Alone and scared, Lily sat in her room and stared at the blank sheet of paper on her desk. Downstairs, her parents were engaged in yet another fight - or was it just a continuation of one tremendous argument that began two years ago? Lily didn't know and didn't care. She also didn't want to hear it anymore, so she put on her headphones and cranked up the music, her eyes burning with tears.

The paper gleamed in the sunlight. It was plain white paper nabbed from the family printer. Last week she had asked her dad for a pad of artist's paper, but he just grumbled something about money and potatoes; Lily didn't bring it up again. This would have to do, she thought as she grabbed a pencil. She touched the lead to the paper and paused as she tried to decide what to draw.

"Don't think, Lily. Just draw," the paper seemed to say, its whisper cutting through the rock music blasting into her ears.

She sighed. "I'm too old for scribbles."

"I don't mean scribbles. Put the pencil on the paper and draw a line. When you're done with that line, draw another one."

"What, just keep drawing lines? But it won't look like anything," she protested.

The paper laughed. "Since when does art have to look like anything? This is about drawing what's in your mind and in your heart. What's inside you doesn't always make sense. You can feel it, can't you? Especially now, with your parents fighting the way they do. But sometimes, if you take the chaos inside your head and put it somewhere else, you'll end up feeling better."

Lily bit her lip, thinking. She didn't see how drawing random lines would make her feel better. Horses were fun to draw, and so were mountains and people, but sometimes drawing them made her feel worse because they reminded her of what life used to be like. She shrugged. "I suppose it couldn't hurt. It might even be fun."

She started to draw.

"There you go. And don't even think about erasing, young lady," the paper teased.

"Well, of course not! If I don't know what I'm drawing, how will I know when I need to fix a mistake?"

"Exactly. Now hold up a bit and let me take a look at what you've done so far."

"Did I do okay?" she asked. "It still doesn't look like much. Should I draw more?"

"It looks great, Lily! Now, how about you draw some curves? Wavy lines, circles, curlicues- whatever feels right."

"Okay." Lily moved the pencil over the page with slow, deliberate strokes, the graphite connecting the strong, straight lines with delicate arcs and spirited squiggles.

"You're doing great, kiddo! Now take a look at what you've drawn. It didn't look like much when you started, and it's still not a complete picture, but you can tell what it's supposed to be."

"I can see it!" she said, excited at how well the paper's instruction helped her draw. She paused as the patterns and shapes formed a familiar picture. "It looks like Mommy and Daddy." Lily put the pencil down and stared at the paper. "I didn't want to think about them right now, you know. That's why I wanted to draw. Why did you make me draw them?"

"I didn't. You drew what you needed to."

"I didn't need to draw them!" she cried, pounding her fist on the desk. "I needed to draw something happy that would make me feel better."

"You don't feel better?" the paper asked.

"Are you kidding me?" She swiped away the tears rolling down her cheeks. "When I'm home, I hear them fighting. When I'm at school, I have to pretend to be happy so my friends don't make me tell them about my parents. When I'm in bed, I-" She clamped her mouth shut. That thought was one she wouldn't even tell to a piece of paper.

"When you're in bed, you have bad dreams, don't you?"

Lily nodded, sobbing.

"You dream about what would happen if they got really mad at each other. You dream that your mom would leave and you would never see her again. Or you dream that your dad kills your mother, that he takes the gun he has hidden in the closet and shoots her in the head."

She gasped. "How do you know that? You're not supposed to know that! Nobody is. I've never told anyone!"

"But you did. You just told me."

Lily shook her head. "No, I just drew a picture. I didn't tell you anything."

"Look closer. Look at how you drew your mother." She looked. In the center of her mother's forehead, Lily had drawn a tiny circle atop three tiny lines- rivulets of blood.

"Mom? No. No, I didn't mean to draw that! I was just- you told me to draw lines and circles, so that's what I did!"

"You're right. I did tell you to draw lines and circles. But remember what I said. Drawing this way will show you what's really in your soul. This is what you're afraid of. And because you're keeping it inside, it's consuming you."

Lily sat back in her chair, silent, the pencil drooping in her hand.

"You don't have to pretend to be happy anymore, Lily."

She glanced up in alarm. "Then what am I supposed to do?"

The paper sighed. "You have to tell your parents."

"No!" she shouted. "I can't do that!"

"Why not? They're your parents. They can help you."

"Can they? Please. They can barely help themselves." She ripped off the headphones. "Can you hear that? I hear it every day of my life! I can't talk to them. I can't even ask them for a stupid pad of paper! And you think they'll give a crap about this?"

The paper kept quiet for a bit, then said, "I know they'll care. Just as you're consumed by your fear, they're consumed by theirs. Your parents are so worried about their own problems that they've forgotten about yours. Part of that is because you're so good about hiding your feelings."

"But, I don't know how to even begin to say it."

"Yes you do."

She shook her head. "No, I-"

"Look at me."

"But-"

"Look. At. Me."

Lily stared at the paper, and all at once it came to her. "Thank you." She grabbed the picture and ran downstairs to show her parents.

“Hello, old stone.”

“Hello, old man.”

“You are still here. You still stand, testament to the bones buried beneath you. You still bear the name of the long-departed on your face. You remain rank and file with others of your kind, representing lives lived richly and lives squandered.”

“As well as lives whose promise was cut short, sad lives and long lives spent in black hatefulness. I, and my stone brothers, represent people like you, old man, as well as people unlike you. What brings you to me today?”

“The summer’s day. The green grass. The tranquility. These things are among the best that life presents me, even among all these stones.”

And does it bother you, old man, that you will soon lay beneath a stone like me?”

“Why do you say soon, old stone? My health is good, my strength remains. Although my life has been long, the road ahead may well be long also.”

“But I am a stone. What is a decade or two to a granite slab? The bones beneath me were placed here when you were just a boy, yet as your visage has dried and wrinkled, I remain crisply chiseled. I assure you, old man, your existence is as fleeting as a firefly in the night.”

