Chapter Twenty-Two: Edgy

"Here is something new I wrote, something edgy," said the reader of the week, Thomas Morlitary. Todd felt his stomach tense. Edgy, here at the Lit Snob. There were sure to be complaints come tomorrow.

The cherub shown in the icy rain. Wet drops ran down his wings, his child’s face, across his blank eyes. He seemed to cry, falling into the pool of blood at his feet.

The wipers thwap-thwapped on there 180 trip across the windshield. Carl switched them to high and jammed at the stuck defroster button, cursing. On call late nights; this was definitely not working for him. His sheets, tossed aside as he reached for the pager, remained on the floor. The black shirt was wrinkled. Who had the energy to call in something at two a.m?

The yard of the Victorian was black. The crows lay in the muddied earth. There were no marks, but it was obvious they were dead. Did you bring a dead crow, dozens of dead crows to a coroner or a vet? Carl rubbed rain water from his forehead, gave his eyes the luxury of a brief moment shut, wished for the millionth time his life was something else.

Dating the D.A. was definitely not a good idea. It had been spring and he was sick on love, or of love, or something. Figured, if nothing else, the D.A. would be good in bed. Didn’t count on these moments of awkwardness the would follow. Nighttime in the car to the thwap-thwap of the wipers from the scene of the crime.

Bagged a bird, found a body. Asian. Male. Five ten. One hundred and seventy three pounds. John Doe, the toe tag said. We are all equal in death. The coroner said it looked to be a poisoning. He’d know more in the morning. The birds: no explanation. “I think we all need some sleep,” he said.

Carl didn’t call the D.A., and the D.A. didn’t expect him to. It had been a summer fling. Carl having figured he’d do his boss because he wasn’t supposed to. And now, a cell phone in the car. The ring-ring of the phone. The wiper thwap-thwapped. The D.A.’s voice was husky with sleep; just the way he remembered. Later, sleep would be a long time coming.

“Cyanide,” the coroner said. “Severe cyanide poisoning may be characterized by gasping for breath and loss of consciousness. After loss of consciousness, breathing may be weak or absent. Cardiac arrest and death may result ,” the coroner said, methodically of a man who was once someone’s son. Still was, in a way. Dead man, dead birds. Diagnosis: cyanide.

Friday night, so he went to a bar. Pick up somebody. Anybody who wasn’t the D.A. Didn’t remind him of the D.A. Had nothing to do with crime prevention. There was a not quite boy with dark, spiky hair in the back corner. Carl turned away.

In John Doe’s room: fifteen bird cages, a bottle of cyanide. No evidence. They wanted to rule it a suicide. How does a suicide get from his bedroom to his backyard?

That summer, the D.A. had held his hand at the beach. Carl feeling relatively post-modern, like this was going to change the world, his relationship with this other man. But the Atlantic washed up jellyfish. It should have been an omen.

The case was to go unsolved because there were no good leads. Ritual murder? Insane suicide? It was anyone’s guess. Carl couldn’t help but feel the loser.

It seemed a good time to become nihilistic. Evil could be touched. Seen at midnight on the autopsy table. People went out and murdered, plundered, and raped. Genocide was once a near reality. The world is always ending. Ebola and AIDS were sweeping the globe. The Americans threatened war. China was stuck in the middle. Evil could be viewed incarnate. A college held an exhibit of Hitler’s art. Hope and joy were an illusion. Webster could never really define love, and that was a sign that optimism was for the delusional.

Chapter Twenty-One: Quincy's Log Cabin

***

Quincy Renard was part English, part French. He hated one of his halves, and loved the other. He just couldn't decide which was which. For as long as he could remember, Quincy loved to build things - loved arts and crafts. Each day during school, Quincy sat in panicked-anticipation for art class, in which he would put all sorts of markers and paints to use in order to create his "masterpieces." However, after he submitted one of his projects for a contest, Quincy had to leave school. They all said he was "sick," but he didn't feel any different - certianly not as bad as he felt when he had the flu that one time. Quincy lived most of his life in Canada, a place he considered "quiet, nice, and pathetic." He didn't like Mr. Robertson from down the street because he "smelled like blood and urine." He didn't like Mrs. Parson from the next block over because she "had a fucked-up nose." Eventually, Quincy decided to move away from Canada, from his family and friends (Quincy didn't actually have family and friends). Quincy ultimately decided on upstate New York - a small, rural town where the people couldn't bother him with their smells and looks. However, there weren't any houses to be purchased in the area, only land. So Quincy purchased himself some land. It was a quiet piece of meadow near the woods. It was perfect. Once he had purchased himself some land, Quincy got to work on building his house. He had always wanted a cabin before and so this is what he opted for. Quincy was so happy that everyone in the area was so nice in helping him build his cabin. Mr. Morris lent a hand, and Mrs. Anderson chipped in, and Mr. and Mrs. Johnson gave it their all. After three long months, Quincy's cabin was finished. He moved in on a beautiful Saturday morning, and got himself right at home. He loved his cabin - it was so full of life. Everywhere he looked, the parts were there - smelling like blood and urine. Mr. Morris' arms and legs made up the front door jam. Mrs. Anderson's torso was part of his mantle. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson made a great addition to the bedroom set. As Quincy reclined in his armchair, made entirely out of his father, he smiled and inhaled deeply on his pipe, made from his little brother's penis. He realized that upstate New York wasn't at all different from Canada. It was home. Home sweet home.

***

Chapter Twenty: The Lit Snub

"Today we have a very special guest for you all," Todd said as eight-year-old Daniel Garabedian strode to the front of the room. "With permission from his mother, Daniel is going to read today's story, which he wrote himself."

"Thank you, Todd," Daniel said politely. "My story is called The Ex-Kangaroo."

...

Okay, so one time, there was a kangaroo in Australia. That's where kangaroos live. So he was living in the Outback with his family. But when he grew up, he didn't want to live in Australia anymore. And he didn't want to be a kangaroo.

Okay, so he went to Africa and tried to be a hippopotamus, but they didn't like him being a hippopotamus. He went to the watering hole and joined the other hippos in the water. But the other hippos said they were there first, and he didn't belong there with them. Even though the hippos had pushed out the zebras from the same watering hole no too long ago.

They wanted to build a wall made of mud and sticks to keep the ex-kangaroo out, but the other animals said that wasn't nice. The lion, king of Africa, also wanted to keep the ex-kangaroo out. He felt threatened by the ex-kangaroo. He thought the other animals might think his hopping was cooler than the lion's roar and mane.

There was a big fight between all the animals over whether the ex-kangaroo should be allowed to live with the hippos.

"He wants to become a hippo," some said. "He wants to join them, not take away the watering hole all for himself."

While others said, "No, soon more ex-kangaroos will come, and they will take over the Serengeti. We have to protect what's our. Build the wall!"

The ex-kangaroo was sad, but he didn't want to go home. There was nothing to eat in the Outback. Africa had so much more food. He knew he could make friends, he just had to show them he could be trusted.

He tried bringing the hippos food, taking no food for himself. The hippos just ate it all and ignored him. He tried helping the hippos, doing all the tough work, while they just watched, but they never said thank you.

Finally, he gave up.

"What do you want from me? I just want to live here and be happy."

"Find your own watering hole!" the hippos said.

So the ex-kangaroo left the watering hole and ventured out to find another place to live. Eventually he found a watering hole on the other side of the big hill with other animals, some ex-kangaroos, an ex-dingo, an ex-panda, even a few former parrots.

This watering hole was in a darker, more dangerous part of the serengeti. There were hyenas all around, waiting to catch an animal who let his guard down. There was less water, and it was murkier.

The ex-kangaroo was happy he found a home. These animals welcomed him, the the ex-kangaroos, ex-dingos, ex-pandas and former parrots often fought amongst themselves.

He wondered a lot if he would ever get to live with the hippos in that nice watering hole on the other side of the big hill.

Chapter Nineteen: Teen

Todd has wishes. One wish was to have a wonderful reader to wow the Lit Snob crowd every week. This week, Todd feared, his wishes would not be granted.

"Tonight," Todd announced, "we have a new talent with us. Lily Markland has come to read her piece recently published in the high school literature journal Euterpe. Please give a warm welcome to Lily." Todd breathed in heavily and waited for her to begin.

__

and in the night, the white broken lines of the road whiz past them in a continuous way. the interior of the car is illuminated in indigo dashboard light and the occasional lamp that flickers by on the never ending trip.

the first night:
on the way west they stop at the first of near a million highway gas stations. she elects to leave the dark microcosm of their ’93 toyota in favor of a relieved bladder. the white lights of the mobile are blinding. her pupils dilate, retract to pinpoints in record timing. it is a little past twelve am and there is an old woman at the register. the restroom is just clean enough, white tile, and white stalls. she cranks a tampon from the old paint chipping metal machine. when she doesn’t buy anything the old woman at the counter is not surprised. customers electing to eat their own week old granola bars and other road trip finery.

back in the car the ac is purring with a sub-artic feel. she curls up in the back seat.

the second night:
there was a giant elephant with pink room insides in a small new jersey town. roadside attractions were back in style with the revival of the notion of america. yesterday npr had done a segment about people who live in caravans. nomads, going as the dark highways took them, never settling down to lead the ‘normal’ life.

she imagined that they were nomads in the black toyota, changing the face of america as they passed graceland and national parks with a ‘whoosh!’.


the third day:
food for the day had consisted of two chocolate covered boxed doughnuts, and she was starting to feel a little ill. dany in the drivers seat had elected for a massive all day drive without the comforts of food or facilities. the shoulder made a good toilet, unaffected by the more natural side of things. a modern day hippy without the political convictions of the day.

sean had been complaining the day away for lack of soda cans and green beans. tossing black rooted gold strands from his eyes and commenting again on the need for pepsi in a civilized america.

now, sean sat in the back seat, carefully stroking her hair as her head rested on his chest, occasionally ducking to brush his lips up against the mocha strands.

the fourth day:
despite her lack of feeling regarding what she personally called ‘the elvis matter’ they had toured graceland. it was a southern style mansion with the tacky press denoted ‘jungle room’, large living rooms, and bedrooms. elvis always had peanut butter in his fridge, the guide had informed them. and ice cream. a dressed up home to impress upon ma and pa the fact that you really have made it. there had been little mention of elvis being anything other than dead. ufo’s and extra-terrestrials
were left out of it, and for that she was glad.

the fourth night:
she craves a shower the way pregnant woman need chocolate, and insistes that since dany had gotten his way about the dearly departed elvis, she would have her way about the best western.

water felt like something divine. sean pontificated on the quality of pepsi versus coke, until she pointed out that over 90% of the ingredients were the same and that his desire for the former of the two was tied into advertising and britney spears, at which time sean fell silent.

dany and sean argued over who got the second bed. despite his high spirits during there long drive, dany desired a good bed as much as any of them, but sean won out in the end with some argument where he quoted milton and the bible in the same sentence whist invoking satan be there need. dany consented to the brilliance of such a run on and thus a night of exile from all things comfortable.

