a brilliant artist, capturing landscapes with his brush. He was kind and protective, but nobody would accuse him of being soft. He carried the seriousness of the world in his demeanor, but when he painted one could see his eye for gentleness and for beauty. He had a gift of stillness Zoan could never quite master.

He emerged with two glasses and placed the smaller one in her hand. He sat in the wooden chair beside her and flashed a smile.

“You look beautiful,” he said, as he reached for her right hand. “So do you,” Zoan returned with a shy and blushing smile. He chuckled and took a sip of water, placing the glass back on the table. They sat in awkward silence, neither knowing what to say. Curiosity broke the quiet and Zoan asked about what sheʼd seen.

“There were people standing in line outside of Stanfield Laboratories. Whatʼs going on?” Eliʼs brows furrowed and he took another sip.

“Stanfield Labs is running a clinical trial for some vaccine. Theyʼre paying one monthʼs rent and food rations to qualifying volunteers.”

Zoan raised her eyebrows sharply. 

“You know about that?” Eli asked. Zoan shrugged her shoulders, nodded, and took a sip of water.

“Yeah. Barbie made an announcement that sheʼs running for the Vanguard. She used a vaccine as her platform. Iʼm guessing thatʼs it.”

“Probably”, Eli replied. Rolling his eyes and shaking his head. His waves rolled like evening tide with the movement.

The room fell silent again and both parties stared into space. Finally, Eli spoke the words heʼd longed to say.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, no longer willing to patronize Zoan. “I wanted to see you”, she said, hoping that heʼd soften. “I miss you.” Eli snapped, “I couldnʼt tell.”

Zoan recoiled at his attitude and developed one herself. “Relationships work both ways.” 

Eli tilted his head to the side. “Weʼre not in a relationship.... remember?”

Zoan rolled her eyes and placed her glass back on the table. She folded her arms and reclined in her chair.

“Whose fault is that?” She wasnʼt going to back down and was annoyed at his avoidance of truth.

Eliʼs mother, Jackie, had been chosen for Migration. He was born in Grateful Metro, giving him full rights and privileges. He took a construction job, and the headquarters were in Lower Third. Heʼd forfeited his Birthright Placement and moved downstream.

“You left!” Eli fussed. “You shouldʼve turned down Migration.” “Has anyone ever done that?” Zoan snapped back. In truth, they didnʼt know. And as far as they could remember, everyone awarded Migration had moved. Eli sat back in his chair, resigned to the truth.

“Exactly”, Zoan spat, rolling her eyes, and reaching for her glass. “You should appeal for reinstatement and come back with me.” 

Eli looked at her and squinted, “Has anyone ever done that?”

Zoan shrugged, not knowing the answer. “Exactly”, Eli retorted and then laughed. That both sat up in their chairs, leaning into each other again.

“Besides....the pick is random”, Zoan said, feeling sheʼd won the fight. Eli leaned back into his chair. “You still think that pick is random?” he asked.

Zoan shrugged.

“So, itʼs one big coincidence that the year you were chosen, the other 25ʼs they picked lived up the street from Stanfield Labs....like you!”

Zoan had been so surprised to be called that the details didnʼt matter. She had a new life and so did the other recipients.

“I didnʼt come here to fight.” Zoan said as sweetly as possible. And sheʼd not driven from the city to discuss the Vanguard.

“I miss you,” she said. “And thatʼs the truth.” “I can only come once a year. I donʼt want us to spend this time at odds.”

Eli smiled at her and took her hand. “I donʼt want to fight with you, either.” He took her hand and led her to the couch. He wrapped his arms around her and they sat in silence. The couch cotton was rough. The paint on the walls was peeling. The carpet was frayed, and the room smelled like the rain. Zoan hadnʼt felt this comfortable since the last time she saw him. His love for her was clear, and she hoped hers was the same.

Thunder woke them both from sleep and Zoan looked up at the clock. She had one hour to be home before sheʼd be involuntarily quarantined. She scrambled from the couch and Eli stared at her with a confused look on his face. She sighed and said, “I lied. I had ten Out-of-Nest hours left.”

“Are you serious?” Eli snapped. “You have to go!”

They hurried to the door and to see that Zoanʼs car wasnʼt outside. There was no fire hydrant or yellow line indicating a no-parking zone.

Eli began to laugh. Zoan didnʼt find it funny. “It must have been stolen”, Eli said while trying to contain his amusement.

“I literally just bought that car.” Eli smiled at her and said, “Nobody told you to drive a luxury vehicle down here. You couldʼve taken the train.” Zoanʼs body shook with fury. “My Placement Card was in there!” she yelled “I canʼt go back through the gate.”

Zoan sat down on the floor with tears in her eyes. The last thing she needed was Vanguard trouble.

Eli paced the foyer, rubbing his head with his hand. A few moments later, he looked at her and said, “I think I can get you back in...”

EPISODE TWO

Prologue

A right at the split. A left at the sign.

Zoan chanted the directions to herself as she crept through the tunnels below Grateful. Armed only with Eliʼs directions and a small flashlight to guide her, she hurried hoping to avoid quarantine. The rainʼs residual runoff had now risen to her ankles. Sheʼd borrowed a pair of Air Force Ones from Eli on the way out. They hung from the back of her heels, being several sizes too big. The water flooded into the gap, drenching her socks with every step. With no light to warm the water and no barrier between them, she quickened her pace to beat the clock and an almost certain head-cold.

A right at the split. A left at the sign.

The tunnel was short and dimly lit with rusting, mounted lanterns. The beams reached three feet in the dark before fading into another half mile of black. Zoan splashed fifty feet ahead and the tunnel split into two. One concrete burrow heading east, another pointing west.

Or had it been a left at the split and a right at the sign?

She was sure sheʼd heard correctly but the chill had reached her brain. She stopped and looked in both directions, allowing her heartbeat to slow. The darkness mixed with the sound of the stream to create a meditation. And with her heart now still, she heard a thumping sound she recognized. A faint but true disco beat floated in from the left. Whirl usually had last call at 8am. Donna Summer always sang the swan song. She turned towards the right way home and froze before taking a step. Sheʼd heard two splashes then a series of labored and nearly-silent breaths. She pointed her flashlight in the direction of the sound. A woman, short with sunken eyes, stared at Zoan. She crept forward without saying a word. Her face carried no expression.

Zoan took two steps back away from the stranger who was wearing a flannel shirt and jeans. The woman looked well-kept enough, but her eyes revealed fatigue. This woman with green eyes and jet-black hair walked three more paces up to Zoan. She turned her head slightly to one side, staring into Zoanʼs eyes without blinking.

Zoan could see her thoughts but their contents were a mystery. Neither of them spoke as Zoan stood paralyzed with fear. The woman snapped her head left and fixed her gaze on the tunnel towards Whirl.

She looked back at Zoan, squinting, then took off running into the dark. Zoan didnʼt bother to catch her breath or process what had happened. She kicked the sneakers into the abyss and ran flatfooted in the opposite direction.

She saw the sign and took a sharp turn, not wanting to know what it said. She ran faster still in the direction of what she deeply hoped was home. The tunnel stopped cold at a concrete wall that held a ladder of iron bars. She climbed upward until she saw a sliver of city above. She pushed what felt like a manhole cover and moved it to the side. She emerged into the alleyway behind her apartment building. She replaced the manhole cover and took the red backdoor inside. She closed it behind her and took a moment at the door to be in the present or something like it; between the past and what was coming.

Chapter One

The elevator doors seemed to open slower than usual, like the beginning of a dream you know you wonʼt remember in the morning. Zoan meandered down the hallway in no rush to reach her door. The several seconds wouldnʼt make a difference one way or the other. She pulled her house-key from her pocket as she took the last two steps. She drew a breath and lifted her eyes to the flashing red box beside the peephole.

“-1” blinked on and off in electric, neon fashion. Sheʼd missed her curfew by one hour. Not one second more or less. She looked both right and left as the silence was alarming. Usually, theyʼd send a guard and put a notice on her door. Today, there was neither. Worst case scenario, sheʼd been evicted. But the key turned, and the door opened before her.

Zoan stepped onto the checkered floor and waited for a sound; an alarm, a beeping, a blood-curdling shriek...but nothing. She closed the door behind her and turned to study its reaction. It didnʼt lock behind her and the door frame didnʼt glow red. It was clear sheʼd missed the deadline via the sign outside the apartment, but there was no evidence of punishment in the form of house arrest. The Vanguard wasnʼt famous for grace, or Grateful for its whim. She didnʼt know what to make of the quiet, her visit to Lower Third, or the woman underground.

She hadnʼt eaten since the night before and headed to the kitchen. She opened her refrigerator and grabbed a bag of grapes. The kitchen, all-white with not a single speck of color, welcomed her as she looked for paper towels. She found them in a cabinet above the stove and pulled one from the ring. She was headed to the sink when an out-of-place item caught her eye.

