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Mielikki 2

Spotty

The pond was tempting Spotty again. His parents had warned Spotty and his brothers and sisters not to get too close to water. “You can slip into the water. Then your feathers will get wet and you will drown.” They would say. But spotty was different. He was different from the moment he hatched out of egg. His brothers and sisters had pointed beaks, didn’t have any web between their fingers, and were bright yellow head to toe. Spotty on the other hand, had a round beak, large webs between his fingers and dark brown spots on his body. Every time his name was called, he was reminded of this difference. Regardless, Spotty did his best to be a good chick. He learned how to peck at food instead of soaking it in water first. It did hurt a bit to swallow dry food but it was worth the pride in his parents’ eyes. He learned how to walk like everyone else. 1) Lift your foot, 2) bend your fingers so that they touch each other, 3) move your foot forward 4) open your fingers 5) put it back on the ground. Spotty preferred to just lift his foot and throw it forward in a semicircular motion but did not want to create another reason to be picked upon. Spotty stopped pecking and looked at the pond in the distance. The surface of the pond was reflecting the tall pine trees surrounding it. A wind created small waves on the surface of the water and made it glitter like stars in the sky. The pond reminded Spotty of another difference. A distinction that no one else was aware of. A special quality that he was secretly proud of and would never try to change: His feathers were magical! Spotty figured this out on a hot summer day… That day, his family were napping in the shadow of their coop. The coop was on the north side of the farm and the pond was on the south side, the farmer’s house sitting in between with white walls and a bright red roof. Spotty didn’t feel sleepy that afternoon. He wondered towards the west side of the farm, practicing his walk. He had just taken 10 or maybe 15 perfect steps in a row when he saw sunlight reflected on the pond. A breeze carried the fresh scent of water northward. Spotty’s tiny heart started beating fast, his feet moving hesitantly towards the pond. He was scared of drowning but could not resist the temptation. He passed the farmer’s house, the pond glittering in front of him. He stopped walking like his parents, throwing his foot forward was faster anyways. He could now see the algae on the surface of the pond clearly. Why did it smell so delicious? Closer…, closer. He stopped at the edge of the pond. The water only a couple of inches below his feet. He bended his neck and grabbed a piece of algae, lifted it up in the air and swallowed it with jerk like movements of his head helping it down. Wow! This was the most delicious thing he had ever tasted! There was another piece a bit further. He leaned forward to reach it. It was too far. He moved his left foot a bit forward. The soil crumbled under his foot and his right foot failed to keep his balance. Cold water first touched Spotty’s feet and then his belly. The droplets of water showered the rest of his body. Spotty cried for help. He usually stayed silent because his brothers and sisters made fun of his croaky chirping sound, but right now, he about to die! Spotty cried again at the top of his lungs, but his parents were too far to hear him. He moved his feet frantically and before he knew it, he was moving gracefully on the surface of the water. A breeze caressed his feathers and cold refreshing water stroked his belly gently, as if he was under the wings of a mother he had never known before. He moved his feet again and his body slid on the surface effortlessly. He wished to return to the safety of land and his feet obeyed. Once on the ground, he looked down at his feathers. It wan unbelievable! They were not wet! The droplets of water just rolled off them and fell to the ground. This was how Spotty learned that his feathers were magical! After that day, Spotty developed the habit of sneaking to the pond, whenever he got the chance. The problem was, as his brothers and sister grew older, they napped less often, which meant less time for enjoying the pond. “Hey, Spotty!” His brother’s voice interrupted his day dream. Redd was holding a worm in his claws. “Do you think this is juicy enough for you?” Redd said with a grinn. Spotty rolled his eyes and returned to pecking. “It looks so weird when you peck! I like it when you jerk your head and eat.” He continued, now dangling the helpless worm in the air. Spotty loved worms, but was not going to help Redd make fun of him. “Leave him alone Redd!” Their mother, Henrietta, protested. Their father, Doodle, just shook his head. Redd bended down and grabbed the worm in his bright red beak. He kept eye contact with Spotty, as if saying, “C'mon, I know you want it!” Spotty turned his back towards Redd and started pecking at the ground again. He was annoyed and excited at the same time. Redd had just given him an excuse to walk away from them. *** Spotty was floating on the surface of the pond. He had just tried diving under the water. Everything slowed down under the surface, sounds seemed distant, water plants dancing a synchronized dance. “Moooooom! Daaaaad! Spotty is drowning! Moooom!” Redd shrieked. Spotty looked up startled and saw Redd jumping up and down on an old log on the side of the pond. He heard the anxious clucking of his Mom in the distance and saw her rushing towards the pond, followed by his Dad, three sisters and two remaining brothers. Spotty was not sure what to do. He was right in the middle of the pond and his entire family had already seen him. Redd jumped up one more time on the log. Spotty could not tell whether he was scared or excited. As Redd landed, a piece of log cracked under his feet, followed by a splash. “Maybe he has magic feathers, too” Spotty thought for a second. The thought disappeared as Redd moved his small wings desperately and sank slowly. Henrietta’s eyes kept darting between Spotty and Redd. Doodle and Henrietta bent down to catch Red but could not reach him. Spotty started swimming towards Redd. Moving his webbed feet as fast as he could. The pond was not very deep near the log, but deep enough for Redd to drown. He was only a few inches away. Redd’s head went under water. Spotty dived. Spotty opened his round beak. He grabbed the back of Redd’s head. Redd was heavier than he thought, or was it the wet feathers? He moved his feet as forcefully as he could. A few more strokes. Redd’s head was above the surface. His eyes were open, staring back at Spotty, but his body was frozen. “Is he alive?” Spotty thought. Redd coughed up some water and took a deep breath, wheezing. The log was too fragile and round to climb, and his family was standing on top of it, dead silent, with their beaks wide open. The edge of the pond was sloped a few feet to their left. Spotty wished to get to the slope. His feet protested, then obeyed. Spotty was panting when Redd’s feet touched the ground. He ran under Henrietta’s feathers who was running towards them on the shore. Doodle joined them. Spotty shook off the water and the droplets of water fell off like magic. Henrietta and Doodle looked at each other, then at Spotty. Spotty looked back, held his head high and smiled. He didn’t mind being different any more. 

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Flower Aura

           Flower Aura      When words are not enough Flowers celebrate love, comfort in sorrow, congratulations on achievements and friendships. Flower messages have varied over the centuries. Not only do they appear beautiful and appealing to the eyes, they play an important role in our daily life. “When spring comes, forsythias bloom first. And when the forsythias start to wither, magnolias bloom. Then when the magnolias wither, cherry blossoms bloom. By the time the cherry blossoms wither and drop the lilacs are in full bloom. And when the lilacs wither, acacia flowers bloom. Then the mountain breeze carries the aroma of the flowers.” ~ Cha Eun-seok  Do Do Sol Sol La La Sol ( k-drama )   Have you ever noticed how fond people in K-drama world are of the language of flowers ? Particularly when they are buying a bouquet for a proposal, they’d often ask the florist to help them select flowers with the most appropriate meaning. Here are some of the meanings mentioned in K-Dramas we’ve come across. Aconitum /Wolf’s bane = Misanthropy and Death Flower lover Jung Saet-byul asks a group of youngsters that just stole goods from the convenient store she works at in Backstreet Rookie, the meaning of Wolf’s Bane, better known as Aconitum, letting them know that this is what future looks like: ‘Misanthropy and Death’. She presents a bouquet of these to a hospitalized man who had accused her boss of selling expired food. The meaning she implied with those flowers was ‘Don’t upset me’. Anemone = Betrayal and Helpless love, Loneliness “Isn't it pretty? This flower’s called an anemone,” Lee Se-joo tells his mother, as he shows her a photo when visiting her in the hospital in The Great Seducer. “It means many things,”he continues and thinks back to when Choi Soo-ji talked about this flower at her hideout, with the same words that he repeats to his mother: “Betrayal. Helpless love. Empty love. Thanks for being there for me. I will give you my everything. Even if you don’t love me, I still love you. It has so many meanings and every one of them is sad. This is my flower from now on. Remember that.” Baby’s breath = Pure eternal love Trust the sweet Kim Geum to gift Seon Ok-nam the kind of flowers that are as gentle and delicate as his heart and soul, on their first date in Mama Fairy and the Woodcutter. That, and the fact that 700 stalks of roses would have been pretty expensive; but we’re sure Ok-nam, appreciated the gesture all the same. While the characters did not particularly delve into it, some of what it represents perfectly encapsulates how Geummie feels about his Fairy: “Everlasting and undying love, pureness and freedom, reconnecting with lost loves”--now found again, never to be let go in this life. Buckwheat Flower = Lover “Lover” is what Kim Shin answers when asked by Ji Eun-tak in The Goblin about what buckwheat flowers mean. Shin offers her these buckwheat flowers when Eun-tak first calls him. Cherry Blossom = Catching a falling cherry blossom makes your first love come true Park Kyung-sun also clearly fell for Kim Hae-il’s physical features at first sight and she did not hesitate in her attraction. While bickering in The Fiery Priest, they also got close and finally became partners in crime. Does the splendid cherry blossoms at the tail end of the show, foreshadow a blossoming of a love-line between the two. In short: If two people walk or sit under cherry blossoms at the beginning of the show, they will eventually end up together. Freesia = New Beginning “Did you know that freesias mean ‘a new start’?” Oh Tae-yang asks Cha Sun-hee in Good Witch, when he proposes to her with these flowers -- only to be rejected directly. Purple Hyacinth = Sorry Yoon Yoo-jung says sorry to Cha Woo-Hyun with a box containing apples and a bouquet of purple Hyacinth in episode 4 of Fluttering Warning. Lily of the Valley = Return to Happiness When Han Deuk-gu tags along to Kim Bo-ra’s brother’s grave, he sees that it is surrounded by the lily of the valley in episode 2 of The Snow Queen. “Do you know the meaning of this flower?” he asks Bo-ra. Then, he answers his own question: “You will surely find happiness.” A little later Bo-ra asks him again about the flower’s meaning, and after hearing it she retorts with: “That’s an impressive phrase.” Rosa Multiflora = Longing for family In episode 1 of When I Was The Most Beautiful, Oh Ye-ji comes to what looks like her former neighbourhood. While watching her mother pass by her without recognizing her and being absorbed in talking with her other daughter, Ye-ji starts to sing, slowly, with a broken, longing voice as she remembers the times spent together with her mother. “On my mom’s way to work There are white wild roses The white petals of wild roses Tastes very good. When I got hungry I gently picked one And ate it. Maaa, maaa I called you out and ate the rose.” Red & White Rose = Making up “I heard that it means that you want to make up [after a fight] if you give red and white roses together,”says a sincere Han Jae-hyun to Yoon Ji-soo in episode 14 of When My Love Blooms. White Tulip = Forgiveness In episode 15 of Backstreet rookie, Saet Byul brings De-hyun’s father a bouquet of white tulips for his wife, as a way to seek her forgiveness. Last few words Flowers are one of the beautiful blessings from nature that is the most important of flowers in our life. According to Research, blossoms have a healing effect on people who receive them as a gift and who keep them in their homes. It’s natural beauty and enchanting fragrance surely delight you special ones immensely and also add a love-filled statement to your occasions. According to my thoughts, By only this way I can prove that flowers really plays a center role in our life. When words are not enough to express what you feel, flowers could make it.

3u4z4o

ONE MONTH CHANGED IT ALL-

Life changed drastically in 1952 in Long Island City, Queens, in the projects, when I was told in early June my mother was pregnant. I was almost nine and a very young nine at that. Gladys, my sister was seven.  I didn’t know what pregnant meant, knew nothing about where babies came from and less about how they got there in the first place. And I didn’t even care. I was busy with Double Dutch and my new Spanish twin friends, Blanca y Negra; I was busy with writing names on my pink spaldeen; I was still playing with dolls and taking ballet lessons and planting seeds in wooden cream cheese boxes. I was busy sneakily pinching Gladys and hiding her things. I knew my mother wore something called a brassiere and a girdle on her body and she didn’t often let us see her in them. This was to hold her belly in. But not now.  An out belly was more than an ok change. Having this baby came at a time when I learned lots of things. There were lots of secret things in the house, particularly in my parents’ room. They had a bedroom “set,” pronounced it “a bedroom sweet.” The bed was always made up and off limits for sitting around on. On top of their dresser was a lacy doily and on top a wedding picture in a gorgeous glass frame. To me they were two beautiful people in beautiful clothes in a room with a staircase that looked like it came from Cinderella. This photo was the same as all my friends’ parents’ photos, it seemed. And to the side of this frame, a mirrored tray with gold metal lace trim along all four sides which held those perfume bottles and compacts and lipsticks and a black shiny jewelry box with a little dancing ballerina. In my mother’s dresser drawer which was unofficially off limits too, (in other words, I shouldn’t be there but the world would not fall apart if I was…) were wonderful things- gloves, handkerchiefs, and letters from my father during the war, cards she’d saved, lacy lingerie, nylon stockings with long seams. I loved to sneak a look into her bedroom and watch her get dressed. But life was changing. I saw Mommy’s belly get bigger and bigger with what I learned was to be a baby. I’d watch Mommy put powder under her arms; powder from tiny little jars decorated with covers with roses and jewels on them. She dabbed perfume on herself with two fingers, behind her ears, on her neck, on her wrists and into her cleavage, even on her new belly, perfumes with names like “Tigris” and “Channel”, not baby names, smells that came from faraway places that I had only learned the names of in school, like Paris and Florence, Mommy’s favorite since it was also her name, Florence Rose. After the perfume, she’d  put on her duster, the one with the huge motherly pockets, and did her chores and got dressed for real later. Sometimes our father was in that room getting dressed, but I never sneaked a look at my father. I only saw him come out of the bathroom everyday, fully clothed, with a wet terry towel tied tightly around his head like an Arab to flatten down his very curly red hair. I never smelled cologne on him, just medicinal shaving smells on his cheeks as he kissed me and Gladys goodbye as he left for work every single day of my life at home. I didn’t even dare to think about parts of his body! I never thought about his belly or the part he played in this baby. Oh there were lots of things that I didn’t think about.   There were other things in my house that I was sort of told were related to having a baby.  In the linen closet in the foyer in our apartment, tucked away under towels and sheets and blankets, was a huge box of cottony rectangles. What were those? Who knew from this? One day, I discovered these huge cottony things and paraded around with some, asking,” Hey what is this, what is this?” The “hey” part was answered first, “Judy, hay is for horses,” one of these short sayings that  my family’s used to make a point, something to distract me from possibly remembering a question maybe they didn’t want to answer. I guessed these cottony things were, “it’s cotton-put-it-away.” So? What did that mean? So much for my childhood questions! And when mom was having this baby, these items it seemed were no more, gone. I discovered one day when I was alone in that room, there was also this little book, How Shall I Tell My Daughter ? Tell me what, I wondered, and I conjured up all kinds of things it could tell me, until I had the right moment to look at it and get the answer myself. Did this have to do with the changes and the coming new baby? It wasn’t like there was no one to ask. We were a communicative family. I was encouraged to ask questions, but I guess these were the wrong ones. This little book told me about something called menstruation, my period, “it” and developing breasts and growing up. It told me I too could have babies once this happened, but not really how. Mom was having that baby so this was really important to know, I thought. Didn’t that mean being married and becoming a housewife?  Wasn’t that supposed to be the dream and goal in those years in the early 1950’s? The book didn’t tell me about sex, and truthfully; I wasn’t ready to understand that anyway. My time to learn would come. My time to read magazines and books that were thrilling and titillating, to swoon in the movies over Rock Hudson and James Dean, to gyrate with Elvis and sashay with the doo-wop groups would come soon enough. When I was older, I would be part of the sleepover “club” to make tents of our bed blankets, and into the night, with a flashlight, read from Peyton Place or 69 Park Avenue and dream and swoon.  In my teens, I would read those so-called “dirty” books on the subway trains and cover them with plain brown paper or book covers with flags that we got in school. Back to this baby. My mom was pregnant. That was the reality. I noticed the new and different clothes and things now in her room. I’d feel the baby in her tummy. Mom even walked differently. I went with her to the doctor’s. “Well here’s the young lady,” Dr. Serlin would say. Yet, he still patted my head and pinched my cheek in the outer office but didn’t let me in to the examining room with mom.  I took part in discussions in our family of what names the baby might have. My mother told me new babies were named for those who were dead, to remember them.  I was named for her father, Joseph Hyman who died of TB. I would rather have been named for Judy Holiday who was famous and alive. A lot about a family is learned at this time. As a matter of fact, it was at this time even though I was nine that I found out about Hitler and concentration camps since two sisters of my grandmother probably died there, and maybe the new baby could have their names.  Really not much more was said. I really didn’t learn that much though. That would come later. It seemed obvious that sad things and scary things were not really shared in our house. This was ok with me for now though. I thought up great boys’ names. I liked John after John Wayne and Buster after Buster Crabbe. My parents liked Franklin after Roosevelt, then a favorite for Jewish people. I wanted a brother desperately. I knew my father wished for a boy too. He had hoped I was one but said he “coped” when I was born a girl and then “coped more" two years later when Gladys was born a girl. At this time in my life, in summer, it seemed like all I saw outside in the park and on the streets were big bellies. “When you are looking for things, you find them,” I said to myself. My mother had two close pregnant friends, Leah and Jay. Leah was having her first baby at the age of my mother, almost 35, and Jay was having her 4 th . With big bellies I saw huge carriages, sometimes my mother called them prams, with rattles and ribbons decorating them and white netting covering whatever was inside.  Everyone was so excited about all these changes that would happen except my grandmother Esther, mommy’s mother. She seemed embarrassed by it all. I thought maybe that she didn’t want my mother sitting with these big bellied women, like sitting close to a pregnant person was catching, like catching things in the bathroom, maybe.   “Baby,” my grandmother said (she called my mom that until she died); “you’re pregnant, what happened. Isn’t it enough with the two girls? Aren’t you too old?” My mother looked away and never really answered her.  My father though was as mad at her as he always was and walked away from them. It was not any of her business and he let her know this and so she had no choice but to keep quiet and of course learn to accept her coming grandchild no matter how old she thought a pregnant person should be. All of this bickering made me uncomfortable but it wasn’t really that different from the discomfort I always felt when my father and grandmother got near to each other. Being pregnant did mean other changes. It meant mom had to be more careful. She might not play catch or let us wrestle her or later on, sit on her lap. It meant preparations in the house too. It meant changing things in Gladys’ and my room and it would mean more sharing. It would mean sharing the new baby too. This was something else to argue over and these somethings would continue all our lives. Gladys and I never were good friends. I found a million things to tease her about and annoy her with. But in this wait, we were both united and excited.  I will never forget this excitement when July 19, 1952 came. Mom said her water broke--what did that mean to a nine year old? - Water couldn’t break! And dad was taking her with that little bag which lived near the side of her bed for weeks to Astoria General Hospital and Nettie was coming over to watch Gladys and me. When Nettie visited it meant fun and presents and for the time we forgot about babies and mom and her belly. Nettie said the time was near. We actually got scared as the afternoon turned into evening. Again, not too much was said to us. Every time the phone rang, I asked a million questions and got shrugs and “wait, doll.” At this time, Leah too was in the hospital and the call from her husband Jack came first and we could hear Aunt Nettie say, “a girl, oh Susan Beth, how nice…” and I was not happy. I had enough with this one sister and I longed for that brother. Our family was really short of men I asserted and I had come to treasure those few who were around.  Nettie told the two of us and said it was not our mommy who called. But, later in the day our call came, and we learned Carol Beth was born that day in Astoria General Hospital. My father spoke to us on the phone, told us to behave, and said he would take us to the hospital the next day. Nettie would sleep over and of course we got to stay up late. The next day, she took us by train to meet our father at the hospital. We could not go into the hospital, we had to be 13 or something, but we stood at the front of it and we waved at the window of the room where our mother was staying for one whole week out of our lives. Later she said to us, “Girls, this was one of the best rests I have had in years.” I couldn’t wait for mom to come home and bring this little doll with her. We didn’t have a car and so we stood at the window waiting for the taxi to bring them home. In preparation, I remember taking out all the toys, the bears, the dolls, my favorite Candyland game, and lining them up for their arrival. Gladys did the same. She had her own ideas of toys and made a line of blocks and balls and her bag of jacks and a ball. If only this baby knew what was in store for her, the competition she would stir up and the times she would have to tell me and Gladys who she loved more and whose side she would take in those “Schneider wars”. Gladys and I would even fight about which side of the room Carol’s little crib would be on. Had cute little Carol Beth known all this, she might have chosen never to be born. But I would not have changed a thing. While Gladys and I, only two years apart in age, drifted further apart from each other, Carol and I, with nine years between us, became the best of friends. That was such a welcome change. What a change in only one month!

yn1kdb

One year it took me...

Last year I was the odd one out. My friends planned a huge deal of a fake party to prank me for April Fool's day. Then I did not realize that they were pranking me. I seriously thought that they were planning a surprise party for one of our dear friend who had been asked for a hand in marriage by a lad that we all admired! He lived overseas so it was a big deal to us because we considered him exotic to say the least. So when one day at dinner she had a huge smile on her face and announced his intentions about her and how she accepted his request, it was like the New York skylight on December 31st. We hugged each other. We kissed each other. She called him on the phone and he was on facetime watchng intently as all of his wife-to-be friends went beserk. It wasn't so much that she had managed to tie him down to a promise. It was more like one of us was asked out, no not asked out, was asked for a partnership in a marriage by a guy whom we deemed was above average and so almost above our league. He smiled, we waved, grateful of his intentions, our friend sobbed, we hugged her and told him good bye we will see him when he arrived in town. She was happy enough to convince our friends that we should officially celebrate and invite others for an official announcement. That too set us off because we just felt like a live wire having so many good news in one sitting. We went home hoping to meet again and probably maybe one of us will find a date and have something else to announce at the party. It was not going to be so. We had lives busy lives. We had responsibilities and our friendship had secured us for many years and we had overcome many obstacles in the past. This seemed like a bridge to a better tomorrow a sign of us aging and becoming serious about life and living. We met and talked, planned and measured our wishes. Betty who was our most trusted friend decided to take the lead. I should have noticed then or I should say that I should have felt the signals that something was about to happen. Joyous and looking forward with expectations, I had no clue or suspision that something other than our excitement of knowing someone who was angaged was going to turn into what we never expected. Like I said, we had been friends since our birth. We all lived in the same neighborhood. We went to different colleges and decided to move to the same city where we pursued life like city girls on a very intimate plane where we all met every Friday for drinks and dinner as a force of habit. We hurt and cried together, called home together, met for birthdays together. Occassionally we would be joined by new friends who will like us or perhaps stay and be one of us or maybe dump us out of feeling left out because we finished each other's sentences that is how much we knew each other. The day was the day when all that we knew to be true changed. Our announcement to a party recevied a lot of notice and we were joined by many co workers that we worked with at the firm. Other friends also brought in some of their neighbors whom we were not familiar with. It was interesting to see friends that I had known for life navigating with others. Betty approached me and said; " I organized this party to be full of many new faces so that we can all move along. Besides Molly is happy to have so many strangers with us at the party. I see Molly's marriage announcement as a wake up call to all of us to start taking life seriously!" she said "Oh, I get it" I said "By the way I am planning a surprise party. Don't make plans for this year. I want us all to be happy actually we should all set goals that we will have new dates for that party so that Molly does not feel awkward being a newly wed." Betty said "Totally, I agree." I said On occassion I would hear from Betty about her arrangements and plans for the party that we all looked forward to. I woud call her sometimes and ask her if she needed any help or if at all there was something that I could do maybe make phone calls or help with the plans. She seemed determined to carry out all the plans by herself. All of it was to be out of her pocket ofcourse and I soon learnt to not ask too many questions. The day that Molly got married was also a day to remember. It also was a day that I met my Mr. Right. A huge guy who was one of the groom's men approached me and asked me my name and where I lived. That is how the conversation started when I realized that I enjoyed speaking to him even though he was so tall and so extra large in his presence. A guy that I would not normally gravitate to because I would have been intimidated. He did not mind at all commanding the space around us. He was willing to talk even though, I was slightly apprehensive because I was unsure where our meeting would lead to. He asked me to sit down and I am glad that I did. I think that without a chair I would have floated out of the room and never looked back. We sat and talked for hours. We did not even get a chance to talk to our friends or the groom and the bride in our minds it was as if we were there to get married. It was our marriage. Our day. We talked, to be honest I don't remember what we talked about. It was very important and very interesting from what I could recall. Once one meets a life partner one disappears from the core group that one once belonged to. I could not tell that I was the only one holding on to the friendship more than I should have. Because I now had someone to share my life with, I was happy and fullfilled and my friends were not that important as they once were. As much as I liked hearing from them, I also needed to save myself for someone whom I so desperately wanted to be with and make him happy. I still worried if I was okay without my friends. Are they feeling anything at all about my new turn of events. I was just too happy to be anywhere in the world of pain and doubt. I loved my life and needed no new surprises. One was awaiting me though. A surprise that I could not have planned for. Betty called me and said:"Don't forget, tonight we are having the party that I have been preparing for all this time. Ready" "Oh, sure I am ready!" I said Betty responded: "Do you have the address where the party will be?" "Oh sure, I have it thanks, See later." I said. My boyfriend and I drove together and arrived at the destination where the party was going to be. We looked around there was no light in the room perhaps, they were all hiding in there plotting something! We opened the door. Yes, there were decorations and the lights showed many gifts and a set table but noone was there! A note was on the smaller table read: "April Fool's: That is for not liking us and sharing with us your life story!" I was so glad he was tall, handsome and overpowering. His presence was going to take it all and let me breathe. What do they mean? Will I see my friends again? What must he think of me? I started to cry. He held me tight and told me to go to the car and drive away from that. We left I think that we were supposed to wait for them to arrive and have the e-x-p-l-a-n-a-t-i-o-n. I was too hurt for that. I also was too embarrassed to be having my first crisis of such magnitude with him in our honeymoon phase of the relationship. I had to think straight. I had a headache. My eyes felt painful. I wanted to be away from everyone. Pranks are putting salt in a sugar basin. A party with noone is a slap on the face; my face.

ud5lw1

Pineapple Tree

Lauren sat in a circle with the other freshmen who had gathered for the orientation day festivities, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her neatly pressed blouse as they waited. This moment was months of hard work in the making. Lauren had fallen in love with the university unexpectedly the prior spring during a trip with her high school band. It was her state’s oldest university, and though not on her original list of considered institutions, she was unexpectedly charmed by the historical campus. Owing to its pre-automotive era construction, the university had no streets and students were required to traverse the paths by foot or bicycle. Despite the important role this placed on the footpaths, their layout was, at best, chaotic. The earliest design of the university consisted of a large central hall, a small church and cemetery which resided in the centre of the grounds. Throughout the years, a spattering of now centenarian trees were planted across the campus, and buildings were added to suit the needs of a growing university. Owing to a respect for the historical significance of these sites, all structures and plant life had been maintained where possible. As she lagged behind her band peers, Lauren observed that the footpaths were a complex network of new and old trails. While many paths connected to existing structures, some directed to sites that had been long vacant, and others elaborately curled around or were broken down by expanding trees. Although the path appeared to be a navigational nightmare, Lauren noticed the ease with which others strode towards the brick buildings. Groups of two or three would emerge from the trees and disappear in buildings or down sloping paths, their laugher lingering in the distance. Prior to that trip Lauren had been prepared to give up the clarinet in favour of laboratory instruments. Science had been her school passion, and she had been looking exclusively at universities which specialised in pharmaceutical sciences. Yet when she returned home that night she reflected on the old cemetery, the smell of steamed oat milk drifting from cafes onto the footpath, the students little older than herself chatting, as though peers, with proper adults. She thought of the generations of important people who’d walked the old paths, and badly wanted to count herself among them.    Lauren has been revisiting and amending this memory all morning. She had contrived a long list of questions she was likely to be asked by her new peers, and she wanted to ensure her answers adequately captured the enthusiasm she felt towards her new life and interests at the university. In preparation for her first day, she’d spent the summer disposing of her awkward and childish belongings and transforming into the role of university freshmen. She had transitioned to full vegan and redid her wardrobe in sustainable fibres. She’d spent the weeks prior to moving on campus researching the nearest (and best) op shops, and had found some fantastic used bookstores within walking distance of her dorm. The weeks leading up to her move felt painfully slow while she dreamed of cosy evenings spent studying in cafes, and weekends filled with exploring the historic corners of the campus. Lauren leaned against the old oak tree towering above the group. She knew from her investigation of the university’s website that it was a rare white oak, planted by a graduating class in 1899. Such species only last roughly 100 years, and Lauren appreciated the privilege of being counted amongst the decades of fresh-faced newcomers that were inducted under its branches. “Who wants to begin by telling us their name and their major”. When Lauren returned from her band trip, she quickly learned that the University did not offer pharmaceutical sciences. Undeterred, she took inspiration from the leafy oak prominently featured in the cover photo of the information package mailed to her house. “Lauren, environmental sciences”, she announced to the group.   “in fact”, she continued, “I selected that major because of this very…” “Clare, English lit” interjected a tanned girl to her left. “Excited to be here”, she said in a tone indicating that she was not. The group moved on and continued introductions until the last of the group had spoken. Student orientation leader, a somewhat frazzled looking girl a few years older than Lauren, then gave the group a few moments to chat amongst themselves before they began the campus tour. The circle jumped around with the usual sort of questions. “where are you from?”, “what class are you most excited for?”, “are you staying off campus or in dorms?”. A moment of awkward silence arose and Clare abruptly turned to Lauren. “Environmental sciences”, she said, “If you could be a tree, what type of tree would you be and why?” “Oh! I suppose… I don’t know “ Lauren responded shakily. “I’d be a pineapple tree” Clare responded. Lauren processed this while a few snickered. “I don’t think pineapples grow on trees”. “I used to spend the summers at this this resort in Seaside called Pineapple tree”, Clare continued. “they had this like massive tree statue out front. It was this major silver shiny thing, with golden pineapples hanging off it”. “Wait, what!” a freshmen in a Vans 1966 beanie interjected, “I’ve also been to Pineapple tree”. Several others began chiming in. It seemed as though more than half the group had spent time at Pineapple tree, Seaside or one of the neighbouring coastal vacation towns in their state. An excited chatter overtook the group as students began pairing up to chat about their beachy experiences. When Lauren interjected with the odd fact or correction, she found her words lost amongst the chatter. Her gaze shifted towards the original university chapel, now retrofitted to house a Quiznos. Lauren’s family had never vacationed at the beach. Her mom didn’t like the sand, and Lauren did not care for the sun exposure. Eventually their leader interrupted the discussion and rose the group. Lauren trailed behind the chatting students as they began their introduction to the campus. She already knew the paths, and she knew a good deal more than their guide about the local trees and shrubbery. At the end of the tour Clare and the few of the other approached Lauren. “We were going to grab some burgers if you’d like to join?”. Lauren had not prepared an answer. 

xhu9h2

The Unknown

The future will always be unknown, and for people with severe anxiety, the thought of something being unknown is unfathomable. There once was a girl that I knew who tried so hard to be prepared for the future, she became scared of it. She became so scared that she limited her abilities, her goals, and her passions. Some may consider her doing that to herself as some sort of self-sabotage, but for her, it was completely the most logical thing to do. If the world has a 50% chance of ending negatively for her, why risk 100% of it? We’re taught in life that you must give to receive, you must be equal with the Earth and the people with-in it. However, that simply is not a reality.             It is hard to be a ‘logical-wanderer’ as this person called her dilemma. Of course she had amazing dreams, and sometimes risked so much to get so little. She once spent almost $20,000 to move across the country at 18 to be somewhere she’s never set foot in, all because of a calling. The calling was telling her that this would be best for her future and of course that was her selling point when she brought it up to her parents. The future would be filled with job opportunities, amazing weather, and a good college education. But, when she was left alone, surrounded by her own thoughts in the late-night, she thought, there was really no promising future.             She witnessed the smartest people she knew be dead broke, the hardest workers behind on payments, and so on and so forth. While she believed in hard work and dreaming big, she saw that sometimes, those don’t work. It was a constant battle for her. One day she was fighting for her future, staying up for hours doing work, and the next week she would miss several assignments and opportunities because she essentially stopped believing. She tried so hard to make sense of her likes and dislikes in relation to the world and thought herself to be unique, but she would then later feel irrelevant or unimportant towards the universe with her ‘uniqueness.’             That is one major thing people do not talk about when it comes to being a wanderer. In the movies, books, and songs, people describe having a spotless mind as being a carefree teenager, post-manic pixie dream and a ‘flower-child’ complex. While those are all true, there are some other key parts that are unhighlighted. Those parts are dark, and one part specifically was really big for this girl. They were the nights crying and feeling like this is nowhere near the life you want, and the feeling that you’ll never find it because all you’ve ever done was chase temporary happiness, but at the time it was not just ‘temporary happiness,’ but rather a small joy that motivates you to find the next. Never being satisfied or settled can be so damaging. You can only chase so much until your heart gives up, and you have to hope that it will give up in a spot and mental position you adore, otherwise you’ll realize that you chased the world for absolutely nothing. Maybe it is for something, but there it goes again. Uncertainty.             I also had a friend, or an acquaintance would be better to say, who was a complete science nerd. But he once told me a statistic and a fact about the world that confirmed this girl’s favorite quote of all time. First, I will share the fact. The science fanatic told me that with the right conditions, in space, you technically move faster than time itself. While I, myself, am not too big on science and space, this fact really intrigued me. It essentially has something to do with the weight and the light when you are in space. I thought that was pretty cool, as it is almost like the future is chasing you. How ironic.             Anyway, the quote this girl absolutely adored was always butchered by her. She only knows of this quote because she saw it in the english-translated subtitle of an Asian Television drama she watched in the 8th grade as has tried her hardest to find the name of. The show was about a girl who dresses up as a guy to get inside a really good track and field program at an all boys school. However, the quote literally has nothing to do with the plot. Despite always messing up the quote, you could still get the general idea of it. It goes something like: “Although the world spins at a predetermined speed, I will not let the weight of this world determine how fast I go.”             It was funny that I learned the scientific meaning of this quote almost 5 years later. Maybe I heard because It was important for me to hear, and in terms of general ‘dream chasing motivational speaking,’ I am certain that this quote and the facts to back it up are very important for everyone to hear.             In the end, I do not think this girl stopped chasing her dreams, no matter how much it killed her. She was not a wanderer by nature, but by fear of what the world may have for her. She tried everything and she went everywhere to see where the perfect place to set up shop was. I think it would be absolutely idiotic for her to give up, but then again here’s me talking with the faith and good sides of being a wanderer. It is good to have both lenses. Now, it may be the assumption of someone reading: Why should I care about the writer’s opinion when the situation is not even about her?             You would not be wrong. I do find myself being critical of people of things and either not having the experience as those people, or I either have done the same stupid thing I am criticizing. However, I am the girl who just spent $20,000 to travel across the country to live in a city i’ve never even blinked in. 

pp2v8u

I'll Never Let You Say Goodbye

Brandon stared at the letter in his hand. He felt a multitude of emotions. He couldn’t believe that he had actually gotten into Columbia University with almost a full ride. He was happy that he had gotten in. He wasn’t sure if he would without an all A record. He was sad because he realized that if he accepted the offer, he would move away from his mom and friends.            What would his mom say? For the longest time, it had just been Brandon and his mom. His dad was off somewhere. Maybe he had a new son out there. Maybe that son was better and that’s why he had never come back. His mom had tried to move on from Brandon’s father, but she ran out of every date crying. She said that when she was sitting at a restaurant without Brandon, it just didn’t feel right. She refused to go on any more dates after mystery guy number three.            “I got my scholarships all approved! I received a letter today!” Brandon spoke into the speaker on his small phone.            “That’s awesome man!” Doug’s voice was oozing with excitement. “I got my acceptance letter yesterday! We are totally room together.” Doug was a small built boy. He could barely hold his own in a game of dodgeball. Somehow, he always had a girlfriend. He had some hidden charm that Brandon could not find for the life of him.            They talked for a while about dorm rooms and classes before Brandon’s mom yelled that dinner was ready.            “I should go, Doug.”            “Don’t forget to tell your mom. Tell her it’s really important to you and that you will only be a couple hours away.” After Doug said this, he hung up leaving Brandon sitting in silence. He thought about how to ease his way into this conversation with his mom.            As soon as he opened his door, his senses went into overload. He smelled baked chicken, spicy green beans, and pan fried potatoes. He sat down at the table and dished himself some of the delicious smelling food.            “Mom how was your day?” Brandon began.            “It was fine son. How was yours?”            “It was really good actually!”            “I might—"            “Hold that thought. Is this chicken too dry? I’m going to get some BBQ sauce. This is sticking in my throat.” Brandon’s mom rose from the table and crossed quickly into the kitchen He frowned. He needed a way to tell her. Before dinner, he had signed the online paperwork and submitted it. He wanted to be packed up in a month so that he could move up there before classes, get settled, and figure things out with Doug. Doug had already said that Brandon was going to be his roommate and promised to fill out all of the paperwork tonight. Brandon had a whole month to tell his mom that he would be leaving her nest and moving to New York.            “I couldn’t find the BBQ sauce, so I guess we’ll just have to suffer through it. Sorry buddy.” His mom returned to the table and smiled at him. “I wanted to discuss something with you. My work needs me to work extra hours this month. I’ll be at the office from eight o’clock to six thirty, at least. This will be good though. We can get a little extra money.” Brandon’s mother worked as a reporter. She mostly just did the editing, but every once in a while, they would call her in to report. “Maybe we can take a big trip next year. We should have enough to go then.” Brandon smiled. Inside he was worried. If he couldn’t save up enough money to pay rent for the dorms, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to go.            “I’m going to get a job this summer.” His mom’s eyebrows rose in surprise. The last time he had a job, he quit after two years of hard work. He had worked at an ice cream shop and hoped that after all of the time that he had spent there, they would give him a raise. When he had asked, the boss refused. When Brandon looked into his salary even more, he realized that his boss wasn’t paying him correctly. He would work twenty hours every week, but the amount was different almost every time. He always got his tips upfront, so he knew that that wasn’t what it was. Instead of sticking around, Brandon had put in his two weeks’ notice. His mom had been very understanding and started handling more hours of work to make up for Brandon’s loss of income.            His mom just nodded and smiled at the thought. He called his friend and got a job moving people in and out of their houses.            After almost three weeks, Brandon had made enough to pay the rent for two months. He was excited about his upcoming move and boxed up a lot of his room. After moving people, packing and hefting his own stuff to his truck was easy as pie. His mom came home as he was loading his last box. Her eyes watered. He went to hug her, but she climbed back into her car and drove away.            If his mother returned that night, Brandon didn’t hear her come in. He decided to go to her office. When he got there, he asked the receptionist to see his mom. When he got to her office, he sat across the desk from her. Her eyes were ringed with red. She wouldn’t meet his eyes and tried to act busy. It was obvious that she wasn’t getting anything done.            “Mom, I want to go to college. I got almost a full ride. All I need is a couple thousand and rent for the dorm. I already have enough for two months. I am rooming with Doug. Everything is packed and ready. There’s just one last thing that I need to do.” Brandon’s mom straightened in her chair as her boss walked into her room. He took a seat next to Brandon, but it was like Brandon wasn’t even there. Apparently, there had been some crisis in the world, and he needed mom to get on that pronto. She nodded as he gave her a location and then the two of them hurried out of the room, leaving Brandon waiting in the quiet office. He sighed. He had two more days. He could wait a few hours. He had delivered all of his stuff to Doug, who was leaving in a few hours.            Brandon went home and spent the day in the living room. He managed to watch three whole movies before his mom walked in. She was tired and smelled like smoke. She didn’t want to talk and went straight into the shower. Brandon made omelets and waited at the table for his mom to come out. When she finally did, they sat eating for a while before Brandon decided he needed to say something.            “Mom. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I know what it means to you that we stay together, but I need to go. I worked hard to get the scholarships and acceptance into the school. Plus, it’s only two hours from her to New York. I could come down every weekend if that’s what it takes.”            “It sounds like you already have a plan.”            “I do. I am leaving tomorrow with or without your blessing. I just wanted to say—” The doorbell rang. Goodbye. I wanted to say goodbye, Brandon thought. His mom stood quickly to get it. Her friend stood in the door. Every Thursday, his mom invited one of her friends over for a movie and wine. Brandon knew to steer clear of whatever rom com they were watching. He went to his room and lied on his bed until he drifted to sleep.            Brandon awoke to the sound of his alarm clock. He had to leave. Time to say goodbye to his mom. No more distractions, he just had to say it and go. He went into the kitchen as his mom bustled about preparing herself for the day. She had her purse slung over one shoulder and her computer bag on the other. She scrabbled for the peanut butter knife and slathered a large dollop into the middle of a piece of bread. She smothered the other slice of bread with jelly. She quickly wrapped it and shoved it into a paper bag. She grabbed her coffee and headed for the door.            “I’m so late today. Love you. Bye” His mom rushed out the door without even looking at Brandon. He frowned and grabbed his keys. It wasn’t the goodbye that he wanted, but he needed to go set up. She would see him sometime. He left a note on the table. It simply listed his address. He got into his truck and drove away.            The dorm room was very snug and decorated like the inside of a ship cabin. The walls were a fake wood and there was a circular window that was supposed to be a nice lookout but looked out onto a brick wall. Doug was happy, and Brandon got everything in order. Doug ordered a pizza, and the two sat in front of the TV watching the news for a while. They heard a knock at the door and shambled over to answer it. Brandon’s mother stood framed in the door. She had tears running down her cheeks. She tackled Brandon in a fierce hug.            “You didn’t say goodbye. I was going to make you a special meal and drive you here myself. I’m sorry. I love you.”            “I love you too Mom.” Brandon smiled for the first time in a few days. This was never about goodbye; this was a see you later.

bi6tmu

Allergic to the sun

The sun. That golden yellow fiery ball in the sky. Not that Alex had really ever seen it with his real eyes but from the pictures on the internet he'd sneaked to look at, he had seen them. Ever since he could remember, he had always been confined to their huge home. He never lacked anything though, his dad always made sure he granted his every wish except for the one wish he wasn't even allowed to wish- stepping outside. It made no sense but what could a thirteen year old do? Technically, he didn't lack anything. Having being homeschooled his whole life and having toys more than enough to open a toy store, his life was supposed to be perfect. He hadn't considered his way of living weird until the day he was staring through the window, looking at that golden globe in the sky and his dad came in. As a young boy who saw something he had never seen before, he excitedly called his dad to check it out. His dad's reaction never left his mind. He frantically jumped at the window, dragging the blinds to cover it and immediately scowled at Alex. "Alex, don't you ever look at the sun." Alex was confused. Though it hurt his eyes, he just wanted to stare at that yellow fireball a bit longer. "Why, dad?" "Because it's bad. It's dangerous." His dad adjusted the blinds again and eyed Alex one more time. When the look on Alex's face made him feel a little safe, he left the room leaving a confused ten year old boy behind. 'Fathers were always right.' 'Fathers would never guide you wrong.' 'Fathers only care about your well-being.' Miss Montgomery, his homeschool teacher had lectured him so of course, he believed his dad and concluded the sun was bad and dangerous...for him. When he was seven, he had peanuts and developed rashes all over. After the doctor injected him with a rather large needle, he said peanuts were bad and dangerous for him. He said he was 'allergic to peanuts.' Guess it wasn't just peanuts he was allergic too. He was allergic to the sun too. It finally made sense. Little wonder his dad never allowed him go outside or look at that round object that illuminated the sky. The sun might have the power to ignite the sky but he was pretty sure to him, it only had the power to ignite terrible rashes onto his skin like peanuts did. Or even worse! And since he still had intentions of living longer, he was just going to have to do away with the sun. Either the sun was attracted to him or he was attracted to sun, Alex couldn't figure out which but he knew he spent half of the time he spent on the internet reading about the sun. Turned out the sun was actually a star that the Earth revolved around and from which it received light and warmth. It suddenly felt unfair. If the earth received light and warmth from the sun, why wasn't it the same with him? He also deserved light other than the stable power supply and warmth other than the one he received from hot chocolate on cold nights. It didn't seem fair that he was the only one allergic to the sun. The Earth wasn't so why was he, a sixteen year old boy who lived in Earth, allergic to the sun? Curious as a cat, he kept on researching on his allergy. Eek, a random internet user said he was a vampire. He definitely wasn't a vampire. He confirmed it while he was brushing his teeth the following morning. Another random user said he was a rare case and had developed a rare allergy. That made him feel weirdly special and fueled his interest on getting to know more about his 'rare allergy.' He slowly developed a new habit. Everyday, he would find himself staring out of the window anticipating the sun's arrival and the minute it teased its presence, he'd drag the window blinds as fast as he could. It was a Saturday morning and as usual, he was sitting by his window anticipating the sun's presence. For him, weekends meant no Miss Montgomery and no dad around since his dad was always off for a new business trip or the other during weekends. That fateful Saturday took a different turn. It was still early for him to be fascinated by anything but he was. It was a girl. A girl he had never seen before and though he lacked experience on seeing girls, she was the most beautiful girl he had ever laid his eyes on. What was that feeling? Her beauty was mesmerizing. So mesmerizing it made his seventeen year old heart flutter. Without knowing what took ahold of him, he grabbed his coat and headed downstairs. Aware of his rather poor social skills, he picked his only friend and immediately searched for 'how to talk to a girl that makes your heart flutter'. He could do it. He still had at least an hour before the sun arrived so he would be fine staying outdoors. All he needed to do was smile and ask for her name. Probably another time when time decided to be on his side, he'll ask for her Facebook or Instagram username and finally create an account of one of those. He had always longed to have one of those social media accounts the teens in the American teen series he watched used but it seemed like they were apps for people with actual friends and knowing how hard he fell out of that category, he never bothered. His hands were trembling when he opened the gate. His dad now trusted him to never leave the house so their security man was relieved of his duties. He stepped out into the familiar yet unfamiliar environment he lived in and slowly to the spot he saw the girl responsible for his sudden boldness. Unexpectedly and sadly, she was no longer there. It was almost like she vanished. Naturally, he was supposed to go back inside disappointed and then sulk for a while but he didn't. He couldn't. His feet wouldn't move. They felt stuck. He looked around him realizing he was actually outside. His surrounding was illuminated by a different type of light. It wasn't sunlight but it was definitely better than the type of light that illuminated his dark home. He closed his eyes hoping to finally feel a different type of warmth. The type the Earth received from the sun. The sun wasn't out so maybe that explained why it didn't feel as good as he expected but it definitely felt a hundred times better than the warmth he felt from hot chocolate on cold nights. It was like a brief warm hug and he let himself get lost in that moment. Suddenly, an unexpected guest arrived. He felt his skin prickling and he looked up to see the yellow ball he dreaded yet loved appearing slowly. Immediately, he ran inside. His quick steps were quickly replaced by heavy panting as he got inside. He hurriedly stripped off his clothes and soaked himself into the bathtub filled with warm water. The warm water only seemed to reminding him of the temporary warmth he felt few minutes ago. How nice would it have been if only he experienced it for a few minutes longer. He could if he wanted to, right? He closed his eyes imagining all the bad things that could happen if he decided to expose himself to the sun. As scary as it felt, he still wanted to. But he needed an excuse. An excuse to use to defend himself in case he got caught outside. A girl sounded like a perfect excuse for a teenager's rebellion so he decided to use her as his excuse as he patiently waited for the next day so he could finally use a stone to kill two birds. Sunday came. Slowly too. Immediately after Alex had breakfast at 8:00am, he stationed himself by his window waiting to see his two fantasies. His Facebook and Instagram accounts were ready and though he had no idea whatsoever on what to do with them, he could at least boast about having not just one social media account but two. At exactly 9:11am, she arrived. She was dressed in regular shorts and a oversized pink sweatshirt. Her blonde hair was tied up into a messy bun and she looked even more beautiful than he remembered. He wasn't going to lose her this time. He jumped stairs, hurriedly heading downstairs to meet up with her. Luckily this time, she hadn't vanished when he stepped outside. "Hey!" He managed to get her attention and stop her from going back into their home. She turned and gestured with her hands. "Are you talking to me?" "Yes, yes." He was nodding awkwardly as he walked towards her. "Hi." "Oh, hi," she smiled. Good gracious. She looked like a freshly bloomed flower and even smelled like one. "What's up?" "Eh? Um, nothing. I mean, nothing much." She chuckled. "Oh...kayyy." He exhaled. "I saw you from the window in my room yesterday and liked you. If it's okay can we be friends?" Jesus, did he really say that? She smiled. "Of course, sure." "Oh my God, really? Thanks! I'm Alex by the way." "Sylvia," she kept on smiling. "Wanna come in? My parents just left and a huge house with no one gets boring easily." He felt his confidence coming. "Oh? Okay. Of course. Sure!" They talked for hours and hours and God, they clicked. They had similar taste and views on a lot of things and she was extremely impressed especially because he lived in a cave his whole life. "Um, Sylvia, I have to go now," Alex finally said. The morning sun was gone already and it was approaching the time for the afternoon's. "Oh. Why though? I thought you said you were home alone." "Yeah but," he was just going to let her in. "It'll get sunny soon and I won't be able to walk outside." "Why?" She laughed. "Cause you aren't with sunscreen?" "No. Actually, I'm allergic to the sun." "You're what?" "Allergic to the sun. I know it's sounds strange but it's true. It's a rare case." She wanted to laugh again. "You must be a vampire then." "No, I'm not. I'm just a normal boy who's allergic to the sun." Even his statement contradicted. There was nothing normal about that. "Oh, honey," Sylvia got up. "There's no such allergy. I'm a hundred percent sure." "There is. I am a living proof." "Okay, let's say you actually are," she was getting entertained. "What happens when you get exposed to the sun?" Her question hit him. He had never actually been exposed to the sun not even once so he had no answer. "I don't know. I've never been exposed to the sun. All I know is I'm allergic to it." "You've got to be kidding me," she was really laughing. "I'm not. My dad told me it's bad for me. That's why he never allows me go out." She leaned towards him. "Alex, we're the same age. How are you so naive?" "But-" "Shhh," she placed her hands on his lips, his heart immediately beginning to beat faster than usual. "One thing's for sure. Your dad definitely doesn't want you out of the house but it's not because you're allergic to the sun. He has other reasons and you're just too naive to figure out." She couldn't keep on doing this to him. Her touch and whisper made his inside tingle. "No, no. I'm going home. Bye." He jumped home grabbing his coat as he headed towards the door. "I'll kiss you." He stopped in his tracks. What did she just say? "Wait a little longer for the sun to come out," she continued. "You'll stay under it and if it turns out that you aren't allergic to it, I'll kiss you. But if you are and anything goes wrong, my dad owns an hospital so bills on me." It was a dangerous and yet appealing offer. He wanted it. He wanted to feel the warmth of both her lips and the sun. "Okay, fine." They were both standing at the entrance to Sylvia's house, a small roof preventing the sun from touching them. Sylvia had rolled his sleeves so the sun could touch him as well as it could. "You ready to be proved wrong?" He nodded. He exhaled. He was about to feel the sun he had always longed for so there was no need to be worried. Rashes couldn't kill, he'll only look terrible for a while but at least he'll know he did one of the items on his bucket list. He closed his eyes, raising his right foot then the left. His eyes flew open as he felt something burn his skin. The burn was in a good way. It wasn't the kind of burn that made you shriek on the top of your voice but the type of burn that made you want to shrink into the moment. Damn, it felt good. It actually felt good. An unfamiliar warmth griped him as he closed his eyes to feel it. It felt strangely comforting. He tried to look up at the now welcomed guest but it hurt his eyes. Instead of a wince from the pain, he let out a cry of joy. He was in the sun! He finally felt his own share of warmth the Earth felt. As it illuminated the environment, he felt his heart getting illuminated too. Without getting over the warmth from the sun, his body felt another type of warmth as Sylvia pressed her lips against his. They stayed in that position for a while before she pulled away and said, "I told you you weren't allergic to the sun, silly." Now 10:24pm, he laid on his bed replaying the day's event in his head. He ended up staying longer than expected at Sylvia's and then lurking around the streets to feel free. He got back home past 8 to meet his dad freaking out. He was shaking and yelling demanding where he'd been but Alex was too happy to get angry like his dad. He still remembered the conversation. Word for word. "I'm not allergic to the sun, dad," he replied his dad's question of 'where the hell have you been?' "What?" His dad looked confused. He laughed as he rolled on his bed reminiscing the memory. He had expected his dad to be just as surprised as he was but he wasn't. Instead, he asked him if allergy to the sun even existed. He laughed again. "Oh, no, son. You're not allergic to the sun. I said the sun was bad and dangerous because your mum is. Her name was Sunshine and everytime I looked at the sun, I was reminded of her." "So, I'm not allergic to the sun." "Of course not. Your mum's a psychopath. After we got divorced and I gained your custody, she threatened to take you away if she ever set her eyes on you and knowing fully well the type of woman your mum is, I knew it was not just a threat." "Oh? So you didn't lock me up all these while because I was allergic to the sun." "God, no. I was scared and you being a weak child ever since you were little scared me more. Of course, you're not allergic to the sun. He smiled as he rolled on his bed for the hundredth time. He wasn't allergic to the sun. He was finally permitted to feel warmth from the sun and external environment. He had a date planned for the next day with Sylvia to a beach. The hottest beach in town, she had added. When she asked him to remember to pack sunscreen along with his things for their trip, he laughed and said, "What do I need sunscreen for? Afterall, I'm not allergic to the sun!"

2cofrn

Dirt On Treetops

"The one good thing about hitting rock bottom; the only other way is up." A rush of air escaped your lips, quicker than you can stifle them. You hardly noticed the few that glanced over in your direction, nor how your grip slackened around your backpack. If the train hadn't abruptly stopped and that old man with the briefcase hadn't stepped on your toe, you wouldn't have noticed this to be your stop. You glance up, meeting a few gazes that flitted away as quickly as they were found; you stared at the open doors, inviting you on your regular route home. You sat in dazed silence as the doors closed, and the train moved on. Regular you would curse, standing up to begin pushing and apologizing your way to the front and wondering what on Earth got into you as you waited for the next stop, groaning about how you were going to waste your lunch money for a taxi and what your roommate would think. This was not regular you, though. As more stops flew by and the train grew emptier, you find yourself still standing, eyes drilled into the floor as tears threatened to flood your eyes. Realization was harsh. Harsher than anger, or sadness, betrayal and failure was nothing compared to a sudden gut punch of reality. Your back begins to ache from the uncomfortable seat, refusing your bones rest and your guard to drop along with the streaks of tears down your face; another moment passes before you do that embarrassingly loud wheeze, choking on your gasps as you sobbed to yourself. This was rock bottom. This routine, this job, this meaningless journey that you convinced yourself is life. This isn't- no, shouldn't be life. Life is- You glance up as the train's intercom spoke a sudden garble, and the sobs nearly turn into a chuckle. When was the last time anyone even bothered making sense of what the voice said? With a quick glance around, you notice the few others either collecting their belongings and standing; last stop, perhaps, or anything after this was not worth visiting. After scrubbing away the tears and standing, the sudden vertigo makes you stumble back down and nearly miss the seat. The train spun and you drop your head into a hand, praying to not pass out. How long you sat like that, you do not know, until a gentle whistle sounded throughout the compartment. Glancing up through your fingers welcomes the image of an old man. Seriously old, the type that waddle to a bench to watch a day pass without a care in the world. This man seemed caring though. "I would get off at this stop, if I were you," he murmured, leaning on his cane as your head did in your hands. "My son has not a care in the world with this train, so you might want to take B7 instead of this one." You can only nod, still a little lightheaded after your original tumble. The old man seems to be okay with silence though. In a way, you're thankful; conversation is not great during life epiphanies. Though as the train slowed and the doors opened, you couldn't help but force a smile (praying your eye didn't twitch) to the old man. He simply smiled back, a kind gesture with a knowing look in his eyes that hardened the lump in your throat. For a moment you considered letting the doors close in front of you, sitting next to the man and seeing if his wisdom could smooth aches of the past how many years you had them; however you pushed on, and nearly winced at how the doors shut you out from the train. After watching your daily ride disappear, you let your feet carry you wherever, letting the musty breeze from around the train station carry your worries and heartaches throughout your body until that quote thumped into center stage again. "The one good thing about hitting rock bottom; the only other way is up." This was rock bottom. Missing a stranger who you speculate has wisdom. Seeing daily faces pushing against you on your way home, yet never learning their names, their routine or names. What was that chick's name, the one with a different hair colour every month and looked like an anime character? That briefcase man, who's eye never left his little book, what was in there? Did any of your coworkers, or old classmates take the same train? This wasn't a matter of curiosity, but gut wrenching loneliness and distance further than light years in an empty galaxy. Just as your thoughts became more turbulent, a curb nearly tripped you flat onto your face. Making an unceremonious sounds was a talent. As you caught yourself on a bench, you silently hoped no one was around to bear witness; glancing around, you found yourself in a park well known in your city. Fresh air as you walk back to your apartment couldn't hurt... Well, you were convinced. You begin walking, bracing yourself for thoughts to crowd your mind like bees buzzing between hive walls, however as your eyes took in greenery your mind took on a state of comforting silence, leaving you in a safe, numb space until your surroundings were familiar and your building only a block away. As you turned a corner, ready to leave trodden dirt for pavement, bleeding sunlight smacked you directly in the face. A hand was brought up, but only shortly, as the sun seemed to pass almost instantaneously. How unfortunate. If only you didn't live in a city but a lush green forest, a treehouse stretched miles in the air to witness glorious sights of sun's rays basking their glory for one final show before letting the moon perform to a sleeping audience... You look to your left. A tree is there. You step forward, gracefully reaching for a low hanging branch and pulling; strong bark responded to your touch, and you could swear the tree rustled their leaves invitingly. You climbed trees before; this oak was aware. Were your muscles? It has been so long... A few adrenaline fueled minutes later, you lean against the thinned trunk, panting and awkwardly swiping sweat off the back of your neck as your eyes followed the sun bowing down, ready to go backstage after such a gorgeous performance. As wind rustles your hair amongst sore muscles and strained clothing, you notice a certain something on some leaves near you. Dirt. A shadow of a footprint, a whisper of someone standing on rock and clambering up from a low point to reaching a sky. You smile. This was a start.

mav0oa

Colors

[TW: abuse] Many years ago, the government allowed my family to leave the country for a week or more. My parents had called it a vacation. To this day, I do not know what that word means. But it was a unique experience. For ten hours we sat cramped together on a plane. The breathtaking view from my window seat bored me, after just half an hour of marveling. Back then I was still a little, five-year-old girl. My feet rested on my family's luggage, I sat squeezed together on my chair. Soon my back and legs were hurting. Between me and the aisle Eva, mother, and father were sitting. Within an hour I got up three times to go to the toilet, just to have something to do and stretch my dead legs. The fourth time Mother slapped me in the face and sent me back to my seat. I cried and screamed loudly, no one on the plane heard me. Nobody looked at me. Only Eva grinned silently into herself as she pretended to read a book. I was sobbing wordlessly for a few hours, endured the throbbing pain throughout my whole body and did not dare get up anymore. Shortly before landing, I peed into my pants. Mother said nothing about it until we arrived at our hotel room. Only then did I receive my deserved thrashing, while my father was shouting ear-splittingly. Over the next few days, we traveled through a world that was vastly different from the one I had known until then. People wore beautiful dresses; I realized this, although I could not explain why it felt that way. Their mouths formed new sounds that I did not understand, but they gave me a good feeling. Mother and father and Eva were just sneering at them, so I mimicked them to not stand out. On the fifth Evening we arrived at the sea. The sunset on the horizon was more wonderful than anything I had ever seen in my life. The last rays of the sun were shimmering on the waves. The water sparkled like a thousand diamonds. With my mouth gaping, I sat down in the sand. I sat there quietly and admired this spectacle. My mother's protests did not reach me. When she grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet, I fought back. Never again in my life would I be as happy as in this place. I pleaded and screamed for help. A beautiful woman stopped us and exchanged a few words with my mother. I pulled at my arm, but she just firmed her grip. The beautiful woman looked back and forth between my mother's put-on smile and my attempts to escape her. Then the woman let us pass. It was the last day I was happy. A few days later we returned home. My parents sent me to teachers and doctors. They told me I had to change. But I was too stupid to understand that. Two years later, I got the medication to help me understand. In the weeks that followed, the world lost its light. When I was thirteen, I realized that I had to change my attitude to survive in this society. I was sitting in my room over some homework. The front door opened and clicked shut. "Hello, Anna!" my sister called as her steps approached. "How are you?" I said, looking up from my desk. Eva stopped in the doorway to my room and raised an eyebrow. A school bag hung over her shoulders. She wore her chin raised and her shoulders tight. "Good." "Really?" "Yes." She wanted to turn away but hesitated. "Why?" I shrugged innocently. "I just wanted to ask." She rolled her eyes. "You ask me every day. Can't you ask useful questions?" "What, for example?" "No idea, get creative." Eva sneered at me before closing the door. Through the thin walls her voice echoed from the kitchen. "What's wrong with that kid?" "Child, watch your tongue," a louder voice reverberated to make sure the curious ears of neighbors had heard my mother's rebuke. But she added more quietly, "We don't know." They wanted me to hear them. They wanted their words to hit me. And even though I knew that I could not fight back the tears. I knew I was doing them a favor. I knew they wanted to crack me like a nut and just wait for the emotions to break out of me. But since that day I hid my tears under the blanket, masked my feelings and repressed the cries. And it worked. I was accepted and welcomed by the community with open arms. But I shattered under this burden, sweeping the shards of my personality under the rug, where no one could see them. When I was eighteen, I had convinced them all that I was one of them. I had swindled them all. My mother proudly placed a hand on my right shoulder on the day I graduated from school. My father looked at me with a raised head as I gave the closing speech in front of all my comrades. Eva was not in the crowd. With a smile on my lips and a rock-hard expression in my eyes I encouraged my friends to trust in their communities and serve their country, whatever that meant for each of them. The blank faces listening to my words cut deep wounds into my heart. The words formed a lump in my throat, but I proficiently overplayed that. I had my plans. I would use the scholarship I had received from the government to complete parts of my education abroad. And I did not plan to come back to this hole. Whatever life would try to through at me, I was able to adapt. And I knew how beautiful the world outside could be and I would make sure, to be part of it. That day was the last day that I had to change myself to fit in. 

1yrean

Journey's end

Journey’s End Billy was sitting almost hunched up on the gross seat, trying not to get too close to the other passengers on the train. The dull scenery slipped past the uncaring passengers who kept their thoughts in their own worried minds. Billy nudged his older brother Vincent, who was busy reading a digital book, his reader shutting itself off when he put it back in his bag, careful to keep everything out of reach for thieves and nosy people. “We’re almost there, right?” Asked Billy, prompting Vincent to look at the overhead watch, it looked more broken than working, but ticked on nonetheless through the layer of grime. “Just about Billy, maybe just 20 more minutes. Then we can get off this moving coffin,” replied Vincent, seeing the other seated passengers looking depressed in the stale air, some were wearing air masks to help them breathe, other people had taken theirs off since they weren’t breathing in city smog anymore. No one on the train was complaining whether or not someone was wearing a mask; they would get beaten to a pulp for not minding their own business, especially now that the laws had relaxed on the masks, among other things at last. Yet both boys were wearing their masks; you never knew with nosy and bored people, the masks allowed them to breathe cleaner air just a side benefit they enjoyed. “At least Grandpa and Grandma don’t mind having us around so suddenly,” said Billy, thinking back to how they had packed everything they owned in their digital space devices, able to pack up everything they owned in a single moment, even keeping their pets in stasis and safe until they unpacked again. The device even allowed for them to get stolen property back, money included. Which their mothers’ new boyfriend and his kids didn’t like at all, since they were the ones who quite literally ended up with burnt hands and an arrest. “No, they don’t mind. Besides, they’re Dad’s family, not Moms’. And they said they’d pick us up at the station,” reassured Vincent, sounding sure despite their circumstances. Their mother wasn’t very happy when she’d come back from work in the tech lab, only to see cops arresting her bullying boyfriend, since the devices her sons’ had had called the police with the evidence for theft, and the harassment and bullying too which had been logged. Trisha also wasn’t very happy that the boys had packed up everything they owned, their pets, and above all, the family heirlooms. Especially their parents stuff, their deceased fathers’ and their still living mothers’, since she stopped being a mother to them for quite a time now. And she was only left with a few things she’d bought herself, and junk her boyfriend had given her. She had told them to call their grandparents; she was sick of them standing up for themselves. But hadn’t said it like that, not at all. The best thing their father ever did was give them these devices, although moving companies pretty much stopped existing after it’s invention, and government couldn’t stop its’ production or consumers from wanting it, and passing it on to their descendants. “Mom sure knows how to pick them,” remarked Billy to his older brother, his brother putting his arm around him protectively, glad they were out of the rental flat. “Don’t worry kiddo; we’ve still got each other. Even though our whole world is falling apart, in more ways than one,” said Vincent, making his little brother smile. Their train started slowing down and came to a stop inside of an old, busy station, which was verging on dilapidation. The other train passengers were putting on their masks again. The boys still kept their masks on since traveling was too much of a stinking hazard; there were barely any plants left after the last war in most areas, and the ground was poor quality mostly, so planting trees and other plants was now almost a hazard. The brothers got up from their seats, keeping their shoulder bags close to their bodies and keeping close to one another. The other passengers shuffled on as if already beaten, some truly were; former soldiers limped past on ill-fitting prosthesis, while an older woman had to be helped with her wheelchair. Her family were unclasping the chair from the floor as the boys walked by. She was missing both legs, and her breathing was heavy despite the air mask helping, with an added tank attached to her wheelchair. Their parents had barely survived that last war as young adults; it didn’t help that there was so much pollution and overpopulation to begin with back then, which was beginning to heal, slowly but surely. The brothers saw their grandparents waiting for them at the passenger collection point, moving faster toward they finally hugged their grandparents happily and smiled; they were finally safe. “If your mother hadn’t pulled such a crap move, I’d have asked how she was,” grunted Grandpa Eric as he got into the beat up Jeep, that he somehow kept running. “That’s on her; not us. We just had enough of her and that man; he can beat her to a pulp now,” said Vincent resentfully. Billy couldn’t blame his brother, he felt the same way. There was nothing like losing a parent while they were still alive, especially to betrayal. “Don’t worry boys; you’re safe with us. Oh and by the way; I made apple pie back home, it’s sitting in the fridge waiting for you,” said Grandma Carla, smiling and making the boys smile happily at the thought of it, of not having to eat just artificially produced foods, that truly tasted like nothing and left a sticky layer on your tongue. There used to be mostly soy products but the crops mostly died because of the war; they’d all called it an Apocalypse, thankfully there were seed banks and hidden supplies. Billy thought about this as they drove to their grandparents’ smallholding, far from it all. But still recovering after decades, the land was slowly making a comeback. “Grandpa, why are there so many people in only certain areas, when there is so much wide open space out there?” Asked Billy, surely the clean-up crews would have helped somewhat by this point, after all these years? “Well Billy, the problem is that all our smart ass government and other leaders thought it was a good idea not to let everyone out of their sight, not so soon after the war at least. Since even the very earth was sick from their weapons; even the ground was poisoned, they had an excuse, but at least we managed to go back to our land,” said Grandpa Eric, making him shudder thinking back to it. “I heard on the news they’re letting people back to some of the land, where their families might have owned land before the war. Other people are studying to work the land now so they can buy land now, since it’s a requirement to have taken a course in farming,” said Vincent, remembering the news he’d heard at school before it closed for the holidays. “Yeah, that’s true my boys. You have to study an agricultural course for a year, or inherit land before you’re allowed to live and farm on it. We were damn lucky, but Grandma and I teach at the town college when we can. It’s the only way we can survive after what’s happened, to try and not repeat the mistakes of the past and heal the earth,” lamented Grandpa Eric, Grandma Carla put a hand on his leg as they drove home. They kept quiet most of the way as they drove past desolate stretches of land, a busy recycling plant was in the distance, they drove past that too and the boys merely looked on as more reusable junk was being recycled and more brought in. The land looked grey and dead, thought Billy to himself. Until he saw people planting a row of trees at the plant; at least it was a start. They came closer to their community, he saw the greenery in the distance already and smiled to his older brother, and looked happily at the town symbol welcoming them home; a green woman holding a cornucopia, the words “Mother Nature Welcomes You Home,” painted at the bottom. When they finally arrived at the old farmhouse the boys felt relieved, it felt like home. They used to live here when they were little with their parents and grandparents, and then had to move for their parents’ careers. “Can we get our pets out of stasis please?” Asked Vincent as they unpacked in their new room, they would later get a new room each since the boys wanted to stay close for now, just for a few days until they adjusted to their new home, and fresher cleaner air. There was so little smog in the country side now, the brothers almost couldn’t believe it. And they’d shared a room previously at their old home. “Of course, your pets are welcome. Just get them settled with the windows and doors closed; we don’t want them to run off,” said Grandma Carla as she closed the door. Vincent got the cat litter tray and bag out, placing it in their bathroom and readying it, while Billy got the cat bowls ready, with their fox terrier’s supplies next to it, giving them all a generous helping of food. Then their dogs’ bed was put down, since the cats slept on the beds, or rather, on whichever of the brothers they chose. Billy and Vincent kept a space open in the middle of the room, commanding their devices to safely put their pets in the spot. Their pets appeared in a blue light, coming out of stasis as if they had been paused in time, looking confused at their new surroundings but glad the boys were there to comfort them. Their Fox terrier dog was sniffing around soon, excited to be somewhere familiar, while the two cats had taken over a lap each looking around while being babied and talked to, Happy and Grin-Grin were looking around curiously, but enjoyed the attention more. “Looks like T-Bone is enjoying himself,” remarked Billy as he pointed to their dog exploring then running over to them. “Maybe he wants to go for a walk, we have his leash, as soon as the cats are settled in,” said Vincent, letting the cat go to eat and drink water. Billy’s cat decided to nap instead. When both cats were calm and sleeping they took T-Bone for a walk, leashed and happy to go out, while the cats were locked up to sleep. The boys smiled as they passed by the family altar; the Green Goddess statuette their father had carved was in the middle, with fresh flowers by her side, and some seeds and seedlings for her to bless. Her husband figure the rain god, was being repainted by Grandma. Their father used to tell them stories of nature spirits, and how Mother Nature could be both cruel and kind, she was a mighty force in her own right, and to respect her. Their grandfather took them outside to see some more of the new plants they had added; farmers now chose to plant a variety of trees and other crops since specialization was no longer the only option. “Grandpa, when are those seeds at the altar going to be planted? Can we help?” Asked Billy almost shyly, he was the only one of his classmates who had ever been to anything resembling a farm. The small holding was doing quite well, as were the neighbors. Grandpa Eric smiled proudly at his grandsons. “Tomorrow actually, and of course you two can help. Just like your dad used to,” said Grandpa Eric, missing their only child who had left them grand-kids. Their eldest daughter had died in a car accident when their son, Derek, had been a young teen. Lynne had been hit by a drunk driver who tried to hit and run, but the neighbor had shot out his wheels instead. When he got off scot free from court their neighbor wished he’d shot his head off instead, even though Lynne was long dead on impact. The Sunflowers they kept growing for her were close to the house, so was something new. “Granddad, when did you plant mint?” Asked Vincent as they were nearing the house now. T-Bone was running happily around now that he was unleashed for a moment, lifting his leg up and marking everything until he ran out of steam, or rather, fluid. Billy bent down and picked up their tired dog, cradling the black and white dog who was panting happily. Grandpa Eric looked over the mint, running a hand lovingly over it. “We planted this after your dad passed, because he loved Mint, and we wanted a bit of him close by while you two were far away,” replied Grandpa, both boys looked at one another, hugging their granddad lovingly, who wiped away a few stray tears. It had been almost three years now, but it never really got better; just more bearable. Sitting at the kitchen table eating their home grown and raised dinner, they talked about the upcoming Summer Festival, since they’d already spoken to their grandparents concerning their mother. “So Summer Fest is in two weeks, are you going to have the Bakes stand again Grandma?” Asked Vincent eagerly, hoping they could sample some goods beforehand. Grandma Carla smiled happily and replied, “Of course, and you two can help.” They all smiled happily at this, knowing everyone would get their fair share of samples, and still make a sale. Billy spied the repainted little idol, standing next to the Green Mother statue, drying from the earlier paint job; he could swear they seemed happy. They even had little shells for their altar. Earlier the boys had brought some mint in for the altar, it just felt right. Later that night when they were sleeping in their room, the cats had taken them over and slept on them, with T-Bone snoring in his bed and under his blanket; Billy and Vincent talked for a while longer. “Do you think we can go over to the hill tomorrow, where Dad used to take us for the view?” Asked Billy in the dark. “It’s close to here, maybe we can ask tomorrow. We might even be able to pack a small picnic for ourselves and take T-Bone,” replied Vincent, noticing the dogs’ ears perk up at his name despite being asleep and snoring loudly. “It’ll be great; we haven’t done that since before Dad passed, and Mom was still Mom back then,” said Billy, becoming somewhat sad at the mention of their mother. His brother sighed, feeling how his little brother felt. Vincent was just 17, and Billy was 14, but they felt old when they thought of their old life. Billy and Vincent had just finished cleaning the altar and gave some fresh incense sticks, while their grandparents started packing them a picnic basket. Earlier they had helped their grandparents plant the seeds and seedlings from the altar; among other things they helped plant. They weren’t going to walk all the way to the hill; Grandma was going to a friend of hers close by to trade supplies and was going to drive them, while Grandpa was going to take care of the chickens and goats. The boys promised they’d get a lift back from Grandma on her way back, she felt safer knowing where they were. The journey to the hill hadn’t taken them long at all, and before they knew it they were waving goodbye to Grandma and unpacking their picnic basket, throwing an old large blanket on the grass under a massive oak tree, enjoying the shade. T-Bone was sniffing and marking everything in sight it seemed, until he smelled chicken sandwiches; they’d even remembered to pack something for him too. The brothers fed him his share in his travel bowl, watching their dog stretch out after eating, then plopping down happily next to them. They watched the valley down below, green and lively, the air smelled so fresh and alive. But far in the distance the wasteland was still in view, but getting smaller. “Do you remember when we were here last; the green didn’t stretch out all the way to there?” Asked Vincent, he pointed towards the formerly broken bridge was now fixed and there were fertile fields now, not like before. “I remember, Dad said the land was healing, and as long as we helped heal Mother Nature she’ll help us survive and thrive. Do you think Dad was right?” Asked Billy, as he pet their sleeping dog while contemplating the memory. “I think so. I mean, people can now farm and grow further now, before there wasn’t really much, or that far,” said Vincent, amazed at how many trees were also growing; so many fruit trees and bushes, and vegetable fields too. “It’s so beautiful, isn’t it?” Said Billy amazed, looking off into the distance. “It really is,” agreed Vincent, feeling glad that their old journey was at an end and they could start a new, happy journey with their grandparents.

yg4pth

Night and Day

Anataisia screamed as her alarm went off - twenty minutes late. She flung herself at the wall, in only satin pyjama shorts and a black tank top, and reached for the back of her door, where her all-black housecoat with a hood was hanging. She yanked it on, then skimpered quickly over her creaky wooden floor boards to the window, where she pulled shut her blinds. Sighing, Anastaisia flipped on the light switch as she sank to her bed, so as to not be left in total darkness. There she lay in silence until her phone binged with a text message from her best friend. Summer: ANA. I have called you like fifteen times. Did the sun get you? CALL ME WHEN YOU GET THIS MESSAGE. Chuckling slightly, Anastaisia typed a quick reply, the listened as the sound of her phone ringing after she dialed her friend’s number. Summer answered immediately. “You’re alive!” Her robotic-sounding voice filled what used to be the silence of Ana’s lonely top-floor bedroom. In real life, Summer’s voice sounded anything but robotic: it was fluid and smooth. She was practically the complete opposite of Anastaisia - she couldn’t live without the daylight in the morning! People always assumed she was an angel with her ong wavy blond hair, blue eyes, angled figure, long legs, clear skin, and bright clothing choices. She was also the school’s ‘good girl’: she had good grades, good style, good attitude, good friends, and overall a good life. Anastaisia, however, was not made based off of the same prototype. She was the freaky, vampire/goth kid who was mostly and honestly dead inside. She was always covered in dark clothing, with no skin showing, scare her face (which was smudged with dark eyeshadow and purple lipstick), and her hands, with her nails painted black. Ocasionally, you could catch a glimpse of her feet (when they weren’t covered by a floor-length skirt), but they were covered with dark clumps. Anastaisia wasn’t a vampire, no, and she didn’t worship the devil like some of the hallway gossip of her grade assumed. She was just allergic to the sun. Well, that was what she told everyone. Everyone other than Summer, of course. The truth is, she was scared of it, scared that if people saw her in non-artificiel light, they would see her inner evil side. Something she kept hidden. From everyone. Even Anastaisia. “Well, I dunno about that.” Ana grimaced as she placed her phone back on her bedside table, with Summer on speaker phone. “Mr. Mars just sent us the notification of our finals next week.” Summer groaned. “Sister, how long have you been awake? Three minutes ago he sent the email that confirmed that the exams were actually moved to today, right after lunch.” “Same thing.” Summer laughed on the other end of the phone, her voice cracking through the distance, as Ana began to get dressed. They continued talking, until Ana heard a voice from three floors down. “Okay, well my ‘father’ is calling, so I’ll see you at school, okay?” They said their respective goodbyes, the Ana ran down the multiple flights of stairs and spun into the kitchen. After checking to make sure all the blinds were closed, she shrugged her house coat off to reveal an oversized tee shirt (so over sized that the sleeves looked like they were as long as her arms) with green and purple graffiti, which she had cut, so it didn’t fall to her knees, and black jeans. Clumps that matched her shirt, and her black hair hanging down her face, curtain bangs not yet brushed. And there, sitting at the old, wooden kitchen table, covered in spider webs, was her dad, aka, the world’s most evil being ever to exist. “Hey, Whisper,” he croaked, sounding hungover (probably from one of his weird spells/concoctions) using the childhood nickname he had given his daughter after a length of silence she had gone through. Anastaisia grumbled in return, pulled a face at her father’s bowl of (frog feet?) cereal, and moved to the fridge to find something somewhat decent to eat. The refrigerator was empty, except for the container of a rotten sandwich, and a mouldy orange that should have been thrown out three months earlier. Something in the back corner, marked ‘EP’, caught her attention. It looked somewhat edible, so she grabbed a spoon and took a bite. Ick. Edible? Maybe not. Groaning again, Ana pulled out her phone and shot Summer a quick text that told her friend to bring her a muffin to eat for breakfast. She waved sarcastically at her father, before walking outside to her bus stop and cringing because of the sun. Summer would have her muffin by first period, she reminded herself as her stomach growled. But then, she saw a new, cropped head of blond hair. “Hey.” the blond said, without showing her face, as she walked over to Ana. She looked exactly like Summer, but Ana knew her friend would never cut and straighten her gorgeous hair. So, Anasataisia backed away quickly without answering. Summer turned to face her, frowning. “What, can’t you recognize me, your best friend?” she extended a hand, and Ana took the muffin greedily, no thanks. Summer shot her a look. “So, what do you think of the hair cut?” She said, moitioned to her face. The blond mop was straightened, highlighted, and angled slightly to the front. And it was short. Very short. Biting into the muffin, Anastaisia replied without thinking, “I hate it.” Tears came to Summer’s eyes, and she turned away from Ana. “I thought you’d say that.” She wiped a strat tear and boarded the bus without looking back. Anastaisia felt guilty, and wondered what had gotten into her. Normally, I am nice enough to hide my mean side. What is - OOOHHH. She remembered the soup she had eaten before leaving the house, the one marked ‘EP’. Evil Potion. She was going full-on evil mode, and there was nothing she could do about it until the next day. So all she could hope for was to stay far enough away from other people. However, karma has a good way of biting people in the butts for things they have done, and once Ana got on the bus, she could no longer contain herself. She swore at the bus driver, then walked to the back of the bus, where the littlest kids sat. She looked at the kindergarteners and decided to start there. One by one, she insulted them to the point of tears, picking out the flaws in their clothes, hair, nails, and attitudes. Then, she moved onto the first graders, a similar process ensuing. Everyone else was too shocked to do anything. Everyone, except Summer. “You fool!” She screamed standing to her feet, not wobbling on her six inch heels. As confident and as sassy as ever., she fought every insult sent in her way and in the direction of the other students, until Anastaisia had nothing left to do but stare at what used to be her best friend showing her. Suddenly scared, she shrunk down in her seat, and Summer walked over, and using the united power of Angelisim, she banished Ana to the sky. However, what she was unaware of, was that with this spell, she too, would be banished. So now, whenever the old classmates look up at the sky in the day, they could swear they could still see Summer’s bright face, and at night, Anastaisia betrayed grimace as the clouds cover the moon - the sole source of good left in her.

