“…and then I said ‘Well, I will never’ – Bob, are you listening to me?”

Bob tore his eyes away from the rear view mirror long enough to give Janice a distracted smile.

“Sure, honey. You will never do that again.”

“You have no idea what I’m talking about. What is so fascinating behind us?” Janice awkwardly turned in her seat, straining her neck to see what had captured her husband’s attention. Her eyes widened as she saw the flashing red and blue lights. She turned back to him with an accusing glare.

“How fast are you going? Do you know what this is going to do to our insurance premiums? We might as well forget about that trip to – why aren’t you pulling over?” Janice turned again, confirming that the police car was still following them.

Bob ignored her as the car accelerated.

“Bob? Bob! Pull over right now!” Janice demanded.

The silence in the car was broken by the sound of a siren. Sixty five…seventy…seventy five…the needle continued its gradual climb.

“I can’t.”

Janice looked again at the speedometer, then nervously checked her seatbelt.

“This isn’t funny. Pull over. Please.”

“How many years have I worked for JPJ Industries?” he asked in a conversational tone.

“Twenty-three.”

“Twenty-three years. Long enough to meet you, get married, have two kids and see them off to college. The perfect American dream, the perfect American family.” The car jumped as he pushed down on the gas.

“Funny, but that’s exactly the age of my new boss. I was working at JPJ when he was still in diapers. But that didn’t matter to him. No, he didn’t care. Loyalty, hard work – they’re no more than words in his fancy dictionary. And employees are ‘resources’, used by the company until they are no longer needed, then ‘reallocated’ or 'reduced'.”

He paused to look at the police cruiser pulling up beside the car. An authoritative voice bellowed from the bullhorn, but the words were mumbled, lost in the whine of the engine. Calmly, he turned his attention back to the road.

“Twenty-three years.” He shook his head. “That was all I could hear. After giving them twenty-three years of my life, they had decided that I was ‘redundant’. He justified it with numbers and statistics, but none of it made any sense. Twenty-three years.” His fingers tightened on the wheel.

“And then I couldn’t hear him anymore. I mean, his lips were moving, I could hear the noise, but there weren’t any words. I walked around his desk so that I could hear him better, but it didn’t help. Then I saw the list.

“It was a list of names. The ones at the top had been crossed out. I saw mine there, the next one in line. And I knew that, when he was done spouting the company rhetoric, I would be crossed off. Just like that. A line though my name, and my twenty-three years would be over. I would cease to exist in their world. With one simple line.”

Janice reached across the car, but he shrugged off her touch.

“I watched as he picked up his pen, ready to cross me off his list. I couldn’t let him do that. I tried to take the pen away. I tried to explain to him that I was more than just a name on a list. He wouldn’t listen. So I gave him his pen. I jammed it right where his heart would have been, if he’d had one.”

Bob jerked the wheel sharply towards a large tree.

“Twenty-three years.”

SCENE: X (girl) is sitting on a park bench, feeding pigeons. Y (guy) enters and sits on the bench next to her.

