Pause

As Isabelle finally slumped into the bus that took her home, she sighed in relief. It had been a long day, as the editor of the Globe and Mail; it was solely her responsibility to edit and ensure publication to any article that came to her desk. She was good at her job, although it exhausted her and often left her working long hours into the night, especially with the near hundreds of articles that were written every day. Sometimes, she often wished that she had just been a freelance writer rather than an editor. The pay was modest, she had often thought of getting a second job, but the possibility was simply not possible at this point. She already had too much on her hands, and barely had a life outside her work to begin with. If she worked anymore, people might think she was a workaholic, barely having enough time to shower every morning.

Truth be told, it wasn’t that she wanted to work. It was because she had to. As a single mother of one, she worked to simply get paid so that she could put a hot meal on her and her son’s plate three times a day. She couldn’t shower as often because it was expensive. She took the bus because she had no car. She read the newspaper because she had no TV. She handwrote her articles and edits because she had no computer. She wrote letters instead of emails. She w as thankful that she and her son had a phone; she had gotten them in bulk, and she didn’t know if she could do without. It was her only way of communicating with people who never wrote letters back.

The bus screeched to a halt at her stop. She looked up wildly, quickly gathering up her purse and phone before shuffling out of the bus. As she got off, she peered behind her, watching others pour into the bus. She was lucky that there were people at her stop; she might have not gotten off. She needed to be more aware. She walked the four blocks to her home, a cosy apartment placed snugly between two skyscrapers. She was still paying rent to the elderly McGinnis, a veteran of World War II. She pitied him; he had lost his foot in a grenade raid. However, he was grumpy and irritable as ever. If she was a day late on her payment, he constantly banged around on his walking stick until she coughed up the money. Although it was irritating as hell, it was possibly the best method to get someone to have their rent paid in time. She stifled a yawn and dug out her keys, the door opened softly under the weight of her hand. McGinnis, being the old man he was, must have forgotten to lock the door again. She sighed softly and closed the door behind her, locking it.

The hallway leading up to hers and McGinnis’s apartments was quiet and dark. She felt her way up the stairs, feeling the cool metal of McGinnis’s stairway chair railway. When she finally reached the top, she saw the faint light of his TV set, tuned to baseball. She could see his dark silhouette in a baby blue armchair, watching the screen unblinkingly. She shook her head lightly and turned to her own apartment, where it was dark under the door. She sighed. Of course he wasn’t home. She unlocked the door and walked in, taking a moment to study her home. It was painted light lavender; only three rooms in total, the living room, dining room and kitchen were combined, while she and Sam had rooms to themselves. Sighing, she started to fix dinner, deciding on something simple and easy to warm up, like chicken noodle soup. She hadn’t had chicken noodle soup in ages. She licked her lips and sighed as she dug out the half carton of chicken broth.

She ate alone that night. She had expected it, she was used to the silence that her house was often enveloped in. She was putting the soup in a Tupperware when she heard him enter through his window. Why he wouldn’t use the door, she never knew. Ever since they had moved here, he had gone out of his way to enter and exit through the window. She had given up locking the window, especially when he simply unlocked it from the outside anyway. Instead of scolding him, she said,

“Did you eat? Or do you want soup? Because it’s either tonight or tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow. Ate at a friend’s. Pizza.” Even still, he crept out of his room and laid a kiss on her cheek. She patted his back in return. As he went back into his room, she called out,

“Tomorrow—”

“You need utter silence. Phyllis is coming over for an interview for a forward for the editorial.” He interrupted. “Don’t worry. I’ll vanish.”

She closed her mouth and sighed. She told herself that she should be used to it, and that it would pass. But Sam had always been able to read her like a book, asking about events that she had never told him about, answering questions that she had never asked. It was a quirk of his, he did it to everyone, he drove his teachers and McGinnis up the wall, and since he had done it since he was able to talk, and the kids at his school had gone from avoidance, to acceptance and eventually fascination. Now, at fourteen, he was top of his class and had a decent circle of people he considered friends. But she often wondered what he did when he wasn’t at home or school, it was times like those there she didn’t know if she could ever relate to him. And sometimes, he was awfully strange.

She snapped out of her trance when she heard him calling her.

“Mom?” He was beside her, tapping her shoulder.

“Yes sweetie?” She looked at him so quickly that her wiry loosely tied bun spun around her head.

He dipped a digit in the soup and said,

“I forgot to mention. I think you should write an article on that car crash on the freeway. A thirty six car pileup, just because someone was talking on their phone.” He shook his head. “Oh yeah. Miss Lynn wants to speak to you about something.” He shrugs.