“Do you mean to taunt me, old stone? For if that is your intention, I will tell you of the sensation of a cool breeze on a warm day. I will tell you of the scent of spring lilacs, the sound of children laughing, the taste of fresh-baked bread. I will tell you of the glorious beauty of a blood-red sunset. I will tell you of the things that you in your immutability cannot experience.”

“I have no need for those things, for I am indeed but a stone monument. But taunt you? No, not at all. I simply point out fact.”

“But I have no fear of my future, no trepidation about wandering among stones such as you. The truth is, your existence is testament to life. A documentation and a celebration.”

“How so, old man? My existence is a reminder of your inevitable demise, a testament that all you have experienced and all you have accomplished will be for nothing when you are laid in the ground.”

“Ah, that is where you are wrong, old stone. My experiences and my accomplishments are all the sweeter for their impermanence. All good things end. If life were as eternal as a block of granite, it might be as dull as a block of granite.”

“Who is doing the taunting now, old man? You should surely know that one without sensation cannot suffer hurt feelings.”

“I made my statement not to taunt, but to express my sentiment. I mean no ill will, I harbor no animosity towards one such as you.”

“Then all is well, I suppose, if you are as satisfied with your impermanence as I am with my immortality. But what brings you to me, time after time? Among all the stones in this lawn, what special property does my granite possess?”

“Old stone, your granite is much the same as any other. This location is unremarkable. It is the cask beneath you that is special to me, for it contains the remains of my father.”

“But the bones below are as inert as I. Any amount of compassion and fatherly love has certainly left the dry remains of what used to be a man.”

“I come here not to visit with bones, old stone. I come here to be reminded of a life that was.”

“And what do you see old man?”

“I see you, old stone. And I see my father’s name boldly chiseled on your face. I see the date of his birth and the date of his death, dates which put his name in context with his life and times.

“Simply the letters of his name and the dates of his life? Such small things cannot possibly make your trip worthwhile.”

“Ah, old stone, you reveal your nature. Where you see cold facts emblazoned on your countenance, I see the representation of a very significant life. Where you see pointless effort, I see an opportunity to remember, and to celebrate.”

“Celebrate, old man? You celebrate the dead bones of a loved one?”

“I celebrate a life that was significant. I celebrate my father’s memory.”

“Could you not remember and celebrate in your home, or on a busy street as you go about your life?”

“I can and I do. But this place is special because of you, old stone. You are a physical and enduring testament to the life I celebrate. I am grateful for your existence.”

“I am touched and honored, old man. I hope that you have many days ahead so that you can visit often. I hope that when your days come to an end, there will be someone to visit the stone that rests above your bones.”

“And I hope that you stand for many more years to keep the memory of my father alive.”

“Good-bye, old man. Please return soon.”

“Good-bye old stone. I shall.”

The color drained from Rick Statham's face as he discovered his account was in credit. By several hundred obs. He was still uncomfortable with this new system and, at 63, would have preferred to ignore it except it was getting harder to find anyone prepared to accept cash these days. He thought he had been doing very well up until this point but something had obviously gone horribly wrong.

He signed on to the forums to ask advice and got nothing but short, irritable replies along the same lines - "ATFFAQ". He had no option but to ask the FAQ.

Rick hated FAQs. They weren't even proper AIs, as annoying as those damned things were. FAQs didn't even pretend to be anything other than a list of multiple-choice canned responses which were never quite what he wanted to know. Back in the old days, he'd waded through pages of actual responses in text format. Come to think of it, he'd hated those too.

He brought up the FAQ and it launched into the introductory speech which he ignored. The face on the screen was lifted from "Max Headroom", right down to the speech impediment which it used while buffering data. Finally, it settled down and asked "How can I help you percent-name-percent?"

Perhaps he should have given it more information; this would get annoying but if he was going to have to deal with this thing, at least it would be on his own terms.

"Just call me 'Boss'," he said. "Or 'Master'!"

Using identical intonation, the FAQ asked "How can I help you, Jerk?"

Or perhaps not. Somebody had obviously anticipated this. "Stick to 'Rick'," he said with resignation.

"What seems to be the problem, Rick?" asked FAQ.

"My account is messed up," Rick snapped.

"I'm not an AI, Rick, I can't access your account. You need to be more specific."

"What use are you?" he demanded. To his surprise, he got a response.

"I'm a script, Rick. Just like you got if you had called tech support at any time in the past fifty years. The only difference is that you're not paying to have a human read it to you. So long as you stay on subject, you won't be able to tell the difference."

He was impressed; faqing scripts had obviously moved on since he last used them. Temporarily distracted from his own troubles, Rick decided to try it out and asked about the average cruising speed of an unladen African swallow. He was rewarded with an uninterruptible thirty second pitch for an old Monty Python download. He returned to the task in hand and meekly explained about his account.

"Did you listen to the introduction when you set up the account, Rick?"

"I...skimmed it," said Rick, evasively.

"I'll take that as 'no'," said FAQ. "I'm F-f-f-fetching the information now."

"Don't make me sit through that!" protested Rick. "I need help now!"

"I'm not going to run the script, I'm just i-i-integrating the responses. You really should have learned about it before signing up."

"It's a stupid system. I mean, why make obs negative?"

"Obligations are negative," insisted FAQ. "It is owed. Originally it was for tax reasons since what you owe, possibly to someone in a different jurisdiction, can't be taxed. By the time governments managed to agree on mutual taxation, they were too broke to enforce it so the free exchange of goods and services without a centrally-controlled currency was available to all. It doesn't even matter what the trade is in so long as someone, somewhere is prepared to accept it. The relative value, in obs, is determined by market-based heuristic algorithms which is beyond my scope but would you like me to queue up a link?"

"No!" insisted Rick. "Quit the sales pitch and tell me what went wrong."

"Have you had many transactions from strangers, recently? Perhaps from less technological countries?"

In truth, Rick had been surprised at just how many people were prepared to trade obs with an unrated newcomer and his heart sank.

"They didn't give their country," he said, "but their ratings were good!"

