Forever Cynosure

September 10, 2025

She trolled all of the parties. She made sure all she saw, saw her. If scant coverage was all that was needed, then scant coverage was all she displayed. Few knew her name. Fewer cared. The police did when she was discovered floating face down in the pool by the maid who came in early to clean after last night’s gala.

It took two hours to clear the house for the owners to return. Three days for a cause of death. A pair of middle aged parents, somewhere, were waiting for a call that may never arrive. The coroner’s report indicated she was indeed beautiful, perhaps just north of 20 years old. She bore no visible indications of drug use. He found no drugs in her system. She had no tattoos or pierced ears. Her teeth were perfect and all present. How she died was the mystery. There was just no reason for her to be dead. He secretly hoped that “Guinevere Doe” (he could not call someone this beautiful, Jane) would arise by her own volition to detail the details of her last night.

Eventually, the press got wind of five standard deviations from the mean occupant in body locker 3C. They paid someone who ironically worked harder for bribes instead of wages to sneak in and take pictures of Guinevere, violating the privacy of the deceased and the laws of the state.

Either way, her picture, still of a very beautiful young woman, issued a level of fame she never knew when alive. By the end of the day, Guinevere was nationally known. By the conclusion of the week, she was an international star.

She became a meme. Others wanted to be her. Those who looked close, wanted to look closer. She could not act, or sing, or dance, but agents and producers everywhere wish she could. They wanted a star that would never be late, never be an embarrassment, and (most of all) never age. Dead Guinevere was worth her weight in gold.

And, in the age of artificial intelligence (AI), everything was possible, so she would be.

Last night, on one of those talk shows the critics love, but nobody watches, Lady Guinevere sang her new song, “I Wasn’t Always This Way.”

The coroner finally discovered Guinevere Doe’s cause of death. He could have included it in his final report. However, “I Wasn’t Always This Way” was his daughter’s favorite song. It would be a pity to ruin her birthday party this weekend.

Lady Guinevere would be there, via hologram, singing. No one should try pronouncing Ribose-5-Phosphate Isomerase when such a vision performs.

Benefaction

September 04, 2025

The first arriving officers secured the scenes. What looked like a pool (from above) had the crime scene tape circumventing the entire parking lot. The sixth floor balcony and room had an officer inside and another outside.

Few wanted to incur the wrath of a Detective. None wanted to incur the wrath of a Captain.

I am Captain Phinn Spencer. My sidekick is Lieutenant Bender. We heard the call over the radio at 2305 hours. In 15 minutes, we arrived at the scene to discover a textbook response from all who arrived first.

We began our investigation in the parking lot. The tarp holding the body was painted to look like water in a swimming pool. It had a painted concrete border of twelve feet around the perimeter. Someone even went as far as hand painted beach chairs and a staircase to add to the authenticity. From 60 feet up, it looked like the pool on the other side of the building. Had it not been for poor attendance, the parking lot would have been filled with vehicles, ruining the tarp illusion. Consequently, the recently deceased would not have jumped. She still might have been pushed, or perhaps thrown, but she would not have jumped.

Lt. Bender (Sarah) led the way to the elevators and the 6th floor. From my high school physics class, jumping from this high up would result in a terminal velocity of 62 feet/second or 42 miles/hour. Impacting concrete (directly below the tarp) would be instantaneously fatal. The young lady should have known. Most do. This one, in the mess she had become, didn’t.

Next to the balcony, was a cell phone with the video still operational. Smart money was on it being without fingerprints. Lt. Bender discovered a second cell phone, next to the balcony’s rail. By tomorrow morning, the lab rats will have emailed the results of their tests: no fingerprints, no DNA, but great videos.

Over coffee, with the sunrise at my back, I began watching what someone wanted me to watch. The young lady used to be named Helen Thomas. She was 20 years old, a high school dropout, some mild recreational drug use, and an aspiring model. Last night, she stood on the balcony rail with her cell phone in hand. She looked clean (still waiting on the autopsy report to confirm) and happy. She spoke of her big break next week. It was an audition. It was her chance to move forward, a clean move. Tonight was the last of her old life. What she never mentioned was her impending fall or the false pool. The first should have saved her. The second only saved her for an autopsy.

Helen Thomas looked like she had missed her goal by a single night. I had seen this before. Too many times before. Pity was all I could muster in her defense. In my mind, she was just +1 on things to do this week.