Her mouth gaped for a second, until she closed it and opened it again and said,

“Car pileup...? Wh-when? I don’t remember any... And Miss Lynn never called...”

But Sam was already heading to his room, talking something about a homework assignment due in a week or so. Luckily, Sam was the type of kid who actually did his homework. But she brushed that thought out of her head and then rubbed her temples. She still had a bunch of articles to look over. She’d think about it later.

The next day was busier than the last. Sam was gone by the time she woke up; hopefully he had already headed to school. She didn’t want another phone call about how he wasn’t there and she hadn’t phoned. She barely had time to tie her hair into a knot and put on her shoes before she was rushing out the door to catch the bus. She snatched up a Mixed Berry Granola Bar from McGinnis’s open cupboard, hoping that he wouldn’t notice. Putting the Granola Bar in her mouth, she locked both her door and the apartment’s, before scurrying down the street, tossing the wrapper in the garbage and stopping momentarily to chew properly. She had only stopped for a few moments at the bus stop before it pulled in, barely giving her time to pick out some change from her purse. She exhaled deeply as she sat down in a spare seat.

“Tough morning?” A boy of eighteen smiled at her, an iPod ear-bud deep in his ear. She could hear the faint drumbeat of music from the dangling ear-bud. She nodded wearily and smiled.

“A normal morning for me I suppose. Rushing always wakes me up.” She looked down to see a text from Sam.

She felt his gaze on her as he said,

“Kids?”

She laughed nervously. “One. I haven’t decided if he’s my first love or writing is.” She read the text message. She was fortunate enough to be able to read chat-speak, and she deciphered Sam’s message as something like,

“The milk’s spoiled. I’ll buy lactose intolerant for Phyllis. One percent for you?”

She reread the text a couple of times, just to make sure she read it right. She hadn’t told Sam anything about Phyllis. She shook her head to clear it. She looked at the text and then replied,

“That’s fine Sam. But get it after school. I hope you’re at school.”

She looked up again to meet the boy’s gaze. “Something wrong?”

She let out a restrained nervous laugh. “No, my son’s just reading my mind again. Ever do that to your mom?”

Something hardened about him, but he said fluidly, “No I just drive her up the wall with drive requests. She kicked me onto the bus today.”

She grinned and then looked just in time to see the bus pull to her stop. She stood up, bushed herself off and said, “I’m Isabelle. Nice to have met you. Bye now.” She quickly scurried off the bus, and then looked around, before breathing deeply and heading to her building.



He came to History late. He was at quiet as a stone, but Miss Lynn still heard and saw him as he slipped into his seat at the back. To let him know that she knew that he was there, she stopped midsentence and then cleared her throat loudly. He spun on his heel and met her eye. Miss Lynn studied him, a thin lightly tanned boy that wore baggy jeans, and a t-shirt that often had a bizarre design on it. He often wore an assortment of hats; today it was a gray winter hat with a shade to suit the bitter weather. He had green, almost yellow eyes, although Miss Lynn could swear sometimes that they were blue. Suppressing that thought, she said,

“Sam Stone—”

“The bus broke down.” He shrugged. “Not much I could have done.”

She gritted her teeth. His mother told him that this quirk of his would pass, but in the six years that she had known Sam, it never had. She breathed out and said, “Fine. Then why—”

“You couldn’t possibly think that I would want to interrupt your scintillating lecture on the patterns of civil war.” Sam wore a smirk.

How Sam knew that he was talking about that, she would never know. Instead, “Sam, please—”

“I’m sparing you talking, aren’t I? I don’t see the problem.” The class snickered.

“No one—”

“Everyone is quite aware that you’re talking to me and that before you were talking about the civil war. And if they didn’t, they know now.” Sam shrugged. The class was struggling to control their laughter. Miss Lynn sighed in defeat and said simply, “Just sit down.”

“Pleasure. By the way, the American Civil War didn’t start because the south wanted more land. Slavery actually.”

“Sam—”

“Yeah I know. Shut up and sit down or walk the hall.”

She clenched her fist tightly, and then decided to finish her lecture. Halfway through, she noticed Sam leaning back in his desk, with a light blue glow on his face. Coldly, she said, “Sam, could you give me a summary of what is happening in Afghanistan?”

Sam didn’t even look up as he said, “People want the land because of its strategic positioning, therefore people fight over it and then after the land was hit with a hot bomb, the place cleared out and then Afghanistan became a wildlife reserve.”