"You can't just go by ratings," explained FAQ. "You need to check who stands by their trades, their backers and so on. I-I-I've created a request for a fraud review. Sign it now."

Rick gnashed his teeth. Even though it was not possible for a FAQ to "know" anything, this one still made him feel like an idiot.

"Ok, it's sent," he lied.

"The message is still in your out-box," FAQ pointed out. "I may not have access to your system but I can see the message I created."

Admitting defeat, Rick switched to his mail system, thumbed his signature and returned to the FAQ.

"Sorry," he said, embarrassed.

The head and shoulders on the screen gave a slow twitch which might have been intended as a shrug. "I'm a script," FAQ pointed out. "All my work has already taken place so it's only your time you're wasting."

A blocky grimace was suddenly superimposed on the face, a hand with a single raised digit floated to the front of the screen and FAQ crowed "Loser!"

"What?" Rick spluttered.

"Th-th-that was a recent edit. Inappropriate?"

"Damned right, it was!"

"Script r-r-reverted. It's only your time you're wasting."

"So what did I do wrong?" sighed Rick.

"You were the victim of scratchers," explained FAQ. "They accept obs they have no intention of fulfilling. If the obs go sour, they bounce back. They're your responsibility now."

"But that's unfair!" Rick protested.

"It's how the system works. How else could you avoid abuse."

"What if I refuse?"

The flicker of a smile, slightly misaligned, crossed FAQ's face. "Then you have two options. You can change your thumb-print or move to a jurisdiction that has managed to suppress direct trade. There are one or two new-dictatorships left and it's less prevalent in the subsistence economy of the third world. The obs, however, will still stand and bounce back on legitimate accounts who accepted them. Usually in your circumstances that's family and friends trying to get you started."

"No!" Rick protested, "What else can I do?"

"Having someone prepared to stand by your obligations will make trade easier for you until you can improve your trustworthiness," FAQ suggested.

"That will give me a better exchange rate?"

"Hmmm". The null sound was probably inserted to fill time when the script had nothing to say but the effect was spoiled when it went on beyond the capacity of human lungs and began to grate on Rick's nerves. This was evidently something the script had to dig deep to answer.

"You seem to be confusing obs with currency," announced FAQ at last. "There is no 'rate' for an ob, either interest or exchange. If it's defaulted then it's worthless; if not then it's worth the same whoever fulfills it. The only question as to whether it's accepted is that of if it will be honored or return to those who accept it and trade it on. So long as you are deemed trustworthy, if a little naïve, you will find someone to trade with."

"But hundreds of obs! How do you expect me to work off those in my lifetime?"

"You might be pleasantly surprised if you check your balance."

Puzzled, Rick did so and found his balance down to double digits. Low double digits.

"How on Earth..?" he began.

FAQ's window jumped to the foreground. "I assume your situation has improved. Scratchers play the numbers; most of the transactions can be reversed. You will have lost any physical goods but at least you are no longer liable for them. The rest, I'm afraid, are still on you."

"I have a little money..." began Rick.

"No. Obligations cannot be made on currency, that would defeat their original purpose."

"How about my car? It's an old gas burner but it might be worth converting. If not, there's a fair amount of metal in those things."

"If you can find a buyer, then the going rate for 'my car' i-i-is...

"Hello! If you're interested in selling your 'my car' then you have to check out these absolutely disgusting videos of..."

"That's an advert," interrupted Rick.

"A-a-ah. Site blacklisted. Perhaps you had better track down an AI and ask it yourself. Has this FAQ answered your question?"

"Guess so," admitted Rick considering how much his situation had improved in five minutes.

"In that case," continued FAQ, "please consider visiting our sponsors at..."

"Faq off!" ordered Rick. In the sudden silence he felt a pang of guilt at his abruptness. Grudgingly he had to admit that it had been very helpful. For a FAQ.

“I’m so glad that you agreed to come out with me again.”

“Me too, this place is beautiful, I don’t think I’ve ever been to this nice of a restaurant before.”

“Well, only the best for you.”

I smiled at his sentiment. I knew that this could only be a onetime event; he didn’t have the money to always dine at the best places in town. But it was nice that he tried. Not all men do.

And it really was an absolutely stunning restaurant. The wine list exceeded the full menus of every place I had been to before, and there were many bottles even older than I was. The professional looking waiters went to and fro carrying platters full of dishes that smelled and looked absolutely divine. And the room! They had hit that perfect spot between opulent and gaudy, between vastness and intimacy. We were seated right next to the elaborate fountain and pool, which was just big enough to impress but small enough to feel like it was yours to enjoy personally.

A waiter stopped at the table, and politely asked, “Have you made your decision?”

“Yes,” replied Steven, “I’ll have the Indonesian soy beef ribs, while the lady will have the pork roast with fennel and rosemary. And two glasses of your Cabernet Sauvignon 1979 as well.”

The waiter looked confused at me for a moment but wrote the order down quickly and hurried off. He must have been new and had trouble keeping up with the order.

“So did you order for me to be a gentleman, or so that I didn’t see the prices,” I asked, teasingly.

“I’m appalled at the suggestion I’d have anything but gentlemanly intentions, Candice,” he replied, just as teasingly. “But if I must level with you, then yes, I did select some of the cheaper things on the menu.”

We laughed together.

“Excuse me,” he said, suddenly and as if he had been offended, looking down at the seat next to him. “Absolutely not, I think a couple should be straightforward with each other. Sorry about the interruption,” he said, looking back at me.

I tried to sit up and strain my neck to see what he was talking to, but I only saw a corner of the black backpack that seemed to accompany him everywhere. Steven must have read the rather surprised look on my face. “Don’t worry,” he comforted me, “it’s nothing important.” That didn’t exactly console me, but I tried to put it out of my mind.

“How did you pick the wine,” I asked, changing the topic. “1979 seems very specific.”

“Well, I have to admit to you that I am a bit of a wino. That orchard’s Cabernet Sauvignon is one of my favorites, though I’ve only tried the newer vintages. Seventy-nine has always been my lucky number.”