Y: X.
X: Y.
Y: Hello.
X: You're late.
Y: I know.
X: Why?
Y: X.
X: No. Why?
Y: Oh. I was being trailed.
X: Did you lose them?
Y: Of course. Why did you contact me?
X: Y, how long have we known each other?
Y: I don't know, about three--
X: Four months, two weeks, and four days.
Y: Ah yes. December 18th.
X: November 23rd.
Y: That's what I meant.
X: Y?
Y: X?
X: Do you remember that night as well as I do? You leaned in and whispered into my ear how you were in the Secret Service of Ofeckurtany, and how you could use my skills in your line of work. And for that one moment, it was like we were the only two people in the Bob's Big Boy.
Y: You were the best waitress I ever had.
X: And you only left a 13% tip.
Y: Money's tough when you're a spy.
X: You're telling me. I have yet to see a dime.
Y: Her majesty will pay you the moment she comes out of hiding! I've already told you this!
X: We're getting off subject. Y?
Y: You started it!
X: No.
Y: Oh. Try again.
X: Y?
Y: Because I want to do it right-- oh. Sorry. Try again.
X: Shut up, damn it! I love you, Y. I love you!
Y: Oh. X, there's something I need to tell you.
X: No, there's something I need to tell you!
Y: Something more?
X: I betrayed your trust.
Y: Did you?
X: I'm actually a double agent.
Y: A double agent?
X: Yes.
Y: That's not possible.
X: I was already working for your sworn enemy several months before we ever met. I'm sorry, Y! I just hope you and Ofeckurtany will someday forgive me.
Y: You know what, X? I've got something to tell you, too. You see, it's very easy to forgive you.
X: Why?
Y: What?
X: No.
Y: I mean, I didn't hear you.
X: Oh. Why?
Y: X.
X: No.
Y: What?
X: No.
Y: Oh, why!
X: Yes.
Y: X-
X: Y.
Y: Let me finish!
X: K.
Y: Now I'm lost.
X: Just say what you meant to say in the first place.
Y: Right. X-
X: Y.
Y: Stop it! Look, I'm not a spy. Neither are you. There, are you happy?
X: You're not a spy?
Y: Neither are you.
X: Then, what is all of this?
Y: I thought you were attractive, that's all. I often use the spy line to flirt. I never thought things would go this far! Then you showed so much enthusiasm, and girls as attractive as you usually aren't interested in guys like me, so I thought, "What the hey?" And thus, our current relationship.
X: But what about Ofeckurtany, and the mighty monarchy forced into hiding by the insurgents?
Y: Yeah, about that. Ofekurtany doesn't exist. It's actually an anagram of "Fake Country."
X: I don't believe you.
Y: I'll show you. Do you have a pen?
X: You're just trying to confuse me because you found out I'm a double agent for your enemy, Natareel.
Y: Natareel? As in, Natareel country?
X: Oh, God!
Y: Yeah, that would be Gary. A friend of mine from college. Taught him everything he knows.
X: Gary. He makes me call him Q. I can't believe I fell for it.
Y: No, it's perfectly understandable. You just wanted your life to be more exciting than it actually is.
X: You're right. Look at me. I'm 26 years old, and I'm a waitress at Bob's Big Boy. You can't imagine how dull life was before you came along. What do you do for a living, anyway?
Y: Actually, I work at Denny's.

President Stalone was, in political parlance, well and truly f****d. The small but profitable war in the middle-eastern kingdom of Abudlight should have been so simple. An easily bribed government aligning itself with the terrorist group Al Quaihol and blowing up half the pipelines in the region sending his personal oil futures in the desired direction, not to mention the profits from the clandestine arms deals. Then the easy vote-winning victory with all the major conflicts timed for eastern prime-time, a quick victory speech, massive rebuilding contracts to political donors and four more years in office. How was he to know that the shoddy weapons would get sent to the wrong side? Or that the Chicago Boy Scouts (the 517th Illinois squad of the Army reserve, reserve, reserves) would be the only ones available to go? Or that the resulting turmoil would bring down the entire economy and begin rumblings of impeachment, treason and negligent homicide?

He called in his secretary. "Janice, how many interns do we have at the moment? Great! Tell them to change into dry-clean-only dresses and come to an emergency debriefing at ten o'clock tonight. Can anyone at the DEA get me a pound of cocaine, some marijuana and some speed before my interview with the Post? No? Well get the kitchen to send up some baking powder, tarragon and a bag of antacids. And get my daughter on the phone. Oh, and Mistress Spank - you'll find her number in the yellow pages."

The phone rang a few minutes later. "Hello, daughter! Oh. No, I don't want you to be my daughter I thought you were my daughter. No, I wasn't in Alabama in 1982. Look, I want to book your dungeon and all the girls you can get for 2am. Privacy guaranteed? Well, we can negotiate that one and I'll require photos and video. No, cost is no object - I'll give you the expense account details when I get there, just put it under the name of 'environment, agriculture and fish'. Yes, it is unusual. It's my mother's maiden name. See you later."

