I had been tracking this guy for several months. I didn't know him by name but rather by number....they called him number 3. I don't know much about him, but I do know that he is one of the remaining members of the S.E.G. The acronym stands for the Socialist Espionage Group. The group was created in the 1950's when some members of the KGB went defect and created a liberation group in the Ukraine. Again I have to say I don't know much about him, but I do now that now as I look at him laying lifeless on the ground, my mission is complete. Even my own government wouldn't reveal the secrets of the operation to me for fear that I might become compromised. I was told to eliminate the target as that was all. Months of work had finally culminated when I managed to slip a cyanide pill into his drink before the waiter brought it too his table. I knew it was a futile attempt but for some reason Number 3 had forgotten to check his drink before he put it to his mouth. That was the strangest part of the entire operation. Until approximately 30 minutes about, Number 3 had been so careful. He always covered his footsteps, always remembered his safety precautions. Why did he forget this one time?

Oh well, I guess the questions don't matter much anymore...he is dead and that is all that matters. After I slipped the pill into his drink i traversed through the kitchen and managed to get to the fire escape that lead to the back alley way. There was another strange twist to the story I forgot to mention. I had taken my time getting to the alley because I knew that Number 3 would take a little longer to get there then I would. Also at that time I knew the cyanide would be kicking in...I was sure he wouldn't make it out of the alley without passing out. He's there, and hes dead, but how did he get there before me?

I'm not too concerned. I still have a little bit of work to do. I have reason to believe he is carrying an envelope of documents that I need to bring back to my overseer. As I jumped down from the fire escape I moved quickly to his body and opened up his suit jacket. Wait, something is wrong....this body is cold...his body should still be warm. I pulled the envelope out from his pocket and removed the only paper I found inside. There should be more here. I unfolded the paper. It read "Thanks for playing. Game Over."

Oh no.....I've been set--------------

Then everything went dark.

the sparkling dimension

As he stumbled into his college, barely able to flash his ID card at the porter, Rhodri tried to remember what had happened that night. The only clear thing he could recall was that a stranger had carried him back to his school. Besides that, things got a bit blurry for Rhodri.
Going out with his football team after a brilliant victory over their rival college, Rhodri only had one thing on his mind: celebrate. One drink became two, two became four, and the chugging contests put him over the edge. Staggering out the door of the bar, Rhodri called for his team to follow him in slurred, barely comprehensible speech, but the rest of them were too preoccupied with their food and drinks to notice him.
Aimlessly running over the Isis River on a footbridge to get to the center of town and the majority of the pubs, Rhodri noticed something sparkling in the water. Having lost all sense of inhibition, he dove into the water in pursuit of the sparkle. Instead of swimming back to the surface once he was submerged, Rhodri felt himself being sucked deeper into the river until eventually his surroundings became something that he’d never seen before. He felt as if he’d been sucked into another dimension, another time – which is exactly what had happened! He’d been transferred into the Sparkling Dimension of the Isis River that only drunk people could gain access to. Here, whatever thought came to mind, the Sparkling Dimension would make a reality out of the person’s initial thought. At this moment, since he felt discombobulated and beaten from the transfer into the dimension, Rhodri imagined himself on the bottom of a scrum in a rugby game. So naturally, the Sparkling Dimension transferred Rhodri to the nearest rugby game, which happened to be in Dublin, Ireland. Here, Rhodri spent a good chunk of his night in a frantic, inebriated state trying his best to stay on his feet while also trying to score, since the team he was on just happened to be his favorite team, the Leinster Lions. Eventually, Rhodri’s inebriation wore off and he became more tenacious in his gameplay until a nasty brute of a player blindsided him when he had the ball. At this point, since Rhodri was knocked unconscious, the Sparkling Dimension retransferred Rhodri back to his original location in Oxford. Still unconscious, he was expelled from the Isis River high into the air and landed on the sidewalk on the bank of the river. In a comatose state, Rhodri remained there for the remainder of the night, until a kind stranger offered to carry him home to his college. Not remembering a thing, since the Sparkling Dimension erased the memory of its users, Rhodri went to bed late that night in a confused yet sober state of mind. "At least I won't be hungover in the morning," he thought. And if he could remember, he would have thanked the Sparkling Dimension for preventing his hangover.

I was suddenly aware of the sheer weight of my body. As the darkness crept in and my neck stopped supporting my head I remember vaguely imagining flying would feel similar. I’m sure I blacked out completely before hitting the pavement, or, possibly, the impact of my dead weight knocked me out.

That morning, in the shower, with the hot water running down my body, I was completely unaware of what was about to happen. No one has a perfect life, believe me I’m aware, but I thought I was getting close. It seems so silly now. Why couldn’t I have seen it all along?

I remember, vividly, stepping out onto the cold tile floor. Drops of water rolled off my skin making small puddle. When I looked into it my reflection was foggy, unclear. I can feel the terrycloth towel as I vigorously dry my hair. Doesn’t it seem strange now that I remember the feeling of a towel more clearly than anything else?