“At least you know what you’re doing, I don’t even know which color goes with which sort of meal.”

“Well then, I suppose I’ll have to give you the basics then. In general, the red…” He stopped and looked back down at his black bag. “Hush you. No, she wants to know, I’m not boring her.” He looked back at me just as suddenly and asked, “Does it bore you to hear about wine?”

“Um… no?”

He nodded, pleased, and told the bag, “See? Now if you’d just let me talk to her without interruption, Candice and I could have a proper conversation. You’re being very rude.” He looked back at me and smiled pleasantly.

Even his beautiful smile and handsome looks couldn’t distract me from what had just happened a second time. His backpack had interrupted our conversation twice now.

“I’m sorry, are you…” I wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “Are you talking with your bag there?”

He laughed loudly, “Oh, no no no, I’m not talking to the bag. I’m talking to Roger.”

That didn’t sound much better. “Who is Roger?”

“Roger is my puppy, he’s usually very such a personable little guy, but I’m afraid he doesn’t actually like you very much.” Steven shook his head, disappointedly. "I'm not sure why not."

“And Roger is there in the bag? You carry a dog around with you everywhere? Shouldn’t you open it up, let him breathe a little?”

“Oh, he’s fine, I let him out to play frequently, but this is hardly the place for that, don’t you think? I can’t imagine that they’d let us eat here if my puppy was splashing around in the fountain.”

“I guess that’s reasonable.” There was still some other pressing matter I felt like I needed to ask him, but I had lost my train of thought already, and the rails came off entirely when the food arrived.

The pork was absolutely delectable. The flavor seemed to explode into your mouth when you bit in, only to have the explosion turn into a cool breeze that just melted into your taste buds. And the wine was a perfect complement, a crisp, sweet, and refreshing contrast that seemed to make the next bite even more welcome.

We chatted about family over dinner. “I never met my father,” Steven told me, “though I’ve exchanged a few letters with him in the past couple years. My mother died when I was young, so my older sister and I were raised by my aunt Nora. I keep in touch with her, but I haven’t heard from my sister in many years. I tried to find her recently, but didn’t find what I was looking for. It’s funny, but you actually seem a lot like her.”

I was about to try to change the topic away from what was obviously a rather depressing subject, but Roger interrupted again. Or he must have, because Steven looked back down at his backpack and told it, “I said no such thing! I told her that she seemed similar to my sister, not that I was dating her because she reminds me of my sister, I don’t know how you made that connection. Honestly, Roger, I don’t know what’s come over you lately.” Steven was silent for a while, though he was nodding and adding an occasional 'mhm' of agreement while Roger apparently made his case. “Fine, I see, but I’m not replacing you, I’m just finding somebody else for both of us, I think that if you give her a chance you’ll like her, and we can have even more fun as three than as two.”

“Steven,” I said, rather sternly, getting him to pay attention to me. It had suddenly reoccurred to me what I had intended on asking him earlier. “You’re having a conversation with a dog in a bag.”

“Have you had pets, Candice?”

“Yes, I had some cats when I was younger, what does that have to do with anything?”

“And didn’t you talk to them occasionally?”

“I did, but they didn’t talk back.”

“So you will talk to your pets, knowing that they won’t speak back, but as soon as I imagine that it’s talking back that’s crazy?”

“I never said crazy…” I said, trailing off. I hadn’t said crazy, but I had certainly implied it with my tone of voice.

“It’s a bit strange, I know, but I’ll talk to Roger to get an idea off my chest, and the answer that comes back is my own but it’s easier for me to imagine that it’s coming from him.”

I was starting to nod slightly and be convinced again, but I refused to forget the point this time. “Steven, you’re talking out loud to him, in public. And you’re not just talking to him, he’s interrupting you, that’s a serious issue. I’m not sure you even have a dog in there.”

“Of course he’s in there,” Steven replied, answering the least of my worries. “Here, I’ll show you.” He reached down into his bag, brought out a small dog’s skull, and placed it gently on the table.

“Steven,” I said, with growing panic.

“He won’t bite, Candice, don’t worry. See, now that he’s seen you he’s liking you more already!” I didn’t share his excitement about this development.

Somebody who appeared to be the manager approached the table. “Sir, you have been disturbing some of the other patrons, could you…” He stopped mid sentence, finally noticing the dog’s skull and a panicked woman. “Is that… sir, you’re going to have to leave the premises immediately.”

“We’ve only just started our dinners,” Steven protested.

“You won’t have to pay for them, just gather your things and leave. Now.”

Steven sighed, looked at me apologetically, and packed Roger back into the bag. He stood up and walked over to me. There was a tingling sensation and the world blinked out of existence as he lifted up the urn containing his sister’s ashes and put it into the bag as well.

He shouldered his pack, and, escorted by the manager, left the building with his two companions.

Claire’s eyes glided across the row of framed diplomas along the wall to a bookshelf lined with journals - Psychology Today, American Behavioral Therapy, Journal of Applied Psychological Science - to the window through which she could see a playground filled with children.

The window was open, and a warm summer breeze filled the room.

“Welcome back.” Claire’s eyes focused on her patient, reclining on a leather couch. “Remember: everything is protected by patient-doctor confidentiality. Everything you say to me in this room stays in this room.”

“…”

“Yes, I won’t even tell your mother. So, how are things at home?”

“…”

“Yes, I understand. Remember, just because they are your parents doesn’t mean they aren’t human, too. They experience all the same feelings you experience. And like you, they also make mistakes.”

“…”

“Well, as a parent, they see your failures as their own, and sometimes they say things like that, things they don’t really mean.”

“…”

“No television for a week? Yes, that can seem like a tough punishment. But see if you can find some way to turn the punishment into a reward. You like to read. Think of all the extra reading you can get done with the television turned off."

“…”

“Now tell me, how are things at school?”