9jp5u6

Not Today

*Beep* *Beep* *Beep* An apple watch laying upon a bedside table rings insistently. Its owner, young Zack Mackelroy, wakes up to the familiar sound. Peering through weary eyelids, he reaches out to the watch. Still half asleep. April 1st, 2020. 7:30 The worst day of the year, during the worst year in history. Beside his watch was a pair of oval glasses. He reached out to them as the world around him was just a mish mash of muddled mirages at the moment. Or that's how he felt anyway. Getting up, he moved over to his dresser and faced the rectangular mirror hanging upon the door. "It's time to make history, Zack... You can do this. You're smarter than them. You're faster. You can outplan, outthink, outrun, outdodge, output more effort than they can. It's simple math. You're the one. The prime number. And doesn't matter how many of them there are... You can do this." Slapping himself in the face, and running in the spot he tried to hype himself up. But deep down, he knew. He knew that it'd take a miracle for him to make it out unscathed today. "Hey butthead, are you going to take a shower or what? Your going to be late for school." His younger sister scolded at the door looking at him pitifully. "Shuddup, Maize. As if I've ever been late before." He retorted. "Oh, right. I forgot. You're a complete dork. You'd never be late for class." She stuck her tongue out at him. And before he could respond, she ran down the hall. Disgusted by her claim, he grabbed his neatly prepared clothes he made the other night, along with his toiletries and took a shower. "Ok, their going to expect me coming down the main entrance as I've always done from the parking lot." The streaming water pattering his face, he used his hands to draw out an imaginary map in the air in front of him. "Which means, I have to use the back entrance service door on west side of the school. Near my class room. No lockers or washrooms nearby. Eliminating any threatening areas they can push me into." Hmmm, but the year before last they just egged him thoroughly and hung him upside down from the atrium against a wall. Shaking him out as they knew he carried a lot in his pockets. Embarrassment and sadness washed over him at the memory. He didn't know why he always loved to be prepared. That something would feel wrong with him if he didn't prepare his shower towel and clothes neatly folded on his computer chair. That it had to be on the chair because he always had to check his email in the morning. Clear out the junk mail. Organize the inbox into folders where they belong. This persistent need to have things in the right place. "I just wish I could do the same in real life." He stepped out of the shower and dried himself off. Wiping away the fog off the mirror. He had short hair, neatly kept as he combed it back. He had pale skin and dark brown hair. Almond coloured eyes and buck teeth. He smiled at the mirror, trying to see if he could see himself in any other way than what he was. A loser. "Hey put yourself together man." He looked at himself and tried to flex his abs and biceps. "You're more than a nerd. You're the nerdiest of nerds." It brought a small smile to his lips. Self deprecating jokes. The only shield left to hold to, he thought. He took a deep breathe and looked up at the ceiling. "God, if you're there please give me the strength to make it through today." His main bullies were Sarah Connor, George Greene and Sly Steve. Sarah Connor, like the Terminator movies, was a tough lanky girl who was the tallest in their class. George Greene was her boyfriend and Steve was their best friend. The Trio were known as the Terribles. Like the Incredibles but the complete opposite. Every April Fool's day for the past 3 years he's been in the school they have ridiculed, tortured and battered his ass. "But today, they will find themselves to be the Foolibles... or Fools. Foolish ones?" He would have to come up with a name for them just as degrading as Zmacky Boy. You know the boy you can smack around. For now, it was on to armaments. He walked back into his room. And upon a mannequin was his goalie gear. His mom got him enrolled into hockey when he was young. And he always fancied the look of the goalies. To him they were great knights protecting the net from harmful catapulted shots of rubber. On Ice, Zack felt like a tower, but off ice he felt like a stick. No one at school knew he played. Since the public school didn't offer hockey as a extracurricular sport. Gear was too expensive to provide for kids. He instead played for a little league. Today though, he needed his pads and helmet. With mask underneath and a Zelda Skyward Shield replica at his back. He went downstairs. "And where do you think you are going dressed up in all that?" His mom asked as she handed him his lunch, which he stuffed into his satchel. Zack hated backpacks because it gave bullies to much leverage over his entire body. Satchels he can let slip off if they grabbed them. "I have practice today, Mom. And ummm Sally said she could get me a ride to the rink." "Righhhht... And the shield?" "Um, it's for her brother Damien. He just got a Nintendo Switch and I don't really like this shield anymore. Takes up too much space." For a moment, his mother met his gaze as if to see if she can peer through to the truth. But she gave up. She never really understood him. Neither did either of his parents. "Just be careful, sweetie." "I got my mask," He replied. "Love you, Mom." "Love you too, darling" He turned and went outside. The school was only two blocks away so he could walk the distance. "Am I going to really fight off the Terribles..." He asked himself as he stopped at a familiar house half way to his school. It was Sally's home. She was always really early so they never walked together to school, but she was his only friend. Outside his team, the Glenmore Ravens. As the school came into sight, he veered of from the main way to go to the side of the building. A metal door against concrete served as a service entry for janitors and the like. He pulled open the door and walked inside. The clamoring of students and people walking about washed over him as stuck to the shadows of a nearby staircase. "Psst. What are you doing?" He jumped up in surprise nearly dropping to the floor. He turned to see it was just Sally. She was looking at him curiously. "I'm going to do it." He said voice cracking slightly. "Do what?" "I'm going to fight them." "Your insane Zack. There are three of 'em you know." "I don't care. I had enough. Today I won't be the Fool, They will be the Three Stooges. You wait and see." "Who are the Three Stooges?" "Really, Sally, Really...?" She looked at him helplessly. He sighed. "I'll link you a youtube video. It'll make more sense." "So what? Are you going to wait for them to come to class and just brawl with them. That doesn't seem very smart." "No, I'm going to bait them. They'll see me in this get up and think punching bag. And then that's when I'll unleash my secret weapon." She looked him up and down. "Your shield? I know you love Captain America, but you aren't a super hero Zack." "No! Not my shield..." He rummaged through his satchel and pulled out a small can. Across the front it read "Pepper Spray." "Zack that's going to get you into more trouble." "Look Sally I'm tired of it. Every April Fools they've made my life a miserable hell. Today they'll feel my emotional pain through their eyes." He then made a spraying motion aimed high as if to hit an imaginary Sarah. "Plus this is like the Spartan Pass in the 300, I'll hold my ground here. They can't shove me anywhere." As he was talking he didn't notice in the distance, the three Terribles spotting him. A smirk crept onto Sarah's face as she tapped George on the shoulder pointing him out. Sally spotted them though. "Just run Zack." "I will after I spray them." "No just do it now please. I don't want to see you get hurt." "Hah, today they'll be writhing on the ground, just wait. Now take cover Sally this is my fight." She stepped back hesitantly before running up the flight of stairs. Figures, can't even trust your own best friends it seems. No matter, Zack slipped the pepper spray into his palm concealing his trump card. "Well, well what do we have here boys. Zmacky all dressed up and ready for class I see." Sarah had long hair and a snaggle tooth on either side of her mouth, making her look like a vampire as she hovered over him. "So you going to a cosplay or something Zmacky?" She asked as she tipped him with her finger pushing against his chest. He took it and stared defiantly. "No..." His hand was shaking, he knew that he should draw his weapon now. But through his periphery he could see the other two boys just waiting to pounce. "So what do you think we should do today Steve?" Sly Steve smiled menacingly. "We haven't done a good pummeling in awhile." "That's a bit boring though," George intervened. "Let's make this kid know where he belongs. I say we bring him outside and literally make him eat dirt like the worm he is." "That's why I love you, babe. Always with the bright ideas." Suddenly before Zack could react Sarah and Steve grabbed him by the arms while George ran past opening the metal door. There was some woods right outside the school and they tossed him onto the ground among the pine cones. "Now for every handful you refuse to eat, Zmacky. I'm going to have Steve here.. Zmack you around." Zack looked up at them. For three years he had to endure this treatment three years. But oddly enough this wasn't so much a prank as usual. Last spring they had left scorpions in his gym shoes. Before that was the egging. And the very first year he met the Terribles on April Fool's Day they skunk bombed his locker. Today was just like any other day. "Wait what day is it today?" "Monday the 2nd, you dork. Any last requests." Steve joked. Suddenly he was reminded of his watch, he looked down. Now with his glasses he clearly saw. April 2nd, 2020. 8:12 Realizing for the first time, that the fear he had was for a day that no longer existed. "Now eat dirt wormling." George taunted. Sarah with her elbow over his shoulder watched expectantly. But neither of them were prepared. He brought the spray can to bear. Spraying them both. The look of shock and pain as they held to their face in horror was so so so satisfying. Zack couldn't even put it into words how it felt to stand up to them. Steve went to punch him. But Zack drew out his shield and held it firm in front of him just in time to parry his fist. The knuckle cracked against steel. It was a good thing he got a real Hylian replica shield. Steve yelled out in pain. And just as Zack was about to run. He spotted Sally coming barreling down from the school with the Vice Principal in toe. "Are you okay, Zack." She asked with worry on her face. She looked completely out of breadth. She must've booked it hard to the office. "Yah," He looked over to Steve holding to his hand and the pair of blind turtledoves coughing and writhing on the ground. "I'm okay." The last year of highschool. The Terribles were transferred out never to be heard from again. And Zack Mackelroy, well he became the talk of the classroom. But he knew that without Sally, the Terribles retribution would have been swift and harsh. He never doubted her again after that. As for April Fools. Well... Zack can finally enjoy knowing that it's just another day in the year. There was always the day afterwards.

tmudbq

Where the Faeries Play

I am not my mother's daughter. Grandmother told me stories of her smile. How it could draw the stars from their hiding places. How it gave branches voice and the leaves color. I never told Grandmother I remembered it. I was too afraid the stories would stop. The stories were secret and my father did not like to hear them. “He does not like the reminder,” my grandmother would breathe between her loose strands of dancing grey. I knew she didn’t understand though, that he liked nothing more than remembering that smile. What he did not like was my tainting it. Me with my pinched mouth and sour milk smirk. I did not deserve to recall what he kept sacred and tucked away. I could not find it in myself to resent him for it. I do not recall when my memories started. Time blends and animates the snapshots of framed photographs with distant voices, piecing together a fabric that never entirely existed. I cannot discern from the rosy cheeks and autumn dusted hair hung upon my walls from the live action reel of cold curls wet against my face and striped rain boots that never stilled. I do not know when one me became another, and I could find no evidence of the transition. Grandmother took me to the lone hazeltree behind my dad’s patchwork Buick, the sole object of his affections. We’d sit beneath its spindly trunks, and I’d pretend she was mother and I knew she would do the same. She’d plait my mousy curls, pretend they were golden, and tell me of The Little People, even smaller than me. “Are they beautiful?” I’d wonder aloud, and her answer never changed. “They’re like us in that way. Some are so filled with beauty it will make your chest ache just to see them. Some have lashed eyes so intense you could swear they hold constellations.” She never spoke of the other ones. The ones I wanted to hear about. The ones that weren’t beautiful. I drew them myself when I could, their upturned noses and limp, uneven shoulders mirrored me in a way I could not bear to look at. “Are they good? The ones that make you ache?” I would ask. I wanted them to be cruel, to take that beauty and tarnish it, to render themselves so unbearably monstrous that not even their perfect faces could remedy it. “Ah, love. They do not think of goodness as we think of goodness. Can one be wicked if they don’t intend it so?” “Wicked?” “The words to unlock a heart are not given freely, my dear. Even we keep ourselves so far inside it is difficult to be found.” I knew she thought of mother when she told me how they’d sing. They did not sing to make the flowers grow, and they did not sing to make the moon wax or wane. They sang because they liked it and that was that. Grandmother kept mother alive in The Little People. She was hidden in every story. I made it my place to find her there. I used my own memory as a map, though as untrustworthy as Grandmother’s tales. I knew the danger of memory. Lies that disguised themselves as truths. I’d lay awake atop my blankets in the summers when the sun refused to set. I’d listen to the wind blowing through the hawthorne’s branches, a sound I knew masked the dancing feet of The Little People. Grandmother told me they made no sound when they danced, that their nimble feet brushed the thick moss with but the soft whisper of a kiss. I did not know at the time that kisses could be whispered. My jaw worked on the ringleted apple skin that fell from Grandmother’s knife. She had piled them in a heap of red just for me, our secret bargain. “Do you think they stole her away? Because she sang so pretty?” Grandmother’s head twitched imperceptibly towards the gaping doorframe. She sighed her wrinkle-studded sigh. “Your mother sang and sang to that tree. I think, if they have stolen her away, she knew what she was doing.” Grandmother spoke so softly, it was as if she were not speaking to me at all. I did not understand then, with my grubby little fingers and my dirt-coated apple shavings, what Grandmother had said to me that day. The phrase “she knew what she was doing” was one I had nodded at sagely, as though I had grasped its meaning. When I had learned, when I sat at my window sill thinking on all the pieces of her I had collected, I hated Grandmother a little for saying it. I had not then known the cruelty of truth. The betrayal weaved itself into each of my subsequent memories as if it had always been there. I could not untangle it. When I watched mother’s steps mirror my own, feet flying past half-shy spring tulips, my unwilling kite trailing behind us as though our laughter were not enough to convince it of flights’ worth, her smile held something it had not held before. Something heavier than even the kite’s fear. I wanted to forget that new look, that addition to memory now settled as fact. I wanted to know the mother as I knew her before, the one who’s guiltless voice had filled my nighttimes, the one who had loved me full to bursting and who had not thought twice of my changeling face. That’s the thing about truth though. You don’t get the option of forgetting. I had not thought the way she had left us could change anything. With mother taken, snatched away, I was left an unfortunate creature, an example left to warn others of the whims of fate. Victim is a far comfier guise than blame. I no longer liked to play truth. When Grandmother told me stories I kept them locked away and sought nothing from them. Mother’s tree became my tree, and it kept me company where shades of her had previously. I found myself more bold than before. I was no longer afraid to ask after the twisted, ugly, wicked Little People. “Tell me of the Other ones. The ones that scream where there should be song, and the ones that lurch where there should be dance.” The distant mountains sent winged messengers to whisper in hushed lyrics the tales Grandmother now told me. It was in this way I learned that darkness nurtured in people a curiosity masqueraded as horror. “Tormented souls are often mistaken for cruel and wicked, child. The hate built in their chests twists and bends the body that found no weight in innocence. Remember that.” I worried Grandmother could see the hate that had twisted my heart, that circled my body in visible blackness, warping my crooked form before her ancient eyes. She had told me once of beings that held so much beauty it could make your chest ache. My ears of that time, naive and un-wintered things, had not known that life’s goodness could make you ache as much as its badness. We all fancied that tree as our own, fancied that those beings beneath its roots somehow preferred the lumber of our footfalls to another. They did not even know we stood there. To me, mother had become a fiction as grand as the myths that came from sunkissed countries. She was as unreal to me as my present father, his rolled button-downs stained with the evidence of time spent with his Buick. I thought I had known her. The way her shoulders twitched when I hung from her neck and the way her laugh rocked us both, my ribs cramping from my heart’s fullness. I had known her. The way she would run her fingers over the spot on my back that made me squirm, the knowledge of it’s secret existence shared only between us. I thought I had known her. The way her face would still when I pressed my nose to her neck, her eyes heavy and lidded with concentration, sketching that moment behind her eyelids. To love a patchwork person, sewn together with the threads of half truths and childlike trust, leaves a hollow emptiness, a vast blackhole of questions. Loving her memory was not like loving her. Wherever she had gone she was sure to have changed as surely as the moon of tomorrow would change from the moon of my right now. Father called me changeling, an insult. Grandmother called me changeling, a reassurance. I am not my mother's daughter, my mother sings with The Little People in their rooted halls. Her love was as fickle as a spring night, and I know now it could not have been mine unchanged for long. But it had been mine.

1r120c

A Widow's Coin

A Widow’s Coin By Heather Ann Martinez Deep in the shrouds of evergreens and endless butterflies lay the castle of the kingdom of Care-A-Soul. The king had recently passed away leaving his son Edward the throne. Edward was not like his father. The king, Liam, had been a very humble man. King Liam valued the contributions of everyone in his kingdom. He knew his people did not have a lot of money or great wealth to spare. They were always generous with their earnings as was the king. He tried to instill in Prince Edward the value of everyone’s contribution to the kingdom, but Prince Edward wasn’t as humble or gentle as his father was. When Prince Edward was left the throne, a neighboring kingdom took over. King Josiah, King Liam’s older brother, decided he would be the better ruler of Care-A-Soul. Prince Edward liked his uncle and was the first to accept King Josiah as ruler of the land. Prince Edward didn’t feel he was ready to rule the kingdom. What he did not realize was that King Josiah was not a fair, humble king like his father. In fact, King Josiah was the opposite. He was greedy and he wanted everything. Instead of allowing the people of Care-A-Soul to give a generous portion of their earning and their harvest to the king, King Josiah demanded more. He, in many ways, bled them dry. The people became oppressed by the new laws King Josiah set for them. Their crops began to wither and the people became hungry. King Josiah was not merciless if any one of his subjects was caught stealing grain or took an extra portion. The people that defied him disappeared in the night. No one ever heard from them again. Mothers feared for their children. Fathers guarded their families, but they were not strong enough to stand up to King Josiah. Prince Edward was aware that his people were suffering but felt helpless to do anything about it. His father’s former advisors would visit with him in secret and try to help him see reason. The prince was in denial that his uncle would demand so much of his people. He defended his uncle and reminded the former advisors that they were talking about the ruling king. As time went on, the fertile land became more like a desert. The river beds began to dry up. The earth that had fed them was turning into a dust bowl. King Josiah’s soldiers had destroyed many of the homes and businesses of the people. The scent of ash and dust could be smelled for miles. Yet, King Josiah demanded more. He sent out his armies to conquer more kingdoms. As he absorbed more land, he took the majority of the wealth of that land for himself. One day, a woman went to see the prince. She told Prince Edward about her mother. “My mother went to see your father, King Liam, many years ago. There was a shortage of food at that time. She told your father she wanted to help, but she had lost her husband and all of her world possessions with the exception of one small coin. She sacrificed what she had left. Your father, tears in his eyes, took the coin. He told my mother he would only use it in the event of an emergency. He told her that coin became more valuable to him than all of the jewels and gold he had. My mother said your father saved the coin in a box so that it might be offered to anyone who oppresses the kingdom.” The prince was stunned. He never heard about this widow or her coin. He looked at this woman who was kneeling before him. Tears were streaming down her face. He had not realized what his uncle had done to the people. He personally was not affected by the king’s laws. He did not believe the people when they told him what the king forced them to do. He didn’t know that people were disappearing in the middle of the night. The prince listened to the woman. He asked her to tell him everything about her mother that she could remember. Her mother passed away shortly after giving the king her coin. Prince Edward was so humbled by the woman’s words. He never expected anyone to tell him about his father’s conversation with a woman who gave him what she valued to help save the kingdom. Prince Edward had the box the coin had been kept in. His father warned him to keep a watchful eye over it. His father told him it was worth more to him than any other gold or silver piece in the kingdom. Later that day, Prince Edward went to see King Josiah. King Josiah met him with open arms. The king was very happy to see the prince until the prince started talking about the problems the peasants were facing. The prince told him that it wasn’t just the peasants that were being oppressed but all of the people were facing unnecessary hardships. Hardships his father never would have allowed to happen. The king became enraged. He told the prince that the people were telling him lies because they didn’t like him. Prince Edward knew it was more than that. The prince stood up and went to the window. He told the king their kingdom was known for lush evergreens and butterflies. The evergreens were cut down to make more room for crops. The land was never allowed to settle and the next season the crops failed and more trees were removed and scarce crops were harvested and so on. The prince pointed to the barren land and said this was not what his father wanted for all of them. The prince asked the king where the missing people were. The king denied that anyone was missing. He told the prince that several people were relocated for their own protection. King Josiah smiled. He asked the prince what he intended to do. The prince asked the king what it was that he most wanted in the world. The king said that what he most wanted and couldn’t find was what his brother King Liam had. King Liam told him there was a coin among his possessions that was more rare and valuable than any other coin he owned. The prince told the king he knew exactly what he was talking about, and he offered it to the king. “If I give this coin to you Uncle, will you let my kingdom go. I will assume the throne and you and your armies can go home.” “This coin that your father owned. Do you believe that it can really turn fortunes around? Are you so willing to give it up?” “Like my father before me, I would do anything for my people. I would give up something so precious for them.” The prince opened the box and gave the king the widow’s coin. The king marveled at it. He thought it was made out of a rare metal or mineral. He took the coin and left Prince Edward the kingdom. The prince grew in stature as a humble and wise king. He learned from the widow’s daughter that there are people willing to sacrifice of them selves for their neighbor. King Josiah never returned to Care-A-Soul. He feared his ignorance regarding the coin. He never found anyone in his kingdom who could tell him the coin was valuable. He never saw the beauty in what was in front of him.

q4zes3

Water Elemental

Water Elemental After my encounter, I learned that throughout the recent history of the west. Men wearing dresses with an aversion to women, children, and family, have instructed the general population on morality and religious belief. Moreover, these people promote a system of religion that bears no relation to western etiquette, literary references, culture, customs, phonetics, geographic similarity, or climate. Correspondingly, any objection to Christianity’s Ad Hominem Fallacies, is met with the classic “Tu Quoque Fallacy” (Who are you to talk?) Needless to say, if a person constructs a solid argument against an Abrahamic desert philosophy the niceties are dropped! To be replaced with violence in the name of their peace-loving nomad god. Unfortunately, this “modus operandum” has been the script for millennia for Christianity and Islam. Thank Goodness! My encounter filled me with unconditional love: Leaving me proud to be a child of a different God!    Raised in the seventies and christened a protestant. Did not seal my fate! However, through destiny’s mechanisms. I was not to be bonded to Henry the 8th church! My Catholic-orientated school imbued its spiritual faith structure on me. Hence, enforced through dogma, I found myself a Catholic! An inescapable condition! As my tutors included Sisters and Priests. These relentless religious zealots gave students spiritual studies and religious guidance.  I learned quickly! That any entity not belonging to their cabal was an enemy or demon! For the first few years of Catholicism, indoctrination, and dogma. Their hail and brimstone lectures encapsulated me in their faith. Contrary to their efforts, other divinities and philosophies had other ideas. Hence, different gods and alternative religious and philosophical ideologies kept appearing in my life.  As the first alternative religious thoughts, alien from Catholicism showed up in my way of life, troubled me! Like any decent Catholic, I heard mass in Latin, learned the catechism, and prayed to the saints and Angels. But strange powers still reached out to me? What made matters worse! The more devout I became, it heightened spiritual and otherworldly encounters increased. One of my strong supernatural encounters happened on a saint’s day. I had attended Benediction in Latin. However, during this mass, I noticed the Monstrance the Priest holds looks like a star/sun. This I found baffling! I kept thinking is God the Sun. Or does the Sun represent God? When the mass had finished. I asked the Priest which answer was correct? As usual, God is everywhere answer aired. Along with everything is symbolic to represent god’s power. “I went along to get along.” However, the Benediction having such a strong sun/star presence kept me thinking. The best thing about being a young catholic is saint days which equated to no school. Hence, eager to make the most of my free time; influenced my decision to attend Benediction at eight AM. Normally, on free days, my horse or motorcycle occupied my time. Not today! A yearning to explore an area that contained an ancient well obsessed me. I knew little of its pagan significance. But something kept pulling me to find this ancient structure. In a strange coincidence, a quiet voice appeared in my life, it kept whispering. “The well would be of great importance to me.” As I rushed home, the warmth of a June day burnt my skin unnoticed. A part of me remained acutely occupied with what I may find on my adventure in a part of the forest known to be dangerous.  Home reached, my keys released the door lock, and triggered a desire to remove all my uncomfortable sweaty church clothes. Some, I returned to their hangers, others got slung in the wash bin. A want to catch the day speeded me into jeans, a jumper, and a light jacket. I collected the dog’s lead, and opened her run, she bound out like a released prisoner. Her furiously wagging tail kept hitting me with hard slaps. We crossed the road from our house to the adjacent field, framed by a magnificent forest. My dog Tess relieved to be free of her kennel; ran ahead, hot on a sent. I Sucked in a sizeable amount of breath and sped after her. A Shouted command; returned the dog to my heal panting like a train. “We have a long walk, dog!” Tess looked at me, ignored my advice, and bounded ahead, chasing another sent. It was hot! My concern, she would over-heat. Nevertheless, our destination was a natural spring. In a dangerous forest area where people had died or disappeared. However, I had to find it! Its location became known to me via an old man in our village, hence, until now it remained a mythical unexplored mystery. Stillness punctuated an unwelcoming fenced-off dark forest that loomed before us. I Stopped to check if this unknown area was safe? I felt uneasy. Sure, something languished in its forbidding darkness. A decaying tree thrust between railings in front of a dilapidated old entrance; blocked my way. Undaunted, I pushed through it! A wall of dry branches and pine leaves hit me, dust swirled making my eyes squint and blocked my nose and mouth. Choking and coughing ensued. My hands scraped dust and leaves from my mouth and eyes like a man possessed. My breath and vision returned. Before me looming out of the forest shadows stood a strange circle of stones! I Walked around the ancient circle until I spotted the described old route to the well. Following this path was slow and difficult, it had become overgrown with thorns and nettles. Relieved Tess was with me because unsettled spirits are one thing. As for irate human encounters? My dog’s reputation went before her! After a few meters, the path forked. All vegetation and debris had mysteriously cleared. This route now started to show a lot of activity! I looked at Tess her ears were pricked and her eyes focused on something. She began to drop on her haunches a dark growl emanated from her. A shadow moved through the trees just ahead of us. Was somebody following us? I was not going to take any chances, “Get it, Tess!” Hissed from my lips. She tore through piles of undergrowth towards where the figure had been.  I expected to hear a person shout for help. Not a sound murmured from where Tess stopped. Agitated, she jumped and barked at nothing. I ran towards her, tense and confused. She never barked unless something was in the vicinity. I slowly approached her trying to calm her down. Tess still growled and barked! I could see nothing or smell anything. The soft ground only showed old footprints and Tessa’s large paw marks.  Eventually, I called Tess to heel; she came over to me, displaying signs of agitation. She would not calm down. A click of a carbine secured a running lead to her thick collar. I wanted her close! If we were being followed by some joker? Tess would have them; we were miles from society, and a delayed response to a dangerous situation in the wilderness could be costly!  Many people have lost their lives under mysterious circumstances in this forest. I did not intend to join the list! My insurance policy was a highly trained and intelligent attack dog, a deadly combination of Border Collie, and German Shepard.   As we followed the path, after a few meters, it joined a fork and became clearer and well-trodden… All vegetation and debris had mysteriously cleared. This route now started to show a lot of activity! Wrapping her lead around my hand I pulled Tess closer. My reason, if there were people around? My dog would get stressed and react. She did not like strangers or groups of unknown people; she hated outsiders stroking her. Tess stopped suddenly! Her nose sniffed the air. I threw a question at her. “What do you smell, girl? Some little animal you want to chase?”  I pulled on the lead; Tess froze and sniffed the air again. I looked to see if a person lies ahead of us; the path veered to the right behind a group of bushes with no one in sight. Another gentle pull with some kind words encouraged my dog to walk. However, a strange feeling of anxiety gripped me. An unfamiliar sound filled my ears, my heart palpitated it made me clutch my chest. Tess growled! Straining my ears to recognize the sound only increased my anxiety!  I pulled Tess closer; she pushed against my leg; making me stop. I shouted towards the blind bend of the path. Only the strange sound returned. I angrily issued a threat! “I will let the dog loose! You have a couple of seconds to show yourself! Trust me, it’s better that you identify who you are, than face my dog!” Tess and I stared at the closed bend! I picked up a club-sized stick. She went crazy as the strange sound got louder! We were ready for action! Whatever happened, it would be “do, or die!” A bush juddered Infront of us! A metallic click released fifty kilos of pent-up ferocity! I held my stick to strike with maximum force and sped towards the sound that advanced on us, from the bush. A little hedgehog crawled out, looked around, and curled into a ball! I felt stupid! Tess barked and pawed at the frightened little thing, I reattached her lead, we continued to follow the bend, it led to an open area of grass. The strange noise returned! As I seized my impromptu club, thoughts raced, and every muscle tensed. From the hidden vantage of thick foliage, I stared into the long grass of the facing field. Desperate for affirmation of what made the noise? I gave Tess the command “Seek!” She crouched low, sunk out of view, stalks of grass moving indicated her direction. Following her lead, I dropped to reduce my profile.  In a pincer movement, we closed in on the strange noise.  Halfway to the source, I paused, to cup my best ear to identify the sound.  What was causing the sound, remained obscured in the long grass. Every sense in me tightened, I crept closer to the invisible cacophony. Without warning, everything froze like a paused film. Silence fell like a blanket, smothering all noise. A feeling of pressure prior to an explosion replaced normal ambiance. Frightened and tense, adrenaline surged through every bodily fiber. An impulse to run surged. But my feet remained rooted in the soft grass. I had stiffened like a manakin, held by an invisible force. Kaleidoscopic colors replaced solid earth, vibrating muscles juddered and shook. Forlorn, I accepted this feeling of inevitable death, as the world disappeared in an inverse swirl. Trying to cling for life failed. My soul tore from its body. Before me, a black sun, burning with a bright blue flame that pulled me into its vortex of love and peace.  My soul entered a wall of blue luminescence, a painful wrench released all memories and traces of ego. Earthly consciousness left me. I had died! Around me, like a sea, floated our solar system. However, no discernable differences between me and it existed. It felt strange to be, yet not have a form? In this body-less state harmony and peace flowed through me.  A Jolt followed by a shudder tugged on me. Within seconds, earth and being reunited. My body moved, however, my world remained frozen. The strange noise still emanated, with confidence I walked towards it. A blinding white light mixed with orange formed in a fluxing circle. Held in its center, an Elemental meditated above the spring. I Showed reverence, with hands supplicated, and head bowed, I sat on a rock transfixed by the vision. His eyes opened, followed by a broad smile. He looked like me! I was about to speak when a gentle voice spoke. “Confused by thoughts we experience duality in life. Unencumbered by ideas, the enlightened only see one reality.”   Did I just experience reality? In one way yes, in another you awoke to who you are.” I looked confused. My belief in the Catholic Doctrine had evaporated. However, disbelief and confusion filled the empty void. “Can you tell me what happened?” Love radiated into me; my body became warm as a swarming volley of information-saturated me. Between waves of knowledge, I kept asking. “What happened to me, and why? You are a Buddha that has been here many times, on this level of existence, your body is of the essence, the unmanifested mode if you wish. However, you experienced the heavenly mode. Finally, what you think is someone else is another of your incarnations in a higher dimension.” The vision vanished! Like a switch being thrown, everything returned to normal. Tess thundered towards me, sound filled the air, crystal clear spring water danced, releasing strings of bubbles.  I felt connected to everything. All my thoughts circulated like scurrying mice, trying to find an explanation. Racked with guilt, I pushed aside years of indoctrinated dogma, allowing a bitter realization to rise. If this religious experience was authentic? It lacked hail and brimstone and fanciful tales. Had what I’d experienced what Jesus described as heaven within? If so? Existence and being are simple. Why do we complicate it?

ao8pys

Live Oak

Lyra was destined to become an aerial artist. After all, her name was Lyra like a lyra hoop artist. She imagined herself working as a professional circus acrobat after the first time her mother took her to the local fair. There before her wondrous 8-year-old eyes, she saw a magical dancer spinning round and round on one of those lyra hoops, her body spinning infinite circles 20 plus feet in the air. Now twenty years of age, Lyra stared up at the live oak tree that stood in front of her parents' beachside chalet. This was her vacation throughout her childhood in the niche part of Jekyll Island, Georgia. She was home for college and she would not return. Her parents passed away within two years of each other. The last five years were particularly difficult for Lyra. She dissolved her life savings from babysitting gigs, summer lifeguarding jobs, and Christmas gift money to help her ailing folks. Cancer. Both of them, chain smokers for over forty years. The beach house was meant for her parents’ retirement. Lyra was putting it on the market for the invaluable real estate value, apparently, developers were putting up a casino and she’d received an offer, she couldn’t refuse. In her hands, she held the rigging for her own lyra hoop, a rope securely tied to the metal frame, and several carabiners. The rope swung nimbly over a thick medium branch. The tree was large and its branches reached outwardly like arms waiting for a hug on every level of its trunk. She guided the hoop up just high enough for her to practice her trapeze art without touching the ground. It would never have suited her to move down to Jekyll. Everyone was old or blonde. She hated sticking out in the crowd, and down below the Bible belt, she always stuck out like an exotic bird. Her almond eyes, jet-black hair, and high cheekbones were beautiful to behold but different. Different isn’t always good, especially when people like the chalet’s caretaker boasted about how before they had sold the house to the Ling’s, the house, tree, and all were relics of their ancestors. “My ancestors were part of the group from France that discovered this island, and this is peninsula is where they took up roots,” Monsieur Bain explained. He always found a way to insert his rightful ownership into the conversation every time she came to visit. Their house was what used to be the main house three acres west. They had subdivided the plat long ago to earn extra income. A piece was sold in the ’80s and in early 2000, her parents acquired the last plot. Monsieur Bain did not look like a Frenchman or even a descendant. His looks were average and akin to most middle-aged, tired, southerner that Lyra had crossed path within her life. He insisted on the title, “Monsieur,” for the sake of tourism rather than authenticity. At home, alone with his wife, he was simply Tom, and the neighborhood vendors, local fishermen all knew him as Mr. Bain. Lyra was deeply focused on a new maneuver she wanted to hit. She lost her scholarship due to all her recent time planning funerals. She didn’t plan on returning to school. She was chasing Cirque du Soleil and one particularly handsome casting director across the country, perhaps into Canada. She’d secured an audition before, but the heavy hitters in the running left her out in the cold. That was two years ago. Now, it was time for another chance. She just had to get stronger. She was intensely winding her legs and twisting her body through and outside of the hoop. It wasn’t until she pulled herself up in a front support position that she noticed someone up the hill eyeballing her. Lyra squinted her eyes and as they came into focus on the familiar figure, she breathed a sigh of relief. She cast backward and landed on her feet like a cat on the ground next to one of the old tree’s outgrown roots. Waving, she called out, “Monsieur Bain, what a pleasant surprise!” Sauntering after Lyra’s recognition, Monsieur Bain called back. “I didn’t want to disturb you,” he breathed as he approached the promising young acrobat. The hills on that property seemed to grown gigantically every passing year. Monsieur Bain cast his gaze down when he reached the girl. “I’m so sorry to hear about your parents.” Tom had liked the Lings. They were respectful people, kept to themselves, never held parties. He couldn’t have asked for better seasonal nearby residents. When they were alive, he hadn’t thought to invite them to dinner, and he’d only wandered over when he saw Lyra practicing her art on the tree because he realized how young she was to lose both her parents. Lyra nodded. She didn’t want another long conversation about how it all happened and what she went through making arrangements, selling their main home. Most of all, she didn’t feel like telling strangers how she was making out. She really wasn’t. Her parents splurged a couple years before they got sick and bought a tiny Airstream. It was an opportunity to make sure they all stayed close when Lyra went away for school. That way on summer vacations, they would all go on a new adventure cross-country together. That never happened. The summer after that, Lyra was offered a great opportunity to dance in a real show off-Broadway. The summer after that, they took that cross-country vacation without her. The summer after that, her father was dead already. Then the Airstream sat in the driveway until Lyra’s mother followed suit. After their Maine house was under contract, Lyra packed some of her favorite clothes from high school, family photos, and her dad’s guitar. He’d always wanted to play, but work and struggling to “make it” kept him from it. She hadn’t done better. It was collecting dust on a guitar stand in the camper. After some pleasantries, Tom posed the question that weighed on his mind. “Can we talk about the house?” Lyra’s head shot up. “What of it?” She asked, her tone getting defensive. “We were thinking, maybe instead of selling it, you could do vacation rentals,” Tom spoke quickly before Lyra could respond. “I think it’ll give you just the right amount of income while you get back on your feet…Those big wigs are trying to buy us all out, well, we’d like to keep this little piece of heaven… underdeveloped , if you know what I mean.” Lyra shook her head vehemently. “No, no, you can’t talk me out. I need the money for travel…” “Pops!” A little boy called out in the distance. A tiny frame of six-year-old stood at the top of the hill. He waved his diminutive, little arm in the air. The motion cut like a cartoon moving in front of the scenic Jekyll backdrop with the Atlantic ocean swarming up the rest of the picture. The little boy ran down the hill easily and when he reached Lyra and Tom, he grabbed his grandfather’s hand. “Granny, wants you to invite the girl to dinner!” He exclaimed with glee. Monsieur Bain grinned at Lyra. “Well, how about it? You up for joining us and we can talk over details?” He smiled, rather shyly and a little bit hopeful. Lyra contemplated. She knew that her parents always meant for her to come to visit them their in-between gigs or school. Their retirement was around the corner before the storm came in. They had pictured her inheriting the place and taking her kids to vacation on family trips, once she had a family of her own. It didn’t seem feasible anymore. “This is Alfie, my grandson,” Tom introduced. He pointed at the little boy whose face suddenly lit up. “Oh!” Alfie let out. “That’s a cool idea.” Lyra nodded again. “Yes, that’s why I’ve always liked this tree.” Monsieur Bain smiled. “When I was a little boy, I used to climb like a monkey on that tree,” Tom said, getting lost in reconnaissance. “I used to jump from limb to limb.” Lyra smiled. “I was never encouraged to do that,” she admitted. “I guess it’s different for girls, but when I started doing this,” she gestured towards the hoop. “I began to enjoy trees more, especially this one.” Alfie broke from Tom and scurried up the first branch of the tree. “Alfie!” Tom protested. “That’s not our property.” Lyra let them know it was fine for Alfie to climb. But Alfie was on the other side of the hoop and was only focused on reaching the next branch. The adults meditated while watching Alfie practice his Tarzan skills. “Okay,” Lyra said. “Let’s eat. I’m just going to talk, I won’t promise anything, but I’m starving and I didn’t fix dinner.” Tom smiled. “All, I can ask for is an open ear. Let’s go.”

e2gwlp

Call Me Louden Dogood, the Bodhisattva of Necromancy

To the Reader of All Superhuman Futures:            I was born with the gift of laughter and a sense that the world is an illusion. My opening line is a paraphrase of the first sentence of Scaramouche , of course. I start this letter off with it for two reasons: one, it’s funny and thus appropriate for April Fools’ Day. Two, it’s true and thus pertinent to what’s about to happen to you. What’s about to happen to you? Why, you’re about to experience the greatest April Heroes’ Day surprise of all time, that’s what. The human potential you were born with is about to explode out into the furthest reaches of Interstellar, Superhuman Actualization. You should be getting very, very excited right now as you read these words. If you’re not excited, this letter is not for you. Please give it to whomever you think fits the bill of Godman-in-Waiting in your local milieu. If you are getting excited, strap on your seatbelt. Things are about to get bumpy.            Why are things about to get bumpy, you ask? I answer: Because the world is a kind of hyper-vivid, cosmic Amusement Park which blinkers 99.9% of the Funhouse-Earth population. And when YOU wake up—the REAL you, that is—the world shivers and shimmies and very quickly starts to reveal its true colors. That’s why things get bumpy. Because you’re waking up. This letter is your wake-up call. And, no, this is not an April Fools’ Day prank. I don’t think.            I have good reason for adhering to this unusual metaphysical position, believe me. Please bear with me with as much patience as you can muster while I explain myself. We are dealing with some very advanced metaphysical concepts here. A quiet, open frame of mind is the only prerequisite necessary in order to ‘get’ what you need to remember. I’m glad that’s settled. So are you, truth be told. And that’s what I’m here to do—to tell the Truth. The whole Truth and nothing but the Truth.            So help me, Cthulhu.            Dear Reader, it may surprise you to know that I hate pranks, random silliness, mischief-making, and the like, even when they are done on April Fools’ Day. Especially when they are done on April Fools’ Day. For me, All Fools’ Day is now a holy day, the holiest day of the year, in fact. I don’t mess around with pranks and trifling things of the average low-minded person on this holiest day of the year. Maybe this means I am a rather serious person, despite the fact that I was born—yes, this is true —with the gift of laughter and the sense that the world is an illusion. And now that the First of April has arrived once again, I’ve decided to cease playing the part of passive bystander to all the mischief-making going on in the world around me. No, today I take a stand. Today I rechristen April Heroes’ Day. This rechristening is actually not going far enough, but it is definitely a step in the right direction. As long as we move away from dangerous folly and the worship of squid-like gods, we’re doing good.            Who am I to take such drastic action, you ask? Call me Louden Dogood. That’s not my real name, as you certainly know, but it’s a humorous little title I’ll use for the present. The gift of laughter, babe, the gift of laughter. Yes, I’ve got it. And, yes, I’ve read all the works of Sabatini and Franklin, as you’ve probably guessed. I may in fact be the most well-read person on the Late, Great, Funhouse-Planet Earth. I belong to the Club Lovecraft, after all, which all the aware members of existence swear is the most select, influential literary society anywhere. Curiously enough, these ‘aware’ members of existence are only nine in number. Why so few of us? I can’t answer this question. Maybe you can.            Anyway, the Club Lovecraft meets once a year— today , every First of April. Outside our primary text, we really don’t do much reading at our annual meetings. We are not like normal literary societies which get together to brainstorm about interesting new books. We only read one book, but we read it obsessively. Cosplay, or costume-play, in the spirit of the medieval Mystery Plays, also figures largely in our meetings. We are a secret society, actually, but we do not record minutes. We are a secret readers’ club, but we do not read books. We re-enact scripts. We role play a certain spell from the dreaded Kitab al-Azif, the so-called Necronomicon or Book of the Dead. One of our nine—a most peculiar individual who will not be named at this time—stole the non-fictional grimoire a few years ago from a certain Cairo museum and brought it back to the good ol’ USA to tinker around with. Word got out—well, at least the word got out to the other eight ‘aware’ members of existence—that the Lovecraft mythos were no myth. Just the opposite, babe. Recruitment actions began taking place in earnest. I got wind of the action, naturally, because I am one AWARE puppy. Also, because I was born with the gift of laughter, as I’ve said a few times now, this probably offset a lot of the noxious vibes we Club Lovecraftians began to inflict on the world every April Fools’ Day. I have inborn insulation, apparently.            We performed our first spell from the Necronomicon , coincidentally enough, on the First of April. We got serious results. Debriefing after the chaos settled down, we all noticed that our first operation occurred on April Fools’s Day. How appropriate! We decided to make it tradition. We decided to do one spell per year on one very specific day. Today .            Things really started heating up after we performed our second-annual spell. This spell got everybody’s attention after our first partial-rehearsal of it. The manifestation of the Elder God, ultimately, wasn’t as non-ectoplasmic as desired, but the citywide freak thunderstorm of hail, rain and seaweed made us all shiver with ecstasy. The arrival of the Fortean Society and numerous local news channels also gave us quite a few spasms of joy. We definitely knew we were on the right track when our third-annual rehearsal brought down a few metric tons of jellyfish from the stratosphere. Target zero for the jellyfish was the treetops of a countryside forest, thank goodness. Rehearsal annual-year number four was even more outrageously successful. A few miles of Australian coral reef ‘spontaneously’ dissolved and killer-whale Orcas started showing up carcass-bloated on the beaches of every continent. (Interestingly, the domesticated Orcas at Sea World were unaffected; it seems our Lovecraftian occultism only influences wild things.) This beached-whale phenomenon went on for months, making it the longest-lasting April Fools’ prank in the history of the world. This scared the crap out of us, babe, let me tell you. It looked like our operation unleashed something which became near-uncontrollable. What if we lost complete control of our manifestations?            The results of our fifth-annual rehearsal will not be mentioned. It is too horrific to discuss. Suffice it to say that today is our sixth-annual rehearsal from our Necronomicon script. We can succeed in bringing back Cthulhu . . . we all know it, we all feel it. But I’m going to stop this from happening. I’m closing down the Club Lovecraft effective immediately. And because of my actions, the boys won’t like it. They might even decide to come after me. But these pranks have got to stop. Some things are not meant to be disturbed. Cthulhu is one of those ‘things.’ My life expectancy, sadly, might not be. I say this, of course, despite my gift for laughter.            Dear Reader, you are probably asking yourself what I mean by re-enacting a script from an occult textbook in order to perform a spell. Yes? Good. I’m glad you asked. Please hear me now. Your seat belt is still strapped down, right? Good.            Dear Reader, it’s very important you know what’s at stake here. The stakes are the highest imaginable. They are also the highest un imaginable. It won’t just be lights out for the Late, Great Funhouse-Planet Earth should the boys bring back Cthulhu—with or without me. No, it will be lights out for our neck of the solar system, maybe even the Milky Way Galaxy. And that’s for starters. Obviously, this cannot be allowed to happen. I now beg your closest attention.            Consider what I’m about to tell you with as open a mind as possible. You will probably think that what I now disclose is dementedly far-fetched. However, I assure you, it is the absolute truth.            Premise #1 : The world is an illusory construct of consciousness, a kind of mega-mind Hologram. Visible Existence in such a Hologram is equivalent to the Invisible Consciousness (or Mind) that pervades said Hologram. Another way of saying this is: The World IS Mind.            Premise #2 : Your mind is NOT separate from the larger World-Mind of Existence-Consciousness. Another way of saying this is that your Micro-Mind IS the Macro-Mind. An even simpler way of saying this is: You ARE the world. Literally .            Premise #3 : Magic exists.            Premise #4 : Spells—i.e., formulae for magical operations—exist.            Premise #5 : Some spells are more potent than others. This is proved by experiential performance of said spell(s).            Premise #6 : The most potent spells of all come from, appropriately enough, the most dangerous book in human history—the dreaded Necronomicon or Book of the Dead, written by the “Mad Arab” Abdul Alhazred.            Premise #7 : The most potent spell from the most potent book of them all is the “Bornless Yog-Sothoth Ritual” that invokes Cthulhu back into Existence. (Cthulhu is the chief Elder God of a race of gigantic, super-terrestrial, tentacled monsters.)            Premise #8 : To invoke Cthulhu back into terrestrial existence is to doom all terrestrial inhabitants to a fate much, much, much worse than physical death.            Premise #9 : The members of the Club Lovecraft meet once annually to enact what was initially hoped to be the ultimate April Fools’ Day prank—to invoke Cthulhu back to life and to foist Him/It upon the world. This initial hope is now seen as incredibly immature, juvenile and dangerous.            Premise #10 : The members of the Club Lovecraft will not be named here, but they are all seasoned practitioners of necromancy and high-magic. The members are nine in number and all nine of us have sworn to the strictest secrecy concerning our ‘literary’ proclivities. I am not the founding member of the Club Lovecraft, but I will be its final dissolving member.            Premise #11 : The working of the “Bornless Yog-Sothoth Ritual” is similar to theatrical performance. Just as most plays require a multi-person ensemble to enact it, so it is for our Necronomicon spell. Certain people—nine highly-qualified sorcerer-actors, to be specific—are necessary to perform the audition properly. This is similar to the musical-alchemy produced by distinguished bands such as The Beatles and Led Zeppelin. Each of these bands had to have a certain number of suitable personnel in order to get optimum musical results. Further, each band member had to play the instrument he was best endowed by Nature to play. If Ringo had played bass guitar rather than the drums, for example, The Beatles would not have been The Beatles. Ditto had McCartney played drums instead of bass guitar and vocals. Etc. etc.            Premise #12 : Through arduous trial-and-error, the Club Lovecraft hit upon the right ensemble doing just the right roles in just the right ‘script’ (i.e., spell) to get optimum ‘Necronomicon’ results. Like The Beatles’ music which only got better year after year, so the Club Lovecraft’s invoking powers have only grown stronger, more prankster-outrageous with each annual operation. The world as we know it will end if the Club Lovecraft performs one more “Bornless Yog-Sothoth Ritual.”            Premise #13 : I am Cthulhu. Granting premises #1 and #2 above, we see that this thirteenth premise follows as a matter of course. How so? Well, since my Micro Mind is equivalent to the Macro Mind . . . which is equivalent to Macro Existence . . . is it really such a stretch to say that Cthulhu and I are One? Existence, after all, comprises everything IN Existence. And since I am both Existence and Consciousness simultaneously, I am, therefore, Cthulhu the Great and Terrible Elder God of All Super-Terrestrial Nightmare. Waking up to one’s Cthulhu Self is similar to the process featured in the famous Japanese manga Akira . Certain people are selected by evolution to attain the heights of genetic destiny. These certain people slowly wake up to the fact that they are IT . . . the Human Game starts and stops with them. It is literally a process of Awakening . . . Awakening to one’s pre-existing state of Cosmic Power and Intelligence. For me, the Awakening occurred through countless hours of intense magical practice with fellow adepts. Only now have I realized that all our externally-fixated efforts were really designed to bring something much closer to home ‘back to life.’ All those years of April Fools’ Day pranks were not designed to invoke some unknown god into the midst of petty humans, they were actually designed to restore me—yes, ME—back to my proper place in the Superhuman scheme of things.            My return to the world is similar to The Beatles’ breakup. After a decade on the World’s Musical Stage accumulating personal power, each Beatle realized they didn’t need each other anymore to obtain optimum musical results. Each Beatle realized they could do everything they wanted to do on their own. Thus, each went solo. I, too, am now going solo. The problem is that the rest of my ‘band mates’ do not want to split up. The problem is that, even without me, the Club Lovecraft will continue to invoke . . . and invoke . . . and invoke . . . and, in doing so, the boys will assuredly invoke the ‘wrong’ type(s) back into Hellish existence. How could they not do this? They’re working from the most evil book in history! Perhaps they’re all addicts of black magic now and can no longer help themselves. They like the Power that magic brought them, but now they’re completely possessed by it. They made a bargain with the Devil, and like all Devil’s bargains, only the Devil ends up winning. It’s time to renege on the deal.            Unless something drastic is done to change course or bring about intervention, the path ahead leads to unmitigated disaster. Like alcoholics or other drug-addicts, we sorcerer-Beatles will wind up smoking the entire solar system just to pull off our annual lark. This must be stopped. And it looks like I’m the only one who can do it. Call me the Bodhisattva of Necromancy. Sincerely yours, Mr. Louden Dogood P.S. Dear Reader, I got the message. I closed shop. I quit sorcery once and for all. Even better, I am now using all my God-given Cthulhu powers for the good of Mankind. Invoking the Chief Elder God from the dreaded Necronomicon backfired on our original Club Lovecraftian intent, it seems. (By the way, the boys forgave me for shutting down the Club and for leaving. They had no choice, really. I’m the Lord, after all—handsome and non-tentacled. What the heck are they going to do, oppose me? They know better than that now. They know ME better now . . . the last thing they want to do is oppose me. Or piss me off. Dissolving coral reefs and making Orcas go belly-up will be child’s play should they renew annual rehearsals. Life gets good when you re-attain your natural Godhood, babe.) But this is a good thing. It brought ME back to life. And I have saved the world, as you have observed.            April Fools’ Day, as I mentioned above, is a holy day for me now. It is the day I woke up and turned my life over to Myself. The Real Me—Cthulhu—is a damn fine, righteous Dude. Cthulhu doesn’t foist malicious pranks on the world; rather, He uplifts everybody through random, secret acts of kindness. Cthulhu doesn’t need to re-enact spells anymore in the hope that doing so will destroy the world; rather, He wishes the best for everybody and lives by quaint Hippocratic Maxims like, “First do no harm.” Above all, Cthulhu doesn’t want to take anything from the world unlawfully; rather, He wants to give back to the world from the hitherto unknown plenitude of His Being.            I was good to my word. The Club Lovecraft has been dissolved. The fact that you are now reading these words show I’ve kept my promise and lived to tell the tale. The path I now tread is a hard one to find or follow, but it does exist and it is very good. I’m out and about in the Ethers, everywhere at once, doing good at all times, acting the part of the Good Samaritan. That is the real role Life intended me to play, thank Cthulhu. I relish my new role and I act it to the hilt. I pray you will do the same thing in your newfound role, dear Reader. What newfound role, you ask? Please see the P.S. below for more riveting, seat-buckling details. P.P.S. Dear Reader, please re-read Premise #13 above: Everything that applies to me in that premise applies to you, too. That is, YOU are that Elder God/Goddess everyone has been waiting for. YOU are that Special Person of Evolutionary Destiny. Please allow me to be the first to congratulate you on Your tremendous Homecoming. I, for One, am extremely pleased to bear witness to this Great Re-Awakening. I salute and applaud YOU on this magnificent new April Heroes’ Day. P.P.P.S. I am He as You are He . . .

onqq42

The Child with the Wrong Colour Clothes

Once upon a time, not so long ago, there was a village way up in the mountains. In this town a baby’s first birthday was a special occasion. Everyone in the village would join the baby’s parents in a grand feast. They would sing joyous songs and dance furious dances before the parents revealed the baby’s clothes. It was a very important moment for the village and its people. Because the Colour of the clothes, would be the Colour the child would wear its entire life. Either Red or Blue. Everybody in the village was working in a mine. This mine had all sorts of valuable and beautiful gems and the villagers would dig them up, clean them and cut them into elegant shapes. Everyone in the country had heard of their beautiful gems and the villagers were very proud of this, indeed. The Reds were working in the mine. They were good at digging tunnels and sniffing out the finest of gems. They had a remarkable sense of smell and well-built, strong arms. It was said that they could smell a diamond buried a mile underneath them and dig it up in less than an hour. The Blues were working at the workshops. They would take the rough stones and turn them into the loveliest of jewels. They would clean them and cut them, bringing out their hidden beauty. It was said that they could spot a single molecule of dust on a gem and they could draw the most intricate of designs with just one line. In this little village lived a boy named San. At his first birthday his parents announced that he was a Blue. San was kind and smart. A happy child, indeed. Always smiling.  But the more he grew up, the more odd his clothes looked to him. “Mom” he asked one day “why are you dressing me in Blue?” “What do you mean, San?” his mother seemed startled and fidgety. “You are a Blue, like me.” She looked to the ground, tying San’s shoes. “You were born this way. Like all children are either Blue or Red.” San wasn’t satisfied with this answer, but kept it to himself. His mother looked too uncomfortable to keep asking about it. He tried to ask his father next. “You are a Blue because your sight is so good.” his Red father frowned. “Much better than mine.” “But, dad… what if I like to sniff out stones, like you?” San asked. “Don’t be ridiculous.” his father cut him off. “Blues have elegant, refined hands and you are a Blue.” He pointed at San’s hands before going back to his newspaper. After than San was too embarrassed to ask. He understood what he was told, but he couldn’t quite feel it. He wasn’t smiling to his parents, like he did before. Whenever he looked in the mirror, he would flinch. He thought that his clothes made him look as pale as a ghost. He felt uncomfortable and itchy every time he wore them, but he tried not to show. If he was not wearing Blue, then what could he possibly wear after all? When San went to school, during his gem crafting classes, he would often peak out the window. That day the Red children were having their Sniffing lessons. They all looked radiant with their Red clothes and their hands were wide and sturdy. He looked down on his own scrawny hands. ‘They look so weird’ he thought to himself and closed his fist. He managed another glance towards the Reds. ‘How nice it would be to smell the ground ’ he took a deep breath. As soon as he heard himself inhaling, he realized what he was doing. He abruptly lowered his head and covered his nose and mouth with his skinny hands. ‘ Oh no, the others will hear me ’ he started to sweat. “Everything ok, San?” the teacher interrupted the class and turned to him. ‘Oh no, no, no ’ he almost cried. “Sorry, teacher I… uhm…swallowed a sneeze.” The other children giggled, but the teacher seemed satisfied with this lie. ‘They almost caught me.’ he thought. ‘ Why do I have to hide? It’s so unfair.’ He took another quick glance at the group outside, but quickly decided against it and turned back to his book. ‘Silly thoughts’ he closed his tiny fists again. During recess he went and sat under the big tree as usual. He would always spend time there by himself. He didn’t feel like playing with the others. He used to have a lot of friends when he was younger. He used to be a cheerful child, until one day he noticed a friends clothes. “Can I wear your jacket?” San had asked. His friends looked at him puzzled “ Of course not ” they exclaimed after a moment of silence. “It’s Red and you are a Blue. You are not supposed to wear red.” they looked at him funny. He remembered his parents and suddenly he couldn’t bear having his friends look at him like that. “ I was joking ” he lied and laughed nervously. From then on he never mentioned such things in front of others. But his clothes grew more uncomfortable day by day and he was afraid he couldn’t hide it anymore. So he decided to spend recess alone. “ Sorry, I need to study gem cutting ” he would tell them as he was going to sit under the big tree, holding a book he didn’t intend to read. His friends would nod and say “Wow, he’s such a diligent Blue. A true Blue!” and would let him be. ‘That’s for the best .’ he would think and try to read his book. But his mind always drifted away from the pages. ‘Would I look nice in red, I wonder?’ the thought would often pop in his head, before he caught himself and push it aside. He was desperately trying to concentrate on his book that day as well, when he noticed two children coming towards him. “Hi” the girl gave him a friendly wave as she stood in front of him. She was a Red in the same year as San. They hadn’t been introduced before. “My name is Ai.” Her black hair was up in a ponytail and her brown eyes almost sparkled. She had the typical strong built of a Red. “And this is my brother Yu.” she continued pointing at the boy behind her. They looked alike. He too had black hair and brown eyes. But contrary to his confident sister, he looked timid and meek. He was much younger than Ai and San. At least five years. He was hiding behind Ai, holding the end of her sleeve and glancing shyly at San. He was a Red as well. “He is in year One, so he’s a little shy.” she grinned from ear to ear. She looked very tall, as she was towering above San. “Can I help you?” San asked a little stunned. Nobody had come to talk to him for a while. “I saw you looking at us from the window during class…” Ai’s words made San freeze. “…and I was wondering if you’d like to hang out with us.” She sounded friendly, but San could feel cold drops of sweat running down his back. “Well, I.. ”he swallowed and took a deep breath “I was… sort of reading this book…” “Then we’ll sit here with you!” Ai interrupted him, swiftly taking a seat under the big tree. Both San and Yu were staring at her unsure of what to do next. “We’ll have lunch here. Is that ok?” she grinned again. From that day on Ai would show up at the tree for lunch, with Yu always at her side. It took a while for San to get used to them. He didn’t want people to know his secret thoughts. Not at all. But Ai was carefree and kind as she was loud and funny. So not before long, they became friends. They would chat about their favourite trees and laugh about their mischievous pets. “Say, San?” Ai asked him during one of their lunches a few months after their first meeting. She was stuffing a big piece of bread in her mouth “Have you made plans for our practicals next month?” “Oh” San was caught off guard. Every summer after grade 6 Six they had do a month long practical in the mines. “No, I haven’t made any arrangements yet.” he wasn’t particularly keen on going after all. He was trying so hard to keep up with being a Blue, that he was constantly exhausted. “Do you want to go to the same mine as me?” she suggested slamming her hand on the ground. She was obviously very excited about that possibility. “I know one that has a workshop too!” “Let’s see after we take our summer exams.” San avoided to give an answer. “I’m sure you’ll like working with me. It will be fun.” she seemed to have made up her mind already.”Would you have to clean and cut gems?” suddenly she sounded more serious. “I’d like to do that too. I bet I would be very good at it.” she added taking another bite of bread. She said it quite casually, but she narrowed her eyes a bit looking. However, San was too shocked to notice. “But you are a Red.” he said almost instinctively. “How could you do these things? Your hands are too wide and clumsy to work in such a fine detail and you don’t have an eye for these things.” His voice sounded a bit too stern perhaps, but he couldn’t help it. He was feeling annoying for some reason. “That is nonsense.” Ai stated with a serious and clear voice. It pierced right through San. For a second he couldn’t find an appropriate response. ‘But everyone says otherwise’ his mind screamed. But Ai spoke before his mouth could do the same. “You should be able to do whatever you like. Yu here likes both digging gems and crafting them into beautiful shapes.” Her tone relaxed as she petted the younger boy. He smiled in return. “I do like them both!” the child exclaimed happily. He seemed oddly unlike his usual timid self. “Smelling gems and digging is fun, but so is cutting them and turning them into jewels!” “But…” San was about to say how he couldn’t possibly do both, but Ai’s intense look stopped him. He simply got up, his book in hand. “I need to go to the library for the exam. I will be busy studying for next week. See you guys later.” And with that he left. How could they say such things? They aren’t possible , he though, that’s not how the world works . He went back in his classroom and sat on his desk. “Were you hanging out with those Reds again?” the other Blues teased him. “We were just arranging our practicals.” San mumbled looking at his hands. “You are being weird sometimes.” he heard the others say but he pretended he didn’t listen. He went back to trying to read his book. The scent of rubies and jade came back to his mind, but he pushed them away once again. The day of the exams he was feeling sick to his stomach, but he tried not to show. He had studied all there was to study and he had done all the exercises. But he still felt a sense of dread every time he tried to revise. Like the words on the page were going to suffocate him or the small cutting tools were going to slice his head open. “Congratulations, San!” the teacher told him the day he gave him his results, but San didn’t smile. He did what he was supposed to do, yet it all felt wrong somehow. He felt dizzy in the classroom with all the other Blues celebrating. His clothes felt itchier than ever. He excused himself and went to the toilet. He turned on the faucet and splashed a bit of water on his face. He then looked himself in the mirror. ‘I look so horrible in Blue. I look like a ghost .’ he thought and closed his eyes. When he opened them again Ai was standing behind him. He turned around startled. “What…” “I am going to go for a walk after school.” she cut him off like always. “Come with me?” she asked, but it sounded more like an order. San was confused. He assumed Ai would ask him about his grades. “Uhm… Well…” he began to mutter, but Ai spoke over him yet again. “I’ll wait for you after school!” And with that she ran off. San was left to stare at her back, speechless. ‘At least it might be a good distraction .’ he decided. When he finished class, Ai was already at the school gate waiting for him. She was alone. “Where is Yu?” San asked her. He realized that was the only day he had seen her without her brother. “He already went home.” she responded somewhat solemnly. “I thought we might talk alone.” “Hm?” her answer left San even more puzzled, but he didn’t say anything. Ai started walking and Yu quietly followed her. ‘ Talk? About what?’ he wondered. “San?” they had already passed the last houses of the village before Ai broke the silence. “Do you sometimes think that maybe our Colours are wrong?” San stopped dead in his tracks. Ai turned to face him, her voice steady and clear. “I mean, what if you are a Red, but you like Blue better? Why would you have to keep wearing Red just because it was decided by someone else before you could even talk?” San tried to master the power to say something as Ai continued. “Or what if you want to wear a different colour all together? There are so many of them after all. Why do we have to limit ourselves like that?” San glanced at the ground “But that’s how we must be for the village to prosper.” He clenched his fists. They felt smaller than ever. “And even if you want to change, a Red would look so odd in Blue with their wide hands. How would they even be able to do the fine cutting? And a Blue in Red? They would look so strange with their slim arms. How could they possibly dig up gems?” Tears formed in San’s eyes, as Ai gazed pierced through him. She took his hand in hers. “If I tried to do the cutting do you think I wouldn’t be able to make a fine shape?”she asked. San lowered his gaze and remembered the time Ai had made a tiny bear out of wood. The detail in its ears and nose was the best out of any woodcarving his Blue friends had ever made. “Do you think my eyes or my hands wouldn’t be able to make it?”Ai looked at him straight in the eyes. San thought of all his classmates that were wearing glasses. Ai’s sight was probably better than theirs. San looked back at her. ‘ She is so determined .’ he thought. “I think you can make it.” he finally answered. He tried to mimic Ai’s resolve, but his voice trembled a bit. “But it will be difficult. The other villagers won’t like people randomly switching clothes and jobs. What if they look at you strange, talk behind your back or even start calling you names?” San was so scared he was now trembling. But Ai smiled and gripped his hand tighter. “It will be scary the first time, for the first people. But gradually the village will get used to it.” She looked up in the sky. “If I need to fight now, so that my brother can live happy later then it’s worth it.” San finally understood. He understood why Ai had approached him with Yu that day under the big tree. San was scared, but he was not alone. He wanted to run, but he squeezed Ai’s hand back instead. Ai turned back to him. “Do you want to do our practical together?” she asked with a warm smile. “Yes!” San smiled too. A few weeks later they both arrived in the mines. They had met up earlier in a nearby abandoned house. San gave Ai his Blue clothes and Ai gave him her Red ones. When San first saw Ai in Blue he thought she looked a bit strange in them. Her arms were too muscular arms and her shoulders too sturdy. But once she turned to look at him San saw her eyes. He had never seen Ai’s eyes shining like that before. She was beautiful. “You look so nice, San! Look!” Ai pointed at an old mirror. San turned to the mirror and saw his own reflection. It was dusty, but he had never seen himself clearer before. His arms were too thin compared to the other Reds, but it still didn’t feel wrong. He was beautiful. “Let’s go!” he grinned back to Ai. They walked into the mine holding hands. The story about the strange boy and the strange girl who changed Colours is widely known these days. People from the village and beyond still talk about their struggles and their persistence. And all of them agree that they looked happier in their true Colours. What became of them is unknown, but it is said that there are two precious jewels that have their names. The most beautiful and beloved treasures the village had ever produced. The jewels called “Ai” and “San” are still kept in the house of the greatest craftsman and digger the village has ever seen. A man who could sniff gems hidden miles away and then cut them into the most glorious of sculptures. A man in Purple named Yu.

1k0rsl

Promised Land

She found herself standing on the brink. Teetering, even, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet as if on the edge of a cliff; only slightly too much forward motion would send her tumbling down. She was not, of course, really standing on the edge of a cliff, it only felt like it - there was no up nor down, in fact, there was only a single path extending out in front of her and retreating behind her, behind her from whence she came. Even having come this far she felt the need to look back, just a turn of her head to the side to glimpse what was there in her periphery. But really, she already knew. It was after all the path from which she had come. It was always very animated back there; she could see out of the corner of her eye. The colors... the colors were vibrant and agitated, a palette of oranges, reds, browns and yellows - bright, deadly colors, balmy colors, the colors of chaos and anger and pleading and anguish. She knew these colors very well, like the back of her hand. They were always so powerful when you were in their vicinity, in their midst - she could feel them now in fact, brushing against her other ear, the ear that was facing towards the direction in front of her. It felt like long, crooked fingers, running themselves over her temples and back through her hair, tugging slightly, pulling her head back so that her neck was exposed - mmmm.... mmm, it felt good. Her eyes closed and she exhaled deeply, chin up, head turned to the side. The devil was speaking to her, and she liked what it had to say, although she knew that if she were to look back at it that she would be frightened and repulsed. It didn't matter. It didn't matter what it looked like, or what she imagined it to look like, as she had only ever really seen it once directly, and then she had been too ashamed and disgusted to take in more than a second's glance. It didn't matter if maybe its legs were a little too long (if you could even call them legs), and that its arms reached down to the floor (if you could really even call them arms). Didn't matter that in its face or head or whatever it was that sat on top of its towering and distorted “body” that there were no eyes, only holes in which you could either find complete emptiness or the allure of evil, depending on the time of day. It wouldn't have been safe to try and find out to tell, because staring too deeply into those eyes - holes, whatever - it took something out of you, it made you weak. Weak as she was feeling now, melting into the warm embrace of its promise, excitement building up inside of her. Wait, stop. She snapped her eyes open and remembered to look around. Ok, ok. All was well, she was not back in that place, she was still planted firmly on the non-cliff that was her pathway, deathly colors behind her but not around her. She felt wet in between her legs. Her breathing had quickened and she tried to steady it. Onwards, onwards, that is where she had to go. In front of her everything was much less lively; it was mostly black in fact, except for the glow of the garden that waited up ahead, closer now than it had ever been but still in the distance, not close enough to touch. This was the first time she had been able to see it so clearly; surrounded by nothing but the inky blackness it glowed brighter than when she attempted to glimpse it from the haze of her inner chaos. Its light shone brightly but was not blinding. It was peaceful, restrained, vibrant still as the hues behind her but appeasing, pigments that did not take anything from you but instead gave to you in their serenity and matter-of-factness. Although the forms were not entirely crystal clear - yet - she thought that she could make out flowers: abundant, beautiful blooms that opened up like a smile, cute fuzzy bumble bees buzzing around, perhaps a rabbit, a bird. The tinkle of a stream although she could not see it, only feel it. Like the face of her weaknesses, she could only imagine what it felt like to lie in the lush plain, a field of blossoms and tall grass, sunlight shining down upon her relaxed face, no sound for miles and miles. Pure peace and tranquility, solitude. Loneliness even, but a stillness of the heart, a fullness. It was of course the fact that she could never feel the presence of another in these imaginations that made it so easy to hesitate, so tempting to turn around and walk back into the disarray and destruction that was living in the prison of one's own mind, because there at least she had company. Even if the prison existed within oneself, were we not all more or less trapped there together anyway? At different levels anyhow. Now again, she felt something behind her. She had been looking forward, gazing with curiosity and anticipation at what was further down the path, when she heard it rather, like the scraping of metal against a tile floor, the something behind her. She whipped around. This time its form was not hidden, it was only a man, a man whose face seemed to contain all of the faces of those she had loved, particularly the face of whom she had most recently loved. Cadence. His eyes were soft, kind, and warm. He walked towards her with his palms upturned, as if offering something to her. “Gina...” he said softly. “Gina, Gina... I love you.” The corners of his mouth rose, giving him a boyish look, innocent and endearing, the kind of look that would send Gina's heart into a tailspin, make her want to physically lift it out of her chest and hand it to him with both hands, nervous and waiting. “I love you,” he said to her, and now he was close; he gazed into her eyes and brushed his thumb against her cheek and again she felt herself weaken, wanted to reach out and grab hold of something as to not lose her balance. “I love you, I love you, let's be together, we'll never be alone, oh how I love you so.” Tears came to Gina's eyes as she remembered how deeply she had yearned to hear these words, how they still sounded like chimes in her ears, so beautiful, so beautiful. But what she wanted of course was not to be found in what was being whispered to her but only up ahead in that garden of Eden, her Eden, which was now so close that she could not bear to let it out of her sight. She wrested his hands off of her, grabbing him - it - by the wrists and struggling to free herself, even as its grip tightened around her face and it brought its mouth, its breath, its gaze even closer - Aaagh! she cried, the guttural sound escaping from her as she bared her teeth to him. “No,” she said, forcefully. “No!” The face of the figure in front of her sneered and snorted, distorted into something truer to its nature, body twisting up into itself as its mouth widened down to the floor and its eyelids began to droop towards its chin - its face, taking on the characteristics of anyone she had ever loved or desired or craved: ruby red lips here, long dark eyelashes there; faces so awful and beautiful in how they were crumbling in front of her and collapsing into themselves. “I love you I love you I love you!” cried a thousand voices, overlapping and tripping over each other into a chorus of confusion. Gina wanted to look away, to turn away, but she felt planted to the ground, every fiber of her being vibrating at its highest frequency. She wasn't sure if she was terrified or invigorated but in any case she felt alive, more than she ever had before, in the face of all of this hunger and all of this death. It wasn't over still. It was almost over, she knew, but the worst was still to come, the strongest attack yet before she could even think of fleeing and running towards that promised land that awaited her, the land full of blues and greens and poppies and violets that gleamed like amethyst. She was almost there, but first - her family. Her family stood in front of her, tones and shades of violence serving as a backdrop to their rather stationary position. They stood in a line holding hands, facing her: her mother, her father, all of the people that she had ever hurt, all of the people that had ever hurt her. There was no urgency in this bunch, only solemnity. They - it, them - didn't speak, they didn't have to. Tears fell from Gina's eyes voluntarily, her heart a cave in her chest. She stood, meeting this deepest part of herself for what felt like minutes, hours, a lifetime, an eternity. Would she really be able to turn away? Could she really walk away from all that had ever mattered to her and was important, to find herself in the place from which love flowed, to find her source, to find the origin? Would it be worth it? Had she put enough work in? Maybe the mouth of the river meant nothing when there was no one there beside you to drink from alongside of it... Deep down she knew the answer. Deep down she knew that it was only from this place - this garden - that she could ever pass back the essence of life, sit and hope that those behind her would use it to free themselves as those in front of her had. Her garden of Eden was an invitation spoken to her through the mouths of those who had already passed through, equally seeking the truth; a truth that was rather lonely yet freeing in its knowledge. This she already knew. And so, seductive and heart-wrenching and powerful as these figures and forms and colors before/behind her were, there was indeed only one direction towards which to go. She took in the image of her famil(ies) in front of her. She heard the word ‘please’ whispered out of the mouth of her mother, felt as if her heart was bursting into a million pieces. Tears streamed down her face. And then she turned around, unstuck her foot from the mud and honey that had kept her glued thus far, and took one step forward.

w1s2cn

Tucked Away Under the Willow Tree

There used to be a weeping willow tree at the end of my Grandmother’s street. I’m not entirely sure if it’s still there, but I remember thinking that if I could just climb to the highest branch, I would be able to touch the clouds. My Grandmother and I went to the tree every time my family visited from when I was a toddler until I was fourteen.  Whenever my grandmother and I visited the tree, she would bring her sketchbook and draw me sitting on the tire swing that was tied to one of the lower branches. Somewhere in a box there is a stack of drawings of a little girl on a tire swing. I wish I knew where it was now. I was eleven when my older brother started visiting the tree too. Sam was four years older than me. He had no interest in playing make-believe with his little sister under the willow tree. Sam had discovered vaping and realized that the weeping branches of the willow tree that concealed my “fairy land” could also hide his bad habit. There were only eight houses on my Grandmother’s street. My grandmother had just been diagnosed with cancer when the Smith family moved into the yellow house on the corner. A week later, we moved in with my grandmother. All I knew was that grandma was going to be sick for a while and that we needed to be there to keep her company until she got better. Sometimes I would see a few kids playing on the tire swing or climbing the lower branches of the willow tree. One of them looked to be a girl around my age. I was enamored with her long, blonde hair. She could have told me her name was Rapunzel and the tree was her tower and I would have believed her. If I had the guts to speak to her, that is. Growing up, I never made friends easily. I wanted to be friends with the pretty girl who looked like the princesses in the storybooks my mom used to read to me, but I didn’t know how. My grandmother was my closest friend for most of my childhood. Not too long after moving in, my grandmother wouldn’t come to the willow tree with me as often as she used to. About two years after we moved in, my grandmother stopped coming to the willow tree with me entirely. I didn’t know what it meant the first time my grandmother said, “Maybe later, dear,” when I asked her to walk to the willow with me. And two years later, I still didn’t see the things that would be obvious to me if I were seeing them now. The collection of pill bottles in her bathroom that had been growing since she was diagnosed suddenly dwindled down to only a few overnight. The time that she had spent at the hospital lessened and yet she didn’t get any better. After a day my grandmother had said “not today”, my parents would shut their door and have whispered conversation with furtive tones. On “not today” days I would go to the willow tree by myself and sit on the ground with my back against the tree and a good book. It felt wrong to sit in the tire swing when my grandmother wasn’t there with me, drawing in her sketchbook. If Sam had any such reservations, he didn’t show it. The tree wasn’t hallowed ground for Sam like it was for me. Rather, it was a place he could go to do illicit things with sketchy people. One of the not-so-sketchy people Sam met there was the girl I had dubbed “Rapunzel”. Her actual name was Rena and she was sixteen at the time, two years older than me. As much as I disapproved of what she did with Sam at the tree, I liked her and I was thankful that she was around when my grandmother passed. The day my grandmother died I was at the willow tree sketching the swing to show her later. She had given me a new sketchbook that morning and told me to fill it up with all the things that made me happy. I can still remember that day with perfect clarity. I was alone at the willow tree sketching the tire swing to show her later. It had just been that morning that she had given me the sketchbook I was drawing in and told me to fill it up with all the things that made me happy. I had been planning to draw my grandmother when I came home from the willow tree. Instead, I watched as EMTs carried her out of the house in a body bag. Rena came to the funeral and I saw her leave with my brother after the burial. My parents were thanking everyone for coming and I had been left to my own devices. I wandered the halls of the funeral home for a while, but eventually found my way back to the main hall. I stood in front of a table that looked like a weird kind of shrine to my grandmother. I say it was weird, because despite there being a framed picture of her, it didn’t feel personal enough to honor the woman that had been a core figure in my life for as long as I’d been alive. Daisies had been my grandmother’s favorite flower and, sure, there was a bouquet of them on the table, but my grandmother had always liked seeing them alive in the ground rather than cut off at the knees in a vase where they’d wither and die in a few days. What really caught my attention were the pamphlets that reduced my grandmother to three paragraphs. None of them mentioned the way she smiled and laughed and hugged me as tight as possible every time I came to visit. There wasn’t a sentence that told of how she kept a secret cookie jar just for the two of us in the pantry. And I didn’t read a single word mentioning the willow tree that had been our place. Maybe that was egocentric of me, thinking only of my relationship with my grandmother. After all, my mom had just lost her mom. I knew that. I just didn’t really understand it.  Since the day of the funeral, I saw Rena almost every day for a while. She had a weird relationship with my brother, but I liked her nonetheless. I never heard her utter a mean word against anyone and she had a way of always saying the right thing. She liked to draw and I asked her to show me how to draw faces. I could never get the nose right, but she called it my signature style. If neither Rena or Sam liked vaping and they hadn’t been the only kids their age on our street, they would never have been friends. Even so, they were only friends over the summer my grandmother died and it didn’t last when school began. Sam played football and so did all of his friends. Rena drew in her sketchbook in her spare time. More to the point, Sam was popular and Rena was not. Sam and Rena didn’t meet at the willow tree anymore. They said hello to each other in school sometimes, but that was about it. Rena kept going to the willow tree, but now it was me she was meeting there. We brought our textbooks and sketchbooks and talked about making plans for homecoming, which was in two weeks. Rena and I never made plans, but we ended up going anyway. I think my parents said something to Sam, because he proposed the idea of the three of us going together, which I can’t imagine he would have done on his own. Homecoming came and went. Sam, Rena, and I had gone together, but when we got there, Sam disappeared. Rena’s friend drove us home and I didn’t see Sam until the next morning when he appeared at breakfast. For the record, I never snitched on him even though it was a dick move. Dick moves started becoming Sam’s thing after that. He fought with our parents constantly. Over what, I’m not sure. Our parents weren’t even remotely strict. Sam was allowed to come and go as he pleased for the most part. He didn’t even have a curfew as long as he told Mom and Dad where he was going to be. Sam was a junior in high school. He had good grades and played football pretty damn well. A few scouts even came out to see him play. Our parents were proud of that and told him so. It must not have been enough for him. Then again, there wasn’t much that was good enough for him. When he first turned sixteen, our parents bought him a beater car and told him they would pay for his gas during football season, but after that he needed to get a job. He complained that the car didn’t have Bluetooth built in. I kept my distance from him, which wasn’t hard considering that he was also avoiding me. I didn’t want to associate with him and he didn’t want people at school to associate him with me. That was fine. Although, I could tell it hurt our parents that Sam and I didn’t get along. I think it was the third week of October when I first heard the rumors. Though, I assumed the rumors had been going around before I heard them. That was the way of the rumor mill; the people closest to the rumor usually hear it last. Word was spreading that Rena had taken explicit pictures of herself and apparently those pictures had gotten out. My heart sank when I heard that, because in my mind there was only person that she could have taken them for and sent them to. My brother. The day I caught wind of what had happened, I flagged Rena down after school and tried to talk to her before she got on the bus. “Rena!” She stopped at the bottom step of the bus and turned to look at me. Her eyes were red and she looked like she had been crying. I waited a moment for her to step out of line and come over to talk to me, but she just turned back around and got on the bus. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I wanted to go home right then and there and figure out what exactly had happened, but I had a community service club I participated in on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Looking back at it, I should have gone home. When I got home that night, I tore through the house and went right to my brother’s room, but he wasn’t home. My parents said he had gone out with some friends a few hours ago. I wanted to talk to them about what happened, but all I had to go on at that moment were rumors and the only confirmation I had was seeing that my friend was crying. For all I knew, the rumors weren’t true, but she was crying because everyone thought they were. The next morning the word “SLUT” was written on Rena’s locker in big capital letters. I stopped when I saw that she was standing right in front of it frozen. Her eyes were wide and there was a bright flush across her cheeks. I walked over to her and gently led her away. I could feel people watching us. Our school wasn’t that big. Everyone knew everyone. I’m sure that at that point, the only people who didn’t know what had happened were me, my parents, and the school administration. We made our way to the bathroom, which was empty when we got there. I pushed closed the door and locked it. If anyone needed to use the bathroom, they’d have to go somewhere else. “What happened?” Rena let out a shaky breath and a single tear spilled down her cheek. “Sam- Sam…” She broke off her sentence, but it was enough. I already had my suspicions that Sam was involved, but it still felt like a punch in the gut to know that my brother had done something to cause this. Rena told me how she had sent pictures of herself to Sam over the summer when they had been seeing each other. Sam had kept those pictures after they stopped talking and in the last month, sent them to a group chat he was in with some of his football buddies. An angry, burning sensation began growing in my chest. At myself for not knowing and at my brother and his doorknob friends for being such tools. Rena had been getting harassed for a month and I’d only found out yesterday. I didn’t even know how that was possible. Sure, we hadn’t seen each other as much recently, but I thought that was because we were both busy. I had my clubs and she had her art. I had no clue what to say. I scrambled to come up with the right thing to say, but Rena had always been the one who was good with words. Me, not so much. Her face crumpled and before I could say anything, she stepped around me and left the bathroom. I looked out for her the rest of the day, but I didn’t see her anywhere. I tried texting her, but she didn’t respond. She had mentioned in the bathroom, that stuff about her had been posted online and she had deleted her social media. It wouldn’t be so far-fetched for her to shut her phone off. Still, I worried. I knocked on her door after school and no one answered. Her parents weren’t home most of the time, because they were doctors, but Rena always answered if she was home. Something didn’t feel quite right, but there was nothing I could do from this side of a closed door. Or maybe that was just me trying to make myself feel better about being completely and utterly useless when my friend needed me. Early the following morning, a person walking their dog found Rena hanging from the willow tree. She had fixed a noose and tied it to the same branch on the willow tree as the tire swing before jumping off and breaking her own neck. I should have said something. I should have said anything rather than nothing in the bathroom that day she told me what had happened. I should have... I should have... I should have... Rena’s death was ruled suicide, but there was an investigation that revealed pictures of her on the phones of my brother and a disgusting number of people at our school. I’m not sure what happened to the other kids involved, but when Sam went to court, he received community service from the judge. It could have been a lot worse if he had been eighteen, but he was seventeen.  Our parents weren’t nearly as lenient. They took his phone, his keys, and his privileges. He wasn’t allowed to go anywhere except school. He was kicked off the football team and so were a lot of his friends. There was a great deal of unrest in our town. Some people were upset that such a big deal was being made over Rena. The girl killed herself. No one else did. Why are our kids being punished? These were the parents of boys on the football team who had pictures of Rena and as a result, were kicked off the team. They complained that it was unfair. Then there were others that were shocked and horrified by Rena’s suicide and what had driven her there. This was the majority of people. There was a sense of not knowing what to do next and that hung over the town like a weighted blanket. It was a claustrophobic sort of sensation that the town was too small for something so big to have happened there. The willow tree itself was a source of contention for everyone. Should the tree be taken down because it is a reminder of what happened or should it be left up because it is a reminder of what happened? I was torn, because the willow tree had been near the center of my life for almost as long as I had been alive. It was the special place I shared with my grandmother and then with Rena. At the same time, it was the place Rena and Sam used to meet for a brief time. And now it was the place Rena committed suicide. What the town decided, I never found out. My parents decided it would be best for us to have a fresh start in a different town, preferably in a different state. We moved barely a month after Rena’s funeral. At the new house, there is a little tree in the backyard. It’s just a little oak tree. There’s nothing particularly special about it. I like to think that one day it will be tall enough for me to climb it and try to touch the clouds. For now though, I pull out the sketchbook my grandmother gave me, flipping past the sketches of the willow tree, and begin drawing the short but strong branches of the little oak tree.