Lt. Bender arrived with a box full of goodies. I opted to forgo donuts years ago. To schmooze me, she discovered a bakery with those soft pretzels I find delicious. Top it off with another cup of coffee (this time, premium) and I was at her mercy. She wanted to know what I know. I let her see the video from Helen’s last moments while I ate my pretzel and sipped my premium dark roast.

The contents of the second phone showed Helen Thomas tipsy, stammering, and nearly falling down. If I had discovered her behind the wheel of a car, I would have arrested her for DUI. Sarah would agree. It also showed her using the first phone, her phone, to speak to someone about money. She spoke of never needing money again.

I waited for her to finish the video.

“What do you think?”

“Two things. First, while Miss Thomas is wearing the same clothing, the two videos are recorded over two nights. Happy Helen’s clothing is not wrinkled. Her teeth are white. Drunk Helen’s clothing is wrinkled, as if she slept in it. Her teeth are yellowish. The second is the bank in the far background. In Happy Helen’s video, the bank reads 11:10pm. That is five minutes after we received the call of her death. In Drunk Helen’s video, the clock reads 10:45 pm. That corresponds to our initial call.”

I waited a few seconds to savor my last gulp of the premium roast. “Anything else Lieutenant?”

“Not that I see.”

“Then riddle me this Batman. Can the bank clock’s time be changed? And if so, then who could do it? Could the cell phone’s clock be changed? And if so, then why?”

“Obviously to hide someone’s involvement in a crime.”

“Or”, I was searching for another pretzel, if one existed, “To hide something other than a crime. Think for a second. What if Happy Helen’s phone is genuine and Drunk Helen’s phone is not. Toxicology’s preliminary report says she had enough alcohol in her system to have a BAL of .21, perhaps higher. How can she change anything short of her mind? If this is the case, there was someone else involved. However, if Drunk Helen’s phone is correct, then the bank’s clock is not. They should have some record of a repair or time correction.”

Lt. Bender called to the Desk Sergeant to dispatch a car to the bank and ask “politely” (euphemism for demand) to see the clock records.

Once finished, “Either way, none of this explains the painted tarp in the parking lot or why she fell. If someone else was in the room, how did they get out?”

“Perhaps they still haven’t.”

I did not have to even ask. The good Lieutenant picked up the phone again. The Desk Sergeant had two patrolmen and a detective dispatched. They would also ask “politely” for pertinent information.

“OK Captain, now it is my turn. Who painted and deployed the tarp of a fake swimming pool?”

Almost too easy. I had been up since 3am working on that question. “Lieutenant, when confused, what is the usual reason for every crime?”

“Money, it is always about money.”

“Lucky for you, I pulled Miss Thomas’s credit report, bank statements, and medical records. Wanna guess what they include?”

I did not give Lt. Bender the opportunity to answer. “Miss Thomas inherited a large sum of money one month ago on the stipulation that she gets married and has a child by year’s end. She might have succeeded in the first, but with her ovarian cancer diagnosis, she could only fail in the second. Knowing this, her younger sister, Harper would stand to inherit the estate. Her medical records do not indicate a treatment. I believe this means hospice. And hospice means death. Thus, it seems Miss Helen Thomas knew she was going to die. So, I believe she made it happen. If this is true, all she needed was an accomplice, someone with a tarp and an artistic touch.

In two hours, the police at the hotel discovered Harper Thomas trying to check out. They detained her and called for me. I asked them to bring her to the station.

We only had to wait another 10 minutes before her arrival for her lawyer to also arrive. Harper Thomas must have made the call in advance.

With all parties present, Lt. Bender began the questioning.

“Did you paint this tarp?” “Perhaps.”

“Did you deploy this tarp?” “Yes.”

“Why?” “It is not against the law to do so. Do you have any important questions?”

“We know about your sister’s medical condition. We know about the inheritance and its value and the conditions. You stand to gain a great deal when your sister died.”

That is when Miss Harper interrupted the Lt. “It is amusing to think you two actually get paid to do your job. You two are so lost, I am going to help you. You pulled my sister’s records and drew the conclusion I had a hand in her death. What if I told you my sister, Helen, has a twin. What if I told you she is a very good painter, better than me. What if I told you my lawyer will file a lawsuit against the entire police department for an entire array of civil rights violations. So, am I free to go or does someone else wish to become a defendant in civil court?”

