Delora was a very old woman. Her bones were frail and oftentimes she had little energy to even leave the house. Her body had a good many wrinkles; the story of her long life etched onto her face.

Delora closed her eyes and breathed in slowly as the breeze swept past her brow. It seemed as though she could feel the time rewinding, bringing her back to earlier days. In her mind, she could clearly picture the first day they had met.

It was a long time ago: she was only twenty-one at the time, and she was enjoying her summer vacation at home. She had readily welcomed the break from the world of books and midterms. Her studies had made her tense, and she rarely found a moment for leisure or fun. She enjoyed being back in her quiet hometown. The morning air was warm and inviting and she had decided to take a walk about the town.

Her mind wandered as she walked, a gentle breeze blowing back her hair. Only a moment later, she was surprised to find herself sprawled on the ground entwined in someone or something. This someone turned out to be a young man. He was very tall and lanky with long blond hair barely short enough for his eyes to peek through. After they were able to untangle from one another, she learned that his name was Rodger. He was in town for the summer visiting his aunt and had taken a job at the local bakery. He could only talk for a brief moment, since he needed to get back to work.

Delora walked back in a daze. She couldn’t get him off her mind. There was just something about him; he was different than anyone she had ever met before.

The next morning she went to visit him in the bakery. He smiled sheepishly at her when he realized who she was. His break was coming up soon and he offered to walk with her.

They soon become fast friends. Every morning, Delora would walk around the town and stop into the bakery for a muffin. Then the two would walk along the beach. They had the best conversations, about everything and about nothing, about the trivial and the deep; in some ways, it didn’t matter what they talked of.

To Delora, these conversations were the best part of her day. Rodger was innately serene, his presence always calming to her. He was different then were her normal peers. They were all so ambitious, so driven. They competed over everything and they were determined to earn the biggest buck. They became a bit tiresome: all brilliant, but also complete idiots, too caught up in things that didn’t matter, and Rodger wasn’t like that. He took days one at a time and just appreciated things for what they were. He made Delora feel as young as she always should have.

These walks continued for weeks and Delora never seemed to tire of them. One day, she arrived as usual at the bakery to find Rodger nowhere in site. When she inquired about him, the manager seemed almost as befuddled as she was.

“I’m not sure, ” she replied. “Something called both he and his aunt, Mrs. Jamesian, away. They left rather hurriedly, and I’m not sure if they’ll be returning.”

“That’s all you know?” asked Delora.

“I’m afraid so,” she replied.

Delora left with her heart in her shoes. She wanted to cry and scream and run all at once. She ran and ran, until she fell panting in the sand, tears streaming down her face. To know she could possibly never see him again destroyed her. His companionship had been the highlight of her summer; he made her feel free. It was as if by knowing him she began to finally know herself.

Weeks passed and she heard nothing from him. She still walked the town every morning and she still bought a muffin every morning from the bakery, hoping that maybe this would be the time she see his smiling face again.

Soon Delora was packing; her return day to school had snuck up upon her. She walked to the bakery, every breath carrying a bruising pain as it traveled up her throat. She knew he was going to be there. She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew when she walked into the door, she was going to see him.

She held her breath as she entered the door, walking slowly.

But only a young girl greeted her.

Delora ordered her muffin and left glumly. She walked along the beach as they had normally done. She had wanted to see him so badly that she made herself believe that he would actually be there. She knew deep down that she would never see him again. She was sad but somewhere she knew it was all right, that they had still shared something special.

Delora went back to school and graduated that year and went on to lead a full and interesting life: she often traveled to the Amazonian rain forest, opened her own thriving travel agency, published a novel, and somehow managed to raise a family at the same time.

Delora had outlived everyone for whom she ever cared: her husband, her friends, and sadly even some of her children. She knew she was getting up in years and wouldn’t have many to come, but she felt her life had been worthwhile. She would sit on her porch during the warm months and often she would think of Rodger. She never did see him again. She had heard rumors: that he had become an investment banker, that he was an artist living in the south of France. She could never be sure of the truth of any of these stories.

It really didn’t matter much. She would always have that summer and those walks on the beach.

Delora smiled as the memories enveloped her mind, her eyes closed in peaceful bliss, remembering the sweet days of her youth.

He could still see the fury in his father’s eyes when he had discovered the sketches. He had screamed until Ryan was sure his eyes were going to pop out of his skull. Ryan was deaf to what he yelled; he could only stare at his father’s ever-reddening face.

The room was white; shredded papers fluttered through the air, creating a suffocating whirlwind. Ryan stood motionless as his father tore through hundreds upon hundreds of his sketches. His face showed no emotion, the only clue to his despair was a slight coloring of his cheeks.