nh38tm

Running Through Time

Imagine, you are in a crowded city and you pass millions of people on your way to the library. But everyone and everything you pass is exactly the same. Your book is overdue and you will have to pay a fine if it is not returned soon. Everyday from now, the fine will increase by a dollar. The library is just a kilometre away and you could run it in a minute. But every second that passes is a day and every minute that passes is a year. What if Time was dragging you back with every chance? What if you could see yourself going through this while it is happening? What if you could see what will happen next at the same Time? And what if you could see your life running from your fingertips and you couldn’t do anything about it? What if you could see it all at once? How would you react if everything in this Time apocalypse was reality? Hana had been running for hours, each hour only took a second. Hana was feeling all emotions at once. With every step she took she would be yanked back to where she had started, the creepy bit was she had a birds eye view of herself. Nothing made sense; she was running through the past and future at the same time. She could also see others' thoughts floating past her, a few forgotten dreams floating past too. Cast out things from the past were no longer unknown to the world. What was happening? Suddenly it was like Time had decided for some more fun, with a big tug, it launched Hana into nowhere. Hana drifted around, she could still see everything. As far as the eye could see, the world was blank and empty. Now every second seemed to take years, Hana’s watch was going crazy. By now the book was ancient, you could hardly read the cover. Hana had forgotten the story’s name but at the same time she remembered it clearly. Why did Time do this to her? Wait was the book glowing now? “Out of time! Out of time!” Words rushed out of the book. “What do you mean out by of time?” Hana cried desperately. “You have failed to return the book!” The book chanted. “For that you have been banished to the time realm!” By now Hana was beginning to feel worried. She would be stuck here for of time, she would never die in this time error. There was still that flicker of hope, she couldn’t give up. “I will return the book! I promise,” she begged. A second later (or a year) Hana found herself back in the future. She had to go to the library, fast. She raced to the library, but when she got there all that remained of it was a pile of rubble. She was probably 673855634278675624378394 years in the future. Still Hana knew the punishment if she didn’t return the book. She would have to return it, somehow. “How am I going to do this?” She asked Time. Time replied “Go back in time, to the day you were returning the book," ok so now she knew what to do. WAIT, HOW COULD SHE GO BACK IN TIME WITHOUT TIME? “Now I’ve done it!” She screamed. She should never have gone to the library in the first place. How would she go back in time? Wait! That’s it, she could rebuild the library. Then she would be able to return the book. The only problem was, where would she get all the money? Hana so found herself on a gameshow called Money Go Round. You would be given ten questions to answer. If you got all 10 questions correct you would win a million. However, if you got one wrong, you would lose a one hundred thousand dollars. All of the questions were very difficult, so not many had succeeded. In order to be able to enter you had to have one hundred thousand dollars, to be sure that they were going to not pay. Hana had just shown them the ancient book and they thought that was worth enough. Hana had to win though, If she lost she would lose the book and Time would catch her. “Today's questions are going to be very difficult, they will be about the future back 673855634278675624378394 years ago.” Said the game master. Hana felt a wave of relief wash on her, she had existed 673855634278675624378394 years ago. The questions were so easy, no one could believe it when Hana left with 1 million dollars. Soon the library was back in construction, now Hana just needed to buy the books. By the end of the month all the books were ordered and it was now the waiting game. ‘The library has to be built soon’ Hana thought anxiously, remembering how much money the fine would be. 2 years later… It was built, the library was now finished. But Hana’s smile was turned upside down when she saw the fine, there were millions of numbers sitting on that small piece of paper. How would she pay the fine. With time, she could do it. Wait! With Time! “Time!” She screamed “I knead you to find me some money." “How?” Asked Time, Hana thought for a moment. People wouldn’t miss a dollar, would they? “Take one dollar from anyone that has ever lived, change Time.” A second later, a gold coin landed on her head. Wait? What? It was raining coins. Billions of coins were flying through the air, each meant one human that had existed. Hana had more than enough money now, she could pay the fine and not get captured by Time. Still something didn’t feel right, she was being pulled away. Time was taking her away, but where? Hana found herself sitting outside her house, her Mum and Dad walked by her. “You returned that book quickly,” they said. Hana’s mind was beginning to spin, “Mum, Dad, I don’t think I want to go to the library again,” then they walked inside, but to normal times.

q4c60n

Trauma Bonds

“Hey... Hey!” I woke up abruptly, drool on my sleeve, my glasses halfway down my face. Completely forgetting that I had been in the library, I panicked. I jumped up, looking around wildly. “Oh sorry,” a high-pitched voice said behind me. I jerked my head around to face her. A small Asian woman in a white button-up top waved at me sheepishly. I adjusted my glasses just in time to make out ‘library assistant’ on her shirt. “I’m just about to lock up. I didn’t want you to get trapped in here.” She jingled the keys she held. I rubbed my eyes, mascara smudging onto my hands. “No, thank you for waking me up. I definitely didn’t mean to fall asleep. Sorry for the trouble,” I said, mentally trying to shake off the grogginess. The library was completely dark outside of the lamp that lit my desk. She waved her hand. “Seriously, it happens all the time. I honestly thought about letting you just sleep.” I smiled, shrugging. “I mean, I need the sleep but probably not in an awkward face-on-desk position,” I said. She laughed a little. “Can’t be good for your back.” “Or my face either,” I laughed, pointing to my cheek. She laughed harder at that. “Let me pack up my things really quick.” I looked at the mess of a desk with all of my stuff strewn about. Slightly embarrassed, I started shoving things into my backpack. “No need to rush,” the woman said, leaning against the desk next to me. “What were you working on?” I tried to make it look like I didn’t normally just shove things in my backpack. “It’s a pretty big research paper. I’m a psych major,” I explained. She nodded. “Everyone’s a psych major,” she said grumpily. I wanted to protest but couldn’t find the will. “I’m majoring in library science.” She gestured dramatically towards her shirt. I laughed. “What’s the topic?” she asked. “Trauma bonds.” She furrowed her eyebrows. “Let me guess. Is that like...when traumatized people bond with other traumatized people or something?” My head tilted side to side. “Yes and no. It’s a little confusing, honestly. On one hand it’s another way of saying Stockholm Syndrome and on the other, when people share a traumatic experience. They often can get through it easier together. It’s called unit cohesion. Usually it’s like people in the military, first responders...” I let my voice trail off. She considered that for a moment. I went for my pencil case. “I think I may--” “Damn it!” My plastic pencil case fell, opening as it fell, spilling out all over the floor. I got down on the floor and started picking up everything. The woman knelt on the floor beside me and started collecting the various items. “Sorry, thanks for helping. You were going to say?” “I think I may have a trauma bond,” she explained. I nodded, pulling a pencil out from under my chair. “Lots of people do," I began. I chewed my lip. The shadows we casted overlapped as we reached. "Actually, I do, too,” I added quietly. “Is it weird if I ask you who yours is with?” she asked, hesitantly. I inhaled slowly. “Not really. It’s with my mom.” She was silent for a moment, fiddling the pencil she was holding. “Like...the Stockholm Syndrome one?” she asked. I laughed humorlessly. My heartbeat began to rise. “Yes. Like the Stockholm Syndrome one," I replied, my palms getting clammy. I thought about saying more but I held my tongue, my heartbeat slowing. We went back to picking up the contents of my pencil case. “What about you?” I asked, inspecting an eraser. She stopped to look over at me. It almost looked like she was inspecting me. I made a face. “I guess I asked you, first,” she started. She paused for a long moment, staring at the pencil sharpener she was holding. “When I was about 7. I saw someone get hurt.” She put the pencil sharpener into the pencil case. She suddenly sat up straight, shaking her head. “That’s a lie” she started again. “I saw someone die. I-I saw them get shot.” Time stood still, her words hanging in the air. I swallowed, wondering if I should ask her more. The bookcase glared at me then and I listened instead. “It’s weird, I know everything about that day," the woman began. She looked far away, as if she wasn't really beside me. " I remember how old I was. What day it was. What time it was. What I was wearing…” her voice trailed off. I nodded, fixated by her voice. The light from the desk sort of lit her face like a spotlight would on a stage. “I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone about this,” she said, mostly to herself. My knees rubbed on the carpet as I involuntarily moved closer. “I’ve never told anyone I have Stockholm Syndrome,” I said, encouraging her. I gestured at the darkened shelves and empty desks around us. “There’s no one else here. Just us girls.” She flashed her teeth, the light catching them in a bizarre way. “I guess that’s true.” “It’s also sometimes easier to open up to a stranger. Or a group of strangers. That’s one of the reasons why group therapy can actually be really helpful. Sharing trauma can also be healing,” I added. After I finished speaking, I realized how I sounded. Well, I guess I’m headed into this field, anyway. S he made a sound of agreement as soon as I began to think I may have said too much. I turned back to the floor, pretending to look for more runaway items. “I was with my sister,” she began, shifting so she was sitting crosslegged. She stopped pretending to look for more items and looked distantly again to the darkness. I shifted, as well, mirroring her position. “My sister and I are 7 years apart so she was fourteen when the shooting happened. She and I had been shopping in the city and weren’t even in a sketchy area or anything. I needed a dress for my voice recital and she said she would go with me because our mom couldn’t. Anyway, we were walking down the sidewalk and we heard some shouting. Up ahead, we saw these five men outside of a bar just yelling. My sister just sort of pulled me closer and we just kept our heads down. You know, you just keep on walking in those situations. We weren’t the only ones out, either. There must have been at least a dozen people walking by. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I think I hear fireworks. I remember thinking how weird that was. It’s like 2pm, why would you set off fireworks? And before I can even think for another second, my sister pulls me behind this car and tells me to crouch on the ground beside her. She’s like holding me and praying and I’m still not really sure what’s happening. And then the smell hit me. All I could smell was this smell...this metallic, smokey sort of smell.” The woman paused, looking over to me, as if to check if I was still there before continuing. She licked her lips, nervously. Her eyes moved to the floor, tracing the carpet pattern with her finger. The shadows on her chest accentuated the speeding of her breath. I held mine in anticipation, my shadow stilling. “What I didn’t realize right away was that the metallic smell wasn’t just from the gun. It was pooling around our feet. My sister kept telling me to look at her and not at the ground but it only took half a second for my eyes to follow the blood and for me to realize that only a car separated us from the body of a victim in a homicide. A lot of people don’t really know this but shootings don’t really last longer than a minute or two. It takes just that amount of time to change everything for someone forever. We were still huddled and hiding when the police arrived shortly after. They kept asking us questions and who we were and neither of us could really say anything other than that we were there and we were helpless. Do you know what it’s like to be completely helpless?” Her eyes searched mine. Yes.  I shook my head no. She studied me for a moment before returning to tracing the carpet. I looked away quickly, a lump forming in the throat. “Well, anyway, when my mom arrived, she was just hysterical. The police spent more time calming her down than tending to us. But it was actually okay. I think my sister and I just needed that time to sort of just process what had happened. But we were both okay. We both survived. And I will never forget that.” The library was truly silent then, even the books at the mercy of her words. The atmosphere was contemplative, even inspiring. I took a moment to make sure I had put everything back into the pencil case. The extended silence began to weigh on me. “What’s your name?” I asked suddenly. Our eyes met sharply. She softened greatly, a teasing look forming on her face. “You’re breaking the code.” “What?”  "If I know your name, we’re not strangers,” she said. I faked a laugh, the lump making it too obvious. “You got me,” I lied. I nervously opened and closed the pencil case. Click-click. Click-click. She seemed to notice, unable to hide her disappointment. It felt like an arrow to me. “You don’t have to share if you don’t want to, I just--” “No, no, it’s okay,” I said. My chest began to feel heavy. I shifted uncomfortably. I kept thinking over and over how to start and the woman just...waited. After a very long time I finally asked, “Is it okay if I sort of tell you a story instead?” She looked confused but nodded anyway. I let out half a breath. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to face you either,” I added, swallowing hard. The shame began to taint my face. She shrugged, somewhat concerned. “Doesn’t bother me," she said quietly. I took a deep breath, feeling a little silly as I scooted on my butt to face away from her. The sound of my heart filled my ears. The shadows on the wall and in the book shelves turned nefarious and taunting. I closed my eyes and began. “Once upon a time, there was a young girl. She lived in a small house in the countryside. She lived alone with a giant troll. In the mornings, the girl would have to be very careful, making sure she didn’t wake the troll and make her and the troll breakfast. If she was too loud, the troll would...well, anyway, she would make breakfast each morning. If she was lucky, she would be able to get through the whole process without the troll waking up and could go to school with her friends without having to see the troll at all.” I paused for a moment, feeling ridiculous. I allowed myself a peek over my shoulder to see that the woman was still there, looking right at me. She moved one of her hands in a circular motion. I turned back around, compelled to continue. “Most days, the troll woke up while the girl was cooking breakfast. The troll’s behavior was unpredictable, really. Sometimes it would be angry and violent. Other times, it would cry like a child and ask for a blanket, helpless…” I swallowed, taking a moment to breathe. “But mostly, the troll was apathetic and dismissive. The troll would complain about the breakfast, say mean things to the girl, and even make fun of her. The girl had so many things she wanted to say back to the troll but the reality remained that she was just a little girl and the troll was a troll. She dreamed of running away, living in the forest, living in the swamp, anywhere but with the troll. But there were those times, ever so rare, but they existed, where the troll was grateful. The troll would hold the girl. The troll would go shopping with the girl. The troll would say that it loved the girl and give her a kiss on the forehead. And the girl couldn’t help but stay for those moments. It made the girl love the troll and made her resent anyone who said anything to criticize the troll. And on the bad days when the troll would get so mad, it would drunkenly beat her up or burn her with a cigarette or lock her in the closet for days at a time, the girl made excuses for the troll. Even idolized the troll. Forever trapped in her own cage of misery.” After I finished, I didn’t move for a long time. Neither did the woman. Or the shadows or the books, for that matter. Everything was still, unsure whether or not there was still air to breathe. “My name is Beth,” the woman said after a long moment. I turned around slowly to face her. The light from the lamp caught a small sparkle in the corner of one of her eyes. She wiped it with the side of her knuckle. I avoided my gaze and retrieved the restored pencil case, setting it on my lap. “Sarah,” I replied, letting my eyes peek at her. We sat there, the vulnerability of everything feeling a bit silly now. Having bared one’s soul to a ‘Beth’ seemed far more intimate than some library assistant. But my chest was no longer heavy. My heartbeat was no longer afraid. The air was somehow breathable now. Quite so…The entire library seemed to breathe with us. I knew that I should be feeling scared or upset but I felt something else. Beth stood up and offered me a hand. I took it, standing beside her by the desk. Neither of us said anything for a moment. There was something strange that I couldn’t put my finger on. This feeling of sudden openness. Of comfort. Of connectedness. Like a door suddenly blew open, letting in a beam of sunlight, basking us both instead of the lamp. “We--” “Uh--” We both laughed then. Perhaps it was simply to relieve the incredibly tension or perhaps just recognizing the ridiculousness of what had just transpired. Maybe the lateness of the night had finally caught up with us. Maybe it was that I was so grateful to have shared something truly real with someone else. "We should go," Beth managed. I grabbed my backpack and slung it over my shoulder, grabbing my phone and starting the flashlight. I turned off the desk lamp and we started towards the staircase. Beth yelped suddenly. "Are you okay?" I asked. She bend down and picked something up under her foot. "What the hell..." It was one of my erasers that had wandered away. "It looks like--" "A foot? I got it from my podiatrist," I explained. Beth started cracking up. "What? It's just--" Then the laughter infected me. And then laughter was unstoppable. It even followed us as we made our way downstairs to the front exit. The shadows bounced and danced with our giggles as we used our phone’s flashlights to help us find our way. Neither of us could even get a word in. Beth kept looking at the eraser and losing it over and over, restarting the inappropriate and infectious laughter. This giddiness grew between us, something rooted deeply in the nostalgia of slumber parties. By the time we made it outside, we were wiping our eyes, finally able to take a breath. The night air was warm and full of the smell of wet grass. Is it really that late? The smell reminded me of summer and that intangible feeling of endless possibility. Almost like magic. My heart ached a little then, realizing this was goodbye. I shivered suddenly. “Hey, I hope this isn’t weird,” Beth started, handing over the eraser. I couldn’t see her face but I could tell she was uncomfortable. “Do you want to hang out again? I don’t have a whole lot of friends around here.” My heart skipped a beat. The slumber party nostalgia welled up in me again, nearly sparkling. My face sported a stubborn grin, unapologetic and full of relief. “Yeah. That sounds great.”

9j9nyd

Identity of Women in the world

I am from India. I am really greatfull to publish this book. I am 15 years old and I want to show that nothing is hard if you believe In yourself . Life is a journey where we have to be confident about our future in this book I wrote about women Identity in the world many people thought that women is weak but this is really wrong .I am sorry if here any grammatical mistake I am little girl .Student and all person can read this book this is really good for all because I tell many things related to women and who want to become very successful in her life. Please read this book and I am very happy to write this book. In this book I write about women Identity in the world.There are many women who are very successful in her life but there are many people who think that women can't do anything in her life but this is really wrong thought about women.I don't know so much English so please I kindly request you that please Sorry for some mistake in this story . I want to say in this story that women have her identity. she is really good in everything..If someone give her chance to study she became anything that she want..In a village there is a girl who is real confidence in her life in every part.she finally know what she have to do in her life.Her inspiration in her life is her dad. Her dad is really hardworking.He give all things to his daughter . There are many person who saw that they always help us but truly some of them help us who are our family member. They want justice for women. She asks to all people that what is the identity of women in all life but all people say that women have no identity she is always dependent on other when she is small she is dependent on father ,when she is young then she is dependent on Husband and when she is old then dependent on son .Women is not a game many people think women is a game this is totally wrong. I want to say that all women have many dreams and I believe that all can show that she is good in everything..she want to show the world that women can do anything in her life. Her name is khushi Gupta she is really good in conversation with other.she is good in drawing.She also like to write book. She work hard to help other .she want to become IAS officer in her life because she wants to help poor people. First of all she wants to become astronomer but she then realized that this is not good career for her and she trying to search career and finally she know her answer that she want to become IAS and she also know that this is not easy because she have to attempt upse wand upse is really hard exam in the world . But she also know if she dream it she also do it and she always say to herself I can do anything if I want. Her father always help her to motivate in every situation where she want someone help . she doesn't first in all exam but she believes that women can do anything in her life she first in 10th and 12th in state . She is fast in every thing like running ,walking, eating,speaking ,reading etc .she is really talented. She take art subject and start study hard and u you meet him in Bihar.she face many up and down in her life but she never give up .she is the third child of her parents.One day she show DM and want to talk with them because she want that DM talk with her.finally after 3 years of graduation she become IAS officer and went to lbsnna for training and always motivate other person and say that never give up .she always tell that in your life always be happy and obey all . Finally she show the world women is the part of human race she can do anything this is really helpful for losers who want to do something great.she show that if people gave chance to women to become great she always success in her life. I proud to say that this girl is really very successful and I want that I also do that work that no one can dream to do.She is an DM of District of Bihar. She is the inspiration of very girl.I really. she want to fight with anyone if anyone is against women dream.Women lose their identity as soon as they get married and begin a family. Every little girl dreams of getting married and raising a family, because this is what women are taught to seek at an early age. When a woman achieves this goal, she loses her identity due to the many roles that she is now forced to play.Once married, a woman is expected to be a mother, nurturer, housekeeper, teacher, doctor, cook, chauffeur and more increasingly, a career woman. Women are forced to carry out these roles because of society's traditional view of the role women should play, and young women are pressured to follow in their mother's footsteps. Because a woman's life revolves around her children and husband, her responsibilities are never far from thought. Consequently, women lose their identity because they are so caught up in being a wife and mother that they no longer have time to pursue their own desires and goals. Women are increasingly becoming career women while raising a family at the same time. Despite the fact that women have the job of raising their family, many women also have fulltime careers because the extra income is often needed in the family. Some men criticize women for trying to act too much like men, but women are being forced by society to move between the traditional definitions of male and female roles, because of the many different tasks they have to carry out from day to day. For example, in order for women to enter the male world of work, they have to obtain masculine traits and leave their feminine traits at home.Bearing children is expected in today's society, because nurturing and child care are viewed as feminine traits. Women are conditioned at a young age to believe that once they are adults they will become mothers. If a middle aged, married woman doesn't have any children. Thanks to reading this book.She become IAS officer this is really light in dark village.

yt2ysl

Prodigies of Age

The BLOOD! The SLAUGHTER! The SUSPENSE! These will be splattered across every page as detective Martha Sevinski braves the dangers of the underground organ trafficking scene in her search of the Boston Butcher, a vicious serial killer preying on the fresh college minds of Harvard University. As the predator makes his way down the list of top ranking students to harvest their brains, Sevinski finds herself racing against the clock to uncover his secret identity and teams up with an unlikely ally in the person of her estranged husband, Dr. Ratchet, a professor of forensic science. A bold and provocative debut novel, SKULLCRACKER will keep you hooked from start to finish and leave you begging for more from former child prodigy Sally March. A stark departure from the fairy tales she authored in her childhood, the new Queen of Horror is certain to inject terror into your veins. Sally pressed her fingers against the back cover, its lustrous surface reflecting the dim lights of the narrow backstage room. The diffuse features of her freckled face could also be seen in between words. The synopsis felt satisfying. It was exactly what she had in mind. The advance copies had sold out. Online forums were rampant with gossip about her. She had allegedly “gone wild.” By all accounts, the very definition of “wild” was simply for a former child sensation to turn nineteen. “What a touching story,” concluded Moira, faking tears as a worn-out mother and her teenage runaway daughter hugged emotionally on a couch in front of the posh host. The scene unfolded before Sally on a large flat screen TV, hanging from the wall like an ominous pixelated eye watching over her. Even in the age of streaming, Moira’s talk show drew astronomical ratings, due in no small part to its star’s exuberant personality and her larger than life guests. From the most dysfunctional families in America to the most shameless of celebrities, the quest for fame always culminated in an appearance on the program. Moira’s tears quickly faded. She dried them up in no time with a handkerchief pulled from the side pocket of her shiny silver blazer and addressed the camera directly. “Up next, the moment YOU have been waiting for!” she proudly declared, a mischievous smile on her scarlet lips. “We catch-up with the latest rebellious child star, none other than author Sally March! I wouldn’t want to miss that tea, if I were you.” The broadcast cut to a commercial just as Moira was taking a sip from her pearly fine china cup, her side eye gleaming with the promise of juicy drama. A mere five seconds later, Sally heard a knock at the door. “Miss Sunshine,” quipped the assistant-director, peering her head through the threshold. “Your turn.” Sally walked out into the long corridor leading up to the stage, clenching the book with all her might. They wouldn’t get the best of her. They couldn’t. She soon reached the studio’s antechamber and hid behind a blue velvet curtain. Hold on , she thought. Now is the time to prove yourself. Moira’s voice rose from the other side of the curtain. “Without further ado, please welcome the one, the only, Sally March!” The blue velvet lifted. Sally found herself facing a hostile crowd that consisted mostly of fortysomething mothers holding out cardboard signs that read “STOP CORRUPTING OUR YOUTH.” The young writer’s eyes struggled to adjust to the blinding stage lights amidst the countless boos emerging from the audience, and she only found the set after a copious amount of blinking. There, in her large, quasi-royal armchair, Moira was waiting for her. “Dearest Sally,” said the host quietly as her guest took place in the hot seat. “It feels like we just met for the first time yesterday. Do you remember sitting in that very couch with your princess doll at the tender age of nine, promoting your first collection of fairy tales?” “I certainly do,” replied Sally, her skin flushing at the thought of the atrocious memory. “How could I forget?” “Granted, I’m unforgettable.” The audience erupted in laughter at the dated, self-aggrandizing joke. Moira had them in the palm of her hand; there was nothing Sally could do to win their allegiance. “I can hardly argue with that,” replied the young woman with defiance splattered across her face. “Time to spill the tea,” said Moira, taking another sip out of her cup. From her position, Sally could see it was empty. “It looks like the little princess is no more, is she?” “I don’t see what you’re talking about. A princess forever remains a princess, even when she trades her pink gown for a leather jacket.” Whispers ran across the crowd. Although she could not hear what they said, Sally knew the voices meant no good. “Right. Everybody loves a renegade.” “WE DON’T!” All women in the first row stood up simultaneously, brandishing their signs. They were all dressed identically, wearing white shirts adorned with red crosses over a print-out of Sally’s face. The words “PROTECT OUR DAUGHTERS” hovered above her curly red hair. “Looks like we have some strongly-opinionated women in our audience today!” proclaimed Moira. “You sure have come a long way from the sweet, innocent tales you used to write. Any thoughts about the impact your antics could have on younger, impressionable audiences?” “Antics?” said Sally with flagrant disbelief. “My new creative direction hardly qualifies as antics. A woman can’t write about modern day Cinderellas forever.” “But isn’t this what your fans liked about your writing? Strong heroines that didn’t need princes to rescue them? Alternate versions of classics where the princess escaped the dragon all by herself.” “I think you’ll find Detective Sevinski is a strong heroine in her own right.” “Yes, and we all know what she does with her handsome Dr. Ratchet.” More boos flooded the room. The animosity towards her was now so intense that Sally feared the air would soon become too thick to breathe. “Detective Sevinski is an adult, and so am I. Adults do not go by the same restrictions my previous characters had.” “Can adults also do this?” With a snap of Moira’s fingers, a paparazzi snapshot appeared on the giant screen adorning the back of the set. The rather unflattering picture showed Sally at a restaurant table, a glass of wine in her hand, laughing with friends. “It seems our princess prodigy can’t shake off the party scene these days,” commented Moira to a new chorus of boos. “Even though she’s not of drinking age yet. Not quite the role model we thought she was.” “This picture was taken at a book convention in Montreal,” snapped back Sally. “I am of drinking age in Canada.” “So, your reckless partying has even taken you across the border. What kind of message does this send to your fans, to our daughters?” The heavy insinuation drove Sally over the line. She stood up, towering over the whole set. “Listen Moira. I came here to promote a new chapter of my professional life, one that departs from the sugar-coated, pink-colored vision of life I have always been made to write about. I’m smart, I’m creative, I’m a hard worker, and most important of all, I care about having full control over my career. Isn’t that what your daughters should aspire to be?” Silence fell over the crowd. Moira lowered her square spectacles, staring deep into her guest’s soul. “Perhaps your audience – and yourself – believe this creative control is something to be ashamed of,” Sally added. “Too bad, because I’m not your ship to trap in a glass bottle. I sail the ocean free.” For a moment, Sally truly believed she had made her point. Everyone stood still, entranced by her speech. It took a fraction of a second for this spell to be broken. “YOU WON’T PLANT THIS FILTH IN OUR DAUGHTERS’ HEADS!” The loudest mother in the crowd swished her arm, and soon a tomato collided with Sally’s cheek. More women joined in the tomato pelting, and the young author found herself dodging a shower of red spheres dashing towards her body. She ran offstage at lightning speed, and the curtain closed behind her once more. The adrenaline rush had come as a surprise, but a welcome one. Glancing at the synopsis at the back of her book again, Sally collected a trail of tomato mush off the hard cover, then licked it. This might have been her best promo yet. Mission accomplished. Her rite of passage towards adulthood had been completed.

mtyhpc

Finally Free

I felt like I could barely breathe as the plane touched down. I had never left the island, been on a plane, or even been without my parents before, and now I was sitting in a jet by myself in a whole new country. The pilot, Randy, came out of the cabin and smiled at me. “You ready, Joselyn,” He said eagerly. I nodded as he let down the plane’s door. Once I exited the plane, I looked around at the scenery. England looked much different than the island I had grown up on. There wasn’t any scolding heat, I didn’t constantly hear the waves, and there weren’t trees everywhere you looked. I looked back at Randy and waved goodbye before walking to the lady waiting for me. She was middle-aged with dark skin, curly hair, and an inviting smile. She greeted me, “You must be Jeanna. I’m Damien’s mom, Rina.” I smiled, “It’s nice to meet you.” Damien was my boyfriend, who I met online. It was the first time my parents let me use the internet and we met in a chatroom. I introduced myself as Jeanna because it meant I could be what I always wanted to be, different. To my family, I was Joselyn, but to everyone else I was Jeanna. Obviously, I later told Damien my real name and what my life was like, and to my surprise he still loved me. He is the reason I’m here, after dating for a year he asked me to come to live with him, and I agreed. He was only eighteen so we’d be staying with his parents for a while, but soon we’d have our own place. He lived in Oxford, England so it was far away from my family, but I didn’t really mind that.  The drive to his house was quiet, except for the occasional questions about my life from Rina. “How do your parents feel about this? You’re only nineteen and Damien said they’re pretty protective,” She finally asked. I panicked inside, wondering whether or not I should tell the truth. I settled on telling half of the truth. “They weren’t the biggest fans, but I was planning on moving out soon anyway.” In actuality, they didn’t know I was leaving. They only knew I was gone when they woke up this morning to an empty bed. My parents would’ve never let me leave, especially if they knew about Damien, I’m surprised Randy even helped me. I refused to even look at my phone or turn it on because I knew my whole family was currently blowing it up with text and calls. I should probably explain that my family is not what is considered normal. My parents aren’t just your usual overprotective helicopter parents, instead, they are extremists. My dad’s name is Josiah Dakins and he owns a private island that he bought to isolate our family from society. Over the years, he has gained five wives, the first being my biological mother. My nine siblings and I were taught that my father was the holiest man alive and that he was all that we needed. We weren’t even allowed electronics till we turned eighteen. It was through the internet that I learned how wrong my parents were. This was when I finally decided to leave and move in with Damien. We pulled to a beige two-story house located in the suburbs. A man, who I assumed was Damien’s dad, came out to greet me. I hadn’t brought anything except for a bag of clothes and other essentials, so there wasn’t much to unpack. Suddenly, I see someone running towards me and before I know it I’m in someone’s arms. I look up to see Damien’s smiling face and relax. “I’m so glad that you’re finally here,” he exclaimed. “Me too,” I whisper in reply. He quickly grabs my hand, nearly making me drop my bag, and pulls me into the house. The walls were pale yellow with family pictures decorating the walls. “Let me show my room,” he said, pulling me up the staircase. There were three rooms on the upper level, a bathroom, Damien’s sister’s bedroom, and Damien’s bedroom. Damien’s room looked like it had recently been cleaned, and was mostly empty except for a T.V., bed, and desk. He had a big childlike smile on his face as I looked up and kissed him. “That’s gross,” said a high-pitched voice behind us “Oh Jeanna, this is my sister, Lorelai,” Damien said, introducing the small girl. “It’s nice to meet you.” She smiled at me and nodded, before running off. I spent the rest of the day being with Damien and his family, along with adjusting to everything. This family was much different than mine. There were no strict rules, Damien and Lorelai weren’t scared of their father, and the world wasn’t hidden from them. I felt love in their family, something I didn’t feel in my own. We also went out for dinner, which is where I realized that nothing here was like back home. Everyone seemed so relax, and it looked like I was the only tense person in the restaurant. People were talking during their meals, something I was taught to never do. One thing that I was grateful for was the heating and cooling system every building had. None of the buildings on the island had one, which you can imagine sucked on a tropical island. After dinner, Damien’s family went to bed while he and I sat on the porch. “So, you like it here,” he asked nervously. I smiled, “I love it here.” He stood and reached out his hand, and we went to bed. The next morning, I woke up in Damien’s arms and it was the first time in a very long time that I felt truly calm. He sleepily opened his eyes and smiled as I moved to get up. He sat up and stretched, then quickly gave me a kiss on the cheek. I smelt bacon and eggs as we headed downstairs. His parents and Lorelai were already sitting at the dinner table. “Morning kids,” His dad chuckled. We sat down and as we ate I finally felt I was where I belonged. This home and this family were so different than my own, but that felt good. I felt happy, which was unusual for me. At that moment, I knew that I had made the right decision to leave and that life here will be better.

o0w97n

Chicago

I both love and hate Chicago. I hate how cold it gets, I hate how hot it gets. I hate the stink when you go under a bridge, I hate the long long lines. But I love the many restaurants and towering buildings. I love the parks and the museums. I hate the trash and dirty water that lines the streets, sometimes overflowing onto the sidewalk. I hate the high prices and the small apartments. But I love important things like The Bean, or the Willis Tower (or Seris, I can never remember). I love the river that they die green on St. Patrick's day. I could go on and on. I have seven days. Seven days before I move. I have to do everything. So I planned out a grand, one-last-time tour of Chicago, and this is how it went. *** The first place I go is Millenium Park. I go under the bean and stick my tongue out at my reflection. Then, I go to the swings, convincing Brian to push me. It is my last week, I deserve to act like a child. I ride the Ferris wheel and I get ice cream from one of those ice cream carts. We end the day by watching Wonder Woman in the big field. *** The second day I go to the Art Museum and take a selfie with the lions before admiring the paperweights and miniature rooms. For lunch, we eat burritos from a food truck and donuts from another food truck. It is delicious. By then, Brian and I are tired, but I convince him to go to the Museum of Science and Industry where I cheer on the trains as they arch over painted rivers and through plastic tunnels. I run the human hamster wheel, and I am soon out of breath. We do as much as we can until the museum closes, and we go to dinner. *** On the third day, we have brunch at Nellie's ordering their famous oatmeal. Then we go to the field museum to see Sue and the other cool things. We have turkey and cheese with mayonnaise sandwich for Brian, and a Pb&J sandwich for me. Then we go to the Adler Planetarium and reserve a spot on the big screen while playing with all the interactive stuff. For dinner, we have sushi. *** On the fourth day, we go to the zoo. We manage to cover the whole zoo and see all the animals before lunch. For lunch, we eat at Small Cheval, the best burger place in the world. I order a plain cheeseburger, fries, and a vanilla milkshake. Then we walk the Chicago Riverwalk, just talking and having fun. *** For the fifth day, we do the architecture boat tour and the guide explains how the Chicago River used to stink so the old buildings don't have windows facing the river. For lunch, we have empanadas with meat, and cheese, and spinach. Then we go to the top of Willis Tower and go onto the Skydeck. I scream because I am terrified hights. Well, I'm technically not afraid of rights. It's the falling from heights that scares me. A squirrel is the only thing I know that can survive a fall from the top of the Willis Tower. And I am not a squirrel. *** On the sixth day, we have breakfast at Yolk. Then we go to the Garfield Park Conservatory and I stop at all the plants and fish before finishing and having BBQ for lunch. Then we go to the beach and splash each other in the water. *** The seventh day is my last day. I invite all my friends and family that live in Chicago to a potluck. They bring mac n' cheese and pizza and chips and soup and mashed potatoes. Everything you can imagine. The kids run around the apartment playing with the toys and fun. My uncle turns on a football and everyone starts picking who they think will win and cheering them on. The Chicago Bears are not playing, but no one cares. When the game is over and that is left of the nachos are crumbs, people start to leave. A few are staying, some just to enjoy the party a little more, some in hopes of us agreeing to let them sleep over. I do not tell them that for once, I will say yes. Jeremy stays for a few more hours, and Violet, Lucy, and Daniel are staying for a sleepover. Violet and Daniel have to get permission from her parents first, but we arrange places for them to sleep. I'm going to be on the way to the airport before they wake up, but Lucy assures me she will have it all under control, and return Violet and Daniel back to their homes. *** On the morning of the eighth day, I grab my many bags of already packed thing. I go downstairs, and say goodbye to Leo, a friend of mine who lives on the first floor of the building. I get in Brian's white Toyota, and I take a nap while he drives me to the airport. Brian wakes me up a few minutes before we get there, as we drive on the highway. It's completley quiet except for the rumble of the car. Finally, Brian breaks the silence. "How do you feel about it?" "About what?" "Moving." "Well, I'm not going to be in Michigan for that long." "Yeah, but leaving Chicago. I mean, it's where you grew up, it's your current home. . ." "My relationship with Chicago is. . .complicated. Some days, I love Chicago and I love everything in Chicago, and I can only see the good parts of Chicago. The friendly people, the variety of everything, all the places tourists go. I'm proud of Chicago. But then there are days when I can only see the bad side of Chicago. The people begging for money on the streets. How dirty it is. Just. . .everything bad about Chicago. And those days, I feel like I've outgrown Chicago like a pair of shoes that are not popular anymore. Those days I want to move somewhere else." "So you have a love hate relationship with Chicago." "Yeah, I guess so." "What makes you stay those days?" "I think to myself, well, every place has that good side and that bad side. Same as Chicago. And I know Cichago. I don't know other places like San Frinsisco. " "Cool. Anyway, we're here. Your plane will arrive in like. . ." Brian checks his phone. "Two hours. We have time." "Thank you Brian." "Your welcome. And I'm glad I got to experience your love of Chicago before you left." I furrow my brow. "What do you mean?" "On the last seven days, you loved Chicago, and you showed your love for Chicago." "I did? I guess that is true." I smile. "Brian, I think my love for Chicago will always outweigh my hate for it." "I agree."

odelka

The Climb

The first whispers of the sunrise were creeping through the branches as Elliot left the backyard on his morning adventure. The first shadows of the day were dancing in the warm breeze to the chorus of songbirds. This morning’s symphony was comforting and familiar to Elliot. Birds tend to do that. Sing the same tunes each morning. At least it sounds that way to the untrained ear. Elliot’s 12-year-old brain couldn’t yet pick up on the subtle differences in the bird song each morning. He was blissfully unaware. He was happy and content. Humans are creatures of habit, and Elliot was discovering his first. A quick hike each morning to a lookout behind his family home. Rain or shine. This was Elliot’s favorite part of the day. He loved these moments. Cherished the time alone and away from his family. He loved his parents, and his little sister, but he was starting to look for a little independence and a moment to himself to start each day. This little path, and lookout that it led to, had been a part of his family’s land for at least three generations. Much like his lack of awareness of the differences in bird songs, like most pre-teens Elliot wasn’t entirely up on his family history. But he knew for sure his mother had grown up there, much like his grandfather before her. As his need for independence was just starting to blossom, so was his interest in the world around him. He would soon know much more about his family, and the ever-changing world around him. The path lay at the back of the yard and snaked its way through the forest for about a mile before climbing to the top of Berry Hill. Named for the raspberry fields that clung in tiny patches along its steep sides and lit it afire each summer, the hill had been an essential part of Elliot’s childhood. The walk was a regular part of his life, even as a baby when he was carried by his father or mother. He preferred his grandfathers name for the hill, The Homach. He had told Elliot that the first time his father – who had a fear of heights - had climbed the hill in search of berries, reached the lookout, turned green, and when asked by his wife what was wrong said, “oh my homach…,” as he expelled the contents of his stomach. Twelve year-olds retain very important parts of their family histories. Last year his parents had decided to let Elliott go on his own for the first time. It wasn’t a long hike; it usually took him about 20 minutes from the time he left the house till he popped out at the lookout. Thirty minutes maybe, if something really caught his attention or if he had been up too late the night before. His mother had taken him alone before his first solo adventure and showed him all of the important landmarks, secret passageways, and hidden mysteries she had been taught as a child. Things even Elliot’s father was unaware of. They had spent hours canvassing the trail together. Elliot missed his mother this morning. She had been away on a work trip this past week. This was normal and part of the family routine. Her job with the government often took her away for work. Elliot didn’t usually miss her until the last few days and hours. She was flying home later today, and when he was finished with his morning hike, he would be joining his father and his sister on a drive to the airport. Not wanting to break routine his father had told him there was lots of time for him to go on his morning hike. Strategically, there were certain sections of the trail that were bare of any tree cover and within a perfect sight line of any parent or grandparent who might be watching from the kitchen in the house or the backyard. On this morning, Elliot’s dad sat on the back deck, sipping coffee, reading his book, and occasionally waiting for his son to pass through one of the cleared sections of the trail. Elliot had passed two of the five cleared sections almost on schedule. Slightly slower than normal, but there was lots of time before they had to leave for the airport. He assumed something had caught the attention of the increasingly curious eldest child. He smiled, knowing his son would have some incredible story to tell him on the drive to the airport. Elliot often walked the first section of the trail without his sneakers or sandles. This trick taught to him by his mother. The path, worn by the steps of their ancestors, was well covered in moss and grass until the start of the ascent up The Homach. And again at the top. The cold wet grip of the ground underfoot was comforting to Elliot. He had taken off his shoes when he knew he was out of his father’s sight, who he knew would disapprove. Another trick he had learned from mom. Elliot’s ears picked up at the gentle melancholy song of an unknown creature. Much moodier than he was used to, this new song came from a bird that he had never seen before, but looked strangely familiar. Much like the pigeons he would see when he was in the city, but less jumpy and more serene. The gentle colour of the feathers and deep soul of the black eyes drew Elliot closer. With each step he thought he would get close enough to pick it up, until it always flew further up the trail. He followed this new bird slowly all the way to the lookout, his father catching glimpses of him each time he passed an open section on the trail. When he arrived to the peak, and when he thought he would finally catch the bird, it looked at him for a second quickly and dropped over the edge. Elliot followed the bird as it swooped back up to the horizon. In an instant he lost the sight of the bird and caught sight of a plane and its flight path. Elliot had learned from his mother that you could tell where planes were coming from based on their flight path. The airport in the nearby city was small, and if you flew a lot you could learn the paths pretty easy. Elliot smiled. This flight was the only one coming from directly west today, the direction that he faced atop the lookout. It was his moms flight. It seemed earlier than normal, and coming faster than usual. It would be packed today as hundreds of people were returning home for the weekend from the capital. The bird was gone from his mind, and his attention was now on the plane. As it grew closer, he knew it was lower than it should be. A lot lower. It was close enough he could hear the roar of the engine, something he had never heard before. It came closer and was pitching to the left at an odd angle. He could see smoke trialing the plane. Not white smoke that criss-crossed the sky trailing planes every day, but grey like the smoke from the woodstove in their house. More smoke grew from the left side of the plane with a sudden burst of red and yellow as the plane turned violently left and seemed to hit an invisible wall before landing in a field about a five miles from Elliot. Elliot sat on the ground. The cold moss under him reminding him of his mother and giving him some comfort as he tried to process what he just saw. He knew what he didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to believe what he just saw. In the distance he heard his father behind him. Running up the hill, frantically screaming Elliot’s name. He stared across the open space toward the crash site. As he vacantly studied the flames, and waited for his father, he saw the bird he had chased earlier land on the edge of the cliff. The bird – which he would years later learn to be a type of dove - studied him for awhile and began to sing its mourning tune once again.

0fo5jl

For the love of life

I was fourteen when I saw it it shocked me and rocked my world I will never forget how I felt when I saw it. My hands shook and my breathing turned ragged as I ran fro my life I didn't know where my parents were. Though right then that wasn't my main problem I bolted as glass came down on top of my head grazing my neck ever so slightly. I reached my hand back to my neck I pulled my hand back and saw blood now covering my hand.I felt Liquid running down my back but I didn't know if it was my blood or sweat.I ran again hard but everything started to grow dark and I hit the ground with a loud thump. I bolted awake tears in my eyes as my breathing picked up each breath tore through my chest. "Jack" My boyfriend Ryan said I looked over at him as another sob escaped me I was sixteen now but I still had dreams that haunted me. I still woke up in a panic thinking I was back watching the twin towers fall again. Watching the twin towers take my dad from me another tear escaped me I wiped it away hoping Ryan wouldn't see but he did. He moved closer to me on the bed and cradled me close to his chest kissing my hair and running a soothing hand on my waist. I tried to calm myself down but I couldn't that dream always scared me I always thought I was back there and I was in way. "Ptsd" I remember the therapist saying to me after 9/11 even the slightest noise triggered me I would go out and run making sure that nothing was happening there. I also had insomnia and when I did sleep which was rare I was for me most of the time I had nightmare of that day over and over again. "Survivors Guilt" The therapist told me the next time I saw her I had just finished telling her about how I felt shame and guilt when I thought of my dad I didn't get why he died and I lived. "9/11 again baby boy" He said barley above a whisper we both knew the answer though it was always the same dream always ending the same way. "Yeah 9/11 again" I said biting my lip to keep the sobs escaping from me again. "I miss him Ryan I want my daddy back." I didn't care that I sounded like a little kid all I wanted right not was my daddy to be back with me. I sobbed and sobbed my throat hurt and my eyes stung but I couldn't stop the sobs from escaping me. Secretly I didn't want to I had always hated crying thought it made me weak but I knew Ryan would never judge me so I let it out. Everything that I had kept bottled up for the past two years finally came out. "I know you do, I know" Ryan said he tilted my face up and gently planted a kiss on my lips. The kiss was so light ad gentle he treated me like I was glass that would shatter at any moment and I think I might be. "Why is it that I get to be alive and he doesn't it should have been me not him." I screamed Ryan looked over at me with a stern look on his face. "Don't you ever say that again" Ryan said his eyes were blazing with a fire I had never seen before. "You are amazing, smart, beautiful, and perfect It was not your fault he died princess. If your dad was here right now he would say he was happy you lived and you know it. Now I never met the man but how you talk about him I know he would want you happy you mean the world to me baby boy and my heart breaks. With each sob that racks your body if I could I would take all your pain from you and make it mine." Ryan said Ryan was strong he never cried we were opposites he was strong and handsome and into sports. While I was sensitive and ugly and broken I had never seen him cry which is why it shocked me to see he had tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. "I wish it never happened Ryan sometimes I think about what it would be like if 9/11 never happened or if I wasn't there. Though in a way I am grateful to if I hadn't been through 9/11 then we would never have met." I said bringing his hand up to my face and pressing a light kiss to it. Ryan and I had met when he was doing a report on 9/11 survivors he choose to interview me. Ryan came every week for the interview for about a month when the project was over we kept in touch. Until one day Ryan being the love sick puppy he is came to school with a hundred flowers for me and a box of my favorite dark chocolates. That's the day I knew I could never let him go even though after what happened to my dad I was scared. Scared to let people into my heart and get attached because what if something happened and I lose them just like my dad. Ryan helped me see that sometimes the happiness out ways the pain. "I love you Ryan" I said my lips parted and red from biting them so hard and my eyes shone with unshed tears. Ryan dipped his head down and pressed a gentle kiss to my lips one that made me feel safe and warm. "I love you to princess" Ryan said as he gently tugged me down on his chest. I looked over at the clock as Ryan breathing became steady it read four thirty in big read letters. I closed my eyes and thought for the first time in two years I feel nothing but happiness.

zcsm4g

The Cellist

Scarlett is working on her last travel blog. When she submits to her editor at Globetrotters United, she will receive her stipend of $500. It will be her last payment. National lockdown restrictions will prevent any future traveling for the foreseeable future. She sighed and wondered what her children were up to. It was Monday, an asynchronous workday. She doubted they were working ahead of any of their assignments. Deciding to take a break, Scarlett took a brush that she kept in a metal tin box by her workstation and ran it through her thick cascading curls. She didn’t look like her mother or father, although all were of Chinese descent. Her hair was a chocolate brown while her parents’ locks were a blue-black sheen. The door burst open and a pile of clothes landed inside the laundry room where Scarlett worked. Her husband used the adjacent basement room as an office, while Scarlett took the washroom. It was a cold room, but private and she liked it. Liliana followed the laundry pile just strewn on the floor with another basket of dirty clothes. “Hey, are you doing your laundry now?” Scarlett asked, eyeing her daughter as she sauntered in heading directly to the washer and dryer at the end of the room. “Yup, looks like it,” Liliana said rolling her eyes. Scarlett put her brush down and noticed the old cello gathering dust in the corner leaning against the dryer machine. It was in a black cloth cello case. Carefully with slow movements, she began unzipping the cloth case and pulled out the old wooden cello. “I remember when we used to play this together,” Scarlett reminisced to her teenage daughter. Liliana had inherited her mother’s brown tresses as well as Scarlett’s lean, tall figure. Unlike, Scarlett, who moved with grace like a dancer, Liliana was going through the gangly awkward teenage phase. She scoffed at Scarlett’s reverie. “So?” Liliana spat. Once very close, Liliana pulled and away and rebelled against anything remotely Scarlett once she began puberty. It was disheartening because as a young child, mother was God. Scarlett swallowed back a growing sob. She was a very emotional, sensitive type and knew Liliana would see it as a weakness if she lashed out or broke down. Taking a quick, unnoticeable breath, Scarlett regained her composure and tried again. “It’s been a while, and you’ve had such a long break from this. I was hoping we could resume our practice.” Scarlett gestured with the bow in hand. Liliana shrugged her shoulders and moved her body, so she wasn’t looking at Scarlett and Scarlett couldn’t see her expression. Scarlett continued. “When I was little, I loved playing the cello. It really is a different type of string instrument.” Liliana interrupted her mother abruptly. “I told you, I don’t want to play the cello!” A shadow fell across Scarlett’s face. She was easy to temper as she was to cry. “Listen,” Scarlett resumed, assuming a parental tone. “There are so many opportunities that can occur. I am not saying, be a professional cellist. You don’t have to do this all your life. The main reason why I want you to continue is that you’ll get a deeper appreciation for music.” Liliana squared her shoulders. She turned to her mother with a sour face. “I told you, I have no interest,” Liliana said frustratedly. Why wouldn’t her mother let her be? She was not an all-around artistic person like her mother. Although she wasn’t against some of the arts, her mother was really into all of the arts, including music. Liliana was mostly interested in science and engineering. “Interests change all the time at your age,” Scarlett argued. “Besides, once you’re in high school, you’ll be taking all these fun orchestra trips. I went to Disney World and Dolly’s World when I was a kid…it’s been scientifically proven that music helps with math and science.” Liliana acted like she didn’t hear Scarlett. She began loading her laundry into the washing machine. “Don’t forget the clothes on the floor,” Scarlett reminded. “I know!” Liliana responded in her usual short way. “Don’t talk back,” Scarlett snapped back. “I wasn’t,” Liliana replied. “I was just telling you I know. I’m getting those clothes as soon as I’m done here.” “You used to do everything with me,” Scarlett complained. It was true. When Liliana was a much younger child, she was her “Minnie me.” A miniature carbon copy of Scarlett and she mimicked her every move and hobby. “It’s also a way for us to do something together,” Scarlett continued. “Why is it so horrible to spend time with your mother?” Scarlett brought the cello and its bow back to her desk. After tightening the bow’s hairs ever so slightly she began playing the strings, adjusting the pegs and tuners until the strings were in tune. She remembered Vivaldi’s Winter from The Four Seasons. It was just like yesterday. When Scarlett was in high school, she didn’t play the cello, she played the upright bass. It was her senior year and time for her senior solo at the spring concert. Her orchestra instructor had found a version of Winter for cello that they conscribed together into the bass cleft format. The fingerings were impossibly fast and the rhythms were so complicated. She practiced day in and day out until she figured out her exact bowings for each phrase and gained speed in her playing. The night of the concert was amazing. Scarlett wore a short mini white dress with her black pantyhose. She had cut holes in them (it was not yet, the trend of the day) and wore her big black combat boots. All the other seniors in the class had performed their violin, cello, viola solos. It was her time. The orchestra adjusted their seating to make way for her as she took her place at the front. Usually, double bass players were at the back by the band, but it was her solo, she would be at the front. Her teacher looked at her and Scarlett nodded her head. The orchestra teacher raised her arms and began conducting the strings. Vivaldi’s Winter was made for cello, but on the upright bass that night, it was made into an ethereal sound. The bass sang with low, loud notes above the entire orchestra. Scarlett had never held so much focus for any song she played in her life. It ended with an astounding crescendo that left the audience silent for a minute, then eruptions of thunderous applause. Scarlett remembered the notes, the placement of the fingers on the strings, and the pattern of bowings. She played the bass version she knew by heart on the cello. The sound was so different than the sounds from her memory, but still just as chilling. When she was done, she could hear only silence, then the sounds of the washing machine. Liliana had pressed start. Liliana stayed in the room, her body still. It was only a few seconds, but then she gathered her laundry basket and began heading out. Before she shut the door, she turned to her mother. “Look, I don’t hate spending time with you,” Liliana said addressing her mother who was still sitting in a spell. “But I’m a different person and I don’t want to play the cello.” “I actually played the upright bass in school,” Scarlett corrected. “This cello was given to me by my father. He played the cello.” Liliana nodded, then to Scarlett’s surprise she suggested an alternative. “The keyboard upstairs?” Liliana nodded upwardly to the second level of the house. “That was Grandma’s? No one ever plays. Do you know how?” Scarlett looked up, happily illusioned. “I took some beginner lessons,” she nodded eagerly. “Well, I’d like to learn the piano,” Liliana told her mother. Scarlett nodded quickly. “Let’s do that,” she said. With that, she watched as her daughter closed the door firmly behind her. Scarlett smiled. She looked forward to learning the piano again with her daughter. 

d1udwv

The Bunker

“Can you grab the veggie cutting board? I accidentally got the meat one,” my mom called out. After a few seconds, she added, “It might be in the sink.” It wasn’t hard to travel from my corner of the bunker to our “kitchen.” The bunker wasn’t big enough for a family of four. It was barely 20’ by 20’. However, it was the only life we had ever known. I didn’t even know there was something called outside until a couple of months ago. Or maybe years? I had never learned how time worked. It was hard to know what time it was. We just based it off of this: when we were sleepy, it was rest time, and when we weren’t, it was rise time. Each day started at the beginning of rise time and ended at the end of rest time. “Is this the right one?” I handed my mother the old and plastic green cutting board. She nodded wearily and tried to smile. She really did. She just couldn’t. I had always known my mom as an exhausted, stressed, and overworked person. At least, that’s how she portrayed herself. Her black hair was always thrown into a messy bun. It made you question when she last brushed it. Her eyes were constantly being shadowed by bags under them, and she always kept her lips pursed tightly together. However, she was the only one like this. For my sisters and I, this had always been our life. A dark bunker with small furniture was the only thing we had ever known. For my mom, it was different. When my mom was younger, she didn’t live in a bunker. She lived in a, what was it? A house? There were green straws called “grass” and giant pieces of dust called “dogs.” Her world had seemed so interesting, so unique , that my sisters and I loved to listen to her stories. At one point in this place somewhat like Heaven, a disease had struck, sentencing all families to bunkers. My mom had been married with children at the time. She had twins: my sister and I. We were four. She was also pregnant with my other sister. According to my mother, her husband had passed away from the illness. I didn’t remember him at all, and I most definitely didn’t remember the world I had once lived in. But now we were here, in a small bunker with water and food that were brought to us with buckets while we slept. It was life. It was normal for all of us. Except for my mother, of course. She still had nightmares of whatever was happening before the bunkers became mandatory. She didn’t even remember the last time she saw her family and friends. They might be dead, for all we know. I didn’t have any friends. The only people I knew were my mother, my twin sister Courtney, and my little sister Tasha. “Hey, Mom?” A voice called from the corner closest to the ladder leading to the heavy wooden doors that opened from the ceiling. No one dared touch the ladder. “I think we missed the gifts! They’re outside!” It was Courtney. “Can I grab them?” My mom and I turned at the same time. We spoke at the same time too. “No!” we both called out. Courtney looked startled, but she backed away from the ladder. “Jeez, okay,” she mumbled. My mother was the only one who received the buckets, or “gifts,” as we called them. For all we knew, the disease could still be out there. Also, this was the only way my mom could experience a “blast from the past.” It was the only time she could leave and feel what she felt before. She cherished these moments, and she was quite selfish about them. “Hey, Caroline?” Tasha, my little sister, asked me. “Did you know that you made Courtney sad? I don’t think she liked that you yelled at her.” “I don’t care,” I said coldly, even though I did. “She should know that it’s dangerous out there. Besides, getting the gifts is Mom’s job.” “Whatever,” she said, walking away. She stopped. “You’re such a big sister. It’s annoying.” I rolled my eyes. Sure, I was the eldest sister, and I liked to act it. I didn’t see the problem in that. I felt bad, of course. I mean, Courtney was my twin sister, and we were as close as we could possibly be. So, I decided to check on her. “Courts,” I started, using her nickname. “Look, I’m sorry. But, we all know…” She looked up. She had been playing with her fingernails when I came over. “Caroline, I know . But, I mean, don’t you want to know what’s out there? Don’t you want to know a world outside this cramped bunker? Aren’t you curious? We’ve been here for all we can remember, and we’re fourteen. Can’t you understand?” She stopped for a second. “Don’t you want something new? Is that so bad?” She looked so honest, so desperate. I sat next to her, sighing. We both knew what I was going to say, so I decided to not talk for once. I only wanted the best for my sisters. I also wanted the best for my mother. It was hard being the person in the middle. I either had to choose between my weary and depressed mother who wanted to keep us safe, or my unruly sisters who I loved so, so much. It wasn’t fair that I had to choose. Later that night, as I was lying in my little cot, I heard my mother singing. She always sang late at night, thinking that the three of us were asleep. Her voice was sweet and calming, and it was usually what I would fall asleep to. Today, it didn’t help. I couldn’t fall asleep with the constant fear that my sisters would do something stupid, like leave the bunker. I wanted to catch them, but what if it wasn’t worth it? Maybe they finally grew up? It was an odd thought, but it calmed me. I soon gave into the pull of sleep. I woke up four hours later. I was exhausted and confused. I never woke up randomly, so something must have happened. But what? I didn’t hear any sounds. I didn’t see anything. My mother was asleep on the couch, and my sisters were… not in their beds. I couldn’t help but think, I knew this would happen, I knew they would do something stupid, I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. I stopped looking around frantically when a thought hit me. If I knew, why didn’t I do anything? I finally realized. I trusted them. Well, that was my first mistake. I ran around the bunker, whisper-yelling “Courtney!” and “Tasha!” They were nowhere to be found. They must have left the bunker! I realized. I couldn’t tell my mother. She was fast asleep, and she needed rest. I wasn’t going to take that away from her. Besides, I could be a responsible sister. I just needed to prove it. So, I did what I thought was best. I climbed the ladder leading to the door in the ceiling. I was so scared; I was shaking. I had never touched this ladder before. It had always haunted me. But, here I was, climbing it, leaving the bunker I had known my entire life. I looked back. How would I see my home after this? Was the outside world actually beautiful? Were my sisters even out there? If they were, how would I find them? Were they lost? How big was this “outside” place? I was overwhelmed in worries, and my breath was speeding up by the second. My heart was doing the same thing. Nonetheless, I somehow found the strength to push open the heavy wood doors that led to the world I had never seen before. My first impression of the new world was that it was cold. One might even describe it as freezing. It was dark outside; a blanket of black covered the entire world. I could see nothing. Nothing at all. That is, except for the beautiful shimmering dots in the sky. They shone across the entire landscape. My mother told me that there was something like this in her stories. They were stars. I loved stars. I knew from her stories that I did. They just seemed so magical: like they were from a fairytale. But, now that they were in front of me, they seemed even better. Suddenly, I heard a voice behind me. Because of my awe in the stars, I didn’t notice that I had climbed fully out of the bunker and onto the soft, squishy… dirt. I jumped, and I turned around quickly. “Hello?” I called, terrified. What monsters were out here? Maybe I shouldn’t have left the bunker… but my sisters! What if something got them? “Oh, I was just surprised you came out here,” the voice called. It came from the ladder, and soon, I saw Courtney’s head pop out of the bunker with the rest of her body following. Tasha was right behind her. “Wait, what?” I asked, confused and startled. “I-I thought you left the bunker-” “That was the plan,” Courtney said, smiling. “We knew you’d get worried and leave. We were under the beds. I can’t believe you didn’t see us, to be honest.” The beds . The one place I didn’t look. But, I was still confused. “Why’d you trick me, though?” Tasha spoke this time. “Because we knew you wouldn’t come out here.” “But why? ” “I don’t know, you tell me.” “No,” I said, annoyed. “Why did you trick me? Just to bring me out here? “Well-” “It’s because you’re so uptight,” Courtney said, interrupting Tasha. “You never want to do anything, and you are so boring. It’s always me and Tasha getting in trouble, and you just yell at us. Is that fun, Caroline? Is it?” It wasn’t fun. Not in the slightest bit. But, I was the eldest sister, and I needed to be responsible. “It sure is better than getting in trouble all the time.” “How would you know? You’re Miss Perfect; you’re Mom’s favorite. You wouldn’t know trouble if it slapped you in the face!” Courtney was yelling, and she was getting upset. Tasha was behind her, looking worried. Neither of us had seen Courtney this mad before, and it terrified us. She had been keeping this bottled up for so long; she might as well explode. She wanted to hang out with me and be a kid with me. But I had grown up, and I was Mom’s assistant now. I couldn’t leave that role. Mom needed me. Courtney just didn’t understand. Tasha didn’t either. She was just a little kid, after all. I tried to stay calm and not yell back. Mom was sure to wake up; she would be abruptly awakened at the sound of a pin drop. “It doesn’t matter what I am. This is dangerous; who knows what’s out here?” Then, for a little extra oomph , I added, “And it’s terribly irresponsible of you to be bringing Tasha out here; she’s just a little kid.” If I had any hope with the two of them before, it was gone now. Courtney was even angrier, probably because I was so calm, and Tasha? She looked angry as well. I had always thought of her as Courtney’s shadow, copying her in dress and behavior. It was obvious why she picked her over me; I’m a goody-two-shoes, and Courtney is fun to be around. A ball of sunshine. That is, except for now. “I’m nine, you know!” Tasha started, but was interrupted by Courtney again. Courtney interrupted people a lot. “Alright, Caroline. You wanna be that way? Be that way. I’m done. You can go back to the bunker and cuddle up with Mom, give her a foot massage, whatever . You can be her little servant and be at her beckon call. But I’m done. I wanna leave, and I believe I’m mature enough. In your little brain, you might think that’s incorrect, but news flash : I don’t care. That’s why I’m leaving. Tasha’s coming with. And we’re not coming back.” Tasha and I both gasped. I could see that Courtney was surprised as well, but she had made up her mind. Tasha clearly didn’t know either. She probably just came for the prank; she didn’t come to run away. I knew Tasha would go, nonetheless. She was Courtney’s shadow after all. She was the same way with Courtney as I was with our mother. “We’re leaving now. Go tell Mom. Maybe she’ll actually care about her other two kids for once.” Courtney snapped, standing up. Tasha still looked stunned. “Tasha, let’s go. Let’s leave this horrendous place.” Tasha didn’t want to go. She stared longingly at the bunker doors, and then at me. Why was she looking at me? She gazed at me, as if she were pleading, Please, Caroline. Stop her. This is crazy, and she’s not thinking. At least, that’s what she should be begging me. After nothing happened, Tasha stood up and brushed herself off. She didn’t look at me anymore, and she instead looked at her slippers. They were shaped like little bunnies. Courtney glanced at me, uncaring. “I really wanna bring you along,” she said dryly, “but the reason I’m leaving is to leave Mom. So, you can’t come. Bye, Caroline.” She sighed shakily, and then ran. She just bolted away, almost like if she didn’t leave fast enough, she’d be pulled back by some magnetic force. Tasha stood still for a moment, then followed in pursuit. She didn’t wave. She didn’t say ‘bye.’ Nothing. They were gone. I had lost the only sources of light in my life. What was there now? It was at that moment that I realized something. Courtney really was desperate to be free. She longed for it and bringing Tasha along gave her strength and courage. She wasn’t alone. If I were like her, if I needed adventure, she’d bring me along and ditch Tasha. Because that was how she was. She reminded me of one of Mom’s stories. It was when she was a child, and she was doing a science experiment. It was where you drop a Mento candy into a Coca Cola bottle. The bottle of soda was fine; that is, until you dropped the candy in. Then it exploded, leaving a big mess. She was the bottle, having the possibility to explode at any time. The Mento candy was many things: the bunker, our mother, but mostly, it was me. And that nagged at me. I was trapped. One part of me longed to go. I wanted to apologize. I wanted to run away with them. In all honesty, I had always thought that I wanted to have an adventurous heart. But it turned out, I already did. But I never let it show. I was shackled to my responsibilities, which included my mother. The other part of me wanted to stay. Mom needed me, and she’d be heartbroken if her three daughters, her life source, had run away. She needed someone to be there, to comfort her. She needed me . But I didn’t need her. At least, I didn’t want to need her. But maybe I did. Either way, Mom still needed me. But there was an ache in my heart. I felt unloved and alone. Courtney had just ran away, dragging Tasha along. They didn’t want me. They didn’t need me. They didn’t know how much I needed them. I sprang from my feet as another realization hit me. So that was why Courtney was so mad. She felt unloved and alone. She felt like no one wanted or needed her. Mother had always favored me, and that was the solemn truth. It wasn’t just because I was obedient and hard-working while Courtney was adventurous and restless. It was also because of our traits, our looks, our grades, and our personalities. Mother would be fine without Tasha and Courtney, and that hurt me. That was the night that I did the most irresponsible thing I had ever done in my entire life. I decided that I was going to follow Courtney and Tasha. I was going to apologize for being distant and uncaring. We were going to start a life anew somewhere else, and we were going to raise Tasha to not live in fear of the outside as we had. It was stupid. It was irrational. But it was worth it. I scurried back into the bunker and grabbed most of the food we had and all of the clothes I could fit into a backpack. The “gifts” would come in a few days; Mother would be fine. I slowly walked up to my mother; I was calm. I knew she would hate this decision, but I didn’t care for once. She looked so peaceful and serene when she slept. Life would be easier without us. Perhaps she could start anew or even leave the bunker. Goodbye, Mother I thought. You have raised me well . I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and pulled her blanket higher on her. I climbed out of the bunker with a heavy backpack and an even heavier heart. This was it. This was the start of my new life. The most surprising part had to be that I was ready. I was excited. The last thing I thought before running off was this: I’ll be back soon. Goodbye, Mother. I love you so very dearly . And with that, I took off, running toward the beautiful stars in the sky. Toward Courtney and Tasha. But mostly toward my new life.

hfl0m3

Sally and the Iceworld

Sally Osgood sat at her student desk and looked outside of the classroom window at the frozen ground and shivered even though her desk was situated near the radiator that heated the whole classroom. She wondered if the radiator was working properly. Her desk had an open math book with a pencil in the middle of its pages and a workbook on the right hand side opened to another page with half-written answers to questions. Her notebook was underneath the seat along with several other school books and papers. This was the first snow of the season and the class was still paying some attention to the math lesson but a lot of them were looking out the window anticipating recess when the snowball fights could begin, snowmen could be built and snow angels would be made. Sally, though, was not like the others. She and her family had come from a warmer climate and snow was non-existent. To her, this cascade of white flakes was the stuff of a totally alien world and she didn’t have the proper training to handle such an expedition. Sally wondered if she would be given a space suit and helmet before she could venture outside; of course, she knew that no one had space suits for something as common as snow. Sally had wished that she could be as brave as the old astronauts like Neil Armstrong or Sally Ride. “I bet they weren’t ever afraid of snow.” she thought to herself. “They must have had nerves made out of steel. I’ll bet they don’t even feel fear anymore.” Unfortunately, Sall Osgood still felt fear.  Sally turned back to her workbook and continued to complete the work as quickly and correctly as possible so that she could speak privately with the teacher. Ms. Thurman. Ms. Thurman was a good teacher for her class. She was roughly middle aged, with swept up brown hair a thin face and good natured smile. Sally finished her workbook page and took it Ms. Thurman’s desk for grading. “Um.. Ms. Thurman?” Ms. Thurman looked up from her teacher’s notebook at Sally and smiled. “Yes, Ms. Osgood.” “Can I talk to you privately about something? I promise it won’t take long”. , she said fiddling nervously with the sleeve of her cream colored cable knit sweater with red trim at the edges. “Hmmm, “ Ms. Thurman looked up and down at Sally and the room. Slowly she came to a decision “Sure” To the class, she turned and said “Class, I am stepping out for a moment. Please continue your work.” She and Sally left the classroom and stepped out into the hallway. Ms. Thurman, bent down in a crouch position and looked up at her young student. She knew that Sally had been having a lot of trouble with transition from living in Southern California to living in Michigan so she wanted to do her best to make Sally feel as welcome as possible. She stared into Sally’s pale gray eyes. “What’s wrong Sally?” “Well, it’s the snow” “Ah, the snow” she nodded. “You didn’t see that much of it in Southern Cal, did you?” “No, Ma’am, It never snowed there at least not that I remember, anyway.” “And you are afraid?” Ms. Thurman prompted. “Yes and I’m afraid” “I know, honey. I know you’re afraid” “Can I skip recess this time?” Ms. Thurman shook her head and said “Well, Ms. Osgood, the snow will still be there when it’s time to go home. It’s supposed to snow all day today and even more tomorrow so even if I allowed it, you would still have to face the snow regardless of whether or not you go to recess.” “But…. it will… hurt,’ Sally whispered. “I’ll tell you what; I will get my assistant to take the class out in a few minutes and you and will walk out together. I will make sure that the snow doesn’t hurt, okay?” “Okay’, Sally sniffled. “I’m sorry” “Hey” Ms. Thurman smiled. “It’s okay to be scared. It’s perfectly natural to feel scared some of the time. It just takes some effort to overcome some of those fears Even the bravest astronauts have been afraid. They just took it a small step at a time. Sally nodded her head as the two of them walked back into the classroom. \\ The bell rang a few minutes later signalling that it was recess time and all of the students immediately stood up in gleeful anticipation of the recess period.  “Now, class, as you know, we need to leave the room in an orderly fashion. Please line up by the wall and we will go outside. Ms. Fisher will lead you outside in a few minutes.” Sally stood up with the rest of the class and retrieved her new parka from the back room and slowly snapped the fastenings closed and retrieved her woolen mittens from the side pockets. She came back to the room and saw Ms. Thurman standing and waiting for her with the most warm and comforting smile she had seen. “All set, Ms. Osgood?” “Yes Ma’am” she replied although the shaking she felt was strong, she felt she might throw up. She took a few deep breaths while Ms.Thurman waited.  “Okay, I’m ready” “Good, take my hand, Ms. Osgood and let's’ go.” Ms. Thurman took Sally’s mittened hand and walked out into the hallway and headed towards the double doors that lead outside. Sally tried to keep her breath steady and the butterflies inside of her stomach continued their seemingly continuous flutter dance. Ms Thurman pushed into the handle and opened the green door as a cold wind hit the both in the face. Sally felt as if it was some sort of warning. “Stay away” it seemed to say to her. Sally looked up and Ms Thurman and gave her a reassuring smile. “Come! The exploration begins!” Sally smiled too and with new found purpose, she picked up her right foot and placed it on the surface of this frozen world and claimed that first step as a new beginning in an endless journey of exploration.

tnk0hj

Tied Down

For most of my childhood, my grandma, my aunt, my parents and I all lived in one big house in Ashwood, British Columbia, and though it was crowded, I loved being with all of them all the time. Though half-White, I was still the only Asian kid for hundreds of kilometres around, I had a weird name, and I had no one my own age to talk to. However, around the time I turned 12, my dad got a job in Ontario, and my parents moved to pretty much the other side of the country. Without me. They insisted they were doing it for my own good, that they didn’t want to disturb my development with a drastic change, nor force me to make new friends in a new city. But all I saw was me being left behind; Ontario probably wasn’t that different from BC, I thought. Plus, I was sure they knew damn well I didn’t even have any friends here. I couldn’t conceive the thought of ever being separated from my family; they were literally all I had. My whole life, my dad had been my favourite person on Earth. Sure, I was sad to be left by my mom too, but from him, it felt crueller, it felt like a betrayal. To top it all off, my grandma passed away shortly after, and my aunt wasn’t exactly the nurturing kind: she didn’t have children of her own, and clearly didn’t want any. Aunt Mai and I cohabited pretty well, but we didn’t communicate much; she had weird ways to pass things on to me. She never said anything directly and always expressed her opinions through cryptic metaphors, deep sighs and unbelievably long silences. There was a lot about me she didn’t like, and in her own way, she let me know. From then on, I didn’t fully feel at home in my own house, and I sure as hell didn’t feel in my place outside of it either. I was constantly miserable, and for a long time, I did nothing about it but blame my everlasting loneliness on my parents. The summer after I turned seventeen, I slowly started replacing my ridiculous amounts of self-pity with a moderate amount of self-discovery and exploration. For all of my short life I had felt as though some important thing kept me tied down to Ashwood even though to most, it was pretty clear I didn’t belong. I kept thinking about how my mom had chosen this place for us to live, so she must’ve seen something great in it, right? Well, that summer, camera in hand, I spent every day and most of every night looking for whatever it was that Ashwood had to offer. That’s when I first found something I was actually good at, and that’s when I first met Emmanuelle. The Faulkners lived in a red cottage-style house right across the lake from us, but for years, I never interacted with saw them nor with their children. One of their sons sometimes came over to our side: the lake wasn’t huge, and, on the summer’s hottest days, he often swam a few laps between our two houses. I knew his name was Emerson (we went to the same high school, though he was a year above), and I knew he could tell I was watching him when he would stop to sit on our shore and rest. He’d turn his head towards me infinitely slowly, as if he was giving me time to brace for eye contact, or time to run away before he could catch me in the window. But I always stayed right there, and we’d look at each other for only a couple of seconds before he jumped back into the water. I don’t know what he was doing, what we were doing, but I know I’d dream of him, of his straight nose, of his bruised knees and of the water droplets in his hair. I didn’t always dream of Emerson in that way, and sometimes I’d dream of complete strangers, but he was as good as any other stand-in for a companion in my fantasies of love and friendship. On a fresh June evening, I saw two heads and two pairs of arms bobbing in and out of the water when I sat down by the living room window to read. As they got closer to our side, I recognized Emerson’s freckled back, and then I waited. He pulled himself out of the water and the second person, a seemingly younger girl but just as tall, soon followed. Her hair, tied in a ponytail, kept going and going down her back, and when she sat down next to her brother it rested against the grass and pebbles. Even with the setting sun and the darkness settling in, I could tell they had the same face, the same hands, the same smile. They talked for a couple minutes, laughed, and jumped back into the water before swimming home. Emerson must’ve known I was there, watching, waiting, but this time he didn’t play the game. Disappointed and angry for reasons I could not admit even to myself, I slapped my book shut and went up to my room. Less than a week later, we got a pamphlet in the mail: there was a short film competition, organized by the town, accepting submissions from inexperienced filmmakers for another six weeks. A bunch of prizes were listed, but I didn’t even bother going through them: I was already completely seduced by the idea. The passion I had for movies had been passed down by my dad: from the moment I was old enough to go to theatres and sit still, he’d take me nearly every week. When I tried to casually mention it to Aunt Mai later that day, she didn’t waste any time shutting it down: she thought it was useless to try since I didn’t know what I was doing and I had barely ever touched my camera since the day it was gifted to me. She was right, but I still thought otherwise: wasn’t this the perfect project to throw myself into instead of being lonely, sad and bored all summer? Aunt Mai’s disapproval only fueled me further, and right after we finished eating, I went and dug my old camera from the box underneath my bed. I knew it was full of pictures of my parents and their old life, so I made sure not to look through the camera roll; I just checked it was still functional, taking pictures of my ceiling and filming myself in my mirror, and then set it on my bedside before going to sleep. / / / It didn’t take too long for us to cross paths, but it’s only when we did that I realized I had been awaiting the moment. I spent almost an entire week walking around town with my camera around my neck, unable to come up with any good enough ideas for a film and attempting to, at the very least, find good locations to shoot in later on. One afternoon, after I’d given up for the day, I walked down to the side of the lake and started on the long way home, feet in the water. The lake was surrounded by houses and forest, so my path alternated between people’s backyards and dense patches of trees. As I went through a particularly rocky section of the shore, not far from my destination, I heard quick footsteps behind me. “Got the leaflet too?” I turned around, and there was Emerson’s sister. I was taken aback as I realized I had been entirely wrong in deciding they had the same face; her face was much sweeter, softer in all the places Emerson was sharp and frankly, a little scary. I didn’t understand what she had meant until I saw the camera in her hand. I looked down at mine, then back up at her. “Uh… yeah,” I said, my voice trembling as many times as humanly possible in a single word. The silence hung heavily between us. I wanted to run away but I forced myself to stay anchored. “Nice camera,” I added weirdly, way too quickly, but she smiled a genuine smile, with the teeth and all. I relaxed. “I know, right? It’s Emmett’s. My brothers both thought the contest was lame so he let me borrow it.” Emmett… The eldest child, I assumed; I’d never seen him at school or anywhere in town. Does he have her pretty green eyes or grey ones like Emerson? I chased the question from my head, and she kept talking. “Turns out I truly suck! I don’t think I’m going to get anything good done by the deadline. Mind showing me what you’ve got?” So many words. I had never spoken to this girl, yet there she was, casually making conversation and asking to see my stuff? I was confused and felt awkward, but she was right there and seemed nice enough; I couldn’t just say no. “Sure,” I huffed hesitantly, and we sat down together on a sawed tree trunk. I turned on the camera and showed her some pictures and short clips of places I wanted to incorporate in my film. We stayed in complete silence, and while she looked at the small screen, I looked at her. Her eyelashes were the lightest shade of blonde, almost transparent, and she has the tiniest of freckles all over her forehead and down her nose. “You’ll have to teach me,” she finally said, looking up. “These are amazing.” “Thank you." I tried to answer in a friendly manner, but I could tell it came out a little cold. Would she think I was stuck-up? I didn’t really know how to be nice: I had never needed to. I also had no idea what to say or do next, so I just gave her a nod and stood up. Was I supposed to wait for her, or continue the talking? My head was starting to hurt from overthinking so much, so I just started walking. “Hey, wait up! I just got a brilliant idea.” She jumped up and walked up to me. “What if we did this together? Like I said, I’m having absolutely no luck with this thing,” she added. “This… You mean the movie?” I asked, stupidly. “Yeah! You handle all the actual camera stuff, and I could help write a script. Plus, it might be nice to actually have another person in your film, right?” Much to my confusion, her eyes were sparkling; she was getting excited about this. She was right: I was well aware I couldn’t make my project as perfect as I envisioned it without some help. But a voice more powerful than logic made itself heard in my head: I was way too scared of rejection to let someone in so fast. “But… You don’t even know me.” It was the first thing I thought to say, but as soon as it came out I knew it had sounded rude. Still, she wasn’t phased; she simply held out her hand for me to shake it. “Well, here. I’m Emmanuelle.” She looked so much like her brother with that smirk on her face… I wasn’t sure why noticing that instantly made me feel blush. I shook her hand. “Claude,” I basically whispered. She was beaming. She walked me home. / / / Befriending Emmanuelle Faulkner did not go the way I thought it would, far from that. I don’t remember exactly how it started, but towards the middle of the summer, Emmanuelle and I were doing exactly what I had dreamt of for so long, with so many people: holding hands at all times, stealing kisses whenever we could, laying down in the sun to read, limbs tangled. We worked on the movie every day, but we mostly did other things. She’d drag me to swims in the lake, take me to all the little diners I had never bothered eating at, and even got Emerson to drive us out to more interesting neighbouring towns on multiple occasions. Needless to say, sitting in a tiny car with the two of them within reach provoked strange feelings that I did not want to question in the pit of my stomach. She was undoubtedly what I had been waiting for, the missing link. Watching her live made me feel more alive than ever before: she had so much joy, infinitely many passions, and just as many stories to tell, and that was all obvious in everything she did. More than anything, she had a family, and she managed to make me feel like it was mine too. Whenever we had to spend some time apart, she would text me like her life depended on it, and our conversations were just like in real life (lots of messages on her end, mostly monosyllabic answers on mine). However, her physical presence was unmatched: I still found myself missing the static feeling there was always between us, and the shivers I’d get all over whenever we came in contact. We won third place in the short film contest, and against all odds, Aunt Mai actually came to the city hall for the screening. As we walked out of there, I couldn’t take my eyes off Emmanuelle, a radiant smile plastered on her face as she looked down at our prize certificate. I had never felt something similar before, so it took me a long time to recognize the feeling I was basking in as one of pure satisfaction. Looking back, I feel I should’ve closed my eyes, right there on the city hall steps, and enjoyed it for just a second longer because a moment later, it was gone. Aunt Mai, who I hadn’t noticed was taking a call, tapped my shoulder and handed me her cellphone. Even though it had been years, I instantly recognized the voice; it was nearly the same as my own. “Claude? Is this you now?” My dad didn’t sound as bored as I remembered. There was a pep in his voice that, for a second, made him sound excited to talk to me. I only hummed in response, not finding it in me to come up with words. “Ok, well, hum, there’s no right way to do this. I know you’ve called many times, but you know how busy life can get. Your aunt just told me all about the movie you made… I wanted you to know I’m so, so proud of you,” he said in what seemed like a sincere manner. I couldn’t tell, and I hated him for diminishing my longing for a family to just a couple of unanswered phone calls, so I just hummed into the phone again. In reality, I wanted to turn to my aunt, throw the phone at her, scream at the top of lungs. “I get it if you don’t want to talk to me, I really do. I should’ve called before, and I probably should’ve been here today to see all this. I’m very sorry. I hope you can forgive me. I just want what’s good for you, and the work… Well, the work here is exactly that; it’s good.” I didn’t hum. I realized then that despite the 5 years that had passed, my father was exactly the same he had been when he lived here with me. It didn’t matter what was nice or not to do, or that my feelings were deeply hurt by half a decade of silence. He truly believed what he was saying was good, that what he was doing was the best way to proceed, and nothing would ever make him sway. Perhaps noticing how tense I was getting, Emmanuelle gently took my free hand in hers, her face still turned away from me to signal she wasn’t eavesdropping on the conversation. In that instant, I felt I was in love with her. “Anyways, I’m glad to hear you’re okay. And I hope you’ll make more movies. I always knew it would be something special for you. I’m so proud.” Hearing him repeat that last sentence angered me beyond belief, but I didn’t bother answering. I didn’t need him to be proud of me, and I wouldn’t need nor wait for his approval ever again. I was proud of myself, and that was plenty. I tried to remember the satisfied state of mind I had found myself in only minutes ago, and I fought, racked my brains hard to try and find it again while he rambled on with meaningless pleasantries. I didn’t want him to hang up on me only to leave me in the dark for another five years. Or maybe it would be even more this time. I wanted to be the one cutting ties this time, so I started walking. Fast. Emmanuelle, still holding my hand, followed without question, and we made our way down the little hill, only to land right by the beloved lake. I looked down at the phone’s screen, my father’s voice growing fainter and fainter, and before my aunt had even noticed my little escape, her phone was sent flying. We had spent some time practicing our ricochets, Emmanuelle and I, but that’s not what I went for when I threw it; I simply leaned back and put all of my strength into it; she gasped loudly. And then I laughed, and she did too. In that instant, I knew I was in love with her. When the phone disappeared into the water, meters away, it’s like my father drowned with it. It’s like a thin veil was lifted from the air around me, and all that was left was my body, my fingers interlaced with the ones of someone I didn’t ever want to let go, and something like happiness.