Later, I did discover evidence of a Miss Laura Thomas (now Mrs. Laura Alami), twin of Helen Thomas, living in Morocco, only an hour’s drive from Rabat. She is married. She is pregnant. And, she is very wealthy, much more wealthy than Harper Thomas would later become. Unfortunately, she is also beyond extradition laws to be returned to the United States.

In my retirement, I will have numerous opportunities to salve my ego with the consumption of a variety of crow flavored baked goods. They all go down well with premium coffee, but do not taste as good as spread on pretzels.

The Other Wife

September 01, 2025

His name should be metronome

When he says he will be home by six

He will be home by six

Paycheck in one hand

Suitcase from road trips in the other

We have the weekends together

He has never missed a single one

Today, I mentioned starting a family

Tonight, he will accept my offer

Reminding me why I wait so patiently

However, my disdain for waiting has no end

My loathing for second place is equally obvious

I know that she exist in another city

With two children and one on the way

And waits for his return every Tuesday

We were married first

Sweethearts together in high school

I worked, so he could earn his degree

Now, he works for me

But not solely for me

One day, he might not return

One day, I may receive a call

Where he is is where he will stay

Regulating me to a Mrs. Havisham status

On every day thereafter

I deserve better than my current lot

I am not the other wife

I was here first

Yet, when he is home

He makes my home complete

So, tonight, I will show him

How complete we can truly become

I will extract his essence to have my desire

Afterwards, I will extract his permanence

So she cannot extricate a single drop more

I Didn’t Want To

August 30, 2025

Freddy offered me his time on the dance floor. From what I witnessed earlier, he was good, but not great. He knew the steps, but had trouble changing the pace when encountering others in close proximity. My friends told me he tries, but never really succeeded for all of his efforts.

I would rather sit this one out, but he was persistent. I offered my hand and began a slow waltz with him.

Perhaps, I should have been more attentive to him. Perhaps, I should have worn dance heels (1” or 2”) instead of my near stilettos (4”). When we made contact with another couple, I lost my footing, but Freddy caught, ensuring continuity. As a couple, we did not stand out while he moved me across the room. I expected as much from a journeyman with a dozen or so years experience.

By the conclusion of the music, he escorted me back to my seat. I was somewhat obligated to offer him the empty chair abreast to mine. It was an awkward few minutes in which he wanted to say something to me, wanting more for me to say something to him. To a passerby, we must have looked like a couple recently divorced who are behaving properly despite years of struggles and deception between us.

“Genevieve.” I gave him my evil eye. “Please excuse me, Miss Monroe. Have you accomplished the tasks you are here to accomplish?”

“What makes you think I am here to accomplish anything other than wishing the recently betrothed couple the very best?”

“Please, Miss Monroe. It is a very rare event in which you are, how shall I say this, exactly as you seem.” As I massaged my heel encased foot, I knew he was correct. However, I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing anything about what I knew. So, I began asking him questions.

“Is your contact the groom?” Freddy nodded to confirm. He could have asked me the converse and I also could have nodded. Neither were necessary for professionals.

“Still planning on using a knife? Such a mundane question he asked. This time, out of professional courtesy, I politely answered, "perhaps". In response, I did not inquire how Freddy would dispatch the groom. I did ask if he would act before or after the guests began throwing rice.

Freddy took a sip of champagne before acknowledging his post departure activity. He understood that we would act in unison.

It took a few moments before the guests began arranging themselves for the rice shower on the steps of the reception hall. Freddy took a position on the left. I took mine lingering behind the couple. In the ensuing chaos, both of us would act and then both of us would become invisible. We are merely specters, seen only once, but never remembered. Today is only the third time I have spoken to Freddy. It most likely will be my last.

I once remembered when my friends called me Linda. I dreamed of a day like today, in which all of my hopes came true, even if only for a single day. I heard my mother speak fondly of such a time in her life, when my father cared, before he spent more time at the bar than at home.

Before the beatings began.

Only the rustle of the bride’s veil brought me back to reality. In passing, I entertained the notion of not acting today or ever. Just walk away and disappear forever. No one would find me. No one knew where to look if they wanted. Genevieve Monroe would become Elizabeth Smith. Gone would be my auburn tresses. Gone would be my constant worries about being on someone’s kill list.