Chapter Eighteen: History's Greatest Monster

***

Bill's a fuckin' drunk bum. It wasn't always like that, though.

-Stop! This isn't about some wife, kids, picket-fence bullplop. This is Bill. And before that fateful day in 1987, Bill was the smartest man on the planet. Pulitzer? Nope, smarter than that. Nobel? Nope, wrong again, dummy. Bill soared above them all. He was Hawking without the fancy chair and spousal abuse. But even with all of his superfly ESP, he couldn't see this one coming. It was C-SPAN. Larry King, or whoever came before Larry King. Was there anybody there before Larry King? Stop! That's not important. So Bill's on the Larry King thing, and he's supposed to be talking about health care, or the space program, or fashion, or some shit. But all of a sudden, he blurts it out. That's right - it.

"Jimmy Carter is a robot."

Larry King actually laughs at him. It's this low laugh - it sounds like television static mixed with a girraffe going through a wood-chipper. But Bill doesn't think it's funny. He serious - dead serious. He strangles Larry King before the test pattern goes into panic mode and everybody's thinking technical difficulties. But Bill's the only difficulty. Now C-Span needs a new host.

Bill lost everything after the Carter incident - his Carter incident. But, Oh, Larry King came back, the very next day. And Jimmy Carter won't be alive by 2014, his batteries don't have that much charge.

Fuck. This story's not that great, is it? Too bad.

***

Chapter Seventeen: On a Plain

Edwin Peters entered the Lit Snob reading room and sat down in front of everyone.

"Mr. Peters will be reading from his latest book," Todd said. "A tale of a troubled man who is struggling to find something in his life, but doesn't know what yet. Mr. Peters, whenever you're ready."

...

He was flying to San Francisco.

He hated planes. He never liked flying for his business' conferences. But he was happy to be where he was. Well, maybe happy. Definitely nervous - apprehensive.

He didn't bring much. One small suitcase with some clothes, deoderant, and his three-bladed razor. For the first time ever, he didn't have anything to check. He didn't even bring his laptop with him.

He checked his cell phone for the time, then checked again for messages. None. It was as if he quit his job, left his family and bolted for tahiti to start over. But he was just flying to San Francisco. He'd been there before a hundred times. For business.

He curses himself for now knowing who else was in that city during all one hundred of those visits. His son. His only son was now waiting for him at the airport in San Francisco. He'd been married before but divorced. He never knew his first wife was pregnant. She'd never told him. Then he gets an email from someone named Daniel Peters - the name of his brother, who died years ago.

Confused, he opened hit to find the message of a man desperately trying to find his father, taking one last long shot after finding the right name on internet.

After a few exchanged emails. A plane was flying to San Francisco carrying the father of Daniel Peters. It was definitely his son. He never had children with his second wife, they never wanted any. But now he's a father.

His life had hit a plateau. He had set himself up so that he couldn't fall from where he was, but had no way of climbing any higher. He was happy, but could've been happier. He was on a plain with no ups or downs in sight.

Until that email.

Now he's leaving that plain, as he enters the airport in San Francisco. He looks around anxiously, and sees a man in his late 20s who looks just like him. In one of Daniel Peters' arms is his wife, or girlfriend, he wasn't sure.

In the other arm was a boy about six or seven, who looks just like him.

Chapter Sixteen: Old Fashion Story Time

Todd was befuddled.

"You're going to read a children's story?" he asked.

"Yes," answered this week's reader, Traci. She thought that Todd's befuddlement was charming. She also thought his over annunciation of the previous question was kind of cute. She wondered what Todd was doing after the reading and decided not to ask. Her lack of asking was directly proportional to the lack of sex she was having. That and the fact that she was a children's writer -- all the men she met, who were often also charming, were also married.

"Okay," said Todd.

Traci smiled.

"Well, here is the moment of truth."

______

It’s past my bedtime, but I’m still up. It’s Saturday, and Saturdays I get to look at the stars with Dad.

After Dad puts the last dish away, he looks over to me and says, “Let’s get ready, Nova,” and we hurry upstairs to get our coats. I pull my hat with funny flaps over my ears, because Dad says it’s going to be cold. Dad pulls on sweaters and buttons my coat, because I can’t with my mittens on.

“You get the magazine and I’ll get the scope,” he says, so I hurry to find this month’s star chart.

Dad and I always set up on the flat roof over the porch even though Mom always says to Dad that I am going to fall off.

“If she can identify the stars, she can recognize the end to a roof,” Dad replies.

Mom shakes her head, but she also smiles and kisses Dad on the cheek, saying, “Take care of our Little Star,”

It’s cold and breezy on the roof because it is so exposed. Dad sets up the telescope, and I flip through the star charts and magazine clippings we collect about space.

“Orion is high in the sky tonight,” Dad says. He points to a row of three stars, “See, Little Star, that’s Orion’s belt, and see further up, his arms and bow.”

I squint up at Orion, and then look higher.

“Is that square one with the tail the Big Dipper?” I ask.

“Sure is, and look over there,” Dad points, “the Little Dipper.”

I look over and smile. The Little Dipper is one of my favorites because it is
small like me. All the rest of the stars are in giant shapes that remind me too much of grown ups.

I look down at my magazine clippings to see if there is anything special happening this month. Dad looks over my shoulder.

“Hey, Nova, it says here that a star in Cassiopeia is going to go super nova.”

I smile, “Like me.”

“Nova, like you. It says it should go in several thousand years! Well that’s a long time. That light from the star will take a long time to come here.”

“Because space is really big.” I am proud to know the answer.

“Really, really big, Little Nova Star. Do you know how big space is?”

I scrunch up my head because I am thinking so hard. “Bigger than Earth and the moon, even the solar system?”

“Much, much bigger,” Dad says. “Space is so big that it contains lots and lots of systems with planets and stars.”

I look up, amazed.

“Dad, are there people on those planets looking up at us?”

“I don’t know, Little Star, but space is big. If it were just us that would be a whole lot of space no one was using. Maybe, someday, you’ll see space.”

I look up at the sky and think, “Someday we’re going to travel to Orion,” I say.

“Someday, Star. It’s good to dream.”

Dad and I dream of a giant spaceship with me at the wheel heading out into space. I dream of nebulae and of baby stars and colors in all directions. Dad looks up at the sky, but he says that he dreams of Mom. I think of Mom in a dress of stars with a giant moon crown. If Dad and I ruled the sky, no one would ever cry again, and my best friend, Sal, would have the puppy he’s always wanted.

“Dad, if I ruled the sky, Mom would have a dress of stars, and nobody would ever cry again,” I say.

Dad laughs and says, “Such an unselfish wish.”

I see a light over the tall pine where I like to pretend I’m an insect with Sal. A star shoots across space.

“Hey, look at that one.”

Dad looks up.

“Your first shooting star, Nova,” he says. “Let’s go tell your mother.”

Chapter Fifteen: Alaska John Plays Poker

***

It was surprisingly warm that Tuesday - or was it a Monday? Looking back, I can't really be sure. You know, the longer you're by yourself, the quicker the days - and the idea of 'days' - just vanish. But I'm pretty sure it was a Tuesday. I mean, it had that 'thank God it's not Monday anymore' feeling to it.

Anyhow, here I was, sitting outside of my cabin on a stump that I had recently turned into a lawn chair. I mean, it's no Lazy-Boy, but it was pretty damn comfortable once I got my ass-groove imprinted in the wood. So I'm sitting there, my makeshift log table in front of me, waiting for Rufus.

Now, now, don't get excited, when I said that I lived alone, I meant it. Don't worry, Rufus isn't a human. He's a large-tailed beaver that lived down the path from me. I had been to his dam a couple of times, but it's a little moist for my taste. So I had told Rufus to come over to my place from now on for our weekly poker game. God, I love poker, and so of course I brought my favorite deck of Bicycle cards with me on my trip. But let me get back to Rufus. He finally shows up - an hour late, mind you - wanders over to the log across from me, slumps down, and lets out a sigh.

"Goddamn it's hot today, John," he says. I nod in agreement, my look emphasizing my impatience at his tardiness. He grunts at me and shrugs it off. Rufus is always late. It's like his thing. Like how some people's thing is eating chocolate, or sleeping around - well, for Rufus, it was being late. I guess he just lived by his own pace. And suddenly, he just wanted to get started.