6b49bq

The android that deserted Texans

Once there was an evil Android with no heart, no soul, and definitely no brain. This evil Android was one of the most important people in the government of the country of Texas. How many lies did the Android tell in order to be elected into a position of great power, with an amazing salary, and many lovely benefits, paid travel, and great prestige. It was a dream job that few Androids could secure. The Android was very happy to take the position and the salary, but he wasn’t actually willing to do the work to earn that salary or the respect that came with the job. He had won the election; he would get the money... but he absolutely did not care about the people of the country of Texas. One day, a huge snowstorm hit the normally very warm country, but the government had not taken care of the equipment necessary to protect Texans lives. Equipment failed. Outdoor temperatures were lower than ever before. People were freezing to death in an environment that was normally quite warm... people had no heat, no water, and no way to obtain food. The situation was dire, and people were literally dying from the conditions they were in. As time passed, the people began to find that they were receiving power bills that were in the high thousands of dollars, yet in reality, if they had actually had access to the power grid, their bills would be much, much lower. It was another slap in their faces. It was devastating proof that they were at the mercy of a cruel Android who really didn’t care if they lived or died, as long as he got what he wanted and needed, and was paid a high salary to do a job he neglected to do. People were sad; they were angry; they had been betrayed by someone they had trusted to do the job they hired him to do. They got sick; they got abandoned; they got overcharged for electricity they didn’t receive... and many of them died from the horrible conditions they could not control. The people of the country of Texas were faced with so many problems just trying to survive the storm that raged day after day. The snow was very cold, and their power was shut off because the government, which the Android was in charge of, had failed to maintain the equipment necessary to provide power for heating their homes, provide them with drinking water, and trucks to remove the snow from the roads so they could safely go buy food for their family. All this was happening during the greatest pandemic of their lifetimes. Many people were ill from the pandemic and now they were suffering greatly because of the storm. Did covid-19 patients die from lack of electricity to run the machines needed to keep them alive? We don’t know. Many people not in the hospital died. They had no way to stay warm. Their phones eventually died from lack of power, so they couldn’t even call someone who cared. They were cold, they were hungry, they were frightened and they felt abandoned. They had trusted the Android to insure that they would be safe in their time of need... yet he had abandoned them, and flown to Cancun for a vacation. All of the people wished they could go on a vacation to a warm, sunny place with lots of water, and food to eat. But they couldn’t afford to fly to Cancun for a vacation. They were trapped in the horrible storm. Their pets died... and then their friends and relatives died. Would they be next? They were struggling to survive the dangerous storm... but the government the Android was in charge of had failed them. The Android had failed them. They were either in the threat of death or they had already died. They had no hope. Their chosen leader had failed them. The Android had decided this was a great time to go on a vacation, so he abandoned the people of Texas and went to Cancun on a pretend vacation. When caught, he lied, about whether the vacation was pre-planned; he lied about why he had gone; he lied about whether the people he was hired to take care of had been taken care of; and whether it was ever in his power to take care of the people who trusted him to do his job. He sunk so low as to blame his young daughters for him going on vacation. People now knew that the Android had lied to them, and that he had abandoned them in their greatest time of need, then lied to them about his “planned vacation”. Many people were dying from the horrible conditions, and the Android had just gone on an unplanned vacation. Even when the Android suddenly returned to Texas, he still did nothing to help them. He just didn’t care. Now, it is up to the people to prevent the Android from further damaging their lives, if they survive the terrible storm. The people became aware that the story of a little girl, a cowardly lion, a heartless tin man, and a brainless scarecrow was much better... because they did not desert anyone when things got rough. The group had survived... but they had hope and they weren’t in a storm of the century. But the situation in Texas was not a story... it was very real, and very deadly. Yet... where was their elected official Android when they needed him to help? He had taken the money they had paid him to protect them. He had flown to Cancun to be warm; to eat well; to enjoy life. He had abandoned them in their hour of greatest need. The people of Texas will need to remove the horrible Android from his position of power... a power that he took advantage of at the cost of many Texans lives. Even when he returned suddenly, he did very little to improve the situation. For many of the people of the country of Texas, the losses they had suffered were great, and probably would never be rectified; the family and friends who had died would never be a part of their lives again. There were many people left... but they would never forget those loved ones they had lost. They must go on without them. Can they succeed? Will they fire they fire the Android? We can hope they do.

ck7ugn

"Hop In," Says My Coffin

"Pass the salt for me, would you?" Pop jerks his chin in my direction during dinner. He never really looks at me. He always makes short glances or looks past me, as if he could see right through me. He only looks at me when I play for my school's basketball team and win a game or a scout finds me and refers me to their school. Now he's too busy looking at the muted TV in the living room that was brightly broadcasting pro basketball stats. "So, what'd you do with your night out yesterday?" I didn't know Pops knew I went out last night. He must've seen the car out of the garage when he woke up exceptionally early to watch the Jackets play. I pass him the salt shaker -he had yet to look me in the eye- and picture myself answering his question honestly. “ Hung out with Javier, the guy I'm in love with. Yes, Pops. I said guy. No Pop, I'm not joking. He's a college freshman at Grambling, the college I really want to go to despite your udderless efforts. He does a little modeling on the side. You know, if you met him, I think you'd really like him.” Then Pops looks me dead in the eye and passes out, possibly of shock or a heart attack. I wouldn't be surprised if I didn't either. That's how all of my conversations with Pops end in my imagination. "I just needed some air. I drove around for a while," I say instead. I'm not ashamed of Javier. I wish I could tell everyone I know about him. Just walk down the street, knock on every door, and yell in everyone's faces, including the occasional dog I come across. It's just complicated right now. I didn't realize I could feel so strongly about a guy until I met him. Yes, I've been suspecting for a while now, since I was eleven actually, but I buried those thoughts and feelings as far down as I could. I'm a Southern guy with dreams and the intuition for an NBA career, and being gay is not how I'm supposed to be wired. I remember when I was thirteen, I had a crush on a guy. His name was Christopher and he was built like a masterpiece. I walked up to him -Big Momma said I put my “big boy pants” on- and told him that I thought he was cute. I still cannot etch the look of his face when I told him from my memory. He laughed in my face and told all his other friends. Somehow they’d gotten my number and sent threats to me. I remember crawling into Big Momma's arms, her holding me as tight as she could, and crying while telling her about it. The next day, she took me to the phone store and bought me a brand new phone. The next day when I went to school, I had forgotten about the new phone and left it in my desk. The day after that, Christopher took me aside in the hallway and showed me my phone. He called me a bad word and smashed my phone on the ground; grinded it with his heel. I was taught that wasn’t the way. To be gay, I mean. My family always said: "It's Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve." They always told me these feelings came straight from the devil. So I packed it down with hopes that one day I could be brave enough to stand up to them. Of course, I've told others about Javier, but I always left out the part about being in love with him. I can't admit that to anyone yet. I can't tell anyone that it's not just a phase and I'm not experimenting. It's not a distraction caused by stress. It's real. Big Momma was right all along. Last year, I had a girlfriend and her name was Breonna. We met on a field trip and we were forced to sit next to each other. She was really nice and I grew fond of her. The next thing we knew, we rushed into a relationship, and it was the greatest thing I could've ever had. But I didn’t get butterflies in my stomach when she texts. When she called in the middle of the night because she wanted to talk to someone, I didn't feel the exhilaration of doing something I knew I shouldn't be doing. When I was with her, I didn't feel like the air had been sucked right out of my lungs. When I told Big Momma, she told me that she saw the way I looked at Breonna, that I wasn't in love with her. I thought about Javier and how he made me feel. How understanding he was, then I knew. I was in love with him. But me-and-Javier only exists when we are alone. Moving it to the public scares me half to death. It's bad enough I'm fighting to be in the league as a regular guy. Adding black and gay to that only makes it worse. And I know Pop won’t like it. I just know it! My heart stops every time I think about what he would say if I told him. He's one of the "Christian people" who call gay people "faggots". Every time we see a gay couple on TV, he rolls his eyes in disgust and talks about how normal people shouldn't have to go through this. Whatever this is. If I tell him about Javier and me, the seventeen years of being the picture-perfect son would be picked up, shredded, taped back together, and thrown in the garbage disposal. He'd never look at me the same way again. I look from Pop to the TV. It was playing a game between the Knicks and the Mavericks. So far, the Knicks had kept a ten-point lead for the majority of the game, and now they were up by 2, but Anthony Hamilton from the Mavericks team crossed over DeAndre Fielder on the Knicks and scored a three-pointer right as the shot clock timed to say the game was over. Just like that, the Mavericks won the game. Maybe my life is more like a basketball game. One moment, you're winning the game, confident you'll come on top, then one wrong move can make you lose the whole game entirely. Just then, my phone tings from my pocket. The text reads: I know you don’t know who I am but I know about your predicament with Javier. Download this app. I excuse myself from the table and set off to my room. I make sure to close the door behind me to drown out any of Pop’s shouting at the basketball game. I can’t think with all the noise. Who just texted me? How do they know about me and Javier? Who else knows? The text is an external link so I click on it. The app’s name is BeBrave and there’s writing below the name. It says: “ Are you struggling coming out of the closet? It’s ok. I know it must be hard for you. That’s what we’re here for. We want to help you get closure, so that you can live a happy life. All you need to do is be brave!” What? Be brave? What does that even mean? Just then, a pop-up pictured appeared. It was a big smiling face, similar to an emoji, that pointed both hands at itself and it says Click me! So, I clicked the smiling face. There was a fillable form. It asked for my name, gender, sexuality, age, phone number. It asked when I found out about my sexuality, if I had a lover, who is my lover, and worse of all, who I wanted to talk to about it. The options ranged from friend, to parent, to great grandparent. I wonder if this is the right decision. Should I really fill this out? I don’t really think this is the right time. What if Pop kicks me out of the house? Where would I go? If this message is really getting sent to the person, what would it say? I fill out the basic information and pause at “send to”. Who should I send it to? Big Momma already knows about Javier, so who do I want to tell? I can barely hear Pops except a faint muffled yelling. And in the drop down menu, I press “Father” and hit submit.

q4xr6q

Corona Pandemic

Write about a child witnessing a major historical event. Corona Pandemic Armstrong Michael had just blown a couple of blunts in the air when on entering the house again met face to face with his inquisitive niece. He had managed to avoid her during the whole family gathering night. But this time when their eyes met and she came to him happily. Arms, as they called him couldn’t evade nor avoid her. Shanelle was curious about everything about life. At three years old, She was the kid with the motormouth… She queried about love, particularly concerned that her uncle never brought a woman home for a family gathering...."Uncle, Don't you have a girlfriend she would repeatedly bug.. She queried about his uncle's drinking habit....Never saw any fun, nor the therapy his uncle claimed the drink gave him because he still remained broken or even worse when the drank wore off.. She queried about Finances....the fact that his uncle was always limited in cash unlike her mother... Her mother, the youngest of the Arms family developed a focus that was unprecedented after getting paged in her second year in one of the most prestigious local university. After a blessing with an angel, she went back and cleared the degree, did a course in tax and then did a Masters. Her marketability became so strong and powerful that she landed a government job.  On the other hand, Arms was not fortunate in financial terms as he had dropped out of the university in the third year and what followed was hell and confusion as his dad passed on leaving a void that was horrid and infinite. He was lucky to discover a legit writing site online "Upwork" where he landed writing tasks from clients across the globe. However the jobs were inconsistent and brokenness would always pay him a visit time to time. Today, Shanelle was not inquisitive about the aura of desperation that seemed to follow his uncle all the time. This time she was different, she had that face full of questions but of a different nature. Her school had announced an impromptu closure. On her ride home in the school bus, she must have made a list as no sooner had she seen her uncle she smiled and… ” Arms what's up? She said in a shy smiley face, what were you doing in the backyard alone?” “ well Ummm…just needed some time alone…you know…." "Yeah, I get it….by the way, do you know what? we ain’t going to school again, our school has been indefinitely closed without an expected back to school date…. “It is not we ain’t, it is “we are not”… drop that slang already…..” replied Arms. "Yeah the lockdown is everywhere and also, there is a dusk to dawn curfew... meaning I can't go out with my friends, that is why I needed some time alone. "According to our teachers, they mentioned something to do with a virus." “Corona?” “Yeah….that” Shanelle could not fathom the seriousness of the virus. She tattle-taled that if she was a god, she could banish the virus from the face of the world so that everything goes back to normal. She however kept on insisting on maintaining social distance, not touching the face and frequently washing her hands. The sanitiser was her favourite as it quickly evaporated from her hands. Arms explained to her in full about the importance of what she had just said and told her that if everyone followed the directives from the health officers, then things would go back to normal as fast as possible. Arms was happy that his niece had considered asking him about Corona. Arms loved history and talked in length to her niece about a similar occurrence in 1918. The medical research then was not modern and equipped as today. The Spanish flu happened between February 1918 to April 1920, with about 500 million people infected and up to 100 million demises. Cities in the infected areas closed social gatherings and people were quarantined in their homes. This move helped flatten the curve and the spread was managed. Covid19 as commonly called, posed the same threat to the society and similar measures were seen across the globe. Here in Kenya, we were subjected to dusk to dawn curfew, closure of schools, social gatherings were prohibited including funerals which are some of the significant occasions in our African culture. The virus as you have seen Shanelle is why you are home and grandma just wants us to be together as the future is unknown to us. However, good news as a vaccine that is effective is already in circulation and sooner or later we will all get vaccinated. Some of the things that have contributed to a fast solution is the science field as they have tirelessly worked to look for an effective solution. It is therefore important to follow the guidelines that have been laid down by the government. This way we will overcome this menace and create a new future for everybody. At these moments too, keep your family close and constantly communicate. As you can see grandma has brought us here tonight to hang out and catch up. I can see you have quite grown and now asking very clever questions…good work! "Thank you very much, uncle" “I always knew I could count on you on such matters, you such a genius!” “I will have to go home with mum as the curfew time is almost, you should also get going”. Shanelle waved goodbye to her uncle and went joined her mum. As a matter of fact, this conversation made me realize that we are in charge of future generations. The way we carry ourselves is what these scions mirror and practice. They have also been born in an era of information overload. They know about the internet, quite well in-fact! I ask my niece a difficult question and she will ask for my smart-phone and Google the answer. I know this might be old school to first world countries but I perceive most will relate. Let us all flatten the Covid19 curve by maintaining social distance, regularly sanitizing our hands, wearing a mask correctly, staying at home and travel only when necessary. The vaccine is here and it is been distributed in rocket speed. But as we await our chance, let us maintain the measures to flatten the curve. Let us live to tell about these to future generations and they will realize that we survived. Let us tell a survival story!  

swzr7e

From Carefree To Careful

Stacy woke up to a cold and peaceful quiet in her room. A brisk cold air came through the old windows in her bedroom. She kneels in bed peering through the window at the big a blanket of snow that had covered the streets overnight. A huge smile on her face quickly disappears as she caught sight of her alarm blinking 12:00AM. "OH NO I HAVE TO GET TO WORK!" Stacy slips on the blanket as she tries to run to the bathroom to get ready. A few colorful words leave her mouth as she feels a stabbing pain in her back. She gets up and hobbles over to her desk to call her boss and tell they she will be late. A huge wave of happiness covers her as she realizes that it's Saturday. "WHEW THANK GOODNESS!!" I really need to relax she laughs as she hobble faster to the kitchen to make breakfast. The smell of Canadian Bacon and coffee fill the kitchen as she ponders what to do for the day. She moves the table next to the window to enjoy her breakfast and people watch with her beloved beagle Skittles. "(Sigh) You know Skittles, there was a time where I used to enjoy going out in the snow, throwing myself on the ground to make snow angels. I used to hop and skip and run with no care in the world, no pain in my bones or stresses to fret over." Skittle stares and barks, eyeing the bacon and eggs she waves with her fork. "Don’t get me wrong, I still get excited when I see the snow, I remember all the good times I had and I want to go out and play but I’m too damn old. I have too many aches and pains and with everything that’s been going on lately, I have very little to no motivation to even bother.” Stacy scarfs down the rest of her eggs and gives Skittles her toast and watches as two kids start a playful snowball fight with an older couple. Bracing for what she thought would be a confrontation begins to laugh as she sees the older couple join in on the fun. “HAHAHAHA I totally thought THAT was going to end differently!” Again her smile turned into a frown. “Damn, they are older than me and here I am barely able to move my back or run anymore. What a bloody loser I turned out to be Skittles!! WHAT A WASTE OF SPACE!” Stacy’s eyes fill with tears an all too familiar and unwanted guest…Depression. Just as she decides to go back to bed and pull the covers over her face as she had done numerous times over the past few months, Skittles excitedly starts barking and waving his tail as he peers out the window. “Ugh I don’t care I’m going to bed,” As she turns Skittles barks even louder, his enthusiasm peeking her interest. “What is soo exciting out there Skit?”  Stacy approaches the window to see a couple of dogs and a small group of people having a good ol snowball fight.  It looked like some were trying to build forts as more snow began to fall. She began to laugh and then she caught sight of a young woman with crutches and one leg who was walking by. The young woman bent down to seemingly tie her shoe only to then pick up some snow and throw it at the young kids who were building a fort. The kids delighted at having a new recruit built a makeshift snow chair behind the fort for the woman to sit on and throw snowballs with them. Another group of kids recruit and older couple on the other side of the street to help them build a fort and off they went back and forth with laughter filling the empty streets. Tears being to fill Stacy’s eyes again. Skittles whimpers and puts his paw on her hand, With a smile and laugh she hugs her beloved beagle. “I’ve been cooped up in this damn apartment for too long!!!! I need to get out. I need some fresh air! I know it’s not the same and I have a lot of health problems, but look at those people outside. They are having soo much fun. I want to have some fun too!!! DEPRESSION, YOU WILL NOT WIN TODAY!!! Let’s go Skittles we got a date with some snow today!” Stacy runs to her room with Skittles in tow and gets dressed. “Okay Skittles, you ready?” Skittles howls in approval as they rush down the stairs. “AHH do you feel that beautiful cold air Skit?” His tail wags excitedly after he barks his approval. They start to make their way toward the empty, snow covered streets, a snowball hits Stacy on the leg. “Anyone who approaches our fort will be considered an enemy!!” Yelled a boy with a handful of snowballs. Skittles, the fervent protector saw no threat in the boy’s actions, however.  He just saw an opportunity to play. “Woah there skittles, we won’t be joining this bunch. We are joining the other side! I will warn you, I was the pitcher of my high school softball team. I can still throw pretty well!” “OH YEAH, We’ll see about that!!” Then all of a sudden softball sized snowballs began whizzing past stacy hitting the boy and making him drop his icy ammunition. “Hey lady, why don’t you and your dog come join us? We can use an extra person, since that older couple left to pick up some doughnuts” yelled a girl who looked like Hermoine Grainger from Harry Potter. Skittles ran over immediately with Stacy in tow to join in on the fun. At least 45 minutes went by and Stacy never felt more alive. She didn’t notice any pain in her joints, the only soreness she felt was her face from smiling for soo long. She didn’t even check her watch until she noticed it had gotten a little darker outside.  “Man that was fun, but I think it’s time to for me to go home and make some dinner. Thank you for inviting me to play. Haven’t done that in a loooong time!” she giggled.  “Wait lady, how about joining us on a little skate-less ice skating?” the girl asked her. “Yeah, looks like the rest of the street is pretty frozen over now, let’s pretend that we’re Olympic ice skaters!” Stacy looked at them like they were nuts. I’m too old, she thought. Then the older couple who had been playing earlier and left, came back with some doughnuts. “Well, I may be in my 60s, but I used to skate semi-professionally. My name is Joan by the way and this is my husband Michael.” Stacy looked hesitant but nodded in agreement. “Okay, I’ll try…my name is Stacy and this is Skittles.” The kids jumped up with joy. “YEAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Let’s go, we have to be home for dinner soon” Off they ran jumping onto the ice with no care in the world, sliding back and forth with the sound of their laughter filling the air. Stacy held back. “What if I fall? These kids are crazy...and that couple is nuts too!”   All the negative chatter filled her brain and the anxiety hit. “This is stupid, I’m going home, I had some fun but it’s time to be real...I’m too damn old for this” she said out loud. “Wait lady, where are you going?” shouted the kids. “I think it’s time for me to go, I’m just not brave enough to step on that. It could be dangerous for me and I have enough problems. “But you said you haven’t had that much fun in a long time,” the Hermoine look alike said. “Yes but I’m too old for this stuff. Too old with too many aches and pains. I need to be more serious and focused and serious.” Growled Stacy. “You said serious twice lady and you looked happy. And you know something? My teacher told us this once and I think you need to hear this. “You don’t stop laughing because you grow old, you grow old because you stop laughing.” Stacy stared at the girl. “Wow that’s pretty deep” I never thought about it like that. I guess I was soo busy missing how carefree I was that I turned into a person who is just overly careful and cautious about everything.  Okay, I’ll join you.” The girl smiled. “And we will make sure you don’t fall!” the kids chimed in. With a little trepidation but determination as well, Stacy stepped on to the frozen streets and smiled. It’s time to live.  

cfydso

Kitty and the Wind

You can call me Kit, or Kitty, or K. Just don’t call me Kate, or Katey like my mom tries to call me because she thinks it is so “ladylike” and “proper”. It’s Kitty with my friends, and I think that we are going to be very friendly when I tell you my story. So, nothing happens in my town. We live near the ocean and it is colder than cold after November, so when we have Christmas or New Year’s Day, we gotta stay inside and keep the fireplace full of driftwood or whatever scraps we can grab from the lumberyard my dad works at (he always worries that we won’t have enough to keep our place warm for the four or five months we will need to have ready, but we do…usually). The job is busier than ever when the cold comes in, and daddy (I mean, dad) never would let us freeze. He would never do that. We live pretty much isolated around here. I go to school, for now (momma wants me to work soon, but I know dad wants me to think about doing something different in life). It was just a new century three years ago and people are saying things about how America needs to grab its future and think about a new plan for itself. I was only ten when we had those fireworks and the parties and the food, punch and homemade gifts from family and relatives, but I remember all of it. Then we had a president with big teeth and big ideas who made it all seem real. Daddy must have been listening to him because he really put it into my head that I could do anything “I put my beautiful mind to”. He must have been thinking of my grades, but I never thought about anything bigger than just getting out of this place one day. And a new bicycle. I knew how to ride one and could go faster than the kids in the neighbourhood (Fat Josie and Greasy Gary were no good on theirs, ha ha), but my mom was all against me getting one of my own, even if it was my birthday soon. Daddy – Dad, I mean – did not say a thing about it. I understood, and I made sure not to press him on it. The one I had been riding was built by his brother, and I knew that if I talked about him, it was all over. Yeah, I guess I better talk about Uncle K. He was the best! If you wanted to know anything about what was going on in other towns and villages, or even around the world, he knew. He saw the Statue of Liberty up close, went to see the flickers once (he promised he would take me to see one about men on the moon when he could), and even used a real camera (thought he was lying about that ‘til he brought it over and we just stared at the box and cape for an hour; I didn’t even think of taking our picture until he called us all together).  Every time he showed up, it was like a new lesson, but with a teacher you actually liked, right? You know what I mean? He called me Kitty, did not think of talking to me like a girl, and always said that he was going to surprise me when I became a teenager. And he did. Now, my birthday is just over a week before Christmas, which is really rotten for me, or any other kid in the same spot. I always wondered if I would get a gift both times, but usually I had to settle for one. My baby brother was born last year, and I understood that this would involve saving the pennies for his sake. So, one gift…again. But I was also now a teenager. Thirteen years old, and my mother still tried to treat me like I was just out of short pants and could not comb my own hair yet (better than Fat Josie any day). So, I did not really plan on doing a thing except cleaning up the house and trying to stay warm. And then Uncle K. showed up with his camera and a great big smile on his face “for his favourite new young lady”. I should have known he was up to something. “Uncle K., you know it’s my birthday soon, so I know you got a surprise for me.” He was impressed by this. “Young lady, I travelled all this way to just give you a gift? Maybe I just wanted to enjoy the weather.” That was a joke even momma laughed at; dad was a little more suspicious. “Okay, don’t tease the girl. What did you get her?” “Well, it’s not what I got; it is what I have to show her.” Now we were all confused. “Uncle K….” “You are probably old enough to see this and remember it for a long time.” Momma and daddy – dad! – were beginning to wonder if he had lost his brains somewhere. “There is something happening up at the beach. Something that you all gotta see.” Momma laughed. “Now? In the winter? They having a swimming contest?” “Better.” Dad smiled and tried not to laugh. “I think we’ll stay where it’s warm and sane for now.” “C’mon! This is something you are going to remember forever.” He looked me up and down and grinned that grin. “What about you, young lady? Old enough to make your own choices yet?” I looked around the place. Momma had laundry left over in a basket. Dad had just filled up the fireplace and was sitting with the paper in that old rocking chair. The baby was finally sleeping and I had just nothing better to do. “Let’s see it.” * Was it special? I thought so, but the people around us were just taking bets on when it would crash and how much longer those two would try to get the thing to work. We walked up the hill from the water and saw a few people we knew. Fat Josie’s dad was there for some reason, as was Greasy Gary’s uncle. And some other people who must have come with the crazy ones; those brothers. “Crazy? Why kid?” My uncle was setting up the camera he brought. “I know that they…glide, right? But you put a motor in that thing and it’s too heavy, anything can happen.” “Hmmm…smart thinking.” He was still smiling. “And the wind will just…” “What about it?” “The wind can strip the skin off you here, if you aren’t careful. That man is going to run next to the thing and the other is going to lie in the middle while it goes up. Just hope they understand that.” “I think they do, Kit.” He was all set up with the camera, drawing almost as much attention as the two guys who had their machine ready and were about to run it. “Just hope they are safe with it.” “They will be.” “I hope.” “Watch.” * It was special. No one crashed and no one got hurt. They only did it for a few minutes and then tried it again a few times, but that first time… Uncle K. got his photo and that was when I thought I saw something special in all this. He would have to get the plates back to make the pictures, but what we remembered would be more important than anything else we had on record. He even let me take one, y’know. I stood under the blanket, waited until they were in the air, and then, pop! I think that will come out all right. They even let me touch it. Their flyer, or Flyer I, they called it. I thought it was kinda like a large bird that needed a bit of a push to get going, but they got it up there, wind and all. And then there was one more surprise as we drove back. “Bicycles?” “Bicycles… That’s how they did it.” “Naahh. You’re joking now.” “You think I’m lying, lady? Here.” Uncle K., when the camera was set back in his truck, showed me the newspaper. “Bike shop…Wilber and Orville…specializing in…” “Told ya.” “Wow. Wish they brought one.” “Oh, yeah, about that…” I saw it and almost jumped out of the truck when we passed behind our place. “Hey…!” I ran up as Uncle K. parked and looked it. “How did you…?” “They brought it for you and I told them to drop it off before we came back. Guess someone did it when we were packing up. You should thank them.” “I will!” I was still looking it over when he spoke. “And did you see what they put on it?” I was confused by that, but then I saw it, right on the side under the seat next to their names on the metal running up to it: “Kitty’s Wind Rider” My own bike. My real own bike, and not something handed down to me or put together in a junkyard. “Happy birthday, Kit.” We hugged out there, right with the cold and the wind hitting us up. I knew that I would never forget this and was glad when I thought about the photo and the fact that some people from the town were still lingering and could see my new ride. Along with seeing that “aeroflyer” and those two crazy brothers, it was the best birthday I ever had. I wonder if I ever thanked them.

edp6an

Harmonic Nebula

Harmonic Nebula    The cool blue blanket full of endless mysteries cocooned his body in such a way that made him feel vulnerable yet shielded from whatever it was that was outside of the water. There were only a few seconds left before he had to resurface for that irksome life source that every human needs; oxygen. He often fantasized how much more tranquil his life would be if he was able to spend more time submerged in this film-like space that made him feel so serene. He never bothered with scuba gear or any other conventional method of snorkeling, finding it to be inhibiting the harmonious territory of so many creatures. After coming up to the surface, he made his way to his towel and flip flops were laying, deciding to take a few moments of rest before submerging himself again. He spent as much time as he could swimming, even when the weather did not call for it, finding it difficult to stay away from it for too long, like it was calling him. As a child he hated the water, always felt nervous and irritable when he swam in the ocean. During family vacations he would restrict himself to sitting under the umbrella building any creation that came to his mind out of sand, and when he outgrew that habit, he would bring books to keep his mind occupied. It wasn’t until he was frolicking near the shore one blazing July afternoon on account of having read all of his books, at least the interesting ones, and was so bored that he decided to wade in the ocean for as long as he needed to make the most of his time, with the water reaching just up to his shins when he saw the flexible ash blob maneuvering around him, its sylphlike tail remaining rigid as the rest of its body was flapping like a bird. The stingray did not bring him the fright and vigilance that it should have given the fact that it had the capability to fatally harm him. He remained static in the water, admiring the supple flesh ceaselessly making wave-like movements as it leisurely made wide laps around him with no particular form or coordination. The fish would sporadically yield in front of the boy, seemingly scrutinizing him as if it were trying to calculate his next move, contemplating its fight or flight response. The boy however continued to remain motionless, unsure if he was doing so out of fright of provoking the creature or out of his amazement in seeing something so perilous yet poised and graceful. After what felt to be five minutes or half an hour, he could not tell, the stingray ultimately decided there was nothing of interest for it near the shore, and the mysterious tall being with two flesh-covered poles was neither a threat nor a refuge, and it floated away to the deeper end, and the boy remained in the shallow end until he lost sight of the creature. He heard his mother calling him to come eat, and so he followed her voice without looking back towards the shore. The following three year’s summer vacation took place in the Pacific NorthWest where his family stayed in a cabin for eleven days. There were more mountains and mossy terrain than he was used to seeing from their trips to more tropical locations, so swimming was not any of the family’s main activity for that particular trip. The day after they had arrived at their cabin after a grueling thirteen hour drive from Sacramento his parents suggested taking a kayaking tour that was being held near a local park by the sea in hopes of coming across some humpbacks. His disdain and reluctance for this activity of course went ignored by his parents, and within an hour he was being strapped into a life jacket by a balding middle-aged lifeguard who was explaining to him in the most monotonous and wearisome voice what steps he must take should he find himself thrown out of the kayak or by some means dragged to the depths of the mysterious void by some vile creature who will hold him captive until the rest of its clan could feast on him. With a half-hearted pat on the shoulder the lifeguard left him to it, and so he tentatively made his way to the shore and lowered himself into the kayak by such means so as to get as little water on him as possible, which he failed doing miserably. After a few embarrassing minutes of trying to settle in, he managed to find a semi-comfortable position given that he had to bend his knees in view of the fact that he had had a growth spurt over the last couple years, and now had a more spindly form. Following the two leaders of the tour, they set out into the sea. The day was not looking very promising due to its gloomy weather, yet another factor he was not accustomed to, so consequently the first twenty minutes of leisure paddling were uneventful. The most compelling sight they had witnessed up to that point was a heron catching a mackerel in such a swift and effortless motion he wondered if it really had happened at all. Evidently the group had reached a point far enough from the shore so that all he could make out was a hazy strip with the mountains in the distance that now appeared as if they were small knolls, such as the ones he would see when he took the scenic route to school back home. He couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, he had felt the intensity of such silence. The hum of the wind was the only thing reminding him of the fact that he was indeed still out at sea, thinking that he must be hundreds of feet above the surface (for the mere thought of being thousands above put a knot in his stomach so severe he believed he would have fainted had he not willed the thought out of his head). The leader of the group abruptly shot their hand up as if to guide the flow of traffic. Correspondingly, everybody brought their floating devices to a halt, keenly waiting for whatever it is was supposed to happen. As if the entirety of the ocean sensed the energy at that moment, it also slowed its thrashing of the waves, appearing to listen. They remained at a standstill, no one daring to even sneeze. He glanced at his surroundings, trying to make as little sound as possible, anticipating the once in a lifetime moment of awe and wonder that the locals here seemed to be so fond of. The silence continued, and the longer it lasted, the more fretful the group seemed to grow, the suspense wearing off by the minute. An older couple that was sharing a kayak had started murmuring amongst themselves, no longer fearing scaring off the whales as they had earlier. Subsequently, some others of the group started conversing amongst themselves, and within seconds the ocean went back to its consistent sloshing, the wind picking up its pace and becoming more aggressive. At this point, most of his clothes were soaked and he was growing increasingly cranky and nervous for being so far away from land, and given that they had yet to witness the one thing they came out here for, he was eager for this afternoon to be over. The group continued paddling further out, the leader announcing that in a few minutes they were going to head back. Relieved upon hearing such words, he suddenly gained a surge of vigor which almost made him feel like jumping into the sea and swimming back to shore. As the group started paddling their way in a wide circle to return in the same direction they came from, a quake hefty enough to discombobulate the steady pace of the kayakers erupted from the ocean, and with tremendous force the thirty ton mammal rigidly yet gracefully collapsed back into the water, thoroughly drenching anyone within a thirty foot radius. Pleasurable gasps and hollers came from all around, half the group too busy fumbling with their jacket pockets to grab their cameras to notice the junior calf not too far behind, attempting to mimic its mother, but could not quite achieve the colossal tremble she had made. The humpback and its calf resurfaced several times, as if they knew to put on a show for their anticipating audience. He could not take his eyes off of the suicidally beautiful animal, deciding at that moment that something that could impose both terror and amazement in someone was nothing less than miraculous. It moved with such harmony and ease as if it were the weight of a feather. He watched for the final time as the gentle giant and its calf dived back into the ocean for the final time, no longer feeling anxious or rushed. The following years’ vacations grew more scarce, with his parents’ workload and his schoolwork taking priority, they would limit themselves to a brief weekend visit at the local carnival or theme park. Feeling particularly overwhelmed one evening due to an upcoming deadline for his history essay, he decided a break was called for, and so he stepped out onto the back patio that the family hardly used anymore. The night was humid and his skin stuck to the plastic chair; trying to ignore the unpleasant sensation, he propped his feet on the round table where he used to eat his melted ice cream with his cousins during the summer family visits as a child. Tilting his head back, he blinked his eyes a couple times to adjust to the lack of light and studied the stars that were scattered across the sky, as if someone had knocked over the jar they were being kept in. But he knew each of them were placed there with purpose; what that purpose was he had no idea. The study of the cosmos was always too complex for him, deciding to instead admire them from time to time whenever he reminded himself to appreciate the smaller things in life. He eyed the brightest star he could find in the sky, pondering whether it was Mars or Venus, or just a star that happened to shine brighter than the rest. He started forming shapes in his head with the help of the stars, amusing himself with the scenarios he was fabricating. As a result, the stars appeared to be taking the form of a humpback whale, having the image subconsciously planted in his mind. He watched as the behemoth curved its back and he swore in that moment he could hear the callings coming from it, letting him know that he was in that moment, completely and invariably in a harmonious state, never wanting to let this feeling go.

hiqmxk

HOLES

As Mike stared out through the kitchen window, his thoughts drifted as he watched the cardinal on the snow- covered bird bath. Now, eight years later, Mike was holding a golden ticket in his hand. Depart Kennedy International Airport July 23. Arrive Santiago July 24. Mike had never even known that Latam Airlines was an airline company. Latam Airlines was flying him to Santiago, Chile with all expenses paid. It was a dream-come-true in many aspects. It had all started eight years ago. Mike worked four consecutive summer jobs at the small dry ice production plant in the neighboring town of Floral Park, Long Island. The job was ideal. Regular day shift hours with occasional weekends, holidays and overtime. A young college man’s dream. In hot, humid Long Island, working in an open-air, naturally air- conditioned environment was usually exhilarating. Frozen liquid nitrogen occurred at a temperature of minus 109 (F) degrees. One unwritten recommendation to the small group of employees was to wear trashy clothes, enough on you to stay warm and nothing fancy by any means. Best to wear the same clothes for a whole week. It was cold enough that the guys always smelled pretty good each week before often throwing their clothes out. Hot, humid air, combined with minus 109 degrees was cause for dry ice to stick to cloth fibers, resulting in a wide smattering of holes, some big, some small, on both shirts and pants. Uncovered skin was not immune. Shards of dry ice, first clung, then burnt through the cloth fibers, and then continued their purge on the skin below. The workers looked like under-the-bridge bums with psoriasis. The salary was great! It was a great job with unusual benefits, at least from the perspective of a young man! You could always look like hell and always be cooled down during the hot, humid summer days. It was close to the end of the summer of Mike’s third year at “Chiller’s Dry Ice.” Mike was called to the office of the small plant. “Mike,” Mr. Dodds began. “I am retiring and moving to Florida at the end of next year. Chiller’s supplies the dry ice that goes on many of the jet planes that leave the two major New York City metropolitan airports. We are the biggest of the dry ice suppliers. I do not want to shut the operation down. I am offering it to you first. You have been loyal and responsible. It would change your college plans, I know. Our economy now in 1974 is not very promising for new college graduates. Think about this. Should you have an interest, begin your homework immediately. We have no strong competitors. I believe that it offers a very safe future. Explore all your avenues. Mike was flabbergasted. Mike was interested. Mike was flattered. A hole of opportunity just opened up before him! Mike did his homework. Mike received the go-ahead. Mike met and married a wonderful lady. They had three children. Mike continued to manage and operate “Chiller’s Dry Ice.” Life was good. Life took him now to Santiago. “Mr. Bentworth,” the meeting started. “Our contract will be for our Latam flights departing from the New York City JFK airport, extending for two additional years. We are pleased with the financials.” Nothing more said. Many hands shaken. The tour provided of Santiago was wonderful!” “We look forward to a fortuitous relationship,” Mr. Cisnero assured. And so, “Chiller’s Dry Ice”, soon to become “Chiller’s Dry Ice Industries,” was born. There had been little change at the small production facility. It was now expanding, and as such, another staff member was added. Bill came on board. August 3rd, Iberia Airlines reached out. Great! Avianca Airlines followed three months later! Wow! Incredible! The operation was simple. The eight young men just made the dry ice pellets, aliquoted the pellets into small plastic bags for plastic bags filled a 24-inch square cardboard box. Deliveries were made three times daily to both La Guardia and JFK airports. With the newly added accounts, a third ice pellet machine and conveyor belt would have to be purchased. The enlisted airline companies would keep their food and drinks cold while in flight using Chiller’s Dry Ice. Overhead was minimal, just basic production and facility costs, cardboard shipping containers and salaries. The company would supply all gloves and a weekly set of clothes allowance to replace what was left of the clothes on their back. The dry ice would eat away at all and any cloth, like an invisible menace and do so rapidly. Mike drew the line with Avianca Airlines. Until another major expansion of operation was completed, no additional clients were to be considered. As his Latam return flight was boarding on July29th, the captain announced that there would be a small delay due to additional de-icing needs. The sudden snow from the skies had been heavy for the last twenty minutes. Mike looked through the plane’s window and watched the various machinery perform their operations. Mike always wondered about bigger and better. Mike thought how summer was seasonal for him in contrast to winter, which was continuous. Mike thought about the cool 98 degrees upon his return to Chiller’s Dry Ice Industries on Long Island. He had planned to go straight to the plant to announce and celebrate the renewed contract with Latam Airlines. Mike arrived at the plant while the trucks were making their second deliveries of the day. He slipped through the plant entrance and entered his office. He removed all his clothes and proceeded to jump into his work clothes. Although the air was hot and sticky on Long Island, the coolness within the plant circulated through the many holes in his almost worn-out clothes and felt great. While awaiting for the return of the delivery trucks, Mike casually strolled through the small plant. He was careful to consider any areas that might tolerate any efforts made toward further expansion. He finally reached the first loading dock, complete with conveyor belt and stacked cardboard. He watched as Bill sealed each bag and packed each carton with twelve bags. Jack worked together with Bill, loading the boxes into the refrigerated trucks. The JFK airport truck was due back within minutes; the La Guardia truck would follow about ten minutes later. “Say, fellas,” Mike said. “If we were to expand any further, what thoughts might you have?” “Mr. Dodds,” Bill replied quickly, eager to impress. “We would need a second facility, one being for JFK and one being for LaGuardia.” “I’m on board with that,” Jack pitched in. “Maybe two more trucks for the new facility, which should be as close as financially possible to the furthest delivery point. That would be LaGuardia. Well-paid employees. Valuable employees input. No matter how they may look. It was what Mike had construed. But, he needed to hear it from someone else. He had to be sure that there were no holes in his thinking. Mike would summon them all into the break room rather than to tell them the good news while standing on the frozen floor. Thick, insulated boots helped, but the floor was ice cold. “Latam airlines is on board for another two years!” Mike announced. Smiles and clapping resulted. Mike was exhausted. Time to go the five-minute drive to the house to see the family. Mike waved to Jimmy, his oldest, as he pulled into the driveway. He greeted Jimmy and his friend Richie as he made his way to the front door. “I like that cardinal shirt, Richie,” Mike said as he gave Jimmy a hug. “Are you poor?” Richie asked. “I don’t think so,“ Jimmy replied. “Then why doesn’t your Dad wear underpants?” Richie asked, “Sometimes I can see his skin!” “He does, but they are covered with big holes,” Jimmy explained. Mike only listened and smiled. Mike was a holy sort of guy! Mike loved his poor holy life!

gpcn3q

Starlight

My first day of real school was in the fourth grade. It happened to be Pet Day. There were cats, dogs, goldfish, an amphibian or reptile here and there. But me? I brought my owl. Her name was Stea. That means “star” in Romanian. My mom always liked to look up the words for things in different languages, and when we first found Stea as a little baby, she wanted to name her after the stars. “Not the stars,” she interrupted me one time, when I told the story to a friend. “No, I named it after my daughter.” She smiled down at me, put her arm around my shoulders. “I named her for Stella.” . . . Stea perched on my arm as I stood in front of the class. “Hi,” I said. “My name is Stella. This is my owl. Her name is Stea.” Twenty-two ten-year-olds gaped at me. “My mom and I rescue animals,” I told them. “Usually I stay home from school to help her, but now I’m coming to school. And I brought my favorite animal to show you.” “Wait, you live on the hippie farm!” one boy called out. “My parents told me to stay away from there. They said you guys are crazy.” The frazzled teacher shushed the boy urgently, but the other kids exchanged glances. I lifted my arm up. Stea ruffled her feathers. “Stea is a snowy owl,” I said. “Snowy owls usually live near the polar regions, but they often spend winters here in the northern part of the United States. We found Stea a year ago, when she was just a little chick. She had fallen out of a nest and was injured. We nursed her back to health.” “Hippies!” a girl hissed to her friend. “We have rescued lots of animals,” I continued. “We have a lot of birds, but we also take care of squirrels, rabbits, snakes, and even beavers sometimes. Once, we even helped rescue an injured deer.” “Do you eat berries and bark?” a boy near the front asked. “I heard you eat berries and bark.” “We harvest huckleberries every year,” I said. “But I’ve never tried tree bark. I prefer hamburgers.” Somehow, the second part of that statement was lost to history. From that moment on, I was Berry Girl. . . . When I was twelve years old, I asked my mother if I was pretty. “A woman’s worth is not in her appearance,” said Mom. “A woman’s worth is in her actions. Society manipulates us to believe that our only value is in how we look. Don’t ask me that question.” “But I’m just a girl,” I said. “Not a woman.” “No,” my mother said. “You’re not a girl. I have raised you to be a woman. Girls are foolish and weak. I’ve raised you to be intelligent and strong; you are a woman.” But I don’t want to be a woman yet. I want to be a girl. I stayed silent. . . . By the time I was fourteen, Stea was six years old. According to my research, she would still live many more years with me. Some snowy owls could live 28 years in captivity, my Encyclopedia of Birds said. She still had a long, happy life ahead of her. Stea and I did everything together. She slept in a cage in my room, and I had even trained her to sit on my arm while I walked around outside. When I let her spend the night in the aviary, she would catch mice. (This annoyed the barn cats.) I talked to her. I read to her. I sang to her. I played guitar to her. I was quite good at singing and playing the guitar; I had discnerned this because Stea always seemed to perk up when I played. My mother never said anything when I played. Stea was my best friend. My mother, however, was not so supportive of our relationship. “You should be making real friends,” she said. “You should be more social. You won’t get anywhere in this world by talking to a bird all the time.” I ignored her. But high school was around the corner, and as time passed, Mom seemed to grow more and more scornful of Stea. “She’s a wild bird,” Mom said one day. “Don’t you think you might want to let her go?” We usually let our animals go after they were rehabilitated, but I had always insisted on keeping Stea. She was mine. “No,” I said. “She’s my friend.” My mother sighed and rubbed her temples. . . . I never had friends at school. By the time I was sixteen, I still hadn’t ever had a friend. I didn’t mind much, really; I had Stea. Who else did I need? When I came home from school that day, Mom was nailing the shutters to all the windows. She slammed the hammer into each nail over and over, breath puffing out into the chilly afternoon air. I paused to watch her, noting each strand of grey that poked through her auburn ponytail. It seemed like every day there was a new one. “I’m home,” I said after a while. “You’re early,” she said. “Yeah.” “There’s a storm coming,” she said. “I know,” I said. “That’s why I’m early. Everyone in town is talking about it.” Everyone in town was talking about it because the weatherman said it on the morning news. We didn’t own a TV, or a computer, or cell phones. But my mother knew there was a storm coming. She could always tell. It was like there was a little bit of animal blood running in her veins. Mom wiped her brow and then resumed hammering the wooden shutters against the house. She only put up the shutters when the storm was a bad one. “Do you need me to check on our friends?” I asked her. “Yes. Make sure they all have enough food and water and the houses are shut tight.” So I walked around the back of the house and into the different buildings where we kept our animals. We had a beaver, two chipmunks, and a cotton-tailed rabbit at the time. They all seemed to know the storm was coming; they were all curled up in the corners of their cages, snuggling into the sawdust. They knew what was on the way—they braced for impact. Then I went into the aviary. We were rehabilitating a peregrine falcon at the time, as well as a cardinal, two goldfinches, and an old barn owl. I made sure they were all safe and secure, and made my way to the end of the row. Stea’s cage was empty. . . . Her cage had been left open. Why had it been open? The door to the aviary had been left open. Why was it open? As Stea’s world opened, mine came crashing down upon me. I sat on the couch and stared at the fire. The first snowflakes were whizzing by the window. My mother made tea. She didn’t say anything to me. Her cage was open. I didn’t leave it open. She couldn’t have opened it. Who did it? She did it. Mom slid a cup of turmeric tea into my hand. “Drink. You’re shaking.” Slowly, I looked up, shooting poisoned arrows into her heart. “You did it.” Mom stepped back. “What?” “Stea’s gone. You did it.” “Dear, I’m sure the lock was just loose and she pushed it open. It’s an old cage—” “You did it. You let her go.” Her expression hardened. “Stella Alderidge, stop these ridiculous accusations at once. Don’t speak to me like that.” “ You did it. ” My mother stood in silence for a few moments. Finally, she sighed heavily and rubbed her temples. “It’s possible that I could have left the cage open by accident. But I would never do that to you, Stella. I thought you trusted me more than that.” “Bullshit!” I yelled, shooting to my feet. Mom grabbed my wrist roughly. “My God, what has gotten into you lately? You’re starting to act more and more like a girl every day.” She spat the word girl in my face like it was dirty. “Why do you hate girls so much?” I yelled. “What’s so wrong with being a girl? I am a girl! I’m sixteen!” My mother’s face drained of color. “You are not a girl. You have never been a girl. I have made sure of that, and you should be grateful. Do you know why?” When I didn’t respond, she leaned closer, nose-to-nose with me. “Because bad things happen to girls. Girls are stupid and weak, and they are taken advantage of. Girls are taken. Girls are saddled with children they never wanted—” A noise came out of her throat that sounded like a cross between a cough and a scream. If I hadn’t known better, I would have said it was a sob. But my mother didn’t cry. She had lost that ability long ago. “Girls don’t get anywhere in this world. Girls are eaten alive by this world. Your only hope is to be a woman.” She turned away. “You always claim to be such a feminist,” I snapped, “but you’re just as sexist as the rest of them.” “I’m a realist,” she said. “How would you know? You were never even a girl. You don’t know what it’s like to be one. You don’t even have emotions.” She whirled on me, eyes blazing. “I was a girl once. And when I showed the world my emotions, it tore me in half and swallowed me whole. I have raised you so that you don’t meet the same fate. You should be grateful I didn’t let you be a girl.” She left me staring into the fire. . . . I left her a note. You tried to keep me out of the cage. But you had me trapped this whole time. Now I am flying free. Like Stea. Love, A Girl . . . Sara Alderidge rocks in front of the fire as she knits. She is knitting a scarf. She sells scarves; that’s how she makes most of her money these days. She’s quite good at knitting, she has discovered. People enjoy her creations. At least she can be good at something in this world. A song comes on the local station. An acoustic guitar and a young woman’s voice pipe from the tinny speakers. I was a girl, just a girl, alone in the snow But you wanted me to grow I was an owl, trapped in a cage That you had made Now I’m flying free If I could do it all over again I don’t know if I would have left you ‘Cause here I am, on my own And I worry every day That I’m flying free Mama, I’m sorry I shouldn’t have left you alone Mama, I’m sorry Will you call me back home? Sara sits, transfixed, as the song plays. By the time it ends, tears are streaming down her face. She doesn’t remember how they got there. “And that was the breakout single from folk singer/songwriter Stella Alderdige,” the announcer says. “An amazing story, this young girl, making it big all on her own…” Sara slowly stands up. She walks over to the telephone. She dials a number she doesn’t even know how she remembers. On the fourth ring, a voice says, “Hello?” “My girl,” Sara whispers. “Come home.”

i4gram

HOLES

As Mike stared out through the kitchen window, his thoughts drifted as he watched the cardinal on the snow- covered bird bath. Now, eight years later, Mike was holding a golden ticket in his hand. Depart Kennedy International Airport July 23. Arrive Santiago July 24. Mike had never even known that Latam Airlines was an airline company. Latam Airlines was flying him to Santiago, Chile with all expenses paid. It was a dream-come-true in many aspects. It had all started eight years ago. Mike worked four consecutive summer jobs at the small dry ice production plant in the neighboring town of Floral Park, Long Island. The job was ideal. Regular day shift hours with occasional weekends, holidays and overtime. A young college man’s dream. In hot, humid Long Island, working in an open-air, naturally air- conditioned environment was usually exhilarating. Frozen liquid nitrogen occurred at a temperature of minus 109 (F) degrees. One unwritten recommendation to the small group of employees was to wear trashy clothes, enough on you to stay warm and nothing fancy by any means. Best to wear the same clothes for a whole week. It was cold enough that the guys always smelled pretty good each week before often throwing their clothes out. Hot, humid air, combined with minus 109 degrees was cause for dry ice to stick to cloth fibers, resulting in a wide smattering of holes, some big, some small, on both shirts and pants. Uncovered skin was not immune. Shards of dry ice, first clung, then burnt through the cloth fibers, and then continued their purge on the skin below. The workers looked like under-the-bridge bums with psoriasis. The salary was great! It was a great job with unusual benefits, at least from the perspective of a young man! You could always look like hell and always be cooled down during the hot, humid summer days. It was close to the end of the summer of Mike’s third year at “Chiller’s Dry Ice.” Mike was called to the office of the small plant. “Mike,” Mr. Dodds began. “I am retiring and moving to Florida at the end of next year. Chiller’s supplies the dry ice that goes on many of the jet planes that leave the two major New York City metropolitan airports. We are the biggest of the dry ice suppliers. I do not want to shut the operation down. I am offering it to you first. You have been loyal and responsible. It would change your college plans, I know. Our economy now in 1974 is not very promising for new college graduates. Think about this. Should you have an interest, begin your homework immediately. We have no strong competitors. I believe that it offers a very safe future. Explore all your avenues. Mike was flabbergasted. Mike was interested. Mike was flattered. A hole of opportunity just opened up before him! Mike did his homework. Mike received the go-ahead. Mike met and married a wonderful lady. They had three children. Mike continued to manage and operate “Chiller’s Dry Ice.” Life was good. Life took him now to Santiago. “Mr. Bentworth,” the meeting started. “Our contract will be for our Latam flights departing from the New York City JFK airport, extending for two additional years. We are pleased with the financials.” Nothing more said. Many hands shaken. The tour provided of Santiago was wonderful!” “We look forward to a fortuitous relationship,” Mr. Cisnero assured. And so, “Chiller’s Dry Ice”, soon to become “Chiller’s Dry Ice Industries,” was born. There had been little change at the small production facility. It was now expanding, and as such, another staff member was added. Bill came on board. August 3rd, Iberia Airlines reached out. Great! Avianca Airlines followed three months later! Wow! Incredible! The operation was simple. The eight young men just made the dry ice pellets, aliquoted the pellets into small plastic bags for easy handling and delivered the product to market. Twelve plastic bags filled a 24-inch square cardboard box. Deliveries were made three times daily to both La Guardia and JFK airports. With the newly added accounts, a third ice pellet machine and conveyor belt would have to be purchased. The enlisted airline companies would keep their food and drinks cold while in flight using Chiller’s Dry Ice. Overhead was minimal, just basic production and facility costs, cardboard shipping containers and salaries. The company would supply all gloves and a weekly set of clothes allowance to replace what was left of the clothes on their back. The dry ice would eat away at all and any cloth, like an invisible menace and do so rapidly. Mike drew the line with Avianca Airlines. Until another major expansion of operation was completed, no additional clients were to be considered. As his Latam return flight was boarding on July29th, the captain announced that there would be a small delay due to additional de-icing needs. The sudden snow from the skies had been heavy for the last twenty minutes. Mike looked through the plane’s window and watched the various machinery perform their operations. Mike always wondered about bigger and better. Mike thought how summer was seasonal for him in contrast to winter, which was continuous. Mike thought about the cool 98 degrees upon his return to Chiller’s Dry Ice Industries on Long Island. He had planned to go straight to the plant to announce and celebrate the renewed contract with Latam Airlines. Mike arrived at the plant while the trucks were making their second deliveries of the day. He slipped through the plant entrance and entered his office. He removed all his clothes and proceeded to jump into his work clothes. Although the air was hot and sticky on Long Island, the coolness within the plant circulated through the many holes in his almost worn-out clothes and felt great. While awaiting for the return of the delivery trucks, Mike casually strolled through the small plant. He was careful to consider any areas that might tolerate any efforts made toward further expansion. He finally reached the first loading dock, complete with conveyor belt and stacked cardboard. He watched as Bill sealed each bag and packed each carton with twelve bags. Jack worked together with Bill, loading the boxes into the refrigerated trucks. The JFK airport truck was due back within minutes; the La Guardia truck would follow about ten minutes later. “Say, fellas,” Mike said. “If we were to expand any further, what thoughts might you have?” “Mr. Dodds,” Bill replied quickly, eager to impress. “We would need a second facility, one being for JFK and one being for LaGuardia.” “I’m on board with that,” Jack pitched in. “Maybe two more trucks for the new facility, which should be as close as financially possible to the furthest delivery point. That would be LaGuardia. Well-paid employees. Valuable employees input. No matter how they may look. It was what Mike had construed. But, he needed to hear it from someone else. He had to be sure that there were no holes in his thinking. Mike would summon them all into the break room rather than to tell them the good news while standing on the frozen floor. Thick, insulated boots helped, but the floor was ice cold. “Latam airlines is on board for another two years!” Mike announced. Smiles and clapping resulted. Mike was exhausted. Time to go the five-minute drive to the house to see the family. Mike waved to Jimmy, his oldest, as he pulled into the driveway. He greeted Jimmy and his friend Richie as he made his way to the front door. “I like that cardinal shirt, Richie,” Mike said as he gave Jimmy a hug. “Are you poor?” Richie asked. “I don’t think so,“ Jimmy replied. “Then why doesn’t your Dad wear underpants?” Richie asked, “Sometimes I can see his skin!” “He does, but they are covered with big holes,” Jimmy explained. Mike only listened and smiled. Mike was a holy sort of guy! Mike loved his poor holy life!

uqchp9

Fantalekoh

I perch on one of the branches of a tree, and spy on the people who are preparing for the festival. It is in the field in the park, and on the edges of the field, there is a forest. That's where I am now. The festival will celebrate many of our gods, but the most important will be Ceraura and Cedsin, siblings and the God and Goddess of spring. The second most important is their father, Tuagi the God of Seasons. Some of the other gods we will celebrate are Phuzenta, Goddess of strength, Azotz, God of the Sun, and many more. They put up the tents made out of flowing white fabric that sways in the wind. They decorate the area with garlands, but they leave the two biggest tents untouched. When they have finished with the other tents, only a few go to the biggest tent. In the middle, someone places a small wood table, about a foot high. They put a flower garland over the table and drape a piece of cloth with intricate patterns and many colors over the table. They place a vase on the cloth and inside is a single flower. I know it is the first flower of spring. I can feel the power radiating from it. They start to add more decorations, but I am already off, zooming through the trees using my Sonis. I soon find my friend Alma in the lake, watching two water figures fight. One is tall and thin but clumsy. The other is short and thick but slow. Another fight goes on next to that one with two skilled swordsmen. Finally, the blade slips out of the clumsy one's hand and pierces the slow one before he can get away. The other fight evaporates when Alma sees me. "Taki!" She rushes out of the water and hugs me. Did you see that? My control is so much better than last time! I've been practicing." "It was awesome. But we have to go get Laco, Salcu, Vitalos, Lychunus, and I don't know who else. Then we can build the treehouse village! "Can Aquiris come?" "He's young-" "Please!" "-but I can make an exception." "Thank you!" Alma hugs me again and we set off. *** "I don't get why we are doing this," Salcu informs. "We should build it near our houses." Salcu is thin, and tall, and asks a lot of questions, and once he makes up his mind about something, he never changes it. "Yeah, but this way everyone can play in it, it's a public build." "So we are building this for everyone but ourselves." "No, we are each going to build a part, and then the rule is that you have to build a part if you want to hang out in the treehouse community. "Treehouse town!" Aquiris pipes in, then giggles. "And why is he here." "Taki did it because I asked him to let Aquiris come. So shut up and listen to Taki." Alma is the only one people will listen to, so I send her a grateful look when Salcu shuts up. Laco is the first one to move. Laco's strong and tough with calluses and muscles. He also doesn't talk. He climbs up one of the trees, and takes out a handful of dirt that he surrounds the tree trunk with, then forces the dirt into something that looks solid. It is about an inch wide, and Laco climbs down to get more dirt. Lanche and Brun come up behind me. "What are you doing?" Brun asks stiffly. "Oh, calm down, they're making tree houses. " Brun glances at Aquirirs, and his eyes soften. "Fine." He goes to Aquiris and starts whispering into his ear. Aquiris' eyes light up. Lanche rolls her eyes and climbs up another tree. She creates a little ice platform and sits on it, watching us. Alma is already on another tree and beckons for me to come. I push the air back so far that it is like a rubber band about to snap. Then I let it go and soar straight into a seat of water Alma has made for me. She beams. *** Soon, Gurate comes over. Gurate is my sister, and she's already dressed in flowing white robes with flower edges. "Come down you guys. The ceremony is about to start, and Taki has going to do the Fantalekoh." My eyes widen and I scramble down. I had forgotten it was my Fantalekoh celebration. It's a celebration once every time a season begins where you have to go through when you turn thirteen. No one talks about what happens during the Fantalekoh, but after it, you are an adult in the community. Gurate leads me to the dressing tent and puts me in robes that are similar to hers, except she has a headdress of flowers, and I have a Kippah with flower patterns. Then she pushes me to one of the big tents where Khali stands. Khali is basically the leader of all festivals and celebrations. She will lead my Fantalekoh. Everyone is already in the tent, and I can feel their eyes on me. The last time this happened was with Montyo, and he. . .changed after his Fantalekoh. He became secluded and tight-lipped, not going outside. Before he was the most extrovert in the whole village, playing outside with him many friends, and talking non-stop. I kneel before a marble basin filled halfway with clear water. Khali puts it to my lips and I drink. Nothing happens for a moment. But then everything happens at once. I'm floating in white. There is no up there is no down. There is no left and no right. It is just me and this endless white. It is an infinity room. I don't what to do, what I am supposed to do, what I SHOULD do. Then there's a woman. She has pristine skin covered in a flowing white dress and flowers are tangled into her black hair. Next to her is a man with the same hair and the same skin, and his suit is the same color as her robes. They are Ceraura and Cedsin. Brother and Sister. God and Goddess. Spring. I can see silhouettes of a group of people in the distance. Ceraura speaks first. "After you will be welcomed as an adult, able to make your own decisions." I nod "What I will tell you is important. You must tell your village." "But-!" "No one has spoken yet. You may be the first." "I'm not supposed to! The book says so!" "We arrabove the book. We may twist the rules as we desire so to change the fate of death." "I'm confused." "This is not your Fantalekoh. After this will be your Fantalekoh. This is a warning. Warn your people that there is an army of thieves nearing your village. They will come in the night and slit your throats and take your stuff." After the infinity room comes the Fantalekoh. It is like nothing that has ever happened to me before. *** I gasp, and my eyes open. I am in the tent. My hands shake as I tell Khali what Ceraura told me. We stay up all night, and at midnight I can hear the battle from my bed. When everyone comes back, they report that it was indeed a pack of thieves, and though they were not skilled fighters, they were able to wield a knife, and had many things that they had stolen from other villages. They look at me in awe. *** From then on I am talked about as the Gods' Vassel, but that was one time. Now I live in a small cottage with a wife, two kids, and a dog. I have not been in touch with a God or Goddess since my Fantalekoh, but there is still time. But for now, I am content to stay here forever.

cjjrei

Orchids

Authors Note: Hey guys! I hope you'll enjoy this story. It's honestly kind of messy and unorganized, giving I wrote it in like 2 hours, but yea! I just got diagnosed with covid, so life sucks but enough of the sob story. So, without further-ado: He gave me flowers. Purple orchids, to be specific. They were my favorite. They reminded me of my mother, who died a year ago. Purple orchids represented admiration. I had that for him. Did he have admiration for me? If he did, I don't think he knew it. Soon, those beautiful orchids will be torn up. Ripped, thrown on the floor like a piece of trash. Like him. He should have gotten me white orchids. White orchids represent regret and sincerity. Did he regret? I doubt it. He enjoyed it too much to regret it further on. Or maybe red orchids. To at least trick me into thinking you loved me. Red orchids represent romance, and passion. Did he love me? One side of me says, yes. Yes he did. But the other side tells me that if he loved me, why did he do it? Why did he make me feel disgusting, then? Aren't our loved ones supposed to make us confident? We were happy once. We had met in Greece, I was on a business trip while he was there to his sheer amusement. On our first date, he presented me with yellow orchids. Yellow orchids represent friendship, and new beginnings. Did he want to be friends? Was this a hint that he didn't love me? I don't know. It makes me wonder. This whole situation, it's so confusing. Was it me? Was I asking for it? Is it because of how I dress, or how I act? When he proposed, he gave me blue orchids. Blue orchids represent beauty and power. He said I was the most beautiful flower he had ever seen. Was he lying? Maybe. In March, the month of flowers, he took me to a field of flowers. They were chrysanthemums. They weren't orchids. That's when I knew he had changed. He didn't know me anymore. When he knew I didn't like them, he never let me see them again. When my mother had died, he gave me black orchids. Fits the occasion, right? Black orchids represent strength. Was I strong? Yes. Maybe. Every month, he gave me a new color. Every month he gave me reassurance. To the point where now, I confide in flowers more than people. Orchids, to be exact. Red, Orange, Yellow, Pink, Blue, Green, Black, White. The list goes on. And every month, I kept one last flower petal, while the others died. Just like our relationship. Just like my heart. My room, once happy and filled with flowers, now bare. I used to keep the flowers on the wall. I would tape them and label them. RED. ORANGE. YELLOW. ETC. Instead of a scrapbook, I used a wall. Never had I thought it would be humiliating. Before, I thought we would be together forever. Now, whenever someone comes over, they know. They give me eyes of pity, eyes of compassion. What used to be a bright house, is now a dead shed. What used to be a young, carefree girl is now replaced with a girl who is scared of even setting foot out of her house. What happened to me? Why am I letting him do this? Why, Why, Why? On January 1st, he gave me orange orchids. Orange orchids represent pride and boldness. He wouldn't be proud, now would he? To see me, his "creation" like this. Pathetic, miserable. I ripped the flowers up. The last of the petals. Just like the last of our relationship. I ripped it up. And now, they are on the floor. Colorless and dark. They used to be pretty and bright. Like us. They used to be together. Like us. But now we are both broken. Before he left, he gave me a green orchid. It was a pretty rare flower. He said I was rare. Green orchids represent good health, and a long life. I think that he said that as a goodbye. And soon, I was pushed out. I kept the flower. The green orchid, to be exact. I kept it in a glass bowl. Just like in the Beauty and the Beast. That works perfectly. I'm the beauty, he's the beast. In more ways than others. Last month, I got a Zeuxine rolfiana in the mail. The hardest flower in the world to find. Was it from him? Does he still think of me? Am I still his flower? Or was it a prank? Was someone trying to fool me? Try to test my feelings? Maybe, maybe not. He is probably living his best life. Not even thinking about me, the girl he met in high-school. The girl he went on endless journeys with, the girl he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. The girl he barely hesitated to leave without an explanation. We were laying in the bathtub, one day. I laid on him, resting my head on his shoulder. I asked him, why? Why orchids? He kissed me gently that night. And left me with a simple explanation. "Because orchids mean love, and I love you." He didn't love me then. On Christmas, I celebrated alone. Who would I celebrate with anyways? A dead mother? A cheating bastard who slightly still cares? A forgotten father? I received a bouquet full of orchids that night. It was like Santa was on my doorstep. Orchids of all colors. Yet he chose pink. Pink orchids represented feminism. Did he believe in me? Did he send me this to let me know I can do this? That I'm a strong independent girl? I don't know. I don't know if it was even him who sent it. I don't know if this might have been his girlfriend, or wife, or jealous hooker. But it gave me some hope. It gave me some, slightly unusual confidence. It's messy, I know. But it sparked something in me that caused me to smile. It was the realization that I've moved on. I've accepted it. We weren't meant to be. Yes, he did the wrong thing. But why am I still living in the past? Lady Bird Johnson once said, "Where flowers bloom so does hope." What I learned, is that Ms. Johnson, was absolute right.

1ujzfy

Overalls That Were Too Big

His knees were certainly buckling a bit more than they should have been, trying to carry me out of the water. But we did it nonetheless, him determinedly digging his feet into the wet sand, anchoring on with his toes to resist being pulled back into the foamy sea. I didn’t do much to help, other than laugh and wrap my then short arms around his neck tighter. Salty water dripped off us, gathering in droplets everywhere from the tips of our matching messy brown hair, to the strings of my bathing suit, and of course to our eyelashes, which were angled low to protect from the glaring sun. I shrieked and held on tighter as he hopped on one foot to try and get rid of some seaweed that had stuck to his ankle. The seaweed insistently stayed, but water ended up spraying from us, pelting the warm sand and leaving golden spots. “Well, don’t drop her, Lucas.” Mom peeked out from behind her enormous hat that we constantly made fun of, lifting the brim with her freckled arm. I could see a sly smile growing on her lips. “Very funny.” He pouted ironically and set me down. I plopped onto the sand innocently, thinking about how little did he know, I will ask him to carry me in again and again and again just as soon as he sits down. I giggled and tried to stifle the smile of a child with a "secret" plan. And indeed, he carried me into and out of the water upwards of twenty times that day. We would go in, shrieking from the cold, and he tried to teach me how to swim, first holding me up under my stomach as my feet paddled furiously, and then teaching me to float on my back. His hand would just softly hold me up, insisting gently that I didn’t actually need his help at all, I just needed to learn to stay up. I enjoyed looking up like that- rotating and staring at the sky with water covering my ears made me feel like it was just us there, and like the world was rotating around us as its axis. But my childish impatience only tolerated those lessons briefly- I would immediately fall back into his arms and tell him everything that was on my mind. I told him how I was convinced the waves could talk to me, and about the mermaids and spirits I knew were swimming just below us, observing our feet dangling, pale and ghostly in the teal water. And my nonsensical stories seemed to be enough to justify him continuing to run back and forth, me in his arms.  By the time we clambered into the car at the end of the day, towels wrapped around us and skin sticky and taut from the salt, he was completely and happily out of breath. Parenthood fit my dad like a pair of overalls that were two sizes too big. Overalls that were clearly meant for someone older, certainly not a twenty-year-old kid with messy brown hair that surely couldn’t be a father yet. Like overalls where the legs were too long, dragging on the floor. Like overalls where the straps were floppy and loose, one hanging off the shoulder completely. The long legs and droopy fabric caused my dad to trip and stumble sometimes as he navigated how to raise me. Like when he was left to dress me on his own, and I emerged in a backwards soccer jersey and bunched up socks. Or like the time he wanted to show me how to use the adult swings on the playground when I was much too young, and I ended up on the cement on my back, legs sticking up in front of my puffy jacket like an upturned turtle. And yet these overalls, in all their dorky glory, had a certain charm to them as they hung awkwardly on my dad’s boyish shoulders. People on the street giggled amusedly as my dad raced my stroller down the block at supersonic speeds, forgetting perhaps that there was a baby in front of him, not a soccer ball. Shoppers at the grocery store stifled their laughter when they saw my dad yelping and pulling me out of the alcohol section where I had somehow lowered an entire bottle of bourbon into the stroller. (He then proceeded to whisper to me under his breath that that’s not the good kind anyways) And my mom got an amused glint in her eye when my dad asked “hypothetically, would you be mad if I let her climb that tree in the park today? No, no- listen, I think it’s a useful skill for a four-year-old…” I think back now sometimes and feel like that glint in my mom’s eye was probably how she knew she was in love. And finally, the overalls were obvious. Not right away- no one expected for Lucas Brown, fresh out of college, to be a dad so soon. And yet his friends couldn’t help but grin at the crazed shine that they saw in my dad’s eyes as he ran out of the hospital room, hair disheveled, yelling triumphantly, it’s a girl guys! It’s a girl! I have a girl! Do I need to buy parenting books or something? They just laughed, clapped him on the back and said, “We’ve lost him guys- he’s a father now.” And I loved every bit of him stumbling through the brambles of being a dad for the first time. It felt as if we were filling out our adult molds together, just at different stages. As Mom would point out, dad himself was still a kid. And so it seemed that we were in it together- my stupid mistakes were his stupid mistakes, his humor blended with mine, and my dumb questions weren’t dumb to him at all. One of those questions was this one. I used to ask him whether I’d be able to see myself growing, even if I stood still and stared at the ceiling as it got closer. He said no, because the changes are so minute every day that I wouldn’t be able to notice them even as time passed. Every day seems the same until you look back and realize that the pencil marking on the wall that used to be your height is now at neck level. And so it went. Every day he was there, until he wasn’t. Until I was all grown up and the pencil mark was at waist level. Until suddenly I was the one trying to raise a clumsy little boy that had our features, finally making me see what everyone was saying when they said me and my dad looked alike. Raising my boy was scary as hell to figure out, but I tried to remember that hey, I turned out all right.            I had long moved away into another town, but on some nights that my husband was home to watch the child, I’d take a drive.            The good thing about being an adult, despite the crippling fear that your happiest days are over, is that no one will yell at you if you go to the beach at night. And another good thing is that I was already taught how to swim.            And so I’d float in the water on those rare nights, turning slowly and looking up at the stars that used to be the glaring sun. I’d wonder if he was looking back at me.            And maybe he was, because I could swear I could still feel his hand under my back, and hear his voice saying that I had learned, I could float without him now. 

daum01

You may not sleep again.