The next call was his daughter. "Susan! Yes, are you still friends with Mary? Great! Get rid of that boyfriend of yours and move her in as your girlfriend. Just push the beds together. I'll fast-track you both on a load of federal arts grants but can you make sure it goes to a group of lesbian atheists? Wonderful! Is Mary still pregnant? Oh! 9lbs eh? Big kid! Look, just book her in for an abortion in the morning but let me know the time and place. So what? She won't be pregnant afterwards either so who's to know? Thanks toots."

When his secretary returned, he sent her to round up the gardening staff to cut down the 200-year-old trees around the back for firewood and add the nests of a few endangered birds to the log-pile.

He frowned. Confessing to these would have the desired result but it was too slow. Perhaps if he confessed before being accused...no, too suspicious. He sighed and dialed the last call himself.

"d**k, you still making adult movies? Right, I'm going to send you some footage for 'The president's staff', I want it on the Internet by tomorrow morning and get in touch with Ramone. Tell him I've got the same deal for 'Camp David'. Ciao!"

He leaned back in his chair and heaved a sigh of relief. With this collection of confessions to draw on, it would be months before the press found space for any real news.

Billy Givens had made Charles’ life miserable in Junior High School when he was a lowly sixth grader and Billy was at the top of the heap as a ninth grader. Between the bullying and practical jokes, Charles was an emotional wreck. One would think that the next three years, while Billy was in High School, Charles would have recovered. But he hadn't. He spent those formative years in desperate anxiety, wondering what Billy would have in store for him when he entered High School. And now he was going to find out. Billy Givens was assigned to be Charles’ mentor in the broadcast booth.

As Charles slowly ascended the short stairs to the booth, amazingly his stomach cinched itself up another notch. Charles opened the door and entered the dimly lit broadcast booth. Inside were racks of tape decks, CD players, and CDs, as well as, a huge assortment of audio-video equipment he didn’t recognize. But Charles only had eyes for the figure seated at the mixer board.

Trying to suppress the quiver in his voice, Charles managed to choke out, “Hi. I’m Charles. I’m your partner for AV class.”

Without turning around, the figure spoke with the voice Charles had only heard in his nightmares for the last three years, “Sure, sit down over there, okay? Let me setup this next song and I’ll be right with you.” Charles was surprised when Billy waved him into the seat directly across the board from him. With an accompanying boom mike, the seat was obviously meant for a co-anchor.

“Sure, thanks.” Could Billy actually have forgotten about him?

“There, that should give us a couple of minutes.” With the sound of a new song playing through the headphones sitting on the mixer board, Billy turned to him and said, “Charlie, right? I seem to remember you from Jr. High.”

So much for that brief hope, Charles thought as he replied, “Yeah we met a couple times, I guess.” You never forget a face you’ve punched, eh Billy?

“Oh, I remember now! Chubby Chucky! Oh, we treated you like a dog. Sorry about that, man. I got to confess, man, I was real jerk back then. It was nothing personal, you know? Kind of cliché, but the peer pressure thing kind of forced me into doing a bunch of things I really didn’t care to do.”

Relief flooded through Charles as he realized that maybe Billy had matured. Feeling a bit giddy, he replied, “It’s okay. I understand. Heck, I could confess too. I-“

“Whoa, one second. Let me cue up the next song.” Billy made some quick adjustments and then motioned for Charles to continue.

“Well, I was just saying that I understand the peer pressure stuff too. Remember the crack in the back wall of the girls shower in Jr. High? I never wanted to go peeping but I did because all the guys wanted to. I didn’t want them to think I was queer or anything because I wasn’t interested. So yeah, I understand.”

“Well, good, we’re cool then, right Charlie? So I got something else to confess, but first let me show you something about the equipment here. See these meters? They measure the input from the channels that are labeled underneath each one.”