Her decanter filled with whiskey sat on the counter without its stopper. She had two: one in the kitchen and the other in her room. The last drink she remembered, sheʼd had before London Clark invaded her home and had definitely been in her room. She felt her blood run cold as she turned her towards the living room.

“Hello?” she called. The apartment answered back. “Hello, Zoan.”

She grabbed a knife from her silverware drawer and charged into the den. Quinn Sandoval sat in a solid black dress; legs crossed with bourbon in hand.

“Grateful bourbon isnʼt bad. Iʼve had better overseas,” Quinn snarked as she sipped from the crystal glass and leaned back into the chair. Her long brown hair was ironed straight and fell below her waist. Her rose-gold spectacles sat atop her head, her deep brown eyes, exposed.

“Have a seat”, she said to Zoan in a strangely non-threatening tone. Zoan put the knife on the table and sat down in an armchair. “Where were you?” Quinn asked with a smile on her face, but Zoan was in no mood for games.

“You know where I was”, Zoan snapped and folded her arms across her chest. Quinnʼs smile turned into a smirk. “Yes, I do. Though I donʼt know why", Quinn said. “You know why”, Zoan spat, clearly annoyed at the patronizing questions.

“Yes. I do. Though I donʼt know why”, Quinn repeated. “Eli isnʼt...”

Zoan raised her eyebrows to suggest caution. She and Eli had their issues. She wasnʼt sure their love would survive the border. She knew that he was flawed, and she was far from perfect herself. But she wouldnʼt allow a living soul to speak ill of him... ever. And she wasnʼt a fan of this rich, white woman passing judgement on any black man for that matter. Everyone in Lower Third was off limits for discussion. Quinnʼs intrusion had gone far enough. Zoan was now the border.

Quinn Sandoval seemed to take the hint as she quickly changed the subject. “I need your help, Zoan”, she said, taking another sip.

At first, Zoan failed to see how she could be of any help to her guest, but then it became clear. With Barbie Stanfield running for her post, Zoan realized why Quinn had stopped by.

“Having someone from Lower Third supporting your campaign wonʼt help you win their votes,” Zoan quipped. “Theyʼre poor, but theyʼre not simple. And this kind of thinking will do you more harm than good.”

Quinn rolled her eyes and put the glass down on the sapphire table.

“Barbie is doing the exact same thing”, Quinn said, leaning in towards Zoan. “She was raised in Lower Third because the family business was there. But make no mistake, sheʼs just as Grateful as they come.” Zoan leaned back into her chair as Quinn continued to speak.

“This vaccine sheʼs cooked up is for everyone. It wonʼt just stay in Grateful. Whatʼs stopping her from upping the Lower Third dosage to deplete the population?”

Zoan wouldnʼt be surprised if she did. Only Barbie knew what was in those syringes.

“The way I see it, Iʼm the lesser of evils”, Quinn continued. “Sure, you have to get your birth control from a bum in a back alley. But have you been arrested?” 

Zoan saw her opening.

“The Vanguard sees everything. You know everything. You control everything. And now youʼre sitting on my couch, drinking my liquor, and asking me to help you keep your luxury?” Zoan fumed. “The Grateful Metro glamazons talk about Lower Third like weʼre beneath you. Some of the greatest inventions, innovations, and art is floating around in the minds of the Lower Third population. The world may never see them.”

Quinn opened her mouth to respond when the entire apartment glowed red. A deafening buzzer sounded three times. Quinnʼs face flushed with confusion. “I cancelled your quarantine”, she said. “I donʼt know whatʼs happening here.”

The television mounted to the wall above the fireplace, flashed three times before a voice spilled through the speakers.

“THIS IS AN AWARENESS FROM THE VANGUARD.”

London Clark appeared on the screen, arms crossed, not smiling, and barely moving. “Thereʼs been a shooting at Whirl. Seven are dead. Three have been hospitalized with severe injuries. The suspect has been apprehended.”

Zoan and Quinn stared at the television as an image of the perp was revealed. A short, white woman with green eyes and jet-black hair was shown. Her name was printed below the picture. Lily Wright, 27 years old, had been born and raised in Grateful Metro and would be tried for several murders in the coming weeks.

Zoan fell back in her chair. She breathed heavily as sweat gathered on her brow. “I...I saw her.”

Quinn turned to Zoan and shook her head feverishly, “What?” “In the tunnel”, Zoan whispered. “I saw her.” “Are you okay?” Quinn asked as she grabbed her coat from the couch. “Yeah...Iʼm fine”, Zoan said as she stared off into space.

“Zoan...” Quinn started up again. “I need the Lower Third vote.” 

Zoan sat motionless as Quinn continued her monologue.

“I see your frustration and I know what youʼre saying is true. But Grateful has become a world with plenty of ambition and no heart. Thereʼs no warmth here, and Iʼm afraid of where weʼre headed. There should be balance. There should be options. Itʼs fine to want to rule the world. Itʼs also fine to not. Women should have that choice and not be vilified for either.” 

Zoan sat and listened, still staring off into space.

“Lily Wright happens because we are meant to be individuals. We are meant to be complex. We are meant to be different. Forcing one way of life on an entire population can cause internal confusion and chaos, even if the intent is well-meant.”

Zoan shifted her view to Quinn and shrugged. Quinn continued. “I hear you on the Lower Third. We have some major blind spots there.” Zoan let out a stream of air, meant more as a sarcastic chuckle. Blindspot was an understatement, especially when itʼs caused by a very intentional border.

“Thereʼs a Gala tonight”, Quinn said softly. “Please come and meet my team. Hear us out before you make a decision.”

Zoan nodded as Quinn headed for the door. She had no interest in the campaign or the frequent Grateful galas, but she knew the rest of the Vanguard would be present. She would go to gather intel.

“And for the love of god, please donʼt wear Oscar de la Renta”, Quinn snorted as she reached for the door.

“Why?” Zoan asked, pretending to care. Quinn smiled. “Because, Iʼm wearing him, dear."

Chapter Two

Zoan emerged from the bathroom after an hour-long fight with her denman brush. Sheʼd go to the gala and smile but wear the resistance on her head. She put a tube of red lipstick in a dazzling, envelope purse as she made her way to the double doors of her three room, walk-in closet. Zoan wasnʼt a fan of Grateful life, its governing body, or the neon. But the fashion...the fashion she loved. Her clothes were truly Grateful, but her beauty regimen was her own. Sheʼd grown up watching her mother mix honey with brown sugar to make face scrubs. Sheʼd combined her knowledge of natural resources and the branding power of Grateful to create a line of plant-based skincare that sold out with every restock.

As Gratefulʼs brush with Lower Third was rare, curiosity drove her sales. Women of Grateful were proud to carry her products; gaining what they thought was street credibility with each mention. She passed a box of moisturizers set for shipment as she hurried to pick her outfit. The motion activated lights came on as she entered the area of opulence. The first room housed her everyday clothes; her blazers, jeans, and camisoles. She walked past the hardly mundane to the second room that housed her shoes. Louboutin was the Grateful go-to. Zoan found the obsession a bit overblown. The fanfare seemed to be more about the label than design. Zoan had used the money she earned to stock her shoe racks with Jimmy Choo. Louboutin was for the lovers. Jimmy Choo was for the dreamers. The jewels, bows, and explosions of color brought a smile to her face as she passed through.

The final light came on when she reached the room that housed her gowns. Sheʼd worn Gucciʼs vintage collaboration with Dapper Dan for New Years. Gucci was out. Sheʼd worn Marchesa to a wedding, which was appropriate for the brand. She looked at the row of gowns designed by Oscar de la Renta. She fixed her eyes on a pink, floor-length option with black blossoms at the chest. The dramatic look was finished with a trailing, satin cape. She pulled the dress from the rack and changed her clothes where she stood. She checked herself in the mirror and fluffed her hair one final time. A merry sound of ringing filled her apartment. She pressed the button on the wall and sang a happy “Yes?”.

“Miss Zoan, your car is here.” She grabbed her purse and headed for the door.

Zoan stared at herself in the elevator reflection and smiled. For a moment, there was no Lower Third, no separation of people, no hierarchy. She looked like she belonged here and sheʼd carry herself as such. 

As she walked through the lobby to the buildingʼs front door her neighbors turned and stared; their mouths agape and twilight in their eyes. A girl who couldnʼt have been a day over 5- years-old, came running up to Zoan. Her blonde curls bounced with glee as she galloped.

“Where are you going?” the little girl asked, flashing a nearly toothless grin. Zoan kneeled to her level and smiled.

“Iʼm going to a party,” she said, as the curious child picked her nose. “I like parties,” said the tiny human. “Are you a princess?” Zoan was moved by the innocence. “No, Iʼm not”, she said. “Are you?”

“No”, the child said. “I want to be one when I grow up.” Zoan stood to her feet and looked down at the girl with feigned seriousness.