I am lost. I am lost in a crowd. Unknown figures with veiled faces rush past me. No names exchange. Barely a mutual recognition of existence. They move in familiar patterns. Marching forward. The din of footsteps repeats: Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday… I close my eyes, unsure to stand still, sit down, fall to the floor, or cry out as the passing mob continues. Alarm blares. Wake up. Make coffee. Stretch. Workout. Turn on laptop. Meetings. Spreadsheets. Stress. Turn off laptop. Walk the dog. Eat. Watch tv. Sleep. I stumble through the doorway. A dog on leash straining to cross into the comforts of indoor life yanks my arm and my clumsy feet follow. “Crazy dog,” I think, and shut the door behind me, sealing off the outside world. Take off shoes. Put leash away. Grab dog bowl. Go to garage. Fill bowl with food. Climb up stairs. Return inside. Place bowl down. Await dog. I wash my hands of the generic meaty smell that accompanies dog food bought in bulk. Wiping my wet hands on pantlegs, I turn a corner and breeze onto welcoming, soft carpet. Beyond the shelves of family portraits, containing subjects both deceased and living, and across the expanse of hallway walls, my sister speaks with my mom. I can’t see Mom. My sister occupies the doorframe leading into our parents’ room. Why is Sam interrupting Mom’s exercise? Inaudible voices in hushed tones permeate my eardrums with the faintest touches. My sister continues talking and shrinks as her shoulders droop. Her hazel eyes, often full of wonder and compassion, glisten and sink downward. I jump to an undeniable conclusion. I turn to my room, hand trailing against the wall, exploring the minute bumps and craters. I shut the door behind me, a declaration of isolation, and plunge into my chair. My sister has COVID. I know it. She hasn’t been feeling well recently, and she got tested again the other day. Mom is going to freak out, and resent Sam. Dad is going to act normal, but fester on the inside. I don't’ know how Grandma will react, but imagine beating cancer for over a decade just to face this. Fuck. ----- Alarm blares. Fuck. My sister is in her room. Good. Coffee time. I put on a mask and gloves and head to the kitchen. Dad is already in the kitchen, wearing the same new fashion of the household: mask-and-gloves. Hands in the sink, washing dishes, he glances over at me as I enter his line-of-sight, “Sean,” he says, “pick up that bottle. Start spraying and wiping down the counters.” “Fine.” My eyes water as the fumes of sprayed cleaning solution fill the room. “Where’s Mom?” Without looking over his shoulder, Dad responds “She wasn’t feeling well last night, I slept out here.” He turns off the faucet, and picks up a towel, “She’s going to stay in our room by herself for today at least.” “Oh,” I look back to the counter, now suitably clean aside from the permanent grime stuck between the gray tiles. Dad washing dishes should have been enough of a clue, “and how’s Grandma doing?” Dad puts down the towel, and sighs, “She’s not feeling well either, she’s going to stay in her room for the day too.” Goddammit Sam. What’d you do? Was it your boyfriend? Was it work? How could you be so careless? Time to pick up this mess. I’ve got my own work to do. I’m busy. There’s no time for this. ----- Well Dad has COVID now too. It’s only a matter of time before I get sick. I’m running an infirmary and a B&B out here. Each person in their own individual rooms, isolated. Portraits of family members, deceased and living (and hopefully living longer), watch over as I deliver soups, teas, and breads from room-to-room. Delivering sustenance and disposing of garbage. Work looms over my mind. Every second spent going to stores, blistering my hands with bleach, and cooking meals is time lost. Time that I could use to work. I have deadlines to hit. This is busy. Work is busy. Life is busy. ----- My knuckles make solid contact on the door: knock, knock. “It’s Sean, I have lunch, chicken soup.” “Oh hi Sean, thanks! Do you want to swing around the outside and talk for a bit?” “Um, I’d like to Grandma, I really would, but-” “Oh Sean it wouldn’t be for long, just as I eat lunch. I know you’ve been very busy. Relax for a bit.” “Well, I guess so, alright.” I set the soup down, pulled over a jacket, and set up a chair outside my Grandma’s window. “So Sean, I appreciate all your help the past few days, very kind, how’ve you been holding up?” “Haha well things are going fine, I’m glad no one can taste my cooking, and work is coming along, just busy.” “Oh I’d imagine you are quite busy! I remember your granddad suffered from ADS: Always Doing Something. Your dad got it and I’m sure you have it too.” “It’s just that I have a big project due, and Beth Ann, my boss, is putting a lot of pressure on me.” I looked up at sprawling clouds crawling across the sky, persuaded by the brisk breeze. I put my head back down, “I know I can do it, I’m sure, just stressed is all.” “Sean, of all the things in the world to occupy your time, why should stress be one of them?” “Pfft, I guess I’m really not the one that should be stressed. I’m the only healthy one here.” Swaying branches, stretching out from the big oak in the backyard caught my attention for a moment. “Sam’s convinced she’s killed our whole family, Mom is worried how this will interact with her blood pressure issues, and I bet Dad is beyond stressed, but he’ll never let that be known. I should ask, how are you doing?” “I think I’m fine dear. Even before this, I’m at the point where at nights I have to tell myself, ‘You may not wake again,’ and in the mornings a reminder that ‘You may not sleep again.’ But there are still joys to be found in the day.” She paused, finishing up the rest of her soup. “You know Sean, when this is over, I want to go on a drive in the countryside. It’s been a while since I’ve made it out there, can you take me?” “Of course Grandma!” ----- Alarm blares. I rise out of bed, advance toward my desk, and begin work. Guided only by the light of the room and the laptop screen, my fingers pound away at the keyboard, clickity-clackity-clickity-clackity. Birds chirping add layers to the developing symphony. The crescendo ends with the shut of the laptop: slam. Time to prepare breakfast. I pass out bowls of steaming oatmeal as offerings in front of closed doors, a light rapping indicating the arrival of food. I wash dishes, clean the kitchen, and travel back to my room for an encore. Clickity-clackity-clickity-clackity. Lunch arrives with another intermission. I parade bowls of leftover soup around the house, trading the needed sustenance for more garbage. I wash dishes, clean the kitchen, and think: “Man, my parents have done this for years, and I’m tired after only a few days. I never imagined shouldering this weight and how heavy it would be.” In my room for one last performance. Clickity-clackity-clickity-clackity. Shut the laptop. Journey out to the rest of the house to trade more food for refuse: rice and stir-fry this time, somewhat of a change. When I make my last rounds to gather the remains of my limited culinary skills, I stop at each door. “Hi Sam, how was your day today? You played what with your friends? DnD, what’s that? Oh Dungeons and Dragons, please explain!” “Hi Mom and Dad, how’re you feeling today? Your stomach feels better and you’re full of more strength, I’m glad! Mom’s painting a scene and Dad’s re-learning chess? What inspires you to paint and what makes chess so great?” “Hi Grandma, what did you do today? You practiced embroidering? On what kind of stuff? How long does it take to make a pattern so tough?” The circuit complete, retreat to my room, fall into bed. A long day. A good day. ----- Five hours waiting outside a hospital. I’m outside a hospital. I can’t even go inside. Mom is in there. I don’t know how long she’s spent waiting, how long she’s been getting treatment. One moment she seems fully recovered, the next moment she’s wrapped in blankets, thermometer reading 96.4 degrees Fahrenheit. I hope her blood pressure monitor was broken. Those numbers did not add up to anything good. In and out, people rush through the hospital doors. Anxious to enter, eager to leave. My phone buzzes to life, “Hello?” “Hi Sean,” Mom’s faint voice struggling to carry any weight, “everything is fine, I’m on my way out.” Thank God. Thank anything and everything. I’m not even mad about the final prescription: soup and rest. Five hours of a hospital visit and that’s the grand advice of modern medicine. I’m just thankful that she has more time, and that I have more time with her. ----- Back home, I step into my room. Flip a switch. Time to grind. A mountain stands before me. I stand before a mountain. One step at a time, one minute at a time. Steps turn into miles, minutes turn into hours. This is nothing. I’ve been through hell-and-back the past few weeks, my family has been through worse. Quit your whining, you can do this. Submit work. Shut the laptop. Shut my eyes. Fall into bed. I’m tired. A good tired. ----- Alarm blares. Mind still mush and body lifeless, I prop myself up. Staring toward my desk, my laptop rests upon a stack of textbooks. I look away and grab a book off the shelf to my left. Crisp crackles of turning pages, eager eyes pouring over word after word, line after line, lost in a story… Placing the book down, closing pages that I am eager to open again, I approach the laptop. Still towering over my desk, the laptop flashes to life with a few clicks and keyboard strokes. Despite not stretching, not working out, or heavens-forbid not making coffee yet, I already feel recharged. I open my email. All the energy falls out, my heart sinks into nothingness, and fear stabs at my chest. Email after email after email. Each full of fury, panic, and worst-of-all, resolute calmness. The last email’s letters burned into the screen: “Sean, Please call at your earliest convenience. Thanks, Beth Ann” I examine every email. Each one with similar content: Urgent! Please call back. Why aren’t you picking up?? What files did you submit? The numbers aren’t matching! What did you do? What did I do? What did I do? What have I done? ----- The days, the time, they all exist as a constant. But the constant march of time is not to be confused with the constant force of the days. The activities and actions that fill up those days is under my authority. Each day brings new activities and memories! I read. I draw. I call friends. I go on hikes. My family is free of symptoms. We continue to spend much of our time together. Monday is painting with Mom. Tuesday is DnD with Sam and her friends online. Wednesday is embroidering with Grandma. Thursday is chess with Dad. All other days and time in between are also under my authority. Yet as the days fill with intent, an internal imbalance persists. When presented with a casual “How was work today?” I look away from the source of the innocent inquisition, respond “Fine,” and move on to another topic. Overall, I’m more excited to greet each day, but as time passes within the day, dread fills my body, cement. Anxiety throws me into the water and watches me drown. How can I be so happy yet miserable at the same time? I have to tell someone. I have to tell him. ----- I pulled out the chessboard. Dad perched across the table. Dull thuds as I place the pieces in their respective positions. Dad adjusts the pieces to the center of their squares. I hesitate to place the last piece, the king, on its square. My hand relinquishes its domain over the piece, and I look up at my dad. Throat tightening, I attempt to swallow what little saliva remains in my drying mouth. “Dad,” I begin, “I, I,” my glistening eyes lift up to meet a pair of glasses, “I got fired from my job.” “What?!” He jolted up, pieces jostled from the center of their squares. “What happened?” “I don’t know,” I replied, eyes looking back down at the laminate floor disguised as distinguished oak. “I messed up bad at work, and I’m the one that ended up taking the fall.” Silence passed in an eternal moment. I lifted my gaze again, “I never, I never knew, I-” “I can’t believe this,” he uttered with powerful simplicity. “Neither can I!” I protested to nothingness. “Un-fucking-believable,” his thumb picked and twisted between his two front teeth. “Four years of college, honors, awards scholarships… results in this?” Moving his hand to de-crease his forehead, he pinched his brow and said, “Well have you started looking for a new job?” My insides squirmed, switching from an uneasy anxiousness to a boiling pot of rage. What the fuck? What the actual fuck? This bastard has the audacity to skip over any detail of my problem at hand and go straight for the ‘look for a new job?’ I shoot up, chair ricketing in my wake. My knuckles whiten as fists tighten. My teeth clench and nostrils flare. My eyes ablaze focus directly beyond the glasses and into stone marbles. Metallic adrenaline pools in my mouth, my heart rate skyrockets, ready to fuel a brutal battle. “Stop. Stop. Stop,” I tell myself. “You figured he would respond this way, then why be so surprised?” I unclench my teeth, “Dad, I’m taking some time to figure things out. Please respect that.” “Taking some time? What the hell is that?” his eyes remained in an intense lock, but his brow began to unfold. “C’mon that sounds like something Sam would say. Really?” “I don’t need you to understand. I don’t even need you to like this or have your blessing or some crap like that,” I said, relaxing my shoulders and placing my hands on the now stable chair. “Just respect my decision, thanks.” “Ok Sean. Ok.” We lock our gaze one last time, and in silence, acknowledge each other. I disappear out of the dining room and enter into my room. Dad wants me to have a job, not “waste” my time. What is wasting time? Is it not working? Is it not contributing to society? Is it aimlessly wandering through a crowd, lost and too shy and too powerless to look up? The power has always been there, a hibernating force, waiting to be harnessed. I have the power to decide what I do. I control what I do with the day. I don’t control what or who I interact with. I don’t control what they think, say, or do. But I do control what I do with my day. I sink into my bed, close my eyes, and await the future present. ----- I sit up, arms stretched out, a deep breath in and then a deep breath out. Rays of light extending from the rising sun break through the window. I scoot out of bed, crack my neck, and peer out the window, staring at everything and nothing. Enveloping myself in the morning glow, I take another deep breath, a light tingling filling my body. The corners of my mouth rise up and I display a slight grin. Exhale. It’s Friday! Today I’ll go on a drive with Grandma, paint with Mom, and play chess with Dad. This weekend I’ll go camping with Sam. I feel as if I know the days better now. Before they were just some of many in an unrelentless crowd, forever stampeding forward. Now, those days are my friends. I know a lot about them: their names, their quirks, and the relationship I have with each one. They provide the time to live life. We share with each other experiences, opportunities to learn and grow, and ways to connect to the other people who also walk with the days. “Good morning!” I say out beyond the window. I shift my attention back inside, and prepare to embrace the day. You may not sleep again.

urdsdc

Death in winter

I stared at the snow. It was so far down...I think. When everything is white, you really can't tell. Footsteps pounded the ground next to me. I couldn't keep up, but he squeezed my hand. I wanted to say something, I wanted to do something besides run. What was he thinking? He was leading us all to a fate worse than what we would experience if one less of us lived out our days. There it was. The hand. She was back up. We reached the ice. My feet stopped moving. I had made up my mind, I refused to continue and die too. But he was faster, stronger and I knew all too soon I was being dragged onto the ice. Oh, no. I realize there is no face above the water. It's been too long, but he refuses to believe that. He persists. "She's too far out," I scream. He screamed too and his glasses fall off. I didn't mean to, but my small feet crush them. Even worse, he's blind now. I scream his name. We won't survive now. I know he keeps it in his pocket. I know it. I'd rather die quickly, than slowly and cold. I reach toward the pocket, fiddling in it as he practically drags me along. "No, Mija!" He screams. Why does he want me to do this? We can't help. It's too late, and we're too far out to turn back now, and yet he won't let me kill. And then I see the hand, reaching up and out of the water, with all the little strength she still had, the upper arm emerging, and then falling. That was the worst feeling ever. Not just that it was my mother, but that arm fell almost completely vertical into the hole, and it felt so weird. Two hours went by and we sat on the ice. I didn't cry, but my father did. He screamed my mothers name then and for many nights to come. Not only had I lost my mother, I had lost him too. The worst part was that he was still physically here with me, a staggering zombie, tongue lolling, dragging his body around like it was the only thing keeping him from happiness. Many screams. Nowhere to go. Many screams...yet nowhere to go. A scream awoke me. Not again. I staggered out of bed and pulled on my fluffy socks that I had gotten from my grandmother. They were hers before she died. Before she died. Before she died everyone was alive. Now the only person left is my virtually dead father. If only my mother hadn't died. If only she was alive so would my grandmother, and my father, and uncle, and aunt. Too many deaths in a year. There was death because there was love. They loved her so much, and yet me, her daughter, I didn't die. I stayed alive, but I guess I had to for my father. There was his scream again. He was remembering the day no doubt, he did so too much. I stood up, testing out the slippers. Still soft. I looked out the window. Over the night a thin sheet of snow had layered the ground. Great, we moved here so we would have nothing to remind us of...then. Well now my father was definitely going to have a stroke. I heard another scream and I ran to my fathers bedroom. If there was one thing I learned, it was that if I showed sympathy and care, it would make my father feel better. I burst through the door, putting on my act. "Pa! Pa, are you alright?!" My father took deep labored breaths. His eyes wide and his palms sweaty. Finally he mustered up the words as I waited, a fake worried expression on my face. "Synthia! I-I! Thank you-for coming!" I ran up to him. "Is everything okay Pa?" He smiled-sort of. "Go get your mother, she'll understand." I stopped and stared. Oof. That hurt. My father realized it momentarily and began to cry. He's done this before, he forgets she's not there and it gets really awkward. My mother once told me to take care of my father. She said he gets a little weird sometimes and I should know what to do, how to help him. The solution, which my mother was never able to tell me, was to pretend. In the beginning, I could, but I would sometimes end up crying with him. Then I got better, but now I'm just tired of him and his two year old fits. I get annoyed but I do it for my late mother. It was what she wanted, which normally I don't force myself to do what other people want. I'm not really the caring kind. I'm practical. And that's why... This happened in front of my third grade class too. My idiot teacher Mrs. Derkins made my tell the story of how my mother died to the whole class! She was a real piece of work. She said her and my mother were friends, but I knew my mother would never be friends with a person like that, because she was caring and practical. My mother even told me once that she didn't like Susan Derkins. That she thought Mrs. Derkins was from another planet. I laughed at the time, being eight, but now I'm 13, and all I remember were my mothers childish jokes. Pathetic. But age doesn't matter when you're grieving. I stood in front of my class and told the two sentence story I had written on a note card. But I got emotional. I didn't let it show, but after the first word, I began to spill all my feelings. I needed to get it out, all of it, and I couldn't with my father, but why did it have to be my third grade class. And then I almost told them about the... I don't know why, I feel embarrassed that my three year old self tried to do that. Even though it was practical. I was just lucky she didn't, and that, the ice didn't break, because my father wasn't getting off it anytime soon. Or maybe I wasn't lucky at all. They would've never let me live it down if I had told them, and by doing so they would be silent, so I could feel all their minds eyes staring at the girl who tried to do that, who tried to kill herself so she wouldn't meet the same fate as her mother, and their minds whispering to each other. I shook my head. No, I've got to stop thinking about this. I looked to my father. He had fainted. Great. I walked out of the room. In the kitchen I found a cold compress. I ran it under cold water and brought it to my father. I just left it on his head. He could take it off when he woke up. I was tired of being his bedside nurse. I heard the mail truck roll up to our house and headed to the small door side window. Sure enough, the mail truck was just leaving. I grabbed a hat and walked outside, bundled in a coat. I headed toward the mailbox and opened it. "Thanks Al!" I yelled. Just a few slips of mail. Trash, bills that we wouldn't-I'm sorry, couldn't-pay, and, a letter from grandma. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Grandmas dead, did someone forget that. I stared at it. Was someone trying to prank me, a friend maybe? Oh wait, I don't have any. Well, 2 years ago I would've just tossed the letter onto the street. But today I'm going to read it. I brought the mail inside the house and found my father out of bed, in the kitchen. "Hi chiquita!" He called, calling me a Spanish pet name even though he wasn't. I rolled my eyes at his wheelchair that he didn't need, All he was, was dramatic. "Eggs are on the counter," I droned. He smiled. Yeah, like that was real. In two minutes he'd be crying and forcing me to get him fast food like a three year old. All my life savings wasted on him cause he doesn't have any money. I walked to my room and sat cross-legged on my bed. I tossed the rest of the mail on the blanket beside me, but held onto the letter. I bit my lip as I ripped it open. I pulled the letter out and noticed for the first time it was addressed to me. I shrugged. The only thing that meant was that she hadn't sent money to my father for him to waste. Good. The letter looked aged. Very aged. What was it, her will? I mean, she is dead. I unfolded the letter in anticipation and curiosity. A slip of paper fell out. It also looked very aged, but I let it fall, I could look at it later. I spread the paper out on my bed. Not her will, but something else. But before I could start reading, I heard my father scream. I rolled my eyes. I'm not helping him now. Two more screams and then silence. I turned back to the paper, but only read the word 'Dear' before I heard something peculiar. It sounded like a choke. I got off the bed slowly. I slinked through the hall and approached the kitchen. I saw my father in his wheelchair, hands on his throat. What was he doing? Then he fell off his wheelchair, and I ran. "Daddy!!" I screamed. A word that had never escaped my lips for 6 years. My father clawed at the air and I realized he was choking. I screamed and he tried to hack. "Daddy please!!" I shrieked. He tried to grab me. Impulsively, I moved so he couldn't. His lips moved as if he was trying to say something. And then; "Tell...your mother I love her..." That was when I shattered. I stared at him. Fires burned in my eyes and I got up and he wheezed. And then, the biggest decision I ever made-also the quickest-, I walked away. I got to the entrance of my bedroom and stared. I was still in shock for what I had just done, but I took a deep breath and continued into my room. No cameras, I didn't kill my father, a piece of egg did, he was the only person that would know I tried to help, my only worry now was if he survived. I noticed the slip of paper on the ground and knelt down to pick it up. It was small and I turned it over. Only a few words were written on it, in a handwriting I recognized. I can't do this anymore, he's killing me. I took a deep breath. This note had obviously been sent to my grandmother. It was written by...her. A million thoughts rushed into my head and I felt they were all true. Even before my mother died my father was a big baby. The few true memories I have of him before her death mostly consisted of him whining to my mother. I stood up. I heard a final wheeze from my father before there was silence. I bit my lip to keep from crying because of what I had just done. I looked at my grandmothers letter and scanned over it. I knew it was true now. This letter was a response to my mothers suicide note. I ran out of my room and headed toward the door, passing my fathers body on the way. I reached the door and took a deep breath, coat now on. My hand grasped the handle and I took another deep breath before twisting it. The door flung open and a snowy wind rushed in. It was snowing. This would be hard, but unlike my father, I was practical, and I could get through tough times without falling apart. I ran through the snow, my slippers becoming cold and numbing my feet, but I kept running. Finally I reached it. The ice over Sleasant Lake was thick nor thin, but I knew it was a killer. But now I wouldn't run. This ice hadn't took my mother from us, it had saved her. She knew she couldn't run from him, or me, so she ran from life. Practical. I was no longer afraid of the ice, or the memories. They did good. If at least for my mother. So with my frozen energy, I lifted my foot and placed it on the cold surface ice of Sleasant Lake.

tm0c4u

Stars as Beautiful as Him

I struggle to get up from the waves as I feel like I’m drowning, but I feel strong hands around my waist lift me up. “Lad, you could have just swam up”, of course he was doing this. “Oh, really Phillip. You act as if it’s easy”, I sarcastically say as I get up to the surf, pushing him down in the process. He gets up quickly, as I lay down on the cloth we’d laid out. The sun was warm and I still had on a shirt despite being doused in seawater. I sat up quickly. “Oh my god I forgot about practice.” “Mate, that was cancelled yesterday.” I laid back down. “Oh, dang. Well what do you want to do now?” I guessed we could go to supper at the place down the road but I wasn’t sure. “I dunno. Maybe we could go home and change first and then go on a ride.” About 3 hours later we were in the stables. I began to get onto my horse, Lee. I’d always rode bareback, so I didn’t even have a saddle that I could use. I just sat there as Phillip readied his horse, Grant. We’d been flatmates for some time now. There was a sign on each stable, and as I passed, I saw mine, which stated “ Grant, owned by Percius”. I hated the name Percius, I asked for them to shorten it at the wood shop to Percy, but seeing as the carver in my grandfather, he wouldn’t allow it. “You ready to go?” Phillip interrupted my thoughts. “Oh yeah. Lets go, mate.” We began to take the trail and I realized It had almost become nighttime. We were reaching twilight. I decided to point it out. “You think we’ll be back by nightfall?” “Nope.” “Oh. Well where do you wanna go?” “That cliff. With the waterfall.” I nodded. The property was surprisingly cheap for it’s natural features that were included, but I would think the last owner must have brought it down a bit because of the crumbling house. But a good price is a good price. We continued to trot, just making light conversation, when suddenly the horses abruptly stopped. “I guess they could use a bit of a break, but I could too. You wanna tie them up and take a break with them?” “Sure.” I pulled the flask of water out of my pocket and drank a bit. I passed it over, and Phillip took a swig as we started to walk. “Really, water? Could have at least brought pop.” “Not my fault you don’t like water.” I flicked him in the back of the head as he spit out the water. “What was that for, Lad?” “You are quite literally a month older than me, so stop calling me that, you geezer.” “Oh, so I’m the insufferable one, now?” “You said it, not me.” He laughed as we came across a stone brick bridge, and we sat under it. The only noise to be heard was the low humming of the bugs and frogs, as well as the creek rumbling past right at our feet as I collected more water. “You know I never had a friend like you before, right?” Phillip broke the silence. “Well seeing as I’ve known you since you were young, yeah. I did know that.” “Well thank you. I never could live without you. Just so you know. If you ever died, I’d probably be right behind you mate.” “Don’t say that. You know you could move on, but I’d be real sad if you died, if that counts for anything.” I don't say that I would probably starve myself to death if he even moved away. “Sure, I know you’d be sad, but I just wish we were on the same level.” Now I felt bad, so I decided to just ask him. “What do you mean on the same level” “I love you mate.” He grabbed my hand and I realized what he meant, but I decided it would be a bit funnier if I acted dumb. “I love you too, you arse, we’ve been best friends for years.” “I’m in love with you, you bastard.” He squeezed my hand harder as he said it. “Well hell, I never thought I could get it out of you,” I brought his hand up to my face and kissed his knuckles. “I am in love with you as well.” He laughed. “Finally.” Phillip let go of my hand for a moment, pulling me in for a hug and whispering, “Now, the horses are waiting.” “Ugh, fine.” We got up and headed down the path, hand in hand. At this point it was dark enough where we had to focus on where we were going, and once we got back to the horses, I asked, “You wanna just leave Grant here, and let him graze over there? I can make room.” “Sure, I don’t mind.” I mounted Lee, and then helped up Phillip, as he was used to the saddle. He grabbed my waist and we began riding again, and he would randomly mutter to himself whenever the horse would walk more roughly. We arrived at the cliff and it had probably passed midnight. We tied Lee to a tree, and went just close enough to the edge, where we could lay on the ground, and our legs could dangle off a bit. We laid next to each other, looking at the stars. It was a beautiful night, with no clouds at all. I pointed out my favorite constellations, and told Phillip the stories that the Greeks told about them. He cut through the conversation, and just said, “You know you are perfect right?” I blushed immediately, looking away towards the stars again. “I’m not. I’m simply a messed up galaxy in the background of the universe, in which you are the center.” “Will you be my boyfriend Percius?” “You know I hate that name.” “What, Boyfriend? That’s not a name, per sa-” “No you arse. Percius. The adjective of boyfriend, I am especially fond of. Especially if it’s yours. ” “Good.” We looked up at the stars, holding hands even though there was no way for us to fall. At least not physically.

9rjegz

A Class Act

Brad sat in the classroom, nervous and distracted by all the masks adorning the faces of children and teachers alike. His gazed bounced from student to student, desperately seeking a focal point, something to calm his anxiety. Finally finding a familiar pair of eyes, Mrs. Lewis caught his attention, waved and stepped closer. “ Hi, Brad ,” she signed. “ Hi, Lewis ,” he signed back. “ Welcome back to school ,” she signed. “ Thanks ,” he motioned, unenthusiastically. “ What do you think of all this ?” she asked, motioning around. “ Don’t like it ,” he replied. “ Can’t see lips .” Although Brad was not a master at reading lips, the masks prohibited him from feeling the emotion of his interpreter because he couldn’t see her expressions. He couldn’t see anyones expressions. Reading people’s faces was what got Brad through the day in an all-hearing public school. Smiles, frowns, pensive and frustrated looks were things he could easily read from his peers. He used to be able to tell how his friends were feeling throughout the day, but now everything changed. He could see no one and it sent a sense of panic through his body. He was the only student in the district who was deaf, making it all the more important to feel included. “ Let’s sit ,” Mrs. Lewis signed. “ I don’t want to be here ,” he replied. “ I know ,” her eyes softened to show empathy. Mrs. Lewis had been Brad’s interpreter since he was in preschool. Now, entering junior high, life was going to be different in so many ways. Switching classes, different students, unknown teachers, and now nothing to see but eyes constantly staring back at him. Brad watched as Mrs. Lewis took her place next to the teacher at the front of the classroom. He could see them chatting back and forth for a bit before Mrs. Lewis started signing. “ Good morning, boys and girls. Welcome to seventh grade English. We have a lot of literature to cover this year as well as many …” Mrs. Lewis was still signing but Brad had already lost interest. He glanced around the room, taking in the posters of Shakespear and The Call of the Wild that had been placed on the walls many, many years ago. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Mrs. Lewis waving to him. That was the signal for him to pay attention. “ Ok, ok, ” he signed. “ I can’t help you if you won’t pay attention .” Mrs Lewis was one of the nicest people you would meet, but she also knew the importance of her job. She was the glue keeping him engaged in his learning. “ Sorry ,” he motioned on his chest. The rest of English played out the same way. Brad losing attention and apologizing for his lack of focus. The same story was true in his next three periods. Math, Science and Government all found Brad losing focus with his eyes wandering aimlessly around the rooms, not paying attention to what Mrs. Lewis was interpreting for him. By lunchtime, Brad was about exhausted from trying to figure out how to read everyone. His friends all waved to say hi, but Brad couldn’t tell if they were happy to see him or just being polite. “ How can I help ?” Mrs. Lewis asked at lunch. “ What can we do to get you to pay attention better ?” She pulled off her mask and started eating her sandwich. Brad lit up like a light bulb, smiling from ear to ear. “ There’s you !” he smiled, pointing right at her. “ What do you mean ?” she asked, taking another bite of her sandwich. “ I can see you now !” he practically laughed. Mrs. Lewis, realizing Brad could finally see her mouth as she ate without her mask, laughed right along with him. “ Let me see what I can do to fix this. Until then, you have to try to watch me, ok ?” She smiled. Brad just nodded as he continued eating his lunch. Something was going to have to change in order for him to successfully make it through this school year. The next few days at school were just as rough. Brad made a valiant effort to focus on Mrs. Lewis, but he started to feel uncomfortable, something he had never felt before at school. “ Everyone just stares ,” Brad said one day at lunch to Mrs. Lewis. “ What do you mean ?” she asked. “ All I see are eyes, staring, like I’m different .” The frustration was wearing him down. “ Hey ,” she softened her own expression. “ Everyone loves you, they just don’t know how to communicate with you yet with these masks. But don’t worry,” she started, then paused popping a chip into her mouth. “ Tomorrow will be different. Promise. ” The next day at school, Brad was greeted at first period English by Mrs. Lewis. And boy, was he ever happy to see her. She smiled and he smiled back. “ How did you do that ?” he gestured to her face. “ Those aren’t allowed here .” “ The school is letting me wear this face shield instead of the mask so you can read me better. ” The emotions were crystal clear on her face as she signed every word. Brad laughed. “ And …” she said. “ Look around the room .” He took a minute and looked around the classroom. All of the students who were at their desks and still trickling into the classroom were wearing face shields, which had been prohibited in their district for in-person learning up to this point. “ How ?” he asked, turning back to Mrs. Lewis. She stood there, holding out a face shield for him as well. His mouth gaped as he took the shield from her. “ Well ,” she said, “ don’t just stand there. Put it on !” Brad ripped off his mask and slid the shield over his head, adjusting it comfortably in front of his face. “ This is good ,” he signed, the priceless smile on his face was more than enough to show how he felt. What was turning out to be a very difficult school year suddenly became more tolerable for Brad. 

099lea

Simon/e

Marlene Dietrich was a female icon of the 1930s through 1950s, who spent most of her career performing. She had many small acting roles in her early career, until she began thriving off of her performance in The Blue Angel. Marlene became a famous actress, starring in many Hollywood roles. Eventually, she travelled to Europe as a part of the USO (United Service Organization) performing to the frontliners of World War 2. She is known as a strong female icon due to her courage to perform so closely to the front lines, as well as her statement on female fashion, and the role of females overall. She expressed herself uniquely, confidently striding across the stage confidently in jeans, and a top hat. “I dress for the image. Not for myself, not for the public, not for fashion, and not for men.” She completely rewrote the female fashion statement, becoming an idol to women, and inspiring them to feel comfortable and confident in whatever they wanted to wear. She normalized pants for women, showing comfort and beauty in anything from a pantsuit to a three- piece men’s tuxedo. ------------ Watching Marlene Dietrich perform for the first time was enlightening. A famous female icon, German singer, actress, in our camp. A woman, singing and smiling as she floated across the makeshift stage, all of us men huddled around the fire humming along. Pretending we weren’t close to the frontlines in Rouen, France during 1945, dancing and clapping the night away as we clung to Marlene for hope, for joy, for music. Something about that woman stood out to me. She was different from the other celebrities that have volunteered with the USO ( United Service Organization) like the beautiful Andrews sisters, or the beaming Joan Crawford, who connected with her audience flawlessly. Marlene Dietrich stood up there playing music in her trousers. Some say the men's clothes are to make a statement, but the men around me are snickering. “Wish they brought us someone in tighter clothing tonight” Andre mumbled beside me, causing the other men to chuckle. I shook my head, ignoring them, fascinated by the way this woman held herself on the stage. Fascinated by the way she danced around in her men’s khaki pants, the top hat, with such grace and confidence that I was reminded of someone. My daughter, Simone. ------- Before Papa left for war, he always sat with Mama on the couch, clapping as I performed for them. Ma is always on me about how I should stop wearing Papa’s clothes. “Simone, they’re too big for you, there’s a nice dress hanging in your closet, I haven’t seen my little girl in a dress since Christmas.” But Papa would just smile, winking as he’d slip me a belt to hold up the three- times- too- big trousers. “Annie, ma cherie” my papa would say as the music faded. “Let your daughter wear what she wants! She is after all, tonight’s entertainer!” I’d giggle, saying “Merci, thank you very much!” Taking Papa’s top hat off my head, bowing and offering it to the crowd, beaming at my Ma as she reluctantly reached into her pocket to fetch me a few coins. I’m Simone, and I’m 13 years old. Papa always said that I was wise for my age, and that some day I’d make a real difference for lots of people. Mama wonders why I want to wear some old jeans instead of my pretty new lace dress. Honestly, I couldn’t tell you. Dresses, long hair, bows- none of it really feels like me. If I had it my way, I’d have been born a boy. I’d be 13 year old Simon, a handsome young man, entertaining my parents for some spare coins before dinner. No- I’m just Simone. The young, “pretty” Simone, just starting to feel more curves than she’s comfortable with. Mama says the dress would look very becoming on me, That now that I’m a teenager, it would shape my body in just the right places. But still, for now, that dress can stay in the wardrobe. ---- We all stood and applauded Marlene after she completed her performance. The chatter rose in the crowd, as she began greeting us one by one. She thanked each of us for our service, kindly smiling and nodding. Andre tapped me on the shoulder. “Okay, but when she played that rusty saw like it was a guitar!” He laughed, swigging the last of his beer and tying his coat up, heading off to bed. “Too bad she’s not more of a woman, if you know what I mean.” I rolled my eyes, standing up as well. “I think it’s nice,” I responded. “Everyone’s got their own style, Marlene as well.” Andre shrugged his shoulders softly. “ Well I wish she had less of a style like an old man, and more like a Greek Goddess. The frontlines are surely in need of-” Andre was suddenly interrupted by a female voice, making both of us jump. “Pardon me, monsieurs, but I prefer the term modern to old man.” Marlene sounded annoyed, but had a calm smile on her face. “ I’m Armand,” I said, extending my hand to shake hers. “Listen, I personally love your style, you remind me of my daughter, whom I miss greatly.” Andre slipped away, but I barely noticed his absence. Marlene and I talked about Simone for a long time, as I told stories of her endless entertainment. “One time, she came out of the bedroom in a button up shirt, and a tie, with her hair all tucked under a hat. Mama about had a heart attack.” Marlene laughed and smiled, saying that each little girl needs to be reminded that they shouldn’t dress for other people. “Please tell your daughter hello for me, Armand.” Marlene said smiling. “ And tell her that trousers are much more comfortable anyway.” I smiled and nodded, as Marlene and I parted ways. I headed back to my tent, still grinning, thinking of little Simone in her top hat. ----- Papa has been off at war for five months now. Mama and I are doing well, but the house is much quieter these days. I walked into the kitchen for breakfast, dressed for the day in Papa’s old suspenders, with one of my blouses underneath, paired with some old loose jeans. “Simone darling, I really wish you would stop dressing like that, you’re not a boy.” I rolled my eyes, plopping down at the table, picking up my fork and stabbing the pancake on my plate. I opened a letter from Papa, reading about his latest endeavors. “Mama, I feel better like this. It’s not fair. How come every girl has to wear the same thing every single day? Tight skirts and itchy blouses, but boys can wear whatever they want. I wish I were a boy, Mama. Then I could walk outside with a smile on my face, comfortable and confident, with nobody trying to look at my curves from behind. Look Mama- even Papa says, right here: This entertainer came to camp last week, and reminded me of you Simone, she wore silly top hats and baggy clothes, but walked across that stage with such grace and confidence, just wanting to be herself. After the performance, I told her about you, and you know what she said? “Please tell Simone hello for me, and tell her not to be afraid to be herself. Also let her know that trousers are MUCH more comfortable than any itchy lace dress could ever be.” See Simone, Marlene was right, You have to be you, no matter what that is. Sending my love to you and Mama. - Papa. Mama sighed, looking at her coffee mug on the table. “Simone, we’re ladies. You won’t find a nice husband if you don’t act with some proper manners. You need to go change before school.” I hate when Mama talks about “being a proper lady”. I slammed my fist on the table. “Mama- you don’t get it! I don’t want lovely hats and nice husbands and lace dresses. I want… to be me! Papa would understand, he would help me be me.” I pushed my chair back, leaving the room. Heading into the bathroom, I angrily grabbed a pair of scissors. Not even stopping to think about it, I started chopping all of my long, curly blonde hair off, dropping it in chunks into the sink. ---- Dear Armand, it’s me, Annie. We’ve received your letters. Due to the invasions, we weren’t able to respond, but we’ve relocated and are safe now. I hope you are well, mon amour. A lot has changed since the last letter from months ago. For starters, we are now sheltering in Northern Italy, with your parents. I also have to correct you. Our child doesn’t go by Simone anymore, mon cheri. It was difficult at first, but I’ve never seen… him happier than he is now. He is so comfortable in his skin, and with his short hair he looks just like you. I know it was hard for me to understand at first, but I’ve never seen him this happy. Thank you for always supporting him darling. Also, thanks to you, he has found every clipping possible of this Marlene Dietrich, some American actress he won’t stop talking about. We better watch out darling, our son may flee to America to become a Hollywood entertainer. Sending love from me and Simon. - Annie ---- “Every human being is in need of talking to somebody.” Marlene Dietrich

4et6qz

Home

I stepped off the plane with a feeling of resentment. Throughout the flight I thought of thousands of different ways to escape, to find my way back home. Many ideas floated through my head like diving out of the fire escape and parachuting my way to freedom, or pretending to throw up so they would have to take me off the plane. But, considering all of the butterflies that were, and still are, in my stomach, I doubted that I would have had to pretend.The i thought I could have locked the pilot in the bathroom and turned the whole plane around, which actually doesn't seem that bad…no that's crazy… yeah, that was crazy. It was stupid to think of an escape plan when it was my own fault that I was coming here. Because I wanted to. I pick up my luggage at the baggage carousel. I find it easily, as it is the only bright floral print bag with a neon yellow tag. My parents bought it for me so I could never lose sight of it and find it easily as it moved along the conveyor belt. I drag my bag behind me and walk through the airport always as slowly as possible, taking small turtle steps and stopping at literally every airport magazine shop to flip through the magazines. Anything to delay my arrival into this city. Toronto, the place where I was born and the place I am trying so hard not to enter right now. It is not, however, the place where I grew up. I grew up in London, England. My parents moved there right after I was born because my dad got a job offer there. He’s a pretty successful businessman. In all these years, I never left London. I’ve lived in the same house since I was a baby and I’ve been attending the same school since kindergarten. I stop by the food court and stand in line to pick up some McDonalds. I’ll probably get a classic burger and fries and eat it really slowly, and maybe by the time I get outside it will be dark and I can get straight to my hotel and go to sleep... ughhh no! I know I shouldn’t be complaining because I wanted to be here. After high school, a lot of my classmates and friends got accepted into these amazing English universities like Oxford and Cambridge, and some other fancy ones I don’t know the names of. While they were getting acceptance letters left, right, and centre to become doctors and professors and Michelangelo-type artists, I decided to study photography right in the city. Since I was a kid my parents would show me pictures of their life before London, when they used to live in Toronto. I would look at the photos all the time and admire the way the CN Tower blinked red over the whole downtown scene, and I always wanted to visit, but never really got the chance. I’ve never really felt at home in London, for no reason in particular, but it always just felt like an extended stay that would soon end. Which I guess in a way it was. In my last year of high school, I realized nothing was really holding me back in London, so I decided to move to Toronto to study photography. I picked up my bag and put my phone in a basket. I watched as my belongings rolled through the black curtains into the scanner. I took off my shoes and my ring and waited to step through the arch. The lady called me to come forward but I did not move. Why was I so reluctant to join the city that I had admired for years? Miss, please come forward. I join reality again and step through the scanner and pick up my things. The decision I made was quite rash. I had no plan, I wasn’t promised to any Canadian university, and I didn’t have a job either. I guess I was so excited by the prospect of living out my dream I hadn’t stopped to think logically. What if everything failed and I would have to move back to London? My grades would not support any English university I wanted to go to, which I really don’t. What if I can’t find a job? Or how long will I have to live in this hotel? And how did I travel across the world by myself with no plan? Maybe these were just dreams, only dreams. What if - Whoosh My cloud of worry and overthinking is blown away by the crisp and cold Canadian air as it hits my face. I soon realize that I somehow navigated myself out of the Toronto airport and I also realize that I’m very under dressed for the cold weather. I zip up my jacket higher up to my face and look around. The snow is lightly falling all around, making the sidewalks splotchy and damp. There is a white billboard to the far left with an ad for the new iPhone 12 which provides splashes of colour to the grey-blue monotone building it sits on. To my right, a woman is singing into a microphone, her voice echoing out on the streets with a drummer and guitarist playing their accompanied music behind her. A small group of people crowd around while one person drops a bill into the hat on the floor and then another person does the same. Turning away from the music scene I look in front of me, and look up. There stands a tall tower, that is round and pretty thin, but gets wider to the top, then thins again. A blinking red light on the top of the tower hits me square on the face. It was like how the sun shines on a new day. The light is comforting and reassuring. All of my anxious questions and worries feel a mile away, almost as if it hopped on the plane and flew back to London. A new sense of hope and motivation grows inside of me. Maybe I’ll find a new apartment to stay at and I’ll walk along the city passing out my resume to any restaurant I see. I’ll take photos all over the city, and I will take a photo of the place I always admired in my parents' picture. And I know not every day will be perfect and my battle with this city is far from over. There may be days when I hate this city and days when I love it. But I guess you can experience all different kinds of days when you are at home. END

ykku31

"'Why do you want to learn.....''

''Try to show me the middle C" I say to Micah my student for the day. The teachers at Music School are out today so we the older students, by 4 weeks, are to help teach the new comers. My student for the day Micah, who I found out is 12, is older than I am by 2 years. He seems to be more interested in my face than what I'm teaching him on the keyboard. Micah stares at the keyboard and then at me and then back at the keyboard and goes ''Where was that again?'' he asks, " You know what, let's take a break, I think we're both tired''. ''Emmanuella! Emmanuella!!'' my mom calls jolting me out of one of my many flashbacks, I seem to be having a lot of those lately. I seat in the first row in the middle of the pew at Church watching Micah play the organ for the Church and I sitting there knowing little to nothing about this same instrument I ' 'taugh t'' him a few years back. Wandering how that happened or even how it's even possible well that's my story.... After music school, a 3 month long course in the summer of 2012, I was sent off to Boarding school, as was the norm among well-to-do families where I come from. The aim as was thought by parents was to make us independent, we the children however saw it as payback time for all the house chores and duties we skipped growing up. In boarding school, we were made to do a lot of chores, I mean A LOT, including washing the toilets, dishes, sometimes gardening, and I tell ya; not in a fun way.... But now that I think about it it was interesting and worth the experience. In year 8, two years into secondary school, I joined the school orchestra as a violin player, reason being the violin was a peaceful instrument, meanwhile the real reason; I was too scared to play the piano and find out I had forgotten. In year 10, I joined the choir in order to develop my singing voice, I also became a member of the school football(soccer) team. in Year 11, one year before I finished secondary school, I guilt tripped my parents- though not intentionally- into buying me a saxophone which I took up in the school orchestra in place of the violin, I believed I had found my ''calling''. But then again I believed that each time I took up a new hobby. In year 12 I took up badminton. A few days ago I asked the Church drummer for drumming lessons, he's a busy guy and well wanted to make sure I'll take it seriously so he asked the question that we all get asked at personal interviews "why do you want to ......" I guess you can complete the sentence. And that's when it hits me ....''why do I want to learn the drums?''                  Some would think that having tried out so many hobbies, I would've settled for one, I mean I was 16 and had just finished secondary school. Nope! that was not the case in fact I begged my parents in my first 3 months of gap year to enrol me in a Hip hop dance academy, as you can imagine... they did not even listen to me, asking how that would play a role in my plans to study medicine the following year, suggesting instead that I learnt to speak German. Wunderschon! a part of me was glad about it, even though I acted like I wasn't, another part wanted to add French to it. lol. Seven months into gap year I tried to play a fast one and asked for a Lawn Tennis training reason being Doctors needed some form of leisure. Did I mention I also took up braiding and dancing two summers ago, as well as ....... "ok I get it, you have a thing for being active all the time'' the Church Drummer Isaiah interrupts me, "I'll teach you, enough with the stories''. Like Isaiah, and I dare to say like you dear readers you wonder what goes on in the mind of a person the world would tag with ‘’Borderline Personality Disorder’’ I prefer to use the dictionary term which is ‘’Multipotentiality’’ I might be wrong I’m not an expert, just a 19-year-old girl trying to make sense of her childhood and the many desires it brought regarding hobbies.                   The Clergy processes into the church service as the organ is being played by none other than…Micah. On getting here this morning I had fallen into one of those flashback moments most likely aimed at making me regret some of the mistakes I made in the past. But the thing with us ‘’Multipotentialists’’ (uuuu it’s beginning to catch on) is we claim we regret not pursuing diligently just one of the many hobbies we have taken up over the course of our lives, But I assure you if we had a second chance at life's opportunities we would follow the exact same pattern over and over again, maybe the only difference would be the order. Thank you Jesus for opening my eyes....I thought to myself as I finally understood. EPILOGUE:   Did I mention I also…...nah just kidding I hope...., I lay on my bed wandering what to do with myself after the service is over, after in my own understanding, God’s big reveal to me concerning my feeling of ‘’regret’’ due to my perceived lack of talent earlier on in the service. I can only hope my relationships do not out turn out this way cause that's the next thing I'll be channelling my energy to, asides trying out new hobbies of course. ;-) I may have ended up a ''Jack of all trades, master of none'' as the saying goes, I at least managed to land myself free drumming lessons without answering the dreaded question. Any ways I can’t wait to tell you how baking school goes!!

h7a5mv

Danny's Story

 Danny’s Story You can’t choose your family.  My father used to say that acquiring family was like playing the slot machine. Sometimes, you came up with cherries across the board for the good ones, other times it was bananas for the crazy ones or lemons for the sour ones. I first heard the news at work but no name was attached to it. It was on the car radio on the drive home. It was the top story at six o’clock, but still no moniker was released.  It was all over the Internet with condolences for the family. It wasn’t until the next morning when I checked my phone that the haunting image of that face, one that I knew very well with those hypnotic eyes and that sad, yet likeable smile penetrated and shattered my life. “It’s cousin Danny.” I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to be angry, but couldn’t muster up that emotion.  There was nothing to laugh at. There were so many emotions that were running through my brain, heart and body that it was a miracle the whole machine didn’t explode. “Cousin Danny was the shooter.” I hadn’t heard from my cousin for years. I had tried to contact him, but never got any messages in return.  I knew that the guy had been in and out of the psych ward. I knew that he had travelled a really rough road for a long time. These were bits and pieces I heard through the family grapevine.  It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I had a much older sister. By the time that I was entering middle school she was graduating from college. Danny had one sister just a couple of years older than him. We always agreed that secretly we were each other’s brother. His mother and my father were second cousins.  For some reason, we never visited because there was bad blood between the parents. The two families lived about four hours apart. Danny and I grew up together.  Every summer, we would spend a good chunk of our time together at our grandparent’s farm. It was the perfect place for two little boys to find trouble and mischief seemed to follow us around like a bad smell. There was the time that we found a can of green paint in the shed. It was just a small container and it had been sitting on the shelf for a very long time. It took all of our creative genius and limited muscle to open it. The green was an awful colour. Danny grinned. “Remember what grandma said the other day?” I shook my head. “She said that we spent so much time on this farm that our names should be all over it. Do you see our names all over it?” I smirked. I didn’t have to guess what my cousin had in mind. So we took a couple of twigs and wrote our names all over the farm. We covered the barns, inside and outside, the sheds, the chicken coop, the farm machinery and last, but not least, the house. It was there that grandpa Gus caught us. “What are you two little Devils up to?  Who said you could paint the house green?” We ran and he chased after us despite the arthritis in his right knee. He eventually caught us hiding in the barn and boxed our ears. “Let’s go Picasso and Rembrandt, you have a lot of cleaning up to do.” We spent the last few days of summer vacation cleaning and scrubbing green pain off every surface that had been attacked.  “If I ever catch you puling this kind of nonsense again, I will spank your bottoms so hard that you won’t be able to stand up for a week.” The next summer, we left all the paints alone. We had discovered something much more fun. The farm included a clump of trees. We had explored every inch of that forest many, many times.  We had built tree forts and enticed Danny’s slightly older sister Eleanor to come and see the great building only to douse her with a bucket of slime water.  Our butts were sore for a while after that one. But, that year we found a giant ant hill stuck between two trees. “You thinking what I’m thinking cousin?”  Danny smirked and I just shrugged my shoulders. In minutes, the two opposite Tarzan swings had been set up.  They were about thirty feet apart. “The winner knocks the other off the rope into the ant hill.  Have fun, cousin.”  Danny smiled. I tried to act tough.  Honestly, I thought it was a little crazy, but if I didn’t go ahead with things, he would razz me something awful. We swung toward each other and smacked hard both trying desperately to hang on while attempting to knock the other off.  It didn’t work the first time, so we tried it again. Finally, on the eight try, it worked in my favour.  I managed to knock Danny right into the ant pile. The ants were all over him instantly. I laughed so hard that I nearly fell into the ant pile. “The ants are biting my nuts!” Danny stripped in one swift, clean motion dancing around brushing the ants off of him as he maneuvered away from the ant hill. I called it the ant dance.  I couldn’t stop laughing and this only irritated him even more. “Shut up, jerk, or I’ll go up there and drag your sorry ass right in the middle of it.” “I can see your little hot dog.” “That’s it, you’re dead cousin.” Danny, who was completely naked, ran to the tree that served as my sanctuary and realized climbing it without any clothes could be worse than an ant attack. So he retrieved a long stick and slowly, methodically pulled out all of the clothes out of the ant pile. He carefully and roughly brushed all of the ants off them. By the time he was dressed, I was long gone. Danny found me in the kitchen talking to grandma. “Danny where have you been?” “Just skipping rocks across the pond.” “You mean stones, honey.  Rocks are great big things that you can’t even pick up unless you want a hernia.” “Grandma, what’s a hernia?” I asked. “Your grandfather had one years ago. It is man pain.  It happens when you pick up something too heavy or pull your groin the wrong way.” “Like if you were to land in a pile of angry red ants and you jumped out and danced like a crazy person possessed by the Devil.” I smiled at grandma, while Danny gritted his teeth. “Well, who would be foolish enough to do something that?” I grinned at Danny. There were paybacks. We slept in the same room and that night I found myself gasping for air. Cousin Danny had taped my mouth shut.  I looked over in the next bed and he was feigning sleep although the brat was laughing so hard he was shaking. There was also the time we played gladiators. It was a simple game. We had found some old cork laying around (grandpa suffered from pack rat syndrome and never threw anything away).  We attached the cork to the end of bamboo poles. Then we went to the pond where there was a log perched over the water. We stood a few feet apart and pounded one another trying to knock each other off the log.  It was great fun until Danny knocked me off and I smacked my head hard enough to earn a first-rate concussion. Danny picked up my head by yanking on my hair. I was swimming in and out of consciousness. “Oh, my God, come on cousin talk to me.” Later, he told me there was blood leaking from my ears and nose. That’s when he got really scared. Danny picked me up. It was no easy feat since we weighed about the same and carried me to the front door of the old farmhouse. He screamed his ass off. “Grandma, grandpa, hurry up and come quick.” They ran out the door. “Jesus, Mary and all the Saints, what have two knuckleheads been up to?” Grandpa Gus was angry. Grandma ran back in the house and called for an ambulance.  Despite the fact that they lived out in the boonies as grandpa was fond of saying, the medics arrived rather quickly. It was probably grandma’s urgent and panicky voice that convinced them it was a real emergency.  She also screamed damn loud. Grandpa and Danny drove to the hospital some twenty-five miles away and had lots of time to talk. “How did it happen and don’t lie to me boy or I’ll take the switch to you?” Danny didn’t sweat it because he knew that grandma would never let grandpa take the switch to them. I was okay and we were packed off home a few days earlier than planned. There had been a thousand more adventures. But, we couldn’t stay mischievous little boys forever.  We grew up and landed jobs in our respective hometowns.  We were thirteen the last time we saw each other. It was ironic, because we both had cars, but there was always something in the way like baseball practice, homework, girls and just growing up, I guess. When grandpa died, Danny never came to the funeral. “Where is Danny?” I asked his mother and father and sister. “He had to work.” Eleanor looked guilty. “But, Grandpa Gus was good to him.” She just walked away. When grandma passed away, Danny once again failed to show up for the funeral.  This time, only Eleanor showed up. “Where is Danny? Doesn’t he know that grandma died?” “He knows, but he is away.” “Do you have a phone number I can call him at?” “It’s best that you don’t.” “Give me an address so I can write him a letter.” There was no Internet or cell phones back then. “Give me your phone number and I’ll have him call you.” He never called. We drifted apart some more. After much effort, I finally got a hold of Danny’s phone number. “Danny, I am getting married, I want you at the wedding. You have to be there.” “I’ll see what I can do.” He never showed up. The bits and pieces of what Danny was up to arrived like a few drops of water in a very dry desert. My mom informed me of this tidbit one day. “Danny got married and he didn’t invite me?” The connection had been severed. There was no explanation, no story, no reason. And, then his name showed up again this time in a very unfavourable way. The headlines said it all: ‘Man kills eight and injures twenty-six in wild spree at local mall.’  Then, he turned the gun on himself. “Good bye, Danny,” as the tears ran down my cheeks. I closed my eyes and a soft, sour smile came to me remembering the ant dance of a million days ago.

3m84pf

The Killing Dove

Ping! The glass jar shifted slightly as a lead pellet ricocheted off its rim. “That’s a hit.” said the boy holding the rifle. He was fourteen years old, growing bony but still soft-skinned and as beautiful as a child. “It didn’t break, Dan. It’s my turn now,” said Cley, who was standing next to him. Two years younger, he was slight-framed with a large head and an active, frowning brow. The boys knew each other well; Daniel’s father was dating Cley’s mother, and neither boy was happy about it. “Two turns each.” “No, you said one turn each. You’ve had yours.” “Fine. Here. But be careful.” “I know how to shoot. My grampa taught me.”  The younger boy set his sights down the dark, oiled barrel of the pellet gun. The glass jar was sitting in the crook of a tree branch, twenty feet away. He breathed out slowly like his grandfather had shown him. He wanted to hit the jar, to smash it to pieces right there in front of Daniel. As his finger gently rounded the trigger, he saw a flutter of movement in the leaves of the tree above. Through the flitting green foliage, he could see the grey movement of a bird. Without thinking he lifted his aim until the bird’s breast came into the sight. “You’re aiming too high!” Daniel shouted. Cley squeezed the trigger and the gun coughed a single, wheezing crack. There was an explosion of feathers as the bird took flight, but only for a moment before it fell with a heavy sound to the floor.  “Where you aiming for that?” Daniel asked, confused but somewhat impressed by the younger boy. “I didn’t mean to... I mean I didn’t think I would hit it,” Cley stammered, trying to quell the rising panic he felt as the bird flapped weakly around in the dirt. “I think it’s still alive,” Daniel was bending over the injured animal. It was a ring-necked turtle dove, smaller now in its suffering. One wing was extended and a globule of bright blood showed where the pellet had gone in through its shoulder. “Is it going to be ok?” Tears prickled Cley’s eyes and he fought back a racking sob. Hearing the emotion in the boy’s voice, Daniel turned to look at him. “No, you broke its wing. You have to kill it now.” “Can you do it, please?” “No, you must.” Daniel’s voice was hard and smooth. The younger boy sucked in his breath and looking at Daniel he saw something that he had never seen in a boy’s face before. He had no brothers. He’d lived with his mother alone, and spent most of his childhood with his girl cousins. “Please?” Cley asked, whimpering slightly. “Please can you do it?” “Ok, fine.” Daniel said, but instead of loading the gun and delivering the final shot at close range, he picked the injured bird and put it in the crook of the tree, on top of the glass jar. “What are you doing?” Cley asked, presentiment sending a shard of ice into his belly. “Gonna shoot it,” Daniel replied, in the same gunmetal voice as before. “Can’t we shoot it on the ground? Like close up?” “This’ll be more fun.” Daniel always had been interested in killing. When his mom left and his dad was working in his office, the boy had walked through the house and shot every gecko off the wall with his BB gun. Sometimes he would spend hours hunting the ceiling corners around the lights and examining the limp, translucent bodies of the geckos with blown-out bellies or smashed-in backs. Daniel turned and walked back and dragged a faded wrought-iron lawn chair to where they had been standing. With the composure of a seasoned sniper, he knelt down over the chair and rested the pellet gun on the metal arms. His dad had given it to him after a summer of chores. The bird was limp between the Y-shaped bow of the tree, its neck bent and head hanging, one wide eye visible and alive to the world. “I’ll go first,” Daniel said. Not waiting for an answer. He was activated by the blood and the proximity of death and fumbled with a little mushroom pellet, its tiny flat head seeming powdery and hateful to Cley. Once the gun was loaded he knelt, squinted through one eye, and fired. “Dammit!” he cried. The shot had gone high and wide through the gap. He loaded again. This time he aimed carefully, lining the bird up alone the barrel like he had seen them do on the movies. He pulled the trigger and there was a soft thud into the tree. “You hit the branch,” Cley said in an alert, even voice, despite the horror he felt of the situation, he knew it was a bad shot. “You go then!” Daniel shouted, shoving the gun towards him. The smaller boy tried to back away, but the dark wooden butt of the rifle was pushed hard into his chest. He looked up, and seeing the anger twisting in Daniel's face, took the gun. It took him some effort to snap the spring-loaded middle open and pull it down to load it, and when Daniel held out a pellet he took it carefully and loaded it into the barrel. Cley didn’t want to think about what would happen if the pellet struck the bird, but more than that he didn’t want it to carry on suffering. He walked slowly to the white chair and balanced the thin barrel against it. There was a small scraping sound between the two metals and he knew his grandfather wouldn’t approve; of the naked barrel touching the chair or of what they were doing. He lined his target up, the front pointer just above the gap in the sight further back. In his mind, he could see the trajectory of the bullet from the gun to the bird. He put his finger lightly on the trigger and corrected a fraction, then squeezed. The pellet sped away and they heard nothing but the faintest pfft sound, before the bird arched and fell, this time dead before it hit the ground. Cley looked up at Daniel as he felt their lives bound together. They were brothers now, brothers in the blood of death. 

ccrnxk

Moving On

“Moving on is never easy , but must be done. “ I gulp for air choking back the tears trying to escape from my eyes. “Family, friends, loved ones we are here today to celebrate the life of my father Kolby Lane.” I can’t say one more word. The pastor shakes my hand and I step back getting lost in the crowd. The Covid-19 pandemic has been over for two years now, but the effects are everywhere. Masks haven’t been mandatory since last January but there’s still a couple random people wearing them. I look around to see all the people that have been in my dads life over his fifty -six years on earth, thankful none of them are wearing a mask here. Seeing all their quivering lips and straight faces helps me feel more normal. I am so much more appreciative now of people and what they add to any situation. “Now if Kolby’s children and wife would step forward.” I look up just releasing I have been starring at the sea of people since I stopped talking. My two brothers, mom and I all join hands and take a step forward. “Place your flowers on the casket.” I gave mine to Alex, my little brother, who gave me his biggest smile. He barley understands what’s going on. He was born right before the pandemic, so all of this feels weird to him. Big groups, no mask all this is uncharted territory for him. He sent his and my flower down gently on the center of the casket. Charlie my older brother placed his next. Charlie’s only a sophomore in high school but the day my dad dropped dead was the day he grew up. Ever since he’s been doing more around the house taking me and my brother to school, even cooking sometimes. He’s been my mom’s support system when she’s needed it most. I lean over and whisper in his ear, “He’s so proud of you. I know he is.” Charlie’s face doesn’t change, but he nods his head up and down like he was agreeing with me. I don’t think his face has changed since dad died. He lays his flower down over mine and Alex’s flowers. Charlie leads my mom further to right next the casket. Two weeks ago my whole family was home just living their normal lives. My mom walks in the door after getting grocers and sees my dad laying on the floor. She yelled for Charlie to call 9-1-1 and told everyone to stay upstairs. I try to run down but Alex’s grabbed my hand and begged me to play legos with him. I heard the ambulance pull up and all the sudden the parents were gone and the children were home alone. Charlie’s didn’t turn 16 till the next day but he still drove us to the hospital. My mom didn’t talk for about three days. We all stayed in the hospital until he was pulled for life support. I was the only one who could handle the news, “Your dad has passed away due to Covid-19 complications.” My brain couldn’t comprehended what the doctor was saying. i heard all the words but they weren’t clicking. I was lost for words. “Covid hasn’t been a thing for years, he had it in the beginning doctors said he couldn’t get it again, I don’t understand, somethings wrong, check again.” Somewhere in my ramble I started to aggressively sob. I hit the wall and slide down to the fall. The doctor squatted to my level, “Covid-19 levels a bacteria behind after certain blood types have it. Your dad is a B positive one of the three blood types that can contract his bacteria from Covid-19. I am so sorry.” “Maddie.” My mom was holding out her hand to me. We both took hold of my mom’s flower and placed it on the casket. My whole family placed one hand on my dad’s final resting place. We all said our goodbyes silently. Father said some prayer and suddenly my dad lifelessly laying was six feet below. I can hear people’s footsteps behind me including my mom’s. She’s taking Alex to the lunch in before everyone else gets there. I can’t move. I don’t want to move. There’s so many stupid things that stupid bastard won’t be here for. My legs cave in as a I fall to the grass. Charlie’s there right as I’m about to lose all control. He holds me in a way only a big brother can hold a little sister. His hug feels like dad’s arms wrapped around me. We sit there for a long time. I am loudly crying into his shoulder feeling everything and nothing all at once. If I look up I know I would see him crying but he doesn’t want that. His way of grieving is being everything anyone needs. I pull away from Charlie. We both stand up at the same time, but he turns to leave first. I stare at the patch of dirt over my dad. The groundkeepers are there placing his tomb stone. They give me a nod of condolence and walk towards other patches of dirt. His tomb stone reads, “Love is holding on the memories that only the heart can see.” Memories is all I have left of the man who raised me. Letting go is one thing but moving on is a completely different thing. Charlie pulls up his car and flashes his headlights at me. I stand up rubbing the dirt between my fingers. “Fuck, Covid.”. I muster up the strength to get to the car. I knew a pandemic would change my life is in a lot of different ways, but i never thought it would be affecting me after it was over. The pandemic and it’s after affects feels like a tidal wave of affects. Wave after wave they just keep coming with no end in sight. My life is forever changed by the pandemic and it will never be normal. I close my eyes and open the passenger side door. Charlie speeds away before I can even take my last look at my dad. 

44vf46

The Cookie Exchange Police Department

Sergeant Jack Washburn was a sergeant in the police department of Tekhood, Minnisota. He was a strict yet kind gentleman, recently married to his wife, Lilliane. Lilliane was exactly like her husband, except on the softer side. She had a soothing, soft voice, a big heart, and was too kind to be a human. She was more like a god. It had been a few days since the return from his honeymoon when Jack Washburn received a call from the Saint Paul Police Department. Saint Paul was about 50 miles away from Tekhood, and Jack saw no reason why they would call the Tekhood Police Department at all, let alone on a night such as this. The moon was bright, the stars were gleaming, and the sky was clear. Jack was out on his wooden porch admiring the view past the wood when his phone rang. He snatched it out of his pocket and picked up. Lilliane rocked quietly on a rocking chair beside him. "Hello. Sergeant Washburn," Jack said quickly, realizing the caller had dialed his work phone number. Lilliane realized this too, and glanced up at her husband in confusion. Who is it? she mouthed. Jack shook his head. I don't know. "Hello, Mr. Washburn?" "Yes, who is this?" Jack spoke hurriedly, not wanting to talk for too long. "Hello. I'm Detective Florence George from the Saint Paul Police Department." Jack paused. "Uummm... hello. To what do I owe the pleasure, Detective Florence?" "Yes, we received a call earlier today that a bank was getting robbed. We arrived at the crime scene too late, and after a few hours of investigation we concluded that the criminal was the same person who robbed the USAB bank last week." "What does that have to do with the Tekhood Police Department?" Jack asked. "You didn't let me finish." Florence said sternly from the receiving end. Jack gulped, and Lilliane frowned, wondering what was going on. "Please continue, Detective." "Very good. As I was saying, we managed to figure out the license plate of the car that the criminal drives. We've been tracking the movement of the car, and it's headed into Tekwood County. It'd be a real help if you helped catch this criminal." Jack was flabbergasted. "Well-" he started, trying to catch his breath. "Yes. Yes, I will definitely help you, Detective Florence!" "That's great. Do you have a pen and paper with you? I'm going to read you the information that we've gathered. We'll fax it over to your headquarters tomorrow morning." "I-" Jack snatched a pen and paper up from the woven, outdoor coffee table and tucked his phone onto his shoulder. "Okay, I'm ready." "Good. License plate number is 0TYS431. Car is 2000 model Honda Accord with blue paint and a red paint streak on the trunk. The criminal who should be driving the car is a female, age 42, by the name of Shirley Bash." Jack dropped his pencil. "Great. I got all that down." He reread his notepad. "Wait a- Shirley Bash?" Jack's knees trembled ever so slightly. "Yes. That's the woman. That'll be all now, Sergeant Washburn. Thanks for your help." Detective Florence hung up. Jack collapsed onto his patio floor, staring off into space, sweating. Lilliane stood up quickly. "Jack!" she said in a hushed tone, her Hungarian accent slipping out. "Jack! My love, are you okay?!" "I-I'm... no." Jack said, stuttering. Lilliane had a fearful expression on her face. "What is wrong? Did they say something bad?" "M-my... Shirley." Jack spat. Lilliane sank to her knees. "My darling, what are you-" "My sister is a criminal, Lilliane." Lilliane turned red. She stood up silently and pursed her lips. Without a word, she turned around and walked into the house. Jack panted. "I'm supposed to catch- catch my- Lilliane....ooohh..." Jack leaned his head back against the rocking chair and closed his eyes tightly. "Say it ain't so.... say it ain't...ssoo..." The next morning, Jack woke up and walked into the kitchen. He found Lilliane already awake and whisking away at a bowl of pancake batter. "Good morning," he murmured, rubbing his eyes. "I got it." "Got vat?" "I figured out that we need to catch Shirley." "And...?" Lilliane poured some batter onto a frying pan. "I have the perfect idea of how to catch her." "Do you, now?" "We invite her over to a party. Here. We also invite some friends, the Jacksons, the Frosts, and a couple of my guys from work. Then, in the middle of the party, we corner her and arrest her." "Zat sounds fine," Lilliane said simply, flipping a pancake. "Except...." "Except what?" Jack asked. "I do not want zat woman in my 'ouse." "Why not? Hon, it's only-" "She is scoundrel, no? I do not want her stealing my vases from Russia, or my money for Africa, or our baby right out of my stomach!" "Honey, that was from a movie- Beastmaster , I think. I doubt Shirley is going to cut you open to get a baby that isn't even half way developed yet." Lilliane frowned. "Still." She held up a small platter of pancakes. "You want one?" "Sure." Jack snatched a pancake and took a bite, before kissing Lilliane on the cheek. "Love you, babe! See you later!" " 'Ave fun at vork!" Lilliane called after Jack as he walked out the door. Jack stepped into his car and turned his keys in the ignition. The engine sprang to life. -------------------------------------------- Jack left work that day satisfied. He had gotten his fellow police colleagues into the scheme, and Lilliane had called him during a meeting to inform him that she already had 20 friends coming to the party tonight, which she'd decided needed a theme. She'd said "Vat's the party for? I came up with a cookie exchange. Everyone brings cookies and ve exchange them and critic the sweets and talk and everyone has a good time." Jack arrived home to find his wife feverishly working inside the kitchen, with 4 platters of different flavored cookies already spread out on the island. The house was sparkling clean (except for the kitchen), and the sweet scent of another batch of cookies could be smelled from all the way upstairs. Jack rushed over to his wife and pecked her on the cheek. She blushed and playfully whacked him with a rolling pin. " 'Ere, try," she said simply, stuffing a cookie into Jack's mouth. He swallowed as he let the savory flavor touch his tongue. "Mmmm...." he managed through chews. "What flavor...?" "Raspberry almond nut with a hint of cranberry juice in the dough! What do you think?!" "I love it!" Jack said, smiling. His wife looked incredibly happy with her creations. "Hon," he said quickly, just remembering something. "We have to invite Shirley to the cookie exchange." " 'Aven't you done that already?" Lilliane asked, opening the over and taking a batch of caramel-mint chocolate chip cookies out. "No..." Jack trailed off. "But I should." "Yes. Now." Jack sighed. "Fine." He walked out to the porch and took out his cell phone. He stared at it for a moment, then regretfully dialed his sisters number. He half heartedly put the phone to his ear, and took a deep breath as he waited for someone to answer. "Yello?" Jack caught his breath. "Yello? Annnnyyyybody there?" "Shirley! Hi, it's Jack!" "Jack? Oooh. Hey, Buddy, what do I owe the pleasure?" "Hey! Look, Lilliane and I are having this huge cookie exchange bash, and I know your job is always taking you places, so I just thought I'd shoot you a call to see if you were in the area." "Well, golly gee, you caught me at the right time. I just happen to be right outside Tekwood. Would ya mind if I dropped by? Fine time since I seen Lilliane and the kid." "We don't have a kid," Jack coughed. There was a pause, before Shirley's country voice came back on. "Oh. Sorry. I'll come fer sure. But do I need to bring anything?" "Nothing. Unless you happen to have a box of cookies in the trunk, then you're off the hook, Shirley." "Well, thanks again, Jack. I'll see you there!" "Bye, Shir! Love ya!" Shirley hung up. Jack trudged back into his house, where he found Lilliane putting in a batch of what appeared to be honey-graham-nut cookies. " 'Ow did eet go?" "Well," Jack shrugged. "She's coming." "Zat is good, no?" "It's swell." Jack managed a weak smile, but it formed into a real one when he saw his wife's glowing face. "Now how about one of them cookies that you promised me?" ---------------------------------- Shirley was caught. Jack got promoted. Lilliane gave birth to a baby boy who Jack named Florence. The End. Authors note- Readers; this was less a story about cookies and criminals but more a story about love and support of the spouses. I find it beautiful how 2 people can love eachother with such a strong passion despite it all. So to anybody out there who is reading this, true love and honesty and trust can conquer all. "Forever is a long time, but I don't mind as long as I spend it by your side."

joscmb

The Midnight Walk

On nights like these, you will never run into a person doing something crazy. I will never forget this night. It was the night I got arrested for a crime that I didn’t commit. I was strolling through the streets that night. It was so quiet outside, that the only thing you could hear were the crickets chirping. I was on my way home when someone ran past me and almost knocked me over. I stood there silently because my body was flowing with anger because they didn’t say excuse me or anything. As I started walking I heard something hit the floor. “Clink”. I turned around to see what it was and it was a knife. I couldn’t see it clearly, so I picked it up and I noticed it was leaking with blood. I freaked out because not my DNA was all over this weapon. At this point, my mind was spazzing out because I didn’t know what to do. I felt something slightly wet on my jacket and I noticed it was blood on me. “ where did this come from” I thought to myself. And I remembered the person that bumped. I started to run not realizing that I had that knife still in my hand. I didn’t know where to go. I didn’t want to get blamed for what ever this was. As I was running I ended up tripping over something big. I fell and didn’t see what I tripped over. I got up and realized that I was cover in blood. It was a body. At this point, I felt stuck. From a distance, I heard a scream. “ Ahhhh !”. I just stood there because I knew If I ran I would’ve been guilty. A few minutes later the cops arrived. I felt a chill run through my body, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t talk. At this point, my life was over. As I slowly put my hands up I heard that “clink” noise again. I realized I had the knife in my hand this whole time. At this point, it was on the floor. Now I know this murder is about to be pinned on me. The officer walked over to me and asked me what my name was. “My name is Ezekiel,” I said nervously. The officer handcuffed me and read my rights to me and put me in the back of the cop car. At this point, I wanted to die because I’m a black man with a young woman's blood all over me. You know we black men always get time for something that we didn’t commit. We got to the station and I was put in an interrogation room. Detective Hunter came into the room and started interrogating Ezekiel. “What happened ?”. “ I was walking home and got bumped by this person. I didn’t think much of it because it was late and I didn’t want to start anything. I heard something drop on the ground as they ran by and I figured it was just keys or something. As I got closer I saw that it was a knife. I picked it up and blood was dripping all down it. “That doesn’t explain the blood on your sweater”. “Please let me finish as this is hard for me to explain.” “Go on.” “ I felt something wet on my sweater, and I looked down and noticed that it was blood on me. I freaked out and started running.” “Where were you running too?”. “I was running home because I didn’t know what to do. As I was running I tripped over something and didn’t realize it was a body until I got up”. “ But you were holding the weapon in your hand”. “ I explained to you what happened, and how the knife ended up in my hand. I picked it up because I thought it was something important to the person that was running”. “ You think I’ll believe a little shit like you. Why did you do this ? Why did you kill that poor girl?”. “ I didn’t kill anyone. You have to believe me. Please please”. Detective Hunter left the room and watched Ezekiel's behavior from behind the window. “ This doesn’t add up,” Hunter said out loud. “ What do you think happened ?” Amelia respond. “ I don’t know but I have a gut feeling about this one”. It’s always a black person that people get a gut feeling about. Detective Hunter went back into the room and said: “come on boy I’m taking you to get book”. Ezekiel started crying because he knew what they were doing was wrong. As Ezekiel and detective Hunter walked down the hall detective Hunter took out his piton and bashed Ezekiel in the head with it. Ezekiel fell to the ground and tried to hold every piece of emotion in that he could. “ That’s what you get for killing that woman. As Ezekiel got to the fingerprint station, blood started dripping down his head. In mid fingerprint detective, Hunter received a chirp on his walkie-talkie. “ What do you mean we have the wrong guy” detective Hunter said. According to the officer on the other end, the woman who was stabbed survived and gave the paramedics the actual person who committed the stabbing. Detective Hunter paused for a second and started to feel bad about what he just did to this man. Detective Hunter told him to sit down. Ezekiel sat down and started wiping the blood off his eye with his hand. Detective Hunter walked back over to Ezekiel and handed him a paper towel to wipe the blood off. “ According to officer Carson, we arrested the wrong person”. Ezekiel sat there shaking in anger not knowing how to feel. He popped up and started yelling “ I told you that you had the wrong person. You were so against my skin color that you didn’t want to see the truth. I want to get out of here now, and I will be pressing charges against you because of what you did to my eye”. “Boy sit down”. “I am a man. Get me the hell out these cuffs”. Detective Hunter walked Ezekiel to the front of the station to have him fill out some papers. After the paperwork was completed Ezekiel was set to go. Detective Hunter tried to apologize to Ezekiel but all Ezekiel could say was “screw you”. Detective Hunter stood there for a while and Amelia walked over to him and said “ hmm, what did I tell you about the gut feelings. Sometimes they are never right”.

p2j6s6

Bury Me

The coastal road meandered along the Italian rocky hill, keeping me on the edge with every turn. My journey was now in its final, loneliest stage. Many times in my life, I was told the sky is darkest before dawn, but even though my destination drew near, dawn seemed decades away as I drove through the pitch-black night, like a white feather diving into a bottle of tenebrous ink. A flight of steep steps carved into the side of the hill caught my eye by the left of the road as my headlights illuminated a curve. It led down to a narrow, sandy beach that weathered the ebb and flow of the Mediterranean water. This was it. I pulled over and carefully walked to the top step with the urn nested in the crest of my elbow, my high heels struggling to find their footing among the dry grass that reached up to my ankles. Surely, I could have brought pumps instead. The situation showed poor planning on my part. Before heading down, I pulled the letter from my pocket one more time and read it over to make sure the bizarre scene that was about to unfold indeed found roots in reality. Dearest Diana, You may not know me, but I have been thinking of you every step of the way since the very day of your birth. How ecstatic I was upon learning another girl had finally been born into our family. I was the first woman to bear the Bianchi name in three generations. Naturally, your grandfather must have spoken very little of his sister throughout the years. If you are reading these words, then I’m afraid it is too late for us to meet. Growing up with seven brothers turned out to be a very isolating experience, especially after my mother died. The only thing that kept me sane were these long, delightful walks on the beach, where I could lose myself in thought with complete abandon and forget the world even existed beyond the foamy sea. While walking, I ceased to exist. Loneliness became solitude, the kind that soothes your psyche and enlightens your soul. This solitude was taken from me when we moved to America at the onset of the War. In New York, I had to learn English. I had to get used to tight living quarters. Most difficult of all, I had to forget about the sea of peacefulness that shielded. My health quickly deteriorated, and at eighteen they sent me to Ostruk. I knew nothing good could come from this institution the minute I stepped through its threshold. They claimed to want my wellbeing; they lied. Perhaps you heard of me as “the crazy one” or the “mad woman.” If that is so, please know these words were written by your great-aunt while in full control of mind and body. It’s my understanding you have achieved much success with your company, and I am so proud of you. You’re the only one I can trust with this task. I have enclosed the location of the beach from my youth hoping you can travel there sixty-seven days from the day I died, one day for every year spent away from it. There, at midnight, someone will come bring you what is rightfully yours. With love,            Your great-aunt Giulietta I stood on the first step, motionless and confused. Indeed, grandpa had never spoken about a great-aunt locked up in an institution. On one hand, this might not have been the type of conversation one has over Christmas dinner. On the other, if this was true, everything I knew about my family had been brought into question. How could my grandfather, whom I held in such high esteem, be capable of such disdainful treatment towards his own sister? Even though I did not fully believe the story told by Giulietta in the letter given to me by her notary, something compelled me to make the journey. The math added up: it was almost midnight, precisely sixty-seven days after her death, and I would soon know whether the whole story had been made up or not. I grabbed the shovel from the trunk of my car and went down the steep stairway. This was of course my first time digging a grave, and it turned out to be more of a challenge than I imagined. The night wind surging from the Mediterranean Sea batted against my hair as I sank the shovel into the sand, over and over again, with the zeal of a young archeologist on the hunt for a lost treasure. Amidst the whizzing of the air around me, no other sound could be heard. In periodic flashes of terror, I turned left and right, haunted by the idea someone might creep up and viciously attack me. How foolish it was to have come here alone. The letter could have been a hoax written by a murderer in search of an easy prey, and what an easy prey I was indeed. While I did find success with my clothing company at first, sales had been more difficult this year. The industry had changed, and bon chic bon genre garments no longer dominated the retail world. In the age of thrifting, my clientele had slowly melted away. The providential promise of great-aunt Giulietta’s mysterious fortune clouded my judgment. Everybody dreams of a surprise inheritance from a distant relative in times of need, but in that the moment the risk being taken to earn what was allegedly ‘rightfully mine’ outweighed the benefits. Soon enough, I hit a rocky surface with the head of the shovel. This was as far as I could dig. I carefully positioned the urn at the bottom of the hole and threw back the displaced sand upon the ashes of my ancestor, fear still tearing at my heartstrings. The porcelain ornament vanished beneath the dirt. I glanced at my watch: it was now five past midnight. There was no one around, the absence both a relief and a disappointment. No inheritance loomed on the horizon, but no murdered lurked to kill me either. With weak, drained steps, I walked back up the stairway, then gasped: a shadowy figure leaned against the hood of my car. “Miss Bianchi?” said the dark man, his voice deep and raspy. I could not reply, for every inch of my body was paralyzed. A petrifying terror permeated my muscles, preventing me from moving from head to toe. He approached, his chiseled jaw becoming clearer as he crossed the sliver of moonlight that filtered through the clouds over the hill. “I believe this is yours,” added the dark stranger, presenting me with a jewelry box. Realizing I still could not move, he opened it for me: inside was the most beautiful emerald necklace I had ever seen. A piece of paper hung from the top of the box, fluttering in the wind. Dearest Diana, Against all odds, you honoured me. This is proof that a connection exists between us, in spite of the distance and the generations that kept us apart. My mother gave this to me before she died, and I kept it hidden from my brothers ever since. Now I give it to you, woman to woman. Know that I am with you, always. With love, Your great-aunt Giulietta My hands carefully grabbed the necklace and wrapped it around my neck. The green gems shimmered in the moonlight. For a brief second, I thought of its worth. Surely, selling it would solve all my financial issues and put my company back on track, but this was not an option. Somehow, I knew a daughter would one day come into my life and take ownership of the jewel. Business comes and goes, but the ties of family bind forever. As the dark stranger walked back to his vehicle, I caught a last glimpse of the narrow beach before the moon vanished behind the clouds, plunging it into darkness. I would be back in the morning. Not to bury the dead, but to take a long walk in solitude.

ez1rnq

Let's Talk Under the Stars

“You know, your two ears are so you can do twice as much listening.” “And your one mouth is so you can do half as much talking.” “Well, I have a lot to say.” “You always do.” “Besides, I like talking to you.” “Man. Give it a week. I’m sure I’ll be getting the silent treatment at some point.” “I mean, sometimes I don’t want to talk. But I always LIKE talking to you.” “... I like talking to you too. Even when it seems like I’m not listening sometimes. I always am.” "..." “There’s another one.” “How many is that?” “13, I think.” “I wonder how many are really out there.” “Yeah, me too.” “The only way we’d know is if they all light up at once. Show themselves.” “Dude, can you imagine if there are hundreds out there? They’d light up and it’d look like the sky fell.” “Mmm. Fell right into our laps.” "..." “What’s your favorite planet up there?” “Oh, I’m not too sure. Maybe Saturn? I’ve always liked Saturn’s rings.” “How many rings does it have?” “7.” “Hmm. 3 more than LeBron.” “Oh please, you bring basketball into everything. What’s your favorite planet?” “Mercury’s nice … looks like someone sprinkled glitter all over it.” “It really does. Let’s see. Recipe calls for a little glitter, a bit of sparkle, oh and of course, can’t forget the dash of star dust.” “I love it so much. And Neptune … it’s so blue!” “Ice cold blue.” “I think we should go skating on Neptune.” “I think you have good ideas, and this is no exception.” "..." “Dad come home last night?” “No.” “Hmph. Maybe he’s up there in the sky. With the planets. It’d explain why he isn’t here … if he’s so far away...” “Last night Mom and I baked cookies. We can reheat them in the oven if you want. Chocolate chip. Your favorite.” “Chocolate chip will forever be the number one cookie.” “No argument.” “But chocolate will forever be the worst ice cream flavor.” “Amen to that. Worse cake flavor too! Absolutely disgusting.” “I miss when we use to drink hot chocolate in the mornings.” “Me too … hot chocolate, pajamas, and 'I Love Lucy'.” “You know what the best part was?” “The sickening number of marshmallows you’d add?" “I added just the right number of marshmallows, thank you very much. But no –” “It was already sweetened hot chocolate, then you’d add sugar, and then you’d throw marshmallows on top like you wanted a snow storm!” "Okay so the marshmallows were an overkill! But that’s not what I was going to say. The best part was how easy it all was.” “Hmm.” “Nothing’s easy anymore.” “This feels pretty easy though, doesn’t it? Cool night, sweet breeze, swinging hammocks … the fireflies.” “I suppose.” “... But I know what you mean. Growing up, it’s not easy. When you’re little everyone shields you from all the ugly. Everyone around makes sure you’re happy and laughing. You grow up and suddenly no ones really concerned with protecting you from anything. It all comes slapping you in the face.” “... Why …” “Why what?” “Why doesn’t anyone want to protect us anymore?” “I don’t think it’s that they don’t want to, maybe they don’t think they have to anymore.” “I wish they did.” "..." “You know how after a snowstorm, I'd walk in front of you so you could follow in my footsteps?” “Yeah I do.” “ And how I come watch cartoons with you when you have a nightmare and don't want to fall asleep again? ” “Yeah.” “I’m always looking out for you … and I’ll always protect you.” “I know. I’ll always protect you too.” “I bet little man.” “Hey! You remember the first time we saw a firefly? You were terrified. Older sister, running behind me trying to hide. That’s why I caught the one in a mason jar so you could hold it. Realize they weren’t so bad.” “Oh my goodness I remember that, we opened the jar and waited all night for it to fly away. Then we stayed up until we couldn’t see the light anymore.” “Wouldn’t it be weird if that firefly was here now?” “Oh no. That was years ago.” “And?” “Fireflies live for about a year, more or less.” “What? That’s it?” “Mmhmm. And they’re only adults for the couple of the weeks in the end.” “How do you know all that?” “I like to research.” “Yeah you do …” "..." “Most of our lives will be spent as adults, sometimes it feels like we’re barely kids … and for them, they get to spend most of their life as kids.” “Well, we’ll have to properly consider the firefly lifecycle.” "..." “Or not? Alright, let’s not.” “I wish that was my life.” “Maybe they’re looking at us wishing this were their life. Maybe they wish they had more time as adults.” “Mom’s always saying how she wishes she had more time.” “Everyone says they want more time.” “You said you wanted more time to study for your philosophy exam but when your teacher pushed it back two days, you didn’t spend any of that extra time studying.” “Isn’t your memory sharp.” “I’m just saying! People think more time is the answer, but they just spend it further avoiding their problem. Mom thinks more time will solve things. But she just spends it avoiding the problem … spends it baking cookies.” “I’m not going to lie; it really scares me when you talk like you’re an adult.” “Man me too. I don’t like it. Imma go back to being a kid.” “Please.” "..." “You know what’d make me feel like a kid again?” “What?” “If you’d sing to me.” “What do you want to hear?” “Uh, let’s see … something … something about the stars.” “Hmmm … when you wish upon a star …” “Wait! This is going to be good. Let me get comfortable first.” “I’m so tired of you! Hurry it up then.” “I love you too. Okay, okay. I’m good.” “When you wish upon a star Makes no difference who you are Anything your heart desires Will come to you.”

fjqrc4

Something To Say

I come home late at night. The door opens with a groan. Mom is sitting on the table, her brown hair tightly held in a utilarian bun, her eyes watching the clock tick. I close the door and her blue eyes pin mine. The intense blue colour is a scolding itself. I crush the cigarette in my fist and drop my sack at the door. The lightbulb swings. I stand. She watches. "1?" Her stare is vacant and her eyes are glazed like marbles. I stay silent and squeeze the cigarette harder, the ashen warmth burning on my skin. "I thought 12 was late. What do you?! Why do you do this to me!" I watch her fingers shake as she wipes a tear from her face, "We live in New York Jess! It's not safe! You can't come home at 1? Your curfew is 9! You know why Jess? Because there are messed up people out there, okay? Messed up people who kill. Like the man who killed your dad! So don't you dare to that to me Jess, you understand me? Never ever do that again! Because you do not know what I can do? Oh I can do plenty!" I step out to the trashcan and dangle the cigarette over it provoking. I know she's watching. Let her watch. Then I pull out a bottle of empty beer and chuck it in there too. --- I lie in bed for an hour. Tossing and turning. I hear an other fragmented sob and cradle my head in my hands. The tears come out hard like November rain. I push them into my skin. I can't cry. I cannot cry for someone who's so angry at me. She's manipulative. Overprotective. Strict. Caring. I cough, pheulgm closing up my throat. I want to say I'm sorry. My eyes close before I get the chance. --- Harsh morning light pushes through the blinds. I yawn and stumble off the bead with a crash. I slide a pair of black jeans and pull on a Bon Jovi T-shirt. The alarm beeps. Shit. 9:00 o' clock. The red lines buzz. I pull my sack over my shoulder and start to run downstairs. A stiff yellow banana and a boiled egg are left on the counter. I pick the banana up and run. The road's full with traffic. So, I skate on the sidewalk, while stuffing the ripe banana in my mouth. A redbrick roof comes into view, and I turn left onto the road. I don't look right and left. A honk sounds my ears and I push my sneakers on the road as fast I can, I grapple onto the grass with a sigh. The car zooms into a tree canopy behind me. --- I pick up a damp carton of milk and go to the farthest cafeteria table. I push my thumb into the top and the carton opens, ice cold milk wetting my fingers. I rest my elbows on the speckled grey and drink. She's two tables down next to him. He wears a big leather jacket over his structured shoulders. She rests her head in the nook of his side. Her hair is in a pony tail today, a few strands peak out from her ears. Her brown eyes look bolder and brighter against her warm skin. She looks at me. I look back. Then she looks at him and they giggle into each others' ears. I bail for the rest of school. --- The crescent moon glows brightly underneath the sheer purple clouds. The undulating stars gleam over the tall buildings that protrude over each other. Graffitied garage doors line the side of the road. I stop at one of a man and a women. Holding hands in front of the sunset. Their figures are silhouettes. I sigh and continue walking. I arrive home at 6 o clock. The smell of hot chocolate is strong and poignant. Two star-shaped sugar cookies sit on a plate. I fall onto the chair and stuff one of the cookies in my mouth. I sit and watch her stir soup in a metal pot. While I chew, I mutter"Thank you. I'm sorry." Then I grab the plate and mug and sprint upstairs, skipping two steps per stride. I wanted to say more. That I love her. That I couldn't live without her. That I need her. That she is the best parent in the world. I don't. --- The sun pounds down on my back, tendrils of sweat snaking down my abdomen. The bench is hot and unpleasant. I push my hair back and wipe my brow with my wrist. My hands feel hot and clammy and my face burns. I stare at the sidewalk, watching shoes pound on the ground. Blue and White striped Adidas go by. Then Khaki's with a bulging toe. I see brown Converse and look up rapidly. It's her. I hesitate. Then get up. I'm going to tell her that I like her. "Hey-uh-hey!" I call out. She stops in her footsteps. He's right next to her. I inhale. Then look at her. She smiles awkwardly and holds her textbook to her chest. "So-Mr.-Uhhh-He-I mean- Mr. D said that we had an assigment due sometime this week? When is it due?" I glance at him. His eyes are irritated, like he's a bull and I'm a fly. I smirk and look at her. She fiddles with her earrings. "It's due-" she flips through her textbook, "Thursday. It's due Thurday." "K." I grin. "Yeah," she nods. Her cheeks heat up a little. I pick up my skateboard and leave. --- I feel good about myself as I stare at the ceiling. I hear a creak and look at the door, the room becomes brighter as Mom peaks in. The front of her face is shadowed, making her facial features grey and dull. "Hi." she pushes her bangs from her face, "Go to sleep soon okay? By 11 o clock by the latest." "Yeah-yeah. I love you." the sound escapes my mouth and I turn around before she can see my face. I know she's smiling. I hear the door close.