Charles read the labels, TAPE DECK, CD, ANCHOR, and was surprised when he saw the meter jump when he said, “Oh, okay.” That meter was labled GUEST

Charles stomach began to knot again as Billy continued, “So my confession is that I am still a big jerk. And every thing you said just went live to the entire cafeteria.”

“I’m Bobby!”

“Yes, of course you are.”

“Use my name!”

“Course Bobby. Can you tell me what you remember?”

“I remember it was getting dark. We were walking down the trail that led to our campsite. Mom and dad were up ahead. They were acting all goofy and starry eyed with each other, and they’d told me to watch Julie. ‘Keep an eye on her Bobby, take care of your sister now!’ I hated when they made me watch her. She was a brat. Constantly whining, ‘I’m scared Bobby. Hold my hand Bobby. Don’t walk so fast Bobby.’ Drove me nuts!

“Why was I always stuck watching her? I mean, she was smart and cute-- for a sister. But having to watch her all the time was a drag. I felt a little bad sometimes because she knew how I felt, and it wasn’t often I showed her affection. I usually just shoved her around, like a big brother is suppose to do. I teased her at times, I mean, come on, what else are you suppose to do with a pain in the butt little sister? All my friends treated their kid sisters the same way. I wasn’t any different!

“I think I might have went too far that night. Like I said, it was getting dark and we were under trees, so it was really dark in some spots. Mom and dad were way ahead of us and not paying much attention. It was just too perfect an opportunity to get even.

“I owed her one, just the week before she’d walked up to Emily and told her, ‘Bobby likes you!’ She even sang that stupid song to her. K...I...S...S... I was so mad. Now was the perfect time to get even.

“I’d picked up a rock earlier and put it in my pocket; a good sized granite, it was worth the loss for this. I slipped my hand in my pocket, pulled it out, and tossed it up the trail. Julie stopped dead as the rock hit a stump and bounced across the trail. An animal must have been nearby because we heard lots of movement in the bushes. Julie gasped, and as she let go of my hand, I slipped up the trail and hid behind a tree.

“I darn near fell down laughing as I stood there watching her. She was afraid to move. I saw her head moving frantically as she searched for me, and I heard her whisper my name. Her voice was so shaky, man it was funny. She started up the path towards where I was hiding. I watched her take a step and hesitate, softly speaking my name. I had to strain to hear her. I had my hand clamped over my mouth to stop laughing. It was a struggle, let me tell you.

“I watched her bend down and pick something up, but I couldn’t make out what it was. Probably some bright leaf. She liked pretty things, anything with bright colors would do for her. She tucked her hand in her pocket and continued toward me. As she got about even with me; the moment I was waiting for, I jumped out.

“The look on her face was priceless. I literally fell on the ground laughing. I couldn’t stop, even when she kicked me, I just couldn’t stop laughing. It wasn’t until something hit my head, and I felt the warm stickiness seeping beneath my searching fingers, then I stopped laughing.”

“Bobby?”

“No. I gave Bobby his rock back.” A girl's giggles filled the small room.

Sarah sat quietly on the bus, acting like she was reading the paper. She didn’t even like reading the news, but with a spread out newspaper people rarely sat next to her.

She was still staring blankly into the paper when a man’s voice startled her out of her silence. “May I sit here,” he asked kindly. He was a young man, probably around twenty-five or so, Arabic complexion, and slightly over-weight looking.

“Sure,” she said, folding in her arms a bit to make room for him in the seat next to her. He sat down gently, as if favoring a bruise somewhere, and he didn’t rest his back against the chair. Sarah dismissed it.

After a few minutes of ignoring her seat neighbor, she stole a glance over towards him, just because the paper wasn’t at all interesting. He held his head in his hands, as if he were crying. Content that he wasn’t about to stare back, as his eyes were in his hands, she looked closer and saw the tears running down his face.

She had no idea what to do. Should she comfort him, or should she mind her own business? What if he was offended that she did try, or that she didn’t at all? It wasn’t often that you saw a man in tears, so she put aside her reservations and asked, “Are you alright, sir?”