“Then a princess, you shall be”, she said. The girl smiled up at Zoan. “Whatʼs your name?” Zoan asked. “Charlotte”, the girl said, jumping once and putting both hands in the air. “It was very nice to meet you Princess Charlotte”, Zoan said.

Charlotte waved and ran back to her mother in full laughter. The girlʼs mother waved at Zoan, who waved back as she exited the building.

She felt the urge to leave one shoe behind as she walked down concrete staircase. She laughed at the thought and greeted the driver who bowed slightly as she entered the limousine. The driver climbed into the front seat and turned the key in the ignition.

“Any music preferences maʼam?” Zoan smiled, "Lizzo.”

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

Zoan climbed out of the carʼs backseat and stepped onto the sidewalk. She thanked the driver for the ride, and he sped off into the night. The Apex towered over her standing 35 floors high. It held a portrait of the moon, its majesty reflected in the structure made of glass. Security guards lined the building by the dozens on each side. Zoan didnʼt know if this safety measure was standard, or a reaction to the deadly attack on Whirl. This kind of violence in Grateful was as infrequent as the Migration lottery.

Zoan could feel the frightened tension in the air. People in their evening best scurried up the carpeted staircase, holding tightly to their loved ones; their faces red with anxiety. But in true Grateful fashion, the eveningʼs events would go forth. The champagne tray would circle the room. The light hor dʼoeuvres would be served. Zoan balanced herself on the balls of her feet as she climbed the outdoor staircase. She reached the door and greeted the man collecting invitations from guests.

“Invitation, please”, he said, staring down at Zoan. “I donʼt have one”, she responded. “But my name may be on the list.” He chuckled, saying, “Okay. Sure.” He asked her for her name. “Itʼs..” “Zoan!”, Quinn shouted before she could finish her sentence, and came bustling down the stairs holding the train of her dress off the ground. The black braided bodice met a full, hoop skirt at her waist. Quinnʼs hair was pulled back in a well-secured bun and she smiled as she approached.

“Sheʼs with me”, she shot the bouncer a look that collapsed his overbearing posture. “My apologies, Miss”, he said to Zoan as he ushered them both inside. “Nice dress”, Quinn said as she rolled her eyes.

“You too”, Zoan responded, laughing to herself.

The glass doors opened to wonder and Zoan lost her breath. The walls were covered, floor-to-ceiling, with tens of thousands of roses. A ceiling made of shattered glass scattered the color through the hall. Hundreds of people Zoan didnʼt know stood talking around circular tables made of oak. Zoan had expected the grandeur but was impressed to see the caterer serving french fries in crystal cups. She was about to make a break for the food when Quinn Sandoval grabbed her hand.

“We have a private room in back”, she said. Zoan followed her through the crowd. They walked through the halls past the portraits of Vanguard members past and present. They arrived at a room with a solid black door at the foot of another grand staircase. Quinn stood in front of the wood and pushed her face up close to the peephole. A blue light shot from the circular mark and scanned her eye for security. The door unlocked and opened, revealing a small, but stately room. The red roses were swapped for magnolias and the fast-food for prime rib. Zoan stopped in her tracks as she surveyed the room. The entire Vanguard was here.

Céline dʼArc, Art Chair, in a solid, silver gown stood in the corner chatting with her husband. Karishma Wentworth wore an olive-green pantsuit, quite fitting for the Environment Chair. London Clark wore the same suit Zoan always saw her in. Drab and grey, with the skirt nipping her knees. She stood there with her arms folded, in a separate corner alone. It was clear that her sternness was no act.

“Would you like to have some food before you meet the rest of my team?” Quinn asked, smiling and pointing at the plates. Zoan shook her head 'no'. She had lost her appetite. Suddenly, the smell of food made her nauseous. Few civilians had ever seen the Vanguard chairs in one room. Quinn led her to a leather couch where four gowned women were seated.

“Everyone...meet Zoan”, Quinn said with pride beaming from her eyes. “Iʼm Miranda. Press”, the first woman spoke as her dress train floated above a cooling vent. “Ashleigh. Glam,” the next woman said, which was clear from the glitter on her eyelids. “I love your sleep mask. I use it every night”, she said, beaming up at Zoan with excitement. “Thanks”, Zoan said, returning her smile, still in an unwavering state of shock. “Trista. Wardrobe.” “Obviously”, the fourth woman spoke. “Your dress is taking up half the space in the room.”

“Iʼm Chelsea. Policy,” she said, smiling at Zoan while tapping the seat beside her. Zoan sat down slowly, tucking her satin cape beneath her. Quinn sat in an armchair off to the side.

“Quinn told me about your concerns”, Chelsea started, finishing off a bite of steak. “She also told me youʼre not one to mess with, so I wonʼt even bother to sugarcoat.” Zoan appreciated Chelseaʼs frankness and leaned in to hear her out.

“The Lower Third vote is crucial. We cannot win without it”, she said. “Youʼre close enough to the area to make a difference, and well-known enough here to make a Lower Third push palatable to the donors.”

Zoan knew this was why Quinn chose her. She didnʼt like it, but at least Chelsea was honest. She continued.

“Itʼs not pretty, but itʼs true and we need you”, Chelseaʼs voice shook with desperation. “We have money. We have resources. We have connections. Everything we have is at your disposal. If we can help you in any way, weʼre happy to do so.”

Zoan sat silently and stared around the room, still in awe. “Enough of that”, Quinn interjected. “Tonight, enjoy the party. Tomorrow, weʼll meet here at noon to discuss the details.” She pulled a laminated pass from her purse and handed it to Zoan. “Come here tomorrow and scan this at the door. Theyʼll let you in”, Quinn said as she walked towards the bar. “Whereʼs the restroom?” Zoan asked Chelsea, feeling dizzy as she stood. “Out the door and to the right”, she answered. “The last door on the left.” Zoan ventured down the hallway, past the scores of Vanguard paintings. She heard a giggle spill from an offset hallway on her right. She peered down the alley to see Céline dʼArc in the arms of Joseph Black, Gratefulʼs most eligible bachelor and foremost engineer. Zoan had made it her mission to keep to herself and avoid Gratefulʼs not- so-wholesome happenings.

Sheʼd been successful until now, having been invited to this event. She took off straight with her head still turned in the direction of the scandal. Her stiletto caught the corner of her cape, and she flew forward into an unmanned dinnerware table. The glasses fell to the ground. Zoan spun around to view the damage. She heard footsteps coming from the loversʼ hall and dove into the restroom. She leaned onto the door for support, trying to catch her breath. A toilet flushed; a stall door opened. Barbie Stanfield emerged from the shadows.

“Zoan, right?” she asked with a grin as she walked towards the sink. She wore a bright red, sateen dress with a neckline that plunged to her naval.

“I heard Quinnʼs trying to recruit you”, she said in her classic high-pitched voice. “I havenʼt decided yet,” Zoan responded, in a manner quite matter-of-factly. 

“Well, thereʼs always room on my campaign, if youʼre interested”, said Barbie as she took a strangely large amount of paper towels from their roost.

“Never would I ever join your science experiment”, Zoan said. “I know youʼre paying Lower Third to take the shots.”

Barbie pulled a tube of lip gloss from her purse. She stared straight into the mirror as she applied her makeup and sighed. “Lower Third isnʼt getting the HC-42 vaccine”, she said. “Thereʼs a completely different substance in those vials.”

“Then, what are you doing?” Zoan asked, anger rushing to her face. “Itʼs a serum to boost right side brain function”, Barbie said, still staring at herself in the restroom mirror. “The enemy of creativity is hopelessness. As the hopelessness increases, the will to create decreases. Itʼs important to keep dreams alive until we fix this border situation.”

“Do they know that?” Zoan asked. “Do they know what youʼre shooting them up with?” Zoan felt more nauseous than she had before. “I canʼt just go announcing that, can I?” Barbie turned to look at Zoan. “I have to monitor my platform until I get that Vanguard seat.” Zoanʼs anger turned to rage.

"It's still wrong”, Zoan said. Barbie sighed again.

“If youʼve got better ideas, Iʼd love to hear them”, Barbie retorted. “Hereʼs my card.”

She handed Zoan a bright pink card with her name in bold black ink. Her phone number was printed at the bottom in semi-cursive print. Zoan stood silently as Barbie headed for the door. Her curiosity took over.

“Do you always dress like that?” Zoan asked. Barbie turned to Zoan, expressionless. “Dress like what?” she asked and winked, turning on her heels to rejoin the party.

Zoan stashed the card in her envelope purse and took a paper towel. She drenched it in cold water and held the coolness to her neck. She gathered herself and left the bathroom, resigned to leave the party. She rushed down the hallway, through the guests, and out the front door. She stopped to breathe the cool night air and process what sheʼd heard.