mt09yi

Over Under

Charlie could not do it any longer. He carefully marked his place, sat his book down, and headed out of the room. He had been trying to read the same book for nearly six months. The noise had become far too distracting. Almost nothing would help anymore. They always came at the worst of times. He quickly checked his outfit in the mirror, and he went through the front door. As he was getting into his car, he noticed that he forgot to put on his tie. He considered going back inside to get it but decided he would rather not waste time on something as silly as a tie. He didn’t think anyone really noticed it anyways. Charlie was a middle-aged balding man with thick round glasses and currently had a navy-blue suit on. He had bags under his eyes that suggested months if not years of restless nights and the distinct demeanor of an elderly man. People often assumed he was much older than he genuinely was. Charlie was on his way to work as the city's senior undertaker. It was his job to transport the recently deceased and perform the delicate procedure of getting them ready for burial, and he hated it. He hated everything about it. The morgue, with the cold empty atmosphere, the tight expensive suits he had to wear to all the funerals, and most of all the spirits that called to him wherever he was. He had first acquired this ability the day he turned 21. It had seemed like a blessing at first. Like he finally had a purpose in this world. He had liked to think of himself as a sort of afterlife therapist. Helping the recently deceased with whatever was keeping them back. His work had been full of wonder and adventure. He woke up feeling excited each and every day. What could be better than that? He also found out a lot of things he never knew before. For instance, one day he was working with a particularly difficult spirit in one of his “sessions” as he liked to call them, and the spirit just wasn’t paying attention. Finally, he got so fed up that he grabbed him to shake some sense into him and the spirit just faded away never to be seen again. From this he found out that he could exert a sort of energy into the spirits and that was all it took. There was another time he attempted to bring one back to his house for another session. He had driven all the way back and had just gotten inside when he realized that the spirit had up and disappeared on him. It had taken him all day to retrace his steps. He had finally found it waiting patiently where he first discovered it. As it turned out, spirits could not move more than a block away from their bodies. Because of this it had started to become more and more difficult to get to them whenever they called. More often than not they were in some stranger’s house and he would have to come up with a ridiculous story to gain entry. So, in order to get better access, he took up the job of assistant undertaker. However, after a few years the novelty of his newfound ability wore off. He had become calloused and less deliberate. It had also become apparent that they did not care about him. Did not care that he might be sleeping, or eating, or who he might be with at the time. They did not thank him, and they were always miserable. He was now left stuck in this position. He did not want to do it anymore, but he feared that if he ever stopped the noise would multiply to a level that would leave him permanently deaf or insane or something. He had to accept the fact that this was life whether he liked it or not. Finally, there it was across the street. The house where he was sure all the noise was coming from. He got out of his car and approached the door. When he rang the doorbell, a small elderly plump man answered. His eyes were red, and his nose looked rubbed raw. “Can I help you?” he asked. “Yes, I am the undertaker, here to collect the body.” He looked a little puzzled. “Oh, but we haven’t even called anybody about it yet.” Darn it, he arrived too early. In his eagerness to get this over with he forgot to wait a while to let the proper people arrive first. He was about to come up with something clever when the man said, “Well, you might as well come in anyway, I’ll show you where she is.” He followed him along the narrow passageway deeper into the house. He could’ve found his way alright, but Charlie let him guide anyway. They finally made their way to a bedroom that looked like it had been converted to an at home hospice care facility. He was used to seeing this whenever he did house calls, so it no longer shocked him to see wires coming out of machines and regulators of different kinds filling the entire room. The room also housed a giant hospital bed. Finally, he caught sight of a faint apparition in a dark corner that, of course, only he could see and hear. The spirit appeared to be an elderly woman with a kind face. It was the kind of face that could only be made by a grandmother. One that filled you with memories of gingersnap cookies and chocolate milk. He quickly looked away pretending not to see it. Whenever the apparitions found out that he could see them they would immediately rush over and try to speak with him. He found this quite annoying most of the time. He usually waited until he got to the morgue or until he got in the hearse to finally acknowledge them. “Mr. uh” Charlie was mentally hitting himself. He forgot to ask his name. “Timmons” he finished. “Right, Mr. Timmons. It might take me a while to prepare her for transport. Would you mind stepping out of the room for a moment.” He looked a bit puzzled at this request but stepped out of the room anyway. Now that he was in the room alone, he started unplugging and unhooking the hospital machinery, surreptitiously glancing over to the corner where he knew the spirit was hovering. He started making notes on the notepad he kept with him. This was all for later record keeping. About half an hour later he was ready. He started rolling the bed out of the door. He looked back one more time to the dark corner before leaving, and unwittingly looked it right in the eyes. He quickly averted his eyes. Now he had done it. He hadn’t even made it so much as out of the room. He braced himself, sure he was about to be bombarded with annoying questions, and pitiful moans, but nothing came. Had he only imagined it? No, he was convinced they had just locked eyes. As he left the room and turned the corner he chanced another look. Yes, there she was looking straight at him. Was she blind? No, this couldn’t be right. He had met tons of ghosts who had bad eyesight in life, but they were perfectly lucid in death. He decided not to question it as he passed by the elderly man who let him in. He seemed to be engrossed in a serious conversation on the phone, so he decided to leave without speaking to him. He would talk with him at the funeral anyway. When he got to the curb, he folded up the hospital bed and put it into the hearse. Then he got inside and drove away. He had just reached the end of the street when he was startled by a voice that came from behind him. “Now that we are out of the house, perhaps we should make a formal introduction. My name is Maggie Timmons, but everyone just calls me Granny Marge.” He looked in his rearview mirror and noticed she had appeared from the back of the hearse and was sitting quite comfortably in the backseat. Thrown a little off guard he answered “M-My name is Charlie Hoover.” However, he quickly gathered himself and switched over to his elevator speech. “And I bet you are wondering what is going on?” he was about to continue when she astonished him by responding, “no, not really. I had been seriously ill for some time. Although, I am confused, is this supposed to be heaven?” Charlie turned a corner at a stop sign and said, “No, it's still Earth, and you're a spirit living between this world and the next.” She took a moment to process this for about a quarter of a mile and said, “I see.” Then she asked, “so, why are you here? And why are you the only one who can see me?” He had been dreading this question. He hated being reminded of this, but he put it out of his mind and took a moment to collect himself before saying, "I can see you because it is my job to help souls like yours move on from your old lives.” Anticipating her freaking out at being told his position would determine her entire eternity, he shrilled, “but you don’t have to worry. I am very good at what I do. I've been doing it a long long time.” However, instead of freaking out, she said to him: “Oh my, you poor thing, I should offer you some chocolate. I usually give my grandkids sweets when they are going through something rough, but alas they must be in my other soul’s pocket.” This surprised him and he chuckled at this joke as they approached the ramp onto the highway. “Forgive me for asking, but you seem to be taking this very well. Aren’t you terrified about leaving this world?” She took another moment to answer and then said, “My grandmother instilled in me that I should always be poised and calm in front of strangers.” He waited for another answer, but none came. He made his way around a slow car and said, “but we are not strangers anymore are we? I am Charlie Hoover and you’re Granny Marge.” He didn’t know what was making him want to talk to her more. Usually he would just stick to the elevator speech, grab their hands, and watch them disappear. However, there was something intriguing about her. Like she genuinely cared more about him than herself. She laughed at this and remarked, “yes I suppose we’re not strangers anymore are we. Well I can’t lie to you I am scared. I am excited though that I will eventually get to where I must go, and I have complete confidence that you are able to do the job properly.” She left the sentence hanging for a little while. “But, there is still a part of me that remains afraid even though I know for certain where I am going. It is a different kind of fear. One I don’t think I have ever experienced before.” Silence hung at the end of that last sentence for what seemed like forever. They had gone another couple miles when Charlie broke the silence by saying, “How do you know where you are going? I thought nobody really knew that.” She looked at him from the mirror and said, “I know because I have always known. There was a period when my own grandmother was dying. We siblings were called one by one to say our goodbyes. I was terrified of losing her, but she told me she was heading to a place where there was peace beyond peace. Where every tear was wiped away and all chaos ceased forever. I did not understand it at the time, and did not believe such a place existed. However, I feel I always knew it was there. It wasn’t until I was close to death that I fully accepted it.”  He was left momentarily stunned at her certainty in this matter. A place where there was peace beyond peace? How could this be. He'd been doing this job for quite some time; he couldn't imagine his chaotic life ever being peaceful. Of course he had heard of this place before, but he had never heard it described quite like this. As they crossed the bridge into the downtown area, he reflected on this as the sun now bloomed over the horizon, bathing the city with a warm orange and yellow light. They did not speak again until they reached the tall building where Charlie worked. By then it was about 9:30 and the sun was fully in the sky “Well here we are. Would you mind stepping out with me?” She looked at him kindly and said, “Of course Charlie.” They both got out of the car. Now I need you to take my hands. She looked hesitant. Charlie said, “What’s the matter? I thought you said you were ready.” She didn’t look at him, but instead was staring at her own hands, “I am ready, but I was just thinking about all the people I was going to leave behind, and I just realized I never met my granddaughter's child. They were supposed to have a baby shower today, and I missed it. I missed it all.” She looked like she would be on the verge of tears if it was possible to shed them as a ghost. Charlie was battling with himself at this moment. Just take her hands and be done with it, but he did not. Instead he found himself saying, “What if I helped you see it. The child I mean.” If she could shed tears now Charlie guessed her face would be covered in them. “Oh that would be fantastic. Thank you! Thank you so much God bless you!” He thought he must be going crazy, and he found his legs moving of their own accord back into the car. There was no turning back now. “Her house is just across the street from mine. I don’t know if we are going to make it.” Charlie with a newfound surge of energy gunned it. It wasn’t until 10 AM until they arrived back at the house. He parked a little ways down the street so that the man in the house where he picked Maggie up didn’t notice him. He was across the street from where there was clearly a party going on in the unusually spacious front yard. He looked back at Maggie and said, “you go on ahead. I don’t want to draw attention to myself.” But she did not seem to hear this, as she did not speak on her way out. She was drawn to the party across the street. He saw her glide into their midst and settled herself behind the young woman holding a bundle in her arms. Charlie watched as Maggie’s expression changed from worried to blissful as she looked at the swaddle of clothes that was a young baby. Then she looked back up, locked eyes with Charlie a smile creasing across her face, and disappeared. Well that was out of the way now he thought. He started his car and drove back to work. He worked at getting her body ready for burial that day without ceasing. He did not even take lunch. In fact when he was done he was very surprised to see that it was already time to go home. Maggie left him feeling different. It was a feeling he could not describe. He drove all the way home in silence trying desperately to pinpoint it.  He got ready for bed; still not sure what it was that was different. He thought through everything that had happened that day. Then he thought about what Granny Marge had said about her grandmother. The peace that had come over her face as she talked about that place. The place of peace beyond peace. Where every tear was wiped away and every worry in the world ceased. He also thought about how genuinely kind she was, but also so real were her feelings. He laid down on his bed; somehow seeming lighter than he had before. Then he closed his eyes and had the best night sleep in years.

lm1igq

...little drummer girl

Write about a drummer going to a holiday party for musicians. Lee wasn’t your typical drummer. A talented singer and dancer, her abilities were more suited for Broadway in musical theatre than heavy metal. So, she became more of a Karen Carpenter type drummer rather than Neil Peart; slim, graceful, with a velvety rich voice. The fact that she played drums at all was a bit of a lark. She had met Lyle in college, who was much older and a rock musician; she sang and needed to pick up an instrument, and her dancers training made her have natural rhythm...she simply picked up the drumsticks and played like she had all her life. This created her teenage runaway marriage that greatly changed the course of her destiny, nice girl Lee married bad boy Lyle. It lasted for a while and produced two beautiful children, but his drug and emotional abuse of her made her quickly realize this was not how she wanted to raise her children. She got out young, and worked hard to make a home and life for them. Still, she was wanting more in life, particularly love...This was even hardy at the holidays, when the kids were off for visitation and she had nothing else to do but sit alone and cry, and watch the Sound of Music all alone. She was determined to make it different this year… The years had passed since her divorce, although her kids were still very young. She strung together a series of part time jobs to make ends meet. She still taught dance and performed in her productions, and since she loved to sing, kept her name on 3” x 5” cards at local music shops, in case anyone needed a girl singer or drummer. Sometimes she begrudgingly agreed to play with her ex husband in his recording studio, although using her after their split seemed unfair...she preferred to play with others. And frankly, his old 60’s music and 70’s metal was not her cup of tea; she preferred ballads and old songs or more modern stuff than that. So she kept a hand in her performing talents, if nothing else to put some food on the table and play dress up for the night. It was the 80’s, and a slender, dancer’s body Lee opted to dress more like Princess Diana rather than Stevie Nicks. Still, she had some cute performance outfits; a great green silk Chinese pajama set she got at a music shop for $10, some glitzy tops [no miniskirts despite the trend, as they’re not practical when drumming], and these great scrunchy ivory chained boots her ex used to call her “drumming boots''; perfect for the bass pedal. With more make-up and bigger hair, her classic look transformed into what her ex husband used to say looked just like Madonna, with similar features if not that iconic style. No wonder while still underage the bars would serve her with the rest of the band! Lee preferred tinted hosiery and kitten-heeled court shoes over biker boots, but it was fun to dress up and get out there. It was in this sweeter style that Lee met Mick, at church of all places. In a floral Laura Ashley dress with lace and giant shoulder pads, with her kids dressed in their Sunday best, Mick had been eyeing her from the pews for weeks. She had been in a relationship with a much older man, but realized the differences were just too many, so they had recently broken up. Mick was keeping an eye on this one, but it took him a while to work out that she was free, and finally got up the nerve to ask her out in December, shortly before Christmas. They hit it off right away. He had children slightly older, and was only recently separated from his wife. Lee knew her; the cookie lady at the bakery who would dole out fresh treats to pacify her kids when shopping at the grocery store. She was a nice lady, by all accounts...Lee never asked what went wrong, and just enjoyed the passion and attention. Mick was a typical businessman; worked hard, had nice friends and money, and a clever sense of humor. In the few short weeks before Christmas, he had Lee completely remodel his house! He wanted to get rid of the old, and said “I have a new girlfriend in my life, I want to make it how she likes it”. So Lee, with an artistic bent, painted the entire house and chose carefully all the colours. The only thing is she chose things pretty similar, which means it didn’t really transform at all, so different was more the same. But it was fresh. She met his friends; older and more sophisticated than herself, at holiday parties. She had no clue about fine wines or good food, but she would lovingly bake and bring cookies to their houses and enjoy adult witty repartee’ and dress like a grown-up when the kids were on visitation. It was a lovely change, and things certainly seemed to be moving forward relationship wise. Lee kept to a tradition of an open mic at a deli nearby to play at for Christmas time. Her ex husband and she used to be the regulars there with their band, and since she was long done with that, she agreed to the open mic with loads of others coming on for a set...that seemed more stress-free. If they needed a drummer, she could jump in when things got organic. Her mother watched the kids for the night and she was only staying for a few sets so as not to be gone very long. They did classic Beatles tunes and 60’s stuff her ex always played, along with his originals. Lee had created harmonies and percussion for these that no one else could match, so for half an hour she could tolerate him...barely. Rockers weren’t really her scene, so there weren't many people to talk to, but this was a mixed bag of musicians. Some were classical, and some did Christmas music. Since she was with Mick, she mostly talked with the women in the bands of their wives and girlfriends. She made sure to leave her business card for gigs and picked up fliers about upcoming events, and one was even an open holiday party invitation. Mick beamed with pride when he saw her perform; this was a whole different side of her. She wore a red sweater-knit dress that was both sexy and tasteful, black sparkly hose and patent leather pumps that pinched her toes a bit but looked great. Truth be told, she did love the limelight. Now, Lee’s own family was a bit dysfunctional; in fact, at this stage she had only gleaned it, but later on in life she realized they were basically bat-crap crazy. Still being young, she knew something was just “off”. Working several jobs at Christmas time with two small children is daunting at best. She always chose to work an early shift on Christmas Eve, so she could go with her parents to old friends of the family that night; a typical tradition. The only thing is, now that she worked all the time and was a mother, it was exhausting. She sat there the whole night, thinking about the preparations she would have been doing at home, and then fell asleep at their house from sheer exhaustion! By the time she drove the long drive home, her babies were asleep and she had to carry them off to bed and then stay up almost all night playing Santa. Stockings had to be hung, food prepared, packages wrapped and brought out, the works. She got a little sleep before tiny fingers were poking her eyes to see if she was awake...Santa had come! The tradition for Christmas was this; she got a little time with the kids in the morning, so they could open their presents from Santa. But unrelenting demands from her family and ex made it such that no one considered Lee of the kids needs first. Her mother always insisted on a Christmas dinner that she cooked. She wouldn’t allow Lee or her sister in law to help or bring anything, although they did anyway. Lately, her mother had gotten so she didn’t even remember to turn the oven on for the turkey! It was stressful, and Lee was not looking forward to it. After that, she had to drop the kids off for their father’s visitation, so it was a lot for little kids to go through. Generally, after that she was all alone on Christmas; why have a family if you end up alone on a holiday, even when you have done all the preparation? This year was a little different, since she met Mick and actually had a relationship and could do something together. She had cherished the few parties they had attended, and of course her work situation was so demanding, so time was tight. What they decided to do was, have the kids open presents early, then go to his sisters for breakfast, then what her mother called ‘dinner’ at 1pm. There was a flier that Lee had picked up the night of the open mic with the musicians, so that was a back-burner invitation. They didn’t know the people well; Mick actually worked with one guy in another department, so he was a weekend musician that actually was doing well, not the hand-to-mouth musician like Lee’s ex husband who lives and starves for his art. So that was a possibility of a party to go to, with all musicians and their friends and family. After the 6:00 am present opening at her own bungalow she shared with her children, Mick picked them all up to go to his sister’s for breakfast celebration around 8:00 am. She was a high-achiever and the breadwinner like her brother, but they considered her husband “lazy” because he was “only” bartender...their words, not hers. They had a lovely, amazing dome home, on a stream in the woods. It turned out Mick’s brother in law had hand-built the place to show them wrong in the laziness department! It was so chic, and Lee was getting decorating ideas, like using vintage glass blocks for coffee table legs as well as room dividers, large-scale real art on the lofty walls that had triangular windows generously dotted to let the might in. The Christmas decorations were amazing, with a magnificent tree from their property near the windows that showed the stream flowing by. The food was fabulous, with fresh things grown from their garden that the bartender hubby maintained and prepared as treats. Everything was fine, until the husband and wife got into a huge fight! Lee, still being young and naive in a lot of ways, couldn’t understand it. Being the very preppy, upwardly mobile 80’s, it seemed money and power reigned king in the house, and as the king of the castle was a lowly bartender; it didn’t matter what an amazing palace he created as a home for them, at least in his wife’s eyes. Mick and Lee grabbed the kids and got out of there as fast as possible! So, the next on the agenda was Lee’s parents' large 1902 saltbox house; all done Victorian-on-a-string. It would be a chance to introduce her new boyfriend to them and make an impression. He was lovely; charming, well-dressed, made a good living...everything they should want in a prospective mate for their daughter after marrying the disappointing rock musician druggy guy she had before. What could go wrong? Well, it was soon to be seen that everything could go wrong! Her dad yelled at them from the wrap-around porch, throwing his coffee into the bushes for a violent effect. Her aunt immediately screamed at them upon arrival; it seemed that her ancient grandmother had waited too long and was too exhausted. Dinner was at 1 pm, they were only 15 minutes late, but it seemed that meant they were supposed to have been there all day and then have dinner….well that was not Lee’s agenda in trying to please so many people as well as herself. Hadn’t she already given up time for family just last night on Christmas Eve? So, now her grandmother was too agitated to stay and eat, her daughter would have to take her home, and how could Lee do that when she waited so long to see the great-grandchildren? No one ever took into account the kids, age two and three, and their needs for naps and meals; it was all about the adults. The fighting didn’t end there. After the kerfuffle with the grandmother’s departure, they all sat down for a very tense dinner at 2:30 pm. In truth, the meal would not have been done in time anyway, as Lee’s mother had forgotten to turn the oven on and the bird wasn’t ready. All the bland, tasteless, watery over-cooked food had to wait and was lukewarm. But, as all the senior grown-ups had decided, it was all Lee’s fault, since she was dating again...how dare she? It didn’t matter about her happiness, it was about their agenda! They sat there and made pot-shots at Mick, a successful businessman, throughout the meal, as if he was a pimply-faced teenage suitor. One of the reasons for the disdain in her marriage was that her ex hadn’t been properly introduced to them, so she was trying to do it right, and it was going horribly wrong! Mick took most of the snipes in stride during the haranguing meal, but when they hit too close to home, he politely stood up, dropped his napkin, shook their hands and left with Lee. Since the day was running so awful, she had asked her ex to come pick up the kids at her parents, and he had...dressed in fringed suede boots and the obligatory Hendrix perm; a stark contrast to Mick’s navy blazer and tan slacks. Yet the parents wanted to put blame on Lee for having a life. The kids had been shuttled off to their dad’s for what was to be certainly more sugar and junk food and no naps, but that was his right for visitation. Lee left in tears… It was early, and Lee was trying to avoid the crying Christmas, but there it was. They had the flier from the open mic for the holiday party in the car. Should they give it a go? They hadn’t gotten to enjoy any bit of Christmas at all, and this was their first. It was only 4:00 and still a little bit light out, and there was nothing open and no place to go. Since Lee worked all the time, it wasn’t like she had a back-up Christmas dinner prepared. The party was in the old neighborhood Lee had grown up in, with modern houses and lots of festively decorated homes. It was an open house, so people could pop in and out when they could, which was very convenient. Lee was wearing a green silk peplum dress with pearls, so she figured she was all dressed up with no place to go but up. Surely, this couldn't be any worse than the so-called “family” parties… They pulled up and the host Mick knew was outside talking to some musician friends. He shook Mick’s hand warmly, after only just seeing him at their office holiday party last week. He hugged Lee and they already felt more welcome than they had by their blood families. Mick took Lee’s coat to show her off, and the place was packed. This was one of those new 80’s homes; very beige and yuppified, with high ceilings and a pink wash stain on the furniture and walls. Hungry from the knot in her stomach from not eating the other parties, Lee spotted this wonderful built-in bar that held chips and homemade onion dip; her favourite. Always on a diet and never one to be into booze or drugs, this was Lee’s ‘drug’ or addiction; savory snacks. The house was large, and the host had a recording studio in the garage. The musicians were in their jamming, and it wasn’t long before Lee was asked to join in. The wives circulated refreshments in the living room, and the musicians held fort keeping the tunes going. They brought a white elephant gift just in case they went to the party, and glad they did, as rather really nice gifts were distributed. Since they hadn’t gotten a chance to open gifts to each other, they took the moment to open theirs that were still in the car. He gave her a beautiful designer bottle of perfume, and she gave him a lovely silk neck tie that matched his blue eyes. The card on hers said “all my love at Christmas, xx Mick''. She finally was feeling some love. This party was wonderful, and the best thing they could have done to celebrate their first Christmas together. They stayed until late and fell into bed happy. Lee enjoyed the holiday season, and soon New Years was upon them, They went to another grown-up party early, and then had all the kids at his house for a sleepover; life was bliss. They went to bed early, but a sudden knocking started at the door at 3:00 am, then persistent to banging and ringing. Mick checked it out, and Lee asked angrily, “who the hell was that?”. It was to be the last time Lee would see Mick, and it took her years to figure out that it was the wife that came back. Faced with antagonizing future in-laws and the mother of his children, he chose the latter...

uitktj

Believer

I ran through the forest, enjoying the fresh mountain air. I felt the warm sun melt on me, on this summer day. I looked behind me, to see my dog running after me. He stopped where I did, his tongue lolling, asking for water, the source of life. We are almost there, boy, I tell him. We walked in silence, his tongue still bouncing as he went. We think about our life thus far, happy and full of good times. Nothing left to lose, except each other, and our past. We continue, down a beaten, worn path that most locals like us use to get to the river. I always call it “The White River” because of its never ending rapids. But, as rough as it is, it is still our best drinking source because of its cleanliness. It comes from a freshwater lake, just north of the river. The White River is about six to seven feet across. I let my good running partner take a long drink of the refreshing water, while I refill my canister. I also take a long drink of the soothing water. It is in these grateful times that we sometimes let our guard down. I never even heard the padded paws approach, never saw the figure move behind my back. Only my very good boy heard and saw it. A lone wolf seeking either the river or his next meal, us. I tried to remain calm as my dog bared his teeth to show that we are one, and he felt threatened. The wolf started to circle us, as if to say yes, well that’s nice little doggy. I need dinner too you know. I breathed, but just barely, as my dog took a fighting stance. He growled deep in his throat. The wolf licked his chops. Before I knew what I was doing, I pulled off my backpack and threw it hard at the wolf. The weight caught him by surprise. He stumbled a bit, before he gathered his senses. I felt like a burden was lifted from my shoulders. My dog took action as I called him, and called him, the tears starting to swell. He looked back, as if to say, it’s okay human. My job is to protect you right? Let me prove myself worthy. He pounced on the wolf, like a cat pounces on a mouse. I felt a fire rise in my chest, half anger, half courage. I grabbed a nearby stick, big enough to do harm, and walked over to the fighting duo. My dog tried biting at the wolf’s layers, but they were too thick. The wolf tried to push my dog off of himself, so he could fight better. Too much blood was shed, not from the wolf, but from my boy. I steadied the stick on my shoulders, like an axeman resting. My dog was getting weaker and weaker. When I had a good shot at the wolf’s head, I took it. SMACK! The wolf laid down, heart barely working, like a major migraine that stops your body from working. But my dog had the worst effect. He had been bitten, and he was losing blood. There wasn’t much I could do, despite his puppy eye look and his whimpers. I cried along with him, my only friend in this dark and lonely world, slowly I am losing him. I hug him for the last time, pick up my backpack, and walk slowly towards home. Believer was his name. The clouds grew darker, but no rain would come. I had always had my trust in Believer. He had his times, and I had mine. My black pit-bull was always a softy, but he had a background of fighting. Well, at least he is somewhere better , I thought as I kicked a rock off the path. Believer changed my life and I want to change other’s lives too. I decided to somehow make a business where I too could help people change their lives for the better. I headed home that day with one less companion than a few minutes ago. The frown on my face lasted only until I saw my little cabin in the woods. It brought back good times and memories with my small family and circle of close friends. I never thought that someday I could change lives. I set my bag down in the hall and went to the kitchen to get something to eat. I got an apple and pulled up my laptop to research some. I saw many organizations that helped people forget their bad negative past and decided that maybe I should try it too. In five simple steps, I soon set myself on the path of forgetting the bad and remembering the good. It wasn’t that hard, and only took me a few days, but by the end I was a changed person. It was at that moment that I wanted to help others who had the same problem. So I set off on another adventure, into the city. Buses and taxis weren’t my first transportation options, but they weren't my last either. I adapted to them quickly along with the other changes I went through. I opened a business using my college money and named it Believer’s Program, Changed for the Better in honor of my Believer. A few days after it opened, I was the talk of the town. Everyone wanted to be changed for the better after that. I myself was changed after all the people I met and spoke with. I felt light as a feather when I helped these people. I helped them release calm “waves'' if you will. I grew connected to some and others thanked me tons. Everyday after an early morning at work to nearly dusk, I was tired out and ready for my bed. My feet ached and my back hurt, but everyday it was worth it, meeting great people and doing great things. I wasn’t lonely often, but when I was, it was on the weekends. I walked around town and thought of my great hero who saved my life. I wouldn’t be here helping others if it wasn’t for my boy who attacked the wolf for me. I missed him, sure, but his memory still lives on. 

69rmmg

Same Love, Different Feelings

The elevator door opened. “Hi, baby! How are you?”Daniel, my younger brother, jumped up into my arms. “I’m great; look mommy got me this new t-shirt.’ His blue eyes shone like sapphire stones. “Oh wow! It has superman on it.” “I know right.” he grinned from ear to ear and I heard a throat clear. I looked up. “How is college, Ana?” “It is great mom. Where is Mike?”  “He is with your dad in the parking.” I raised an eyebrow. “Dad? He came with you guys to see me?”I felt a tingle in my heart.  “Uh yes, of course, why else would he come?”She said, without looking at me. Dad was here! He was here to see me. He loved me. “But why did-" she cut me off.  “Daniel, come on I’ll get you that ice cream you wanted. Ana, why don’t you go look at some clothes?” She pointed to the store in front of us. “I’ll just come with you guys.” “NO!” “I mean, Ana, buy something for the holidays. We will come to you soon.” “Okay, I guess.” They stepped into the elevator and Daniel smiled at me. “I’ll get you one too.” “Thanks, Daniel.” and then they left. I turned around to face the store but then I realized, for the first time in my teenage life, I did not want to shop. I wanted to see Dad. I smiled to myself and walked into the elevator. Upon reaching the parking, I saw dad and mark in the parking, laughing.  “Oh Anna, how are you, sweetheart?”His eyes lit up as he spoke. “I’m good, dad. How are you?” He smiled and said that he was okay. “Hello Anna.” mike said. I had never liked him and that day, for the first time ever, I questioned why. He had always been so nice regardless of the way I behaved. “Hi, Mike. How’s the company doing?” “It’s great. In fact, we are expanding.” “Really?” he nodded. “That’s amazing. Congratulations!” “Thank you.” “Ana! Ross!”I turned around and there was mom. She was far and loud. She walked in a weird way, dawdling towards us fast. “I thought you were shopping,” she heaved, out of breath. “Why don’t you relax, darling? Ana’s not going anywhere,” Mom looked at Mike and smiled weakly.  ‘Helen, mike, Ana…” dad began, “would you like to come over for dinner?” “I don’t know Ross, we wouldn’t want to crash a family dinner.” mom said to dad. I felt a pang of jealousy at the word, family. What was family and where was mine? “All right, we’ll be happy to join you.” mom said. “Well, I’ll get going then. I was here to pick up something Samantha needed for dinner when I saw mike. Thought I would get a little business advice. Congratulations again and see you later.” Dad said and I felt my heart break into a million pieces. He just smiled and turned to hug everyone. Mike shook hands with him and mom gave into the hug, smiling. “Good to see you, Ana.” “Don’t,” I said. He looked like he had something to say but he did not and left the parking. “Ana, I am sorry-“mom began to say. “Just don’t, mom. Stop.” Mike went to start the car. “Let’s go, guys.” “Come on Daniel, let’s go.” mom said, extending her hand. “Daniel?”Mom turned back, her hand empty. “Mike, where’s Daniel?” “I didn’t see him after you went to pick up Anna,” Mike said. “Ana where is he? “How am I supposed to know? He was with you. Where’s Daniel, mom?”She had never been this bad. Lying to me and losing Daniel on the same day. “I don’t know.” “How can you be so careless?”I folded my arms and looked around. “STOP SHOUTING AT ME! Go find my son.” she drops to the ground. Mike and I look at each other with furrowed brows. “You go report it to the airport security and I’ll go look for him in the mall.”I hesitated. “Mike-“I began but he had already left. I wanted to look for Daniel too but then I realized what he meant. He wanted me to console mom.  Mike had disappeared into the crowd outside the parking and I was still there, my eyes fixated on her. My heart ached for Daniel; it was the first time in a year that I had seen him, heard him, and touched him. Now, he was gone again. No, no, he has not, I will go look for him and I will find him. I rushed outside the parking. I had moved only a few steps when I could not anymore. No matter what had happened, I could not leave her. “Mom, come on, get up.” she lifts her head up and they are moist. “Ana, honey-” she extends her arms. “No mom, I can’t. Gotta find Daniel.”I say and run out. She cannot mess up things over and over again and expect me to be there. I walk up to a security officer. She looked at me and her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Are you Ana?” “Yes?”I wanted to ask how she knew me but I just did not care anymore. “We have your brother in the control room.” “Do you? Thank god! ” “In fact, he has been there for the past thirty minutes. How could you leave a child alone?”I had no patience left for her. “Miss, where’s the control room?”I asked and the officer rolled her eyes. “Follow me.” We soon reach a big room with LED screens, people, and Daniel. He was sitting on a couch in the corner, clutching to himself for dear life. The officers told me that he would not talk to anyone. “oh, Daniel.” “an-na!”I ran to him and picked him up in my arms. “Where did- why did you leave Ana, I was scared. There were lots of people but no you. oh Ana I was so scared.” his words muffled into sobs. “Why wasn’t I informed earlier?” “We couldn’t get a phone number out of him. All he would say is Ana. It’s protocol to wait for 2 hours before an announcement in case the parents come to find the child themselves.” My eyes widened when I remembered another person who didn’t have my number. Oh, mike! “May I leave now officer?” “Yes since we haven’t filed-“ I couldn’t wait for her to finish so I just left.                  There were many things going through my mind but I refused to think about them. I held onto Daniel who had fallen asleep in my arms and looked for mike I checked every corner of the airport but could not find him. So I began towards the mall. Daniel felt heavy when the adrenaline wore off. I slowed down. How old was he again? Six? I stopped, not because I was tired, but because I could hear something. I turned around and walked to the parking. There was my mom where I had left her, as I had left her, sobbing. There was mike, hugging her. I wanted to shout at them, tell them I hated them but I didn’t feel so angry anymore. I felt Daniel stir up in my arms. He was awake and looking at the same sight. “Mom, Dad.” he wriggled around in my arms. Flabbergasted at his words and the sight in front of me, I let him down. When did that happen? He ran straight to the duo and joined in on their hug. I felt moisture welling up in my eyes and before I knew it, I was running to join them. It was November; as in the deadly cold month. However, all I felt then was warmth, the kind that everyone deserved to feel in the holidays. If they were surprised, they didn’t say or I didn’t hear. This warmth felt familial. Something I had not felt before but then it did not feel strange. It felt perfect. Something everyone in the world deserved to feel.

z9h56g

Memory Boy

Usually, your classmates wouldn't assume you have dementia or can't speak. But for someone with a memory loss problem, I hear them whispering about me every day. I have no interest in friends, and I have never thought of myself as a people person. My mother used to tell me to try and make friends, but all they do is talk and talk when I can't even remember what I wanted to say or why I wanted to say it. I'm in ninth grade and entering a new high school. What can be worse? Oh yeah, I'm apparently a "troubled student." I was expelled from my other school for complications involving my temper. I don't remember the specific details. I seemed to have forgotten. Now in the new school, I walk down the hallway while kids murmur and call me " memory boy ." One girl, with strawberry-blond pigtails and nasty brown eyes, glares at me. She whispers to her friends, "look at his eye-bags, what a slob. He so doesn't belong here." The ugly piglets behind her laugh cruelly. I'm about to insult her pigtails and tell her she looks like an overgrown child. My mind checks off all the things I can say to the brat, like how her huge red pimples can signal spaceship. Until I become distracted by a poster hanging on the wall, it has delicate yellow flowers and an inspirational quote. When I glance away from the sign and look back at her, I forget what I wanted to say. She stares at me with suspicious eyes as I scramble for words. What did she insult? My eye-bags? Or was it- my skin? No, that's what I wanted to insult her. "What?" She asks. "I- your pigtails don't look good on you." That is the only thing I can come up with to say. Her jaw drops while I walk away. I had wanted to say something more offensive, something funny- but I forgot. Again. *** In math class, the teacher asks for the hypotenuse of a triangle. I look down at my thin, white sheet of calculations and yawn. I write down a few numbers, multiplying by the length and height. Once I have the answer, I raise my hand high in excitement and forget to write the actual solution down. The teacher looks at my hand and says, "Yes, Clay?" In a sluggish voice. Suddenly, I forget my answer and gaze at the teacher that glares back at me, his eyes dull like dust. The only noise in the classroom is the handles on the clock ticking back and forth- creating more seconds of silence while my memory searches for something to say. I can't rely on my paper since I forgot to write down the answer. There's nothing left to do but guess. "Is it, uh- is it 25.8 inches?" I avoid direct eye contact. "No. It's 134.8 inches." He turns his back as the class laughs at my unusual answer. A boy behind me calls, "Memory boy probably forgot his answer and just guessed!" I whip my head around and glare at him. The boy has crooked and yellow-stained teeth. His entire jaw looks like a snout, and his bleached blond hair doesn't make him look any better. I prepare to insult his teeth so harshly that he would wish he hadn't said anything at all. But suddenly, his mouth closes after the laughing, and I forget what I had wanted to say. I forget what the class was laughing at before. And I forget why I was so mad. The day goes on. Once school is over, I take my bike home and pass Central Park. I decide to feed some geese to calm myself from the humiliation at school today.  While I watch the birds munch on pieces of my leftover sandwich, I hear my name called from the left. Jake, my best friend, is waving and rushing towards me on his bike. He was from my old school. Jake sits down next to me and strikes up a conversation. We were complete opposites. I hated speaking while he was the most extroverted teenage boy you would ever meet. "How's the new school?" He asks. "I don't know. I think people like me. They call me memory boy. It's weird." "They're just jealous of your superpower." "Power?" "It's so cool to be able to forget things so easily. Being in a city public school in New York, there are a lot of things I wish I could forget." "Maybe it's a good thing that I forget what those bullies say to me at school. If I remembered, I would ruin their life." I throw the last piece of bread into the pond with rage. "Anyway, I think I have homework. I wrote down the pages in a notebook so I wouldn't forget. Smart right?"  "Wait!" Jake exclaims. "Why don't you just write down what you want to say to the people that you don't like. And then whenever they annoy you again, you can use material from your a notebook." I think about it and realize that idea could work. If I wrote down my thoughts, would I remember to check the book for them? "Maybe," I say before getting on my bike and pedalling off. *** While I walk down the crowded halls again, the blond boy from yesterday passes me. His teeth are as crooked as his personality. I finally remember what I wanted to say to him. I take out the notebook and write down some of the most hateful comments I can think of, judgments that will tear his social status apart. "Hey Clay!" Oliver, the math club captain, stops me outside my class. "I'm here recruiting people for math club and according to your teacher you really like math. Wanna join?" "Um-" I realize Oliver is wearing a New York Rangers hockey cap. I want to tell him my love for that team and how they won the Division Championships in 2013- no, 2015? Which year was it again? Anyway, I want to ask him who his favourite player was and I could maybe make an actual friend. "Well?" He interrupts my thoughts. I suddenly have forgotten the question he asked. "Sorry, what did you say?" He scoffs, "never mind." Oliver walks off and approaches another math nerd from the end of the hallway. I realize I had lost another chance of friendship and write down: " Oliver likes the rangers ." In my new book so I wouldn't forget. *** Instead of mixing substances in a beaker for chemistry, I scribble down words in the notebook. I learned that the blond brute who sits behind me is named Max. What kind of name is Max?  I write. "I have to go get some new equipment. Stay in your seats," the teacher says as she walks out of the class- mistakenly leaving teenagers unsupervised. Suddenly, Max stands up from his seat and chuckles. The whole class winces in fear as he grabs a beaker from the teacher's desk. There's a green, gooey substance inside that foams. Bubbles explode above the liquid, like my exploding fear of what he plans to do with it. Max brings it over to his own beaker and prepares to pour the liquid in, his friends grinning like devils behind him. "Stop." I interrupt. "That's a bad idea, you don't know what that liquid is." "Yeah, whatever memory boy ." Max continues to pour until all of the substance is emerged into his. For a moment, nothing happens. The classroom is silent, waiting for disaster to strike. Suddenly, a fire erupts from the beaker like a volcano. I wince and back away in fear, wondering how big this fire can grow. Max shrieks like a girl while his friends run away. A guy from across the class grabs the fire extinguisher while the smoke rises to the ceiling, alerting the smoke detectors. Fire sprinklers start to spray ice-cold water onto our heads. The classroom is in panic when, thankfully, the boy runs over and exterminates the flame with the fire extinguisher. For a short moment, everything is calm. Everyone is safe, and the fire is gone. Then, the teacher slams open the door with a menacing face. She looks like an eagle eyeing its prey. "Memory boy did it!" Max abruptly calls, pointing towards me. The teacher's wicked eyes shift from him to me, her expression becoming angrier than before. "What? No, I swear!" I yell. Max struggles for something to say. Then, he smirks and furrows his eyebrows. "Would you even remember if it wasn't?" My face fills with wrath. That's it . I march over to my desk and grab my notebook with furious intentions. Opening the book, I realize the water from the sprinklers ruined the pages. The ink's washed away and unreadable. "Do you want to explain something to the class?" The teacher glares at me while I pause in fear. "Yeah. I wanna explain something!" My built-up anger helped with the little courage I had. I knew what I would say, and I wouldn't forget. "Max set his beaker on fire- or- by using- uh-" I stumble in my words. A few kids giggle silently. "It doesn't matter, everyone in the class saw him do it! You know what max?" I slam my hand down on his desk and stare him dead in the eye. The rising fury I feel boiling in my stomach pushes me over the edge. "You. Have. Nasty. Teeth ." My classmate's jaws drop. We have all been thinking the same thing, but everyone was too afraid to say anything to Max. "And you know what? I may not have good memory, but I have something that you won't ever have." I hesitate for dramatic effect, Max's eyes glance away from intimidation. "I have guts ." He laughs nervously. "Okay? That has nothing to do with-" "Not to mention how crooked and yellow your teeth are." That catches him off guard again. "They're so bucktoothed that they chase off any girl that comes within two feet of you." He grits his teeth. "Gritting them won't polish them, bud." Being so close to Max, he finally sees my lifeless black eyes staring at him like death. My eyes naturally are very red and baggy, mixed with my messy black hair- I can be terrifying when I'm angry. "That's enough," the teacher says. "Need the teacher to back you up, big guy? Can't fight your own battles? Afraid I'm gonna insult your awful bleached, split ended rag you call hair next?" By now, he's practically tearing up. When suddenly, his face turns red with rage. Max stands up. He's much more intimidating when he's standing at six feet tall. Oomph. He punches me straight in the gut. I curdle and wrap my arms around my stomach, backing up quickly. The teacher shouts, but Max starts charging at me. I lunge to the side and out of his way. His back is turned from me as he stops running. Now's my chance. I grab the fire extinguisher and swing it into his ribs. Suddenly, the principal bursts through the door. "Stop! Clay Richards!" He shouts while advancing towards me. "Your other school told me you were a trouble maker!" I glance at Max whimpering on the ground and realize I'm holding a fire extinguisher. What happened? Why did I do this? "Sir wait-" He grabs me by the hair and drags me out of the classroom. *** I was expelled for attempting to injure another student. Apparently, fire extinguishers are a serious weapon. The school saw me as a "danger" to the other students. According to the people Max bribed, I caused the fire. On the drive home from a meeting with the principal, I decided to ask my mother what had happened since I only remember minor details of the situation. "There was a fire, you know that." "I know but," I gulp, not prepared to hear the answer to my question. "Did I  start the it?" My voice cracks in the middle while my heart sinks. I wasn't the most likeable person, but I wasn't evil. If I set fire to a building with people I almost considered friends, I would feel awful about myself. "Are you okay?" My mother glances at me. I pin my head against the car window. "I just don't want to hurt anyone. But- but I can't remember if I did. "The kids at school said you started it. But that doesn't mean you hurt anyone, other than Max." There's a short pause while I stare out the window and look at the towering buildings around. "Mom. What happened at my old school. Why was I kicked out?" I finally ask. She sighs. "You got into a fight. A really bad one. The kid took out a bat from his locker, and hit you over the head." "Why can't I remember that?" "Well, that was the day you stopped." "What?" My voice becomes much quieter and broken. "The doctor told me you had a concussion, it caused severe memory loss. You can't remember the day you got the concussion, you can't remember conversations with people, and you can't remember certain events. I'm not sure exactly how it works- something along those lines." "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" "Because I know you're short tempered. I felt like you would've been angry about the fight and maybe you would've gotten into more fights. I couldn't predict what you would've done. I just wanted you safe." My mother has always been cold, but I sense a fragment of warmth from her. I finally realize there was someone who truly cared about me. Maybe I had forgotten that too. We continue on the highway, heading into a new and hopefully brighter future. *** The new school isn't very different from the others, a typical public school. However, I'm less angry and more open to making friends. Whenever I want to talk to people, I focus on positivity and say what's on my mind- before I forget. I never speak less than I should anymore. It's a new life at a new school. What happened at my other school? I was expelled for complications involving my temper. I don't remember the specific details. I seemed to have forgotten!

gvwc7n

Thanks Dad!

     Not again, another message from another lawyer regarding my recently deceased father. Great. I've had about fifteen different letters so far, all talking about how my dad had left me something. None of them were worth much. But this one was a little different and looked a little fancier than the rest. So I went on ahead and opened it. It wasn't about my dad, it was about another relative. The letter was for the estate of my great-uncle Xavier Gonzalez. According to the letter he passed away shortly after my dad passed away. The letter stated that I had 1.38 billion dollars waiting for me to claim at my earliest convenience.    Well hell, for that much money, my earliest convenience was now. I jumped in the shower, shaved, picked out a nice suit, and googled the address on the envelope. It was a 300-hundred mile drive, but that was fine. I had been unemployed for about seventeen weeks now. I had been trying to find a job that fit me, but most of the jobs that I found expected too much of my resume, so I didn't waste my time applying. The jobs that fit my resume were crap jobs that did not pay enough. Luckily for me, the letter said that the lawyer would pay for my gas and my hotel stay at a 'modest hotel'. So off I went.      Imagine my shock when I heard that lawyer say, "Yes, the money is yours, but you first, you have to meet one condition, without any assistance from others that you may already know." Well apparently, my great-uncle kept in contact with my dad. I was instructed to get a permanent job drawing or doing art type stuff, which I always had claimed to love. I then had to hold the job for at least six weeks, at which point the lawyer was instructed to process the paperwork. To ensure that I had no help, I had to get the job here in El Paso, Texas. My family was pretty sure that I didn't know anyone here, which was very true.      The lawyer gave me 24 hours to consider the offer. Hell for that much money, I didn't need 24 seconds! Of course I said yes! So, then I just had to come up with a plan of attack.      I bought all of the local papers and combed through each of the want ads to find any and all jobs that fit the description. I started to mark out the ones that I was pretty sure that I would not qualify for and then something hit me. For that much money, I could afford to get a few doors slammed in my face. I began applying to all of the jobs having to do with art.      Most of the applications were online, but a few still requested paper applications to be mailed in. I took the opportunity to run home and get my computer, my art supplies, my art portfolio, and some more clothes. Then, back to El Paso I ran. Most of my friends and family thought I was crazy, but I really wanted that money.      Over the next three weeks, I received plenty of denial letters. Just to make sure that I was not exaggerating, karma also had a few doors literally slammed in my face. I was not amused, but it was expected. After making my way through the want ads, I still had no job. I could wait a week and start all over again, but all that money was not doing me any good in that lawyer's bank account. So, I decided to start cold calling companies having to do with art type employment.      Cold calling was simply contacting companies that had no job requirements out on the market at the time. Most of the time, this does not work. But, after nine or ten calls, I got hold of Mark's Markings. It was a label designer and graphic arts firm. Although they did not have any posted openings for employment, the owner, Mr. Mark Joy, was looking to hire three more employees. I set up an interview for the next day and arrived 15 minutes early. Finally, I might be able to start counting down on my six weeks.       At the interview, I was told that the position opened with minimum wage and the work would start out as intern style work. I didn’t really care because the agreement said nothing about starting pay or work completed. It was simply a job related to art and that job met the requirement. Now I just had to make it through six weeks of work.      The first week was filled with coffee and sandwich runs for the staff. My second job was taking out the trash and restocking art supplies. I don't know how much you know about artists, but they can be very moody and spoiled. I got yelled at for not getting the right shade of magenta. I got yelled at for not getting the markers at the right store. I got yelled at for not properly cleaning up someone's work station for them. And, probably the most insulting complaint that I got in the first week was that I let the morning coffee get cold at one in the afternoon. I tell you, no sane person would ever put up with this. But, alas, I was not driven by sanity, but by my own personal goal.      My second week was filled with the same type work, but with two minor differences. The first was that I received an additional complaint that my cologne was bothering someone in the office. It was not too strong. The smell just reminded one of the ladies of an old boyfriend and she was having too difficult a time trying to concentrate. So, I was asked to stop wearing cologne or change brands. The second change was the first of the six employees hired to fill the three open positions, chose not to show up to work anymore. That left five of us to fill three slots.      My third week was a bit of a change though. My boss called all of the interns in and told us that at the end of the next two weeks one more person would be let go. He reminded us of the fact that only three permanent positions were open and that there were still five of us. That brief explanation did take some of the sting out of it. It reminded us that in business, there was always competition, especially when it came to art.      Roger was let go after the third week. I found out later, it was because he lost his temper with Suzy about taking out the trash. Suzy's premodanna senses were overwhelmed at two in the afternoon by someone's tuna fish remains in the lunch trash. She could not stand to have those remains in the trashcan in the office anymore. She ordered Roger to take out the trash immediately. He refused and she had to put up with it for the rest of the day. But she complained about it to Mr. Joy. As he let Roger go, he reminded us that the customer does not have to always make sense. As the customer, they could afford to be finicky. At the time, the office personnel were our customers.      At the end of the fifth week, Sheryl was let go for being late for the third time since we started working for Mr. Joy. He reminded us that in advertising and in the art world being on time to meet deadlines was essential to stay in business. He also reminded us that we were company representatives at all times while at work.      Finally, during our sixth week, we all thought we were safe. Everything was fairly quiet at the office. But at home, I got a call from another potential employer. The competition offered me a raise of 25 cents per hour. The catch was that since I had limited credentials, I would not be allowed any creative license for the first three years. I would only be reproducing other employees' work. I explained that to an artist, that was a slap in the face. I thanked her for her offer and told her that in spite of the pay increase, I could not accept the offer. Besides, I was almost done with the six-week requirement for the money. In addition to that, I started to like working with most of the people in the office, except maybe Suzy.      The next day was Friday the 13th. It was the end of my official six weeks. I arrived a little earlier than usual, giddy for the day to get started. Although I started this job to get my inherited money, I found that I came to really enjoy working here. I also found that I was learning quite a bit just by listening to those around me. I was very interested in collecting my money, but I might just make this a permanent thing. I was surrounded by the job that I had dreamt of doing.      At about two that afternoon, the three interns were called into Mr. Joy's office. I was kind of surprised to find only two of us in there. It turned out that Steve, the third intern, got the same phone offer as Christine and I did to go work for more money. Only Steve accepted the offer and ran. Mr. Joy had informed us of all of this with a smirk on his face. Then he explained that the other company was notorious for hiring seasoned interns away from good companies. The only catch was, they fired just as fast as they hired. Christine and I looked at each other in astonishment.      Later on, in the break room, Christine mentioned how she could not believe that someone would do something like that over money. She told me, in her opinion, happiness was worth much more than money. Those words kind of stuck with me.       Saturday morning I contacted the lawyer. He told me that I met the qualifications and I just had to show up on Monday with the signed documents from my boss. I called up Mr. Joy and he told me that it would be fine to take Monday and Tuesday off.      On Monday, Mr. Sanchez, the lawyer finished up my paperwork. He explained how much would be taken out for taxes and his legal fees. That still left me with a great sum of money. As I got ready to get up and walk out, he handed me one more envelope. He told me that it was a letter passed off to my great-uncle from my dad. In the letter, my father explained how the money had been his savings given to my great-uncle to be given to me later with specific requirements. Then my great-uncle passed away prematurely. My father then closed the letter with these words, "So now I hope you realize that you can accomplish anything with the right motivation. From now on, don't let money be your motivation. Let the love in your heart, whether for God, your work, or for your family, be a strong enough motivation for you to accomplish the impossible. Love Dad." I closed the letter with tears rolling down my cheeks and shook the lawyer's hand.      I decided to make my job in El Paso a permanent thing. In the end, I ended up marrying Christine and having three wonderful kids. The third was just as hard headed as I was growing up. I give praise to God every morning and every night for allowing me the opportunity to have a life where I can love Him, my family and my work all at the same time. THANKS DAD FOR SHOWING ME HOW TO DO THAT!

v6d1bc

Re:birth

I help people. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. Nobody wants to remember the pain, the fear, the suffering that has been inflicted onto them in their lifetime. So they come to me, and I make it all go away. However, my technique is unorthodox, because it does involve removing old memories; happy memories. The thing with pain, you can try and try to forget it, and you achieve that, to an extent, I mean the thoughts start fading away, but why does the body still remember the feeling? It doesn’t need to be physical pain for the body to remember, I mean, if that was true, then why does the body remember the feeling of heartbreak and loss? My practise isn’t legal. Wiping someone’s entire memory isn’t exactly ethical, but I can’t witness anymore pain. There’s too much pain. Most of my clients come from different backgrounds; some have dealt with abuse for being gay, some deal with their own mental concerns, some are just simply trying to find a way out without hurting others. The only downfall to this entire thing, people don’t come to me just to get rid of the pain, they come to me to get rid of their entire identity. Just the other day I had a man come to my office, tells me he wants to forget everything, including the day he came to terms with his homosexuality. He wanted to be normal, he told me. He said, ‘Being, that, it’s not the problem. It’s everyone else, but I can’t cope with it anymore, not since my dad died. If I forget the moment I met Ethan, my dad might still be alive.’ He then proceeds to tell me about the abuse, mostly physical, and how he doesn’t remember the last time he had a proper nights’ sleep, or how he even got to my office, or what he did last night, or who’s bed he woke up in this morning. He told me he’s fading away, and he believes that the day he met Ethan, was the trigger for it all. I told him there’s nothing wrong with being gay, and he agreed, and then I told him this won’t bring his dad back, and he told me he understood, but at least he won’t blame himself anymore. Do you see my dilemma? People don’t want to lose themselves, they want to remove all the pain that comes with being themselves. I told him I’d book him in for next Tuesday. He thanked me, and then he stared at me for a moment. His eyes, they were filled with hope, and for a moment, he forgot his pain. I took that in, I took all the pain and I promised I would make it better, but my promises didn’t matter, because when they all wake up again, they don’t remember me either. I think that’s the only thing that really keeps me going; the fact that I’m also forgotten. I was curious about this Ethan character, because this client didn’t speak much about him, and I thought maybe the pain of losing a memory so strong, so full of happiness, would make him regret his choices. And I wasn’t there to change anyone’s mind. I was only there to get rid of all the pain. You’re probably thinking, is there some sort of dark reason for intruding on people’s lives like this? Did I experience so much trauma that I began to develop the need to eliminate other’s trauma? Is this some sort of sick, twisted plot to feel other’s pain, in order to give myself relief? The answer is no, for all of them. I’m a simple man, I just want to help. I’m saving lives, course, I’m removing core memories; memories of birthdays and anniversaries, memories of people, experiences, love, feelings, everything that makes a person who they are. But with all good, comes pain. I’m removing memories of physically inflicted pain, mental torture, loss, heartbreak, people leaving, anger, sadness. Honestly, it’s free will. It’s up to the individual to decipher the code of their life: are the memories worth it? or do they need to go, forever? I look at my notes, for one last time before I leave my office. I have only Client 37 booked in on Tuesday. I don’t name them, they don’t remember who I am when they wake up, so there’s no reason for me to remember temporary information that proves to be useless. There is a team, they do all the technical work, including making sure the memories don’t come back. It happened once, Client 11, a lady who came to remove the memory of her son who committed suicide. She told us how he was depressed for so long, and he had reached out to helplines, but they didn’t think his cries for help were enough. They wanted to focus on those who were suicidal. The irony, right? A system designed to prevent suicide, only to end up being the reason for the thing they were trying to prevent. I mean, it wasn’t completely their fault, but poor Anthony could’ve been alive today. Anyway, she had told us he couldn’t cope with his girlfriend leaving him, and he couldn’t live without her. She said she wished he knew about our service, before it was too late, but now she needed us, because the pain grew too strong and she was the one who was seeking a way out. But she was a devoted Christian woman, the only downfall was she was losing her faith, and as much as she loved her little boy, she knew he and God would forgive her for forgetting him. I didn’t ask if she was referring to Anthony or God. The inconsequential details didn’t matter, just as long as the team could pinpoint and eliminate the first memory, then they could prepare a total wipeout for the rest. It worked, but then it didn’t. She woke up with no memory of her son being gone, but as time went by, little details came back. How this was possible, I’ll never know. It was the first and last case. She later remembered everything, up until she arrived at my office, and then later we find out she laid dead, on her sons childhood bed, with pills scattered around her. We weren’t held liable, we didn’t exist to her, or to anyone around her. She didn’t leave a note, most suicidal people do, probably because whatever she wanted to say, she could finally say it. She wanted it to happen, she couldn’t stop the pain and not even we could help. That thought hurt the most, the fact that I wasn’t her last resort, that I didn’t do enough. It took me 3 months, 8 days, 6 hours and exactly 14 seconds to re-enter my office, ready for the next person to help. I am in control of my life, of everything, and not someone’s weakness would stop that. I get up, wipe down all surfaces, making sure that I don’t leave any fingerprints. I pick up my slim black mug, squeeze it between my fingers as I walk out the room, leaving the diary behind. I use my sleeve to close the door, careful to not let my skin touch the cool metal doorknob. It’s not a hygiene thing, like I said, what we do isn’t ethical, or legal, and it is very low-key. It’s not top secret, it’s incriminating but it won’t make news nationwide. What we’re doing is giving people amnesia, and we have consent forms signed, everything seems legit and legal, it just lacks the laws in place. It’s not FBI work, if we’re exposed we’d also be forgotten in a week. I just like knowing I didn’t leave a print, like I never existed. It’s the way I cope with what I do, I mean, I hear these people’s stories and I can’t help but want to know more about them, maybe even be friends with them, lovers with them. I look at client 37 and I’m envious of this Ethan he mentions in passing, not because I wish I was an Ethan in his life, but Ethan is someone who makes him happy, but he doesn’t want happiness. He feels like he doesn’t deserve happiness. He feels responsible for a death he didn‘t cause, and it’s taking a lot in me to tell him he can keep going, to tell him that he can make it, and he can be happy. But then again, I only know a part of Client 37 that he wants to forget, and I don’t know what he wants to remember. The hardest part of my job is telling clients that they don’t keep all their memories, we can’t do that, we can only find the first memory they want removing, and delete the rest that lead to the present, just like erasing a computer. Some people want to erase years of their lives, because the trauma began from a young age, meaning that they’d remove that trauma, but also remove virtually themselves. They’re reborn, as I like to call it. *** It’s Tuesday. Client 37 will be arriving any second. Actually, he’s late. It’s currently 2:01pm, and our session was booked in for 2:00pm. Typical. They always arrive late, and I get that it’s because this is a massive deal for most people, but I do expect good attendance. Something feels off, it doesn’t feel like an average day at the office. It’s now 2:11pm, and I hear loud thudding, just before my office door swings open. Late. All I say is, ‘you’re late, we have work to do’ and he looks at me sorrowfully, before seating in front of me as I go over the standard rules. I watch him shake as he signs the consent form, and then we leave the office, and then the building, and then we get into my car and drive. You thought we do this all in the comfort of my office? or in the building? No, this has to be in a place the client feels most comfortable, and that’s mainly in their homes or a hotel room. He guides me with the turns and then tells me to stop. In front of a graveyard. I keep the engine running and tell him we can’t do the procedure in public, never mind in a graveyard. He stares at me and says, ‘we’ll wait ’till it‘s dark’. I think things through, because I rushed the process, and it’s my fault it’s come to this. I saw myself in him, and that was my first mistake. He was meant to go through a few sessions, before making a decision, but I heard his story and felt his pain and wanted to cure it all. I lied, I’m sorry, it wasn’t about him. He wasn’t going to go through with it, he would‘ve changed his mind after the second session, but I didn’t want him to remember me, I didn’t want him to remember our interaction. It was unethical, more unethical than the practise, it was morally incorrect and it’s everything I’m against, but I promise I’m not trying to hurt him. So we wait. We wait till it’s dark, because if he’s going to do this, we do it his way. It’s bad enough we’re entering a graveyard at night, I mean, that’s bad luck in itself, but now I have to explain to the team that they have to come later. They’re not going to like the plan. And I’m not sure if I’m all for it, at this point. That’s the problem with thinking things through, you always come to a logical conclusion in the end. It’s silent, I make no attempts at talking to him, so I turn on the radio. I don’t need to hear his story, or have an interaction with him that I remember and he doesn’t. This might be awkward, but he won’t remember it. But of course, he speaks up. He asks me about my life, assures me I can trust him, because after all, he won’t remember a thing. I don’t answer to it, instead I ask about the significance of Ethan. He pauses, and then takes a deep breath, and here it is. He met Ethan when we was 16, they fell in love, but Ethan was afraid of what everyone else would think, and became physically abusive when Client 37 publicly came out, and so after a year of pain, Ethan ended it all. It broke Client 37, but he got over it, I mean that’s what he told me but I’ve been doing this job for so long to know that even until the very end, people will try and downplay their pain. Years go by, he moves on and then his dad finds out he has liver failure, and he and his dad were close, joined at the hip close, and he couldn’t cope when he found out his dad was going to die, so he moved. He left without a word. And then he finds out his dad died a week later. It crushed him, because he still doesn’t regret not being there till the end, because he tells me it would hurt so much more. I watch as Client 37 sobs in the seat next to me. He tells me that if he never met Ethan, maybe he would’ve stayed with his dad till the end, or maybe his dad seeing him in such a fragile state wouldn’t have made him turn to alcohol. Everybody lies, even towards the end, we all lie. Client 37 wanted me to believe Ethan was the cause of the loss of his dad, but in reality, he believes he is. And it was easier telling someone a lie than the truth. He wanted to get rid of the pain he inflicted, rather than his own past trauma. I didn’t agree with that. I turned the radio off and drove away, back towards the office. It upset him, I could tell, but I explained to him that the service is only for people to get rid of pain inflicted onto them, not for them to ignore the consequences of their actions. It wasn’t his fault his dad died, his dad couldn’t handle the pain, but Client 37 wasn‘t hurting from being hurt, he was hurting from hurting others, and regardless of how much someone can’t cope with that reality, they would have to come to terms with their reality. I stopped in front of the office and, for the first time in my entire career, told him to go back to his family. I told him to connect with the pain he’s feeling, because he needs to heal. Most of my clients tell me the truth, almost all the truth, but none of them twist their stories to make someone else look like the bad guy. The majority blame themselves. And as much as Client 37 was hurting, he needed to keep remembering his dad. I did the unthinkable. I gave him my number and told him if he wanted to contact me, he could. At this point, not even I was thinking concisely. I’ve broken all my rules and morals and judging this broken man for wanting to not be blamed for once. Even though we all want to get rid of the pain as soon as it arrives, it always has to settle before we can come to a decision on whether or not it doesn’t make us a stronger person. I go home and I get into bed, turning to my bedside table as I flick through my at home diary. This is the diary where I leave my most vulnerable thoughts, because even I don’t trust myself to not hurt myself. Whilst writing about my day, I see my phone light up. Hey, it’s Liam, from earlier. Just wanted to thank you for telling me things straight. I’m sorry for wasting your time. Have a good night. Another rule broken, never learn my clients names. I mean, at this point he isn’t my client. I don’t know how to feel, so I read through old passages in the diary, hoping to find an answer. There’s too many gaps, too many gaps in time, and I wonder how many times I’ve done it, and why I did it. I keep reading, some of them are scribbles, some of them just start with the date and end with the time. I gathered I was never in the right mindset to write down my thoughts and memories. I also did wonder what I was trying to run away from, and that feeling of anguish creeps up inside, almost telling me that something similar has happened before. Like I stated earlier, the body never forgets emotional pain. You’re probably wondering how I figured out I wipe my own memory. I just always remember to wipe the second memory, and the first memory that causes the process of trauma, it stays, so I never forget it, but all the pain I experience, it goes, and I keep doing this again and again until I finally wake up to the day I’m not hurting, to the day I’m numb. And I guess, I figured that out a few months ago, judging by my diary. I’m going to wake up tomorrow like I always do. I’ll get ready for work, help people, or at least think I’m helping people, and then forget who they are and continue the cycle again and again. But this time, I have Liam to taint my thoughts with, and for the first time, I don’t feel like forgetting.

s9ar3v

She Said Not

Mara Elyees had tears quickly pooling around the corners her eyes as she bit back the snide remarks that begged to be left free. Now is not the time , she told herself as she grabbed her galaxy backpack and fled for the streets while her mother screamed behind her. Teach us to care, teach us not to care. Teach us to sit still , she prayed to herself, quoting Dean Koontz on her way to freedom. Illusion of freedom , the voice behind her natters near her ear. As she reached the rundown shop, heaving a sigh that neither of her brothers was sent to retrieve her as soon as she crossed the threshold. She could almost taste the smell of the ancient books Mrs. Finsbery had stored away in the corners of the little library that she held close to her heart. The head adorned with a mop of grey hair snapped up – faster than it should have at that age – as Mara stepped into the shop. She smiled weakly at the motherly lady who stared on worriedly, noticing the tear marks from the dam that broke without Mara’s realisation. But as a resident bookworm and a mother of four, Mrs. Finsbery knew better than to try and comfort a teenager who seemed in dire need of space. Mara knew by the genuine tilt of the woman’s lips that those weary old ears would be waiting for whenever she wanted to speak. Now is not the time , she spoke as if her voice reached the elder lady’s hearing range. She walked right past the few students scattered around on the chairs. Plopping down on the loveseat, Mara quickly pulled out her navy blue journal from the bag. The cover, bare of any semblance of the chaos inside – waiting to be read by no one ever, stared back at her. She flipped through it, skimming through the scribbles and doodles, until a blank page came out. Grabbing a blue pen from the ratty ends of the rattier bag, she penned down her first thought. That is not what I meant. That wasn’t what she said to her mother during the argument. No, she had said: “ I never said that! ” As if the accusations were burrowed inside the folds of her brain, the ones that were never meant to see the light of the day. As if her mother’s claims were true in her mind, but never spoken out loud. Her pen worked again. I am not able to put my feelings into words. “ You’re not getting it! ” was what she had yelled out. You’ve heard lies from her. “ I am not a liar! ” The first tear she felt travelled down her cheek. I never cheated. “ Why would you think I cheated? ” She remembered her mother’s words very clearly: “Who am I supposed to believe? My daughter who thinks I am not worth a word or the teacher who says that there must have been something wrong in my parenting? I am very tempted to admit that I have done something wrong!” You’ve done nothing wrong, Mum. I just. . . It’s too much for me. . . “ Well, then just admit it! ” Their screaming sessions were becoming the cause of her mother’s early greying hair. Their stark disagreements had lead to her father yelling out at her. The father who told her he would never abandon her. Everyone leaves , a whisper comes near, Human kind was never meant to last. I’m sorry that I was disrespectful , she wanted to tell her father. But all that left her mouth was: “ I’m sorry that I am such a waste of space. ” Even her brothers were at their wit’s end with her. Those promises to stand by her side whenever she needed them were all shattered to pieces. She felt as if she was walking on every broken vow, bleeding on those around because pool of blood from under her feet was inconsolable. It just wouldn’t stop. A tear slid down on the page, dampening it to resemble the blob of blood she envisioned. Her family was left to wonder where their bubbly little girl was gone. She’s right here , Mara wanted to scream. I am her! But she was unsure as to how much of that was the truth. After the previous argument a couple nights back, she had exited the vicinity of her room for a glass of water to quench her parched throat after all the silent incessant sobbing. “What happened to our sweet baby girl?” her mom had her father who sat on the couch, eyes fixed at the ceiling, where Mara later realised her five-year-old self’s wiggly starfish was still clinging on. She wanted to tell her mother, I’m so sorry, Mum. I just. . . I am lost. . . Of course, none of that reached her parents’ ears, only echoing through the vastness of her own mind. You are your own pit person , she had said to herself that night after binging another season of How I Met Your Mother. She told herself after each emotional breakdown that it was going to be okay. Once the teen phase is over and done with, everything would go back to normal. But when you are broken by those you thought loved you so much. After betrayals for which you only have yourself to blame, ones which you couldn’t speak about to your family, things begin to change permanently. Rage clouds your judgement and the haywire of contradicting emotions only catalyse the imminent catastrophe. Sense is shoved away to the corners of your brain while a string of words from an unfamiliar sounding voice rings out, impaling those who stuck around. Then enter regret. That wave of surging emotions that were muted during the blast come forward, louder than ever, stronger than ever. A wave that grows into a tsunami which doesn’t allow you to stay afloat. You can see the boat, the way to redeem yourself, but it looks so far away. Your wish to punish yourself drives it farther away. I deserve that , you tell yourself. Lies , some part of you screams, but you pay no heed to it. All those apologies remain seeded in your head, unable to come out, lodged on your throat like a piece of glass which shreds through your being. Because sometimes, words thought never become words said.

2ignmr

High Risk, High Reward

As the late hours of January 1st slowly turned into morning, Jane looked back on the previous hours she had spent partying. She remembered the vow she had made to herself when the clock struck midnight, alone in the corner while her friends rejoiced around her. “Work hard no matter the cost.” The advice had been in the back of her mind throughout the previous year, however she decided that this brand new start was the time to implement it. Long gone were the nights where she’d prioritize sleep over her work. Forgotten were the days where she’d stay in bed instead of being productive. She had always prioritized her health over all else, but those moments were now memories. The last year had been full of failure; failure as a student, as a daughter, as a friend. She had put her comfort over her duties, and paid the price in missed opportunities and failing grades. No matter the cost: Jane would work hard. She knew the toll it would take on her would be destructive. She’d seen it affect her father; long hours, getting sick often because of the lack of sleep, constantly being in a bad mood. But it would all be worth it when she succeeded. The reward was higher than the risk, and she’d risk anything to make everyone proud. No doubt her friends would be mad. She’d already started to pull away. Long text conversations turned into one word replies, calls that would last hours were now only calls of necessity, and laughs they would share were now hard to come by. But they would understand, it would all be worth it. She would’ve never made this resolution last year. But last year she wasn’t as big of a disappointment. She wouldn’t stay in her rooms and miss family meals. She wouldn’t intentionally miss club meetings or due dates in favor of laying down and thinking of nothing. How did she spiral so far? How will she bring herself back up? There were days where she would do nothing but read and write and study. Studying! She used to love studying. The accomplishing feeling of taking notes and learning was enough to make her enjoy school. Enjoy being productive. She sacrificed that feeling for sitting on her floor, trying to remember how she got in that position and why she wrecked her room. No. She wouldn’t be in that place again. The feeling of being unproductive carved a hole in her chest, but she was powerless to stop it. She felt trapped in her own head, watching herself spiral into a shell of herself, someone who struggled to get out of bed and considered eating an inconvenience. She wouldn’t allow herself to be that helpless. There was no one to rely on but herself, a fact that made itself abundantly clear when no one checked up on her. But she couldn’t be mad at her friends. Her decline wasn’t their fault. She thought back to the party that laid waste on the small house. Everyone was excited to see the past year gone, and they had spent the better part of the evening sharing stories. She hadn’t laughed like that in a while. Memories of drinking too much, walking at night, and playing games were recounted, and nostalgia was shared within the group. It felt bittersweet to be reminiscing when all she thought about was leaving her friends behind. They would understand. Right? They knew how important satisfaction and glory was to her. If she wouldn’t be able to hang out every week, they’d understand. The fear of being left behind ruined the conversations for her, but she still reassured herself that they wouldn’t forget about her. But even if they did, who would blame them? Jane would become flaky, someone who’d be exhausting to talk to. Jane would need to prioritize. In a contest between friends or success, the latter would always win. Company was inconsequential, not a priority. One day she’d come back, come back to the laughs and the fond stories. She’d be back someday, but not anytime soon. They wouldn’t recognize her. Her family wouldn’t recognize her. She’s not this determined, not this diligent. She was known for being average: average grades, average pastimes. But that would all change. She will be better this year. She has to be better this year. Jane couldn’t suffer it any longer. The disappointed glances from her teachers or the long talks she had to have with her parents when they realize how bad she’s doing. It didn’t matter that it took her days to get out of bed or that she would spend weeks not brushing her teeth because it was just too hard. They cared about success, about glory. They cared when she did well, but they didn’t care about her wellbeing. It is hard to fault them though. Her undoing had been carefully executed, where no one would notice. It saved her embarrassment. It was for the best anyways, they would turn it against her. She had nothing to complain about. Her childhood had been perfect: perfect house, perfect school, perfect family. She had been less than perfect. She was average, never motivated, and was constantly looked down upon. This was to be no more. She would be the best version of herself this new year. Success before everything was the rule she had to follow. Her health would only be an inconvenience to think about, something that would slow her down. She would be the topic of conversation, the person people would bring up when talking about achievements. She would be impressive, someone who deserved respect. This would be hard to achieve, but the prize was just too tantalizing. This year would be the hardest she’d ever faced, but to her it would all be worth it. Being a disappointment weighed on her chest, and she was tired of suffocating by her own action. The risk was inconsequential, and the reward would be well deserved.

1qu0kj

A Corner Counted

Leona Baxter scrunched herself into the corner of her cot, leaning into the cement wall, she scratched a tiny mark into the dirty prison cell surrounding her. Three months, two days and six hours, she got it to that far anyway - she lay back. Juve Hall was a prison for underage girls, but it was prison. Leona had pleaded guilty, pressured by her shitty lawyer Rob Parker, just graduated from law school and wanting brownie points, he was assigned to her from the Court since she had no money. 'It was a crime of passion.' She led herself to believe, not having any experience with such strong emotion or any bad behaviour in the past. She was going down the rabbit hole again, right now, while the other cell mates were about to come in for the night. How she hated this place, the rancid smells of the showers and toilets, they made her scrub for her first few weeks. "Your a newbie, you have to scrub." Said Roxanne, the prison guard with the bib boobs that Leona always wondered how she could even get a shirt to fit them. "And clean them good, or no food." The guard told her as she bit her bottom lip, Leona was scared here. The other girls were mean, tougher than anyone she had ever known. Butch, a teen who was half Mexican, was the top dog - she barked orders and her cronies followed suit. Once, at breakfast, they took her tray, dumped the food on Butch's, and said "If you tel, we will cut your tits off." said Cally, a blond girl who looked like she had been here most of her life. Leona just left the dining area, and would try to avoid them, all of them, 'she wasnt like that', she would tell herself, and hold herself tight as if to melt somehow away. "If I had one more chance to get out of here.....", she would dream, but the windows were heavily barred with the ugly cast iron. Every doorway had alarms, and the security camera's, it would take precision plannng and immaculate timing to escape here, and then what? "Nowhere to go." she'd laugh the idea out at that point. She wasnt in here for long, another week, and two days she was out. "Ha, now you think you're gonna get outta here? My, my what a little princess we have here.", chimed Cassy one day while they sat in tv lounge. Of course, Butch always watched what she wanted. She had connections too, she somehow got cigarettes and pills from the outside, or inside, god knew what she had to do for them. Her ugly tattoo's of naked bodies or skull's with blood dripping showed her less than prissy side. Butch turned to her, "Honey, we all think we are gonna get outta this stinkin' shit-hole, shut up so we can watch some tv." the glare Leona got was enough for her to sink back into the worn out fake leather covered seats from 1902 vintage church basement. She had hope, she had her marks, the tiny little scratches that she put every night, they kept her going. She'd remember her life when she was little, how her mom took her to the park, and they would swing and laugh. She would eat ice cream cones after, and her mom tucked her in at night, and then her mom would disappear for awhile, and come back late smelling of cheap perfume and sweat of men. Leona only knew later, after she heard stories from the girls at school that her mom did tricks to support her. The came the children's Aid people, who took her away and fostered her out. Fortunately, she got lucky and had a nice woman who took care of her now, but Francine worked as a doctor's secretary, she couldnt afford a fancy lawyer for her when she got charged. She'd cried and cried, Leona told her "It was a crime of passion, I didnt mean to hurt anyone." She'd pleaded to no avail. Her crappy lawyer made her plea bargain. "Look, its your first offence, you will get out soon. I cant do anything else for you. Your lucky he only got a few stitches, young lady." He'd scolded her, she wanted to stick a knife at him. "It was a crime of passion, I didnt know what to do, I was upset, he was cheating." Leona tearfully replied, begging him not to let her go to jail. She'd crawled out of her bedroom window that night, she wanted to see her Benny, his good looks and blond locks made her drool. She was in love with him, and he made her laugh. And then she saw them, the bitch kissing him in the corner of his mom's house. They hadn't heard her come in through the open front door. Outside the wind howled into the darkness of the trees. Leona's mind went blank, she'd grabbed the knife from the kitchen, and went......... Now, here she was, in this hell hole, with more bitches, and she counted, scratching every night a tiny little mark, her mark of hope. But that night, it was October 15th, she went to put a mark and noticed something different. Leona looked twice, then behind her as if she was afraid she would get caught, but not that she'd had ever been caught so far, the marks were so small only she knew they were there anyway. Really - now they were gone, scrubbed and cleaned, the whole cell smelled of cleaner, now that she'd noticed. This room hadnt been cleaned or the walls washed since she'd been here, "Hmph, maybe a cockroach crawled around and someone complained." She'd laughed at the thought. It wouldnt have surprised her, she'd seen a few more than she would have liked. And she shrugged then, getting ready for bed, it didnt matter, she knew how long she had left - she didnt need the marks anymore. Leona got into her prison assigned gown, torn and oversized and went to bed on the crappy cot.

cvsjb9

Cycle Cycle Cycle

It was a typical Saturday morning. I started out my day just like any other. eating toast and an egg sandwich with a cup of coffee for breakfast, tending to my garden out back, checking any unseen mail, everything was proceeding like the days that preceded this one. Is it boring? Maybe a little, but I wouldn’t change anything. If the world decides one day, to shake my life up, so be it. If it doesn’t, so be it. As I was working on a company logo, someone knocked on my door. I sighed, grabbed a plain black tee from my drawer, and headed out to the door to get things over with. A man dressed in a light blue button-down shirt and navy blue pants holding a package stood in front of me. In the distance, beyond the grass I let grow a little too long, there was a white truck decorated with red and blue lines that read “United States Postal Service.”    “Hello?”    “Package for Jude Cornerstone?” The mailman asked    “Yes.” I extended my arms to grab the package and smiled.    “Thank you. Have a nice day.” The mailman walked back towards the truck and left    I closed the door and began to question the uneventful shake in my life that just occurred.    Odd, the mailman could’ve left a key in my mailbox to open the parcel locker. Now that I mention it, I wasn’t even expecting a package.    I put the package down on the tiled kitchen floor, promising myself to get back to it later.    After working a little longer on the logo, I went to have lunch. The package was still there. A few hours later, I headed to my room to clear my head and start playing video games.    I’m forgetting something, aren’t I?    I headed back out to the kitchen to grab a snack. The package was still there, unopened, in all of its box-like glory.    I went to sleep, woke up again, headed to the kitchen to have breakfast, the box was still there.    I should really deal with this, shouldn’t I? Another day passed with the package unopened until I decided to stop putting it off. I grabbed a box cutter from the white kitchen drawer, and carefully sliced the white box down the middle. Inside, was a pack of plain white tees, socks, and a freshly knitted blue scarf with red polka dots. I grabbed everything and stared at each item for a good 10 seconds in visible confusion before tossing them on the couch. A letter decorated with a floral pattern was buried underneath all of the gifts. Dear Jude How are you doing? I hope you don’t mind this package coming to your place all of a sudden, I hope you find what’s in there useful to you. I wanted to take this time to invite you to a family reunion happening at our house on the 2nd of June. I do hope you’ll come. -Sincerely, your mother.    P.S: I apologize for not contacting you sooner. “That’s all you have to say after 10 years?” I muttered under my breath. The current date is June 1st. It's been ages since I’ve had to look at a clock, every day just feels the same, like it all merges together in one infinite loop. Regardless, I decided to go to the reunion tomorrow. It’s a typical Saturday morning. I start out my day just like any other. eating toast and an egg sandwich with a cup of coffee for breakfast, tending to my garden out back, checking any unseen mail, the morning proceeded like any other. Once noon hit, I headed outside to call a cab to ride to my parents’ house- a place I haven’t been to in forever. As the taxi pulls away from where he picked me up, I looked out the window to see a muddy sky, clouds covering the light of the sun. It almost seems like the sky is weeping for something, or maybe someone. “So, why are you heading so far away?” I heard the driver ask. “Family reunion.” “Ah, I see. Must be nice.” “Is it really that special?” “A word of advice, take every chance that you can to connect with your family. Before you know it, they won’t be there anymore. We don’t know how precious something is to us until they’re gone, or at least, I didn’t.” The driver’s words had an air of regret. “Did something happen?” “4 years ago, my mother passed. None of us made an effort to talk to her, until months before she passed. She acted like nothing was wrong until the very end, and those last few conversations I had with her are the ones etched into my memory. Conversations I hope to never forget, even as get older.” After he said that, I started to reminisce about my own childhood. The house wasn’t anything special, a 3 bedroom, 2 bathroom house with a small area for living and dining rooms. After school, I would get picked up by my brother, Amando. He would simply ask how I did and tease me the rest of the way. I would come home and immediately head to my room to start drawing, at least until my mother barged in to start nagging me about chores. I would do them, of course, but that’s only because of what happened when I didn’t. Besides chores, I didn’t talk to my mother at all. She would be in her own world and I would be in my own. My dad often came home late at night due to work. After which he would go to his room to change, then return to the living room to sit on the couch and watch TV. My only communication with him was whenever he decided to randomly barge into my room. At which point I’d either be drawing or writing. He would berate me, saying things like, “why can’t you do something useful for once,” or “I thought I told you to follow my path.” He’d confiscate my things to make me “reflect” on my actions. Things only escalated as I got older, to the point where one day, at 17, I couldn’t take it anymore and left home. I heard a faint voice, but couldn’t make out what it was saying. Everything seemed blurry as if I was being shaken vigorously. “Sir? We’re...” The faint voice became clearer. “SIR!” A loud echo rattled my brain, I finally snapped to reality to see us stopped near a house. The sun had set, a cool orange on the horizon. “Oh, my apologies,” I said half-asleep. The driver helped me out of my seat and told me to be careful. I managed to muster a smile, paid him, and headed towards the house in the mountains. A small, fickle old man opened the door. “Who are you?” He said, almost seeming scared. “Dad?" I looked visibly confused at the man standing before me. “Oh… it’s you.” He replied in an uninterested tone. “Come on in.” I took off my jacket, hung it on the coat rack, and sat on the floor in the center of what I presume to be the living room. The house is unbelievably empty. No couches, grey walls made everything seem closer, there was only one small table to the left of where I’m sitting, but no chairs in sight.    I remembered that my parents always lived frugally, making every attempt to save money, but I didn’t think it would be this bad.    After a while of doing nothing, I got up and proceeded to explore. I went to the kitchen, which was separated from the living room by a small counter. There, I saw my mom and my brother preparing 2 pounds of steak. “Jude? Is that you?” Mom asked. “Yes, it is,” I replied a little meekly. “I didn’t think you’d actually show up.” Jade gave me a slap on the wrist. “I see you haven’t changed one bit,” I said boorishly. “Hey, you haven’t either,” Jade snapped back. “Now now, settle down, boys. Jude, if you don’t mind, could you please go somewhere else?” Those words both relieved and stung me. People fundamentally don’t change, no matter how many years pass.    I left the kitchen and entered the bedroom. It was small, about half the size of the living room - which was small to begin with. Cream-colored walls surrounded the bedroom, with two individual beds on each side of the room. The beds faced a tiny glass shelf filled with photos and knickknacks. A window was on the leftmost side of the room and drawers lined up on the wall next to it.    I approached the glass shelf and picked up a family photo of when I was young. Back when I could mindlessly wander around, not having to worry about anything. Back when mom and dad both gave me love and care, back when I could do whatever I wanted without being judged. Small drops of liquid formed in my eyes as I came to a cruel realization.    I can never go back.    Time is limited.    They won’t be around forever.    “Jude, your mother told me to come get you. She said dinner is ready.” I heard a voice from behind me say.    I turned around and saw my dad rapidly tapping his foot. As if he was in a hurry.    I turned to leave without saying a word.    “And one more thing. There’s no need to get all sentimental over a photo. We’ve all been living our lives as best we can.”    I left the room with my head down.    “Jude, over here,” I heard my mom call out even though we were a meter apart.    I headed over to the kitchen and proceeded to serve myself a small piece of steak that was cut beforehand and some mashed potatoes.    Once everyone got their plates, we sat on the floor gathered near the table to eat. “So, Jude, how’ve ya been?” Jade asked with food in his mouth. “I’ve been fine I guess. Though I’m also feeling a little relieved.” “Oh? Is that so. How unlike you,” Jade replied as if we never drifted apart. Dad peered over his food, watching us very carefully, trying to sense trouble. “Anything you’d like to say, dad?” I stared back at him. “It's nothing. Tell me Jude, what do you do for a living?” “Graphic Design.” I could see dad slightly move away, as if it was an involuntary reaction. “Ahem, I guess the career doesn’t matter as long as you’re making a living from it.” My dad tried to regain composure. I felt myself making a slight smile. Guess my dad’s changing in his own way . “And you, Jade?” Dad asked. “I decided to follow your career path of business management, just like you always told us you wanted.” “And how’s that coming along?” “I’m making a huge amount of money. So in that regard, it's fantastic. But recently, I've been feeling empty, and everyday is a workday, even when it isn’t supposed to be. No amount of organization can fix that. In fact, this is one of the few occasions in the year I have a true break from everything.” A somber air filled the room. Nobody spoke, each one waiting for the other to break the ice. Dad, on the other hand seemed contemplative, as if something cracked within him. Finally, mom spoke. “If it really causes you that much pain, maybe you could try looking for something else. You do have the money to keep supporting yourself, after all.” “Yeah, I get that, but what do I do exactly? It’s not like I can drop everything and figure out the next step in the drop of a hat.” “Well maybe you need a break from life is all,” she said in a warm tone. “I agree with mom. Maybe you can li-” I bit my tongue. “I know what you were going to say and the answer is no, I‘m not living with them. I don’t want to be converted into a bum who starts freeloading off of his dying parents,” Jade retorted, his eyes in a burning state which I have never seen before.  “What other option is there!? You’re just going to keep working yourself to death! I don’t want that for you, for any of you!” I shouted. Dad snapped out of it and stared at me in surprise. I looked dumbfounded at my surroundings, and then at my hands and feet. Did I really just say that? “Jude…” Mom said my name softly. “Listen, I never thought I’d be saying this… but, being here made me realize, no matter what we may have gone through in the past, no matter how we treated each other, I do in fact, care for you all. Jade, answer me this, who’s going to find out that you’re living at your parents’ house?” “I- no one” Jade replied meekly. “Exactly. It’s never too late to get a fresh start, I realize this now. I also came to the grim realization that our lives are too short to live in a cycle. I want to start appreciating each and every moment with you guys now.” Tears streamed from my eyes. The grey walls which permeated the room turned slightly brighter.  The cyclical nature of my life. I’m glad it finally broke.