The first scream snapped me back to reality. Freddy stuck the groom and broke the blade. The bride screamed, The people became frantic. Everyone saw Freddy. No one saw me. I inserted the hypodermic needle into the bride’s neck to inject the air bubble into her artery. I held her, not as her killer, but as a maid. Those nearby thought she fainted, thinking of me only as a friend, suspecting me of nothing.

Freddy had to run. I only had to walk. I returned to the reception hall, dropped my gown, combed out the dye from my hair, and exited as a cleaning lady taking out the garbage.

This would be my last contract. I wish my last contract was my last contract. Tears fell down my shirt thinking about my choices in life. A few more tears fell thinking about the life that has no more choices.

I didn’t want to do what I do. Few would understand.

Freddy would, but no others.

25 Year Prom Night

August 28, 2025

She arrived at my door wearing a gown and a smile. My parents received her and asked to wait in the living room. I was out back, preparing to mow the lawn.

I told my parents I had no idea as to why she was here. She was in my English and history class, but no others. We never spoke much. I never asked her out. I never asked anyone out. I had work to do.

None-the-less, my parents wanted me to speak with her. Reluctantly, being somewhat confused, I agreed.

I wish I had not.

She told me (and my parents) her tale of poor choices and missed opportunities. She laid before me more than I thought it was possible to say. Her father was rich. If she did as he demanded, she would be rich also. However, she did not follow his instructions to the letter. She was to get married, have children, and guarantee her father could leave his company, when he died, to her and her children. Unfortunately, she did all he asked in the wrong order. She told me she was pregnant. She said she wanted nothing to do with the father. He left her when he discovered her condition and has not been heard from since. I asked what all of this has to do with me. She asked me, with an audacity on levels I had never experienced, to take his place. In essence, tonight, the Senior Prom night, would be the cover for her to disclose her condition to her family. I would propose and within a month, be the father of her children. Her father would have what she wanted. Her children would have a respectable name. I would be a surrogate with access to finances I could only dream of.

I asked her why she chose me? She told me I was a safe choice.

Her dryness pierced my heart, laying bare her true character. This was a young woman without an ounce of shame. The rumors I heard were now all true. Some people know the price of everything and the value of nothing. I now was for sale to a single highest bidder. Last hour, I didn’t even realize there was a sale. I learned more about life in the last ten minutes than in the previous 18 years.

My father declined her offer. My mother asked her to leave. Surprisingly, I wanted to know more. She said she brought a tux with her that would fit me. If I was to be so bold, her limo driver could marry us tonight. She had the paperwork that detailed the terms of the arrangement. All I had to do was say, “Yes”.

It has been 25 years since. The twins, I hear, are grown. She purchased my share of the business, as promised. The divorce becomes final tomorrow.

I have no idea where she went or what she looks like. I have never spoken to or seen the twins.

She got everything she needed. I doubt she got anything she wanted.

This year, I will pass on my 25th high school reunion. One of the ladies I work with invited me to hers. Her father has passed and she does not have a lawyer on retainer.

I can handle a three hour commitment this time around.

It’s Complicated

August 26, 2025

“So, how can I help you?”

She sat motionless for a few seconds, breathing deeper with each passing moment, almost building the courage to either escape my office or confess all of her sins in a tidal wave of angst and power.

To be a professional in this business, I hope for the latter.

She chose the latter.

“I am in love with two people. The first is my fiance. I have known him since school. He has always been there for me. He is big and strong, caring, but not intellectually equal to me. Our conversations are mostly monologues in which I do most of the speaking and he does most of the listening. He barely graduated, but he works hard as a mason. He gives me everything I ask for, but it, recently, is not enough.”

“Could you describe the other person?”

“She is my employer. She is witty, charming, and extremely intelligent. When I am with her, she takes me to elevated plateaus of thought I can never have when I am at home. She is beautiful. When she enters my office, I am alive again. I detect her perfume when she draws near. I am ecstatic when she touches my hand. I have trouble controlling myself when she goes further. Yesterday, she slowly swept my hair from my face. She took her time to reach in before she gently kissed me. It wasn’t the kiss of a friend. It lasted longer than necessary. I felt her mouth open, providing a pathway for me to do likewise. Our tongues touched, then danced. I tasted her core and she tasted mine. I wanted more. I began to breathe harder. She pulled me in closer, denying me the oxygen I craved. Within minutes, she began exploring my body. I offered no resistance. I melted before her advances. By the end of the hour, she had taken me in ways I never thought possible. In the end, she told me I was hers. I could not say no. Tomorrow, she will take me again, lay me open, lay me bare to her ministrations. I want to be taken, but I feel guilty about being taken.”