Miss Lynn had to think for a moment, before she looked at her notes and finally said triumphantly,

“You’re wrong.”

Sam still didn’t look up as he said matter-of-factly. “No I’m not. Read the newspaper.”

Miss Lynn’s anger rose. “Sam Stone—”

“Globe and Mail, first page, giant picture of a bomb exploding, date, February 4th, 2013. The one about everyone moving is on the continuation of that story.” Sam responded, ignoring Miss Lynn’s fury.

Suddenly, Miss Lynn went dumbstruck. Her anger died suddenly. “Did you say February 4th?”

“Yes.” Sam rolled his eyes.

“Sam, its February 1st. When did you...? How did you...?” But before her questions could go answered, the bell rang. None of her questions were heard over the scrape of chairs and shuffling of shoes. By the time she tried to reach the door to talk to Sam, he was gone, lost in the crowds of people.



Isabelle flipped through the pages of the current news. She was lucky enough to finish all those papers last night, she was already loaded with tons more today. She had the door closed and the radio turned on low, so that she could get the latest updates through the radio. She was in the middle of editing and putting together a news article on the recent dog attacks in New England, when Anastasia Flurry, better known as Anne, barged through her door and said,

“I cannot believe that Wellston let you take all those. Give me some! You’re pulling yourself into an early retirement.”

Isabelle shrugged. “As long as it pays the rent, I could care less if I was tugging rocks.”

Anne leaned against her doorframe. “You need to get out of here and find a new job. You’re killing yourself here. If you could edit all those last night and still come here today, then you’ll definitely get a better job elsewhere. Maybe a freelance writer?”

“What would I write about?” Isabelle said miserably. “Parenting? I’m doing a horrible job at it.”

“Well, what not to do as a Parent would be a good one...”

“You’re so not helping, Anne.” Isabelle buried her face in her hands.

Anne placed a confident hand on her shoulder. “You’re doing fine for a single parent. Sam doesn’t hate you.”

“There are times when I can’t even relate to him. When I wonder if he was like his father.”

“His father is an asshole.” Anne asserts. “And you didn’t even know him, so don’t you dare try and compare Sam to him. Sam is a fine young boy.”

“I dare you to take care of him for a day.”

It was then that David Hardhat came in, handing them both cups of coffee and producing a polished smile. “What are you two up to? Having trouble with your work?”

Anne shot David a look. “Hardly. Isabelle is just... A little upset about Sam.”

David took a seat and said,

“It wasn’t your fault. Besides, Sam is a great kid.”

“Until after five minutes of hanging out with him.” Isabelle sighed. “I just wish he wasn’t so...Snarky.”

“He just reads people well!”

“He told me he was going to get lactose-free milk for Phyllis, even though he’s never met the man in his life.” Isabelle rubbed her temples. “How can you even guess that? I didn’t even know until last year and I’ve known him since university!”

“Maybe the name Phyllis strikes him as a guy with lactose intolerance?” Anne suggested.

“How can someone possibly make that assumption based on a name?!” Isabelle sighed. “I guess it doesn’t matter.” She loomed her head back over her work and started writing again. Anne sighed herself and said, “Izzy, I’ve known you since preschool. You cannot tell me that it doesn’t matter. You need a break.”

“How can I get a break from my own kid? Who would take care of him? Who would want to take care of him?”

“I’ll take care of him.” David offered. “When do you intend to go on a break?”

Isabelle sighed. “I’d love to go tomorrow but—”

“Done.” Anne said, flipping out her phone. “I’ll help you relax. David will take care of Sam. Three days. But you have enough vacation days saved up to go on vacation for a month. But three days is enough for you.” Isabelle was silent. Anne was significantly more successful than her; she lived in a penthouse and had a summer home in California, single, but divorced, but her ex faithfully sent a check every month for her two children, one that had low functioning autism and the other had trouble coping with peer pressure. She also had a black Labrador that helped her autistic child cope. She looked at Isabelle as lucky because her son had no mental problems of his own, except for maybe his quirk. But unimaginably, her sons let her speak, and didn’t interrupt her with exactly what she was going to say. They left her alone most of the time. Isabelle sighed in defeat. She couldn’t take on two of her well-meaning friends.

“Alright. Tomorrow then. I’ll fill him in tonight. Hopefully he’ll be home...”

“He doesn’t come home?” David asked, struck. Isabelle had always struck him as someone who could enforce rules well. Isabelle sighed again.