You had left already. Looking back, I suppose there is some dramatic irony in that. Not that it matters now. Looking back, I can see there was no warmth in any of the rooms. Sure, the heat was on, but where was the warmth?

I ignored the feeling. I think, as humans, we tend to ignore a lot of feelings that we can’t quite describe. I guess intuition doesn’t count for as much as we thought.

Last night, before you got back, I looked through our book. Over my dark red glass of merlot I think I remember being happy. The tokens of our adventures paired with pictures, memories, of our best times was something I enjoyed thumbing through. Now, it seems I was listlessly thumbing. The smiles don’t look as genuine when I think about it. They appear to be mocking me. If I could, I think I’d probably burn it and the merciless absurdity of it all.

You left early that morning. If you hadn’t, I probably would have never felt the urge to see you. It seems crazy to me now, the lengths I went to. I rescheduled a meeting with my biggest client, one of the firm’s biggest cases! For you, though, it seemed like hardly anything.

Usually, I would never even pass that hotel. Usually, I would never look to see who was coming or going. I guess that’s how these things work right? If you’re supposed to know something the Big Guy will help you find out.

You almost saw me; you turned your head right after I ducked into this alley, right here. Usually, I would never do that. Usually, muggings don’t end like this. Why can I remember my terrycloth towel and not you?

The T Ride

I step on to the T in Braintree and take my seat along on side of the subway. To my right are two women who appear to laughing hysterically, to the point where each one of them is in tears. They are loudly laughing and everyone in the car, including me, is looking at them. At first I shrug it off, “Something must be hilarious.” I think to myself. As I’m about to put my iPod earbuds into my ears in an attempt to blast away the cackling I look across the subway car and I realize why the women were laughing. Slouching across a few seats is a college aged man in a rugby shirt drooling all over himself with his eyes closed. At first I think that this kid is a heavy sleeper, as the ride is very bumpy and the noise of the laughing ladies is enough to make you want to scream. As the ride goes on and the car beeps with every passing stop I realize that the kid is not asleep at all. He appears to be passing in and out of consciousness as if he’s sleepwalking in public. Every so often he opens his eyes, gazes absently around the environment and then slumps immediately back to the seats or sometimes the floor. I think “Uh oh, this guy is clearly suffering the effects of some serious drugs, I wonder if someone slipped him something as a practical joke.” I look angrily over at the obnoxious women who continue to jeer and draw negative attention to the kid. I quickly move across the car and sit next to the guy and allow him to prop himself up on my shoulder. I ask if he’s alright, where he’s going, and what his name is but get back no semblance of a response. I begin to worry that the kid doesn’t know where he’s going and that worse, he might be in serious medical trouble. I look at what he’s got with him. He’s wearing a nametag that says “Hello my name is: Jon. Welcome to Boston College!” I decide that he’s not the type that would do this to himself when I notice that he’s got a nasty bruise just inside his hairline. I pull out my cell and dial 911 and run through to the front of the train and relay the information to the conductor who stops the T. I go back to Jon and realize that he doesn’t have a wallet which means it was probably stolen. Someone had mugged him in broad daylight and pushed him on to the first train they possibly could. He had been riding in that condition for who knows how long and nobody had paused to see if he was alright, instead they just assumed that he was another drunk college student.

Unknown in Paris

He arrived at the scene and was immediately greeted by the blair of sirens. Then again this wans't exactly a novel occurence, ever since the prime minister had been assassinated crime rates had shot through the roof. Fortunately, he was a detective with the police and had secure connections. He had never realized how important a simple gold metallic badge could be until recently. It was midnight and anyone caught on the streets without proper identification was at risk. Paranoia had become a very tangible thing that everyone had to deal with. What exactly the risk was remained questionable but he had heard gruesome stories. Perhaps there really was nothing out there but no one seemed willing to take that risk. The whole city of Paris normally bustling with tourists photographing the Eiffel tower and other marvels was virtually lifeless. What was once lively and prosperous had turned into a wasteland where one could hear the echoing of one's footsteps on the cobblestone streets at night. The alleyways were filled with old flyers advertising performances that took place months ago. He picked up a flyer advertising Madame Toussaird's Dance Show scheduled for May, 14 2020...that was 6 months ago. A lot had happened in that amount of time and everyone was still reeling in the aftermath.

His thoughts were interrupted by the chief of police calling him"Hey, Jason, willya come over here an take a look at this, this is a crime scene, we aint messing around." He hurriedly walked over wondering what he would find, for some unknown reason he felt a distinct sinking feeling as if a stone had just been dropped in his stomach. An empty capsule of lipstick lay on the ground along with a black sequined purse. Then he saw what appeared to be a hand reaching out from behind a large green dumpster. A woman was laying on the black asphalt her hair spread around her face like some sort of tragic halo. She was strangely beautiful as she lay there; she was wearing a simple black dress with gold metallic heels. Apparently, she had been going out somewhere but where would she have gone, no one got dressed up anymore and there was no where to go at this time of night. He immediately wondered if she was dead, but if she was then she would have been taken away immediately to the morgue. He quaveringly asked the chief of police; "Is she still alive?" "I honestly dunno" was his reply, "that's why we called you here" "Well I'm only a detective, I wouldnt really know..." and his voice trailed off. He checked her pulse and detected a faint heart beat. He then searched her purse and found some identification. Her Id said Carmen Jeners; there were about 20 $100 bills in her purse along with a fake passport. He sensed that she had a hidden past. Turning to the chief of police he said "I'm sorry but she's dead" as he pocketed the contents of her purse. He knew that if the police discovered who this woman was she would be better off dead. Meanwhile he was constructing a plan that would lead her to safety.