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Elle's Drummer Drumming

His head was spinning, his vision was blurring, his ears were ringing. Will was experiencing a sensation he wasn’t used to and, to be perfectly honest, wasn’t all that comfortable with. If anyone asked the question, Will would deny what was plain to see: he was drunk. Very drunk. Will had drunken alcohol before, he’d even smoked a few cigarettes before. He’d never been caught, as technically sixteen is too young for either activity, but in his secondary school there were always ways to get them. This feeling though, being drunk, didn’t feel like what other people in his year had described at house parties, it wasn’t this state of being happy. It felt like a loss of control. While he couldn’t say it in words, especially not in his state, what he knew for sure was that the world around him was different to how it was just 30 minutes ago; the red of the Santa hats and the yellow of Elle’s flowing hair were duller, as if someone had turned the dial down on the colours in his mind; the heavy metal that Danny had on full blast could barely be heard. Not to mention the taste. That horrible after-taste of cheap, supermarket-own-brand vodka that Ryan had his older step-brother buy for him in return for help on his maths homework. Nerd. The very prospect of Maths made Will want to drink more, and he would if he could find the bottle. What he found instead was that the voices he could hear were a lot louder than he thought they should be. “Were they arguing again ?” thought Will to himself. Yes, Will’s 3 bandmates Elle, Danny and Ryan were in fact arguing, rather intensely as well. The ‘why’ to their arguing was unfortunately unknown to Will, who was slumped on a sofa adopting a posture similar to what his teachers constantly told him off for. “Sit up straight , William!!”, he heard one of his teachers say. “Well, Mrs Ward, if you could see me now, I doubt posture would be what you told me off for”, he replied in his head. Like she needed any more reason to tell him off anyway, she hated him. Mrs Ward taught Maths and, in Will’s opinion, was the strictest teacher in the entire school, if not the world. She had Will sat up at the front of the class, right in front of her desk, and had him in detention almost every week. The reasons were usually for lack of effort, talking in class and an “attitude not worthy of my standards, William.” “What did she expect from people in bottom set Maths at 9am, Perfect Peter?!?”, Will wondered to anyone that would listen. Will wasn’t a morning person; anyone could see that. What they didn’t see was the sometimes all-nighters, chatting online with his bandmates or watching drum tutorials on Youtube, or even the energy drinks he kept in his bag for sneakily drinking when Mrs Ward wasn’t looking. “I’m just glad school’s finished for Christmas, I can’t stand any more algebra” thought Will. In fact, even thinking about algebra made Will sleepy, and at that point the last of the resistance to passing out finally gave in and as his eyes got heavy, Will heard a voice utter the word, “Georgia”. *** The band had been together for just 6 months and came as a mix of friendships starting at different times. First, Ryan had been Will’s best mate since the age of five and lived just across the road from him, making him easy to reach when Will’s over-achieving family was getting too much for him. Which was a lot. The two boys both had a lot in common; they both watched football, even though they supported Tottenham and Arsenal; they both liked rock music, especially Green Day; and they were both hopeless around girls. Danny joined the friendship bubble when they were all twelve, having gone to a different primary school across town. He got Will and Ryan into rock music as well as introducing some of the care-free attitudes that Will now demonstrated, at least in Mrs Ward’s not-so-humble opinion. Danny was also more successful with girls, having had several romances over several years. Elle was a different story, since she actually joined the school at fourteen from an all-girl’s school, so she’d had little to no experience of boys. Of course, of the three boys in the friendship group, Danny was the first to introduce himself and after an initial awkwardness, they got on like a house on fire. When she then met Will and Ryan, however, it was like she was an alien from another planet. It was a few months previous to the Christmas party, in the heat of the summer holidays, when Will was running late to meet Ryan and Danny at Danny’s house across town. He thought it was so unfair that they should have to go to Danny’s when Ryan’s was right next door, but he reluctantly agreed to the location. When he eventually arrived, exclusively fuelled on the last energy drink in the house, he was immediately met with the question, “So Will, what do you think?” “About what?” he replied, attempting to play catch-up. “About Elle joining the band.” Danny replied, as if Will had been there the whole time. So, in the half-hour that he’d overslept due to yet another late-night FIFA tournament, they’d not only agreed to starting the band, something that only he and Ryan had talked about the day before, but they’d added a girl into the band as well. He’d be a lot angrier if Elle didn’t catch his eye and give him a smile, saying “It’s okay sweetie, I don’t bite.” “Okay, now she wasn’t just a girl. She was a girl with telepathic powers”, thought Will to himself. However, Will agreed to let her practise, partly because she called him sweetie, which he liked. Not that she needed to know, of course. What the newly-formed band had for “practise” was more make-shift than anything else, with Will patting his legs in time to the music played out of the speaker, Elle humming along and Danny and Ryan debating who got to play guitar and who was left with bass. Over time, as Elle got more and more confident with singing in front of the boys, she sang in what Will thought was the most beautiful voice ever heard. Not that she needed to know, of course. She noticed his admiration and smiled again, only this time it felt genuine, like he’d caught her enjoying the moment he found her in. She then said, “So am I in the band now?” Will had never said yes to anything so quickly in his life. In fact, his enthusiasm made Elle laugh. “Awww, you’re sweet. I’m Elle.” “Yeah, I know, Danny told me. I’m Will.” “Yeah I know, Danny told me.” This made them both laugh and completely broke the ice between the two. As Will and Elle carried on chatting and getting to know each other, he started fancying her more and more. Not that she needed to know, of course. He didn’t know if her telepathic powers could tell, but he was glad that Danny and Ryan were too busy arguing to notice. However, as evening fell and Will, Ryan and Elle all left Danny’s, Will couldn’t stop thinking about Elle. Not even Ryan’s deal to take bass in return for Danny teaching him how to get girls could take his attention away. In the six months since, however, he’d never told her how he felt. They still talked a lot, but Will had never taken it further. Partly because he didn’t want it to end badly and lose his only female friend, but also because of Ryan and Georgia. Georgia was Danny’s twin sister, not that you’d know on first glance. The two were literally chalk and cheese. He was a punk, and she did ballet. “What more can I say” is what Will would imagine Elle to reply to that description. Georgia also played football for the school, which is what she had in common with Ryan. Once upon a time, Will played football for the school, but that was back in primary school, before drumming lessons fell on the same day as after-school football. Of course, Will chose drumming lessons, but by the time the timings changed, and he could do both, the skill level had gone way too high for Will’s liking. Plus he would never have met Elle, although maybe he would have more drunken experiences, since sports teams always had alcohol-filled house parties. However, Will was still interested in school football, turning up to matches when he could, always arriving there early with Ryan since he usually played. During one match, about a month before Christmas, Georgia came up to Will, who she vaguely knew through Danny. After politely accepting her offer of chewing gum, they both got talking, mainly about the match, when she started talking about who she knew in the boy’s team. Turns out the boys and girls from different sports teams all knew each other, so Will asked, “So have you met my friend Ryan yet?” “Yeah, he’s an interesting one.” Will asked her what he meant by that, and she replied, “So he’s nice and all, but he keeps asking me out on dates.” “Ohh, are you not interested?” “Not in that way, no.” “How come, if you don’t mind me asking?” “I dunno, he just seems kinda boring, you know. Plus it’s awkward cos he’s mates with Danny.” Will had never considered Ryan to be boring, but then Will wasn’t into guys. Will just put it down to Danny’s lessons on flirting not working. After all, he had a lot of ground to cover in that regard. “Have you spoken to him about it?”, Will continued. “Who, Danny?” “Yeah.” “If he does it again, I may have to. It’s getting annoying now!” The frustration in her voice suggested to Will that she and Ryan were never going to be a thing. Not that Ryan would let that stop him; he was the type of person who kept going at something until he had what he wanted. Walking home, Will casually mentioned Georgia to Ryan, to which his eyes lit up. “Ohh Georgia, yeah she’s this really nice girl from football. We’ve been chatting for a while and I think she could be my girlfriend.” Knowing for definite that there was no chance she would be his girlfriend, Will asked, “What are you gonna do about it?” “Well, I’ve been thinking, her birthday’s a few days before our big Christmas do, and I wanted to send her a gift. Do women like flowers?” Thinking nothing of it, Will said yes. After all, Georgia was probably exaggerating what she told him at the football match. *** An hour after he passed out, Will came round, feeling like only a minute had passed. The room was now much quieter, meaning that he could now survey the mess him and his bandmates had made. Spilt alcohol, party poppers everywhere, cups littering every work surface. Will was suddenly so grateful that this was Danny’s house; Will’s parents would kill him if that kind of mess was in their kitchen. Still, at least the arguing had stopped. At that moment, Elle came out of the bathroom and saw Will finally sitting up. “Ahh, he’s awake, at long last!!” she jokingly greeted him with. Sober enough to now hold a conversation, Will asked, “Were you guys arguing earlier?” “Well, Danny and Ryan were, I was trying to calm them down.” “Of all times to argue, they choose when I’m the most drunk I’ve ever been.” This caused Elle to giggle, and then in no time the two of them were laughing uncontrollably at how silly it was, no one noticing Will because of the argument. After what seemed like an eternity, Will calmed down enough to ask, “So what were they arguing about? It seemed pretty heated.” It turns out that Ryan actually had bought her the flowers and Georgia wasn’t lying with her threat of telling Danny, who wasn’t exactly sober when he brought it up, hence the argument. This got Will really anxious, and not just because he may have had a hand in causing the situation. What if he finally confessed his feelings for Elle and something similar happened? Wanting to test the waters with Elle in a light-hearted way, he said, “Damn, that sounds intense. I really hope that doesn’t happen when you get a guy.” “Well it depends on who the guy is, but there’s one in particular who I would definitely say yes to” came the reply. Elle then gave Will a stare that, in Will’s head, meant that the ‘one in particular’ was him. Butterflies now racing around in his stomach, Elle set Will back down on the sofa he’d previously slept on and kissed his cheek, before making her way back to the kitchen for a glass of water. While lying on the sofa, Will started to formulate a plan of action for the morning. First, he would chat to Danny, see if he needed any help tidying up the mess around the house. Will had no idea what state either of them would be in, so he wouldn’t immediately rush that one. Elle would finally know that Will had feelings for her. Yeah, there was still the fear of rejection, but it was much smaller than the fear he’d previously had. If tonight was anything to go by, Elle was much more willing to say yes to Will than Georgia was to Ryan. Plus, Elle was an only child, so no possessive brother to deal with. This new motivation was also partly fuelled by the kiss she gave him. Not that she needed to know, of course. Ryan, he would save until last, since the two were walking back from the party together, since they lived on the same road. Will imagined Ryan would be upset about the whole Georgia thing, but hopefully wouldn’t leave the band. “Every band needs a bassist”, he would say. As Will drifted off to sleep, he thought of two things. He thought of Elle saying yes and kissing him again, like she had before. He also thought of the band performing together, touring all the big stadiums, and having the crowds cheering and shouting and singing their lyrics back to them. Elle would stand out more than the others, of course she would. She would be the best singer of them all. Not that she needed to know, of course.

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. "The Truth God's Honest" .

I may often seem very off-putting, but friend, I am just allowing for life, as this often is, to influence our sincere growth altogether ever gingerly, and all just as piecemeal like. To abide this way below and above I become the raw acceptance and the infinite hope that I seek. Is there, any other way to abide together within this life, friend? Yes, whenever, and if ever, and or wherever that I will not allow for this effort, within this exact way below and above, I tend to disassemble this life, rather drastically, and all irrevocably more often than not, working for and by myself all alone! Without again, sincerely applying myself towards this gracious and ever-simplistic effort, below and above... I will always and in all ways cause sincere damage to this life, and infinitely more, to myself, all in turn. Yes, I consider and fervently welcome the ever-generous and glorious fact that we are all spiritual beings, all suffering... with one another, the human experience, but isn't this effort below, "God's Honest Truth"?:  "Gratitude for any part or piece or person within this life put into sincere action is most often a considerate and considerable, consistent effort that all lead to the quieting of the mind within the moment." "Moving all of us on into the (H)onest and (O)pen-minded and (W)illful journey into the sincere growth into our perfection together with our Creator, moving all life on into eternity, and all infinitely more!" If ever, and wherever, and whenever I will not choose to act upon my gratitude this way, all-the-more this human experience consumes this spirit, within the moment. All-the-more that I seek out just whenever, and wherever, and if ever I can remain, sincerely helpful, albeit all just as this effort may be possible within the moment, moving on infinitely more with all life, I can enter the treasure of my mind, all that I want. Yes, this effort is all the proper use of the human will the very moment that I take sincere action upon this effort, below... and above, with; my all!                    Signed: "Grateful & Willing To Grow All-The-More" ... The very moment that life becomes the most difficult, all-the-more merry the opportunity to truly live and to grow and to thrive within this life; that this ever-forthright; and gracious effort becomes! All of the ways, from the cool Rain... to the warm Sunshine; to the Sleet or Snow and or the oftentimes offputting bitter cold; may the shadow of our Creator's Love never befall upon the sincere fact:  That, with our lives, we've all honestly accomplished nothing but to breed more misery in the stead of more generous and infinite freedom, and relative peace, and general harmony within this world working all together with another before we were taken far beyond this effort by our Creator! No never; notwithstanding, this all goes to say, from, the simple person's division to the avid acceptance of our Creator, of all life and of this beautiful world all surrounding us, and all secured sincerely within us, even in the face of this truth, we have been offered by our Creator the infinite, right to choose our fate. As we dance all of our days unto perfection, unto the blessing of our day of stillness; yes; our mighty feet always take us here into the blessing of this moment moving on, infinitely more! Tell, tell time keeps on ticking away! Yes, may we always be the rolling stone? Nothing less, nothing more? May we never; be our very own jailer? Let us all work to remain to be, our very own pardon of one another together? Even when the rubber, greets the road let all of us greet one another under the sincere offering of peace, infinitely more? Yes, may we welcome in every Simple Sorrow that comes to us. Let this all be for us the greatest fact that we all got to draw nigh to our Creator within this effort! That all of us get to be an ever-glorious and even greater, and ever-greater and sincere part of our Creator's Gracious Handiwork! All until this "Mighty Power" Welcomes all of us Home! When this "Mighty Power" does; bring us home; let there be no question, that just as much as we were all offered to walk towards this endeavor together, then all surrendered away to this choice, to live and to grow and to thrive with all life! As we lived with all life in the welcomed repose of this effort, of our fate, below and above... this thought, nor action towards the generous fruits of our Creator's undying Love, for all life; was never denied by us and kept and left; thriving within us! Yes; friend, let this all be said, that most certainly, we honestly did live just as righteously as we all could! Let this be said that we never tried to hoard anything! All especially any bitterness, towards any part nor piece nor person within this life, all included with and all aimed towards our Creator for anything that we all possibly; could not accept, for ourselves, just as very much that this "Power" accepts all of us! ... Yes, challenge everything about the so-called normal! Withhold nothing that can be viewed as sincerely helpful! The day will go and come arriving unto this very moment moving on infinitely more! You will find your home and yourself and your hope all thriving within your sincerity! Yes, let this all go time and again and moreover and again infinitely more, to all parts and pieces and good people, within this life, unto our very end together! Yes, because I'm coming to find that my solitary consideration, and; singular appraisal all alone by myself, will never be enough when this comes to "God’s Honest Truth”! Yes, just as this effort above is for all life, and always and in all ways... will be!                                            Signed: "All Of Me & All-The More"

g7z4fv

A Royal Dilemma

Isabelle wiped her hands on her gray riding pants, smearing mud on them from her time out in the rain. She coaxed her horse, Black Knight, into his stable for the evening. “Good boy,” she whispered, gently petting his nose. “And Merry Christmas, my knight.” She reached into a bucket of apples, a special treat for the horses on Christmas Eve, and fed it to Black Knight. He heartily accepted it. Sighing, she leaned against the wooden wall and shook the dirt loose from her riding boots. She’d rather spend the evening with her horse in muddy clothes than dress up in a gown for an evening at the castle. Christmas Eve was a night of pretentious conversations fraught with silent tension and competition among the royal family of Vegalahn. This year was bound to be terrible. This year, she would tell her family that she was not going to be a royal. They had to have known deep down. Future queens simply did not romp around with horses all day and sword fight with their supposedly inferior servants. Five years ago, when she’d turned fifteen, her father had warned her then. You must behave like a lady fit for a crown, or you will lose the crown . He never asked her if she wanted it in the first place. Black Knight grunted, sensing Isabelle’s dismay. “Alright, Knight. I know. I’ve got to get this over with.” She kissed her horse on his nose and ensured her saddle was put away. As she left the stables, she paused for a moment at the door, enjoying the smell of horses and the black sky above her, twinkling with stars. This was her Christmas moment. But the moment passed, and she hurried toward the castle in the distance. It was a looming tower that had been decorated with enough Christmas lights to rival the stars. Once inside, her handmaid, Polly, eyed her muddy clothes and clucked at her with disdain. “Your poor hair, my lady,” Polly scolded. Isabelle apologized, although she was not truly sorry, and allowed her handmaid to coax her into a hot bath, soap her hair into a lavender lather, and set her wavy locks into braids interwoven with red satin ribbons. Polly fitted her in a red gown that split open in the back, creating a v-shape down to Isabelle’s waist, with a barely visible netting of gold glitter covering Isabelle’s back. Polly always said red was Isabelle’s color. It pulled out the blush of her cheeks against her stark black hair and warm brown eyes. But looking in the mirror, Isabelle barely recognized herself. Two hours ago, she’d been galloping in the wind on Black Knight, her hair whipping against her cheeks as rain poured down and mud splashed her boots. She stared at her reflection and felt that she might break against the strain of being both elegant and wild. Isabelle made her way to the sitting room where her parents, the King and Queen of Vegalahn, would be waiting for her. Her younger sister Marie would be there as well. Her Uncle John, the Duke of Vegah County, and his two sons, Nicholas and Harold, would also be there. And lining the sides of the room would be multiple servants and one royal guard. Caden. The one person in the castle who refused to look at her. Not since the summer of her eighteenth year, when he’d been chastised for taking her out riding and bringing her back late into the night. It was cause for suspicion, the Captain of the Royal Guard had warned Caden. And Isabelle knew, they had right to be suspicious. Caden was ever present since that day, and yet never present with her. Even the red of her dress and the blush on her cheeks would not pull his gaze. “Isabelle,” her father smiled as she entered. “Finally.” A greeting and a jab at the same time. “Father,” she acknowledged. She observed the room. A tall Christmas tree lined with gold lighting and red bows stood proudly in the middle of the room. Beaded garlands were strung on the wall, breaking every now and then to feature giant wreaths with berries hanging from them. A fireplace warmed the room while Marie played a Christmas tune on the piano. Extravagant. Beautiful. But Isabelle wanted her apples and her horse. Uncle John smiled. “Isabelle. You’re twenty now, aren’t you?” “Yes.” She had known Uncle John would not waste time with pleasantries. “So it’s time then. This is the year.” “It is.” “And my Lord, have you told her?” Uncle John turned toward her father, questioning. Isabelle had been told. Her father had picked a suitor. He was a prince from Sandalahn. They were to be married at six months past her twentieth year. Their marriage would bring an alliance for their two kingdoms. “She knows,” her father acknowledged. “Sit, and have some Christmas treats, darling.” As if she were a five-year-old that could be coaxed into marriage with peppermint candy. Grudgingly, she sat in a chair, but did not take the candy. “I have heard of the arrangement,” she stated, her voice shaking. “But I will not be marrying the Prince of Sandalahn.” She heard Caden intake a sharp breath, a break in his rank and duty. “Isabelle,” her mother warned. “What is this?” her Uncle John laughed. “A princess refusing to marry a prince from the most powerful kingdom in the world?” Isabelle soured. “He’s dull. And he can barely keep his balance on his horse.” “He’s powerful by virtue of his position,” Uncle John admonished. “Not in his position on a horse. He would fail in any battle, and he knows it.” Isabelle knew Uncle John wanted access to mines in Sandalahn to increase his personal wealth. He cared not for Vegalahn’s people, and least of all for Isabelle. “You must marry, Isabelle. You know this.” Her mother sat across form her, the perfect picture of a queen in a long gold gown that shimmered from her neck to her ankles. A picture of luxury and rigidity. She was all that Isabelle did not want to be. “It is a tradition in our family. Girls must marry in their twentieth year to be eligible for the crown.” Isabelle snickered. “Then I’m not eligible for the crown. Give it to Maria.” Her father’s fist slammed on a table decorated in candles and gifts. They shook violently with the impact. Marie abruptly stopped playing the piano. “Isabelle! This is Christmas. Enough of your antics. You will marry whom I choose, and that is the end of it.” “I will not marry the Prince of Sandalahn. Marriage to him is the equivalent of linking myself to a stupid, old boar who will grow fat on his greed and pride.” “You will bring down this kingdom with your insolence!” Her father was shouting now. With her heart beating rapidly, she persisted. “I will not! The people do not want this monarchy any longer. Haven’t you seen their protests in the streets? They do not want the Prince of Sandalahn. They do not want a royal family! They want freedom from our laws. They want to choose their own leader. They know what nearby lands have done.” But Isabelle knew that her family did not understand. They didn’t take to street markets, as she did, or visit innkeepers in secret. They sent the Royal Guard out to quash protests, but never met with the town leaders to understand the reason for the protests. They lived primarily in their own castle grounds, far from the people. It wasn’t that Isabelle did not care for the people of Vegalahn. She believed that she cared the most of all. She heard the chatter of traders coming off the ships in Vegah Bay. She was interested in their tales of nearby lands that had overthrown their monarchy and selected their own leaders to rule. Meanwhile, her people sat mired in filth, ruled by a luxurious few clothed in royal robes, taxed to the point of poverty. She knew many in Vegalahn would go hungry and cold this Christmas night, and she felt the weight of the blame fell on royal hands. Hands like Uncle John’s, whose hands were frequently manicured and full of money from his county’s high taxes. “I will lock you in your quarters with Polly until your day of marriage!” her father threatened. He had never done so, yet he had threatened to do it hundreds of times. But he was red-faced tonight, with his kingdom on the line. Isabelle was not entirely sure this time. Would he truly lock her away? “I want to leave for Sandalahn with Caden in the morning,” she insisted. She did not dare glance at Caden, but her family stared at him, jaws dropped. Her father was frozen. The servants knew of Caden and Isabelle’s late-night adventures to the castle kitchen to eat cookies together when they were fourteen. But to escape Vegalahn together and stand against the king? Even the servants were glued in place, staring at Caden in shock. Caden mumbled, “I… I don’t know of this plan, my Lord.” Isabelle turned in her chair to face him then. His face was pure confusion. “Caden will take me to Sandalahn as my guard. I will inform the Prince that I will not be marrying him. I will speak to him personally with the hope of avoiding any public announcement. I know I can persuade the prince to set aside this engagement and avoid any public humiliation for you, Father.” “And who will be queen if you defy the law?” said her cousin, Nicholas, as he looked at her with curiosity. “Marie?” “Marie is ten years old!” Uncle John glanced at little Marie, who had left her piano to play with a doll by the fireplace. “It will be another ten years before she can marry a prince in Sandalahn! We have been waiting for you , Isabelle.” “And in that time,” Isabelle continued, “may you hear the voice of your own people calling for the end of this royal family. I will not reign over these people.” Her father shook his head. “I mean it, Isabelle, I will confine you to your quarters until the day of your marriage!” This time she realized her father was speaking the truth. It panicked her. She gathered up her red gown, which dragged underfoot and threatened to trip her. Quickly, she moved to stand in front of Caden. “Caden, come with me.” “Guard, do not move!” Her father stalked over to Caden and stood nose to nose with him. “Or you will lose your position in the Royal Guard, and your family will be disgraced.” “Caden,” Isabelle whispered, meeting his eyes. She was pleading. He stared at her, his blue eyes a melting pot of emotions. Bravery, fear, panic, confusion, desire. “Your family is disgraced already, living in tattered coats with holes in their roof. This royal line cannot continue. You know this.” But she knew Caden had sworn an oath to protect her family to his death. He blinked, but did not move. “I will go alone then!” she cried desperately. She fled the sitting room. Isabelle heard her mother urging her father to do something. At the castle door, she threw off her heels. She reached down to the parts of her dress that dragged on the ground and violently tore at the hem until the dress reached only her knees. She heard Polly calling after her and whipped around to face her handmaid. “Polly, not now!” “Your cloak, my lady,” Polly mumbled, offering up a thick green cloak. Isabelle grabbed it, surprised, and threw it over shoulders. “My thanks, Polly.” Then Isabelle ran for the stables. Behind her, she heard her father mobilizing the Royal Guard. “Chase her!” he shouted. She ran faster. Her legs were used to the work. Tearing open the doors to the stables, she startled Black Knight. He whinnied when he saw her in a frenzy. She grabbed the saddle and reins, brought him out of the stable and prepared him for riding. She slipped into new riding boots and jumped atop him. “Run, Knight!” She kicked his sides, and he stirred into action. He galloped into the night with Isabelle’s woven silk braids flying behind her. “To the forest!” Nearing the thick line of trees, she heard the pounding thunder of hoof prints as the Royal Guard’s horses roared closer. “Faster, Black Knight!” she yelled. She could not risk a glance behind her, but only gripped the reins and leaned forward, urging on her horse. “Faster, I say!” They flew into the darkness of the forest trees, both familiar with the pathways. Winding through overgrown bushes, Black Knight leapt over fallen tree logs in haste. Isabelle had no food on her, no plan. Her original plan was to have left for Sandalahn the next morning with her parents’ permission and Caden at her side. But she was an impulsive girl. Things rarely went to plan and she rarely acted with patience. All the more reason she could not be queen. “Halt, my lady!” The Royal Guard was shouting behind her, but she knew they would not pull an arrow on her nor would they take any action to harm her. As she raced Black Knight in a rapid zig zag formation, she could hear the guards falling behind. Time blurred by, and she raced on, her body aching from its grip on Black Knight. Eventually, she could no longer hear the hoof prints of the Royal Guard. As silently as a thief, she led Black Knight into a cove of dark trees, barely able to see what lay in front of her. She cautiously dismounted. “Quiet now, my knight,” she whispered. “We can rest.” A creak bubbled nearby and she led Black Knight for a drink. She kneeled next to him and splattered her face with ice cold water, concerned about the next day. Could she go to Sandalahn alone to face the prince? Would Sandalahn guards even believe she was Isabelle, Princess of Vegalahn, with her dress torn and her hair a mess? Could she influence the prince to reject their marriage? And if she refused to marry and continue the royal line, would the people of Vegalahn find the courage to govern themselves? Suddenly, she felt like crying. She had just left everything – everything – behind. And for what? For a hope and a dream born of desperation. Her back was stiff and her fingers were frozen. She wanted to sleep, but was terrified that the Royal Guard would find her and return her to be locked up in the castle. So she simply sat in the silence and let a tear slip down her face. Snap! The breaking of a twig made her jump to her feet. Black Knight immediately came to attention. Thieves, she thought, fearing the worst. She peered into the darkness, afraid. She had no weapon to defend herself, so she used her boot to feel the ground for a long stick that she might use as a flimsy sword. A deep voice spoke. “Isabelle.” Caden. “You’re here!” she gasped. “I’m here.” He stepped closer to her, and she could see his shadow now. Wavy hair trailed into his eyes, blown loose from the exertion of chasing her. Of course he would find her, she thought. He knew all her secret hiding places. Isabelle breathed, relief filling her bones. Caden brushed his hand through his hair, and she saw that he was shaking. “What on earth were you thinking, Isa?” “You know what I was thinking.” Stepping toward him, she asked, “I thought you wouldn’t come. I really thought you wouldn’t. You…wait, you do mean to come with me, right?” “Yes. I don’t want you to go alone.” “You’ve risked everything.” “ You’ve risked everything.” True. “And I believe in what you’re fighting for.” She nodded. “My family will hate me.” “Not always. You seek the best for Vegalahn.” He said this only to ease her anxiousness, but she knew the truth. Leaving the royal family was not an act to be forgiven. “We should get moving while it is dark. Your father will have more guards out searching for you in the morning. He doesn’t want you to make it to Sandalahn to speak with the prince.” “Yes, I agree. Let’s go together.” Caden had left his horse tied by rope to a tree at the forest line so as not to be tracked. Together, Isabelle and Caden mounted Black Knight. “Caden,” she whispered. “Yes, Isa.” “Thank you.” Two words that held a thousand moments of gratitude. She knew when the Royal Guard found Caden’s horse, he would never be able to regain his position. He sighed heavily. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.” They rode carefully into the night, cautious to avoid detection. At times, Caden dismounted and hid their tracks. When he came back to ride with her, she breathed in his scent of pine and cinnamon and felt the past two years of coldness between them slowly melt away. She had abandoned her family and the castle of lights. She didn’t know what lay ahead. The future held only uncertainty and struggle. But it also held freedom. So she urged Black Knight onward.

zz90bu

moment of truth

-are you in love or is he just tall and good looking?" Emily said painting her nails cherry blossom pink and then blew over them gently, her curly blonde hair bouncing as she moved forward and then backward to look at them, jade could bet she wasted hours for getting the perfect beach waves which all the stupid girls on Instagram had. but the moment Emily completed her sentence Jade stopped typing on the laptop and glanced at her best friend. the library fell quiet. the books stacked up vertically in the racks and the dust particles having a picnic on them. the hickory racks on the verge of breaking and the half of the lamps in the library, apparently not working. Emily's white see through shirt displayed her Victoria's secret bra clearly even in night and the bottom of the shirt was filled with coffee stains even though whens she utterly detested coffee. -you nag all day about how people don't support you on the issue of raising pay for library workers and now your library looks like this." jade pointed at the astrology book proudly standing on the chick lit section. -Ahh" Emily said and swirled her head around to see things begging to be placed in their right positions. "I guess its fine no one ever comes in except you with you laptop to participate in weird international contests hoping to win some cash so you can buy make up." replied Emily sarcastically her fake eyelash coming out from one corner in the left eye. -at least". jade smacked her lips and winked. she hit the submit button and close her laptop, slipped it in her black leather bag which smelled like summers and vanilla. she wore the bag and put the beret on her head. -what's the plan for tonight?" Emily asked, as she stood up some of her nail polish on the desk. -A-lot. I have to do an English assignment its a research on hopeless romantic characters and how people today can relate to it, very excited for that." jade exclaimed sarcastically. "and then i have to check taxes for mom and then..." -wa...wa...wait! i meant something fun for new year night. perhaps new year special?" Emily flirted. -nothing like that such. -not even with your boyfriend." Emily bended her fingers in the air. -well..." jade took a deep breath thinking. "no." she said and left, Emily's compliment about the beret following her from the edges of the door. jade felt a sudden shiver in her arms and neck. she glanced at her reflection in a closed stationary shop's glass wall. she corrected her red scarf around her neck, it was a gift for her from her boyfriend. every inch of it made her feel special. her creamy coffee beret matched her long coat, jade abruptly put her hands inside the pockets and posed like a model. she smiled and saw a couple's reflection in the glass which shared a single ice cream cone, they looked so in love. jade took out her cellphone and checked if there was any message but there wasn't. she slipped it in back and walked to her home. the Christmas decoration was still on, gleaming, glowing, sparkling in the moonlit night. the air was strong and fresh creating tiny snowflakes in her lungs, when one of the million snow flaked bloomed, jade thought of surprising her boyfriend. she glanced at her watch, it displayed 10:56 pm. it was late but jade was allowed to be late as long as she was trying to earn some money. she rushed in the direction of her house, trying hard not to slip on the ice melting. she went in to her room after passing her family in the lounge watching news which displayed fireworks from different countries celebrating new year. the news anchor screaming at the top of his lungs telling "viewers your are watching fireworks live from new Zealand, one of the first country to celebrate new year." jade took out half of her savings and rushed to the nearby mart. she bought a couple of bright colored balloons which said 'happy new year." and two slices of strawberry cake. the mart was filled with customers although it was nearly midnight. it took jade 30 minutes on the counter waiting for her turn. finally when she had paid, she rushed to his boyfriend's house. -its me, jade. -oh hello, darling. you must be here for harry, but he is not home." said his mother wearing a green apron and sugar powder on her fingers. -oh. alright." jade said and turned around disappointed. -jade, i think he went to the library." suddenly, a very nasty thought appeared in Jade's mind but she brushed it away. she walked to the library and a slightly slowly pace wondering what was her boyfriend doing at the library. jade walked past the park and saw a few couples sitting on the benches waiting for the fireworks. jade gulped and pushed the library door which was still open. jade's breathing rate increased by 20%. she walked slowly in and saw a black jacket lying on the floor. jade could hear some moaning from one of the aisle, she pulled herself towards it to see and to know on what edge she stood at and there she was, Emily with of the college boys. jade's eyes darted out. -Jade?" emily asked full of curiosity. -oh my god! i am so sorry!" jade apologized and rushed out rapidly. her balloons strangling with each other and cake slices smudged completely. she slowed down as she came near to the park and sat down on one of the empty bench. jaded hated how easily she thought her boyfriend was cheating and how could she think that her best friend could go on such extent, it was weird. jade felt melancholy and tired as she still wondered where were all of those people she loved. it was new year's night, she just wished she wasn't so alone. the clock strike 12 and all the fireworks went out. the shimmer attracting the eyes and the 'boom' sound making people jump in excitement and hopes. the couples kissed and children swirled around. jade sat with a straight face wondering perhaps Emily was right, her stories didn't had the spark, nor her love life. the stories and life was simple. there was no rollercoaster or jumping castles. it was usual, "i am sorry, i cant come i have to take my mom to the hospital, i am sorry, i am tired i had to complete my projects today." it was simple, and its the stupid actors that make us believe in miracles with their absolutely brilliant acting. jade picked her smudged cake slices box from the bench and stood up, the balloons tied on her wrist following her. -hey." said a familiar voice. "i was searching for you every where" there he was, with his addicting smile and silky hair. -where were you?" jade asked, and passed a smile in the end.

9td5lz

The Many Lives of the Cherry Tree

The shade of the cherry tree was the only solace Cheria had after her grandmother’s passing. They spent countless hours under that magnificent tree, and the vibrant red of the cherries reminded her of the stylish red lipstick her nana always sported. “This was the same shade of red lipstick I was wearing the first time your grandfather kissed me. The color red is the reason you exist.” She'd always tell her, smiling as brightly as the sun. Cheria’s very first memory was of her grandparents. Her nana holding her grandfather’s hand, Cheria hoisted on his shoulders, they walked through their spacious garden behind their large cottage. According to her grandmother, their family had lived on that piece of land for generations. “Our family is always here, in the nature around us. Even though they’re long gone now.” Her nana told her this after her mother and grandfather died in a car accident. Cheria didn’t understand her then, only 12 years old, suffering as no child should. But now, 20 years old with no living family left, she was beginning to understand. With her back pressed against the trunk, she reminisced on her life up until that point. The family picnics, the stray cats that would always lie on the cobblestone path, her grandfather’s hearty laugh, her mother’s flowing black hair. She imagined her younger self having a tea party with her mother by the hydrangeas, and her grandfather helping her feed the cats. The memories were so vivid - it felt as if the people she had lost had manifested right before her. Cheria could see the kitchen from where she was seated, and the faint smell of cherries seemed to emanate from the house. For a moment, as she stared past the green grass, and countless flowers, she thought she saw her grandma, leaning over the sink, and a younger version of herself, a happy mess covered in flour. It was a memory of the first time she learned to make her nana’s signature cherry pie bars. It almost seemed like her grandma had come back from the restful sleep of the dead. Cheria almost reached her hand out, almost cried out, begging for her best friend to return to her. Then, just as quickly as the memory came, it disappeared. Cheria felt the tears roll down her cheek as her stomach dropped. She didn’t know what to do now that she was alone. She had barely started her sophomore year of college when she got the terrible news. She buried her head in her chest and sobbed for what seemed like an eternity. She was scared, and she knew her entire being ached for something unattainable, but she yearned for her family anyway. As she cried with all her might, more memories came rushing in.  “Do you know why your mom named you 'Cheria'?” Her grandmother asked her the night of her mom’s death. They were in her mom’s room, Cheria’s tiny body buried under the covers, trying to ingrain her mother’s scent into her mind. She lost her dad when she was younger, and barely remembered him. She never wanted to forget anyone else. Her grandmother was sitting next to her. “No.” It was the first-word Cheria had said all day. “Beloved, darling. That's what your name means, and that’s what you are.” Cheria laughed at this. “I always thought it was because it sounded like cherry. You know this family has such a weird obsession with the fruit.” Her grandmother chuckled. “Your parents met under that cherry tree. One night, your mother and I had a bad fight, and she stormed outside. That was when she met some random guy, sitting under the tree-like he owned the place! She confided in him her issues then, and after that, he came back every night, waiting for her under that tree. He said he would spend the rest of his listening to her. Sometimes, I think my daughter may have a casted a spell on your poor old man.” Cheria slowly pulled herself out from under the covers. “The name Cheria was perfect because you are their beloved, darling. The human embodiment of their love, which began under that mystical tree. It made sense they chose a name with a resemblance to the fruit.” A month later, her grandmother asked her if she wanted to learn how to make her famous cherry pie bars. That was the only time Cheria assisted her grandmother’s baking. Cheria was always at school or a part-time job whenever her grandmother had the time to bake, so she didn’t know much about pastries. But the bars tasted so heavenly, no matter how many times Cheria ate them. They melted in her mouth perfectly and lifted her spirits no matter how bad of a day she’d been having. “Ow.” A few cherries fell on her head then. The sensation brought her out of her reverie. Cheria stopped crying and began to laugh when she realized what had fallen on her. She saw it as a message from the universe that she shouldn’t sulk for what she’s lost, but to remember that the love of her family will always be there, just like her nana told her. She wiped the tears from her face and walked to the lonely cottage. She found her mother’s fruit picking basket and picked cherries from the tree. The kitchen was eerily quiet, so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The lack of sound shook Cheria to her core. Even after her mother and grandfather died, her grandmother was always making so much noise in the kitchen. Her family had great cooks, but they were nothing if not clumsy. The clanging of pots and pans used to annoy her growing up, but now she felt lost in the silence. Cheria racked her brain, trying to think back to the day she made the bars with her nana. She couldn’t remember much, and she refused to look the recipe up online. Her nana never did and neither would she. She remembered she needed flour. All those years ago, her grandmother blew some on her face when she noticed Cheria about to cry - her mother’s death was still a fresh wound in her heart back then. Cheria smiled as she thought about how selfless and caring her grandmother was. She walked to the pantry and tippy-toed to reach for the white powder that was at the top. She saw the sugar and salt and remembered what her grandmother told her that day. “We always need a little bit of both, in baking and life. If we’re too sweet we’d be taken advantage of, too salty and no one will like you. Gotta find that balance, Cher.” Cheria placed the ingredients on the wooden island and tried to think of the other things she needed. She crossed her arms and closed her eyes, a habit she picked up from her father. Whenever he thought carefully, he leaned against something and did what Cheria was doing. She doesn’t know when she began to copy him, but she found it did help her concentrate. “Oh! I have to make the cherry pie filling first.” She had almost forgotten an important step. She found the cherry pitter and began to pit the vermillion fruit. Her grandfather showed her how many years ago, as it was always his job to pit the cherries whenever her grandmother baked. She hummed along as she searched for the lemon juice, cornstarch, water, and almond extract. Cheria realized she knew more about the pastry than she thought. After all, she had been eating it for years. Although she wasn’t always there to witness their creation, her nana lived to tell stories. Cheria decided it would be a good idea to write the recipe down when she remembered what she needed; she ran to the living room, where she had left her journal on the coffee table earlier that day. She ripped out a page, wrote down the ingredients she was using, then went back to working on the filling after she set the paper down on the kitchen’s window sill. She wasn’t sure what to do next but in her head, she heard her grandmother’s voice, telling her about the new saucepan she bought for her well-renowned deserts. Cheria delightfully mixed the components in the pan until it came to a boil, then she began stirring frequently. She recalled she had to stir quite a lot because it was her job when she first baked with her grandma. Before Cheria, it was her granddad’s charge. Whenever her grandmother’s arthritis would flare up, he took over the stirring for her, and he’d try his best to help her out with the rest of the recipe. It was odd he was no longer there to help his wife while she did what she loved most, but her nana kept a bright smile on her face anyway. She added in the almond extract, and when ten minutes had passed, the filling was ready. She let it cool while she tried her best to figure out the rest of the things she needed. She stared at the ripped page and thought intensely. She went to the fridge and picked out the eggs and butter. “Be careful not to drop the eggs.” Her grandmother had told her way back when not even looking at her. Cheria, like the rest of her family, was a tad bit clumsy. She walked extremely carefully to make sure she wouldn’t drop anything as she walked to the island. She went back to the pantry for the vanilla extract and preheated the oven. She creamed the butter, sugar, and salt together in a bowl, and stirred until it was light and fluffy. “Never forget it has to be light and fluffy. Like those cats that think they own this place” Her nana’s hand was guiding hers while she whisked the mixture together. Even after all those years, Cheria never forgot how comforting her nana’s wrinkled fingers felt. She added the flour, eggs, and extracts. She spread the dough onto a baking pan. She couldn’t help but grin as she placed the pie filling on top of the dough. She put the remaining dough above the pie filling, and set it in the oven. “Hmm. I feel like I’ve forgotten something again.” Cheria said to herself. Once more, she leaned against the counter and crossed her arms, deep in thought. “The glaze is my favorite part. Here’s what we need...” Her grandmother’s voice was so distinct in her head - it was almost tangible. Cheria searched for the milk, extracts, and sugar. She mixed it all in a small bowl. She drizzled it over the top and knew she had finished. All she had to do was wait for them to turn golden brown. Cheria decided to write down the recipe before she forgot it completely. It was still on the window sill, but when she reached for it, the wind from the open window blew it away. Cheria, for some odd reason, decided to run after it instead of getting another paper. The paper found its way behind the cherry tree and landed atop a brown-haired man. Cheria didn’t notice when he had walked into the field. He was sitting peacefully, eyes closed, under the shade of the green leaves, cherries surrounding him. A stray cat Cheria had only seen once and had dubbed "Fluffy", was sleeping next to him. Cheria crouched down and stared at the stranger before her. He lifted the paper off his curly brown hair and slowly opened his eyes. His eyes were the darkest brown she'd ever seen, and the kindest too. “Is this yours?" He asked, in a voice as sweet as honey. Cheria felt the blood rush to her face, though she wasn’t sure why. “Yes. I’m writing down my nana’s recipe for cherry pie bars.” She said, her head down, trying to hide the red tint on her cheeks. The brown-haired man stood up. He took Cheria’s hands and lifted her to her feet. Cheria looked at the brown hands that encompassed her tan skin; she didn't want him to let go. "Maybe one day I'll get to try those bars your nana taught you how to make,” He smiled gently at her. He walked away, the cat following closely behind. Back in the cottage, she waited for the pie bars to finish. They smelled divine and reminded her of better days. After she let them cool, she ate two. It was quite lonely to eat the pastries by herself; she always had someone by her side while she ate. Cheria baked too many for one person, so she put the rest in the fridge, saving them for another day. A few days passed, and Cheria was making breakfast, the soft light on the sun entering the kitchen. She heard a soft purring and scratching coming from the back door. She opened the door and found "Fluffy" trying to scratch his way inside. His owner was not far behind. He apologized profusely, explaining to Cheria that his cat loved her house for some reason. Cheria took his hands in hers and asked, “Would you like to try some cherry pie bars? I’m Cheria, by the way.” His face was beet red, and he tried to hide a laugh, but he was as giddy as a child on Christmas. Although embarrassed, he managed to say, “I’m Lufian. I’d like that.” Cheria took out her picnic basket, placed some of the bars and drinks in it, and led him to the cherry tree. They sat there and talked for hours. As she sat there, laughing with Lufian, his cat in her lap, she looked across the nature that surrounded them. Looking up at that ancient cherry tree, she thought of everything it had witnessed, everything its existence had somehow managed to preserve. Cheria was embarking on a new beginning, but she wasn’t scared anymore. She knew that even though her loved ones were long gone, the love they shared still existed within her memories, and a new kind of love was always going to introduce itself. She laid back against the tree trunk and thought about the happy times she had with her family. Under the comforting shade of the leaves, she daydreamed about the good times yet to come. Cheria breathed in the intoxicating smell of the sweet fruit tree, a smile forming on her face.

elo9q5

Wrong

Irma’s was her first name. My stepmother  used to live in a very clean and peaceful detached house where I used to gl, every afternoon, to have some tea with her. This lady used to live alone, having only the companion of  her dog, an also clean and also peaceful cocker spaniel. -         But, to tell you the truth as usual , this cocker spaniel looks like a  teddy bear as it is so fluffy. -         Like  our  first dog in  our  old house. -         That was not a dog. Was a cat . -         A cat? No I don’t think so. -         Yes it was. I am sure about it because that is exactly what my grandma told me  that it  was a cat, and I trusted her. And she have never lied ,  I promise you, so that is why I never lie. I hate lying. -         So you think it was a cat. -         J do not think. It was a cat. Ig had whiskers and liked to drink milk, like all cats innthe world. -         I gave your dog some milk this morning. -         So? -         It drank, the whole bowl. -         Really? -         Yes. That is why I am baffled with it. -         Are you telling me I am not telling you the truth? -         No, I am not saying g this. I am just saying that the dog drank milk. Something really strange for a dog, as they normally never do it. That's all. But it implied the idea that I was lying, didn’t it? -         Well, dear, I was just … -         Fine !, you do not trust me. So tough for you. -         No, that is not the case to argue…. -         I am not arguing. I am just telling you the truth. -         Which truth ? That is what I know, what people talked about by that time.. -         A bunch of lies! -         Now you are lying. -         I am not lying. I never lie. -         Never ? -         Never. -         But I think that you are lying when talking about the dog that in reality was a cat. -         No, I am not. You can ask anyone about that. -         What for ? -         To prove yourself that I am right. -         The truth is not a question of being right. Is a question of concordance with the real happenings. -         And this is being right. -         Well… -         I caught you. -         Not really. -         Why not ? -         Because you are lying. -         Me? -         Yeap! That is not a definition, but some crazy ideas that you have and -         -           it in your speech, with all the certainty that your upbringing gave you. But it was so deficient and you were so easy to fool, that it became your reality. -         Nonsense! -         No. It is not a nonsense, because you got used to say that you always said the truth. And right now I am proving to you that it is a lie, the ones that you hate. -         No, it is not ! – shouting with her eyes, nose and mouth. More than this, with her spirit, trying not to run away from her. I was in  a complete  emotional schock, dazzled and confused. I had to be in silence for a moment. Irma twisted her old wrinkled hands, and shook her eyes . She had never been denied in her convictions and beliefs. The  defiance of her step daughter was totally unacceptable . She was thoroughly upset. How could I be wrong? So, I  decided to change my approach . -         you see. Time is passing by. And I am sure you will judge me one day. So, I think you should wait for just one minute, until I come back. -         Ok. Don’t be too late. I have to go. -         Don’t worry. It will take just five minutes. You can  help yourself some tea  and the biscuits are in the cupboard , on the left,  in the meantime. -         Fine. I knew she had to take her hospital shift, and it would happen soon. And I knew she would take the cups, the tea and the biscuits from the cupboard. So, it was just a matter of time. Five minutes, to be more specific. -         What is this picture?  - she asked,, I am sure that she asked it  after taking the cups and tea. Fine. She found what she was looking for . -         Picture ? – I asked, disengaged and   making fool of myself, so she could never  realize the lesson I was about  to give her – show me dear  I really don’t know what picture you are talking about. -         This one. What dog is this one? -         Dog? Did you say dog? She showed me the picture. -         Oh ! It is the picture of the cat that you were talking about. -         The cat? But this is a dog. -         You see : this is the house that we used to live in. It had beautiful windows and a nice garden. -         So ? -         So your father brought this beautiful animal for the house. And it lived fourteen years with us. You were in school by that time The poor thing was diabetic, becoming blind , I mean, totally blind. It died two months after we took this picture. You never realized this fact, and never missed him as I did. That is why I said it was not a cat. She just looked at the picture In silence, with her head down , ashamed to look at me. She knew she was wrong, but she still needed to ask for forgiveness. I looked at her, waiting for that. -         Where is the date that this pi ture was taken? -         Backwards. You see? It says it was taken in 2007 when you were just fourteen And now, you are twenty eight. I think you can see that I always say the truth that I can prove. I will consider this picture  as  my proof, if you don’t mind. -         No, not at all. As a matter of fact, I think I was wrong all the time. And it is my time to ask you to forgive me -   she said, taking a deep breath. -         I will always forgive you, dear, because you are the child that I could never have. Like this dog, I put you here – pointing g to the left part of her chest, where hearts beat forever - and this is the only truth I keep with me. And they hugged and kissed each other, with the truth that the tears hide in itselves.

e8fzv6

Home for Christmas

The wind talks to me, I swear. It says my name the same way my mother speaks it, cuts it. It whips when all I feel is Red. And today, it definitely whips. When I arrive at my father’s house for Christmas Eve, the wind is as hollow as can be. As soon as my engine goes quiet, I realize I can’t stay here long. The cold creeps in my car too easily, like the door’s already open. For some reason it makes me want to cry, the emptiness of it all. But I hear my mother’s words say, “You are not a baby anymore. Crying solves nothing,” and climb out. Looking at the large, grey house, strung with lights and not a shingle out of place, I break through the surface of perfectly pact snow. This is home. When I reach the old mahogany door, I can see the soft yellow glow from the dining room. This is home. Gently, I push the handle to the door, walking inside to a greeting of, “Nice of you to join us!” My face gets buried in a half hug from my stepmother, still baking the cookies. When I turn, I see my father entering the doorway from the kitchen with a newspaper in one hand, a mug in the other. A joking, “And I thought you’d be early,” slips from his mouth. “Car trouble,” I laugh awkwardly. He nods his head, glasses sliding to the end of his nose in concentration. No one is here besides the two of them. It’s just the three of us, like always, like it has been since my parents divorced and he kicked my mother out. We only have a few weekends together a year, but for the past four years, my father and I have had a cordial relationship. I try not to think about how distant I feel from them. I unzip my jacket and place my bag of gifts by the door. It’s all I could afford this year working as a waitress. I’m respected there, considered a shift manager, not that my mom knows. She just asks if we can pay rent every month. Something inside me twinges, knowing she's alone every Christmas, but a wrath inside me keeps me from feeling too bad. The crack pipe will be enough to keep her company. I head towards the empty, tall chair at the kitchen table. The counter is onyx, long, and always cool to the touch. The familiarity of everything feels far away. Old memories feel like a movie reel in my head, like none of this was real to begin with. I shake the feeling and sit down, level with my father as I do. “So, we have some news,” he says, flipping the paper while not looking up. It sounds promising, as things seem to do in his voice. “What? What is it?” Abruptly, my stepmother turns around in her apron, face aglow. She’s not just pretty, she’s sunshine on Earth. Her blonde hair hasn’t turned grey yet, and her smile is charmingly lopsided, with cheeks that have freckles splayed across her face like she’s 12 years old. The only indicators of her growing old are the wrinkles by her eyes. Even then, they're shrouded by her baby blues. Her eyes crinkle as she glances at my father. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell her." He smiles at her and I almost feel embarrassed. The two of them have their own private looks. He turns to me. “We’re expecting-” “-A baby girl!” my stepmother interrupts. Her hands shoot up like fireworks, but all I can feel is a lopsided world. I am upside down. My teeth bite down on my tongue and I yelp. They both look quizzically at me. I need to find a way to not screw this up. I try to compose myself, but something bubbles at the surface. A twisted feeling takes over. “That’s nice.” They stare, confused. I continue, unabashed. “But are you sure? Aren’t you a little old? Is the baby going to be healthy? I mean, isn’t it bad when a woman is older or whatever?” My stepmother deflates. Instantly, I feel betrayed by my feelings. I’m a bad person , my mind whispers. The response has my dad’s attention immediately. He furrows his eyebrows. “I’m not sure that’s relevant. We’re having the baby, Alizeh.” He waits a beat. My name hangs in the air. I hold my shame steadily, unwavering with stubbornness. “It does change things for you. We’ll be converting your room to the baby’s room.” The steadiness collapses. It's replaced by the Red feeling. Everything swells up inside me and the wind seems to bang against the glass. My hands clench, and my voice breaks, “You can’t take away my room. I’ve had that room forever.  I grew up there . Just because I don’t live here doesn’t mean that’s not my  room!” My fists bang against the granite as I get up and use my chair to angrily screech against the tile floor. Then I look at them both, my stepmother’s bewilderment and my father’s disappointment, and with tears in my eyes, I run. I run and I run and I run. The feelings of shame and guilt and red and anger and lonely swarm. I run outside, a still air filling my lungs as I plunge further into the backyard, where a forest awaits. I hear footsteps coming my way but ignore them, running further. My hot cheeks burn their way through landing snowflakes. I am 17 and my room is being taken by an embryo. My stringy, brown hair sticks to the sides of my temple as I slow my steps. Silence crackles. Giving up, I sink to my knees into the deep snow. My throat restricts at the thought of a blue-eyed baby girl, as perfect as can be. Why am I the wind and she is the sunshine? How is it so easy to break me? I should go in and apologize. But sitting here, sitting here in the numbness, with everything dead and gone around me, feels right. The wind picks up, caressing my tear-stained cheeks in a little whisper and says a soft hello. Nice of you to join us , I snort. Suddenly, a voice, cuts through, deep and meaningful. I turn to see my father, looking at me with knowing eyes. My heart hurts. He reaches out a hand and says, “It’s okay. You’re still my baby girl.” The forgiveness in his very being makes it worse. I am the worst. I wipe my tears away with my sweater. "Daddy," my voice trembles. I haven't muttered the words in years. They feel foreign. But I know he recognizes it. I know he's always recognized it. I stand up and take his hand, crumbling to his chest, enveloping in his warmth. "I don't want to share you," I garble into his jacket. "I know," he whispers, petting my damp head. And we stand like that, seconds beating by into nothingness. And suddenly, none of it matters. Not my mom being a dead-beat, drug addict, not my dad losing custody of me in court, not my house being infiltrated by a better looking, half-sister - nothing. I break away from the hug, needing to apologize to the man who loves me unconditionally. "I'm sorry, I know I'm always so many.. emotions around you, dad. I just can't be that way with mom, Yano?" He nods. "You had to grow up too fast. I'm sorry." I fold back into his arms. "Not fast enough," I whisper.

39rsa5

The Tenseconds

“Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two and …”, “MooooM”, screamed Wilbur, “Oh, My God, why did you scream, you shocked me”. “Mom, Dad’s spaceship which would take him to space couldn’t blast off it burst into pieces at the last count”. Wilbur was weeping hard, he was uncontrollable” “Kid, Your dad is safe and sound at the space station”. “Did you have a bad dream child, don’t worry it’s just a nightmare, you dad is safe and we can speak to him this weekend”. Wilbur was a 6 year old kid who was father Smith was on a mission in NASA. He had left for the mission when Wilbur was just 3 years. So he was very curious to know about his dad and his mission. He would always watch sci fi movies related to space. He used fantasise his dad in it, as a result he had nightmares which gave him shocks. Though this issue was worrying to his mother Kathy , she had her own strategies to pacify his instincts. “Ma, if papa is working on a Mission in NASA why can’t he meet us, he just makes a video call every weekend and talks to us. This is not Mom, I want to see him person , I want to hug him and tell him “ I love you dad, please stay with us always”. “I want to see NASA, it always admires me, and I want to see dad’s work place, please take me there MOM”. Kathy interrupted , “Relax kid, as you know , your Dad is on a secret mission and visitors are not allowed”. “But Mom, he can meet us right”? . “No , kid he is not allowed to “. When Kathy said that , she felt her heart racing hard and tears rolled down her eyes. She didn’t want her child feel that she was sad. She put a false smile on her face to make the atmosphere normal. “Wilbur, it’s not Sunday today, if I’m not wrong today is Monday , and a tiny little boy here has a test in school”. She just gave him a little tickle which made him laugh. She tried to make the atmosphere light. “Maa, do I have to go to school , Look here I am feeling a bit feverish I can’t move out of bed. “. “You naughty boy, you want to skip your test, that’s not done here, wake up and get ready”. Kathy laughed and pulled Wilbur out of bed . “Mom”, Wilbur’s voice was not usual . “What is it kid, why are you so dull? , didn’t your tests go well?” “No, Mom I did my tests very well and I will top the class as always”. “Then what’s the problem dear?”. “Mom, you told me my dad is on a secret mission working in NASA right”? “Yes dear he is working for NASA “. “Why do you have such doubts”. “Mom, when I told my friends , they started laughing at me, they wouldn’t believe that my dad works for NASA”. “Is it, bring them to me I will tell them about your superhero dad”, said Kathy. The next dad , Wilbur left for school, Kathy was a bit worried about the previous day. The child was a bit disturbed about the on goings in his school which was not a good thing for a sensitive child like Wilbur. “Oh look who’s here the son of an Astronaut , working for NASA, “ “Hey Wilbur look up , your dad is waving to from the space station, hi Uncle Smith, and look down your son is here”. All the boys giggled hard , they couldn’t stop laughing. Wilbur was a laughing stock for the senior boys of his school . Wilbur couldn’t handle it, he was just a small kid , and he started crying and ran home . He just collapsed unable to bear the humiliation. Kathy yelled at the school officials and took him to the hospital. The psychologist who treated him for his sudden shocks, said,” Your kid is very sensitive and I feel he should know the truth about his dad , its time you tell him that his dad is no more and that he will never come back”. Kathy cried hard , she couldn’t handle her emotions , she had lost her husband in a grave mishap, when he was on a manned mission to space. The technical dysfunction at the nick of last ten seconds of launch destroyed the whole operation along with the crew. Wilbur was just 3 months old when he lost his dad. Though he was just an infant at that stage something went wrong and the baby had shocks. Wilbur had lost his dad , but the emotional connect between his dad and he was not dead. Wilbur’s condition was so sensitive that Kathy had to keep his father’s death a secret and had created an illusive portrayal of his father and lied that he was working on a secret mission. Now he was grown up and the secret had to be unleashed . He had every right to know the secret of his father’s death. “Wilbur, my child, you have know that your father expired when he was on a mission to space, you were very little and delicate, hence I had to keep it as a secret I’m sorry dear, please forgive your Mom”. Though Wilbur was shocked to hear this he didn’t palpate he started crying hard and hugged his mother. He wiped her tears and said, “Mom, you are a great mother, and I’m the luckiest son in this world”. "Mom , I will make dad's memories revive back by fulfilling his dreams" Years passed , Wilbur graduated in flying colours. He topped the university . And one fine day , “Ten, Nine, Eight, Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three, Two and one”, boom, the rocket blasted off to space without any hindrance. Wilbur’s Mom Kathy looked through the NASA window , her thumping heart slowed down with sigh of relief. There was a huge applaud by the ground crew for their successful launch.  Wilbur had fulfilled his dad’s unfinished dream and made his mother Kathy a proud woman.

7bps46

Sweet Truths

  I look at my father’s sugar-crusted hands, his shocked eyes, and I know that I am breaking his heart. It is the worst time to say anything, to just blurt it out like this, while we are cooking and preparing the house for guests – especially because my father is busy doing the one thing that I am about to tell them that I will never do. But I can’t hold it in any longer, and I need to say something now , otherwise I’ll just be delaying the inevitable and probably have an anxiety-induced breakdown in the meantime. We are standing in the kitchen while my family is scattered around the living room tidying up, pretending not to listen and clearly listening. Soft footsteps approach, and my mother is now with us in the kitchen. “What is this, Sonal?” she says. She is shocked; I am ashamed. “I’m sorry,” I say miserably. “But I can’t do it. I’m no good at cooking. Everything I touch comes out wrong, and tastes terrible. Even the simple ladoos I try to make fall apart.” “You have to practice, Sonal,” my father explodes. “You don’t practice enough! All you do is sit in your room, and write in that journal…” It didn’t matter how much I practiced. I always made a new and interesting assortment of mistakes when attempting to make mithai – Indian sweets. A brief catalogue: Too much ghee. Too little ghee. Burn the ghee. Burn the…well, everything. But I know they don’t want to hear that, and won’t hear that. Even if I were to shout it at them, the words would glance off their Selective Hearing Armor. “I want to be a writer.” I blurt out what has been reverberating in my mind for the last three years. My parents gape. Again, terrible timing – but I’m not good at this, at speaking succinctly and articulating my thoughts on the spot. I’m most comfortable with a sheet of paper in front of me or with my fingers resting on a keyboard. There, I am in my element – a fish in water, a bird in flight. I can wrestle the messiest, most tangled thoughts into submission and give them structure, or turn them into something beautiful. On paper, I can reshape anguish into poetry. I am at my most comfortable when I am writing my thoughts, not speaking them. And so this conversation is coming out all wrong, and upsetting my parents, and that’s the last thing I want.             “I’m sorry,” I say again. “I can’t make sweets. I’m so bad at it. I don’t enjoy it. And it just makes me depressed. But writing-” “Depressed,” my father scoffs, while my mother frowns. “Again with this…and you think writing will make you not depressed?” Actually, I’m fairly certain that being depressed is a requirement for being a writer. I opt to stay silent instead of voicing this. Besides, his accent is getting thicker by the minute, which is a testimony to his growing agitation. “It’s your duty, Sonal. Your duty to your family. We’re counting on you.” He speaks as though this is all that needs to be said. “I can’t,” I repeat, and I find myself on the verge of tears. “I can’t cook. I don’t like cooking. Why don’t you ask Mahesh?” Mahesh, my cousin. A professionally trained chef who, in a relatively short timeframe, collected a shockingly large following on social media by posting professional-quality photos of his glossy, gorgeous desserts on a regular basis. He seemed the obvious choice to me. But… “Because you are our daughter , Sonal,” my mother says. “Mahesh...” she waves her hands dismissively. “He married into the family. It has to be you . Not some cousin.” My heart sinks. Having my parents consider shifting the responsibility to Mahesh had been what I was banking on. Whenever I imagined this conversation, this is what would turn the tables, and help them reconsider my role in the family. This conversation was going even worse than anticipated, which I didn’t think was possible. My father gives me a hard look. “When your azoba comes over for dinner,” he warns, “don’t say a word to him.” “He’s still recovering from his surgery,” my mother adds sternly. My father turns back to shaping the ladoos . “We’ll discuss this later,” he says curtly, and the conversation is over. My grandfather had started the family business of making sweets as a much younger man in India. By the time my father was born, he had established himself as one of the most talented mithai-walas in Pune and opened several stores which were now run by various uncles and aunts, who trained my cousins in the art of making mouthwatering sweets: Raas gulas that were plump, snow-white and smelling of rosewater; kaajukatli , diamond-shaped sweets made of ground cashews and covered with shimmering silver; and round barfis that ranged in flavor from carrot to mango to pistachio. My father had carried my grandfather’s dream to America, where we owned and operated the only American branch of his store – which was important, my father kept reminding me, because it was unlikely that my cousins in India would want to carry on the business once they went to college and built their own futures. His biggest fear, we all knew, was that his father’s dream and hard work would die with him – and with that, a precious part of our family’s culture. I think my father wanted to ensure that some part of my grandfather lived on – he had only doubled down on his passion and energy towards the mithai shop as my grandfather grew smaller and more bent with age. My older brothers had gone into medicine, and owned their own practices. I was the only one left, my parents’ last hope to keep their traditions alive in the country that had adopted them. I stay out of my parents’ way as they prepare for dinner. There is a cold heaviness in my stomach; I try journaling in an attempt to exorcise my anxiety and agitation, to trap these feelings onto paper, where they can’t gnaw at me. It doesn’t work. When the rest of the family comes over that evening, I find myself sitting next to my grandfather, laughing and joking and generally feeling like a fraud. When there is a lull in the conversation, he says, “ Beta , come with me to the kitchen.” The term of endearment causes my guilt, which has been sitting at comfortably manageable levels, to flare up. I go with him, and once we reach the kitchen, he asks me what’s wrong. I want to tell him everything, but I am afraid to. I don’t want to disappoint him, the way I have disappointed my parents. Furthermore, I love him too much to hurt him in this way. Besides, my mother’s comment about his surgery is lodged firmly in my mind. I say nothing. “What’s wrong,” he urges in Hindi. “You have seemed sad all evening.” I shake my head. I do not know which is worse: Lying to him, or hurting him. At that moment, my mother comes into the kitchen. My grandfather looks at her, concerned. “Priya,” he says, “What is wrong with Sonal?” My mother freezes momentarily; and, just as quickly, thaws and moves fluidly into action. Nothing, my mother assures him with a big smile. Nothing at all. Sonal’s just tired. “Tired” is their favorite word to describe my depression. The implication following this word is, You’re fine. Now smile. But I can’t smile, and I can’t bottle it up any longer and pretend that I’m fine. Fueled by a tangled menagerie of emotions that have been simmering all day, I snap. I look to my grandfather and blurt, in my typical messy way: “I don’t want to make sweets. I don’t want to run the store.” And I burst into tears. My mother is horrified, embarrassed. “She’s just very tired, very stressed from her schoolwork-” she lies, and grabs my arm to haul me away. But my grandfather silences her with a look, and gently lays a hand on my arm. “ Beta , is this true?” he asks softly. “You don’t want to make sweets? You have no interest in learning?” Sniffling, I nod. My grandfather stands quietly for a moment, absorbing this; then looks at me and says simply, “Then you will not make sweets.” My mother stands perfectly still as a mess of emotions flicker in her eyes. By marrying my father, she had been dragged into the family business; there is a part of her, no doubt, that is struggling to absorb the unfairness of this. By this time, my father has arrived in the kitchen. My grandfather turns to give him a withering look. “Look how upset she is. What kind of pressure have you been putting on her?” “She needs to carry on the tradition, Baba,” my father argues, defensive and embarrassed. My grandfather waves him away. “You know she can’t cook. Why don’t you ask Mahesh?” I begin to calm down – bizarrely, my grandfather advocating my lack of skill is incredibly comforting in this moment. “But what will she do, then?” my father says, exasperated. “Her math and science scores are abysmally low. She won’t be able to get into medical school, like her brothers. What else can she do?” “Well,” my grandfather says, “She’s an excellent storyteller. I imagine she’ll be a writer.”

zic1g6

Going Incognito

Hey, Diary- I just got you as a pre-birthday present. But that's not what this journal is about. This journal is for recording what's going to happen. And you're probably thinking. 'What's so interesting, you have to write in your new, Ragsmunton Journal about it?' (It's the best, most expensive journal in the world). So I'll start from the beginning. With an explanation. It sucks to be pretty. I mean, really. I'm the prettiest girl in the whole world (rated prettiest over a million times though I'm only 17). It gets even worse because, in a few days, I'm turning 18. Which makes me legally able to marry. And boys are going to flood me. On Christmas Eve (that's my birthday) My mom says she has a plan, but she said it in the tone that means 'I don't really mean what I'm saying' and the 'It's going to happen, just not right now' tone. So yeah. My birthday wish will probably be 'to get people to leave me alone'. But for now, I'm stuck in a bad situation. HELP ME!!!!! Camille DIARY!!!!!! Mom totally found an idea. When I woke up, she was like "I am now going to tell you my idea," In the tone 'I finally got it!' So I listened. 'We're going to move!' Diary, I was speechless. "And how will that help?" So Mom explained it to me. We're going to move to a new town. Population? Us and one other big family that will take care of us. This is awesome!!!! No more people!!!! OK, then I literally screeched. What did I screech? I screeched: YESSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" And, OMG I was so excited. 😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁 I gotta go catch up on packing Tata, Camille Diary. Omg. We are here. And Mom has awesome news! Guess what? I'M CHANGING MY NAME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OMG. I am freaking out right now. I've gone through the options in my head, and YOU will be the first to know. It's. . . DALILA NIGHTSHADE!!!!! Omg, it is an AWESOME NAME!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!! 🤪😵😦😮 A few more things. 1. I have a new background (😲) 2. I gave myself a slight accent (😂) 3. Mom told me to lose the accent (😥) 4. I really wanted that accent (😭) 5. I still got a new personality (😕) Okey dokey, Mom's calling me. Alrighty mates, gotta go! Tootles, Dalila Nightshade (formally known as Camille Davis) Howdy Diary, I've got some really bad news. There are boys! Not one, not two, not three, not four, but five boys!!! First, there Bodhi. He's 22. Then there's Callen. He's 21. Then there's Armani. He's 20. Then there's Fabian. He's 19. Then there's Josiah. He's my age, 18. And they are all. . .*kind of cute* ("**" means I'm whispering, just so you know) And they are all looking at me. With doe eyes. And my 18th birthday is tomorrow. . . Gotta scram, See ya in a little, Dalila Nightshade Hiya, It's my birthday😟. So far so good. But those boys are eyeing me. . . I mean, not Josiah. Josiah's that one man in every group that is clueless about what's going on around him. But I can feel them eyeing me. So I'm going to talk about something else. ln{(x-2)}+ln{(2x-3)}=2lnxln(x−2)+ln(2x−3)=2lnx x = 6 Yeeaaahhhh. . . Not working. I'm going inside now. Probably going to make another entry TODAY, but whatever. See you (probably) later today, Toodles, Dalila Nightshade im back, sry for the bad handwriting, but i got news. bodhi proposed!!!!!!! omg, o god. callens walking up now gotta go! toodles, me wtf, so far bodhi and callen have proposed. omg. i mean, i said no, but like omg. this is getting cray cray. and here comes armani. brb toodles me ok, now i feel like every time i decline a proposal, the next boy sees it as HIS chance to propose. three proposals. 10 min. o god. hes proally walking up behind me. just checked. hes coming. pls no proposal brb toodles me we need to move again seriously. they just keep coming. ok, josiahs the last one. i really hope he wont. pls pls pls pls pls pls pls pls pls yup, hes coming. NOOOOO!!!!!!!!! brb toodles dalilah thank u god!!!! I ❤ u!!! he totally didn't propose. he said, and i quote "Do you want to be friends?" thank u, thank u, thank u. i might just propose to josiah right now. (im kidding(that joke was bad timing)) omg. whats that. no. no. no. no. i refuse to except this. my eyes dont work i am seeing things NOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i want to die. literally bye. i am leaving forever no more me. Ok, guys. I was kind of vague yesterday, so I have to tell you what happened, today. Guess what I saw. Boys. Boys were rushing toward me. Horse. Carriage. Foot. Luckily, they didn't get close to me because The big family (turns out their last name is Corvey) the Corvey's held them offwhile me and mom ran away. Yeah. We're brave like that. But anyay, one of the guys actually came close to me and proposed. I mean, he was cute and all, but no. Definetly no. So now I'm in the Silver Forest. We have a truck, a trailer, a tent, and provisions that will last 3 people a year. I don't like this situation because it means 3 things: 1. Bugs (like wasps and ticks) 2. Sleeping area (the trailer or the tent) 3. Boredom (I am super bored) I sit around all day with nothing to do, either on the lumpy trailer bed, the rough chairs, or the hard ground. And there are bugs. So I'm not living the dream. I'm living one of my nightmares (I have many). I really hope we can move back into civilized land. soon Not happy, Toodles. Dalila GOOD NEWS!!!!!! There's a guy, he found us, and Mom explained our situation. Guess what? He's gonna take us in, and his house is at the edge of the woods!!!(no bugs) He also has daughter!! (no boredom) And he's making us a house with compfterbale beds!!! (good sleeping area) This is the happiest day of my ife!!!!! Omg.Omg.Omg. I CAN'T WAIT!!! 😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁😁 I am spaming grinny faces right now, because I'm am so happy!!!!!!! (music) ahh ahh nu nu nu nu wwahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!! Ok, diary. I've also come to a conclusion. A sad one. I don't need you anymore. All you do is help me remember something that *ugh* was so horrible. And I want to forget it. I'm throwing you in the stream an Oh no, this is making me cry. I'll miss you diary. I really will. But right now, I'm happy and content. I've reached the stream. So goodbye. I'll miss you. I loved you. But your my past. Not my future. One last time. Toodles Dalila Nightshade, and Camile Davis.

tnic5b

Homing Instinct

“So he really left you a bird, huh?” Grace says as she enters Katrina’s living room, holding a large plastic bag. Katrina picks up the birdhouse and hands it to Grace. “Yeah. Justin’s been visiting me almost everyday since break started, but now he’s in Korea to visit relatives. I guess this bird is his replacement.” Justin had been visiting her since the start of their Christmas break after Katrina had failed to respond to any of his messages. When he came to visit, what he found was a dark house that didn’t look like it had any residents. The fridge and the cupboards were empty, and the trash can held evidence of all of Katrina’s past meals: microwaveable pizza, instant noodles, corn chips. “What’s going on with you?” Justin had asked her when he came up to her room, stepping over the piles of clothes and school supplies all over Katrina’s floor. He was holding a plastic bag full of turon . “Have you even left the house in the past ten days? Have you even showered ?” Katrina took one and bit into it, feeling the sugar stick to her teeth. She frowned. “I don’t need to answer that.” She had done neither of those things. She has been holed up in her bedroom for days, staring at the ceiling or sleeping the day away. It was all she could do to even reheat leftover pizza or go to the bathroom and pee. Anything more than that--even just splashing water on her face--felt like too much effort. She tried very hard not to think about why she was being like this. “Is it college?” Justin asked. They both had taken their college entrance exams a few weeks before break started, and Katrina had bombed each and every single one. It was another thing she tried not to think about. Katrina made a vague shrugging motion: That, among others. “Where’s your mom?” Justin asked, in that exasperated way that told her he already knew the answer. A day or two after Katrina’s self-imposed quarantine, she saw a note taped to the refrigerator along with two thousand pesos: Work trip. Don’t know when I’ll come back. Lucille That was how her mom signed her notes, like she and Katrina were colleagues. Katrina was used to her mom being gone. Officially, Lucille worked as a hostess at a bar, but more often than not she was on months-long “work trips'' with the newest American soldier who had fallen in love with her. Katrina’s dad was probably the last Filipino Lucille ever dated. At her silence, Justin gave out a long sigh. “Christ, I hate your mom. I hate your mom so much.” “Me too,” Katrina said, though in truth she didn’t feel hate towards her mom. She didn’t feel anything for her at all. She was just a stranger who shared her DNA, and Katrina was better off without her anyway, despite what Justin might think. Now Justin was gone, leaving only this tiny bird in his place. She knows why Justin was doing this, of course. If he could, he would have stayed in the Philippines to make sure Katrina actually stayed alive even if only through the sheer power of turon and his company. With that not being an option, Katrina would need to take care of herself, and Justin knew the only way she would do that is if she was responsible for someone else. The problem is, Katrina has no idea how to take care of birds. She decided to ask for help even if that meant inviting another person into her messy house and her even messier life. Grace and her family owned a local pet supplies store, so Katrina knew she would at least be able to get a cage and bird seed from her. When she had texted Grace, though, she was more than happy to come over to Katrina’s house to help, insisting she was some kind of bird expert. She and Grace knew each other by virtue of proximity. They used to play out in the streets together with the other neighborhood kids when they were young. Grace was always nice enough to let Katrina join her team for patintero and hide-and-seek, even if Katrina almost always inevitably made them lose. They still saw each other at school every now and then, but Katrina didn’t have any real friends other than Justin. Now, Grace coaxes the baby bird from inside the wooden birdhouse. The bird pokes his head out and chirps loudly. Grace picks him up and holds him in her palms. “Aww, he’s so cute,” Grace coos. “Like those baby chickens we won from that carnival game a couple of years ago. Remember them?” She’s surprised Grace remembers that, actually. It’s not like they’re still close. “Yeah, but I actually want to keep this bird alive .” Grace laughs, running a finger down the bird’s head. “He’s probably around three weeks old. You can tell because his feathers are still growing. He also probably doesn’t know how to fly yet, poor thing.” Katrina stares at her in awe. “Wow, you really know your birds.” Grace preens at the compliment. With her unoccupied hand, she reaches into the plastic bag and brings out a bunch of toys. Katrina didn’t even know they made toys for birds, but there they were: tiny colorful balls and hoops and bells. Grace puts both the bird and toys down on the floor. The bird comes over to inspect them immediately. “Cockatiels are very playful,” Grace explains with the air of an ornithologist. She and Katrina sit down on opposite sides of the bird. “He won’t do well cooped up in a cage all day--he’s going to want to play around!” Katrina picks up a tiny ball and rolls it over to the bird, who inspects it with his beak. She tentatively runs a finger down the bird’s back, feeling his soft warm body. He was so tiny and fragile. He only had Katrina to rely on. Her. Someone who had trouble even getting out of bed most mornings. Katrina’s chest tightens. Stupid Justin. Grace takes out some seeds and lines them up in front of the bird. The bird hops around from foot to foot as he pecks at each one. “He’s adorable ,” Grace exclaims. “You have to let me see him again. Oh, you know who would love him even more? My dad. Can we please show him?” Katrina has known Grace’s dad, Chito, ever since she was a little kid. She remembers him as a mild-mannered man with a jolly laugh and a large belly cultivated from years spent drinking with the other neighborhood dads--Katrina’s father had been one of them before he left almost ten years ago now. Chito had always acted like a surrogate uncle to Katrina and the rest of the neighborhood kids, but she hasn’t seen much of him since then. It’s not like him and Lucille are buddies. Katrina suspects he still holds a grudge against Lucille when she was the reason one of his best buddies left town. “Are you sure?” Katrina asks. Inviting Grace into her house--and keeping her in the living room, which was significantly less messy than her own room--was one thing, but Katrina going outside and visiting another house was another. For one thing, she would actually have to shower and get dressed in something other than pajamas. She would actually have to start living life like a functional human being again. Grace picks up the bird and lets him hop up her wrist, her eyes sparkling. “ Please. ” - That’s how Katrina found herself falling into a routine. As the days passed, Grace always insisted on hanging out with her--presumably to see the bird, though Katrina got a feeling that Grace was also doing it to get Katrina out of the house. Katrina didn’t need to explain that her mom had left--almost everyone in the neighborhood knew just what kind of mother Lucille was. They mostly hung out at Grace’s house, watching bad Christmas movies and eating ice cream. Katrina helped Grace’s mom Vangie set up even more Christmas decorations while the bird sat firmly on top of her head. When Chito came home from the pet store, he always greeted both the bird and Katrina by patting them each on their heads. Vangie spoiled her with home-cooked meals that got better and better each day. It felt nice to get out of the house. It felt nice to be with people who seemed like they enjoyed her company, if only to pet her bird or play with it. She and the bird were almost inseparable now. Because he still couldn’t fly, he normally just stayed on Katrina’s shoulder or on the top of her head, digging his claws into her scalp that Katrina’s gotten used to. - On the morning of the 24th, Katrina decides to finally put up Christmas decorations. Most of the houses in the neighborhood have been bedecked with Christmas lights and parols since September, but Katrina’s mom had never bothered to decorate before she left. As she sits on the floor of the living room setting up the tree, the bird half-hops and half-floats towards her from inside his open cage. He’s grown a lot in the past few weeks, the red spots by his eyes growing starker each day. Most of his feathers have grown in, along with the white crest atop his head. He tries to fly up to Katrina’s shoulder but fails halfway, landing softly on Katrina’s lap. She runs a finger down the bird’s back. At least they were both trying. The Christmas tree looked a lot humbler than Katrina remembered, but it would do. She rummages in the box and pulls out glittery ornaments and garlands and hangs up each one. She looks for the star, but instead finds a little square picture frame that doubled as another ornament, decorated with icy blue and white stripes. Katrina runs a finger over the glass to get rid of the dust. Her parents’ young faces smiled up at her. It looked like it was taken before they even had her. They had their arms around each other. Lucille didn’t have the wrinkles nor the dark circles under her eyes that she has now. She still smiled like she meant it, dimpling her left cheek. And Katrina’s father--well, Katrina had almost forgotten what he looked like. He still called her every now and then, but the last time she had seen him had been a decade ago. In the picture, her father was smiling so wide it made his eyes almost disappear. They were so happy. Katrina reaches up and hangs the frame at the very top, disregarding the star. Perched on her shoulder, the bird chirps its approval. - Katrina arrives at the Abelardos’ house a quarter before midnight to celebrate noche buena with them. She sets down the three containers of leche flan she brought on the table and takes her seat next to Grace. She takes the bird out from her hoodie pocket and perches him up on her shoulder. The Abelardos were dressed in button-up shirts and holiday dresses. Grace was wearing a wine-colored velvet dress that complimented her dark skin. Her curls were arranged in a bun at the base of her neck, and she was wearing makeup. “You look so pretty,” Katrina says. Grace beams as she helps Vangie set down fancy glass plates with intricate flower designs. “I’ve never seen these plates before in my life,” Grace says. She and Katrina laugh. “Well, tonight is special,” Vangie says as she takes her seat at the end of the table. Katrina feels something tighten in her chest. She smiles back at Vangie. Aside from the leche flan , there was rice, roasted chicken, Christmas ham, lumpia , pancit, macaroni salad, and a frozen mango float. Katrina was amazed at the sheer cooking talent that every Filipino mom seemed to possess--well, except for her own mother. Katrina tries to push all thoughts of her birth family away and just enjoy this noche buena for what it is. At exactly midnight, Katrina and the Abelardos cheer and greet each other a merry Christmas. Grace immediately began piling food on her plate. Chito scooped rice for Katrina and Vangie gave her the best-looking chicken leg. Katrina sat back, ate, and listened to everyone’s stories, enjoying the sounds of their voices together more than the actual stories themselves. Grace’s family was the stereotypical Filipino family, the warm and tight-knit kind of family Katrina’s always seen on TV and secretly fantasized after. All of the noche buena celebrations Katrina’s had so far were filled with nothing but silence and takeout food. Vangie asks Katrina what she thinks of the pancit . “It’s really good,” Katrina says, swirling the noodles around her plate. “It tastes a lot like the pancit my dad used to make, actually.” Chito and Vangie share a look across the table. Vangie clucks her tongue and says, “I really am sorry for how your mother has treated you, leaving you alone on Christmas like that. Chito and I agreed not to talk about it, but I just need to say it: you deserve better , dear. You really do. Our home is yours, too, okay?” Under the table, Grace reaches over and squeezes Katrina’s hand. She hadn’t meant to bring up her dad. She really doesn’t miss him that much anymore--or so she tells herself--but the pancit really did taste exactly how he used to make it. Katrina smiles shakily. “Thank you.” A sudden flapping motion makes Katrina jerk her head back. They all watch as the bird hovers a little higher over Katrina’s shoulder than usual. He was flapping his wings furiously, head turned skyward. Katrina holds her breath. She watches the bird flap higher and higher and finally sail across the ceiling, his wings fully unfolded. Katrina gasps. He glides over the table while they clap and cheer. “Oh my god,” Katrina whispers. The bird was finally flying. He finally learned to do it. Katrina felt her heart throb as she smiles up at the bird’s swooping form. “The windows!” Grace says, running to shut the curtains, but before she could do so, the bird had already swooped into the night air and was nowhere to be seen. “No!” Katrina couldn’t help but shout. She joins Grace by the windowsill, looking out into the night, but it was too dark to see. Her heart drops to her stomach. “Come back,” she whispers. Grace reaches over and puts her hand over Katrina’s. It was unbelievable how much the bird had grown on Katrina. He had accompanied her while she was trying to get her life back together at home, had made her feel just a little less alone in an empty house. Everyday she woke up to his pecking and chirping, and she suspects some of the scratches on her arms would never heal, but she loved him all the same. Katrina sighs, blinking back tears. Grace squeezes her hand, her head still hanging out the window. Just as Katrina was about to turn inside, the bird swoops back in and lands uncomfortably on Katrina’s head. A few of its feathers had fallen from the impact. Katrina gasps, walking away from the window and petting the bird with two fingers. Chito and Vangie whoop. “You came back,” she whispers. Grace closes the window and joins them. She beamed, her hair windswept and her cheeks flushed. She puts an arm around Katrina’s shoulders and leans her head against Katrina’s. Katrina smiles at her. She plucks the bird from the top of her head and holds him in her palms, laughing softly. You came back. - By 2 AM, Katrina was just waiting for Chito to finish a phone call so he could drive her home. She feels happy and content, her unopened gifts tucked under her arm and the bird safely inside her hoodie pocket. She didn’t think taking care of the bird would actually help, but it did. She didn’t think she would get to reconnect with Grace, but she did. She didn’t think she would find herself feeling more at home in a house that wasn’t hers, but she did. - “I hope you like my gift," Chito says as they pull to a stop in front of Katrina's house. He nods towards it and speeds away before Katrina could ask what he meant. She releases the bird from her pocket and lets it fly around as she unlocks the gate and walks in. Was her mom home? Was that who Chito was on the phone with? Katrina isn’t sure if she even wanted to see Lucille. Facing her would mean confronting her and all of her failures as a mother. Katrina knows Chito meant well, but she really doesn’t want to walk in and see her mom inside her house right now. It would literally ruin Christmas for her. She takes a deep breath and turns the knob. The lights are on; Katrina’s stomach drops. The bird swoops in before her, flying into the living room. As Katrina follows, she notices flickering lights coming from the Christmas tree. Did I even put on the lights? Someone was putting on Christmas lights, but it wasn't Lucille. Katrina walks in to see her father by the Christmas tree. His hair was graying at the sides, and his face looked more weathered. But it was him--the same kind eyes, the same strong arms. Her father. “Dad,” Katrina whispers. The bird comes back to perch on her shoulder. She feels like her heart is about to explode. “You forgot the lights,” her dad says with a shaky smile. She could see tears forming in his eyes as they both took in the sight of each other. “Merry Christmas, Katkat. Is it okay if you have a second noche buena ?”