“Check you out, looking the part,” a voice she recognized graced her ears. Zoan turned to see Eli standing on the steps in an all-black suit and tie. “What?” She barreled towards him. “How?” “Two guards showed up at my house today and gave me an invitation to this thing”, he smiled.

“Are you serious?” Zoan laughed. “Yeah...Quinn Sandoval sends her regards.” Zoanʼs joy turned sour. “How long are you here?” she asked. Eli grabbed her hand and they walked down the steps together. “The invitation to the gala came with an invitation back to Grateful”, he said, looking straight ahead as the limousine pulled up to the curb.

“Did you accept?” Zoan asked nervously. “Are you staying?” “Iʼm here, right?” Eli said smiling. Zoan leapt into his arms and locked her arms around his neck. He carried her the rest of the way to the curb and placed her in the car. She slid to the left and he sat beside her, closing the door behind him. “Where to?” The driver asked.

“Iʼm dying to see this palace of yours”, Eli said, smiling. She gave the driver a heading as he started up the car. “Any music preferences tonight?” He asked. “Do you know Burna Boy?” Eli questioned.

Zoan groaned, and Eli laughed as they drove towards her home.

“Iʼm not saying I donʼt like his music”, Zoan said as she unlocked her apartment door. “Iʼm just saying he has flashes of brilliance. Wizkidʼs albums are consistent from beginning to end.... like, conceptually.” “Something happened to your ears at conception”, Eli said as they entered her apartment and all its Grateful Metro glory.

“Well, this is it”, she said, spinning around in a circle, arms outstretched. Eli took a few steps in and surveyed his surroundings. He turned to Zoan and burst into laughter. She raised her shoulders. “What?” She asked, confused by his amusement.

“This is gaudy as hell”, his laughter filled the entire apartment and echoed. “You have this chess-board floor, a gold ceiling, and blue furniture,” he kept laughing.

Zoan walked towards him, unamused. “Youʼre about to ruin a perfect evening.”

“Almost perfect”, he grinned as he picked her up and carried to her room where the bedding was white and the glass was clear.

Chapter Three

Daniel Day, more famously known as Dapper Dan, had a keen eye for lines. His talent for tailoring was matched only by his abounding love for Harlem. The Apex sat at the corner of a road once known as Lennox Avenue. Zoan walked up the sidewalk in a black and fitted pantsuit; a purposeful departure from the gown sheʼd worn before. The pants were straight and danced an inch from the ground, at the thin of her heels. The jacket cinched her waist and straightened at her hip.

She wore a black bloused buttoned tightly at the top, and the matte black tie Eli had worn to the Gala. She'd thought of him while getting dressed and hadn't wanted to leave his side. As he slept, she paired the copied look the look with an oversized, black purse that she carried on her shoulder. Sheʼd revived her curls to crown her, parting them sharply on the side. She dressed her lips with the last remaining tube of Pat McGrathʼs ʻElson 2ʼ. The true blue red would speak for her while she sat and listened to the pitch. Sheʼd decided to keep her ears open and her bright red lips shut.

She scanned the security badge from Quinn at the gated, Apex door. She stepped inside and onto the buildingʼs marble floor. A woman wearing a grey work dress and hair pulled back from her face met Zoan in the lobby and waved her forward, saying, “This way”, as she smiled. Zoan followed the woman to a vast staircase lined with glass on both sides as it wound. They strolled down the hallway to an open conference room with a breathtaking view of Grateful Metro's skyline

“Zoan!” Quinn cheered as she stood from her seat stationed firmly at the head of the table. The cast of characters Zoan met at the gala sat strewn here and there, in front of piles of paperwork. Quinn motioned to a chair beside Chelsea, the policymaker. She smiled and Zoan smiled back as Quinn opened the meeting. “So, we all know why weʼre here”, she said, hovering over her team.

“The Lower Third vote, we cannot lose.” Her people nodded in agreement. “Zoan, we spoke on this before. And Iʼd like to know your opinion”, she said. “How do I get the vote without being seen as a blatant panderer?” Everyone turned to Zoan, their faces aglow with curiosity. “You canʼt”, Zoan said. “Thatʼs the honest truth.” The only sound in the room was the air blowing from the ceiling vent.

“The border and the inequalities it caused is all they care about. If you had the backing of the Vanguard and you vowed to change the system... maybe youʼd have a chance”, Zoan said. “But I donʼt really see that happening. Youʼre the only woman fighting for her seat.”

Quinn sat in her chair and folded her hands together on the table. 

Zoan continued.

“Barbie is a formidable candidate. The Lower Third wants change, and she represents that, good or bad...”

“When it comes to voting, they know it will have little-to-no effect on the status quo. Most people wonʼt even go to the ballot and thatʼs just the beginning of the issue.”

“Please, continue“, Quinn said, clearly intrigued. “The voting itself is a problem”, Zoan said. ".....even for the people who want to.” 

“If they show any of interest one way or another, especially if their leanings are contrarian to the local powers that be...they may not be granted the time off to vote. Or theyʼll lessen the number of precincts, making the lines ten hours long. Iʼd say find a way to win without Lower Third, to be honest.”

Quinn sat back in her chair and took a silent, pensive pause. “And how do I win without Lower Third?” she asked, her voice at a barely heard whisper.

“Barbie and the vaccine”, Chelsea said. “You must attack the vaccine. Cause chaos. Make people fear it.”

“At the very least theyʼll question its contents”, Miranda chimed. “Best case scenario, the people revolt.”

“Well, letʼs not go that far”, Quinn said. “Everybody, take five and weʼll meet back here.”

Zoan eyed the snack table through the structureʼs glass wall. She walked from the room, grabbed a plate, and filled it with celery smothered in ranch. Ashleigh, Quinnʼs one-woman glam squad, joined Zoan in fixing a plate. “So, youʼre launching your new moisturizer...”, she said in an excited squeal.

Zoan smiled, “Yes. It hits the shelves in a week.” “Oh my god. Thatʼs so exciting. You should go public”, Ashleigh said. “It is public”, Zoan said, confused. “No, like public as in the stock market. Open the brandʼs funding to outside investors.”

Zoan hadnʼt considered the option and she wasnʼt sure she wanted to. Outside investors meant outside opinions.

“Youʼd be the first black woman in Grateful to have a publicly traded company”, Ashleigh bounced. “The interest is clearly there. Itʼs one of the reasons Quinn wanted you here.”

“Your social stock is rising, whether you want it to or not. You should cash in.” As Ashleigh continued her speech about the market and its possibilities, Zoan wondered why she was present and what she really had to offer. Quinn had the money and resources to win the election without the Lower Third vote. She went through the trouble of canceling her quarantine and bringing Eli back to Grateful. Parading her around would have no effect on the outcome of the election. As Zoan chewed her last bite of vegetable soup, she wished sheʼd never left home. Sheʼd come all this way, worn her best suit, and left Eli...

“I have to run to the restroom”, Zoan said to Ashleigh as she rushed into the conference room to grab her purse.

“Okay! Itʼs down the hall to the left”, Ashleigh said, as she walked to the drink table.

Zoan panicked as she hurried through the hallway and down the stairs. Sheʼd felt queasy since the gala and her instincts were never wrong. For someone who needed nothing, Quinn needed her at this meeting. And for someone who hated Eli, she seemed quite willing to bring him to Grateful. The Vanguard wasnʼt known for its grace, nor Grateful for its whim. She rushed out of the Apex doors and hailed a cab headed for home.

Zoan burst through the barely open elevator doors, fumbling with her keys as she approached her loft. She opened the door and fell into the foyer.

“Eli!” she yelled. No answer. She dropped her purse on the floor and ran through the kitchen.

“ELI!” she yelled again, with all the power she had left. The apartment stood silent and unmoving.

She ran towards her purse to find her phone, though she didnʼt know who sheʼd call. She dropped to the floor when the sound of footsteps came up from behind her. Eli appeared with a confused look on his face. He pulled a visibly upset Zoan into his chest as she cried. “I thought something had happened.” “Thought what happened?” Eli asked, still confused.

“I donʼt know. I just had a feeling,” 

“Had a feeling about what?” he asked.

“The Vanguard, Quinn...you,” she cried. “I donʼt know. Just... something felt...off.”

They stood at the center of the loft intertwined when the lights shut off and the apartmentʼs normal lighting glowed red. Zoan let go of Eli in a panic and the lights returned to normal. Both stood in complete shock, not knowing what to do. The lights flashed red again with no beeping or flashing t.v., and returned to normal again three seconds later.

“What the hell is going on?” Eli asked Zoan as she ran across the room to her purse. She was looking for her phone when the lights flashed red again. Still searching, she saw a dim blue light at the bottom of her bag. The lights returned to normal and the blue disappeared.

“Eli!” Zoan yelled from across the room. Eli ran over and the lights shone red again. She reached for the blue light and pulled out Barbieʼs business card. The lights returned to normal and the blue lights disappeared. They waited there in silence for the violent, red fluorescence. The lights changed, revealing handwriting on the backside of the card.