“Because of your fiance?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about him.”

“When he is aroused, he is a barbarian. When he wants me, or something from me, he does not ask, he expects. When he does not receive, he takes by force. I enjoy his force. Our first time together lasted nearly four hours. He held me down. He lifted me up. He never stopped. He is relentless in his desire. I see it in his eyes. Sex with him is like sex with a demon. He has had me in public. He has forced me to go beyond my limits. I leave him and he pulls me back. I ache when I think about what he will do next time. I ache when I think about never being with him again. Professionally, my gynecologist encourages me to reduce my time with him. After meeting him, she tells me she wishes she had my problems. He cannot get enough of me. I cannot get enough of him. That is until we are apart. Then, I crave what he offers, but I also crave what he cannot offer.”

“This is just a thought, have you considered a threesome? It might be fun?”

“I did, but she is a gold-star lesbian. It would never work.”

“Well, as I see it, you have a choice to make. Some might be so bold to be envious about walking a mile in your shoes. How much time do you think you have before your world comes crashing down?”

“Tomorrow, I am to meet my employer in her office. By her instructions, I am to bring two sets of clothing. I seriously believe she will propose, for she moves that fast.”

“And what of tonight, when you get home?”

“We are to make wedding plans. I believe he will want to make children. I may not be able to walk by sunrise.”

Never before had I encountered one with such a series of complications.

“Professionally, you must make a choice. I do not believe you are in love with your employer. She may be in love with you. The feeling of something so intense, so new must be exhilarating. With your fiance, what you describe is a classic case of submission to his dominance. In the bedroom, he is above anything you have ever experienced. You feel trusting in his arms and respected among your peers. You have what they want. However, outside of his physical abilities, you feel empty. This is compounded by the fact everyone who knows the two of you in the former do not know the two of you in the latter. I believe he loves you with all of his heart. You are his world. He will never betray you. He is the definition of faithful. But, if all you want is faithfulness, please adopt a dog. Your life will be easier.”

“I came to you for help. Are you telling me to break off my engagement and never leave my employer?”

“I am telling you to make a choice. You have little time in which to act. Recognize the repercussions of what you are about to do. If you chose not to decide, that is, by default, a choice, and not a very good one. You told me you are now 26 years old. Can you live for the next 50+ years without regret? Whatever you decide, I will be interested in knowing how it all ends.”

With that, and a very awkward pause indicating I have done all I could to help her, she took her leave, opened her umbrella, and began walking. I could not tell if she was going toward him or her. She left no indication as to which path she would follow. In my notes, my preliminary diagnosis was simply “indecisive”, definitely “conflicted”.

Had I been in her shoes, I wonder what my choice would have been.

Most likely, “complicated”.

My Death as My Motif

August 22, 2025

I held someone’s hand tightly. I think it was a US Marshall. I am not sure. Perhaps she held my hand as we walked through the hallway. She never tells me where I am going. She rarely says anything to me. I am now seven years old. I know that for a fact. I got a burn on my left forearm earlier in the year. It left a scar that looks like a starfish with one of the arms missing. It no longer hurts when I touch it. Today, the Marshall told me to wear a short sleeve shirt before we began our walk. My burn is always with me. My parents are never with me anymore.

She takes me to a window that looks into a room. On the other side is a full grown man without a shirt, pacing back and forth. He seems angry. I am beginning to wonder why. When he turns, I see his burn on his left forearm. His starfish is identical to mine. He stops to look at me. He looks sad. He has been crying. The Marshall pulls me and we continue our walk back to where we began. I only make it four steps before I hear the sound of a gun shot. I want to look up to ask her a question. But I don’t. Somehow, I know she would never answer it. My parents were like that before the men came to take me away. Someday, I will get big so no one has to hold my hand. Today is not that day. The Marshall returns me to the room I always begin in. I have no idea why I think that. I don’t remember being here, yet part of me thinks I have always been here.

Part of me thinks I may never leave.