Ryan had always been a quiet kid. He’d never had many friends and made little effort to make any. He mostly kept to himself and rarely spoke at all. Most of his free time was spent drawing. He wanted to capture every moment, recreate it through the tip of his pen. His artwork was a history book for him, each drawing calling up a different time in his life, a different memory.

The floor was flooded in a sea of white. Ryan stared down at the white specks, recognizing scraps of his different sketches. He could just make out a few of his pictures: his family at his brother’s football game; the view from his back window; the riverbank; the bald head of the school principle. To the side of his foot lay a very tiny scrap of paper, with two eyes on it. They were dark and intelligent eyes, a layer of resigned sadness underneath their harsh stare. He knew immediately they belonged to his father.

“Why can’t the boy just act like a normal kid his age,” said his father. “Why isn’t he outgoing like his brother? I’m tired of all this drawing nonsense. It’s all he ever does. I told him to stop a long time ago, but I knew he didn’t. I knew he was just keeping them from me.”

Ryan couldn’t find any portraits of his mother left. That hurt him the most. He found it hard to remember her, he constantly looked at what sketches he did have of her. She had passed away when he was only 11. He felt her fading from his memory. He had drawn and redrawn her; her face, her profile, the curves of her hand, anything to help him hold on to her.

His father had never been the same. He had always been a rough man, but Lana had had the ability to soften his edges. She had a warmth about her, always lending a reassuring ear or a kind smile. After she passed, it seemed as if his father never smiled again. He focused on his work and was tough on the boys.

He wanted Ryan to become a doctor or a businessman, do something respectable with his life. None of this drawing nonsense. Lana had always loved Ryan’s drawings and continuously encouraged him to keep it up. Ryan’s father never minded his sketches before, but they reminded him too much of Lana. After her death, every remnant of her presence in the house had been tossed or burned. Ryan’s father couldn’t bear to look at any of it. He was furious at her, angry that she had left him so suddenly. He didn’t want to be reminded of her; it was the only way he could get through the day.

Ryan sunk his feet into the cool water. He wondered if he could ever draw again. Everything he had ever done had been destroyed and it seemed impossible to pick it up again. He had bought a new pen and pad of paper at the drugstore, but they felt foreign in his hands. He hadn’t touched a sketchpad in about a month; the memory of his shredded drawings had stung to freshly in his mind.

But his life wasn’t the same without his art, and so, somewhat reluctantly, he had decided to try again. He had come out to the river, because it had always been a comforting spot to him. Every summer weekend he, his brother, and parents would come out this spot on the river for a relief from the scorching sun. Usually his father and brother would throw the football around in the current. When Ryan was very young his mother would stay with him, cradling him in her arms as she gently dipped him into the river. When he grew a bit older he would often sit on the side with her, he sketching and she reading.

Ryan felt almost as if he was back in the one of those summer weekends. He was sure he could feel his mother’s presence; her lovely scent seemed to fill his nostrils. He knew she would have wanted him to continue drawing. He slowly picked up his pen, and he began to outline her portrait, sitting on the riverbank with her soft hair blowing in the wind.

Janice sighed. Not again she thought.

Reluctantly she went to the door and opened it.

Piercing blue eyes stared at her from the other side of the door. The eyes were enclosed in a tiny puckered face. Tiny lines covered the face like the cracks on the ground during a scorching day. The lines left the face with a look of continuing agitation, of which it seemed to be experiencing a lot of at the moment.

“Excuse me,” screeched the woman. “Are you aware how much noise you are making? I can’t get a thing done with all the racket you are making.”

“Mrs. Carmine, I don’t know what racket you are talking about. I have the stereo and the television turned on and that’s it,” replied Janice.

“Well its best you keep it down,” snipped Mrs. Carmine. “And I would also appreciate it if you kept your car closer to your own side of the apartment and your flowers on your specified side of the garden. I would hate to have to go to the landlord about this.”

“Well maybe you should keep yourself closer to your apartment,” replied Janice as she slammed the door in Mrs. Carmine’s face. She then bolted the door and cranked up the stereo in an attempt to drown out the insistent pounding at the door.

“Oh just Mrs. Carmine again. That woman has got some nerve. All she does is complain, complain, complain. This woman is driving me up the wall,” Janice replied.

Despite what it may seem, Janice found the change somewhat of a relief. Her old life had been suffocating her. For one thing, her job was less than thrilling. In school, she had always had a thing for math. She liked the stability of equations and the idea that there is always a right answer. But after working as an accountant for a few years, she was beginning to feel purposeless. Her job was so joyless, so dull: only numbers and numbers and numbers. Who cared about the answer if the question was meaningless?

Her love life wasn’t stellar either. Her boyfriend, Rob, seemed liked the ideal boyfriend. He was smart, handsome, and the owner of a prosperous business. He should have been the greatest thing that ever happened to her. But he wasn’t. He was a bore. Even though he was intelligent, he only talked of the superficial. He seemed to be motivated solely by financial gain. She really didn’t feel much for him. There was something so unreal about him.

