On the rim of the tub lay a small folded white towel, atop which lay 
his grandfather's razor. It had a beautiful pearl handle, one he had 
admired many times while watching his father shave and many more 
times while he himself had shaved with it. A vivid memory of him 
sitting upon the toilet while watching his father shave came to him. 
His feet swung freely, not quite long enough to reach the floor. His 
father wiped the blade off on a towel draped over his shoulder 
before returning the edge to his throat. With closed eyes he heard 
the memory of sound, the memory of his father starting. Nothing 
serious, only a spot of blood. He opened his eyes and looked over to 
the same blade, now atop a towel. He reached out to it, a trembling 
finger brushing against the handle. The touch of it made him start 
and he pulled away, returning his hand to his submerged lap. 


"No reason to be sorry, sir," she had said to him, leaning in close. 
"You'll do the right thing, I'm sure." She had left him then, to attend 
to her other duties perhaps. Around him, business deals resumed, 
gentlemen began reading their books and papers again. A woman 
ordered another beverage. He became what his mother used to 
described as ‘very, very aware’ at how quiet it had gotten. It was 
only until the muted routine of the club resumed that he understood 
what had happened. What it meant. The hostess’ statement was as 
much an answer as he was likely to get. You do not chit chat. 
Membership carried obligations. Broken obligations carried 
penalties. Marshall, Carter and Dark's penalties were rather ... 
severe. 


He would do the right thing. If he was lucky, he would only have to 
do it the once. If he was very, very lucky, the earth would not be 
salted out of spite. He made himself look over at the towel again and 
to the razor upon which it lay. He reached over and took hold, 


unfolding the blade with the side of his thumb. 


"Marshall, Carter and Dark, you say? Care to tell? What does goes 
on in there?" An inconsequential little thing of a question, no longer. 
For him, it turned out to have become the most important question in 
his life. 


He felt cold, no longer comforted by the hot embrace of his bath. He 
raised his foot and, much as he had in years prior, turned the trickle 
of hot water off. He thought of all the times since his childhood that 
he had lain in this very tub, turning the water on and off with his toe. 
He thought of all the times that he would not get to do it. 


For a solitary, blissful moment, not a thought passed through his 
mind. His eyes unfocused as he stared intently at nothing and he 
drifted softly in a sea of peaceful nothingness. The moment passed 
silently. He was sorry to see it go. 


Taking in a breath, he lay back into the tub submerging himself. In 
his hand, below the surface, was still the razor. Holding it gave him a 
strange sort of comfort all at once. Things could always be worse. 


He did the right thing. 


Nobody Wants To See You Succeed 


Nobody walked through the snow, playing with a yo-yo. It had no 
rope, just a ring around his finger and the wheel. When thrown, the 
ring guided its trajectory and transmitted sensations of speed and 
tension. However, he could make the wheel stop and float in mid-air 
by closing his palm. He could then throw it again, and the ring would 
make the wheel treat the pull of gravity as if facing the same general 
direction as his open palm. 


He had found the toy buried in the snow, looking worn by time but 
barely used. His goal was to find who made it, but there were no 
brand or manufacturer marks, and he hadn't seen anything quite like 
it. No bother. Time wasn't something he lacked, and he had an idea 
of who might point him in the right direction. 


Lying down, he made a snow angel at his leisure. The imaginary 
friend looked up at him with open arms, and he imitated their 
gesture. Falling face-first, he vanished into their embrace. 


Days stretched into weeks and months as Nobody wandered 
between old and new places. 


He had gone to an artistic convention of the bizarre, but there were 
no rules and most loved the spotlight more than the brush. Ironic 
sculpture after radical film blurred together, until the whole event 
became a uniform, grey paste. In such an environment, none could 
know the creator of such a simple source of joy as the yo-yo. 
However, they paid great attention to the quality and origin of 
materials, so they were able to tell him where to look next. After a lot 
of snide remarks and upturned noses, of course. 


Before leaving, Nobody left behind a simple painting of a bright 
sunrise and entitled it "Your Future". The convention came to a halt 
as several artists argued for hours about the hidden meaning, 
decided it was a jab at them, and congratulated themselves for 


being so clever. He chuckled to himself and stepped through his 
painting when it was no longer the center of attention, becoming a 
bird on the horizon of the canvas. 