"Well, you going to deal, or am I just going to rot out here?" he asks with a bit of a temper.

"Listen, cut that shit out if you want to play. It's not my fault that it's so damn hot out. Let's just have some fun in the sun, OK?" he nods, trying his best to get in the mood.

I deal out - Hold'Em of course - and I've got 2/7 off-suit. Now, I'm not a frickin' moron. You fold with 2/7 off-suit. But Rufus and I don't fold - there's only two of us, after all, and we've got to do some betting. I throw in a few pine-combs. He grunts and calls. I throw down the flop - we've got 2 / J / 5. Things are a little better, I suppose. His bet - he raises. I call. Fourth street is a seven. Now we're talking, I'm thinking. More bets, then fifth street comes down a Jack. I think I've got him - come on, now I'm showing two pair of J's and 7's. That's not too bad, is it?

Let me tell you: they should have named that beaver Ruthless. He raises and calls, then shows two more J's. Damn - he wins again!

I slide my pine-combs across the log table, and his laughs his shitty little beaver laugh.

"Well, I'll be damned," I sigh with exasperation. Rufus stares at me with a smile on his face - his two huge teeth gleaming in the sun.

"Hey, I thought you said that it was too moist in there for you!" I look over at him and shake my head, cursing his whole damn beaver family.

Then we both share a shitty little beaver laugh together. And we're still friends.

***

Chapter Fourteen: What to Do?

This week's reader was a new writer who simply wanted someone to hear his words. He shyly walked to the front of the room while Todd introduced him. He sat and began reading with little in terms of his own introduction to the story.

...

Why bother? It's only going to crumble. They hate each other. That happy life you were going to build for yourself because your parents failed to build it for you is getting cut down at the knees. Your mother and girlfriend don't see eye to eye. They don't hear ear to ear either.

You've been with her forever. Well, both of them. They're so like you. They're your support system. They're so like each other. Maybe that's why it's so hard to get them in the same room. But what about you? How are you supposed to live a segmented life?

He's just another kid who's not yet a man. He thinks everyone wants him to be, but nobody does yet. He tries so hard it makes it worse sometimes. Everything has to be perfect, or everything will be trashed. So much in the balance and his arms are getting tired.

Not even 21 and he's trying to be 41. I guess that's what happens when the man who should have been 41 never was. Now there are two women in his world. Neither one he can tame. Neither one he thinks he is satisfying.

How does he fix it? There must be some way to put that perfect life back together before he runs out of duct tape and band aids. And as he asks his mother if his girlfriend can come over for Christmas, pulling that last strand of duct tape off the roll, he hears, "Of course she can."

Family is family, still, he realizes. No need for duct tape and band aids. Just some love and understanding. Even from him.

...

The audience applauds as he self-consciously gives the floor back to Todd.

"Next week's reader comes to us from Alaska, where he has been living for over a year and a half, writing his most recent book in almost complete solitude," Todd said. "I hope to see all of you next week."

Chapter Thirteen: Inside the Small Blue Book

Because.

She drives south. There is an alternation between speed and sloth. She drives fast to hear the white hum of rubber on tar, to watch the dots of the lines fade into blends. She drives slowly out of fear. At all speeds, she drives to forget and does not.

The imagined includes cliffs, a California highway landscape. Imagined too are friends that had to be left, time that had to pass, pass, pass. A semi goes by, all American and pushing air. The path of the Volvo bows in time, in space. Always a push but never enough.

Her mind bends with thoughts of California – the early days before Bray. Simple days with her and Aiden laughing at mortality. Beatific with youth and sun, with beach-scapes far stretching into rounded mountains. Oh, the west! They were adventurers, the offspring of those heroic, hard men and women of the earth traipsing towards that other ocean. Pack up baby in a cloth covered wagon and make way for home, if you dare. She drives south, pretends its west, but from here where else can you go but down?

The birth was nothing of beauty. She did not love her son at first sight but instead in the moments afterwards – a week later, tired and hungry and Bray was too. Looking down with power and a momentary realization: this is my flesh and blood. People always say it, trite and without meaning, but that night she was feeling it.


The Night.

The night it was all flesh and blood and sirens baying at the moon. The night that it was all shoulda’ coulda’ woulda’. The moment was clear. She told the therapist later, “All I could think of was Ordinary People.”


Aiden.

They met over the library’s singular, dog-eared Vintage Lolita.
“Have coffee with me.” He took the book from her hand. He frightened her at a time of her life when she wanted to be frightened, so she said, “Yes.”


Breakdown.

The tire is thump-thumping around the rim. She pulls off and is jarred intensely by the rumble strip – coarse concrete under her feet. That’s what it feels like anyway. All movement stops, which jars her more after hours of perpetual motion behind the wheel. Her legs unfold like a crickets. She feels wobbly on little feet. Irony is this: before leaving home she put on her best heals.


Children’s Hour.

Bray had been bad at baseball, and, with a child’s innocent nonchalantness, not cared a bit. He shamed her. He would, one, two, three strikes your out with a goofy grin. He’d run off the field waving at her, shouting, “Hi, Mom.” She had never in her youth imagined being someone’s mother. The act of mothering, of motherhood, was not something she qualified for with her impatience, impractical bags, and uncompromising need for her own space.

It was impossible to not love Bray. Hours were spent reading The Very Hungary Caterpillar over and over, Saturday afternoon was devoted to cupcake making for his first grade class in honor of the seventh birthday of her very own Bray Norton. All the acts that youth had scorned motherhood adored. A being that was nothing and now everything. She saw bits of her husband in Bray and in him felt that she was seeing a glimpse into Aiden’ formative years.


Tapes.

The car is filled with Bray’s old tapes: Raffi in Concert, Shari Lewis’ Bible Tales – a plethora of memories. But Bray never really did like the Raffi tape, always choosing instead to listen to the Pointer Sister’s song “Jump” and bounce along in his booster seat.


Mobius Strip.

Love and pity intertwined – a massive inside-outside Mobius strip. Fourth period art’s Brice with his Rumpelstiltskin straw into gold hair, Roman nose, and serious teen angst. She appreciated, as he pushed her into books of Michelangelo and the classics that this was not sympathy. There was no endless talking, no sound at all but the that of the zipper teeth releasing their intertwined grasp.

His eyes were nothing like Bray’s. Or Aiden’s.


Tea Time.

She’d have tea with breakfast, always black with honey, not sugar, and cream, not milk. She’d lean in too close over the cup, pouring in the hot water, clumping her mascara together with steam. The black coat would meld together in a kind of alien conjoining of eyelashes and paint, giving her something to feel.


Baby Shoes.

After the accident, the P.C. term that she has coined it, she’d found Bray’s baby shoes. She removed them from the shelf, hiding them safely in the back of her sock drawer. And did not think of the irony that she had hidden condoms there as a young woman.

Chapter Twelve: Biggest

Ms. Henderson had been published before, but she was still an extremely shy individual. She had never given a public reading before, and even though she was initially excited when Todd announced her as the next Lit Snob guest, that intense elation soon turned to anxiety. Now, sitting on the stool where she had seen so many go to their up-turned-nose fate before, sitting above the floor which she cleaned every night - and would undoubtedly clean this night - she heard the rumblings in her stomach echoing the snaps of the snooty crowd that had gathered for the weekly reading. She felt as though she could see it in their eyes - they were skeptical, of course, but this was something more. It seemed to Ms. Henderson that the patrons viewed her as something lower.

She was, of course, a janitor for a literary club and café. What they didn't know was that she had graduated from high school and went on to receive a BA in Classics with a minor in English. But after graduating - with honors mind you - things just didn't go as planned. The money wasn't there - and neither were her parents - and so she had found the janitorial job as something to tide her over. Her work had been recently published - that was a start - and she felt that maybe she would soon be able to begin a writing career. And this reading was just another step. She kept reminding herself of that as she leaned in to the microphone.

"Hi, everyone. This evening, I'd like to read a haiku that I've recently written - it hasn't been published yet, so this is kinda like a premiere." With that said, Ms. Henderson - Allison - removed a small paper from her left-jacket pocket and began to read.

***

Long, gray, winter hair
Slither and slop about, and
Make the floor pristine

***

There was, as she expected, silence. She had confirmed their disdain for her.

The stupid little janitor - what the hell is she doing reading in our club? She should be cleaning up after us and looking silently pretty.

But they were in the dark yet again. They didn't know what she really had planned for them. Now it was time. She wasn't going to hold back. They'd be eating their words soon enough.

"Just kidding, guys, just kidding! I'm actually going to read from my latest, and as of yet unpublished, work. Enjoy!" Some snaps, but mostly sighs. She wasn't sure if they were sighs of relief or sighs of despair.

She didn't care at this point.

Allison Henderson reached into her right-jacket pocket and removed a small, blue-covered book. Opening, she began to read...

Chapter Eleven: Bigger

Todd stood in front of the room, sat at the stool and opened an old notebook. It was tattered, with a read cover, spiral bound.

"I wrote this poem recalling my teen years, struggling to find love and real connection. Most writing about teenagers from people who have long passed those years seem to lack an understanding of how hard they can be. I hope I did a better job."

Worth What
sunburned skin begins to melt
heart of the girl who felt
you were more than just a guy
questioned look of passers by
now you stand upon the ledge
saying goodbye to your friends
wish that momma wouldn’t see
all those things you’d never be
chilling thoughts begin to swirl
recipe to save the girl
filling holes here or there
lose your step die in despair
mirror was your greatest foe
ugly, lonely, loser, slow
you said you would save the world
see those eyes below those curls

clipping toenails in her room
smell her perfume, say it soon
he’ll always stand in your way
“you’re a loser, you are gay”
find her walking alone at night
words escape with every fright
she knows all about daddy
can’t escape the family

find the warmest place inside
crawl in there you have to hide
write down your very best words
before your view lies with the birds
sunburned skin begins to melt
heart of the girl who felt
there is no place left for me
how did all this come to be?