“…”

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

Claire leaned forward in her chair. She removed her glasses like a soldier removing a helmet, as if by revealing her own vulnerability she could inspire her patient to do the same. She matched this gesture with a small, coaxing smile.

“It’s ok. You can share it with me. I can tell that whatever it is, it’s bothering you a lot. Remember: there is always more room on the outside than there is on the inside.”

“…”

“Yes, you are right. Math is one of the hardest subjects in the universe. And it is okay that you are struggling with it. We all have our areas of weakness. I also struggled with math throughout my academic career.”

“…”

“So you are nervous about the final math test? That’s what it is?”

“…”

“No, I’m sure. I won’t tell your parents.”

“…”

Claire tilted her chair back and took a slow, deep inhale. She rested her elbow on the arm of the chair and placed the end of her glasses’ arm in her mouth. The frames dangled from side to side.

“I see. It sounds like you have a choice to make.”

“…”

“So the other students, where did they get the test answers from?”

“…”

“Nope. I meant it. I won’t tell your parents. I promise.”

“…”

“An ”˜F?’ Not getting an ”˜A’ on this test is the only way you won’t fail the class for the whole year? Wow, yes, now I understand why you are under so much pressure.”

“…”

“You’ve never cheated before? Do you think this makes it okay for you to cheat this time?”

“…”

“Just this once, and never again?”

“…”

“I can’t tell you what to do. That’s not my job. But I can help you to consider the consequences of your actions.”

Claire took the glasses out of her mouth and placed them back upon her nose. She sat up a little straighter in her chair.

“…”

“One of the problems of cheating is it is hard to do just once. All habits - good and bad - all start with one incident. And over time, the more times you cheat, the harder it is to stop. Remember your nose-picking and booger-eating habit?”

“…”

“We worked very hard to stop it. But part of the reason it was so hard to stop was because you had been doing it for several years. Now, though, what do you think of eating boogers?”

“…”

“Yes, very disgusting.”

Claire leaned forward and put her finger in her mouth with exaggerated movement. “Bleh!”

She smiled and laughed. It was her subtle attempt at reducing the tension she perceived between her client and herself.

Becoming more serious, she again removed her glasses and leaned forward. “And you realize, if you do cheat and pass, you will have to continue cheating, because math builds on itself. You must first master addition and subtraction to do multiplication and division. And then, what are you working on now?”

“…”

“Long division? Yes, very tough, but if you don’t understand it, you will be lost next year when you start fifth grade and the math gets even harder.”

“…”

“Yes, I guess you are stuck between two hard places. What will happen if you fail?”

“…”

“Yes, summer school can be very embarrassing. But let me ask you something. Do you remember when you got that infection last year, and your doctor had to give you a shot?”

“…”

“Yes, it was painful. And I remember how afraid you were of the shot and how scared you were when you saw the needle. But do you remember what you did?”

“…”

“That’s right. You bit your lip, stared straight ahead, and took the shot. No tears, no crying. And how did you feel afterwards?”

“…”

“And that’s because you acted like an adult. And, of course, the shot cured the infection, didn’t it?”

“…”

“Well, maybe that’s what it will be like if you don’t take the answers from your friends. Take the test and fail, and, well, you can get the help you need in summer school. I hear they have a lot of one-on-one tutoring.”

“…”

“Yes, just like that expression: take your medicine.”

“…”

“Yeah, I know how much you want to go visit your cousins in Montauk. I’ve spent a few summers there myself. The beach there is really beautiful and the water is warm enough for you to swim.”

“…”

“Yes, I guess summer school would mean you couldn’t go. And that’s too bad. It doesn’t make the decision any easier, does it?”

“…”

Claire glanced at the clock on the desk.

“It seems our time is at an end. Like I said before, the choice is really up to you. I look forward to hearing about what you decided the next time we get together.”

“…”

“Yes, I’m super-serious I will not tell your parents. Good-bye.”

The door to the room swung open.

“Claire, it’s time to go.”

Claire took another quick look out the window at the children playing, and then turned towards her father with a sullen look on her face.

Her father tapped his shoe on the wooden floor. “We don’t want to keep your tutor waiting, young lady.”

“Okay.” She shrugged her shoulders, slid out of the chair, and walked out of the room.

As her father started to close the door, he noticed Claire’s doll, strewn carelessly on the couch of his office. He walked across the room, picked it up, and held it at eye-level.

“My daughter failed math,” he thought to himself. “Such a disappointment.”

The master puppeteer looked into the mirror.

And as I look out across the tiny theatre, across the flood of the spectatorate, a veritable sea of voyeurism, the words are my own, yet not my own; and though they are spoken by me, they are also spoken by another.

The thick velveteen curtain shuddered before closing for a majestic final time, muffling the audience's applause and general chatter in the tiny theatre, out onto the neon-drenched streets and beyond, stretching all the way to the moonlit Parisian horizon.

The puppeteer with delicate care removed his wooden charge from the tiny stage, its strings, the sinew of life, still taut, and hung her up alongside her miniature troupe.

"'Tis time we called it a night," he said, somewhat distracted, "What is it they say? All the world is a stage? Well tonight, Mon Dieu, our little stage was the world!"

I don't suppose he ever really expects a response, although maybe that's because he doesn't listen - even to himself. But I listen, I hear that which is both said and unsaid, for language is more than words.

"And what a team we were, the audience were clay in our hands as we cast our own miniature tour d'Eiffel for their amusement! When the reviews of tonight's performance make it to print in the morning edition, ma petite amie, our renown will surely know now bounds. Our tiny theatre will even be the talk of the Gods!"

I sigh inwardly. I'm even more sure that his ego will know no bounds by the time the morning editions go to print, nay, sooner still, by the time he locks up this little theatre for the evening.

"Upon the boulevards by noontime sun, I am one among the crowd, the everyman, yet who would know? Who could know? Alors! Who could imagine that by setting sun, we cast our net of marionette magic across the hearts of all-comers?"

He is his own self-styled master-puppeteer. Surely indeed he is the master of rhetoric, and he is right, the world is a stage, but this little stage, this is his world, and his imagination knows no bounds but for the bricks and mortar of this little theatre.