“Sometimes he comes home for dinner, sometimes he doesn’t. There’s been a time where I haven’t seen him for days. If you’re lucky, you’ll get one of those.”

David rolled his eyes. “That much I doubt. Sam and I will be fine.”

The clock on her wall struck twelve. She glanced at it, before fishing out a five dollar bill and heading to the vending machine. Anne and David followed her, watching her carefully. She examined her options, a smoked ham sandwich, and a tray of sushi, a multi-wheat wrap and a bagel. After pondering for a moment, she chose the smoked ham, before she retreated back into her office to eat. Anne followed her as she dug out a lunch of her own, a white wrap with a Diet Coke. She sat down across from Isabelle and said,

“I still haven’t forgotten about how you should be a freelance writer. Write fantasy stories?”

But suddenly, Isabelle didn’t hear her. Her ears had suddenly tuned to the radio, which her hands had subconsciously turned the volume up. Anne, noticing the sudden silence and urgency of this, closed her mouth and listened. The reporter was announcing the traffic. Isabelle had heard his voice a thousand times before, but it was his message that she really only cared about.

“ Highway 73, major crash thirty six car pileup...Police are still trying to determine the cause, but it seems like someone was on their cell phone...Police have closed the highway...” She stopped listening then and said, “Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god...” She trailed off, sobbing hard into her hands.

Anne was at her side at once. “Izzy? What’s wrong...?

It was then that her phone rang; she let it go to the answering machine.

“Hello Ms. Stone? I’d like you speak to you about Sam.”



She didn’t finish work until six. She had cancelled her meeting with Phyllis; she met with him earlier that day. She called Miss Lynn and told her that she’d call her back once she got home. It was the first time in years where she had been at work planning her vacation. She caught the last bus home, where she saw the same boy from that morning. He was hunched over his iPod, playing Tap Tap. When she sat down, he looked up and smiled and said,

“Day been good to you?”

She smiled tightly. “As good as it can, I suppose.” She stifled a yawn. “You?”

“Had to stay after class to work with the professor on an experiment for advanced neurology.” He shrugged. “No success on manipulation.”

Isabelle cocked her head. “You’re a university student?”

“Technically in high school, but I know the professor well, and I’m interested in neurology. I took today off.” He shrugged.

Isabelle knew she shouldn’t have said anything but the mother inside her said,

“You’ll never get into neurology if you don’t have a proper education.”

The boy looked at her strangely, but the bus thankfully pulled into her stop. Her face flushed and her body sweated, but she managed a careful smile as she walked off the bus. As she walked the four blocks home, she realized that she didn’t even know the boy’s name. Sighing, she held her purse closer to her body, and walked home without another thought. When she finally did arrive home, she somehow wasn’t surprised to find Sam sitting on the small living room coach, reading A Catcher in the Rye. He didn’t look up as she came in, only saying quietly,

“Cornwall was over earlier. He liked your soup. I already made a peanut butter sandwich for you.” He pointed a digit to the plastic wrapped whole wheat sandwich sitting placidly on the counter. She looked at him and then at the peanut butter sandwich.

“Why did you—”

“Phyllis isn’t coming over so I figured it was okay.” He finally closed his book and then looked up at her; his green eyes reflected her brown ones. “You wanted to talk?”

Isabelle sighed. “Yes Sam I want to talk. I haven’t talked to Miss Lynn, but I think I know what she wants to talk about.”

“She should have known that the Civil War was from slavery.” Sam grumbled. “Besides—”

“Sam—” She began.

“I’ll stop now.” He promised, motioning that she sit down. Inside of sitting, she opted to stand, trying to make herself the authority.

“Sam. You need to stop.”

He seemed taken back. “Stop what?”

She sighed. “Interrupting. Answer Miss. Lynn’s question after she finishes saying it. Because if you’re wrong—”

“She’ll correct me then.” Sam seemed pleased with himself. “Besides, she interrupts me when I’m wrong.”

“Sam, that’s not what I meant. You answer questions before they even leave my mouth. You know about events that haven’t happened. Not only is it extremely rude, it’s also scary. How?”

Sam looked at her carefully for a long time. Finally, “I see it. I hear it. I know it. Like I read the newspaper and memorized it before it even came out. The reason I interrupt is because I already have an answer. If I’m clearly answering your question then I don’t see why I can’t interrupt. It saves you the explanation.”

Isabelle sighed. “Sam, you can’t do it. Not anymore. It scares me.”

Sam shrugged. “That’s your problem. It’s not like I can turn it off.”