He looked up at her, startled. He looked around frantically and put his finger to his lips, asking for her to be quiet. Wiping away his tears, he quietly stuttered, “I… I can’t do it. I just can’t.”

Sarah could interpret his thick accent, but she still had no idea what he meant. “What can’t you do,” she asked.

“Look,” he said, “there’s… there’s a family with kids right up there, and a pregnant woman a few seats behind us. And… and… I can’t do it, not to them, I just can’t.”

“What do you have to do to them?” She put an arm over his back, “It’s alright, what do you have to do?”

He seemed comforted by her show of affection, but looked around again. “Promise you won’t tell anyone, and to be quiet” he said.

“I promise,” she replied.

The man lifted up the side of his shirt slightly, revealing the dynamite and sacks of nails strapped all around his belly. He quickly covered it back up again.

Sara withdrew her arm and backed up all the way against the wall of the bus, her eyes gaping. She was just about to start screaming when he put a finger to her lips, and started pleading with his eyes. “I can’t do it though,” he said quietly, “I just can’t. This… this isn’t right, I don’t care what they say. I just want to forget that this ever happened, I want to go back to a normal life. Please, don’t tell the police or anyone, I want to move on with life and put this behind me. It’s not right.” He covered his face with his hands again and went back to crying.

Still pressed up against the wall of the bus, Sarah was moved by what he had said. She put her arm back around his shoulders and said, “You should go get rid of that then.”

“Yeah,” he choked out between his sobs. He wiped his tears off with his sleeve and stood up to leave.

“My name is Sarah, by the way.”

The man looked taken aback. “Uh… uh… Abdullah,” he stammered back. He stood for a few seconds longer and murmured, “Thank you,” before leaving.

The explosion almost deafens me with the tremendous blast from the back of the plane. People scream and cry as they know that in moments the Atlantic Ocean will become a personal experience to them. I grasp my wife’s hand tightly and hold on as the whole plane dips down and falls. Falling into the water from such an altitude in a giant metal barrel with wings is not a smooth thing. The crash horrified me almost beyond sanity.

Things go dark.

Birds… I hear birds above me and realize I’m on a beach, laying flat on my back. I sit up and look around. Bodies and wreckage lay everywhere, lifeless and charred. I turn to my side and gag a few times, but there is nothing in my stomach to come up. I guess I must’ve already puked earlier.

I look to my other side and I see her. My wife. She’s bloated and grayish blue, with lifeless eyes that stare straight up. A tear runs down her face. The tear came from me and from the pain I feel. I scream in agony knowing she is gone and I never appreciated her. So many things I never told her about. So many things I wanted to confess.

I look to her and the words start to spill out. I tell her that I had multiple affairs with my secretary. I meet with her on a weekly basis and the only reason I haven’t stopped is because she threatened to blackmail the law firm I work for.

I tell her that I got a raise months ago, but didn’t tell her because I spent the extra money on cocaine. It’s a habit I’ve had for years and its gotten worse and worse.

I tell her that I sometimes dance around in her underwear when she’s gone. And that I’m Bi. But of course she would have guessed that since the secretary I’m having an affair with is named Henry.

I tell her that she’s not the first wife I’ve had. In fact I’ve had two others and have four kids that live in other parts of the country. But since I changed my name to flee from tax fraud, the mothers can’t track me down for the child support.

Her brother… I have to tell her about her brother, and that he didn’t just die from a hit and run. I was driving the car that hit him. I was drunk, in a stolen car, being chased by the mafia because it was one of their cars I’m driving.

Those are my sins. I’m sorry and I realize I should have appreciated you more. If only I had a second chance I’d show you I could be a good husband. If only!

I scream again towards the sky in anger. Anger because that I lost the woman whom I love, and at how badly I treated that woman. My tears roll out and I stop speaking because I have no more confessions to make. Nothing more I can say.

Things go dark… again…

Then I realize I’m laying in bed. The tear soaked pillow underneath my head cradles it comfortably and the alarm clock shows that its only 3:33 am. Oh how wonderful! It was a dream. A second chance to make things right!