Early One Morning...

Early one morning, while walking down Brookline Ave in Boston, I came across a man laying at the end of the sidewalk where Ralph’s Way begins. He was an older looking man, probably in his late forties or early fifties, wearing grey pants and a matching sports jacket. He was clean-shaven, but I could see a shadowy patch of salt and pepper whiskers where the right corner of his jaw and neck met. He was crumpled up on the sidewalk with his head slumped against the corner of the brick building’s concrete foundation.

Upon first observation, the man appeared to be sleeping. However, from where he was laying and by the angle at which his head and body were positioned, I knew this was no sleeping man. No bum, wino, junkie, whore, transient, or tramp in their right mind would have chosen to sleep on this sidewalk. Brookline Ave was too busy of a street for a bum to hang out. A sleeping bum would be woken up by either the sheer noise of the street or the foot-traffic of passersby. Plus, the area was heavily patrolled by security and other law enforcement, so any bum found sleeping on the street would be told to move along. On top of these facts, the man was too well-dressed to be a bum, although he may have passed in some circles for your typical Wall Street cokehead. He could not have been laying there for a long time; otherwise someone surely would have noticed him.

Not sensing any immediate danger, I drew closer to where the man laid like a lifeless ragdoll. Walking up from behind the body, I circled around to the man’s front, then again to the back after realizing I could not get a straight look at his face. Placing my hand on his right shoulder, I turned his body so that the man was facing me. I gathered that the man was unconscious because of the way I was forced to catch him from toppling over onto his side. Making some adjustments, I propped the man’s frame against the building and checked to see if he was breathing. He was. Before reaching into my purse for my cellphone so I could dial 911, I glanced at the man laying before me and got my first good look of his face. I was utterly dumbfounded by the face I saw. The closed eyes, the nose, the lips, the scraped forehead, all these features rested on the face belonging to my boss, Peter Kendall.

*

Later on at the hospital, I found out how Peter had ended up where I had found him. After wallowing back into consciousness, Peter told his doctor that the last thing he remembered was walking down the street. By his own account, he had gone into the office that morning to get an early start on a project he had left unfinished the day before. After working for about an hour, he went outside to have a smoke. Before he could light up, however, he passed out. I must have stumbled upon him about five minutes later. And it’s a good thing I did, too. The doctor told Peter that he had apparently suffered a mini stroke. The doctor said I was very lucky to find him when I did. Although the doctor has advised Peter to lay off the cigarettes in the future, he also said it was very lucky that he had gone for a smoke at that particular time. If he had passed out in the office where no one would have seen him for at least an hour, things could have been much worse. The doctor also told me to expect a pay increase later this month. He was joking, of course.

Unconscious

She was lying with her back against the brick wall, her head of red hair flopped down over her scrawny chest, like someone’s rag doll that didn’t have enough stuffing in its neck. Her yellow sundress was stained with the filth of the alley and the tattered ends lay dead against her legs. On leg crooked toward her, bent at the knee, the other stuck straight out pointing away from her body. Covered in the sleeves of a dingy oatmeal-colored sweater, her arms with the hands palm-up, finger curled at her sides. Jillian gaped and drew her arms over her red-sequined shirt. She rarely cut through this alley to get to the club, but she was late and this route was direct and uncluttered unlike the alley a block down behind the laundr o’ mat.
Shivering in the chill air blown down the alley she thought about calling for help. The woman’s body didn’t look that old, but she couldn’t see her face because of the hair. Maybe she was dead? Maybe just passed-out? Had she come from the club? Had someone brought her here? Jillian’s mind began frantically piecing a story together for the woman. She was around Jillian’s age, a drugged up- no a hooker. She was a dancer at the club that went out the door with the wrong guy. She had no money, at least not after the guy stole her wad of ones. Were could she have put the cash though? Her dress was skimpy. It didn’t have any pockets. Maybe she stuffed it in her bra? He had killed her for the cash, no just knocked her unconscious, she couldn’t have been worth jail time. Maybe she had it coming? Maybe she knew better than to go out the door with the creep. Maybe she had wanted to kill him?
Jillian sucked in her breath sharply as the woman on the ground twitched. Her head jerked back to reveal a young face. Focusing on Jillian she too sucked in a breath. “Get away from me slut,” She spat. “Were you trying to rob me or something?” Jillian looked down at the shirt skirt and slinky top she always wore to the club. “Uh nuh,” she mumbled running toward the club and away from the gaze of the woman that accused her of crimes even without knowing a thing about her.