The audience sat amazed that their host had held so much angst inside him. And also that is words could cut so deeply into one's emotions.

Clearly sefl-conscious, Todd quickly began to close the session.

"Thank you all for coming. Next week, we will be honored to have our very own Ms. Henderson, whose work was recently published in Atlantic Monthly."

He knew all along! Ms. Henderson thought. No wonder he wasn't going to have her read this week, he had scheduled her for next week as a surprise.

Chapter Ten: Big

This is going to be big, Todd thought. In fact, he further thought, this is going to be bigger than big. Clearly, Todd was very excited.

There was a large group at the Lit Snob tonight, all waiting, Todd was sure, with baited breath. He took a deep, deep inhale and stood before the crowd.

"It is my joy to announce tonight's reader - me!" Todd glowed. The crowd looked confused.

When they had read "Famous surprise guest reader" on the sign outside the Lit Snob they had assumed it was going to be a local fame. You know, James Tate or someone like that. They tried not to look too disappointed out of the modicum of politeness that they still maintained. Mrs. Darson's knitting needles clicked in a slightly aggravated manner. The MFA students collectively pushed their heavy black glasses to a better resting position on their noses.

Ms. Henderson, the janitor, stood in the back corner as she always did. She uncrossed and then recrossed her arms crossly. Earlier that week she had asked Todd if perhaps she could be the reader this week.

"You know Todd," she had said, "I have some stuff that I've written and I was wondering if maybe, you know, I could read it next week."

The mop in the bucket pendulumed from left to right in front of Todd's face.

"Well, um, sorry, no," he had stated briskly with no explanation. Not even allowing Ms. Henderson to tell him that the work she wanted to read had been published in Atlantic Monthly earlier that week.

And now here Todd, that dolt!, was reading his own work. This had better be good, thought Ms. Henderson, crossing her arms again as Todd began to speak.

Chapter Nine: Eat Up the Plagiarism

The janitor's mop swirled back and forth along the messy tile. It didn't seem to clean anything, only smear it, the mop only pushing the filth further into the grout. He watched the mop as it neared his feet - when it did, Todd looked up into the eyes of the cleaning woman. She feigned a smile and then slowly shook her head - her eyes closing for effect - as she continued on her way across the room towards the stage. Once their gaze had broken, Todd's eyes fell to the floor once more as his hand brushed away more wetness on his face.

How could this have happened? He asked himself with anger and disdain.

How are we going to recover from this? The memories of the night again began to flood into his consciousness...

***

He was running around like a madman, and he knew it. It just didn't matter. It was only thirty minutes until the reading was to begin, and his reader had called out. Understandably, the death of Kurt Vonnegut had taken a toll on the literary community, and they were all taking the night off to reminisce and honor Mr. Vonnegut's genius with closed-door readings between authors - no public allowed. This had placed Todd in a terrible position. He didn't want to cancel again, because he had to do that two weeks ago. Instead, he was running around talking to every patron, trying desperately to find an author before show-time. So far, no dice. He was beginning to lose his mind when Todd spotted a young man enter the Lit Snob. He looked to be college age, was freshly shaved, and certainly dressed the part with his brown blazer, pressed slacks, and professional-looking shoes. Todd approached the young man and asked him rather directly,

"Sir, are you an author?"

Apparently, the young man thought that Todd was talking to someone else, only realizing that he was on the spot when Todd tapped his shoulder.

"Who me? Ah, um, yeah, I'm an author - why?"

Todd's face lit up with dual excitement and relief. He eagerly shook the man's hand and began to explain to him his predicament. Once he had finished, the young man looked a little nervous.

"Gee, sir, I just don't know. I haven't done a reading in a long time. And besides, I don't think I even have any of my work on me at the moment."

"Please man, you've got to help with this. If I don't find a reader before the top of the hour, these people are going to leave. And they're never going to come back. So please ... and I'll even make an exception." Todd reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. Examining the contents, he withdrew a hefty amount of money.

"Here, one hundred dollars. It's yours. Try to remember something - make up something off the top of your head - anything! Just put on a great reading!"

The young man eyed the wad of cash eagerly; then, realizing his obvious stare, he regained his composure.

"Well, if you put it that way, maybe I do have something in this bag of mine ... it's a deal."

The relief showered over Todd like a wave of heat. Handing the money over, he gave his new friend one last piece of advice.

"Be ready in five minutes. And be ready for a tough crowd."

The young man looked at him with an easy and casual demeanor.

"Don't worry, I can handle them. I've got pure gold."

***

The stage was set, and Todd has just explained the situation regarding the expected reader of the night, and had just introduced his newest friend and the night's new reader, Mr. Jacob Idlier. As usual, the claps and snaps came sparingly - this young grasshopper has not won their approval yet. Jacob climbed onto the stool, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a lone piece of paper - it looked like a page from a small writing journal. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he began.

"Hello everyone, this selection is from my poem, "She Ate a Bad Apple" - I hope you all enjoy it."

In the day we eat
Of this fair fruit, our doom is, we shall die!
How dies the Serpent? he hath eaten and lives,
And knows, and speaks, and reasons, and discerns,
Irrational till then.  For us alone
Was death invented? or to us denied
This intellectual food, for beasts reserved?
For beasts it seems: yet that one beast which first
Hath tasted envies not, but brings with joy
The good befallen him, author unsuspect,
Friendly to man, far from deceit or guile.
What fear I then? rather, what know to fear
Under this ignorance of good and evil,
Of God or death, of law or penalty?
Here grows the cure of all, this fruit divine,
Fair to the eye, inviting to the taste,
Of virtue to make wise:  What hinders then
To reach, and feed at once both body and mind?
So saying, her rash hand in evil hour
Forth reaching to the fruit, she plucked, she eat! --

Jacob was going to continue when he heard a noise. A noise that he immediately discerned was the sound of people gasping and in all other ways entering into shock.

Then a coffee cup hit him square in the face - luckily, it was only one-quarter full.

Then the obscenities began...

***

Looking down at the small piece of paper in his hand, Todd was faced with his own stupidity.

It was a page from the Norton Critical Edition of John Milton's Paradise Lost.

Jacob had instantly bolted for the door, taking his burned face - and Todd's $100 - right out there with him. When the police arrived, they were unable to find any trace of the young con-man All they found were upturned tables, coffee-stains on the furniture, and a hell of a lot of liquid on the floor. The same liquid that was now being driven into the tile by the janitor's mop.

Todd looked around at the pig-sty that had been the reader's corner of the Lit Snob. He realized that he had one week to come up with something big.

It was the only way that he could save his - and his business' - reputation.

Chapter Eight: Nonsensical Majesty

Things were beginning to get out of control at The Lit Snob, but luckily, this week's reader was going to be on time, and everything was getting back on schedule.

"Everyone, I'm glad to see you all back again," Todd said to the audience. "I'll just get right to it. This week's reader will be reading the first chapter of his latest autobiography."

"Thank you Todd. Hello everyone. I hope you enjoy the beginning of my story. I've written every chapter in a different style to challenge the reader to follow the story. It may fall flat or get really popular. I guess we'll see."

...

Birth:

His mother said when he was born in a hospital in Worcester that certain things would happen during his lifetime that would be different than the men from generations prior. When she brought him back the duplex in Grafton, he would be different than his father and grandfather and ...

He would get along with his brother, unlike the pairs of boys in the family for generations back as far as the eldest members of the clan could remember.

He would go to college, get a real education, and get out of this shithole suburbia that has reigned in the entire family as they become entangled in a web of low-paying temporary-fix jobs that disintegrate lives.

He would not become an angry, alcoholic bastard who betrayed his family by forgetting so often that he had one.

He would make his mother proud.

Childhood:

"Mommy what are you watching?"
"The Super Bowl sweety, the Bills and the Cowboys are playing. You want to watch? I know you love football."

"Mom, I don't want to move again. When you bought a house with Dad in Hopkinton, you went bankrupt and had to sell it and had to move to Ashland. Now you're buying another house in Upton with Kevin. It's not a good idea. I don't want to make new friends again."
"This is my life. I've gone through hell and back with your father and now I'm with someone and I'm happy and we want to make a life together. You'll make new friends. You're going to college in six years, and you'll never see any of them again anyway, so don't worry about it."

"I told you we'd end up moving out. And Kevin was an asshole, just like I said. Too bad it took you four years to realize it. I don't want to switch schools again, not in my sophomore year."
"You won't. We're moving a town over and I'll drop you and your brother off at school on my way to work. It's just the three of us now, we'll be happy."

"I'm going to go out with Ashley tonight, Mom, I really don't want to go hang out with you and Jack at his place."
"Fine, have a good weekend. We'll see you on Sunday, I guess."

"I called Dad, I'm going to move in with him so I can stay in school in Upton."
"I guess that's that then."

"I'm sorry Mom. I never should have left."
"It's ok. Jack is basically kicking us out. We're moving in with you're uncle down the Cape. It's just for the Summer. It will be ok."

College:

He's almost 21 now. He's already started drinking occasionally, and even smokes pot when he feels like it. He writes, fairly well, and his father is dying somewhere in a hospital bed. He's not sure where because he hasn't spoken to him in three years.

He tries to forget he exists because it's too hard. That's why he didn't write as much about him in the earlier chapters. The cold, hard reality that his life has been far from perfect, far from terrible is too hard for him to grasp because he's only ever seen the two extremes on TV.