I turn to my wife and wrap an arm around her. Snuggling in with her I realize she’s awake. With tears in her eyes she looks at me and says, “Did you know you talk in your sleep?”

So much for a second chance.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, but the man you’re looking for is dead. I’m not Paul,” Paul said.

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

Paul parked his Bentley and removed the equipment from the back seat. He felt good to be home from his time abroad. He never thought anymore about the great con he’d pulled off, all those years ago. He just kept milking it. One by one, the others were dying off and he was left without a real threat – not that they could say anything, anyway. It would hurt them just as much. Secure in his accomplishment, life simply went on as it had before him. As it had for Paul. Except he had done even better. He had taken it further and had accomplished more than Paul had ever hoped.

The men were already waiting in his house. Had he parked the car in the back, he would have seen the shards of the window they smashed to enter his sunroom. He would have seen the door they kicked in. He would have seen the empty shells lying on the wood floor, sitting in the pool of blood that emanated from his poodle, just feet away. As it is, he saw none of these things. He saw his house just as he left it. His door opened and the first hint he had that something was amiss was the rifle butt that hit him on the chin. Getting up off the floor and wiping the blood off his face, the figures came into focus. Three men stood before him, their ski masks now pulled up so that their faces were visible. One was Paul’s age. The other two were much younger. Early twenties, maybe. All of them had dirt on their faces and were sweating. They had unkempt facial hair, although one of the younger ones still did not have a respectable moustache. Their black outfits so resembled the burglar’s stereotype that Paul found it difficult to take them seriously. The rifles in their hands demanded that he try.

“Get up,” the older man said.

Paul tried, but stumbled, still drunk from the blow he’d suffered.

“Yew ‘erd ‘im, getup, ya sack a-,” the facial-hair-challenged one said, moving towards Paul as if to kick him.

“Stephen, relax,” the older one said calmly, placing his hand on the young man’s shoulder, “He’s ours now.”

The third man spit, “And it’s about time.”

“Indeed, Joseph, our wait has been long,” the old man started again. “But here we are at last. And the wait for our eternal reward will be short.”

Paul looked around for a weapon. He’d worried something like this might happen. Cults tended to focus on people like him. He’d been afraid of this day for a long time. Seeing nothing he could defend himself with, he realized his only way out was to tell the truth. It would feel good, after all these years.

The old man continued, “The Almighty will not fail to judge him and to have mercy on us, the ones who have brought justice to the infamous Paul M-”
“I’m not him.”

Stephen laughed, “Right, and that wanker what lives in Bucking’am Palace ain’t Prince ‘arry, neither.”

Afraid now that they wouldn’t believe him, Paul told the whole story. How Paul had died in a car crash in 1965. He confessed all the lies since then. The cover-up, the hints, the walrus, everything. The men stared at him in disbelief.

“Do you mean to say-”

“I’m dreadfully sorry, but the man you’re looking for is dead,” Paul told the stunned would-be assassins.

“I’m not Paul McCartney.”

Since the time I reached the age of logical reason, my love for my grandfather has been overshadowed by questions regarding his substantial source of income. He has always seemed a tender and loving man, so it was with considerable doubt that I briefly contemplated an affiliation with organized crime being responsible for his wealth.

Whatever the source of his considerable income, his material wealth was unable to purchase an extension to life. There wasn’t enough in all the world to keep cancer at bay. In this, all social classes are on even ground; the rich, the poor, the middle class; none are safe.

With a heavy heart, I walked into his hospital room where he lye atop the mattress in a gown unbefitting his impeccable taste. He was connected to countless machines which kept him alive, like an immobile cyborg waiting to die. A morphine drip was plugged into his arm, feeding his body with the numbing substance at the push of a button.

No one else was there that day, just he and I; and I the only one conscious. I sat here for a long while, staring at the floor and thinking. There were so many good times with him and I couldn’t help but feel laden with guilt over my inability to fully enjoy them due to my nagging curiosity. Why couldn’t I have lived in the moment and enjoyed my time with him?