“Then ignore it. When you sense it coming, distract yourself. Don’t listen to it.” She pleaded.

It was then that Sam laughed hollowly, a sound that Isabelle never knew her son was capable of. “Again, I can’t. What’s it to you? It’s not like you ever really liked me anyway.”

Isabelle flinched. It was obvious that he somehow knew about her conversation with Anne. “Sam, don’t be stupid. I love you and always will. But sometimes you’re like a stranger to me.” She held her metal heart pendant closer to her heart. It was a memento of her grandmother’s, who had passed away when she was a wee child. It held only a picture of her and her grandfather, who had passed away before Isabelle was even born. Sam looked at her dismally.

“Good thing we weren’t identical twins then. I would have driven you mad. By the way, where are you going on vacation?”

Isabelle closed her fist around her pendant and said coldly,

“You tell me.”

He looked at her momentarily before he said pleasantly,

“Spa? Sounds nice. Not bringing me?”

“I’m letting—”

“David, I know. Three days?”

She sighed. “I don’t even have to tell you to do anything anymore.”

“You never did have to. Do you want me to vanish or not?”

“What—”

“Whatever I please? Good.”

She sighed again. “Now you’re just doing it to annoy me.”

“Of course. You’re leaving tomorrow morning then?”

“Yes. Anne—

“Wants you to get a good night sleep and have your bags packed. I already took the care in packing them for you. Don’t worry; I packed your good bathing suit.”

Isabelle took a deep breath. “Thank you. I’m going to bed now. You should too.”

“Aren’t you going to call Miss Lynn?” Sam questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“Right.” She reached for the phone and dialled Miss Lynn’s number, before gazing expectantly at Sam, who rolled his eyes.

“I’ll vanish.” He grabbed his book and jumped off the coach, before he headed to his room and closed the door softly behind him. When she listened hard, she could hear a soft thump on the pavement beside their apartment. She just shook her head and then finished dialling, promising that she would only call once.



Sam came back at around two that night, shuffling in through the window. Isabelle had finished her phone call, and was doing some late night work for when she returned to work. She had only been up for a half an hour; she had gone to bed and slept peacefully until she had a dream about missing a deadline. Unfortunate to say, she realized that she still had editing to do, so she had gotten up to finish it. She rubbed her eyes and yawned as Sam crept through the house and into McGinnis’s, snatching up a Granola Bar before coming back and looking over her shoulder. Finally, he said softly,

“You should go to bed.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“I thought we agreed that your bedtime was eleven and mine was debatable.” Sam said evenly, taking a position on the coach.

Isabelle bit her lip. Sam was dashingly good at remembering that, even though they had agreed on that rule a year ago, when Sam was twelve. Finally, “Fine. I’ll go to bed. But if I lose my job, it’s your fault.”

“Done. By the way, did you write an article on that German Shepherd attack?”

Isabelle sighed. “No Sam. I’m going to bed.” She didn’t bother to ask. She had had enough of Sam, or rather his freakishly accurate talent. She refused to think of it as a ‘power’, or even ‘ability’. If anything, she could tell herself that it was pure luck, no matter how doubtful it sounded outside her head.

Anne phoned the next day at around ten. Isabelle had already been up for two hours and she was cleaning up the house for David. She barely heard the phone over the roar of the vacuum cleaner, which she thankfully turned off once she picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Izzy, where are you? The limo is waiting!”

“What? You got a limo? Anne!”

“Just hurry up already!”

“But where’s David?”

“He’s coming after work. Just leave the key with McGinnis. Now hurry!” She hung up. Isabelle sighed and gathered her things before she knocked softly on his door and said quietly,

“McGinnis? May I come in?”

She heard a grumble before a lock snapped and the door flung open. Isabelle looked over the old man that stood in front of her, a man with a withered face, translucent in the pale light. He was wearing a golf shirt and khakis. He had fair misty hair, and he had a walker to make up for his missing foot. His mouth was set in a permanent frown, his eyes were clouded. Isabelle wondered time after time if McGinnis was blind, it would explain how she and Sam easily managed to snipe Granola Bars right from under his nose. Instead of waiting for him to acknowledge her, she said,

“Mr. McGinnis, I’m leaving for a small vacation today. Sam will still be here, but I’ve gotten him a babysitter. If a man named David Hardhat comes to your door and asks for my key, please give it to him. Alright?”

McGinnis grunted and said,

“Fine why not? Your rent is due in two weeks Ms. Stone. Be sure to get it in.”