“2900 Eliza Avenue, Suite. 246. 2 pm”, they read aloud together, and the red lights disappeared.

“I used to live there”, Eli said, as he stood up from the floor. “In Lower Third?” Zoan asked, confused. “No. Before I left. I grew up in 245, across the hall.” Zoan looked at her phone for the time. They had thirty minutes left. “We have to go. Get your stuff”, Zoan said to Eli who grabbed her arm as she rushed to the door. “Iʼm not going anywhere, Z", he said. “This doesnʼt feel right.” “What doesnʼt feel right is us staying here!” Zoan yelled. “We have to leave.” “Because you had a feeling?!” Eli yelled back.  Zoan took a deep breath, knowing the yelling would get them nowhere. “Look, youʼre usually right. Almost always”, Zoan pleaded. “But I need you to trust me on this. We need to go now.” Eli peered into Zoanʼs eyes and exhaled. 

“Okay. Weʼll take the tunnels."

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

Eli and Zoan arrived at the back of the complex. They crept into the building through an unlocked door. They climbed the stairs to the second floor and found apartment 246. Zoan turned the handle, but the door refused to open.

“Dammit, Barbie!” she cried. “Hold on”, Eli whispered, as he felt along the doorframe for a key. The searched turned up empty and Zoan almost gave up hope when an electronic keypad at the side of the door turned blue. Zoan pushed her thumb into the screen and turned the handle again. The door didnʼt open.

“You try”, Zoan said, looking up at Eli. He shrugged and put his thumb to the light. Zoan turned the handle. The door opened.

EPISODE THREE

To those brave enough to change.

Prologue

“And they compelled a passerby, Simon of Cyrene, who was coming in from the country, the father of Alexander and Rufus, to carry his cross.”-Mark 15:21

The morning bell rang with a stormʼs urgency. Itʼs deafening revelry carried through the classrooms. Rows of perfectly aligned desks filled quickly at the sound. Each chair claimed a student. Each student claimed a chair. The walls, painted a glistening grey, glowed pink from the globe lights above. The pearled marble floors saved the remnant rays from waste. A tri-toned alarm sounded over the intercom. The students jumped to their feet in unison and turned towards a hanging portrait. Eli stared into the solemn faces of an unmoving Vanguard, placing one hand over his heart and the other at his side.

“I pledge allegiance to Grateful...,” the class spoke in unison. 

“...may she stand in restful peace.” Eli mumbled beneath his breath, indifferent to the promise.

“...at the crest of innovation, where the roots of knowledge meet.” 

His eyes wandered to the front of the room and met the gaze of his professor. She pointed to the portrait and nodded her head in the same direction. 

“May Grateful be a beacon to the world beyond our reach...”

Eli turned his attention back to the hanging frame.

“...and the Vanguard, their unwavering love, be light to all who seek.”

The students took their seats to receive their lesson for the day. Eli removed his laptop from the leather satchel his mother had given him. He opened the screen to the welcome page and laughed silently to himself. Heʼd been foolish to assume the daily pledge would stop after grade school. The childlike ceremony, he thought, was beneath his university age and wisdom. He quickly entered his password and looked up at the professor whoʼd begun her lecture.

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

Eli gathered his belongings at the sound of the ending bell. He walked out of the classroom and into the busy hall. The remnants of the lesson lingered in his mind. He hadnʼt chosen engineering for himself, but had come to love the subject, drawing connections where he could to his art. His notebooks, filled with pencil sketches of Grateful architecture, weighed heavily in his bag. The arm strap dug into his shoulder as he walked. The pink fluorescence danced above him, luring him into a daze. He could see the invisible connections and feel the electrical currents on his skin; each beam of light darting from its source onto the crowd beneath.

His trance was interrupted by the sight of sudden movement. A thin, brunette figure darted towards him in a sprint. He shuffled to the left, hoping to avoid the womanʼs path. His efforts proved futile as he and the running student collided. The coffee cup she had in hand lost its top. The caffeine spilled to the floor, splattering over his right shoe where it fell. Eli stared at the damage to his vintage Timberland boots, and raised his sight to meet the bright blue eyes of the culprit on the floor. He knelt and offered his hand to his disheveled colleague, keeping one eye on the splatter across his shoe. “Whatʼs the rush, Barbie?” he asked, helping his lab partner to her feet. Barbie stepped over the coffee spill, pulling her hair from her face. “Iʼm meeting my mom for lunch”, she said, still catching her breath. “I got sidetracked, and now Iʼm late.”

“Sheʼs your mom. Sheʼll understand”, Eli offered without really caring.

“Will Quinn Sandoval understand?” Barbie snapped as she turned back towards her heading. Eli stared at Barbie, still unfazed. “Iʼm meeting my mom and Quinn Sandoval”, Barbie repeated in a tone that searched for ovation.

Eli might have been impressed if heʼd been interested in politics. Heʼd been born in Grateful Metro, the only son of a Migration recipient. While he kept up the Vanguardʼs policies, he wouldnʼt be bothered with the rest. The Vanguard chairs relied on the cooperation of Gratefulʼs affluent families. Barbieʼs brush with power was standard for her circumstances. She was smart and likable enough, but she was a Stanfield and quick to remind others of the fact in moments like these. “Weʼre still meeting at 7?” Eli asked of their standing lab session. Heʼd be on time, pull his weight, and stay out of the Vanguardʼs way. “Yeah”, Barbie said as she resumed her running pace. “See you then.”

Chapter One

“Know from the rivers in clefts and in crevices: those in small channels flow noisily, the great flow silent. Whateverʼs not full makes noise. Whatever is full is quiet.”-Buddha

Eli woke to an unrelenting buzzing. His alarm flashed '6:30' and back to black again. He placed two feet on the cold. teak floor, sitting silently and supporting his weight on extended arms; his two fists pressed firmly into his mattress. His eyes surveyed his room as he inhaled the solitude. A single, king-sized mattress was topped with eggshell-colored sheets and a beige, flannel comforter sat atop a mahogany frame; a hollow box with storage space built in and wooden drawers he never used.

The headboard was an off-white wall across from a massive window running from floor-to-ceiling, a wall in and of itself. Heʼd turned the foot of his bed towards the view to greet the sunrises. From where he sat, the open floor plan gave visibility into his living room and kitchen. He kept his decor simple, having only what he needed. One brown leather clutch, the same color as his bed frame, and a rectangular glass-topped coffee table in the center of the room.

Per Grateful standards of opulence, his fireplace carried the room; terra-cotta bricks, stacked and sealed the walls length wide, with black steel trimmings at the mouth. A steampunk light fixture hung from the ceiling; two tiers of rusted copper holding downturned Edison bulbs. It lit a charcoal canvas of the Grateful skyline on the opposite wall. (Heʼd colored it with his own hands.)

The kitchen was white with stainless steel appliances. His countertops and island, brown marble with platinum; swirling smoke, and golden flecks of dust peppered in.

He finally stood at 6:35 and made his way to the bathroom. “Lights” he spoke, and they appeared across the marble sink that matched the kitchen counters and over the waterfall showerʼs clear and glistening backsplash. He opened a compartment hidden in the wall and pulled a small, bristled brush from a shelf. He brushed his beard (heʼd shave when summer came) and did the same to his fade. He turned back towards his bedroom, stopped, and glanced at himself once more. He smiled at the physique heʼd worked hard to build and furrowed his brow at the sight of his torso. He counted five rows of prominent abs and rumors of a sixth, but no matter the effort or loss of sweat his midline refused to cooperate. He hustled back to his bedroom, to the walk-in closet door. He took a pair of baggy jeans from a hanger, pulling them up to three inches below the waistline of his boxers. He sifted through his clothes and found an oversized flannel shirt, sliding one arm in its sleeve and the next.

He wandered to the living room, to the bookshelf in the corner, and pulled it from the wall to reveal a secret, hidden room. He walked inside and exhaled a smile at 202 pairs of shoes. Heʼd spent the past three years collecting Nike sneakers and Timberland boots. Available only on Lower Thirdʼs black-market exchange, he was standing in a room worth way more than heʼd ever admit. He scanned the three walls of shelves and settled on the perfect matching shoe: the 2019 Travis Scott X Air Jordan 1 Retro High OG “Mocha”.

He sat on the bench in the middle of the closet and grabbed a pair of socks from the basket below. He slid both feet into the cotton and both into his shoes, tucking the front legs of his jeans behind the tongue. He hopped up from the bench and out of the closet. The automatic light turned off as he closed the door behind him.

Eli walked to his refrigerator and opened the stainless door to a carton of eggs, thin sliced turkey, and artisan Swiss cheese slices. He pushed past the deli selections to the back to of the cooler and grabbed a can of 'Othello'. from the corner. 'Othello', a drink heʼd discovered two weeks prior and ahead of finals, was a jet-black coffee made with five shots of espresso, ginseng, and cane sugar. It was made and packaged in Lower Third, making it contraband in Grateful. Like his shoes, the cajun heat potato chips, and his crispy peanut butter heʼd paid for the exchange in cash to a sketchy hooded figure in an alleyway. He rinsed a carryout cup from the last nightʼs takeout, filled it with ice, and poured the coffee over the chill.

