They approached from opposite sides of the vast Missouri Plateau. The armies easily could have conjured themselves near to one another, but they had come to a silent agreement that the Great Battle to end times deserved a bit more gravitas. The apocalypse was to be ushered in slow. There was no rush when eternity was at stake.

              When the convergence could not logically be stalled any longer, they halted, looking their diametric foes up and down.

              Unsurprisingly, Gabriella spoke first.

              “It’s good to see you Lucille,” she said to the devilish woman in front of her.

              Lucille gave a nod, pulling at the edge of her sundress.

              “Wish I could say the same.”

              “Our lives have been building to this day,” said Gabriella, “let us not allow pettiness to ruin the moment, shall we?”

              “Of course not,” said Lucille, “I would hate for your last days to be mired by a lack of pleasantries.”

              Gabriella smiled weakly, huffing with its lack of authenticity.

              “So,” said Lucille pulling a wooden mace from somewhere off her back, “do we just start bludgeoning? Or is there a count down? A starting pistol? How are we doing this?”

              “Easy there, Luc, first some ground rules. My holy infantry would like to make a request.”

              “A request?” said Lucille, “I should’ve known.”

              Her mace buried deep, breaking earth. She rolled her eyes.

              “Just hear me out,” said Gabriella, “I think it’s something you can get behind.”

              “Oh yeah?” said Lucille, her skepticism continuing to rise with each word, “so what is this request?”

              “A soundtrack request. We would like to have “Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough” by the King of Pop playing during the battle.”

              A chorus of exuberant cheers erupted from behind Gabriella.

              When the hollering finally died, Lucille loosened her quizzical stare.

              “Michael, why Michael? He is one of ours-I just-”

              And then it snapped into place.

              “He doesn’t let you listen to Michael up there, does he?”

              Gabriella balked at the accusation, giving up the lie quick as she had taken it on.

              “How dare-shame on-We don’t want to listen to that man’s music anyways. We just think it would fit this particular dark and dramatic occasion.”

              “Right, I forgot how dark and dramatic ‘Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough’ is with Michael’s falsetto and ‘hee-hee’s’”

              Lucille exaggerated the final utterance, striking her most MJ of poses.

              “It’s called sonic dissonance! and it is meant to strike a tone for-you know what, it’s not worth it. It’s our request. What do you say?”

              Lucille took a moment, basking in her ability to annoy Gabriella for perhaps one final time.

              “Sooooo?” said Gabriella again.

              “You know, Beelzebub has his own songs on the no-play list. Maybe we would like something like that of our own. What do you think boys?”

              The mass of warriors behind Lucille gave a scream this time, only this was a cacophony of song suggestions being hurled to the front.

              “Unwritten!”

              “Walking on Sunshine!”

              “Put Your Records On!”

              They were all excellent suggestions, but Lucille still stuck out her tongue in disgust. She had an image to uphold.

              “Yes,” she said, finally hearing a suggestion she could get behind, “how about ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’ by Bobby McFerrin? Surely we can agree on that?!”

              “You guys don’t get to listen to-,“ began Gabriella in shock.

              Lucille cut her off with a shake of the head.

              Gabriella straightened her tan suit.

              “You guys get Jason Mraz?” she asked.

              Lucille shook her head again.

              “Well, we agree on something at least,” said Gabriella.

              “Who would’ve guessed it,” said Lucille.  

              “So, can we agree on something for the soundtrack?”

              Silence fell upon the Missouri Plateau for the last time.

              “American Pie by Don McLean!” somebody yelled from way in the back.

              Gabriella and Lucille nodded in unison.

              “A long, long time ago, I can still remember how that music used to make me smile…”

              It boomed both angelic and demonic from above and below.

              A sort of celestial surround-sound.

              “And I knew if I had my chance, that I could make those people dance…”

Lucille raised her mace.

              Gabriella, her blade.

              “and maybe they’d be happy for a while…”

              The stamping of feet formed a drum beat.

              “The day…. the music…. died……”

              The Great Battle had begun.

I’m not an underdog,

I started under that,

More like an undercat!

Raised by an alley,

Fighting for scraps.