"It is I who pulls the strings; it is I who animates your wooden form with strings of life from above, and I who pulls the heart-strings unbeknownst to them, of an audience draped in furs and gems. Mon Dieu! So little do they know!"

Bewitched, beguiled, he imagines his audience then, beyond the curtain in the half-light of a world of his creation. Is it indeed he who breathes life into his dolls? His mannequins? His homunculi? Is it really he who suspends time and enchants the hearts of men for a fleeting moment?

"On the morrow, mine will be the glory! And, ma petite amie, we shall celebrate with the finest champagne; though now, my toast to you, ma cherie, is of table wine, for which you will repay me ten thousand fold before the month is out. The streets of the capital will be truly paved with gold. On the morrow I shall no longer be the everyman, but renowned as the master puppeteer, as befits my skill. Salut! I raise my glass to you, to you all, reflections of my skill and charm and grace."

Of course, the wine will flow - all night if necessary. And he will drink alone, yet in good company, and he will lose himself within his world, his imagination, this theatre of dreams. Yet in his image, I shall look on. Perhaps it is I who saves his grace, and perhaps it is my skill, not his, upon which his renown in the morning issue will be draped.

"I raise my glass once more, ma belle amie, as fire burms through my veins. And I look upon your petite wooden frame a-dancing on gossamer threads of life from heaven itself. Like porcelain your delicate features gleam. And if I look deep into your eyes of glass, the tears of goddesses surely shine. When I cut myself, I bleed. How so does is go for you? Do you too feel pain and loss within your heart?"

Is it love or envy that I see within his eyes? Perhaps though his view merely reflects the green-tinted glass of his empty bottle. If I were cut it would be his life-blood I’d bleed. It is he, not I, who dangles from the gossamer threads of the gods.

First silence. Then applause filled the theatre. The master puppeteer took a bow as the curtains tumbled to the stage before him, and with gentle care he was removed from the stage.

The puppeteer looked down at his little charge, and then to the broken mirror. The likeness was extraordinary.

She sits in the chair with perfect posture; her seriousness and professionalism that she tries to display all just an appearance, only a fictitious front to how she truly feels. She begins twiddling her thumbs, now betraying her underlying apprehensions as the bright light glows over her. She begins her confession.

“I know you’ve been around for decades; conceived and created before I was even thought of.” She looks down at her hands, choosing her words. Without looking up, she continues, “You possess more knowledge than any one thing or human being ever will. The pressure that you face daily, even by the second, probably strains you and slows you down at times. Heck, I’m sure you’ve even failed some people. But that’s not what I’m really here to discuss.” She looks back up into the bright light.

“You’ve helped me more than you’ll ever know.” She smiles, eyes bright as she adds, “You’ve aided me in finding work. Hooked me up with men, the good, the bad & the ugly” she giggles. “You’ve helped reunite me with friends and family. Given me directions to where I need to go, even given me a wrong turn or two once in a while.” She continues smiling and shakes her head, “Nothing’s perfect. You have advised me about my dreams and when I didn’t know what to cook, with dinner choices. You’ve been there for me when others haven’t...” her smile lessens as she thinks, “and at what cost?”

She says, “Recently, I’ve spent more time here with you than I have my own family. Almost forcing me to sit here and forget my life unbeknownst to me.” She looks deeper into the light, contempt now manifesting itself in her expression. “You have asked for far too much in return; more than any human being can give. You pull me in with your,” she pauses, swallows hard as she searches for the word, “with your games! Your beautiful offerings of monetary gain when you truly only take away!” Her voice raises, anger slowly boiling in her veins. “You have brought me nothing but heartache! Taking the information I give you and turning it into false fame. Betraying my confidence in you and what you are supposed to represent by sharing private information with others!”

She breathes slowly, trying to calm down. “You have changed so much over the years, from the time I was introduced to you. I can no longer trust you. I must slow this relationship down or all others will be lost. This hurts me more than you will ever know.” She moves in her seat, fidgety. “Our relationship will be intermittent. I will only show up sporadically and only when necessary. I truly appreciate what you have done for me.”

Tears begin to form as she slowly runs her fingertips across the keys. Her mind going back to the times she pressed each one; typing out letters, resumés and blogs. She looks up at the screen, a reflection of her and her family smiling back at her, the wallpaper of her choice reminding her of why she’s making the decision she has. “I will miss our music and picture sharing. Our daily e-mailed horoscopes and jokes.” She looks down at the keyboard and presses three little keys, all in unison; Ctrl, Alt, and Delete.

She looks back up at the monitor as she grasps the mouse in her right hand and brings the cursor to the task manager screen that has now popped up. She gives a despairing sigh as she places that little white arrow over the ”˜Shut down’ icon. With a hesitant forefinger, she left clicks on the mouse. She jumps as a protesting noise, a loud pinging sound, and a screen pops up that says, “Programs are still running. You may lose any unsaved information. Continue?” She didn’t realize anything was open. She didn’t even remember typing in or opening any programs. “Please don’t fight this!” she declares as if the computer was truly delaying the inevitable. She exits out and makes sure all programs are closed. She wipes her nose with a tissue that sits on the desk before her. Once again she finds her cursor over the ”˜Shut Down’ icon. “I am so sorry,” she declares as the computer gives her it’s final cry as it closes out of Window’s and shuts down; all lights slowly disappearing from it and all around her space.

She stands up from her chair, gives one last look at the object that has taken up so much of her time. She loved it for how it helped her progress in life but despised it for what it had pulled her away from. She turns her back to it and walks slowly towards the door. She places her finger on the switch that leaves the only light left on in the room. As she flips the switch to off, she says, “Goodbye, for now!” She closes the office door and walks away from that inanimate object that once controlled her life.

(The night grows cold and dark. No light shines from the dull new moon. Fog lifts around the foliage of an avoided forest just outside of town. A man stands alone staring down at a lifeless body below him.)

Man: (gasping for air) What have I done? I’m a monster.