She nods. “Don’t worry McGinnis. I will. I always do. I’ll see you in a couple of days then.”



David came to Isabelle’s house to find it empty. He retrieved the key from McGinnis without any problems, but he had expected that Sam be home. It was seven at night, but there wasn’t anything in the apartment that showed any sign of human activity. He peered into Sam’s room, which was untouched; a fine layer of dust covered the floor, not a single mark or footprint to be seen. It unnerved David greatly to know that he was alone. He walked over to the small sofa and sat down, staring at the space around him. The house was engulfed in silence and David couldn’t help but fill it. He wondered how Isabelle managed, working into the long hours of the night with this. He glanced over to the radio, ominously silent. After a small unneeded debate, he hesitatingly got up and turned it on. The faint buzz and soft muttering of the radio soothed him and he sat cheerfully next to it, hoping for something to happen. His disappointment came sooner rather than later. So he did what he imagined Isabelle did. He worked. He had plenty of work to do; now he knew how Isabelle got all her work done in the short amount of time she was presumably given. However, David couldn’t work like that. He needed people that buzz of sound that made the room lively, not dead like Isabelle’s house was. David could now understand how Isabelle could close the door to her office and still be able to work efficiently. With the cloak of silence, he easily heard Sam’s window open and close. To ensure that Sam knew it was him, he said,

“Hey Sam, it’s me, David.”

“Yeah, Mom told me.” He held out a wrapped burrito. “Everything except sour cream.” He left the wrapped burrito on the table and then plopped himself down on the coach, grabbing the book, A Catcher in the Rye. Quickly, the apartment was cloaked in silence. David blinked. When he had last seen Sam, he had been a cheerful, interrupting little kid that ran circles around you when you talked. Now, he mirrored what many teenagers were, long bored by adults and lazy. Only difference was that Sam was reading a book, not playing a video game. David sighed inwardly, before he focused his attention back on his work, editing an article for the sudden recent economical kick for electronics. Like Isabelle, he was also an editor, he just didn’t work as fruitfully as she did and while she specialized in social interaction and sciences, he edited articles that were in relation to economics and political. As he scanned the article, he noted the mention of 2012, the presumed death date of humanity. Although he wasn’t a total believer in that, since the date had passed smoothly, he recalled being a nervous wreck that year, stocking up on canned goods that still sat in his pantry, just to be safe. He told himself time and time again that it was for a power outage, but he knew deep down that it was fear, a fear that an impending disaster was upon him and the rest of humanity. But he suppressed it enough to get through the day.

The absence of Sam snapped him out of his daydream. His book had been left face-down on the table, but he was gone. David hadn’t even heard the window open or close. It was when he heard McGinnis yelling that he pinpointed him. Dropping everything, he jumped up and sprinted for McGinnis’s apartment, whipping open the apartment door. There, he was met with McGinnis and Sam, one of which was as calm as a cucumber.

“Stone you better—” McGinnis’s face was as red as a tomato.

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you? You’re the one with the crippled back.” Sam stood calm and collected, leaning against the door frame, eating a Granola Mixed Berry Bar. He met McGinnis’s eyes with an impassive gaze, which didn’t faze him. He just kept on yelling.

“Don’t talk back to me, boy!”

“Not sure how we can maintain a conversation then.” Sam said coolly. “And since I’ve gotten what I wanted and you don’t want me here, I’ll take my leave.” He turned smoothly on his heel and then slid past David, who was standing at the door. He disappeared into the house and left David to take the rage of McGinnis, whose fuse had reached its blight. He cursed Sam with words that David was afraid to say. He asked God to lay his Judgement upon him. Finally, his anger dulled, leaving him to simply curse. Although he hadn’t said a word to David, David’s cheeks stung with a slap that had never hit. He swallowed his words and returned to the apartment, only to find it empty once again. Sam, without a doubt had left. Where, David would likely never know and David could only guess when he would be back.

He worked relentlessly until eleven at night, where he was finally fed up with editing and writing. He was positive at this point that he would go insane if he didn’t get a change of pace. Maybe when Isabelle got back, he could convince her to buy a TV, or get one for her birthday. He couldn’t imagine living for more than a week in here; he wasn’t sure how he would last for three days. He yawned, stretching his limp bones. Sitting still for hours seemed to melt his bones. He stifled another yawn as he walked to Isabelle’s room, where he found that she had changed the sheets. He smiled tightly to himself before he changed into a pair of pyjamas, before he hit the sack and fell into a dreamless sleep.