Dysfunctional families have been laughing and getting through problems in 22 minutes plus ads for the past two decades, or at least as long as he's been watching TV.

He gets along with his brother, is going to college, and is already in debt trying to pay for it. That high wire that keeps you balanced between having a legitimate shot at climbing the economic ladder and being sucked into crappy job after crappy job is getting tougher to stay on. And that Marx book he's reading is making him wonder if he should be trying to climb the ladder at all.

He guesses he makes his mother proud.

Chapter Seven: The Promise of Salisbury Steak

It was all very depressing. Mrs. Darson stood outside the Lit Snob with rainwater streaming off of her glasses. She hat forgotten her late husband's rain-hat, which she always wore. Naturally, that had put her day off quite a bit. And now this.

"Reading canceled for this week due to lack of reader. Sorry of the inconvenance." Todd, the dolt!, had spelled inconvenience wrong in his anxiety. That mixed with bad news and the lack of a rain-hat put poor Mrs. Darson over the edge. Tears of frustration mixed with streaming rainwater. People passed and did not notice. They just thought that Mrs. Darson was wet and reading a sign. They were walking quickly in the rain. Had they slowed their hurried footsteps they would have noticed not so much that Mrs. Darson was upset - it would have still been hard to tell with all the water - but that Mrs. Darson was taking a particularly long time reading a very brief sign. No one noticed.

It was all very depressing, thought Mrs. Darson. She headed back to her car avoiding puddles and overflowing drains by nature not practicality. She was quite soaked.

In the first bit of fortunate luck in the day, according to Mrs. Darson, the car was still warm and turning up the fan to high produced quite the warm atmosphere. Her glasses began to fog. So did the windshield of the Volvo. Mrs. Darson did not care; she was comfortable for the first time all day.

Well there was television to be watched at home. Despite being an avid attender of the Lit Snob readings, Mrs. Darson did enjoy herself some good TV, as she liked to put it. She even had the premium channels. Even HBO. Mrs. Darson liked Sex and the City quite a lot, liked it with all the sex in it for that matter, not the watered-down crap they put on TBS - a station she felt was definitely not all that funny. There was a Salisbury steak Banquet dinner in the fridge. Mrs. Darson could almost taste the fake mashed potatoes.

Fine the day has been lousy and the reading canceled but she had a fine night planned indeed.

Chapter Six: The Ivan-man Cometh

It's five minutes until starting time. Todd's pacing back and forth behind the stage - frequently he scans the audience members. He doesn't see her at all. He's almost panicking. Almost.

"Oh hell, where could she be? I bet it's that damn car of hers. The thing is only a step up from a Model T. No, shut up Todd. I'm sure Mrs. Darson will be here. Well, she better be, at least. She's one of our best customers. And there's still that accident with the tiles..."

Checking his watch, he knows that it's time. Todd comes climbs up onto the stage and approaches the microphone.

"Good evening, everyone. Thanks for coming to The Lit Snob's weekly literature reading. This whole thing has gotten off to a great start, and I'm sure that it's only going to get better. Tonight, we have Ivan Stankowski, an accomplished poet who has utilized what some critics have called "archaic, dead language and form." Personally, I love his work, and I'm sure you will too. So, here's Ivan Stankowski."

Slight applause - the usual Lit Snob snobbery. Stankowski climbs up onto the stage. Sitting on the stool, he simply opens his small book of poetry and begins to read.

***

"Racing ahead -"

***

Mrs. Darson bursts through the door, panting heavily and apologizing to everyone - to all of the patrons who have whirled around to greet her with disbelief. She finally apologizes to Ivan, who nods in acknowledgment, and then begins again - Todd sighs deeply from off-stage.

***

Racing ahead to the spot,
Where? Amidst the trees, she thought,
To find her cherry leaf,
And tend to its icy grief.

The clouds did imprison the moon.
And so as darkness fell,
The angel’s wings did swoon,
Lost, she alone, in Hell.
The trees, around her bent,
Against the stirring wind
Now, their tears long spent,
To assail the lone they begin.

The cherub again takes flight,
Searching with all her might,
To find that leaf so dear,
And bring it to her bosom near.
In the shadowy nooks of the wood,
The trees doing all they could,
To punish she who forgot,
The helpless Love she now sought.

And by accident they did claim
The frightened one, full of shame.
A root, rising from the dirt,
Caught her woven and silken skirt.
Down, down she fell,
From Grace, and in a spell,
Landed, gazing up alone,
Her head stricken against a stone.

As the maiden lay,
Her head writhing, crimson, and wet,
Her eyes, they fluttered shut.
In the wintered woods she stays.
And as the wind nigh grew brief,
Along its drifts did fly,
A single, longing leaf,
And its virtuous love it spied.

Falling against her still heart,
Whilst the sun o’er the treetops shone,
The leaf did mourn and exclaim:
“My Love, How changed thou art!”

***

Ivan stops, thanks the audience, and is met with no applause. Instead, everyone is nodding their heads and smiling. That's all - but it means everything from the Lit Snob crowd. Stankowski smiles in return, then stands up and leaves the stage in silence and completely content. Todd climbs back up to the microphone.

"Thanks for coming everybody. We're actually not decided on a reader for next week ... so ... come for the surprise of the week - it promises to be a classic! Thanks again!"

Chapter Five: What Are You Watching Tonight?

"David Cambera's book is something that should reach to everyone in this room," Todd said. "His work discusses television, and whether or not we should consider it art the way we do films and music. He will read from the first chapter of his book."

"Thanks Todd. Ladies and Gentlemen, What are you watching tonight?"

...

First, there is a story of a family being reunited. They've come to this sunny, green pasture after so long apart. All over the country, they live their normal lives, but have returned to where they all grew up, or their parents grew up, to renew and reconnect with the part of their lives from which the rest of it spawned.

They are there to mourn the death of a relative who passed away too soon, and too suddenly for anyone, anyone to say goodbye. Now they are doing it together. It's funny how a funeral can bring people together more effectively than any type of celebration can.

Next, a woman manipulates a number of men to get what she wants. Using sex, love, and anything at her disposal to fulfill her material desires. It's a story of betrayal and heartbreak.

The men are left wondering what happens as the woman disappears from their lives as quickly as she had entered them.

Following the tragedy is a comedy. A bunch of party boys have a great time drinking Bud Light, or Coors Light, or Miller Light (light beer used to be a chick beer but now it's the cool one to drink for the health-conscious male).

Jokes are made, pranks are pulled, and crazy amazing things happen - like very attractive ladies in bikinis in a hot-tub on a snow covered mountain.

It's of course unrealistic, but what on TV is? And moreover, who cares?

Finally, a family sits down to dinner after a long day, talks about what they did and has a delicious, affordable meal. The house is perfect, the furniture and things are expensive, and the people on the screen are almost frighteningly happy.

...That's when the commercial break ends and the network switches back to its sitcom.

...

"I'll stop there. I hope you enjoyed it and will buy my book if it gets published. It's something I think everyone should really think about in this society," Cambera says.

Todd thanks his latest guest, and announces that next week's reader will be another poet, Ivan Stankowski, who will be reading from his latest compilation of poems.

Chapter Four: Marion Douglass Wows With Post-Modern Art

Marion Douglass had the black thick rimmed glasses most adored by MFA students everywhere. This pleased the crowd at The Lit Snob. Marion Douglass look as they felt an author should look, acted as an author should act (well spoken but modest about her accomplishments, taking careful sips of a mocha-coffee related beverage), and was quite the "young talent" according to Todd via the all powerful New York Time Book Review.

She carefully annunciated a prose poem, "Factory" from her new book.

...

Make out a city quiet and deserted, stored with closed signs in the windows hanging from stretchy elastic strings that used to be white, homes with shades down over drafty old windows. Zoom in on a derelict factory in the part of town people don’t like to talk about, the part of town with supposed drug deals and girls in too tight skirts that are going to not make it because of fetuses and needles in veins, pushing in who knows what, hopefully not air. So, this derelict factory: chimney still standing, but just barely, standing obstinately against a dark night, dark without the pinprick on stars. White juxtaposed oh so harshly on black. The roof, not so lucky because it is caving in at parts, shingle by shingle crashing down into earth, dust to dust, returning to that Almighty Creator. (Did He forget?) Windows, where they were are mouths open to the night air that pours in and out, a rushing wind, crashing through the interior of the factory, propelling the dirt from the shoes of some worker from those better times, propelling the brown leaves that have become the sole denizens of this brick kingdom. In an unholy place, but why? A gate to Hell because Hell is all around us, here in the real world when Gillian from down the street gives it all up at thirteen and pops out a bastard child nine months later all alone. Mom kicked her out. All these little tragedies, and not lovely like in Shakespeare. The factory all alone, thrusting into the ebony sky, a triumph that here in Hell there are still small triumphs.

...

The crowd was pleased. Ah, how new. Ah, now fresh. Mrs. Darson daintily sipped her over priced beverage with happiness at both the drink and the young woman in front of her. Todd's interruption of thanks was jarring. His announcement about next weeks writer a local man apparently trying to get his book published and hoping this would be it was also unwelcome.

"And I am sure we will all be eager to hear what soon-to-be-published writer, David Cambera has to share with us. Next week then. Same place, same time." Todd lightly chortled. Mrs. Darson attempted to finish her beverage before having to go to her old and cup-holder-less car.

Chapter Three: Jillson's "History"

Thud. Thud. Thud - three quick jabs, then the sweet-sounding feedback.

"Is this thing on? Oh, yeah, alright. Well, welcome everyone to the second week of readings here at The Lit Snob. Glad to see so many of you here again this week, especially you, Mrs. Darson - can we get you another triple-twist latte? Alright, well you just let someone know...."