Eli swung his leather satchel from the couch to his shoulder and down across his torso. He headed to the exit, taking his keys from the coffee table. He walked out the door and checked his “out-of-nest” hours. He had twenty-six left on a Friday night. The number flashed behind him as the door locked automatically. He walked past the elevator and took seven flights of stairs to a doorway into the courtyard. Eli walked through the botanical brilliance, magnolia trees surrounded by explosions of olfactory wonder, letting gravity ground his left side a few inches downward more than his right. His syncopated steps kept steady on the green. Not even the espresso could disrupt the way he traveled, his silk and jagged equilibrium.

He passed three other dorms and the campusʼ main building to the Science Center. The building stood a monument with stone columns that stretched to the sky. Three sets of hand carved, wooden double doors greeted him as he approached. He jogged up seventeen marble stairs and opened the doors at the center. Twelve chandeliers glowed golden from the ceiling and towered over Eli making him only a few centimeters tall. He passed through the foyer trimmed in gold, marble, and oak. He approached a sharp, steel arch at the end of the hall. He gave his campus badge to the security guard as she motioned towards the arch. She scanned the badge, the arch glowered red, and he stepped inside the fixture. A dance of red lasers fell from its top and locked onto Eli.

“Elijah Darius Cunningham. Engineering Major. Senior”, a computerized woman spoke. “Grateful native. Confirmed.”

The arch flashed green three times and Eli continued through the structure. He traveled down the ornate hall and down one flight of stairs, taking a right turn towards the labs at a portrait of the Vanguard. He entered a room through two glass doors on the right and took a seat at an empty at a black-topped table in the back. The room, empty and sterile, held eight such tables in two rows of four, facing north towards the white board. Eli removed his laptop from his bag, logged in, and checked the time. “6:59” the clocked read, as Barbie came rushing in. Sheʼd tossed her hair into a wet bun on top of her head. Eli figured sheʼd nearly overslept. The square glasses he hadnʼt seen before were one of many clues. She didnʼt wear makeup (heʼd not seen that either), her eyes wore fatigue in the form of dark circles of purple hue. She was pale and translucent were sheʼd usually be flushed and beaming. Somehow, she was more beautiful this way.

“They all are”, Eli thought to himself. And seeing her out of Grateful style in a blue t- shirt and black sweatpants, made her more human than sheʼd ever seemed; her name didnʼt help much, sharing one with the plastic beauty icon.

“Hey! Sorry”, Barbie said as she put her giant purse on the black surface, covering half of the table with snakeskin. “Sorry for what?” Eli smirked, “Centuries of progress and women still apologize for nothing.” He sniffed a lopsided grin. “Youʼre not late.”

Barbie glanced over at his laptop, seemingly to check the time. “Cool”, she nodded. She pulled her chemistry book from her bag and placed in on the table. She seemed present but not, like the look she sported; her superpower turned down to an unsuspecting spark. Eli thought to ask her about the lunch with Quinn Sandoval, but more for small talk than wanting to know. He decided against it. If itʼd been his business, he wouldʼve been invited. Eli pulled the lab instructions from an email Dr. Warner had sent. Her instructions were always vague, so he and Barbie slumped in their chairs preparing for a long haul. An hour of slides, slipcovers, and equations crept by and they werenʼt anywhere close to finishing the assignment. Eli reached for his forbidden substance and overshot the reach. The contents spilled on uncovered compounds and Eli dove for his laptop to save it from the liquid. Barbie sprung to her feet to assist.

“Iʼll get paper towels”, she said. “No. Iʼll get them”, Eli said, shaking the coffee from his sleeve. “Donʼt worry about it”, Barbie shook her head and smiled. “Iʼm exhausted. I need the walk.” Eli nodded upward and Barbie headed out of the glass doors towards the bathrooms. Eli put his laptop on the dry side of the table and turned back to see bubbles and sizzling steam erupting on one of the coffee-stained slides. He covered his hand with the tail of his shirt and grabbed the reactive plastic by its corner. The slide labeled “melanin” whirred like a tea kettle close to steam. He put it back on the table and grabbed a blank slide. He dipped it into the coffee and placed the slide beneath the lens. The components of the coffee were spinning in sync. The circular crystals turned counterclockwise; step-in-time to a click of a metronome only they could hear.

“What are you doing?ʼ Barbie asked and Eli jumped back from the lens. He hadnʼt heard her come back in. Eli thought of lying, but Barbie was far from stupid. He knew her well enough to know sheʼd clocked the confused look on his face, but not well enough to know what sheʼd do next.

“I donʼt know what this is”, he told the truth, and Barbie leaned in to look. She stared through the lens for sixty long seconds, leaned back, and leaned into the lens again. “Whereʼd you get this?” she murmured. Eli didnʼt respond; insulted that she thought heʼd answer without knowing her intentions. Barbie appeared to have read his thoughts herself and caught herself.

“It looks like HC-41”, she started. “Itʼs a synthetic hormone that alters a personʼs state of being.” Her voice trailed off as her irises began to swim; pools of sapphire stars covered in a fog of faint memory. Eli leaned toward he, suggesting she continue. Barbie sighed. “My father created it and was ordered to discontinue production before he...” Barbie sat back down in her chair, turning back to the microscope. “He meant well, I think. Trying to help Lower Third people cope.” Eli stiffened his posture, his jawline turned to stone. “Cope?” he asked, his arms folded across his chest. Barbie sighed again, her breath tinted with sorrow and remorse. “HC-41 was meant to increase domestic contentment in Lower Third people; to curb the depression and in-fighting that accompanies not getting Migration.”

Eli grimaced, not being able to say much in response. Heʼd been born and raised in Grateful. His mother told stories of Lower Third, but spoke only of the culture she sometimes missed. Barbie had grown up there, in a house next to the labs. She knew more than he did, but he wasnʼt convinced his blood had forgotten, or that it held no traces of the world to which he belonged. In moments like these, he felt inauthentic, having reduced his origins to style and food. He resented his mother for telling him anything at all, for not letting him just be Grateful. Lower Third was a call he always heard and couldnʼt answer. A question he silenced with bright orange boxes in back alleys.

“What happened that your dad...I mean, did something go wrong?” he asked humbly. Barbie grabbed the paper towel roll and headed towards the mess. “In small doses, it did exactly what heʼd meant. People seemed happier at home and work. But, long term exposure or high doses of the compound had a hallucinogenic effect. It made people forget their lives entirely, to the point of ignoring external threats.” Eli blinked as Barbie continued.

“I remember Quinn Sandoval coming to our house. I remember her yelling about something similar happening before, long ago”, Barbie said softly. “Another chemical that spread through other places like Lower Third.”

Eli leaned away from the coffee spill, listening as she cleaned.

“After she left, my parents were shouting at one another. Last I saw of him, he was heading to his car with a suitcase.”

Eli remembered her fatherʼs death being a national event and felt sorry for Barbie and the spectacle made of her grief. Still, he was curious, and finally asked the question heʼd avoided. “This meeting today?”

Barbie walked to the long side of the table and grabbed a glass capsule with a rubber cap. She coaxed some of the liquid into the tiny jar and sealed it, wiping the rest with another paper towel. “We talked about my future and the possibility of me running the labs. But I donʼt want to spend my life like this”, she motioned to the lifeless, silent room. “I want to do more.”

Eli shrugged at the hypocrisy that wasnʼt wholly hers. “You, and everybody else”, he said. She looked at him in acknowledgment. “Yeah...I get it”, she corrected herself. “I mean...I donʼt...,” her eyes pleading for mercy. “But I get what you mean.” He extended his hand. She stared at it first, then took it. “Iʼm sorry for your loss,” he said, processing what sheʼd said while seeing her pain. “Thanks", she smiled, and took a step closer. He pulled her into a hug and she returned it with two arms around his neck. They pulled back and stared into one anotherʼs eyes. Eli scanned her face, still holding her waist and tilted his head to the side. She really was beautiful. “Eli...,” she whispered. He raised his eyebrows in response. “I like girls”, she said, smiling, and they both dropped the hold. Eli jumped back, “Yeah...nah...I know that”, he said, embarrassed.

“As far as men go, though...if I was...youʼd be....”

He interrupted, ending the awkward exchange. “Yeah”, he laughed. “Cool....ummm...thank you?”

They laughed and moved to opposite ends of the table. They sat in silence for some time. He looked at the clock reading 9:30. “Ummm...maybe we call it? Same time tomorrow?” He closed his laptop, not waiting for an answer.