A water bowl full,

Left out by the Cook,

I had more than enough,

If I knew where to look.

I was lean,

I was mean,

With the sleekest of fur,

An no one would dream,

Of hearing me purr.

So I left,

For new pavement,

Warmed up by the sun,

Hating the feline that I had become.

I made it out the alley,

But some nights I go back,

To say hi to the Cook,

And lend a paw to a cat.

The trail was twisted, tangled, and bent.

Stretched and plied like a yarn-ball of roots.

Cars could be heard in the distance,

Their horns no more than a rustle,

A reluctant reminder of another world,

Readily removed and replaced with a frozen moment,

Like glass on a lake,

Fragile yet firm in its frigid resolve.

Had I come too far?

In a quest for peace, I had somehow found myself deep in the desolate wood.

I knew the way back, winding as it may be.

But I didn’t want to turn back.

Not yet.

Let me ponder of another path pursued,

If just a little longer still.

He wished he’d dreamed it into actuality.

Well, he wished he’d thought to wish it.

Instead, he found his mind often occupied by obstacles,

Overrun by oppressive orchids,

A field full of fear,

For a gardener who watches only for weeds will witness a withering earth,

But a trained eye,

The I of you and me,

That, I can promise you, will find the hint of healing,

Like a daisy digging from deep in the dirt,

Strange how something so significant can manifest itself in something so small.  

The snow was a buffer, falling heavily and silent. It seemed to tuck the world in, letting it drift off to sleep under the caring watch of the streetlamps.

                The day had gotten away from us, and what had initially been meant as an evening run was now an evening walk. I held her hand because I wanted to, but also partly because we’d only brought one pair of gloves with us. She wore them of course, her hands far to small, giving her the appearance of a 1930’s Mickey Mouse cartoon.

                We walked our normal route, at a less-than-normal speed, at an abnormal hour. The crunch of snow was the only noise that followed us. She whispered its beauty. She didn’t have to, but I was glad she did. The night would’ve felt empty without the words.

                “Do you think it knows?” I muttered with a softness meant to match the snowflakes.

                She stopped, gathering herself and her red scarf. Looking at me, she crinkled her nose as a request for clarification. I’d known she would, but I’d wanted to see her nose crinkle. I smiled at my small victory.

                “Who?” her voice twinkled.

                “The street, the snow, these cars, this whole scene,” I said, “Doesn’t it know how picture perfect it all seems?”

                “I hope not,” she said.

                She flashed me another smile. Radiant.

                “Doesn’t it deserve to know?” I asked.

                I was suddenly sad, knowing that this street, this night, would never witness its own elegance.

                “No,” she said, cradling my arm tight, “perfect like this would come with so much pressure.”

                She turned, pulling me along once again.

                “And I would hate to chase it away.”

I could always smell death in the air before I saw it. That had always been the case.

I’d known my cousin Elias had died before I got to the park and saw the red and blue lights when I was ten. A couple years later, I had known my uncle Angelo had died before anyone told me. That time, I hadn’t even approached the strange, chlorine smelling room that stung my eyes. Instead, I’d just cried in the waiting room. My parents came and told me in due time. They’d even brought me a kit-kat and a coke.

I smelled death now.

It was like rubber burning–subtle, but unpleasant enough to get my attention. As I grew into a teenager, I was eventually able to reflect on this terrifying and bizarre phenomenon. I had pondered it many times. Why me? Why could I smell when someone died?

I’d done a little google research, sure to be in private browsing mode whenever I did so, and, as one might expect, I’d come back empty handed. There were the crack pot theories—possession, cure, ghost—but none seemed to accurately depict my dilemma.

I eventually stopped searching, coming to the only conclusion that made any sort of sense.

Death loved an audience.

It can be such a drag,

All the lies that you’ll have

when you head out onto the course.

But it’s not so bad, go ahead, ask your dad!

He’ll say golf is a wonderful sport

 

You show up to the lot

Put on some socks

And take a few practice swings.

It’s been months since you’ve played

Time to check what the fade

You’ve been working on surely will bring.