He soared between painted landscapes, carried by the wind over 
treetops and skycrapers in a heartbeat. The landing was greeted by 
a fairgrounds hosting the greatest show on Earth. Brave men tamed 
fantastic beasts from exotic corners of the world, beautiful women 
pulled off acrobatic stunts that laughed in the face of death, and 
addictive games with grand prizes beckoned from every corner. He 
had been told by the artists that the materials of the yo-yo came 
from this Circus. There were more tents and stalls than he could 
count, and he knew for a fact that the people who worked in the 
Circus were suspicious of inquisitive folk. No bother, blending in was 
his specialty. 


With the right questions placed here and there, he discovered that 
there once was a boy who would come to this Circus without his 
parents knowing. He'd beat even the hardest games and collect the 
prizes in a large backpack. One day, the boy stormed into the 
crowds with a megaphone in hand and a shine in his eyes. 


"Gather around, one and all! | have something to show that you've 
never seen before!" he announced in his best impression of a 
boisterous ringmaster. He pulled out a clunky and garish contraption 
he had built from the prizes he had earned. It was a mish mash of 
buttons, transparent tubes, cranks, Tesla coils and who knew what 
else. The whole thing stank of grease and gasoline, had no pattern 
to its colors, and was held together by duct tape in several places. 


"This machine may look broken, but when | turn it on, you will see 
that it can create fireworks unlike any other! Behold the power of 
science and be amazed!" The visitors that gathered around the boy 
were intrigued, but also dubious. Some wanted to take a closer look 
or touch the machine, and others asked how it was supposed to 
work. The boy insisted that everyone keep a safe distance and 
babbled about technical jargon. Since that didn't hold their attention, 
he cut to the chase. 


There was a show of electric arcs and hissing steam as the boy 
pressed buttons and turned cranks. Pyrotechnics with the spark of 


life itself came out of the machine and flew over their heads. 
Everything from dinosaurs to galaxies turned the sky into a 
symphonic kaleidoscope. The boy shared facts about the living 
images with all the enthusiasm of a showman and a scientist. When 
the lights and sound were over, the audience remained silent and 
wide eyed for several moments, then applauded and begged for 
more. The boy had not prepared anything else, but did not want to 
disappoint them, so he made adjustments on the fly that resulted in 
a catastrophe. No one was seriously injured, but the boy was never 
seen again. The only signs of him that remained were handmade 
posters with instruction on how to find secret doors and promises of 
more shows. 


Now knowing the next step, Nobody grabbed one of the boy's 
posters and searched for an exit. He came across a performer who 
juggled with the power of her mind. She looked disappointed at the 
lack of people paying attention to her, but she was only juggling a 
few balls while standing still. Nobody said she couldn't juggle ona 
unicycle, and she took it as a challenge. On and on he added 
another layer of difficulty, always saying the proud performer would 
surely fail this time, until she was surrounded by a cheering crowd. 
Away from all those eyes, he entered a photo booth and vanished 
along with the flashes of light. 


Swimming from photo to photo, he covered oceans of frozen 
memories in the blink of an eye. He emerged upon the halls of the 
Library, and asked one of the Librarians if there was more from the 
creator of the poster. After signing his Library card, a Librarian 
pointed him in the direction of an aged notebook filled with sketches 
of toys like the yo-yo. As Nobody left, he felt tempted to help or 
mess with someone, but the Library was a place of order. All his 
experience with blending in would not help him if he broke its rules. 
No bother, there would be an opportunity to return soon enough. 


It was the season of picnics and water pistols, the laughter of 
children mixed with birdsong, and the clouds were made of cotton. 
One could practically hear the wind inviting everyone to look out 
their window and go experience Nature's handiwork. 


The wind could not tell any of this to Timothy Griffin, because 


anyone he invited into his house should have an appointment and all 
documents ready. As the wind usually made documents go away 
instead of bringing them, one could imagine that Timothy was not an 
avid practitioner of the spring spirit. 


That's not to say he was without spirit. Little pieces of it were 
present in his habits as if placed by ink stamp: regular sleep 
schedule, carefully calculated nutritional intake and economical 
speech (for the inevitable crisis of oxygen and ensuing taxation of 
the spoken word). He had the spirit of clockwork, and he would not 
let spring mess with that. 


However, it was not spring that interrupted his reading of the 
newspaper, but an arrow. It flew through a window, past the 
breakfast table and hit the fridge, glueing an envelope onto it. 
Timothy grumbled and pried it off, not bothering to open it. He went 
to the window with envelope in hand and saw the archer with his toy 
bow. He had not been there a moment before, and did not look like 
any of the kids with which Timothy was familiar. 


"What is the meaning of this?" he said, shaking the projectile and 
trying to block the sunlight out of his face. 