The sweater-man emcee, whose name is Todd, is wearing an odd combination of gold and purple argyle over a white button-down. He looks around the room nervously (it's only his second week!) and clears his throat.

"In any case, this week's reading comes from Gavin Jillson, the author of the recently-published A First Draft of History. He has been writing since his late-undergraduate years, when his professors encouraged him to send his work for publication - and now is here as a three-time New York Times bestseller. So without further ado, Gavin Jillson!"

The Snob crowd applauds quietly - some even chime in with their finger-snaps - as Jillson hops on onto the stage and takes his seat on the stool in front of the mic.

"How's everyone doing tonight?" he asks with vigor - the crowd mumbles a few bits of unimportance. He doesn't quite know quite what to make of their ... snobbery.

"Alright then, let's get to it. Here's a selection from the First Draft:"

***

The water seems to stand still - even as each tree, each branch, each leaf, lives and dies in a microsecond - the water seems unmovable, immutable. There's a shrill whistling of the forest passing by, and the ground pounds play a steady bass to the overwhelming, verdant melody. Underneath him, the beast's moist, coarse skin quivers with the tension and release of each muscle. Everything around him is full of life and movement - everything except for the water. He follows the river for what seems like a hour, until suddenly the forest bows away to reveal its prestige - the warm desert plain. Adam looks out onto the plane of his existence, feels his body processing the change in temperature and humidity, feels the hard breathing of his companion as the great lizard comes to a slowing halt. Adam runs his hands over the beast's back, thanking it in his own way - the only way he can. Leaning down, he speaks to his friend.

"Good run today, Ceres. I can't believe how helpful you've been - we caught so much food this morning. This should tide us over for weeks. Come on, let's get back home."

Ceres twists his enormous head - the two large horns point out towards the plain , the smaller one pointing straight up at the midday sun. Without understanding, he lets out a grunting howl and nods his head slowly once. The rider accepts this acknowledgment with another friendly pat on the back. Taking this signal, Ceres bounds off from the edge of the forest and out into the deserted land, always following the impassable flow of the great river. As the pair make their way out and into the afternoon world, Adam sees all of the life surrounding the twin banks of the river. Beasts of all sizes - the great, towering lizards dipping their long necks into the sweet watery deep; the much smaller bipeds licking at the shore's bounty; Ceres' family as well - gather at the water to drink and eat and live. It is this simple, Adam thinks to himself as he points out of the other three-horns to his friend.

This is how he wants us to live out our punishment.

After they have passed the large crowd enjoying their noon meal at the riverbank, Adam and Ceres continue on through the oppressive heat for two hours. The river continues to act as a guide, showing them the way home - leading them to the break. As they near the tributary point, Adam begins to make out the familiar smoke-coil of his home. He breathes in deeply, closing his eyes and imagining his wife - his mate, his other half - smiling and singing in the mid-afternoon shade that their bower permits them. A few more moments brings the lizard to a second stop - he knows that he is home as well. Adam climbs down off of Ceres' back and feels the hard earth under his bare feet. It is both a relieving sensation of returning home and a painful reminder of the desert oasis long gone now. Adam shakes his head hard - pushing thoughts of loss out - and walks towards the small habitation. He calls to his wife gently, full of the most intense love he can muster in his fatigue.

"Eve! Eve, are you there? I'm back, my love."

Hearing no response, Adam begins to worry - he's sure that she just didn't hear him, but he can't shake some of his newer feelings. He advances at a quicker pace, and pushes aside the makeshift door. Then he sees her. She is standing with her back to him, looking out of the natural window between two of the lone trees. She is wearing her white dress, her long auburn hair flowing to her waist. Adam approaches her slowly and guides his arms around her waist. He kisses the back of her neck. Then her cheek - she turns her head slowly and their lips meet. It is Paradise. She withdraws from him slowly.

"What is it, Eve? Ceres and I have returned from the hunt. We've collected enough food and water for a week."

"That's wonderful, Adam! No, it's nothing really. I was just looking at the sky outside. There's something strange near the eastern horizon."

"What is it?" Adam leans over and stares outside.

A large, dark object, hovers in the eastern sky. When he sees it, Adam realizes that he noticed it earlier in the day, before he and Ceres had entered the forest. Except then, it had been much smaller. He wasn't sure what to make of it - but he knew what they had to do to find out.

"Come on Eve, let's go to the altar and pray. Maybe he will tell us what this thing is."

Eve wraps her arms around Adam's shoulders. She pulls him as close as she can - she feels his chest against her head and the steadiness of his breathing. It has comforted her for many years, and it comforts her now.

"Adam, I have a bad feeling about that thing."

"I do too, Eve. But I'm sure that he will take care of us. We have not disobeyed him for many, many of our years. He must know that. He must care. He must still love us. So let's not worry - let's go outside to the altar."

Hand in hand, the pair leave their bower for the crude altar. The shadow of something far-less mysterious - something far-more real - hangs over their heads unmovable. Immutable.

***

Jillson closes his book slowly, listening to the sounds around him. He hears more quiet clapping, more finger-snapping, and he nods in thanks. Todd climbs up onto the stage and approaches the mic yet again.

"Well, thank you Mr. Jillson for reading this evening - that was wonderful. And thank you all again for coming to The Lit Snob. Next week, we're not completely decided on our author. What I can tell you is that either Marion Douglass or Richard Palmenack will be here to read their amazing poetry. So don't miss it!"

Chapter Two: The Opening Act

Collins entered the room wearing shorts, sandals, and an old T-shirt. He was carrying a very thin book in his hand - his latest work. Not exactly the stuffy dress and lengthy text the people in attendance had expected to see.

"Thank you for coming," he said. "This story is called The Rant. As you can see, it's a short story, something new for me."

...

Carlton was not American. It didn't matter "what" he was, or rather, what piece of dirt he and his ancestors were born on. But he wasn't American.

He was there though. He stayed with three different families while studying at a University in a place too small to be a city, but pretty big to be just a town, and just a few hours' drive from two major American cities.

When his own family asked him what he learned in America, he told them nothing of the University. Instead, he told them how different the families he lived with were from the families he knew in his homeland.

He told them they didn't act like families they way he knew them.

The first family he met was just a mother and son. There was another son, and a father, who live 45 minutes away in another town. The kids alternated houses every other weekend to see the other parent. They did not get along. Neither did the two parents. Carlton wondered the entire time how they ever loved each other enough to create a family, and then dissolve and fragment it.

All of them were extremely kind and spoke to him as an equal part of the family, and not nearly as separate a part as they did each other. Carlton enjoyed the six months he spent there, even if he was constantly confused by the relationships that surrounded him. Though he was strangely comforted by the thought that he was no more confused than anyone else.

He moved to another family when his first family moved themselves. The mother and first son moved another hour's drive away from the rest of their "family" in the opposite direction.

The second family was much more cohesive, though he never experienced that himself. They were much more religious than the first family. They went to church every Sunday, anyway, and had Bibles in the living room, the sitting room, the den and the office (it was a much bigger house).

Unlike the first family, the mother, father, and their two daughers and one son were much colder to Carlton, though indirectly, he thought.

They must have thought they were being very open-minded people, because they had such bright smiles that seemed to mask their fascinationv- like that of some zoo exhibit - with an feigned interest when they asked him strange, invasive questions about his "homeland" and his "people."

He had never thought about his "people," but he knew they meant his friends, family, and the people at home who were as much strangers to him as most people in the United States.

He answered their questions uneasily and asked nothing of the Bibles, chairs that weren't for sitting, towels that weren't for drying hands, or the father's obvious alcoholism. He realized he liked the first family better.

Still he was happy. He was still at a good school and more than provided for while far away from home. Again, though, he was moved to another family when the father's alcoholism became a problem and the family couldn't house him anymore.

The third and final family with which he stayed was perhaps the most normal, though Carlton wasn't sure what that meant.

Father, mother, son, daughter. They lived in a big house - big enough, though not as cavernous and cold as the last family's - and they had a large TV that let them watch any TV show any time, and a very nice cars, even the two kids, who were teenagers.

They seemed happy and were very accepting and inviting. Carlton felt comfortable there and liked his new, new, temporary home. But something once again was strange about the place, or moreso, the people. They seemed hollow, just empty. There was nothing too them. Conversations over dinner consisted of the past few days television broadcasts, blog posts, events at school and work, and plenty of weather commentary.

The part of the trip Carlton most looked forward to in the beginning was talking to real Americans about real issues. Finding out what they really thought, and dispel the hearsay that was previously all he had to go on for what regular Americans were like.

That never happened. He tried to bring up things like how to properly administer a representative government, the separation of church and state, modern parenting, even homosexuality. The most he ever got was a few echoed opinions the family had heard on Fox News or the Daily Show, when the conversation quickly dissolved to the last South Park episode, though never to the underlying social message, just outrageous gags.

They were jaded. Jaded by their things and what they thought they were expected to be doing. Carlton eventually gave up and focused on his studies. Sure, he found some of what he was looking for on campus, but he wondered if everyone else went home like he did and went back to the same jaded state.

...After finishing telling his story to his family, he sat in front of the new TV his parent bought while he was away and flipped one of the two or three stations that broadcast American shows. He decided there was nothing on, but watched anyway, thinking he was bored and should find a snack.

Suddenly he sat up and wondered, what had happened to him in America?

...

Collins closed his book and said to everyone, "I'm not going to take any questions. Not because I don't feel like answering them, but because I won't have any answers. I want this story to be taken as is."

..."Next week Gavin Jillson will be our guest. He'll be reading from his latest book, a fiction published just weeks ago and is already breaking onto bestseller lists. He has asked that all I say about it is that the title is A First Draft of History. I look forward to seeing you all next week."