 

You head over to chip

Say hello to John Kip

Ask him if you can borrow some tees

 

He laughs with delight,

Says he’s high as a kite,

With the way he’s been hitting the greens.

 

It’s a feeling like no other,

When your dad and your brother

Approach, saying it’s time to be off.

So you head to the starter,

I guess you’ll be the martyr,

The very first to tee off.

 

 

It can be such a drag,

All the lies that you’ll have

when you head out onto the course.

But it’s not so bad, go ahead, ask your dad!

He’ll say golf is a wonderful sport

 

You’ll really have sunk,

When you take a big chunk,

And your ball rolls just out of view.

To lay up would be wiser,

Because, no, you’re not Tiger

So Dufner will just have to do.

 

And it’s hard to defend it,

In the thicket, you thinned it,

In the water, you already know.

You move on with a sigh,

Get prepared for shot five,

Only twelve more holes left to go.

 

And isn’t it grand

when you land in the sand,

Time to show what you can do with a wedge.

You can still manage par,

Just don’t hit it too far,

God Damn! Now you’re lost in a hedge.

 

 

 

It can be such a drag,

All the lies that you’ll have

when you head out onto the course.

But it’s not so bad, go ahead, ask your dad!

He’ll say golf is a wonderful sport

 

You’ll feel slightly unhinged

When you’re just on the fringe,

And you just need to chip to the middle.

But on the way back

You start to lose track

And instead manage only a dribble.

 

And you’ll feel in the gutter

When your putter’s not butter,

And you leave it short by three feet.

And you’ve got to be honest,

You may need Hooked-On-Phonics

For the way you just botched that last read.

 

It can be such a drag,

All the lies that you’ll have

when you head out onto the course.

But it’s not so bad, go ahead, ask your dad!

He’ll say golf is a wonderful sport

 

 

 

 

At the end of the round,

You hardly make a sound,

As your dad asks you for the report.

He ends with a wink,

“It’s okay. We all stink!

Isn’t golf such a wonderful sport?”

Reading minds isn’t like how people imagine it to be.

In reality, it’s difficult.

It’s premeditated.

I can go days without touching someone’s mind. I’ve tried to go months.

See, I learned from an early age that there is a guilt that comes with breaching someone’s thoughts without their permission. This is only heightened by the physical sensation that accompanies such a breach. It’s hard to describe to someone who hasn’t done it. Like describing a never perceived color to a blind man. But one word does come to mind. It’s slimy.

Of course, I didn’t have to read the wrinkled man’s mind in front of me to know what he was thinking.

“Afflicted scum.”

That’s not what he said though. People so rarely say what they’re thinking.

What he actually said was, “Although your first offense, we are a one strike system when it comes to afflicted individuals. An intelligent, collegiate man such as yourself can surely understand the position we as a government are in.”

He adjusted his glasses from his perch above me.

“There is a gamble that comes with giving you a warning or a fine. A gamble that would fall solely on myself as prosecutor. You must forgive me Mr. Finch, but I long since gave up gambling.”

This was all veiled by veined skin that sagged low on the man’s practiced smile. Justice Farb was as old as they came, so he’d had years to apply feigned powerlessness as he ruined lives with intentionality.

At this moment, the guards trounce in at the snap of Justice Farb’s wrinkly fingers. With a system tilted against me, I’d known I’d already lost. As soon as I’d been charged, I knew the coming conviction. I was prepared. And I refused to act like the animal they saw me as.

“I totally understand,” I say to Justice Farb, “I wish it could’ve been different. I myself am a degenerate gambler, I must confess.”

I wink at him for good measure, much to the shock of the immune in the audience.

The guards are upon me now, punching the lengthy code for each dampener cuff they plan to put on my wrists. I present my wrists without a fuss.

But as I do so, I get a sense, one of which I haven’t had in years.

I can sense a buried truth.

We as humans are constantly thinking, both lies and truths shaping our lives. They are often so intensely connected it’s hard to separate them.

But like a lie-detector test, my affliction had always allowed me to sense a monstrous truth being withheld.

I looked to Justice Farb, immediately feeling the intensity. Like a dog hiding a bone from his brother, Farb wanted this gone.