"Good morning to you too!" replied the boy with a toothy smile. "It's a 
special delivery!" He didn't seem intimidated by the tall, broad- 
shouldered and dark-skinned man. 


"I'm busy. And you can use the mail. You could have broken 
something! That arrow almost hit my favorite mug! It cost me seven 
dollars!" 


"Why would | use the mail? This is much more fun!" 


Timothy paused to stare at the envelope like it was a chalkboard full 
of quantum physics equations. The idea that anyone would try to 
reinvent something perfectly serviceable like mail was lunacy to him. 
He was still recovering from the advent of colored television, and 
now this. The world just didn't give him time to breathe. 


He scratched his bald head. "Look, why don't you go play with your 
friends? It's a beautiful day." 


"It's a beautiful day for everyone, silly! And it'll get even better for 
you when you open my special delivery." 


Timothy was about to protest that he didn't even know the boy, but 
he remembered his toast and went to check on them. The boy 
turned around a corner and dissolved into wisps of smoke and 
tendrils of shadow. 


Breakfast was had, mail was checked, and no more arrows flew 
through the window. However, Timothy couldn't keep his eyes away 
from the delivery for long. After a long time working as a bureaucrat, 
he had become used to turning down requests. But something on 
that day wasn't sitting quite right with him. He felt like blaming the 
food or the news, but deep down, he wanted to know what would 
happen if he said "yes" for once. 


His old eyes widened in shock as he opened the envelope. The first 
pages were a copy of his blueprints for the anti-gravity yo-yo. But 
how? And why? Who could possibly want him to think about this 
now? He had abandoned projects like those ages ago. It was not 
like he had much of a choice. Besides, he was better off like this. 
What was the use for winged bikes if they only made you show up 
late for dinner? 


Dinner. The word made the dusty cogs in his brain grind and creak. 
He remembered his relatives gathered for the meal. Silence. 
Chewing. Work. Dreams. Disapproval. Chewing. Silence. It was like 
they were still there to scold him for holding those blueprints. But 
more memories returned, whole years trying to do amazing and fun 
things. Mold the DNA like clay to create pets out of a fairy tale, 
harness the forces of the cosmos inside a portable playground, and 
forge the perfect playmates for children with special needs. His 
shock gave way to curiosity about what could have been, and the 
worries about ghosts of the past faded away. 


He looked at the rest of the envelope. There were more of his 
blueprints, but someone had written compliments and all kinds of 
suggestions on them. Whoever it was, they sincerely believed 
Timothy should try to create more of these toys. The final note said 
"pe on the lookout for more hints and suggestions!" 


This was nonsense. What about the contact information? He would 
need it to tell this fool to give up. Timothy had no time for anything 
that didn't fit on a punch card. He gathered all the papers and 
headed for the recycling bin. Looming over him in the middle of the 
way was a shelf containing many prizes for the dedication to his 
work. Not a single stain or prize out of order. The glow of pride he 
usually felt when looking at the shelf had dimmed, and the empty 
spot he had reserved for the next prize did not make him anxious. 


For a moment that seemed like an era, there was a sweeping chaos 
in the cogs of his mind. Fossilized ideas about safety and 
respectability clashed with the burning need to know if this was all of 
his legacy. There was anger as he wondered if this was a prank. 
There was fear as he imagined the risks of pursuing his dreams 
again. The shelf just stood there, as if challenging him. 


Timothy set aside his clockwork spirit and put the papers in the spot 
reserved for the next prize. 


The old bureaucrat went about his routine after the special delivery. 
His co-workers said there was something different about him, like 
his body was present but not his mind. He was even seen drawing 
several pages of strange shapes and numbers that resembled 
blueprints. If anybody asked the purpose of these drawings, he 
would say that it was just to remember shapes and keep his memory 
strong. 


The day was uneventful until the lunch break, when Timothy noticed 
another envelope with his name on it placed on his work desk. He 
stared at it suspiciously and with a hint of irritation, then scanned his 
surroundings for any co-workers that might be the ones responsible 
for this foolishness. Seeing no one of the sort, he opened it and saw 
an incomplete blueprint for something he couldn't quite identify. On 
the margin was the message "gather all of the other blueprints in 
your office and try out the complete design for a great surprise! Ask 
your fellow treasure hunters in the office for help". 


Oh, for heaven's sake! First at home, and now at work? When would 
this prankster give up? But then again, the message did mention the 
other workers. Perhaps they were victims of this incessant 


annoyance as well? Investigating it might help to reveal who was 
behind all of this and put them in their place.