Knife: You poor soul. He was wrong to have taken her from you. You loved her more than anything and he took it all away. James was the monster and he deserved to die.

Man: Diane didn’t have to leave me, she could have stayed. I had no right to take the precious gift of life from him. He had just as much right to her as I did.

Knife: No you’re wrong. James was cruel and selfish! He swept down with his bag full of money. She only left you because he could buy her fancy dresses and take her out to luxurious dinners. That man had his life set out for him on a silver platter.

Man: No. He worked just as hard as I have in life.

Knife: Wrong! You coward! You worked and slaved pinching pennies at the dump of a restaurant “Riley’s” only to barely get through college. You slaved to get the grades you did and graduate with your condition. He, however, walked into Stanford University, with a full scholarship and no effort required. How is that fair? Why did he deserve a life that was a walk in the park?

Man: Life’s not fair. James was smart and worked his way through high school in our small town of Canberry. He worked hard to impress colleges from all over. I had no reason to kill. Now, I’m a murderer. I deserved to have Diane leave me…(pause)but I’m not a coward.

(Sirens ring in the distance. Slowly the sound gets louder. A Cop Car whizzes down the road with sirens blasting. The man ducks down behind a sycamore to avoid being seen.)

Knife: If you’re not a coward go turn yourself in.

(The Knife begins to yell.)

Knife: WE’RE OVER HERE! COME AND GET US! WE DID THE CRIME! WE TOOK THE INNOCENT LIFE! COME TAKE US AND LOCK US AWAY FOREVER!

Man: Ssh! I can’t go to prison. They’ll take my freedom. It’s all I have left!

Knife: Then you are a coward. You are a monster and no one will pity you.

Man: I’m no coward. I shouldn’t have killed him. It gave me no rest of mind and now I’m talking to my knife.

Knife: What you did was evil. That’s what it was. Evil deeds are done by evil men. James was no nobler than you. He deserved to die. You loved Diane more than anything in the world and you would have died for her. Would he have? He pleaded for mercy as you took your kill. James didn’t love her like you did.

Man: You’re right. I’m sorry. He got what he gave to me. He took my life when he took her so I took his.

Knife: Now you sound intelligent! Killing is freeing as my brethren love to say.

Man: I suppose your right. Sighs looks down at the carnage at his feet.

Knife: It is your choice whether the guilt will control you. Believe that he deserved to die. You saved yourself pain in the long run.

Man: Yeah, I did, didn’t I? I should do what you wish. I should turn myself in.

Knife: Before I merely was pointing out your weakness. I have a new task for you. Once this is done, you will be truly free. Not only did James cause you pain but another did as well. Diane could have stayed but she left. She too scarred you.

Man: Are you saying that I kill her too? Please, I beg you not to make me do this too. Tears run down his face. He drops to his knees. I still love her.

Knife: Then you are a coward and love is your second weakness. Love slows one down. Mankind is so weak with their affections. They love each other only to have their lovers betray and destroy them. You must rid of her. I will do most of the work. She must die so that you can live again.

Man: No, I will not be a monster any longer. I will not kill again. I can’t.

Knife: You are already a monster! That cannot be changed except by the ridding of your pain that they have caused you. I am not finished with you.

(A pause occurs. The knife waits for the man to speak while the man contemplates his fate.)

Man: I am weak. You are right. But I will make one decision more on this earth of strength. I will not kill Diane. I have caused her enough pain and I love her. You say you are not finished with me? Well, I am not finished with you either.

Knife: NOOO!
***********

(Two police officers arrive at the scene only to find a dead aristocrat with a dead man that neither recognizes on top of him. He is stabbed through the heart.)

(Later in the police station, the autopsy report arrives to the chief of police.)

Chief of Police: Autopsy reveals that James Freinsky was dead hours longer than his murderer. It seems evident that upon seeing our squad cars, the murderer, with no hope of escape killed himself to escape trial.

Deputy: There’s always a few too cowardly to face their judgment. Had the man been stronger he could have faced his fate.

Chief of Police: That certainly is a bold statement. Where’s the crew going for lunch?

Deputy: Sorry sir. We’re going to this small place called “Riley’s” downtown. You coming?

Chief of Police: No, I’ve got to work on a report on the blood analysis done on the knife.

Deputy: Okay. Sigh It’s a pity that this tragedy had to happen.

Chief of Police: Yes it certainly is.