“Wrists here please, Mr. Finch”

I nodded, allowing the large, boulder-shaped guard to take hold of me.

But I reached out with my mind, submerging myself like a sneaker into wet mud.

I had closed my eyes, bracing myself for the cool sensation, like jumping into cold water.

Then I heard Justice Farb’s voice.

“He’s too old and too even-tempered to survive High Security,” whispered Justice Farb, “but nothing to be done. There aren’t enough space in the jails and that’s the new order coming down from the Governor anyways.”

High Security?

They couldn’t be taking me to High Security? How could they? That was for the highest level, most dangerous afflicted. Murderers, druglords, rapists—not a mild telepath like myself.

“Nothing to be done about it,” said Justice Farb in my mind, assuaging his guilt, “nothing to be-“

The dampeners clicked on my wrist and my mind went silent.

Ernest dusted off the time machine, placing it front and center on the folding table. It was more valuable than his old Nordic track, and his vintage Wutang Vinyl and thus, deserved this place of honor. As much as he loathed to admit it, there was a major difference between these things.

The time machine actually worked.

Wutang was well-kept but it would never have been described as lightly used. It crackled on track 10, Protect Your Neck. He’d listened to this track over a thousand times at least. The Nordic track, while also in fairly good shape, had a button that often jammed when trying to shift speeds. Ernest would be able to explain to its new owner that it just needed a strong jab, but it wouldn’t fetch the price he wanted.

So, he’d placed the time machine on the front table, unlabeled. He’d gone back and forth about it but had decided that a time machine wasn’t something you labeled—it deserved a description greater than what the tags he’d purchased from The Dollar Tree would allow.

It had been decades since he’d invented it, and it was smaller than he’d remembered. It was a model he was proud of—elegant but modern-enough. It looked like a watch if you didn’t linger too long on it. It was bronze, had several knobs, and made a whirring noise when turned on. Standard was its operating interface. He’d been happy with it at the time, but considering it remained the only working time machine he was aware of, he was all the prouder now.

He picked it up. It was heavy in his hand—much heavier than its size would suggest. He was careful not to jimmy any of the side knobs. He knew the safety was on, but he didn’t want to risk anything.

Time travel didn’t work like in the movies. You could jump in time, but you left your present body to join with your future or past self. Time was not linear as some suggested and most took for granted. When Ernest had stumbled on this truth, he had been able to create the machine he held now. His first trip he’d joined with his mind a month in the future. He’d reveled in telling his wife the presidential candidate that had won as well as the new flavor of wing at their favorite wing place (Jalapeño Onion). He’d been nervous about the return, but it had gone smoothly this day.

“That’s amazing babe,” his wife, Belle, had said to him through a teary-eyed embrace, “I’m glad you made it back safe to me!”

“Of course,” Ernest said, “I would always come back to you!”

“I was just nervous,” said Belle, “I mean, God forbid you went into the future too far and you’d had an accident. How would it work trying to enter beyond your own life span? If you were dead, could you come back safe? Oh honey, I couldn’t take it.”

She continued to weep but Ernest was lost in thought. Her words held weight, as she was a brilliant scientist in her own right. Ernest’s anxiety was hard at work.

From that moment on, Ernest refused to go further than thirty minutes into the future. It was the only amount of time he could trust that he’d be alive on the either end with any sense of certainty. And even this had more variables than he cared for. Stroke, car crash, meteor falling from the sky?

He’d dialed this down to fifteen minutes, and eventually five.

At some point, he recognized this could hardly be considered time travel at all.

Ernest retired the time machine then. That was over thirty years ago.

Ernest sat now in a folding lawn chair, watching station wagons pull up slowly, the elderly clientele of garage sales slowly mulling out. His feet were propped up, and he sipped his coffee as he waited. He’d positioned himself next to his time machine, the only artifact of his past he felt indebted to. He felt less like a shop owner and more a boss preparing to interview a new assistant.

Ernest hoped the new owner of the time machine was bold. He hoped they were an adventurer.

More than anything though, he hoped they could afford the future, because, for him, the present had always been too steep a price.