Sam found himself time and time again wandering the streets of Calgary. There wasn’t even anything really interesting going on, only usually a small knot of people who were heading home or enjoying the bar life. Sam knew that he couldn’t do that, besides, being squished between sweaty drunkards was not his particular idea of fun. Instead, he simply walked around, kept to himself. Sometimes, if he was daring enough, he would break into a building and head to the rooftop, where he could literally spend hours just watching the city. But even now that seemed boring. He wondered if anyone from school was awake, instantly regretting it. It was happening again.

Sam’s eyes closed instinctively, but the world still spun under his eyelids. Like he was drilling through the air, falling. His mind spun onto a flat disk, spinning. He could see the horizon; a miniature sun was dropping below. Feverishly, his conscious sped towards it, before it blinded him, fading to white and then ebbs of pictures and sounds. He saw David waking up to him coming home, holding a bat white-knuckled. He saw him shaking. Next he only heard voices, saying that they were tired. Finally, pictures again, a car, soundless, spun wildly out of control, smashing into a gasoline tanker, which rolled dangerous towards the ravine. Everything blurred, but Sam could make out a red blot with white stones flying before everything zoomed out, returning to normal.

Sam opened his eyes. He had lied to his mom that day, he didn’t just know. He saw everything and sometimes he got voice-overs that told him everything, making it seem to him that the person in question had already told him. He looked around to see that nothing had changed. He kept forgetting that he never blackened out for more than a nanosecond. It seemed like minutes, sometimes hours when it happened. When he had seen that newspaper article detailing Afghanistan’s fate in his mind, he hadn’t realized that it was February 1st, not the 5th. As he thought back to that, he cursed. It was horrible, knowing about an impending doom and being powerless to stop it. Worse, his class knew and more specifically, Miss Lynn. Sam had no doubt in his mind that she would question him. And of course, there was the fact that Miss Lynn knew the future, which Sam knew was bad. He was allowed to know, like Fate, but he could not change it. Miss Lynn, being the pesky teacher she was, would likely inform someone, trying to prevent it. No one could tamper with the future. Not unless they wanted it to crash and burn. Sam knew that Miss Lynn intentions were good, but Sam saw the hundreds of possibilities. That was the thing that Sam liked about being able to see his kind of future, he could see all the possibilities, all the choices. But somehow, that thought was never comforting. The comfort had left him before he had even realized it was there. Reflecting upon his friend’s responses, he decided that it would be best to go home. He started off again, although he barely took two steps before a sudden dizziness over came him. He only felt dizzy whenever he got bad visions, one that didn’t just involve the people he knew. He rarely got these, but sometime between the last two months, he had been getting them frequently. At least once a week, sometimes concerning the tensions in Germany, the horror in Africa and once before, a geographical place that Sam couldn’t identify, no matter how well he described it to his geography teacher. And now, it was that place again.

His head spun fast, he could hear it. It sounded like a plane taking off, his conscious traveling through a vast, unknown region. He reached the disk, which was spinning, the clear orb that Sam had once assumed was the sun, was in the middle, slowly disappearing into the disk. Frantically, his conscious reached for it, becoming enveloped once again. A blind light burned into the back of his skull. His vision blotted black, before a piercing light penetrated his vision. With it, came sounds and pictures. They ebbed into him, like a slow stream. First, he saw a dark sandy world, heavy with fog and ash fallen trees, with spidery branches. There was no difference between sky and ground. Even though it was a world that only his conscious could apparently exist in, he felt himself shudder as an imaginary gale of cold entered his bones. In this world, Sam could never be sure if he was the only one in this world, he wasn’t sure if someone or something was lurking beneath that cover of fog. He wondered if that was the reason why his conscious took him here, to warn him of an impending danger. But no matter how hard he looked, he could only conclude that he was alone. But he supposed that this time was different. Sam heard a hiss, its perpetrator hidden in the clouds of fog. He flinched. He knew that this place was likely only a figment of his imagination, but there was something hauntingly real about it. He looked hard, panicking. The fog hid them well; Sam quickly realized that he would have to go by sound. He just didn’t know if he could depend on it. The gravel moved not far from where he was. Sam’s hands reached down for a rock. It was times like these where he wished that he had some sort of weapon, like a switchblade or something. Unfortunately, he just didn’t have the money to cough up to Sisal, the local thug who would pickpocket a store for money. But it was often easier just to buy the item yourself, but Sisal was useful for the illegal things. Either way, he only had a rock to defend him, where there were endless ways of misusing it. He bit his lip miserably, wondering if he could escape. He begged his conscious to let him leave. But he knew that it wouldn’t work. His conscious was clearly trying to tell him something and it wouldn’t let him leave until he got the message. Something stirred within the fog; he could distantly make out a shape, gliding through the sand. He watched it approach him, and just before he could make it out clearly, something came out and grabbed him, pulling him out. He suddenly found himself being shaken by a passerby, who seemed concerned. A young man in his late thirties, who was saying somewhat loudly,

“Hey bud, are you okay?”