The judge sentenced me to death. However, the DA offered me a deal that would let me live, but never leave. I knew he wanted to know how I did it. He thinks there is some type of machine that permits my travel. There isn’t. The DA is bluffing and I tell him so. He knows what I do, but not how I do it. The judge is clueless. Handcuffed (again), the bailiffs take me to the room. Here is where it always happens. They threatened to kill me as a child. I know there won’t. For in doing so, no one wins. I just reset and the game begins again. Maybe the DA gets lucky and puts all of the pieces together, like he did this time. Maybe he doesn’t and I am free to do what I am supposed to do. As of yet, I have not done it. The DA does not know this, but he soooo wants to. He can taste it. I tell him to perform a biological impossibility. He shows me, me. This time, he wants me to give in. I don’t want me to see me in this room. The lady Marshall understands what is going to happen. She makes me turn to avoid seeing, but keeps me close so I can hear. Eventually, the DA will have her fired, possibly executed for a crime he will create. He is power hungry. I have a 9mm pointed at my head. Both of me hear the shot.

I remember hearing the shot the last time I walked down this hallway. The female US Marshall must have called off sick. Today, I am walking to the window alone. I am seven years old today and there is no one to wish me a happy birthday. I see a shirtless man pacing in his room. He stops, but does not turn to look at me. Somehow, he places his right hand on his left forearm, just as I do when I get nervous. Through the window, I see the armed man enter and point a pistol and the shirtless man’s head. He removes his hand from his forearm. He has a burn scar just like mine, a starfish with one arm missing. I cried earlier today because no one wished me a happy birthday. When I saw the pistol man shoot the shirtless man, I understood that I was wrong. My tears were for him.

I mean me.

all is as all was

August 20, 2025

For AMR

Professor Ford watched in the far distance as the mushroom cloud subsided to tolerable levels for viewing and intolerable levels for all other adjacent activities.

The stars resumed their twinkle in the night sky, provided anyone was left to see the sparkle.

He romanticized all that he endured prior to this moment. He romanticized all that he might expect from this moment on. He was accustomed to being incorrect on all things in the “ago”. He needed to extend this premonition to the future tense.

“There,” said the voice. Professor Ford vaguely remembered reading that line somewhere, sometime. So famous, so vague, that anyone might have spoken it. When he felt the tip of the spear against his head, such thoughts of formatting became superfluous.

“Who are you?” began the next two hours of conversation with the remnants of what might have been a small group of people with a purpose. Professor Ford listened to their demands, later concerns, then finally interests as he walked with the armed group to their upwind encampment.

One cup of water and the Professor took his leave to sleep away the nightmare of what he previously witnessed.

By morning, almost as a tribal council, the group woke Professor Ford and escorted him to the cave’s entrance. Here, the elder sat the Professor down at a makeshift table provided with paper, pencils, and a lantern. Here, he began a tale of magic and mystery.

“Once, our group was at peace with nature and ourselves. It remained that way until the blind prophet arrived. He took shelter in the cave for the night. Before he exited in the morning, he carved a prophecy on the inner wall. He enchanted it. He told all who would listen that what he wrote was a warning of events yet to come. He spoke of the end of civilization. He told of death by fire and its cold embrace forever after. He also said that he who reads the prophecy will make the words true. They would also make the words disappear forever. Only by not knowing what he cast will what he cast never come to fruition. Then, he left, never to return, never to be seen again. That was forty years ago. Since then, no one may enter the cave. None shall read what is written. None shall know so all shall live. Until last night. Last night, we all saw the fire. Today, we hear of the cold covering what used to be. A million perished because one might have entered. Our group is not well-learned as those who used to live afar (he pointed to the ruins of the city). We need you to enter, but not read. We need you to write what is written without seeing what is written. We need you to tell us his words. We need to know if this is the end of days. Can you do this?”

Professor Ford found the elder’s message both cryptic and enticing. He had the air of an intellectual and the hands to match. Not a blemish visible on either. I remember him stroking his small beard, posed in deep thought. If this was for his own or for the sake of others, that debate remains to this day. It took nearly ten minutes before he rose and accepted the terms of entry.

A few of ours smiled. A few more did not. If the old man was a prophet of doom, what awaited the Professor would be as terminal as what we witnessed yesterday. If the old man was not, then what we would learn could be no more fearful than what we currently feared.

Professor Ford gathered his tools, lit the lamp, and began his journey into the cave. He returned soon after with the papers folded nicely, ready for presentation.