Chapter One: Welcome to The Lit Snob

Tuesday Night at The Lit Snob various reading by great new authors! Eight o'clock sharp.

Zoom in on a new store front in educated suburban America. Books that are too cool for school line the front window beckoning with their wisdom and entertainment. Questioning, "Don't you want to be in the know?" Everything gleams with new varnish. The tiles on the floor are slippery and on Monday the aged Mrs. Darson almost fell to a shatter tail bone while transiting from the mystery to the biography section. The overly push, underly comfortable chairs have yet to be stained with the overpriced Starbucks-esque coffee sold with slightly stale muffins at the drink counter in the corner.

The place is packed with co-eds, middle aged people looking to have stimulated youthful minds, and Mrs. Darson who decided that after all she wouldn't sue.

An overly dressed man wearing a sweater and a jacket speaks.

"Welcome to The Lit Snob's first reading of the year. This Tuesday and every Tuesday at eight, local and visiting writers will grace us with their words of wisdom.

"Tonight, Bartholomew Fellow and Tri-Country Cobalt Metal winning author Donald Collins will read from his new work Into the Mud House. Donald's career has spanned two decades. He is heralded by the Local Herald as 'a new voice in this cold millennium.' The Hamilton Daily Troubadour hails Donald as 'a truly timeless, unique, and selfless voice in American fiction.' His new book, which he wrote while abroad in Italy, explores the American family from an outsiders perspective illuminating traits about modern humanity. So, without further ado, here is Donald Collins."

Chapter Sixteen: The End

Allyson could see Archer's words floating like plumes of smoke across the air in front of her. She felt somehow outside of herself, like she was witnessing the whole revelation from far away - from a safe place. How can this be? she asked herself over and over. These two men, the two people who seemed to care about her the most, were betraying each other over her. What had she meant to them?, she wondered as she watched herself shake her head, push her plate of rations away, get up, and run out of the cafeteria. As the door to the room slammed shut behind her, she was suddenly in herself again, feeling every beat of her heart, and every emotion flitting across her mind's eye.

She ran forever, through the twisting halls of the bunker. She needed to find Tyler - she needed to tell him everything that had happened this day. It had to end. One way or another, it was going to end. The Returners needed to survive and they needed to be strong - especially on the inside. This petty infighting would only cost them everything they had worked so hard to accomplish - what she had worked so hard for. In her emotional haze, she wasn't quite sure where the meeting hall was - she was sure Tyler was there - but her instinct fueled her and she felt that she was heading in the right direction. Around one bend, then another, and then the large metal double doors - she had arrived.

Allyson threw open the doors and entered with determination - tears welling up and threatening to uncover her inner turmoil. She took two steps and then stopped. Her eyes grew wide - there were no words for this - her body froze in terror and her throat closed in shock.

The meeting hall was devastated - the metal table was dented to the floor, papers scattered about in all corners. The hall was empty save two men. Tyler stood in the middle of the hall, his shoulders heaving and his breathing loud. He showed clear wounds on his arms and chest, but he was not faltering - adrenaline was staying his fatigue. Allyson was shocked to see Tyler in this way - she could only vaguely remember the last time he had returned injured with the scar - but she was horrified by what she saw next.

It was Dorian. He lay face-down on the cool concrete floor of the bunker. A small pool of darkness spread out underneath him. He wasn't moving. At all.

"Tyler!" Allyson broke out of her trance - she regained her breathing - and she hurried across the room to Tyler.

"Stay back Allyson!" He put his hand up to stop her, but he was not facing her. He was still transfixed by the scene in front of him. "Don't come any closer." He slowly turned his face to her.

"We need to get out of here. They're on their way."

Allyson's brow furrowed. "I ... I don't understand, I thought you said this place -"

"They know, Allyson. They know about this place. It was ... him." He pointed without feeling to Dorian's body. "I caught him leaving the communications room in a big hurry. He ... he didn't have clearance to be in there, so I was suspicious. I confronted him about it, and he suddenly attacked me. We fought our way in here, and then ... this."

"Oh God, Tyler - what did Dorian do?" She looked at Tyler. She waited with anticipation, but she knew what was coming. Somehow, she knew, and it secretly terrified her.

"Before he lost consciousness, he said 'They're coming, Tyler. You've lost. They know you're here, and they know Allyson' s here. Deiana's on her way.' That's why we need to go - we need to make it to Triss' by tomorrow. Who knows how close they -"

The bunker's alarm system punctuated his thought. Suddenly, the lights in the bunker went out, and the deep red alarm lights replaced them. Allyson looked around in terror, not understanding what this all was.

"Oh God, Tyler ... are they-"

"Yes! We've got to get out of here - come on!"

She felt his sweaty grip on her arm and then she was being pulled out of the destroyed meeting room - out through the double doors - and then back into the maze of corridors. Thoughts, questions, they were are pushing against her mind - her head felt heavy and it throbbed. It was overwhelming. She was swimming in her confusion and terror. She was drowning in it all. Allyson had lost track of where she was until she heard Tyler's voice screaming to her.

"Allyson, God dammit! Listen to me! You've got to keep up, we need to get to the southeast exit!" She looked into his hard eyes - he was trying so hard to be kind to her, and she knew it - and nodded quickly. The pair ran past armed men heading in the opposite direction, trying to head off the attack. The alarm sounding throughout the close quarters was deafening, along with the screaming of orders and the panic of the others. It was chaos.

"Just a little more to go, Allyson!" Tyler released his grip and she suddenly felt alone and scared, like a child. "Hold up here, I'll go on ahead and make sure the exit is clear."

"Hurry back Tyler!" She yelled after him as he disappeared around the right-hand bend.

She did not have to wait. All she heard was the shot fire. Then, everything seemed to go silent. All Allyson could hear was one sound. Footsteps. Unsure, precarious footsteps. Tyler's footsteps.

He appeared slowly from around the corner, still looking towards the exit. He didn't even have a chance to look at her as his body began to slump down towards the cold ground. Allyson felt herself scream, but she couldn't hear it. There was no sound now. All she could do was look down at Tyler's body, slowly writhing into death on the ground in front of her. As if to draw the curtain over him, shadows appeared, covering over Tyler and entering into the main hallway. She couldn't see anyone, but she knew they were there. Then she heard the voices.

"There she is, Williams - Allyson Rhodes - target acquired. She's the one General Wilson wants. Take her."

The shadows began to move up the walls as the figures began to approach Allyson. There were three of them - huge, superhuman - and they covered the entire hallway. As the lead figure grabbed her arm - and was not alone any longer - suddenly everything went dark. The hood flew over Allyson's head and was pulled tight around her neck. The voice spoke once more.

"Here's a message from your sister, Ms. Rhodes."

They were the last words she remembered hearing.

It was like being born into the arms of a concrete wall. Except less lovingly.

She could feel a bone break - or at least what she imagined a bone-break felt like. She was definitely bleeding, from her knees and elbows from being thrown to the ground at the very least. She knew that much, but little else. The hood over her head took more than her sight - she felt completely swallowed in its thick, suffocating fabric. This has to be a nightmare, she thought between nerve endings screaming from one end of her to the other. The feeling of many hands groping, clawing, scratching at her body, it was like an experience that no one knows, but everyone thinks about in their darkest fears. And just when she thought that she had to wake up - that it couldn't get any worse without her brain shutting down -

The night was dark - pitch black, stars looking away in horror and shame. The night was dark, and it was cold. Allyson could only feel the darkness - the cold she knew already. The night was dark, and it was cold.

And the dawn could only flicker against the horizon. The night was dark, and it was cold. And it would be long.

THE END

Chapter Fifteen: Revelations

Allyson quickly collected herself and answered the door. It was Dorian.

"I have to talk to you," he said.

"What's the matter?"

"It's Archer."

"James? What about him?"

"I think he's going to sabotage the plan, the Returners," he said.

"Why would he do such a thing?"

Dorian sat down in the one chair in Allyson's tiny room and explained what he had seen. He explained how Archer's behavior had been suspicious since before Allyson woke up from her coma. Random disappearances for days with no correspondence with Tyler, Anderson or Sandra.

He always said he was going into hiding, trying to stay under the radar while acting as a doctor at the Inn.

Allyson was shocked to hear this. More shocked than at any other point during this entire ordeal. She knew James. She knew she knew him. Of all the things that had happened, she was so sure he was someone she could trust.

Once again, her world was being shaken.

"I know it's difficult to grasp, I didn't want to believe it. But everything I've seen over these last few months has led me to this conclusion," Dorian said.

"My god, I don't know what to believe anymore. Sometimes I get some shred of my memory back and I feel so sure I've finally caught something concrete. For all I know, I'm not even really one of the Returners. For all I know, I could be a prisoner here."

"Allyson, you're a Returner. You're one of the first. People here looked up to you. They still do. But apparently Archer is not among them. I haven't told Tyler yet. He's got enough to deal with, but I wanted you to know, because I respect you most of all. I wanted to get your opinion of what I should do."

"Let's just see what happens in the next day or so. We can't prove anything yet," Allyson said.

"You're right. That's best. Thanks Allyson, I knew it was a good idea to come to you."

Dorian left quickly, and once again Allyson was alone in her room. She had begun to loathe solitude. She had spent so much time alone in a room by herself, alone in her own head. Somehow being back with the Returners, things hadn't changed as she would have hoped.

She decided to try to remember where the mess hall was and get some lunch. And also, to find out who else has been missing her this past year that she still can't remember.

She sat down at a table with the same minimal rations as everyone else. She wasn't there more than a minute before Archer had discovered her and sat down across from her.

"Hi James."

"Allyson we need to talk," Archer said with an air of urgency.