“Sounds good”, she said, also packing her things. She hustled to the door and turned to Eli who wasnʼt far behind. “Whatever it was you bought, Iʼd get rid of it.”

“Also, I was eight when this happened, so check your expiration dates,” she said. “Not just for the possibility of cross contamination, but do your digestive tract a favor, dude,” Barbie laughed.

Eli grinned and nodded. “Where are you taking that vial?” he questioned as they journeyed towards to foyer.

“I have a kit in my room, and I want to run some tests”, Barbie said. “It was my fatherʼs work,” she shrugged. “Iʼll discard it when Iʼm done.”

Eli left in the same direction after quick and friendly goodbyes. He tried to process what heʼd learned, but only remembered Barbieʼs oceanic eyes, how it felt to hold a woman, and that he hadnʼt in some time. Chanel dumped him the previous summer when she graduated and he didnʼt propose. Heʼd taken her to dinner and ordered dessert and champagne to celebrate. They toasted to her accomplishment, and she exploded when he reached for the tab, making a soliloquy of the evening in front of the entire restaurant. He hadnʼt known thatʼs what she wanted, and even if he had, he would ask her when he was ready to do so; not because itʼs on her to-do list. 

Her vitriolic outburst surprised him. He wasnʼt expecting that from a Grateful girl, primmed for portfolios and Ph.Ds from birth. She was a migration baby on her fatherʼs side. Her mother had been born in Grateful. Chanel had been more “Metro” than Grateful for his taste, but he enjoyed her company well enough. She was smart, chipper, and beautiful; smelling of lilac and walked to the rhythm of sun rays.

He scanned his security badge at his dormitory door, the barrier opened to the staircase and he took seven flights upwards. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth floors, he wondered if heʼd made the right call. He was a year behind her, and not ready, but he couldʼve been if heʼd tried. Their children wouldʼve been smart and well looked after. Chanelʼs occasional theatrics may have evened out with age. He pulled his phone from his pocket as he approached his dorm room door. “Wyd?” he sent her a text as he closed the day behind him. He kicked his shoes off at the door and stared into the phone waiting for a response.

Chapter Two

Eli woke to the sunrise peeking through the trees. He met it face to face, lying horizontally on his stomach with his arms above his head. He could feel his phone vibrating under his pillow. He wiped his eyes, reached for the buzzing, and squinted again at the fifteen unread texts and seven missed calls from Chanel. Sheʼd sent paragraphs; commas, emojis, and exclamation points. He scrolled through the messages to see the last one heʼd sent:

9:48pm

“Maybe you were right. Maybe we shouldʼve. Can you talk now? Come through. Gate code-6138.

Eli raised his hairline and forehead towards the ceiling fan. He sat up in his bed, throwing the covers of his legs, and kept scrolling through the messages from Chanel. Apparently, sheʼd knocked on the door. Apparently, he hadnʼt answered. Heʼd fallen asleep and she was furious. Eli tossed his phone to his comforter and buried his face in his hands. “Man....”, he said aloud. “I was out of it...”, he laughed. The image of Chanel making a fool of herself in the hallway shouldnʼt have been funny, but it was.

“Funny how that happens”, a female voice chimed from the living room, with long, drawn out vowels and cracking, chewed consonants. He jumped to find Karishma Wentworth, Environment Chair, staring at him from the couch. She sat, thin and motionless, with her right knee over her left; her hands resting gently on the cap. She wore an olive green, buttoned pantsuit and a matching, silk camisole. Her jewelry was gold and simple; a single chain around her neck, a tennis bracelet, and a pair of stud earrings. The top half of her whimsical curls had been slicked back into a ponytail at the crown of her head. The rest spiraled down her back and landed at her hip.

Eli hopped up from the bed and dove into a shirt and sweatpants. Her eyes were green and piercing as he approached, his right hand extended. She smiled and stood, returning the formality, and motioned towards the couch. She slid backward making room for Eli to sit, and he did, at the edge of the seat. Heʼd never seen Karishma Wentworth in person. She wasnʼt a public presence like Quinn Sandoval, nor did she hijack televisions like London Clark. Celine dʼArc would speak on campus, even lecturing from time to time. But Karishma Wentworth was mysterious like the wind; a whisper one could hear, feel, and breathe, but not see.

Her beauty was unsettling, to her almost being not. She was white, but not. Black, but not. And something else he couldnʼt quite tell. The blend was not directly hers, but generations back; still speaking in her face.

“It would seem your phone has betrayed you”, she smiled. “Or have you gone a betrayed yourself?”

Eli searched her eyes for motive, finding nothing but the words she spoke; kindly embers meant to ease the tension with no clues to her next thought. He played along, “I betrayed myself, for sure.”

She leaned back into the couch and placed her elbow on its ledge, propping her face on her fist for support. “Can you fix what youʼve done?” she asked, unblinking.

“Yeah...I think so,” he said as if to a friend, disarmed by her casual mannerisms. He corrected himself, “Yes maʼam. I can,” leaning away from the strangeness of the encounter.

“Then youʼve not betrayed yourself,” she said, no longer smiling, but no less friendly.

Eli nodded, still unsure of how to feel. She sighed and reached for her bag, and Eliʼs posture turned to cement. She pulled a picture from a manila envelope and placed it on the couch between them. Eli stared at himself and Barbie walking away from the science center. He looked at the photo and back at the Vanguard chair who seemed to be searching his facial expressions for hints of truth. “Miss Stanfield was apprehended when her dorm room caught fire. Half of the dorm populace has been relocated,” she said. “Thankfully, the only casualty was the building.”

She stopped and looked at Eli who tried his best to remain blank. “Her room was searched, and authorities found traces of a most curious substance, indeed.” She leaned her face back into her fist and tugged at the bottom of her blazer to straighten a fold. “A science student with a substance is not ever a cause for alarm,” she continued, checking her manicure, then looking back to Eli. “...unless that science studentʼs last name is Stanfield, and half a building goes up in flame.”

Eli always thought Barbie to be above reproach; her last name superseding the rule of law, with her family being an extension of the ruling class. Karishma Wentworth raised one eyebrow and cracked as surreptitious smiles, as if sheʼd heard his thoughts aloud. “She was questioned by Grateful detectives and the substance was tested for its contents.” Her emphasis on the “eh” in tested, and the long “ah” sound in contents transported Eli to a land heʼd only heard about. A land below an invisible borderline when Grateful was America; much larger and divided into 50 separate states. Eli nodded and waited for Karishma Wentworth to continue. “Miss Stanfield says she swiped it from her familyʼs lab, and maintains it was the last remaining sample.” Eli sat frozen, knowing she knew everything. Lying wouldnʼt help and telling the truth could lead to worse. He opted for a question instead, “Where is she now?”

Karishma Wentworth cleared her throat, sat up straight, and checked her manicure again. “Her mother came for her”, she said slowly, her eyes branding Eliʼs face with the reality of the situation, and a hint of disappointment as if heʼd let her down personally. “Sheʼs staying at their loft by the Apex, I believe,” she sighed.

“No matter”, she said, turning her head to the side. “Thatʼs not what Iʼm here to discuss.”

Eli leaned in towards the magnetizing demagogue.

“There is...a job I think youʼd be perfect for”, she said, nodding once. “A new construction company is opening below the border, and theyʼve stacked the C-suite with older men; finance people with ideas that jingle and fold”, she said, sighing again. “The board could use a young face; someone with your immense potential,” she paused looking at Eli with the same disappointed eyes as before.

“....as Chief Officer of Operations.”

Eli took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, now sharing her disappointment in himself. If Grateful Metro didnʼt have daily caffeine allotments, he wouldnʼt have purchased the Lower Third find. Cause. Effect.

Karishma Wentworth stood, balancing on six-inch heels, palm-over-fist with her hands at her belt line.

“The company is in Lower Third”, she said, her eyes still piercing his. “...of course, youʼd have to move.” She grabbed her bark colored, leather bag from the floor. “I spoke with the CEO this morning and theyʼre elated to receive you”, she said, with no emotion in her voice; her facial expression now reflecting the same.

“So much so”, she spoke, “that theyʼve requested you start this afternoon.”

Eli felt tears forming behind his eyes as he sat in silent shock. Karishma Wentworth turned back to face him. “Theyʼve provided a company car”, she said, pulling a set of keys from her bag and setting them on the table in front of Eli. “...and a house near the forest, as best as Lower Third houses go.”

Eli grabbed the keys from the table and stared at them in his hands. Karishma Wentworth extended her right hand to Eli, lips pursed, eyes sarcastic; a chiding he seen on his motherʼs face.

“Congratulations”, she said as he stood and took her hand. His body warmed and ears burned as his tears made their way to the front without release.

“Thank you for thinking of me...”, he said. “....for the position.”

Karishma Wentworth nodded, turned, and headed out of the door. Eli closed the door behind her and rushed back to his phone. He wondered if heʼd missed the dorm fire news in the torrent of Chanelʼs notifications. He saw no alerts and opened his web browser app. He typed “dorm + fire” in the search bar and this morningʼs headline appeared at the top of the screen.