After some time he turned his head to face me, looking at me with glazed eyes. His mouth began moving, nothing audible coming out. I moved closer to him, squatting down at his bedside to put my ear to his mouth so that I could hear whatever message he was trying to get across.

“My boy,” He said to me in a hoarse, pain filled whisper, “I will share with you now something that I have told no one; the secret to my wealth.”

I swallowed hard. All was to be revealed. This nagging curiosity that had plagued me throughout my life was at long last going to be satisfied. My body tensed as he spoke, my ears strained to make out his words, my mind absorbing all. My attention was intently focused upon his voice and the message it carried.

“In the old country,” He began, “I was but a peasant. I lived in a shack in the forest with only the company of my feline companion, Azriel. This was before I met your grandmother.”

“Within the forest lived a race of small, blue skinned men who lived in a village of hollowed toadstools. For a long while they lived in their section of the forest and I lived in mine. We were peaceful neighbors until the day an old witch visited my shack and told me something of these beings; if they were melted, they would turn to gold.”

“You have to understand, I was in no position to turn down the prospect of wealth. I lived in a shack at the edge of a forest, you see? I needed gold like few men ever have. And so I did the unthinkable,” he said, his ragged voice turning to sorrow and remorse, “I committed genocide.”

He took a haggard breath before continuing. “With the help of Azriel, we destroyed the entire village; the entire population; the entire race of Smurfs. We did so without mercy. There were minor setbacks in the beginning, but in the end we prevailed and cooked the helpless little men, turning them to gold.

“I have ever regretted my actions,” he said.

I tried to tell myself that the morphine was speaking then, not my grandfather, but his tale haunts me to this day.

Sweat that adorned the smell of rot flowed between the cracks of the old mans face as he lay hacking on his last bites of breathe. His days had been long but now his minutes grew short. Knowing this, he let the past roll from his quivering mouth along with the spittle.

Chained to his bedside crouched his wife of burden, neither comforting nor caring. Hurt once too many, twice too long.

“The children… mother.”

Turning her head, you could hear the bones crack in her neck as she let his final words feed her head. In an effort to acknowledge his existence she half smiled displaying a toothless gap of despair.

“Listen woman. The children… no one took them. I buried them in the backyard. God forgive, I buried our children in our own backyard.”

Pus rolled from his yellowed eyes as they rotated in their sunken sockets.

“We were young. They were infants. You left them with me knowing my fear. It’s just as much your fault as mine.”

The words he spoke began to sink into her brain like a fist pushing deep into mud. Her thoughts began to race like lightning seeking out the pages that held the memories of that day. She had gone out of town on business for what was supposed to be only a day. The day turned to several which elapsed into a week. When she had returned, the children were gone. Assumed taken from the home, they were never seen again. This had been forty seven years ago.

“Beneath the work shed… mother.”

With this his eyes rolled up into his head to never see life again.

Running a crippled race from the house, she fell to the ground beside the shed. With her hands more bone than meat she began clawing. The earth quickly proved too hard from age breaking the bones in her numb fingers.

Seeking to remove the shed from the path of her babies, she burnt it with madness and gasoline. The flames licked the sky. The wood being old burnt quickly without a fight revealing a small hole which had lain hidden beneath it.

The hole cried with an emotion of darkness and loneliness. Falling again to her knees, she sought to purchase site within, caring not for the smoldering flesh the still hot embers ate from her body. All was too dark… too lonely.

Crawling back to the house she called for help. They were quick to arrive and convict.

“Listen woman. The children… no one took them. I buried them in the backyard. God forgive, I buried our children in our own backyard.”

These had been his words. He had never said anything about killing them. He had merely buried them beneath the shed. He had fed them daily through the small hole. They had grown into adults in darkness. Being too young to have known any better, they had learned to believe this as life to be.

“The children… mother.”

Although the shed had burnt quickly, it burnt long enough for the flames to have drained the hole of its air, suffocating them both.