She didn’t have many friends either, which would be hard for anyone who knew her to believe. Janice was often seen chatting with a variety of people. But that was all it was: chatting. She didn’t know anyone to whom she could really feel connected. She had no one to confide in, no one she could count on to help her in a time of need.

From the outside her life seemed perfect; she had the perfect boyfriend, a well-paid job, and numerous friends. But her supposed dream life was only a mirage. If she hadn’t found the body, she might have left anyway; just to get away from it all, if only for the sake of feeling something. She was on the edge then. She felt as if she had run against a dead end and if she hadn’t changed something fast, who knows what she would have done.

Her life was different now. It wasn’t a struggle to get up in the morning anymore. She never thought flower arranging would be so fulfilling for her. But she really enjoyed it; it was her way of being connected to nature. The whole place smelled of the sweetest fresh flowers and she would peacefully put together flower arrangements, a skill she never knew that she had. She’d also found a great friend, Nancy. Nancy worked with Janice in the flower shop. She was the kindest person Janice had ever met. She was the first person who Janice felt really listened to her, who actually cared what she said and wasn’t just waiting to talk about themselves. Her life was really turning around. Her heart hadn’t felt this light in ages.

And then the notes started coming.

It made her stomach turn just thinking about them. She didn’t want to face the reality of that fateful night.

He wondered how the world had been so transformed. He knew that the world hadn’t always been this sterile mindless nightmare; he’d read about a different time in history books. He didn’t know a lot though, because history wasn’t being taught much anymore. All he had found out was that it was a time of chaos and pain; people said hurtful things, people killed one another, and people were unhappy most of the time. Keagan wondered if it was really that bad; could it really be worse than the world today?

Nobody fought anymore. Nobody killed one another. Nobody thought anymore. Nobody did much of anything anymore. There was no longer a need for a court system or silly things like the First Amendment; everyone thought the same things anyway. There were national security guards in every town, but most of the time they just stood around looking tough. There wasn’t much of a political environment either; the people still voted, but it was merely a charade. There were only two families that ran for President, so there wasn’t much of a decision to be made. People only came to polls to get the free promotional items anyway, they didn’t give a damn about the election. The world revolved solely around consumerism. The only things people talked about were what nice new things they were going to buy. Most everyone worked in some sort of retail or advertising business, there weren’t really any other jobs available. Advertisements were everywhere. They were on clothing, buildings, vehicles, jewelry, sidewalks; you name it, and chances were it was being sponsored by someone. Even the fortune cookies were just another marketing scheme. When you opened your cookie you were greeted with an ad for the newest detergent or a promotion for the newest cell phone. People worked 9-hour days, 6 days a week. Any free time they did happen to have they spent in front of the all-knowing Tube. Television was the only the religion people had now. They watched it dogmatically; it provided them with their opinions and the advertisements for the newest gadgets.

And no one seemed to mind. Anyone that had objected to this new life style had mysteriously disappeared during the Great War. No one knew much about it, besides that it was the aftereffect that had produced their current lifestyle, and that was as much as anyone cared to know. Except for Keagan that is. From what old books he was able to scrounge up, he learned that in times before, there had been things like art and romance and political debates and thought. It hadn’t all been great; there had been a lot of pain and killing and hurt in the world, but there was emotion and feeling in the world, and that was something worth living for.

Today was the day of the big celebration. The people were given the day off and there was a huge football game, which in actuality was just an advertising stunt, which made the people really happy. Keagan was fortunate enough to get tickets to the coveted game, but all he could think about was his pounding head and the sickening world he lived in as the fans cheered on. It was halftime now; time for the commercial for the album of the newest corporately-manufactured pop music lip-synch performance, also known as the halftime performance. As the performer walked on stage she greeted the audience with an advertisement for hand soap.

That was the last straw. Before he knew what he was doing, Keagan was moving out of his seat and onto the stage, much to the amazement of the audience. He climbed onto the stage, pushing the performers out of the way. He grabbed the mic, not completely sure what he was going to do.

“Can’t you see what you’re doing,” he shouted.

The sea of faces stared blankly at him.

“Don’t you see that you’re wasting your lives? There’s no more beauty in the world. No more thought, no more love, no more passion. No more anything. There’s no more life. You’ve traded your souls for tiny phones and shiny new cars,” he continued. He thrashed around on stage, destroying millions of dollars’ worth of stage equipment and tearing down the throngs of advertising posters.

“Stop letting people control your life. Think for yourself for a change. You have to do something to—” but before he could finish a single shot rang out. It hit Keagan right through the heart, and he fell with a quick thud.

There was a moment of shocked silence. But soon after a small team of national security team advisors came and quietly lifted Keagan offstage. The performers walked onstage again, cheering on the crowd and passing out free cans of cola. The crowd roared, and the game continued without another mention of Keagan’s outburst.