“You… You are the cruelest, most evil possession. You are just the meanest thing to have ever existed. Don’t you just sit there like that… do something! Do something!”
The fluorescent glow of the basement’s light bulbs made this innocent interaction feel more like an interrogation. Paul felt restricted, an imaginary strait jacket bound him in place. He wanted to leave, but… he was cemented in place. Probably due in part to his weight and bad knees, but he was sure the sheer drama of the moment had something to do with it.
The dumbbells sat in mock of Paul’s sad confrontation. It was as if they took joy in his pain.
Paul let out a crying squeal under his breath. “I can pick you up. I can, I’ve done it before, I know I can so… so you can’t sit there and tell me I can’t. You can’t just sit there all, you know, We’re better than you, cause you’re not!” His breath was heavier now. Partly due to his shortness of breath and his asthma, but he was sure the intensity of the interrogation had something to do with it.
“Do you remember when I got you?” Paul turned away, gazing at nothing in particular. “That day in June?” He searched through his repressed mental archives for that memory. It came back in pieces. That day on the beach, the pretty men with their pretty bodies and pretty girlfriends… the crying in the public washroom… the long bus ride to the sport’s store, and the shocked look the clerk gave him that said The nearest McDonald’s is down the street.
“I know I remember, as much as I try to forget. No matter how hard I try, you’re there.” He remembered the long contemplation in front of the racks of dumbbells and barbells and steel plates. A bead of sweat ran down his temple, reflecting the white glow of the fluorescent tubes in the ceiling, and the ambient sound of Rod Stewart in the background.
“Do you realize how much that memory haunts me!?” He turned around with a sudden gust of energy, pointing his finger viciously at the hunks of iron sitting on the floor. “Why are you doing this to me? Why are you in my head? Every morning I wake up, and you know what my first thought is?” His breaths were tiny now, pathetic, a whimper that could draw a tear from a Gestapo. His lips curled, his face contorted into crying position.
“And… every morning… I come down here… and I think about what my life could be, what I could be if I used you.” The first sobs were coming now. Some of the words came out high-pitched.
“LOOK AT ME!” Paul pulled his XXL t-shirt up to reveal a doughy, pale belly protruding like a tumor. “This is who I am.” He looked down and saw his belly as if it reminded him of his situation. He feared looking down, and he hesitated. He wanted to look down one day and see his feet; but he knew that day would never come.
“You know the only reason I got you was because I’m too embarrassed to even step my big fat foot into a gym? I’ve tried, oh yes I’ve tried.” He wiped some sweat off his brow, and some tears from his eyes. “I’ve stood in front of that door many times now, watching all the pretty people come in and out with their shorts and their protein shakes and their bouncy struts. And I just stand there like some hobo waiting to be fed.” He started to pace the cold, cement floor. He tried to pretend the dumbbells weren’t there, but he couldn’t get them off his mind.
“WHY ARE YOU HERE!?” He screamed, nearly scaring himself. “WHY? WHAT DID I DO? WHAT DID I DO?” This is where he started to break down completely. His voice cracked, his vocal cords hurt, the lump in his throat grew as he could no longer hold himself back. What did I do, what did I do, what did I do…
He collapsed to his knees, and let out a long breath. His eyes fell to the floor, his hands to his knees, his mind to nothingness. “My doctor told me it was mostly genetics. Does that mean I can’t do anything about it? Do you exist in vain? I mean… are you just here to make me feel like it’s in my control? It’s not, though, is it?” He let out a chuckle of both disbelieve and loss of hope. “This is who I am.”
Paul slowly lay down on his back, staring longingly into the fluorescent lights above him. They numbed his retinas, but his mind was too numb to care. He stared anyway, for he didn’t have the energy or the desire to stare anywhere else.

Q: Well hello, and welcome. I'm so glad you agreed to this interview. I've never spoken to your kind before, and I admit, I'm somewhat curious.
A: Thanks for inviting me. I had my bristles fluffed for the occasion.
Q: I don't suppose you have a name?
A: Of course I have name, don't we all? You can call me Orry, it's short for Oral...Oral Bea.
Q: Well Orry, your kind is found in most households all over the world. What is it like being so well known?
A: Oh it's great, no one looks at ya funny. Everyone knows exactly what we are, and what to do with us. Although, occasionally someone gets...creative.
Q: Creative? In what way?
A: Well, my cousin was living in a frat house. Let's just say they thought it might funny to give him the 'procelin experience'. Woulda done the 'lil practical joking degenerates some good to actually use him to freshen their beer breath, instead they gave him a swirly. Guess it coulda been worse. He coulda been owned by someone from the cast of 'Jackass'. I shudder to think where he might have ended up in that case. None of us really wanna go where no brush has gone before, if ya catch my meaning.
Q: Well boys will be boys, but yes, I see what you mean. Do you think there's a lot of competition among your types?
A: For sure. We come in so many shapes & sizes these days, makes it hard to stand out in the bunch. The ones with those extra pointy attachments get on my last nerve!
Q: Your referring to the small pick meant for cleaning between the teeth I assume?
A: Yeh, that's it. But these guys flaunt it like it was the size of an ice pick. Then ya have the kinky buggers with the floss attachments. You know they gotta be into more than just teeth, carrying that waxy cord around all the time. Ya gotta wonder about someone hooked on their Autofloss.
Q: What's a normal day like for you?
A: Oh my days are pretty good. The hanging around can become a bit tedious, but well worth it. My owner really knows how to work me, if ya know what I mean. She gets my bristles all foamy, then in and out, back and forth, a few rubs against the tongue.............sorry, was a 'lil distracted for a sec there. I get that treatment 2, sometimes 3 times a day. I'm a happy camper!
Q: Ever have any bad experiences?
A: Yeh, been dropped a few times, but no major damage. Thank goodness for chicks who like fluffy carpeting in the can. If my owner had been a guy, I would have smacked cold tile more than once. This one time though, butterfingers dropped me in the sink. Not sure how she managed it, but I went straight down into the damn drain! My head got caught on some metal thingy, so I didn't end up in the pipes. It woulda been fine except for the hair. So much hair! Don't think she ever cleaned that thing! It was like being swallowed by chewbacca!
Q: That does sound unpleasant. What do you think you'll be doing when she no longer requires your services?
A: Being replaced is inevitable I suppose, but I'm ready for it when the time comes. Luckily she's a bit of a pack rat, so I suspect she'll keep me around even when I can no longer satisfy her needs.
Q: Any idea what she might do with you?
A: I've heard a few stories. One guy gets to shine up his owners jewelry. We can get in to those hard to reach places, so that's a possibilty. I heard about one case where they were used as a 'grooming tool' let's say, for more private areas. I'd be willing to deal with a 'lil hair if I got that gig! Time will tell I guess.
Q: Any advice you can give to other toothbushes?
A: Oh yeh...first, enjoy your first time. Your bristles will never be as straight and firm as your first time. The older we get, the more limp & warped they'll get, so savour the moment. Second, if you get an owner that doesn't use enough paste you might chafe a 'lil, so watch out for them. Paste is like lube to us, we need it for a smooth ride. Third, if they have pets, you may as well just fling yourself into the bowl. One of those 'lil monsters will just end up licking you, or worse, chewing on you! Best to just end it on your terms. Finally, even if you don't work for the perfect mouth, your providing an important service, so be proud.
Q: Well, I wish you all the best. Thank you so much for being here. Appreciate your time for this Q and A.
A: You're very welcome. I appreciate the few glimpses I got of T and A too...nice outfit, heh. Anyway, gotta get going, it's almost time to lather up!