“Stanfield Labs donates 1.7 million dollars to GU dormitory renovation project.”

He scrolled down to read that the students had been given an option to either return home to their families or be housed in “dʼArc Tower”, a newly finished apartment building that would be available to lease in the coming weeks. A new notification appeared on his phone. He tapped it to reveal an email from Karishma Wentworthʼs office with his new employee I.D number, home address, and directions to company headquarters. He put his phone and wallet in the side pocket of his sweatpants and grabbed his new keys from the coffee table. “G-27”, a tag clipped onto the key ring read as he hurried out of the door and into the direction of the parking garage.

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

The garage was dark and smelled of smoke; the cement had heard the gossip of the blaze from across the way. Eli walked the structure alone and read the space markings aloud, “G-25, G-26, G-....”. Eli stopped where he stood and stared at the 2122 GMC, four door Hummer EV. He pressed the unlock button on the fob to be sure his sight was true. The pickupʼs headlights flashed twice before him. He crept slowly to the truck. He walked to the tailgate and removed the cover, revealing stacks of orange shoe boxes. He recovered the shoes and walked to the left, back window. More orange boxes had been stuffed between the cabins and placed, one on top of the other, on the cloth covered seats. His clothes had been vacuum shrunk and flattened to fit into two large plastic containers. Eli looked back towards the dorm and saw no reason to return. He climbed into the front seat and tuned the GPS to the border.

Chapter Three

Eli drove through Lower Third in silence, parallel and keeping time with the train rolling by, carrying homesick Migration recipients on their annual pilgrimage. They had nothing in common but a heading, a truth Eli internalized with every creeping mile. The train was going back to Grateful Metro. His GMC pickup was not. The outstretched road lured him into meditation; a thoughtless series of breaths that filled each moment of silence and the next. The past had come and gone; Barbie, the fire, and Karishma Wentworth. The future hadnʼt happened, making it a figment of his imagination. The house near the woods and high-paying job would only be if he accepted them. With ash behind him and vapors ahead, all that was real was his truck, his shoes, the road beneath them, and his breath. Eli settled into the now and let it carry him into next.

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

Eli stared at the piles of paperwork on his desk and rubbed his brow in stress. The company was building an apartment complex and the project was mired in controversy. Heʼd received complaints from the zoning board and residents of neighboring houses. He tried his best to respond to them all with kind but directed indifference. The project would continue, and effected parties knew it. They were writing in frustration, knowing their protests wouldnʼt change anything. He leaned back in his chair, placing his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes to steal of moment of calm. A commotion in the hall broke through the silence. “Stop her!” a male voice bellowed, followed by a series of thuds and shouts. Eliʼs office door flew open, and a woman appeared in the doorway, wearing cowboy boots, ripped jeans, and a neat, white t-shirt. Her skin was toffee and heath, and her coils reached to the ceiling, falling back down at her shoulders in buoyant spirals.

Her almond shaped eyes danced brown and bright. Her lips were full and seething with anger. Two men came flying from the hall and grabber each of her arms. She protested and fought against their might and Eli stood from his desk. “Hold on fellas”, he said. “Can I help you maʼam?”

She glared at Eli and spoke. “I emailed you weeks ago about that smell,” her tone raising towards the end of the sentence. He nodded to the two men who released her arms as Eli walked forward. “My apologies maʼam, if Iʼve not yet responded”, he said. “I have a few moments if youʼd like, to hear your complaint.”

She rolled her eyes and stepped forward. “Iʼll take it from here”, Eli said to the henchmen. He closed the door behind her and motioned to the chair in front of his desks. “Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Water? Coffee? Tea?” She shook her head and Eli reclaimed his seat. He clasped his hands together and placed them on top of the wooden desk. He leaned forward in his chair, “What can I do for you?”

“Thereʼs a smell...”, she said. “...since construction started. I live down the street, and thereʼs a smell.” Four years of projects and this was a first. Usually, people griped about the noise or bustling populace.

“What kind of smell?” he asked. “Can you describe it?” The woman slid back in her chair and placed her forearms on the rests.

“I sent you an email”, she said, as a matter of fact; less forceful than before. He nodded and stared into the womanʼs eyes, taken by their depth. She blushed at the exploration, and quickly gathered herself in response. “Itʼs all in the email”, she said, adjusting her curls; her movements swift and fluid. Eli tore himself from her face and its draw.

“Okay. Letʼs find it”, he said. “Name?”

“Zora”, she said. “Zora White.” He typed her name into his database with no results. “I donʼt have an email from a Zora White,” he said, still staring at the screen. “I sent it weeks ago”, she fussed, pulling her phone from a black satchel sheʼd placed on the floor. She scrolled through what Eli figured were sent messages, squinted her eyes, and the color left her face. “I...,” she began with remorse in her eyes. “I never sent it...itʼs still in my drafts.” Her eyes turned to pools of softened guilt that pierced Eliʼs soul.

“No worries”, he said. “You can tell me now. Iʼm all ears.” Zora dropped her phone her purse and threw the strap over her shoulders. “Iʼm so sorry. Iʼve embarrassed myself,” she stood and turned towards the door, apologizing again. Eli stood. “Ms. White...,” he said, enamored at her figure as her posture slumped beneath her curls. She turned back to face him. “...I take lunch around this time”, he said. “Iʼd like to hear about the smell if youʼd be so kind.” “Please join me.” She blushed again, “Zora, please...and I donʼt want to impose.” “The imposition is mine, Ms. White, “he said smiling. She returned his grin and nodded.

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

Eli parked his truck at the entrance to the park. He checked his teeth in the rear-view mirror and adjusted the cuffs on his sleeves. He stepped out of the car in his perfect, white sneakers, straight jeans, and a white buttoned-down top. He walked down a graveled land parted by maple trees that let out at varied freesia. A perfect circle of blossoming color and earth, and there she was.

Zora stood amongst the flowers in a dress that swept the ground; two thin, grey straps flowing into a cinched waistline, and curving down with her own. If heʼd known his love of a lifetime lived here, below the chandeliers and science labs, heʼd have packed up a long time ago, changed his name, and made a break for the border. He laughed to himself, his new understanding of everything heʼd heard about love. Heʼd seen beauty before, and she was smart, a familiar combination. If that was love, an attraction to traits, he could have fallen for Barbie (her own preferences notwithstanding), Karishma Wentworth for all it mattered, or any other woman in Grateful Metro.

But Zora had something he couldnʼt describe, like the foam the sails the waves. Her mystique not being the force itself, but the enchantment its power creates. She turned to him and flashed a smile that made him stop where he stood. She walked the rest of the way, and they stood in silence and stared. “We look stupid,” Zora finally said, and broke the quiet with laughter. Eli smiled and looked over his shoulders, “Nobodyʼs here, so we donʼt look like anything, he said.

“But beautiful”, he said. “You look beautiful.”

She smiled and took a seat in the grass, and Eli, right beside her. They stared at the clouds and planned their future under the sky. The sunset crept over the hills beyond. The time had come. Eli reached into his pocket and retrieved a small, velvet box. Zora squealed at the sight and jumped to her feet. Eli assumed the proper position with one knee pressed into the ground.

Zora jumped twice with her hands covering their face. “Is that a, yes?” Eli asked and Zora burst into tears. “Yes!” she shouted, waking the trees as Eli grabbed her left hand. He slid the diamond ring onto her finger, and she threw herself into his arms. They shared in glee for a moment and walked through the grass, back towards to lot. Zora took two steps back in a panic to find the exit disappeared.

“Eli!” she yelled breathlessly, and he extended his hand. “Do you trust me?” he said, eyes yearning.

She nodded and took his hand, and he led her towards the trees. He pushed the shrubbery to clear the path, and a blinding, white light flooded in.

The door opened and Eli stepped into the room, stark white from wall to wall. He climbed seven steel stairs to the viewing loft, joining Barbie, Karishma, and Quinn.

“She said yes”, Barbie snickered. “They always say yes.”

Karishma Wentworth shook her head. The three of them stared down at Zora strapped to a chair with an I.V. of blue liquid flowing into her veins.

“Subject 402”, Karishma Wentworth said. “Not fit for Migration.” Quinn Sandoval nodded, “Wipe her memory. Send her back.” “Such a shame. I really thought sheʼd be different. The gala should have been enough to fix her.” She walked down the stairs and out the door. Eli nodded at Barbie who pressed a button that stopped the fluid. They stared down at Zora one last time before theyʼd return her to Lower Third.

“Simulation terminated”, Barbie said, as she and Karishma headed for the exit. Eli stared at Zora from his lofted perch. “She really is beautiful,” he thought to himself. “Exquisite.”

Zoan opened her eyes and winked at Eli. He winked back and headed down the steps to the exit.