He bore no look of anguish or injury. He remained focused on his professional training. That is what my people all saw. What I saw was the small smirk of someone who knew something others did not.

Sitting back at the table, Professor Ford said he did not read the words, but he has them written on the papers. What the old man wrote still remained. His words still hold their magic. If no one enters the cave, no one will break the enchantment. All is as all was.

With that, he set the well worn pencils on the neatly folded papers. He lifted the lamp to make sure that he extinguished the fire, setting the lamp on the table. Professor Ford gathered what few belongings he had, said his goodbyes, and began his walk into the sunset, away from the ruins of the city he must have once lived.

No one ever saw Professor Ford again.

However, it was only a minute before all in attendance wanted to read the enchanted words on the paper. All wanted the honor, but none wanted the risk. It was an awkward pause before the elder selected me to read the papers. Everyone was in agreement. If I died, no big loss.

With trepidation, I reached for the papers. With even more hesitation, I unfolded the first, holding it up to read.

And then laughed, again, and again.

Each page did hold a prophecy of importance. Once we all read each page, we all understood.

Professor Ford did not read the words. In the dark, he placed the papers over the carvings of the words and used the pencils to create rubbings. In this way, the paper held the rubbings of the words, but not the actual words. We could read the words, without reading the words. The magic remains, with the old man’s words for all eternity.

We never saw another fire over the land. We never encountered another cold embrace afterward. When I reached the age of ascension, I became the leader of our people. Guided by the words no one (actually) could read, but did, we successfully grew into more than the sum of our parts.

So what did the papers say?

They are indeed prophecies, enhanced by magic in every way possible.

My first rule as leader was to leave them that way forever.

Never Close Enough

August 19, 2025

She sat in the car.

Waiting.

Too long not to be noticed. Not long enough to resolve her conflicts.

Conflicts that may never be resolved.

It began to drizzle.

It always drizzles on days like this.

After today, she thought, it may never drizzle again.

The walk through the cemetery was long, borderline arduous. The light rain was insufficient to wash away the grime and oil only a midtown cemetery could offer. Perhaps it was the ever-present exhaust from the parkway that made the path the way it was. Her heels offered no protection against the slipperiness. Her lack of an umbrella afforded no protection against receiving an impending cold.

She did not want to be here. If the well wishers and mourners knew, they would not want her here. Not many would recognize her for what she had become. She did not recognize herself for what she had become. None-the-less, she was here, when it counted most.

She heard the priest say a few words. She heard her grandmother say a few less. “No one should outlive their children”, she repeated. Stern at first, almost a dampened drone to finish. How ironic the metaphor of her voice resembled that of her life.

So many wore black. So few jockeyed for a better position near the casket, near the canopy near the casket.

One by one they laid a flower or sifted a handful of dirt before turning to walk away. She overheard a child ask to go home. An insurance agent whispered to another about why they needed a policy. A pair of teenage girls checked their phones. They might be cousins, by blood.

Not by disposition.

Usually in the movies, someone of diminished consequence lingers in solitude as the grave diggers refill the hole they created the night before. Today, no one volunteered for the position. By default, her life was default in every way possible, the task fell to her.

The priest, assured that the cinematic streak would continue, left for the next scheduled funeral. He was already wet. Might as well earn a little something extra for the orphans.

She placed her hand on the shovel’s shoulder, silently asking for one more minute. His indifference proved he was an hourly worker. She could take as long as she wanted.

It was now or never. He wanted a family he always dreamed about. She wanted, well, she never really knew what she wanted. After running away from home, she took the time to once a year see if he still remembered his dream. Pink was her favorite color. Pink ribbons adorned the trees in the front yard on her birthday. Every birthday. He made the effort. He laid out the welcome mat. She could have accepted such a generous offer. But she didn’t. Year after year, she came close, but never close enough. She always thought she had time.

She was wrong. It was the only thing she ever was good at.

The shoveler gave off a small cough. Even the drizzle beckoned her to return to a safer shore lest the oncoming torrent touch her.

No one had ever touched her. He tried, when she was young and innocent. He did all he could to keep her that way. If only he held her one more time.

If.

The path back took longer than the path forward. Now she had to dodge rapidly filling puddles. The rain on her face masqueraded as tears.

Maybe it was the other way around. She would never know.