"What's the matter?" Allyson knew this was her chance to feel him out - try to see if what Dorian said could actually be true.

"It's Dorian," Allyson froze. She knew what he was going to say, and she couldn't believe it was happening. She knew there was tension between them. She noticed that in her half daze in the hospital bed.

"I don't want to believe it, but I'm beginning to suspect he's not one of us. I think he may be a mole for the Vanguard."

Chapter Fourteen: Left to Say

"You're not going," Tyler said plainly.

"What," Allyson was confused.

"You're not going. It's too dangerous. Not now, when you have just returned and are just remembering who you are. I am not putting you into that situation again."

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize that you got to make my decisions for me."

"I'm a leader, Allyson. That's what I do. I make the choices that others don't want to make. It's too soon for you to be going out there again. You need to stay here and become reacquainted with yourself and all of us."

"So that's it then, you think I'd be a threat to the Returners. You think that I might give you up at a moments notice just because all of my memories aren't intact. I don't remember must, but you are all my family. I know that."

"It's not about that Allyson, and you know it."

"Fine," she paused, "I'm not a child needing your coddling, Tyler. I'm back, and I want to help."

"And you can, just not in this way. You can help us here, underground, but I'm not letting you out into the field, not yet, and that's my final decision."

She felt her throat constrict in disappointment, anger, and grief.

"So you rescued me for nothing," she said ungratefully, knowing it wasn't true but in anger, wanting to hurt Tyler.

She left without waiting for him to respond.

Alone in her room she did not cry, although she briefly thought about it. She felt useless. It was worse than the numb feeling, the lost feeling of not remembering. She would have to talk with Tyler again. She must convince him of her point of view, remind him of her reasons for being here, her need to do something. She had to approach this logically and systematically, not impulsively as she had done in the meeting room moments before.

She'd write a letter - it would prevent problems, reduce her anxiety. She moved toward her desk, fumbling around, unable to recall where she left her paper, her pens. The moment overwhelmed her. Allyson burst into tears just as a knock sounded on the heavy entrance to her room.

Chapter Thirteen: Remembering the Plan

The dam hadn't broken, but it was a start. Just a crack, but it was something.

Allyson realized that a large piece of her memory had just returned to her, and now she was being called on as an expert witness to her own thoughts and plans by these people - her friends and colleagues. Initially, she simply looked back at each of them, not quite sure how to respond to their eager anticipation of her next words. They all seemed so confident in her, and that scared the hell out of her - she wasn't confident at all.

Not yet, not now, she told herself before she finally met Anderson's reassuring smile. He was slowly and slightly nodding at her, and as she looked at him, she could feel herself remembering more and more. Feeling the now-or-never threshold moving up through her body, Allyson leaned forward, placed her hands on the cool metal surface of the table, and push herself slowly to her feet.

"Anderson," she said softly, "will you join me up here?" It was, after all, not just her plan. They had worked on it together all those months. He nodded, stood, and walked to meet her at the head of the table with Tyler. But Tyler was stepping aside, moving to take his own seat at the table.

"It's all yours, you two," he spoke with a tint of happiness in his voice as he passed them.

Allyson looked at Anderson intently, concentrating hard on her memories, trying to realign her thoughts and reasoning.

"Anderson, I don't know if I can do this, I -"

"Yes you can. Just take it slow. If you need help, I remember most of this still - although I thought we'd never get to use it - and I'll do what I can to help."

"Thanks." Allyson looked away from him and back out amongst the rest. They were still waiting, but she felt as though they were all behind her - no one looked impatient or upset. They were happy to have her back, and she was beginning to feel wonderful for having them back. Allyson drew in her breath slowly, and then began.

"From what I remember - correct me, though, if things have changed - two men oversee Lancastle sector. One of them is Councilman Remus of the Collective, and the other is General Xan, one of two leading commanders of the Vanguard army. Now -"

"Actually, Allyson, one thing has changed - sorry to interrupt," Anderson interjected. "General Xan is no longer stationed at Lancastle. Actually, no one really knows what happened to him. But now," his voice became tight, "now, the commander of the Vanguard in Lancastle is Deiana Wilson, who destroyed the Inn where you were being treated."

All of them gathered in the hall became uneasy at the mention of Deiana's name. Allyson felt a pang of some kind in her thoughts which manifested itself as a hot sweat, but she wasn't entirely sure about why she felt that way. Coupled with the reaction in the room, Allyson assumed that Deiana held some importance with the Returners. She made a mental note to ask Tyler about it later. Feeling the discomfort in the room, Allyson returned to her plan.

"Alright, so, there's still two people overseeing operations in Lancastle - Remus and now Deiana Wilson. But if this Deiana is Vanguard, I'm sure that her mentality must be similar to Xan's, so that shouldn't affect the plan much. The idea behind the whole thing was rather simple - the execution of the operation was to be much more difficult."

"The two sides of rule, the Collective and the Vanguard, don't cherish much love for one another. Because the Vanguard holds all of the government's military technology, the Collective has built a tenuous relationship with the leaders of the army - one based on mutual preservation through power and glory. By infiltrating government ranks, and after building layer upon layer of trust within the Collective, the Returners were prepped to breed distrust and dissent into the administration through Councilman Remus. Once Remus had become convinced of the Vanguard's corruption and an impending coup d'etat, the Returners would arrive and be secretly accepted into the sector by the Collective. Our operatives would be given code keys to the sector's power stations. By sabotaging these stations - I think there were three of them - the entire sector would be destroyed."

There was deep silence in the meeting hall now - every member of the Returners present was hanging on Allyson's every word. She felt confidence seeping into her mind, and throughout her body. For the first time as long as she could remember, Allyson felt like she knew who she was. And she felt like herself again.

"By 'destroyed,' I mean that the land would not be harmed - only the buildings and infrastructure of the city - Gladefall would be preserved through our post-operation undertakings. The Collective would, of course, be assured of their safety by our agents - however, we never planned to let them live. Anderson and I were to escort the Councilman out of the city moments before the explosions. Instead, we planned was to incapacitate him and leave him to die with his own kind."

Tyler was nodding at them from his seat, he began to stand up and move back towards the front of the room as Allyson concluded.

"Of course, now that Anderson and I are out of Lancastle, and because of my ... incident ... I don't see how this plan can still work. Tyler, this is all that we had planned out - I don't know what you have in mind at this point." At this point, Tyler had regained his place with them at the front.

"I know Allyson, and thank you - you too Anderson - for outlining your plans. You're right, Allyson, the plan can't work exactly as you originally intended. But, the ultimate goal of the plan can still be realized."

"How?" Allyson wondered earnestly. She wasn't sold on Tyler's confidence yet - it had taken her and Anderson months to outline the specific details of their plan. But then, she realized, it had been over a year since then...

"Well, Allyson, since you've been gone, a lot has happened. As you now know, Xan is gone from the Vanguard. And you were almost right about him, Anderson - not many people know where he's gone. But I do. And we've been in contact for the past two months." Gasps of shock rose all over the room - Sandra was the first to speak.

"What the hell is this, Tyler? You've been in contact with the Vanguard? What are you trying to do to us? If he knows where this place is, we're all dead! And it'll be on you, Tyler! If -"

"Sandra!" Tyler shouted, "Sandra, calm down! Sit down and keep quiet until I've finished."

Sandra stood there for a minute, her eyes flaring and her breathing heavy. Within moments, however, she had regained herself, and was returning to her seat - small tears welling up in her eyes as she looked down to the floor.

"Yes, I've been in contact with General - or should I say - ex-General Xan. And he's left the Vanguard. And the Collective. He's just a civilian now, and he's sympathetic to our cause. Now, I know this sounds unbelievable, but I trust him. And he's given me information vital to the success of our plans - of your plan, Allyson."

Allyson didn't know what to think at this point. She remembered Xan as being a monster of a human being, committing so many atrocities that she had fought against over the years. She shared Sandra's disbelief, but not her anger. She didn't have the capacity to feel angry yet. She still wasn't comfortable with her life again. She wanted to trust Tyler, so she did.

Archer, who had not spoken for some time, interjected at this point. "Tyler, if Xan's defected, how can he be of any help to us in Lancastle? It just doesn't make any sense - and I just can't trust him at this point."

"I know how you feel, James," Tyler was sympathetic to his friend's concerns, but he hadn't yet revealed his big secret. "I know how you feel, but hear me out. You're right, Xan can't help us in Lancastle directly. But he can give us something of great importance: the code keys to the power stations. As a Vanguard general, he was privy to this information, and he took them with him when he left the sector because he felt that they could help our cause. We need only rendezvous with him, get the codes, and then we're in!"

Tyler looked out among the others. Their emotions ranged from Dorian's vivid disbelief to Sandra's quiet tears. He knew that this wasn't easy to swallow, but he also knew how important this operation was to the success of the Returners. They would have to understand him, they would have to trust him. And that trust would have to be the most complete that they had within them. But Tyler knew that this meeting had brought up a lot of bad blood, and a lot of concerns and emotions. He knew that the planning would have to be finished later - that night, perhaps, if it was possible.

"Listen, there' s been a lot said here this morning. Let's adjourn for now, and return to this plan tonight. Let's all get a little more rest, and then we need to organize for patrols, recon, and raids. We'll be using Epsilon Routine rotation this week, so you know where you'll need to report and when. Until then, let's break for now."

Even though emotions ran high throughout the room, they all reiterated their mantra:

The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.

Then they dispersed. When the noise of movement quieted, and the Returners had returned to their own dreams and restful (and restless) sleep, Allyson and Tyler remained in the meeting room. They both had more to say to one another.

For them, the meeting would continue into the rising sun's dawn.