As Keagan’s body was dragged outside of the arena, a tiny smile was visible on his face.

Everything seemed to be crumbling before her eyes.  It had been a year and a half since the incident and she thought she had finally put it behind her.  

Janice awoke, but all she could concentrate on was the piercing pain concentrated in her head.  She frantically pawed at her head.  It seemed to be intact and in good shape, something the excruciating pain had at first made her doubt.  But her panic returned when she realized she didn’t remember why she was lying on the floor.  She couldn’t remember much at all, for that matter.  The only thing she could remember was that lots of alcohol was involved. 

Somehow, Janice managed to pull herself up, and tried to ignore all the worries that were tugging at her mind.  First thing first, she needed to change out of her rumpled own clothing.

She staggered over to the closet and yanked open the door.  Something hit her and she fell to the floor.  Something heavy was holding her down.  She didn’t feel like struggling and she may have stayed down like that if she had not decided to look up.  Staring back at her was a large pair of eyes, along with a face frozen permanently in agony.  Janice screamed and struggled to escape the clutches of the corpse.

Oh God, there was blood on her sleeve, and it was far from fresh.  She ran and stuck her sink under the faucet.  The water turned a faint red, but she could not wash the blood away, no matter how frantically she scrubbed.  In the mirror, she saw the corpse sprawled on the floor, a knife visibly sticking out from its back.  Janice knew without a doubt that that was her kitchen knife;  she could recognize its custom handle anywhere. 

Things were not looking good for her.  What was going on?  Janice couldn’t have killed her.  She hadn’t exactly liked her…but she would never murder her.  But how could Janice be sure of her innocence; she held no memories of the previous night.  There seemed to be so much stacked against her, they had had an argument the previous night, what if she had totally lost it and… No no no, it couldn’t be. 

Before she realized what she was doing, Janice felt her foot on the pedal.  She tore out of her driveway and sped off.              

“No, well, I guess everyone has their off days.  I’m here now though, and I’m ready to get down to business now, that is, if you are,” replied Jane as she entered the tiny restaurant.

“Oh, yes, yes, but of course,” replied Nancy, a bit flustered at Jane’s abruptness.

The TV was turned on suddenly and the news blared throughout the establishment. 

“It seems the authorities are getting closer to solving the Carmine case.  The police have come upon some new crucial clues in this puzzling and tragic case.  Police are refusing to give any comment on what these clues may be, but they did reveal that they are being assisted by an anonymous caller.

Unbeknownst to Nancy, Jane turned a deep shade of purple, increasing as the report continued.

“Wow, that’s such a fascinating case.  I hope they get that person.  Such a horrible tale of events, don’t you– ,” Nancy said.  She had turned around to see what Jane thought of the whole situation, but was only faced by an empty chair and an overturned coffee cup.

As long as things were going according to plan though, things were fine with him.  He was rather surprised that she hadn’t caught on yet; he had always seen her as rather clever.  Not that he wanted her to realize what was going on; he was just shocked at how simple things were going for him.

  “That should do it,” he thought.  He then sealed the envelope and walked off smiling wryly to himself.

“Ughhh,” he groaned. 

 Eric woke grabbing his stomach.  Once he started to regain consciousness, he realized he was laying in the fetal position with lord-knows-what stuck to his feet.  Turned out it was a melted gum stick attached to an old receipt.  Well, that was one mystery solved.

 But what he couldn’t figure out was what had happened the night before.  A blurry alcohol-induced haze enveloped the whole night.

 Everything was just a scramble of isolated memories, none of them were connected, none of them really made sense.  None of them seemed real either, and he wondered if he hadn’t just invented everything.

 Well, all that would have to wait, at least until his head stopped pounding.

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Things always went according to plan, and that was how Janice liked them.  She only felt comfortable when things were in order.  Everything had its own place: one place only.  Every dust mite was terminated and every minute of her life carefully calculated.    

That’s why she didn’t do well with people.  She couldn’t deal with all of that emotional crap.  They were all just faces to her.  She avoided contact with most people unless completely necessary, only if she knew they would be of some use to her.  She hated small talk.  She rarely communicated with strangers; her eyes were constantly glued to the ground.  People had always let her down in the past.  But she was no fool.  She’d learned her lesson long ago.  

   All of this anxiety over a note, a stupid, stupid note.  How could he do this to her now?  Things were finally starting to go her way and then he had to bring her back there, swing her out of control again.  Right when things were just beginning to reach a level of normalcy.

 He just didn’t understand.  Things were different now; she was different now.  He didn’t know everything; he just couldn’t.  She knew he was bluffing.  She wouldn’t let him win.
 To top it all off she was late, an offence she normally considered unforgivable.  She straightened her skirt and scurried off in a cloud of fear, confusion, and aggravation.