Sam snapped out of a trance and brushed off his concern. The man seemed relieved. “You just sort of went blank for a couple of minutes.” He went on muttering, but Sam had already taken off into his own thoughts. It was rare that Sam stuck around to see what strangers had to say about him. He couldn’t possibly say that this was the first time that it had happened. It was also rare that his visions were any longer than a nanosecond, and judging from that man’s reaction, Sam could guess that his conscious had held him for at least a couple of minutes. Whatever the case, he didn’t need to worry about it, not unless it happened again. As his mom had always said, third time’s the charm.

He didn’t get home until one, so that David wouldn’t try and clobber him. Although he knew it wouldn’t happen, he was still cautious and was ready to throw up his arm in defence in David did have the nerve to remove his mom’s baseball bat from its precious hiding spot under the bed. He paused as he set down a silent foot on the cool wood, waiting for David to do something. Silence. Sam rolled his eyes and then carefully pulled himself in and crept into the kitchen and made himself a ham sandwich, before he sat on his bed and stared at the wall, the vision of David holding the baseball bat flashing in mind’s eye. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see the reason behind it, which made him nervous. But his conscious was silent, a rare moment in his life. He was so used to having miniature revelations all the time that it made his stomach feel hollow. He reflected back to the vision and tried to force himself back into it. If he was properly prepared he could combat whenever his conscious was trying to warn him about.

Fifteen slow, tender minutes passed. Not a single moment did the wall blink or fade. He heard nothing. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. That had worked in the past, when he was younger, he had been able to ebb visions into mind’s eye. But he could only see the hue of his fingers flicker at the sidelines. With restrained fury, he bit hard into his lip and his window slammed shut. Sam ignored it. When he was angry, he knew that he could berate his mind into performing telekinesis. What it would do, Sam never knew, but he had never concerned himself into practicing it. He concentrated furiously on the vision, although he barely noticed when his window opened, alarmingly and a crash was heard. Then a scream, which chilled Sam down to his bones. He blinked rather slowly, before his ears picked up on a hiss. He abandoned his project and jumped out of bed and ran for the kitchen. As he did, the world spun.

This time it was different. The disk, normally translucent, was as black as night. The orb, normally clear white, was now a sickly red. As his conscious headed towards it, noticeably more hesitant, it faded from dark purple to light brown to white. And then strangely, black.

Sam felt weight of his body returning to him. He opened his eyes to a trench, which likely extended into a cavern, glowing green. Sam tried to breathe, but the hollowness in his body told him that his conscious had left out his lungs for a reason. He looked behind him, he saw clear saltwater, illuminated by an unknown source. He experimentally moved his body ensuring that his conscious was locked deep inside of him, before he took a step forward towards the eerie light. He paused to hear his feet sink into the gravel and the low slosh of water lapping at the beach. It was good to know that he did indeed have full control over all his senses. Exhaling air that shouldn’t have existed, Sam walked on. A breeze that smelt like sulphur touched his nose, drifting from the eerie light. Sam wrinkled his nose in disgust, stopping once again to see if his conscious would awaken. He was greeted with a chorus of growls, but otherwise silence. Although the growls worried him, he knew that they weren’t directed at him, but they might be sometime in the future. He followed the smell, quickly throwing himself into a labyrinth of tunnels. Sam was quick to note the route he was taking, the glow of the cavern grew brighter as he slogged on. He knew that he had to be nearing something now. The dampness of the cavern had soaked through his shoes, his socks were unpleasantly moist. They squished unsatisfactorily; he laboured on. Walking was quickly becoming a chore with the uneven sodden rocks; Sam had already skinned his calf and knee and he could smell and feel the blood leaking into his sock. He laboured up a hill and hit the floor as his eyes inspected the scene below him. The light of the glow was coming from an ominous cauldron, black and oily, sleek in the faint sickly light. There was a brew inside it, the source of the ominous light; it had a faint aroma of apples. If Sam listened hard, he could hear mutters, chanting. He pushed himself a little further and peered over the edge.