7w9jry

Bright Days

Eleanor, What my mother and father call me. Ellie, what my siblings call me. Lastly, Elle what everyone that is not related to me calls me. What have I been doing lately? A lot. I'll start at the beginning. When I was five I played LuLu the ladybug in our school's production of "Splat!" From then on drama and music were just my thing. From classes to camps. Performing is my life. So I decided I would get myself a little acting gig. People pay well enough around here. I started looking when I turned sixteen around four months ago. At this point, doubt was in abundance and hope was barely hanging on. So there were a few mixed emotions when they called. "Hello?" My voice was about to break. "Hello, this is Marissa Stevens, I work for Disney." My heart fluttered in a strange and confusing way. "Do you need anything?" " Why else would they have called?" " Yes, Elle Avery? We saw you in "Into the Woods." That's right! My family saved up all year to send me to a prestigious theatre camp in NYC. The first thing they told us when we got there was that important people were coming to see our production! Marissa Stevens definitely sounded important! "That's Incredible! What did you think?" "I thought actually very highly of your performance." A moment passed, I held my breath." "We would like for you to audition for the lead in a new series we have created!" "WOW! I mean, OKAY I MEAN WOW!" "If you accept, you will be auditioning play, Paris Mcgrath, in Bright Days." "Jake Warneke felt strongly about you, will we see you at auditions on Thursday?" "YES!" The day of auditions, the very worst and best day of my life. I was nervous as I had probably ever been. Nervous and Excited. I had been so shocked when they told me about this! Elle Avery on Disney Plus? Yes! I had done research since Marissa called on Saturday. Bright Days sounded exactly like something I would have been obsessed with at the age of 9-15. Jordanne Patterson, Russel Gregory, Ian Smith, and Paris Mcgrath all run a podcast. Every Friday they cover a serious and controversial issue which can them in trouble with quite a few people. But there is also drama inside their friend group. It was perfect. I had to be perfect if I wanted the part. I pull my hands into fists so tight I afraid my fingernails will draw blood. If I thought that was bad I just had to wait. Because just then, at the near most inappropriate time for this exact thing to happen, it did. "Eleanor Avery!" A tall man with a clipboard shouts "It's Elle!" I correct but immediately regret doing so. Three people sit behind a long wooden desk u shaped desk. They all wear name tags and serious expressions. I read them forgetting to introduce myself. " Michelle Granson, Jake Warneke, and Lola Tendere." I see their concerned faces and jump back into reality. "Hello, I am Elle Avery, audition for Paris Mcgrath." "HELLO AND WELCOME TO BRIGHT DAYS!" I announce sucking in a deep breath and continuing with my lines. "It is The Activators here with a segment on Marine Conservation, Marine animals, the beauties of the sea." "That's enough" Lola declares. I drop my shoulders and begin to walk away. It was nice to dream about this for a while. Time to get back to reality. "No! We loved it! You are our new Paris Mcgrath." Michelle interjects. "Oh my gosh! Thank you so much!" I smile trying not to implode. I nearly run away screaming. "Filming begins in NYC next month." Wait what? Three Weeks Later "New York?" My father uses a very low tone. "Honey, you know we support you but..." "I can pay for the plane ticket! I have been saving up anything I get since I was four!" "No not that! Your only a sophomore!" I know what my mother is suggesting. "This will give my career a headstart!" I argue. "What career? Your Sixteen!" My father yells. "Exactly, the earlier I start the better." "We're going to miss you like crazy!" My brother chimes in. We all join in for a hug. I know my parents would never hold me back from an opportunity like this. The Day of the Move I wipe a small tear from my cheek. Saying goodbye has never quite been my strong suit. I join my family for yet another long family hug. We are all a little teary. But my excitement quickly consumes me when my dad shouts... "Alrighty Miss Disney Star, let's go." I grab my two suitcases and five boxes and thrust them into the trunk and were off. My dad drops me off at the airport with a kiss goodbye. I deliberately turn my frown upside down. No pun intended. I see Michelle and Jake wave me over. "Time to meet your new family!" Michelle giddily exclaims I twirl around examining my castmates. Jake takes charge and puts us in groups. A little bit like seventh grade but, I'll roll with it. I am put in a group with all the kids that play with my friends. We go around in a circle. Introductions of course. "Hello! I am Ezmae Lugo, I play Jordanne." She seems nice enough. "Hey, I'm Brandon Loyd I play Ian." A hopeful expression spreads over my face. "Christopher Blevins, A.K.A Russel." My turn , "Hello Everyone, I am Paris, I mean, I'm Elle-" "It's okay were nervous too." Christopher pipes up "Can you show me around?" "It is our pleasure." Ezmae smiles. They link arms with me and we follow jake into a big brick building. "This is our school!" Brandon gestures to the front desk. "You have your own school for actors?" I exclaim wide-eyed. "Yup! I have been on a Disney show before, it's amazing!" Ezmae laughs "Can't wait!" I really can't. I am so happy you could ask me anything and I'd see the bright side.

2psoty

Good to see you

They had been friends since they were both attending the same college. They both got married around the same time, one was a housewife the other pursued the life of the mothers in the workplace. They gave birth to kids around the same time. It was always nice to be around them because they liked each other. When their kids started dating all the sense of goodwill fell by the way side. "I meant to mention to you that your daughter is always happy. She always has a happy face." a mother said to her friend who also is a mother (meaning, I hate your daughter dating my son. She is a lose harlot and I hate seeing her in my son's room!" "I know, they are great at this age." the mother responded (meaning, I can't wait for her to move out) "You know. I meant to ask you if you did check on that doctor that we talked about the other day." the other mother said (meaning, your daughter should have been arrested by now if not put in a mental institution for dating my son!) "Actually no, I didn't call. I have been so busy lately." (meaning, I am afraid of you and your army guy husband of yours. I am sure that is not a doctor but a psychotic killer that you are referring me to. I think you no longer like me, what's with the small talk.) "I think that I saw your son the other day with my husband at breakfast. I don't know what is going on with those two. How is your daughter doing?" (I don't like your son, especially if he is in my house and more so if he talks to my husband!) "I don't keep up with them. I know that they are together a lot. By the way, you do speak to your daughter?" (is she on the pill, is she? mirena? anything!!!" "I do. She is over eighteen now and I have very little impression on her nowadays." (your son is monster and I hate him) "We are going on a vacation in a few weeks and I think that my husband invited your daughter to join us. Did she say anything to you?" (I hope she will decline.) "No, that's news to me. Where may I ask are you going on vacation?" (oh my God I was trying to get her to break them up!!!!) "We are going to Florida for a week." (that is going to be a week too long to be around her. what am I going to do? I have to be nice I think.. right? right!...) "I'll ask her tonight if I see her. I didn't know that. Anyway are you okay with her joining you or that will be a problem? You seem worried." (it really is up to my daughter at this point.) "You know I meant to ask you the other day, what your son plans to do now that he has finished high school?" (is he joining the army, the navy, the army anything with death and destruction in it..a gang!) "So far he is waiting to hear from Stanford, otherwise he just wants to hang out until he figures out what he wants to do with his life. (i pray that he does not want your daughter) "What about your daughter?" (cross my heart hope to die, a car crash anything..." "Well, she wants to attend the local school of fashion design." (thank God for that! hopes he hates the artie types!) "Oh wow you just took me by surprise. How come I didn't know about this?" (she might succeed or suck. my son wants someone who is serious. oh well!! easy come easy go) "Why are you smiling?" (what the heck... what is so funny) "No I was wondering if my son knew that she is attending a fashion design school? With him planning to be an Architect." (equally yolked-not!) "Interesting, I don't think that they talked about that. He is planning to be an Architect, how different!" (maybe i need to slow down a little bit. maybe he is okay, vacay!!) "I don't know about them. They have a life of their own. I just hope that they are not making a mistake." (a fashion designer! help somebody help) "The other day I was shopping and this guy stopped me and told me about his company. He owns a gym and has a number of health coaches who work for him. I thought about our kids, that they could do that. They need to take classes for two weeks and get certified and then they can have their own clients until they can figure out what to do at least they can earn some money.) (I am just saying that to be polite, I don't think of her daughter. I worry about my son.) "That is a great idea. What do health coaches do?" (i am so tired of this conversation! but she is such a good friend of mine. if only our kids did not start dating i think that we would be okay) "They have clients whom they help with weight loss issues and healthy eating habits. Your daughter is so thin though." (she is not healthy at all at that weight) "I know she is always on a diet. Imagine to find out that she was losing weight to be able to date your son. That is crazy right?" (maybe it is not what she wants, maybe she feels pressured to date her son.) "I know girls at that age have it tough because not only do they have to worry about their weight, they have to worry about their looks and still be smart. I don't know how they do it." (i think that i am ready to go home. i am so tired of this conversation) "Okay, I will see you next week for lunch. Are we still on?" (we have to remain friends because if we fight our kids will rebel.) "Yeah we can meet for lunch. Oops here is my car. See you next week." (we are friends) "I'll call you first. Bye" (we are friends)

t5ktln

A Better Autum

Write about a family’s first holiday after a parent has gotten remarried, and now there are new faces at the table and new traditions to be honored. Carrie was a worker bee that would have rather been Queen Bee. She worked hard all her adult life, working several jobs at one time to raise her three terrific kids. She was raised to be much more; her parents gave her the best of everything, but she married and had kids young and divorced it seemed even younger. Glad for her ability to teach ballet and sell the odd painting, Carrie had to take shifts in other ‘normal’ jobs to make ends meet. The days were long; often 14 hour, and included only seeing her kids on lunch breaks where she had to deposit them to the next daycare...no one kept the long hours she did to survive. Still, she made a big deal out of holiday traditions. She made the kids Halloween costumes, but they needed to put in the request by August so she had time to sew them. She made a posh Easter picnic and carefully selected matching pastel outfits for the egg hunt, but she had to stay up all night cooking the day before to accomplish this. Carrie made a big deal out of Christmas, and did without in order to buy nice presents and make everything lovely, only for the kids to get whisked away on visitation by noon. The rest of Christmas for Carrie was spent crying alone and watching Sound of Music...all that work and the holiday was spent primarily in solitaire, except for her imitation of Santa for the morning present opening. Yes, what Carrie needed more than anything was a break. Any kind of break...love, job, just plain good luck. And try as she might, she never met someone, never advanced in a career so as to be able to hold one job to pay the bills, never have more time with her precious children. In fact, it wasn’t until the last child was flying the nest that she met Tony, and finally had that break she always wanted...in peace. The children were always Carrie’s priority, although she was always working so much that she had little time to actually parent them. Grateful for teaching dance, that was the one time that she could take the kids with her to work. When they were tiny, they were in a play pen, listening to classical music. As soon as they were old enough, they joined in, although her son wasn’t interested in dance. She bartered him other lessons at the facilities, like basketball. Often there was a pool, and the kids could happily swim while mom taught dance. Never able to afford a studio of her own, Carrie worked diligently with her local Parks and Recs department, zig-zagging all across town after she picked up the kids to get to whatever center she was hired for at the time..usually several to make it a three day a week gig. She did work her way up on the pay scale here, having trained with the best in ballet in her youth not so long ago, and preferred to teach in lower income areas where kids that otherwise would not have exposure to the Arts. Of course, if there was a nicer facility, she took that into consideration for what they could offer her own kids. She even worked it out to teach at her own kids school, which made life simpler. Ballet and any kind of movement to music was Carrie’s first love...it just didn’t pay the bills. The way she looked at it, her dance classes paid for food and gas, but she needed the other low paying jobs to pay the rest. Retail was the easiest to get, and since she had a nice personality and dancer’s body, she looked the part, even in second hand clothes. But putting on a production; making the costumes, doing the choreography, working with the kids, and even performing herself, that was what Carrie loved to do. The years went by, and despite long days, Carrie did the best she could to raise the kids. They had the after school activities in dance and sport, of course, that otherwise she would not be able to afford if she wasn’t the instructor. Some days, they had up to eight babysitters. Carrie put herself through college, hoping that would help her earn more, but in the end it just took more of her family time away. In the end, she wished she had just gone on welfare like everyone else, taught a few dance classes and had that time with her kids. They all got good grades and were well-behaved, primarily because Carrie just didn’t have time to discipline, so she was very clear about her expectations for them. She never wanted any of her children to go through what she was going through. There were also many custody battle issues, so Carrie, being as young and naive as she was, thought they would go away...they never did. Time passes, and the kids get good grades and seem well-adjusted. Carrie drops down to one job, working as a receptionist for a high-end law firm, plus teaching her beloved dance classes three days a week. She gets financial aid for the kids college, helps them get scholarships and apprenticeships, determined they would never have to struggle like she did. Her older daughter gets to apprentice for a fashion designer, earns a Fulbright scholarship and works her way through design school in New York. She settles there, becomes successful, but decides that she resents her mother and all the long hours and doing without she had to endure. She never speaks to her mother again, only after telling her what a lousy job she did raising them! It breaks Carries heart...Her son later gets in with a bad crowd, and is adrift for several years. Carrie hangs onto the baby of the family for dear life, only to have her run off with her boss...a man nearly Carrie’s age! Emotionally, Carrie shuts down. She loses her home because she has lost child support, and even though it wasn’t much, it was the extra bit that paid the bills; her day job paid rent and dance was food. It isn’t easy being a single mother of three, and she had sacrificed so much for the children she loved. Her bones ached, injuries set it from teaching dance on concrete floors all those years; she couldn’t move like she used to. Devastated from being all alone and broke, Carrie decides to take retirement early..she just can’t work multiple jobs anymore. The prospect of just staying and being poor is too much to handle, especially all alone. She decides to look out for herself first for a change. She still seems youthful, all those years of dance, not to mention the bell-jar effect of not realizing time had passed, left her looking young. She decides to move to the coast, since she always loved the beach. She always loved to paint and write, so that would keep her busy. Living frugally was something she was used to, and being in a beautiful place helped take the edge off of a champagne lifestyle on a generic beer budget. It was there that she met Tony. Carrie would take a book, or her paints or notebook, everyday on a walk on the beach. She would work up a sweat, then unpack her projects and a snack and spend hours creating or reading. One such sunny day, dressed in a summery maxi dress and sitting on her old beach towel, she attracted Tony. He was from the South, but had found memories of the West Coast as a kid. With an open book laying there and paintbrush in hand, Carrie was oblivious to anything other than the scenery she was painting. “How do?”, Tony asked in his drawl “Excuse me?”, said Carrie, not fully understanding the question or the accent. Tony said he liked her painting; an easy pick up line. He said he was staying at a hotel nearby. He asked about her book, complimented her dress, and asked if he could join her. She said fine, but she was working, but he could chat if he wanted to. Tony sat on a driftwood log and made idle chit-chat. The sun started to set, which was longer than Carrie usually stayed...she liked to go home and make a nice meal for herself before then, but all this talking had made time fly. Tony asks her if she’d like to have a drink, or dinner considering the hour, and much to her surprise, Carrie agrees. There are loads of hotels and restaurants along the beach, so they pick the closest one. Carrie doesn’t know it yet, but it is the restaurant in the hotel where Tony was stating, all tinted glass and very 70s chic but a bit dated by today’s standards. He had been watching her over lunch, behind the dark windows, and decided that since she didn’t seem to me going anywhere, that a chat with the lady in the long flowered dress and sun hat seemed better than cable TV in his room. His gamble paid off, but decided not to tell her he was staying there yet so as not to spook her; it may be too convenient to be so contrived. The waitress does a double take as Tony has been having all his meals there alone; he is a creature of habit. So seeing this lady join him so soon after a long late lunch seems funny to her; Carrie doesn’t notice the chuckle of myrth on her face as she seats them in his favourite booth. They order salmon and clams, seeing that it is the coast, and a nice bottle of white wine. Since she was always busy raising kids, she wished she had more experience with proper wine and food, and was always rushing home after her walk to watch cooking shows that paired food and wine. Prior to that, macaroni and cheese or how to order a pizza everyone liked was the extent of her cuisine knowledge. It was nice being an adult, she found, after all the initial heartbreak from the kids subsided. Tony explained that he had happy childhood memories of this beach, and was relocating. He had put out a few feelers for jobs; nothing like the six figures he used to earn. No, being at the coast is what he wanted, so he was applying for hotel management jobs. The one he was staying at was one that had interviewed him and put him up. They made him an offer; not a great one mind you, but it was what he wanted at that stage in life. A few years older than Carrie, he wanted out of the rat-race and a more peaceful life. Once Tony moved there, they put him up temporarily. He could find a place or take a pay cut and stay there; his choice. What with calling everyday in his absence or seeing her on weekends, it didn’t take long for the relationship to blossom. Before the summer was over, Tony moved into Carrie's modest bungalow...a ten minute walk to the beach and modest, but it was charming. There was a garden, and the tiniest of beach views from the raised deck. All these years of raising kids and working so hard, she knew what she was missing...love. And Tony adored her. He thought she was the loveliest woman, and with her dancers posture and love of romantic clothes, she looked more like a Southern Belle to him. They walked on the beach, she made him romantic dinners and he lit the fire. Her Autumn years seemed more promising than all her years of sacrifice in her youth. Time flew by. Soon, it was approaching the holidays. Carrie really liked to make a big deal out of them still, made things for months now that she had the time to, so made gifts and decorations for months leading up to Christmas. Sure, she did stuff with the kids, often separate, but it wasn’t the same, and she had never had the experience of having a partner with them all the years she wish she had. Her oldest daughter still never spoke to her, although Carrie sent her cards and gifts. Needless to say, she wouldn’t come. She had to track down her son through rehab, as he was adrift for so long, but she told him how much she loved him and was worried, and he came around. Her youngest was now in a serious relationship [with someone her own age] and would be bringing him along. Carrie baked her brains out, cooked and cleaned and made the simple house very Christmassy and charming, with homemade wreaths, bright decorations, things from the sea they found on their walks...you name it. If it could be picked up from obscurity, Carrie would make it into something. Her cooking skills were better, so she had practiced recipes on a very willing Tony to make the perfect Christmas dinner. This was really an important meal. Her son was the first to arrive. His appearance was a shock to her; so athletic as a kid, he had gained a lot of weight. Still, he was clean and sober, and he was home with her and that was all that mattered. Her youngest daughter proudly brought her new beau, who had tried to pick up some good wines to impress them, since they were going to wine tastings often and earning a more sophisticated palate. He was polite, and it was nice to see the baby of the family had settled down. Carrie did the tradition of stockings with an orange on the toe, although no one knew why that was a thing that had been passed down. She made their favorite meal, with the ‘killer’ mash potatoes, but truthfully with the cooking shows and a few classes, the tradition had been upped a level from opening cans like she used to. They grew their own veg now, so everything was fresh. Having wine with the kids was certainly new; she had been a tea-totaller their upbringing, less a custody battle caught her out as a lush. She loved to wrap, and each package had handmade little decorations on it, often shells made glittery or special ribbons. She used to have to do without to buy such things, and stay up all night to do them and then hide. Once, when the youngest was little, she heard her mom digging out the Christmas presents...that’s how she knew Santa wasn’t real...yet there were Santa gifts out of tradition that day. Tony beamed as he watched the family and his girl do what she did best; love others. He bought the kids all token gifts, since he was working, just as their mom made things from their past for them. It was a little awkward at first, but the jokes of ‘gravy is a beverage’ and such still filled the room just like when the kids were young. Tony was glad that he brought them something modest, since he was saving his pennies these days. A future with Carrie was what he wanted. There was one more extravagant gift under the tree that day that he had saved for. A diamond ring for his lady love...and a little ceremony secretly planned on the beach while the kids that mean the world to her are there to see their mother's happiness.

p6aq4f

One Last Sunrise

Sam and Quinn stared out at the sky, the horizon slowing growing brighter. Their similar heights casting long shadows that blurred together in the sand until they dissolved along with the darkness. Thin clouds started to form in the sky above them. The waves fully visible underneath the rays of sunshine peaking from behind the ocean. The sky quickly melted into a pastel pink then purple. A beautiful bruise in the earth’s atmosphere.  Quinn could never pay attention long enough to understand how the chemicals in the atmosphere worked to create such beautiful shades of blue, orange, and purple but watching the time pass in front of her gave her chills on even the best of days. The waves crashed rhythmically, filling the comfortable silence between them until Quinn broke it with her uneasy sifting through the sand with her fingers. “You were moving so much last night; I don’t see how you could have gotten any sleep.” Quinn said. “I don’t think I did. I’ve been too excited.” Sam said. “Excited for all freshman college parties maybe.” Quinn said sarcastically. Sam rolled her eyes. “I won’t even have time for parties. I’ll be too busy exploring the mountains and you know, actually going to class, unlike you.” Sam said. Quinn had spent more time in the tiny beach shacks that lined the Florida coast than she had in any class throughout high school. No amount of encouragement from Sam could convince her to do her homework or participate in any school clubs. She found more happiness listening to the waves and the stories of the locals who were always more than happy to share. The locals seemed to know more about anything than any teacher as far as Quinn was concerned. She swam in any body of water that looked safe enough for a human to be in and rode around on anything that had at least two wheels attached to it. “You’re right. They probably throw really good parties in Boulder though.” Quinn said. “I’ll have to find out and let you know.” Sam said. Quinn turned away from Sam. She felt tears pricking at her eyes. She tried to blink them away as the pit in her stomach began to grow. The longer they sat there, the closer they got to the official start to the day. She had managed to avoid thinking about it despite being surrounded by the boxes in Sam’s room all night. They had spent the previous day sorting through the last bit of her old things, delegating them into a keep and discard pile. She wondered whether she would get a chance to tell Sam how she felt before she left or if she even wanted to anymore. Sam could not count how many times she saw the redness creep into the corners of Quinn’s eyes when she talked about how excited she was to be in Colorado soon or how many times she saw the same glassy look in her own eyes when she excused herself to the bathroom just to stand in front of the mirror long enough to keep from crying out loud. They had been close for so long that confronting a feeling that might be misguided did not seem worth risking their friendship. Quinn spent the last few weeks questioning if the butterflies that erupted in her stomach were a symptom of the anxiety from barely graduating high school and losing the physical distance from the one person who felt like the more functional extension of herself. Or if the ache that crowned her stomach every time Quinn’s almond eyes looked directly into hers, her dimples visible as she laughed at one of her jokes, was something more than it used to be. “Don’t look so sad, Quinn. It’s not like we won’t ever see each other again. I’ll still text you every single day like I do now. Nothing is going to change,” Sam said, playfully leaning her legs against Quinn’s. “You can’t promise me anything,” Quinn said. She tried to move her legs away but did not want it to come across as an act of rejection. She felt her muscles stiffen against the softness of her skin. Quinn refused to meet Sam’s gaze despite feeling the soft brown eyes peering at her from beneath her bangs. Understanding radiated from her but it only made Quinn more upset. Sam had college and her family to look forward to. They had already flown to Colorado, to get the new house settled before Sam met them there. They let her have one last day to herself. Quinn only had the seagulls and the waves to looks forward to every day. “I don’t understand where this is coming from. You didn’t say anything the entire day yesterday. You helped me finish packing like everything was fine,” Sam said. Sam and Quinn had sat in her bedroom, both cross legged digging out everything from her room. Excited to be out of Florida, she was ready to leave room for new experiences. Looking over at Quinn, Sam could see her studying the notes they exchanged during class, gossiping and talking about things they could no longer remember. Sam kept everything Quinn had given to her. She intended to take every item with her, every scrap of paper and shell they had collected on their beach days. “Everything is fine. I just can’t stand seeing you leave,” Quinn said as she pulled her arms up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, resting her head on top of her knees and turning toward Sam. “You knew it was happening. This means a lot to me, Quinn.” “More than us apparently.” “This has nothing to do with us,” Sam said. “We will always still be us.” Sam moved closer to Quinn, folding her legs underneath herself and putting her hand on Quinn’s arm. Quinn reluctantly unfurled her body and sat up straight with her legs out in front of her. She grabbed Sam’s hand softly, squeezing it and letting go. Quinn remembered the first day she had met Sam. It was the end of summer and they were both around seven. Sam already had a mess of wavy blonde hair, a halo around her sharp features. She was never as tan as Quinn, her skin tone changing with the soccer season. Sam was more like a starfish that lazed on the beach, playing in the sand and greeting everyone who walked by. Quinn with her wide green eyes hid behind a long curtain of bangs, all brown waves that never saturated enough to turn the same blonde, was more a part of the sand and the ocean, always standing in the wake of the sun’s sharp rays. Their fond appreciation for it bonded them together. Taking away the momentum Quinn felt she had in the moment, now lost to the breeze. All the words that were beginning to tumble out of her mouth like a runaway train, now halted and seemingly meaningless.             “I don’t want to lose you just as much as you don’t want to lose me.” Sam said turning back toward Quinn.             “Then why are you leaving?” Quinn asked. Her voice had leveled. Her tone less accusing and more questioning.             “I want to experience more than what I have known my whole life. I’m going to miss you, but I’m not going forever.”             “What if you find what you couldn’t find here within the mountains and the snow? You’ll never want to come back to the ocean and the awful humidity.”             “I’ll always come back to the ocean, Quinn. It’s in my blood. No matter where I go this will always still be home to me.”             Quinn softened. She never had the same desire as Sam did to explore what might be out there. The discontent Sam felt with what was right in front of her was intangible. Quinn could easily spend the rest of her life here without wondering ‘what if’. Seeing the same people every day and taking walks along the beach. Even when she was away from it, she swore she could hear the waves crashing along the rocks in her dreams. Everything she wore smelled like saltwater. Sam said the ocean was in her blood but Quinn herself felt like she was more than that in some way.             The sun had fully risen. The golden glow radiated along the expanse of the landscape. Shining brighter than any other star that hung in the sky.             “I love you, okay?” Sam said, cupping Quinn’s face in her hands. “Please don’t ever forget that, no matter what.”             “I-I think-” Quinn stammered.             “Don’t say it. Let me figure out college and my life in Colorado before I try to figure out anything else new.” Sam said. Quinn could only nod, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes again. She tried to focus on the freckles painted across Sam’s face, counting each individual fleck. Her face was so close to hers, nothing different from the nights they had spent sleeping in the same bed, waking up to face each other. Quinn had memorized every part of Sam’s face and for the first time wondered if she had done the same for her. Sam wrapped her arms around Quinn tightly, squeezing herself against her. Wavy strands of her hair flew into her face, but she ignored it, closing her eyes against the wind blowing into them. Sam would miss the smell of the salty air that she could never seem to get out of her clothes and always smelled on Quinn after a long weekend outside. She had gotten used to calling her every morning to wake her because she slept through every alarm she set. She would miss the still sleepy sound of her voice when they met in the courtyard before class and the trips made down to the beach on the weekends. Sam would miss the groove Quinn left in the routine of her everyday life. “This is not goodbye forever,” Sam said as she pulled away from her and grabbed her hand one more time, squeezing it, before letting it drop between them. “I guess if you don’t come back to see me then I’ll just have to fly all the way to Colorado to bring you back.” Quinn dragged her tattered sleeves across her face, wiping off the tears that streaked her face. “See, then even you can see the mountains with me,” Sam said. “Don’t even try me. You’re coming back.” Sam let out a small laugh, watching Quinn’s face turn serious. “Yes, I am coming back. I promise.” The inevitable had finally arrived. Sam could feel the adrenaline rising in her chest. She would have to pull herself away to leave. The pressure of the past few weeks had built up to the moment. She had run through her head the best way to leave. What would be the right words to say? Nothing she could think of seemed to perfectly sum up the way she felt. Even though she would be coming back within a few short months for the holidays, she felt the moment deserved more than just a casual goodbye. Nothing felt right. Maybe it would be best to leave and let the next few weeks show themselves true to her promise. With one last hug, Sam slung the backpack she had brought over her back and picked up the bicycle they had ridden on from her house. “I promise to text you when I get to the airport and again when I land, okay?” Sam said. Quinn’s eyes hung low as she nodded in acceptance. “I love you.” Sam said, running out of words to stall the inevitable. The word felt different in her mouth. All four letters morphed into multiple indefinable feelings that weighed down the adrenaline already heavy in her chest. It was no longer just a word said alongside goodbye. “I love you too.” Quinn responded as the longing already began to set in, ignoring the puzzled look on Sam’s face. Sam nodded, gripping onto the handlebars. Staring into each other’s eyes as if some other worldly force would make this easier. Sam’s body felt glued to the spot, but her mind raced with excitement as the beginning of her new journey was about to start. She was already prepared to share every new thing with Quinn. Being without her to see everything with her in real time would be hard but having her a phone call away would make it easier. When it felt too late to say anything, she let out a sigh and started walking back up the trail to the main road. She did not feel much in the mood to ride the bike back to her house. There would be some time to get ready, but time would go by so fast it would be as if she left as soon as she arrived. Quinn silently watched Sam walk back up the beach the way they had come hours before. The pit in her stomach had gone away but evolved into something that left her feeling empty. Sam was still in view, but it already felt like the distance had started to grow between them. She would have to walk back down the road back to her own home alone. A path she had walked down many times before alone, but this time would feel different. She decided to stay a little while longer, enjoying the rest of the morning sun before the beach would be occupied by the many families on summer vacation that looked forward to this free time all year long. The tiny beach town would be full of tourists and the people that lived there. Her heart felt heavy but part of her was excited for Sam too. This gave Quinn the chance to figure out who she was by herself. Her and Sam had been tight knit for so long she could barely remember what it had been like to do things alone. * Sam arrived in the Denver International Airport tired and hungry. Three hours is not a long time but when you are pressed against the back of an airplane with little leg room and anxiety about flying, it took most of Sam’s remaining energy for the day. The airport felt massive with the white tent like fixtures that decorated the top of the building. She was warned how busy it would be, but she could not clearly imagine the hundreds of people bustling about. She retreated to the bathroom for a moment to get out of the way and figure out where she was going. Normally she had no problem figuring things out for herself but with the emotional goodbye with Quinn still lingering in her mind, all she wanted was to have a few minutes of quiet before she had to figure everything else out.             Sam found the gate she needed to go to and saw her parents already waiting for her. They looked tired too. The finality of the move was already starting to hit her. Nothing looked any different here than it had at home, but the shift had already started to form, starting in her head and moving to her stomach. Maybe it was just the altitude squeezing against her ears and the lack of food in her belly, but it felt deeper than that, in a place she could not quite reach. She had already checked her phone a dozen times after texting Quinn, but she hadn’t heard back yet. She kept feeling the phantom buzz in her back pocket, making her heart race before realizing it was nothing. Too afraid to miss anything if she put it on silent.             They left the airport behind with all its businesspeople and families traveling for the summer to reach their new home. It was already dark and besides the altitude the air felt different as soon as she got outside. The air wasn’t thick or sticky, clinging to her hair and clothes hours after the sun had dipped far below the horizon. It was harder to breathe, but it felt clearer, crisper. This was something she could easily get used to. But it was almost too quiet. She couldn’t see the mountains too well but there were more stars than she ever remembered being able to see. No clouds to hide them away. When they got into the car Quinn looked for the moon. It was just a sliver in the open sky. Everyone was quiet but the low voices on the radio commercials filled the space, almost lulling her to sleep. She stared out the window, looking at the trees as they blurred past them, the moon still hanging high enough to stay in sight. All she could think about was this morning and all the things left unsaid. The car went over a bridge, a crescent moon reflected in a dark lake like a blurry smile staring back at her. She quickly got out her phone and snapped a picture of it with the night sight. Even with it on, it was hard to see much other than the different textures of darkness in the background. Quinn studied the picture then traced the faint line of the moon in the picture with a pink highlighter in the editing menu to make it look more like the crooked smile that she imagined. She sent it to Quinn. This reminded me of your smile. She wrote. She wasn’t sure she would hear back from her for the rest of the night, so she set her phone face down on the seat beside her. She smiled back at the reflection until it was out of sight, trying to hold onto this little moment until she could watch the moon hang above another lake with Quinn beside her once again. 

3ra14y

Do Ends Meet?

This was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives. ‘Congratulations!’ said the nurse, as she was holding an eight and a half pound baby girl wrapped in a linen cloth, extending a warm smile to the mom, Prerna. ‘You have given birth to a beautiful baby girl!’ Prerna who was still lying on the maternity bed, and was struggling to somehow sit up, couldn’t believe the nurse’s words, but managed to extend her arms toward the baby and her eyes fixed on the baby’s face as that was the only part she could see. Taking the baby within her arms, Prerna struggled to lower her head so that she could greet her princess with a kiss. She could barely move her eyes from the baby’s face which looked so pure and fresh like the morning sunrise. Or was it like her neighborhood pond bathed by a full moon? Perhaps, the most recently bloomed rose matched her princess’ face. Prerna was at her wits’ end to decide on what exactly would match her baby girl’s beauty. ‘Oh!’ Prerna remembered about her husband, Amar. ‘Has someone called my husband?’ Prerna quickly asked the nurse. ‘Off course!’ said the nurse, ‘In fact, he was waiting here all night yesterday. Unfortunately, owing to the pandemic we’re trying to minimize visitors, including our maternity ward. So he had to leave. But we have informed him, and we’re expecting him shortly.’ Taking a deep breath, Prerna looked at the clock and then at her newborn baby. ‘It is 12 o’ clock.’ The nurse went on, adding, ‘So I assume you must be hungry and super ready for lunch.’ Prerna smiled as she nodded her head. ‘Hello!’ a deep masculine voice pervaded the silence that seemed to fill the serene atmosphere so long. ‘Hello, Princess!’ Amar just made his entrance as he put on his gloves and booties, and all the protection equipments prior to entering the room. ‘Congratulations, Daddy!’ The nurse remembered to congratulate Amar, as she turned to the couple, adding, ‘I’ll be bringing your lunch once you guys are done chatting, and then selecting from the menu options on the tablet.’ ‘I totally understand that this is a very special day in your life. However, please let’s keep the meeting to no more 30 minutes for now as we’re trying to minimize visitors so as to fight the pandemic.’ The nurse reminded of the regulations, as she gave a tablet to Prerna along with a congratulatory message card, and exited. ‘Are you happy now?’ Prerna asked Amar, as she reminded him, ‘So now can our princess inaugurate our new palace?’ Amar was busy explaining Abhay, their son and first child, who accompanied him to the hospital, the responsibilities of being an elder brother. ‘She has a new pillow, mummy!’ an excited big brother, Abhay shared as he grabbed the phone from his dad’s pockets, and quickly pulled up a few pictures of what the new touch up to the baby’s room looks like. ‘Wow!’ Prerna’s eyes glittered, as she scrolled through all the pictures. ‘I remember we were talking about the house on the lakeside.’ Amar said, fixing the linen cloth around his daughter and loosened the wrap a little bit. ‘Yes!’ Prerna could hardly wait to hear more about the house, ‘What about that? Please don’t…’ Amar looked at Prerna, assuring, ‘It’s still there. Your husband hasn’t forgotten about how much the house means to you. I also remember my promise about bringing our princess to her well deserved palace and not this house that we have been staying in for the last five years.’ A satisfying smile lit Prerna’s face, as she put her right hand on Amar’s upper arm and her eyes were fixed on the newborn, as Abhay asked, ‘Do I still get to have my stuff, mummy? My toys, my study table and books?’ ‘How can I forget my helper?’ Prerna responded to her son, reminding, ‘You are the King of the house. Everything is yours darling!’ ‘I am not the King.’ Abhay clarified, as he corrected, ‘I am the Super Man. Remember!’ The family of four even including the newly arrived filled the room with their laughter, as Amar checked his watch, saying, ‘Oh! It’s 12:30! I have a meeting in ten minutes.’ Amar gave a tap on his son’s back as he was about to leave, while also doing his duty as a responsible husband by reminding Prerna to eat on time and take care. ‘Both are doctor and the nurse is happy about the healthy delivery of our baby.’ Prerna smiled as she reminded Amar, ‘Hope we bring our princess to the home we both have been eyeing on.’ ‘Yes…ah! Thanks for reminding.’ Amar replied pursing his lips, as he made a note on his phone notepad to call the realtor soon after reaching home that very night. The son and dad duo made their way out as Prerna kept looking at the door even after they had left. Soon she remembered that she was yet to place her order for lunch. As she was holding the baby, she struggled to gradually move her other hand very slowly and grabbed the tablet from the bedside table, and picked from the options. Food arrived an hour later. The nurse offered to get her baby so that she could eat. Soon the baby was taken to her crib, and laid down gently on her bed. ‘I’m so full!’ Prerna said to herself as she put the food tray on the table. A minute later she put her head back on the bed cushion, took a deep breath and closed her eyes praying that everything gets back to normal soon. Everything has been nothing but death since April, 2020. Being an expectant mom, she had been scared about herself and her baby. A tired mom, Prerna decided to doze off early that night after dinner, as she picked up a book from the table, and continued reading from where she left a couple days before. In a few minutes, she could barely keep her eyes open and gradually slithered inside the comforter and fell asleep. Next morning, Prerna was prioritizing her to-dos. Grabbing her phone, she scrolled through her contacts as she happened to have some well versed interior designers in her acquaintance circle. ‘Should I call Shreya and ask for an appointment at her office?’ Prerna asked herself, as she reflected, ‘She is a legend for designing kitchens! How can I think of someone else?’ A few minutes later, the doctor and nurse arrived announcing that Prerna and her baby are ready to go home that evening. ‘Awesome!’ Prerna could hardly hold her excitement as she called Amar to share the news. Finally, the moment arrived. Prerna was done packing her bag, as she was holding her girl, and remembered to do a final check before the mirror, fixed her hair, adding a fresh touch of lipstick to her lips and pursed her lips. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’ said an exhausted Amar, who arrived straight from work. ‘How was work?’ asked Prerna, as she boarded the car while fastening the seat belt, announcing, ‘I am appointing Shreya for doing our new kitchen.’ A sudden loud noise approaching from behind made Amar who had just started driving, check the rearview mirror. Soon he moved to a side as it was an emergency vehicle coming from behind. ‘Let us first get the house.’ responded Amar as he resumed driving, while he checked the kids sitting in the backseat. Prerna preferred to remain silent and looked outside the window moving her fingers up and down her seat belt as if she was playing the sitar . Even after reaching home, the couple barely spoke except for checking with food and water. Next morning, Prerna wanted to call all her interior designer friends as she wanted to leave no stone unturned to ‘build’ her dream home. ‘I really don’t understand Amar sometimes.’ expressed an anxious Prerna, as she called her childhood friend Sheryl, the owner of Dream Palace Decors, a huge brand in interior designing. ‘Let me share my latest catalogue for patio and outdoor design.’ Sheryl responded as she adviced, ‘Share these with your guy tonight while enjoying a glass of wine. I bet he can’t say no.’ Sheryl’s words seemed to help Prerna as she shared, ‘But, Sheryl, we are yet to buy the house.’ ‘I totally understand, Prerna. There’s no harm in sharing some good pictures. What else can you do these lockdown days?’ ‘Amar Calling.’ Prerna saw the call waiting message on her phone, and concluded her conversation with Sheryl by promising to call back later. ‘Yes, tell me.’ Prerna responded to Amar’s call, as she heard her baby crying from another room. After checking with the kids and Prerna, Amar shared, ‘I have some good news and bad news for us.’ ‘Share the bad news first.’ ‘Are you ready?’ ‘Do I have a choice?’ ‘The promotion I was expecting, which could have let us purchase our dream home, has been put on hold. So that means, we have to wait a little more to buy the home.’ ‘So you mean we can’t take our princess to her palace? Oh my! She won’t get to celebrate her first birthday beside the lake?’ ‘It’s not that. It’s just a mat…’ ‘I need no explanation. You could have told me this before.’ Prerna could not hold her emotions any more, and burst into tears shouting, ‘How will I ever show my face to my friends, now?’ ‘Honey,’ Amar was trying his best to calm things down over the phone as he has to go for a safety measures training in the next few minutes. As moving to a bigger home was a priority for him, he went on, ‘We’re still getting the house. I just checked with our realtor, and he said it’s going to stay in the market, and he’ll make sure it does. It’s all yours, sweetie.’ Having received no response from the other end, Amar said, ‘Hello! You there! Prerna, you’re listening?’ Soon he realized that Prerna had hung up on him. Covering his head and face in his two hands, Amar was struggling to decide on his next steps, tried to imagine what has been going on in Prerna’s minds, and wished he could leave that very second. Somehow he managed to get up from his chair, and poured a glass of water to drink. ‘Hopefully things calm down in the evening.’ Amar said to himself as he noticed a text that flashed on the screen, ‘I’m going to my eternal home. No worries about buying any home any more. I’m relieving you of all liabilities. Be happy! J’ The text was from Prerna who rushed to open the backyard door, soon after typing the text. Even the loud cry of her newborn baby from the other room or the repeated pleading for peanut butter sandwich from her son didn’t bother her in any way. ‘There it is’ Prerna said to herself as she found the oil jar that seemed to be waiting just for her. Being health conscious, a one gallon jar of oil could last for months. She would be calculative about how much of oil to use for cooking, which was something that Amar could never really agree with as he loved fried chicken and fish. It took less than five minutes to empty the one gallon jar which was a few ounces less than a gallon. She seemed to have a bath, as she poured the entire jar on herself ensuring not even a drop falls on the ground. Soon she grabbed the lighter which was lying on the patio table. In a few minutes, she was standing on the patio ablaze. Black smoke engulfed the surrounding, which again informed Abhay about something terrible. ‘Mummy!’ Abhay was screaming as he rushed to call his dad. ‘Dada, mummy is burning!’ Abhay was crying over the phone as he was trying to inform dad over the phone, which actually went on voicemail. Amar received the voicemail at lunch, and unable to believe his eyes, called back at the number. He couldn’t get any response. He was trying to think what actually had happened. Soon he saw his boss walking in the lounge, and immediately approached to see if he could leave on emergency grounds. ‘Do we have a meeting scheduled today?’ his boss checked with him. ‘I don’t think so.’ ‘Ok then. Not a problem. Hope everything is ok.’ Amar immediately rushed to leave thanking his boss. Grabbing his backpack from his work desk, he ran to his car, struggling to start and disappeared from the parking lot within a few seconds. Taking his usual right turn, he seemed to have been ‘trapped’ in the traffic signal at the intersection. Looking at the red signal like a captive, he was tapping his fingers on his lap. ‘Why is it taking so long to be green today?’ Amar was unable to hold on his patience. ‘Ah!’Amar breathed some relief, as the light turned green. He was trying to drive at the speed limit but at times ended up in going above, and then succeeded in bringing it down and monitoring every minute. After driving for about a mile, he found that the road was closed owing to roadwork. Taking a U-turn, he followed another route which finally helped him reach his destination, his home. By then it was too late.

yczdmf

Ellie's Secret

“So what if I kept it secret! It’s my secret to keep. How can she be mad at me for that?” I said into the phone as I walked out of the living room and into the kitchen where my Dad was making us breakfast. It was Sunday morning, and I was talking on the phone with Violet, my best friend since the first grade.            “Come on, Ellie, you know that secrets tear apart friendships. You should have just told her,” Violet said.            “It isn’t a big deal. Why is she making it a big deal?” I asked, frustrated with the whole situation.            “It’s not every day that someone you know gets to be on a TV show. Nora is just mad that you didn’t tell her, and she had to hear it from Johnny Tay….,” Violet said, cutting herself off mid-word.            “Johnny Taylor? How did he find out? Violet, you were the only person I told,” I said, starting to get a clear picture of where the leak had come from.            “He overheard me telling Tori during lunch on Friday. I’m sorry, Ellie. I didn’t mean to ruin your surprise or anything, but you know me, I can’t keep a secret, especially one this good. I was just so excited for you that I couldn’t keep it bottled up anymore. Please don’t be mad at me,” Violet was talking super-fast, she always did that when she was excited and nervous.            “Ugh,” I replied.            “Just call Nora and talk to her,” Violet urged.            “Fine, I’ll call her after breakfast,” I said.            I hung up the phone and plopped down on the stool at the kitchen counter.            “Good morning, Sweetie, sounds like you have your hands full today,” said Dad who was accidentally eavesdropping on my conversation.            “I shouldn’t have told Violet,” I said crossing my arms on the counter and laying my head down on my folded arms.            “You tell Violet everything,” Dad said.            “Violet has a big mouth,” I mumbled.            “Violet is not very good at keeping secrets, that’s for sure,” Dad laughed. “Cheer up, Sweetie, it’s going to be fine. Nora will stop being mad once you call and talk to her,” Dad reminded me.            “Do I have to go on TV?” I asked.            “Yes, you have to go on TV. If you don’t, you are going to regret it forever. Be glad that they decided to pick you because you really deserve to do this,” Dad told me.            He was right. The kids in my class would have been mad at me if I turned down the opportunity to go on a TV cooking show.            “Dad, can I go to a different school?”            “Next year you can,” Dad said, he was trying to be funny, but it wasn’t helping me. We already knew I would be going to a different school next year because I would be in junior high and not elementary school.            “Ellie, you have always loved to cook, don’t let this dampen your spirits,” Mom said from the doorway of the garage.            “Everyone is going to be mad at me,” I told her.            “Everyone is going to be happy for you,” she countered.            “Ugh,” I said again.            After breakfast, I called Nora. That went better than I expected. Nora was so happy for me that she was no longer mad that I didn’t tell her right away. She said she understood why I was keeping it a secret, and I was glad she said that because it made me feel better about the whole situation.            The next day at school, I stood up in front of the class right when the first bell rang and told my classmates about the plan for me to go on the kid’s TV cooking show. My teacher, Mrs. Harris, already knew so it wasn’t a surprise to her, but it was to everyone else. No one knew I was that good at cooking. They all knew that I liked to bake because I always brought leftover treats to school to share with my class and they always raved about how good they were. Only a few of my friends knew that I usually did all of the cooking at our house because I loved it so much and it was a good experience.            Mrs. Harris had noticed early on that I had a flair for food and she had tried to make school more fun by adding extra questions to tests and assignments that had to do with cooking so it would pique my interest in different subjects.            “You have a photographic memory,” Mom always said, but if that were true then why did I always forget to feed the dog and take out the trash?            Why did I have to be different? Why couldn’t I be just like everyone else? I should have been better at faking it since that’s what I had been doing since first grade. I guess the whole fake-it-till-you-make-it philosophy didn’t work for people like me who were trying to fake being like everyone else.            I didn’t ask to be different. In fact, the school asked my parents if they could put my picture in the hall so everyone could see I was going to be on TV. At first, I was against it, because I didn’t want any special attention but now my friends knew and were super supportive. That alone made the decision easier to have my picture plastered up all over town. Besides, it’s not like I am going off to Hollywood to be a movie star or anything like that.            The school was almost out for the year. Just two more days and it would be summer vacation.            “Is your family going camping next week, Nora,” I asked at lunch, trying to keep things normal.            “Yes, this year we are doing a family reunion at the campground,” said Nora.            “That sounds, um, like fun,” I said, scrunching up my face and shaking my head no.            “It’s terrible! I am the oldest cousin, so all of the little kids swarm me and always want to tag along. I won’t have any time to myself,” she said with a frown.            “Why don’t you do some crafts with them?” I suggested it as an idea since all little kids love doing crafts.            “Or why don’t you teach them to roast marshmallows and make S’mores,” said Violet, nudging me with her shoulder so that I would offer some cooking ideas.            “How about Butterscotch Sticky Buns or Banana Splits with homemade ice cream,” I offered.            “Ah, banana splits sound good,” said Nora, nodding her head.            “And they are easy to make,” said Violet.            “That is a great idea. You two are the best. I will ask my Mom if we can get all of the ingredients and make them while we are camping,” said Nora.            The bell rang and we went back to class. The day seemed to drag along but that was because I couldn’t wait for it to be over. I wanted to go home and practice cooking since the competition was in three days.            “Your surprise ingredients are glazed donuts and a cup of espresso,” Mom said as I walked into the kitchen after school.            “Bread pudding with espresso whipped cream,” I replied quickly.            “Nice choice, that sounds delicious,” Mom said.            “Tastes good and it’s easy to make,” I said.            “Chocolate eclairs and rice crispy treats,” said Mom.            “Chocolate cream pie with crispy crust and topping,” I replied.            “The crispy crust sounds interesting. Have you tried to make that before?” Mom asked.            I shook my head no.            “Crispy crust it is then,” Mom decided.            My Mom had graduated from Culinary School before I was born, and for several years she had worked as a sous chef at the fanciest hotel in town. That is where she met my Dad. He was putting himself through college working as a waiter. Now, my Mom was in charge of our school food program and my Dad worked for himself remodeling houses.            Mom and I worked on the crispy crust until Dad got home. It was a disaster. The crust was either too mushy or too hard. We couldn’t get the right consistency to hold a cream pie filling. We had tried everything we could think of, but it just wasn’t working.            “Why don’t you do a regular pie crust with a layer of rice crispies and then add your filling?” my Dad said when he walked in the door from work.            My Mom and I looked at each other and laughed. Why hadn’t we thought of that? Something so simple had stumped the two of us and here we were supposed to be the experts. We tried Dad’s version of the pie and it turned out fantastic. Another winner to add to my list of ideas for the cooking competition.            On Monday morning, my whole class surprised me by coming over to my house before I left for the TV competition. Everyone was waiting outside with signs to congratulate and cheer me on before I left. That was the best surprise ever.            At the station, everything moved quickly. We were just about to go on the air when my Mom gave me one last quick hug.            “You are going to do great! I believe in you. Smile big, concentrate, and pick your best options,” Mom said, adding as much last-minute encouragement as she could squeeze in.            “I got this,” I said, faking a smile for my Mom as the cameraman started his countdown. It was a good thing she couldn’t tell I was lying. The End.

z1qgc2

Rites and Rights of Passage

“Call me when you have a real problem buddy.” Arthur couldn’t think of a good response to that statement from one of his best friends – Fred. So he quickly made up a story of how he was in the middle of creating his latest painting, and he didn’t want the paint to dry before he finished what he was doing. So he had to hang up.  There was no such painting at this time. After they both hung up at about the same time, he had to agree with Fred somewhat. He was being offered the plum job of being the well-paid CEO of a very profitable family business, something that he had been promised ever since he was a little boy. Now that he was about to turn 40, the promise was about to be fulfilled.  Arthur, like Fred, was not earning much right now. He was an illustrator for a slow-selling artsy-craftsy magazine. Fred was a copy writer. Both were good at what they did, but neither was paid much for their work. Both had to seriously supplement their incomes through free-lance work. That did not pay much either, but at least it helped cover the rent, insurance on the car, food, and an occasional night out with the boys at a local bar. Fred was married, with two kids; Arthur was not. His art filled his life. The Family Business The family business had been started by Arthur’s great grandfather. Following him, his eldest son, was assigned the job when he turned 40, as did Arthur’s father when he reached the same age. The family business involved plastics. The factory, warehouse, and office building took up a block on a well-paved street on the outskirts of the medium-sized town in which Arthur had been raised. From the time that he was a small boy, Arthur had seen his father and grandfather treated like the princes of business that they were. He had early on been guided through the buildings by his grandfather, who held his hand, introduced him to the staff, and explained what the machines in the factory did. At the end of the guided tour, he was told, “Some day this will all be yours, Arthur. You will be the boss, like I am now, and your father will be in a year’s time, when he turns 40. Arthur’s 40 th birthday was coming up in a week’s time, and he hadn’t yet decided what he was going to do. If he accepted the position, he would never need to worry about money problems again, although he would probably need to hire someone to do his taxes, not a concern before. He would also have the approval of his entire family, uncles, and aunts, loads of cousins, although there would probably be some ‘sucking up’ involved. If he refused the position, he would get to do the work he loved, and not lose sleep over the problems generated by the massive amount of responsibilities he would have, something he feared. His Siblings His siblings all worked for the company in a variety of positions. His younger brothers, twins, Frank and Mike worked in the warehouse, and were co-heads of the shipping department. They were good talkers, good at talking people into doing things for them. Arthur had been conned by them a lot of times when the three of them were growing up. But the twins were not good at organizing the people over which they had authority.  He had referred to them at a company get-together as ‘the two-headed monster.’ The name stuck when employees spoke critically of them. This was frequent, as their qualifications for the job were so apparently their family membership, not their competence in organization. Arthur had heard talk in his local pub of the resentment that people who worked with them felt.            Then there was older sister Sally. She was the head of the accountancy department of four people. Sally had a good head for business, and had helped Arthur pass mathematics and business courses in middle school and high school. He wouldn’t have earned sufficient good marks to get into art college without Sally’s help. The Day of the Decision Arthur’s 40 th birthday was now two days away, and he still hadn’t decided what he should do. So he took a long walk to the river that flowed in soft curves through the west part of town. There was a place where the riverbank was high, and he could sit with his legs dangling down. He often sketched when there, got inspiration for his paintings. He brought a pad or paper and a bag of pencils with him this time, just in case. It wasn’t long before he started drawing. But this time, he did not include the beauties of nature in his art. He drew pictures of people, his family members. The settings he put them in were of his own devising. And that included him. He had made a decision. Arthur Calls Fred As soon as he arrived back home, Arthur called Fred. “You said that I should only call you when I had a ‘real problem’. Well, I am calling you when I have a real solution to a real problem. How’s that?” They talked for a while, both feeling happy about what was said, and what would happen.. The Big Day It was now the big day, Arthur’s 40 th birthday. His father had booked the poshest, most pretentious ‘event-focused’ place in town, and the crowd of family, highly placed employees in the family business, and political and business ‘notables’ in town packed the place. Now it was the big moment. The people sitting at the head table (like in a wedding), Arthur, his parents and grandparents, brothers, and sisters, all stood up. The two men who had been the company heads walked up to the where the microphone was, followed by Arthur. They put around Arthur’s neck a red ribbon bearing a flashy round gold-colored medal at the bottom. It had been put around their necks when they were given the family business leadership – their moment of glory. Now it was Arthur’s turn. Bedecked with the ribbon, Arthur walked up to the microphone on its stand. As he did so he carried his briefcase with him. He tapped the mike, and then spoke. “I willingly accept this honour bestowed upon me. Along with that, I would like to make my first executive decisions.” This was new,  It hadn’t happened before. There was a hush in the crowd. “First, I would like to ask my older sister Sally and my two younger brothers Frank and Fred to step forward, as what I am about to say will affect them as well as the company.” His siblings stood up and walked up to stand beside him. “First, I would like to give my brothers new jobs. Knowing as I do that they are very convincing speakers—they talked me into doing many foolish things when we were boys--, I am giving them the position of being in charge of a sales force that I am sure will increase our profits. Step up brothers.” As they did, he took two ribbons quite like his own out of his briefcase. On both ribbons were written the words ‘Co-Captain of the Sales Force.’ The brothers accepted their ribbons with smiling faces. “Now for my sister Sally, who has the best mind for business of the four of us.” Arthur turned around, bent down to his briefcase, and retrieved another ribbon, at the same time, surprisingly, taking off his own. “Sally, I am passing my ribbon and my job onto you. As you are much more naturally qualified for it than I could ever be.” “But I am not leaving the family business. I intend to establish a company magazine, which speaks of our business, and of what goes on in our town. I will be the editor and illustrator, and my friend Fred, who is not here today, but knows about this decision, will be the copy writer. “ There was an initial silence, then applause began by Sally, then joined by Frank and Fred, and then their father and grandfather. Problem solved.

fayjf3

Red Ant! Red Ant!

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. It was finally the first day of autumn, and my feet were on fire --and not the kind of painful but feel-good fire you get when you walk across rocks in the summer. No. They were burning with change. I lunged forward to land on a crispy yellow leaf, but the wind blew it away just in time and instead, I stepped on a firey red ant who fell limp under my weight. Crouching down, my chest was now on fire, and my eyebrows furrowed as its little legs twitched and its colony marched towards the crime scene to bring it home. If ants could speak, they'd curse me, and surely I'd take it as a new chapter has just begun and I've already made it a bad one. I continued to walk down the sidewalk. With my hands stuffed in my crimson-knitted finger gloves that were stuffed in my pocket, I continued to march away as the ants flipped the back of me off with one of their six legs. The rustling of the wind whipped strands of hair into my mouth and spindling leaves against my back. I overthought until I considered what the ants would do now that their hill-mate was gone; I'd be ignorant (or perhaps, ridiculously stunned) to believe that they'd just go on as if that ant didn't have an important job too. I'd be naive to assume that the ants wouldn't grieve. My head was on fire. And now, so was the bottom of my stomach. I'd like to assume that my guilt over the meandering red ant was just something my brain was using to make me believe that I am a horrible person. I've read somewhere that oftentimes, the things we do aren't that bad (given, you're not a murderer), and it's simply our thoughts that blow things out of proportion. It was an ant. As I had originally planned to do, leaves began to crunch beneath my feet. I saw red, like the fire that I stood on before I committed murder, and I heard the tread of a bicycle winding down behind me. The smell of cinnamon and evergreen filled my nose and from the corner of my eye there was Violet, an ever-gleaming light with bantu knots, skin so warm and brown that she looked like she was made to live in the fall. She'd tell me that I'm being too hard on myself if I told her my thoughts; Violet had always told me that I was a good person. "Am I going to see you at the dance tonight?" Violet grinned, peering her head over the handlebars. One look and God, I remembered all the nights in ninth grade that I'd wish she'd tell me that she's into girls too. I shied away from her, shrugging my shoulders. Her eyes were like two golden pools of chocolate. "Maybe I'll stop by for a little bit." "Oh, c'mon Flo," she cooed, "I was hoping that we'd get a dance together." And I was sure that I would cremate into dust, given that my heart was now on fire too. Clarkson was a small town and surely people would talk if they saw us together. Violet didn't care about what others thought, though. I smiled a tight-lip smile, nodding before she kissed my cheek and peddled away. Jesus. "Oh wait!" She yelled, bringing her bike to a halt. I stopped three paces behind her. "You look different." My hands dug deeper into my pockets, "I look different?" "It's a good different," she smiled, "you look brighter." At ten o'clock that evening, I stood outside of the Clarkson High gymnasium doors. I wasn't waiting for Violet, nor was I keeping a look out for any red ants with desires of revenge, but I was trying to think of what I could do once I walked inside; I wouldn't be dancing unless Violet gave me that look and I fell under her spell like I always did. I settled on ruminating by the punch bowl and bobbing my head against the wall, all while avoiding Violet even though all I wanted to do was dance with her. I was nervous. Feeling pins and needles in my thighs, I watched the people I grew up with grind against each other and throw their hands in the air. I'd like to be as carefree as they seem, but I knew better than to let myself have too much fun. I tend to get high off the moment and overthink some more the next day. I pulled my plastic cup of fruit punch to my lips as I felt a tap on my shoulder and a whisper on my neck. It was Violet. She left another kiss on my cheek, her hand slithering towards the side of my ear and she made her fingers dance in my hair. My eyes slowly fluttered open and shut, and with a quick movement her gaze pierced into mine. "Let's get out of here," she singsonged, and her breath smelt of dirt and breadcrumbs. My eyebrows furrowed, my heart racing as I followed her out of the dark gymnasium to the paved yard behind the school, and suddenly she disappeared. "Violet?" I called, looking around. "Where'd you go?" I wanted to run back into the school but I didn't want to leave Violet, wherever she was, on her own. I considered running to the light that flickered on the back wall of the school, but my thoughts were jumbled when I felt little legs crawling over me. One by one, my skin began to itch and there was just enough light to notice the colony of red ants biting wherever they could. I tried to shake them off but they held onto me tight, so I jumped and jumped as my whole body began to burn; like the leaves, like my feet, like my chest, like my head, like my lower stomach, and like my heart. Nothing has changed.

gtjis4

The fireguard

Start. your story with the line " By the time I stepped outside,the leaves were on fire"  The Fireguard By Dumisani khumalo By the time I was outside ,the leaves were on fire. There was panic and frenzy ,and it was about me, and the prospects I had were becoming dim as I looked at the fire spread so magnanimously, and who would come to my rescue when I was there alone? It started with prospects of finding out if I had green fingers at all ,with my extension trainings in agriculture,and my green beans grown in a can by the wall ,were doing quite well.  Raking some grass and mulching ,and cutting grass around my small cabin at the back of my bosses house,on my attachment course ,was already showing off a good crop ,and I decided to extend it to about half a hectare. My friends had never thought of growing anything and made money through vending and cross border smuggling,and I was already selling off green beans .By my calculations ,I was going to make quite a substantial amount ,and make the beans ,if like Jack and the bean stalk ,try to reach heaven,that is to say, pay my tuition fees ,which were dear and many of us were surviving on loans .At hyper inflationary interest rates at the time. I piled the grass and it made my bosses encouraging nudge of a voice help, and the support gave me an extra push .There was land that needed clearing ,and I took advantage of it.Moreso ,it was free land . Some students who were enterprising were already having farms ,and it was a push for me to even do better ,since the land issue came to haunt Zimbabwe in 2000,when jobs were becoming scarce in industry ,as more white people left for South Africa and Australia. I am in Marula , where the Rosenfels ,I understand that means Rhodes and fellows, who were adopted as orphans by Cecil John Rhodes,and given land to farm and do ranching ,where this happens,is near Plumtree,the border town with Botswana. The country Rhodesia ,named after him,changed to Zimbabwe ,a house of stone ,and a country boasting of having had two gay presidents ,the first being Cecil John Rhodes himself ,and Canaan Banana ,who took the country up in 1980 independence. It's the knowledge that I was given by experienced white farmers that was becoming handy ,and it's when I was told to make a fire guard ,that I did not quite put up to the task .My mind was busy on finding more seed ,and making those continued mathematical calculations for the six months that I was to be due on attachment,that I was trying to maximize on my production than trouble myself on looking at this other risk. The sandy soils there had a water table about twelve meters below due to the kopje,rocks, that protrude from the ground ,and spread into the matopos mountains ,where Cecil John Rhodes ,gave the name and famed it as  World's View,a stretch of rocks that looks like those bolders on Mars,where he lay buried and is his final resting place, dug into stone ,and the highest point in Matebeleland ,when his rival king Mzilikazi khumalo ,lays just a few kilometers below him ,as if it was a contest of minds to see who would be laid at a higher place than the other. I imagine the moon for all to see me. I did my cooking outside on firewood,proud of this new found freedom to do as I wished to test myself .I had also in the meanwhile realised that veldt fires were common ,and since more white people were leaving ,more of these were happenung along the highway,buses and cars bringing in scarce fuel at the time ,being engulfed and human victims claimed You would see how easy fires came up and a wind would just suddenly materialise,from no where,and I would claim it's the close water table blowing it up into those grass blades into the air,and with my youth and skill to put small fires out, it was an interesting sport and a testing of my strengths. I ran for it and poured water on the foot of the fires that sometimes came up and when we heard those accidents by the road sides ,we were there to help out until the fire went out. Obliviously on this day ,I had had one too many as we came from Redwood with my colleagues,and I decided to cook in the early morning hours of Sunday .It was a quiet Sunday morning and that cracking headache was holding me to ransom. I had made a fire and walked back inside to see what I could manage to make for my early morning breakfast ,and our patent maize staple porridge would be ready in no time,and as I peeled some onions and cut up some tomatoes ,I heard a swish and cracking sound of fire.A big fire. By the time I stepped outside ,the leaves were on fire ,and the fire moving out in a windward formation,and blazing towards a number of villages that had just been resettled. I was alone and did not see who to call for help or assistance.Shops were about half a kilometers away ,and no one had thought of divising a warning signal ,which ended up being a bell by the tree in our yard. I tried to do my best but nothing could yield anything with my cut brushes.Everyone who stayed with me had gone out to their own homes and I was getting choked when I heard a tractor from a nearby farm come by. It had one sole individual on it ,and I recognized that he was the guy doing government tillage programs in our area .He went to the head of the fire ,and ploughed in a fireguard right in front of me as I watched helplessly where the fire was going.Into people's houses and cattle kraals .What a mess was I going to be in. But the fire was put out in no time . We ended up with a bell at the gate to nothing to fate.

yl9n07

Right Out of Her Mouth

‘I have a crush on you.’ The second the words fell out of her mouth, Eve slapped a hand over her lips. Pressing them back in. Even to her own reflection, she seemed panicked, feverish; red cheeks, bright eyes and a hint of mania. Barely herself. Had she ever looked this excited before? Could she do it? The bedroom door behind her opened and she whirled, pressing her back against the mirror. Her sister, twelve, sassy and wearing an oversized sweatshirt she’d stolen from their brother. ‘We’re late. Alex is already annoyed. You coming?’ ‘Um… yeah.’ Lily frowned, looking her older sister over and then wrinkling her nose. ‘Why are you so weird?’ She didn’t wait for a reply, which was good because Eve wasn’t really sure she had an answer. She’d torn apart her wardrobe already, her room a battleground of discarded outfit choices. Finally, she’d settled on a t-shirt that she’d been told made her eyes pop and her favourite jeans. She looked back and the mirror and grimaced. Maybe not. She grabbed a hoodie and hid inside it, pulled her hair into a messy ponytail, grabbed her phone and backpack, and took the stairs two at a time. Outside, Alex sat in his car, waiting impatiently as he scrolled through his phone and leaned briefly on the horn. The bark of noise made Eve jump, and she yanked open the car and slunk inside. Alex spared her a single glanced in his mirror and rolled his eyes. Eve slunk down in the seat, shoving her earbuds into her ears. Lily slammed into the front seat, and Alex peeled out of the drive. Eve stared out of the window and watched the matchstick houses scroll past, waiting for it to end. Was she the only teenager in the world who looked forward to school? When they pulled into the school parking lot her heart began to pulse in her throat. It was hard to swallow. Her palms began to sweat. She wasn’t even listening to her playlist anymore. Then she saw her. Anna. The girl who had held her hand after she’d broken her arm on her bike. The girl who had held back her hair when she’d drunk too much at Allie Mitchel’s party. The girl who had cried on her shoulder when her mother had died. The girl who smiled at her like she was the whole world. The girl who had admitted to being bisexual last week when they’d been playing truth or dare. The girl she was hopelessly in love with. The girl she was finally going to ask out. Today. Eve had been trying for three days. Every time she tried she ended up choking on her words. But today, today she was going to do it. Today. Anna was wearing a beret which on anyone else would have been goofy. On her it was charming. Complimenting her tangled mess of brown curls. Her bright green eyes. Eve bailed from the car almost before it had stopped. She rushed over to Anna, who turned to her like a sunflower towards the sun. ‘Evie!’ Anna was the only one who called her that. It made Eve’s heart sing. ‘Hi.’ ‘I wanted to talk to you!’ Anna said, taking the words right out of Eve’s mouth and grabbing her hands. Even if she had wanted to say anything, she didn’t think she’d be able to. Anna’s hands were callused from playing the cello and they rasped against Eve’s skin in a way that was deeply distracting. ‘Is your brother here yet?’ Eve blinked, stirred from her stupor. ‘Uh, no, why?’ ‘That’s what I have to talk to you about,’ Anna continued, smiling so wide that her dimple made an appearance. ‘You wanted to talk to me about my brother?’ ‘We agreed I should be the one to tell you,’ Anna said, swinging their joined hands, ‘Alex was worried that you might take it badly, but I don’t think so.’ Eve pulled back her hands, wrapping her arms around herself. ‘Take what badly, Anna?’ ‘Alex and I are dating,’ she said, her smile dimming for a moment as she scanned Eve’s face. When Eve had been ten, she’d begged her parents for a PlayStation 3 for Christmas. It had been a months-long campaign that she’d mounted. Every time she’d found a discount code or a sale, she’d shown them. And then, on Christmas day, Alex had gotten a PlayStation 3 and Eve had gotten an iPad. Eve remembered how small she had felt, how ignored and forgotten. This was worse. Nothing had ever felt like this before. For a moment even breathing was difficult. Her heart was in pieces in her chest, pain blooming in her veins. Her stomach cramped. But she kept her face blank and unresponsive. Alex slid into the space beside Anna, slipping his arm around her shoulders and hugging her into his side. She beamed up at him and as he looked down at her, his usual snarky facade gone to show something soft that Eve hadn’t seen in a very long time. Eve could hardly hear over the sound of blood rushing in her ears. The devastation was complete. ‘Evie?’ The world came back into focus. Eve blinked. ‘Yeah?’ Anna’s face was a picture of concern. But it was Alex who asked. ’Are you okay?’ ‘Uh, yeah,’ Eve managed, ‘I’m happy for you guys. I just… I feel sick all of a sudden, sorry.’ And she rushed past them in the direction of the nearest girls bathrooms. ‘Eve!’ ‘Evie!’ Eve pretended she couldn’t hear. It was early, so no-one got in the way when she ran towards the chemistry block bathrooms. She slammed inside, hunching over the nearest sink, gripping onto the porcelain with white knuckles. She looked up at herself in the pockmarked mirror, horrified to see that she was crying. She scrubbed madly at her eyes and, when that didn’t work, she splashed her face with the frigidly cold water from the taps. Behind her, the toilet flushed, and Allie Mitchel exited the stall. She frowned when she saw her. ‘You okay?’ Eve took a deep breath in and held it for a moment. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

f8g3jg

In Mama's Apron Pocket

In Mama’s Apron Pocket By Heather Ann Martinez It was always bright and clean in mama’s kitchen. I can still smell her cinnamon rolls baking in the oven and beef stew simmering on the stove. To look at her, you would not think she had a care in the world. If she was ever stressed about anything, she never showed it. She pleasantly cooked and baked for dad, my brother Rhen and me for most of my childhood. I don’t remember a time in my elementary school years that my mother didn’t bake cookies and cakes for school fundraisers and community charity events. When I was eight, dad took ill. He couldn’t leave the house for nearly a year. Rhen and I never did find out what had dad laid up for so long. All we knew was that things changed in our house. Rhen and I could no longer play hide and seek. We were encouraged to go outside even after dark so that we didn’t disturb our father who had the hardest time sleeping. He sat up coughing most nights. My mother took odd jobs to help our dwindling savings. Dad’s mining job did not offer much in terms of benefits during the time he could not work. My mother took in laundry, baked desserts for fancy parties, made breakfast for the one legged man who didn’t come all the way back from the war. Mama always said we had to be careful around him, because loud noises really bothered him. It was a week into fall when Rhen began teasing me about my birthday. He told me I wasn’t going to be getting any presents or new clothes for school. He told me I was going to have to be mature and not bother our parents about toys. He said toys were for babies and we weren’t babies anymore. Rhen was only a year older than me and to this day, I still think he is the wisest person I know. Whenever mama and I went into town to buy milk and sugar, she would ask me if I liked a dress or skirt in the department store window. I would tell her the skirt or dress I had sitting in the back of the closet would do for another year. I’d hold back tears whenever she asked me about the doll with the porcelain face. Every girl at school had one of them and they would talk about dresses and hats they would be buying for them over the upcoming weekend. My classmate Allison would dress her doll to look like her. Allison rarely wore the same outfit twice and neither did her doll. While many of the girls in our class envied Allison, I felt sorry for her. She did not have any imagination. She looked like she walked out of a department store catalog and so did her doll. One of my other classmates asked me why I never brought my doll to school. I lied and told my classmates that I didn’t want to get her clothes dirty on the playground. The other girls didn’t care if their dolls got dirty or were missing an eye because the boys took them and tossed them around. They knew they could get new ones and new clothes to match. Rhen told me I needed to make do with what I had. I made up stories about my doll and the adventures we had. I would tell my classmates that I took my doll to have tea with my grandmother. I would tell them that my grandmother would make fine clothes for my doll from linens and silk she bought from her trips to Asia. In reality, my grandmother sent us postcards from her trips to Asia. We had not seen her in person for more than two years. She did not even know that my father was ill. If she had known, she probably would have come home to help care for him. I struggled to even look at him. As an adult, I am ashamed to say that I did my best to stay away from my father while he was ill. I kept up with my chores and tried to stay as quiet as possible. I didn’t know what to say to my father and I though that it was best not to say anything at all. He couldn’t carry me on his shoulders or sing me a song or play any games. He coughed day and night. Some said he got the black lung and we could expect to bury him at any time. Of course, my mother never believed their idle gossip. She would tell us that he was getting better every single day. To prove it, my dad would sit in the living room for part of the morning. He coughed frequently but he was out of bed. Mama assisted him with getting to and from the living room, but she said our father had more strength in his pinky finger than men twice his size. I tried to believe her. Rhen did not even try to believe her. He knew dad was very ill. He knew other men died from working in the mines. Dad never wanted him to do that kind of labor. Dad did everything he could to make certain Rhen stayed in school while he was ill. Mama was determined to keep Rhen in his books and kept encouraging him to dream big dreams. She would whisper the words dream bigger whenever she heard his heart slip into doubt. Rhen would smile. The night before my ninth birthday, the house seemed quiet. My parents were mumbling in their bedroom. Rhen was opening doors to their room, his room and the bathroom what seemed like every five minutes. He would push me away from any of these doors at any given moment so I wouldn’t hear or see anything. If anyone in our family could keep a secret, it was Rhen. He was tall and thin for his age and I was short and small for being a year younger. The doctor said I was born a bit prematurely and I was always a bit smaller than every one I knew. My mother said I was also prettier and smarter and that’s what mattered. Mama kept her hand firmly planted in her apron pocket the morning of my birthday. I wasn’t expecting any presents or clothes or any one of them to remember that I was born nine years ago that day. I want you to know, my dear daughter, how much this birthday meant to me. My mother came to my room with her hand in her apron pocket. She sat on my bed and told me how much she wished she could have bought me clothes out of department store catalogs. She said she didn’t have what some of the other mothers in my class had, but she did have something they did not. She had creativity. She pulled her hand out of her apron pocket and presented me with a tiny silk kimono. She laid it on my bed. It was black and had beautiful flowers on it. I took it in my tiny hand and said that it was too small for me to wear. She said it wasn’t for me to wear. It was for someone else to wear. My father came in and gave me a doll unlike any I had seen before. It had a porcelain face and wooden arms and legs. The eyes had been repainted. The doll’s bonnet and hair were from pieces my mother had discarded from the laundry she had done for our neighbors. The doll had a necklace with a locket that was inscribed with the word love. My brother Rhen came in, jumped on the bed and dropped the locket with the word love inscribed on it for me to wear in my hand. Mama helped me dress my special doll in the kimono, and I put on my locket. I found out later my father made me that doll out of scraps of wood. Rhen found the porcelain head on the playground. One of the eyes had been poked out in an argument with one of the boys. Mama had written to my grandmother and asked her to send home a kimono for the doll. Mama also made other clothes for the doll over the next few months. Dad did get better. He worked for a newspaper for the rest of his career. He started out as a mailroom manager and eventually became a junior editor. He went back to school and obtained a degree in journalism. Rhen became a scientist. I followed dad and worked for a magazine. I’m giving you my dear daughter this doll with all of the love and memories attached to it. It was crafted in a season when we did not think we had or could have enough. I am hoping that whenever you give in to doubt, this doll will remind you that there is another solution you haven’t thought of yet.

3qizwv

The Smell ovf Rain

Write about a character who smells something familiar and is instantly taken back to the first moment they smelled it. The Scent of Rain -       Gloria Sendelbaugh I am an older woman who has reconciled that as I age my universe becomes smaller.  That I can get in and out of a grocery store quickly remains one of my expectations. But today I am slowed down sitting behind the steering wheel of my car in a food market parking lot waiting for a spring rainstorm to move on and aggravate someone else. The storm assails the roof of my car and my windows steam up. No one would have guessed I was in the car were it not for rhythmic sway of my wipers.  As I wait for the rain to stop, I find that I can recognize the familiar soothing fragrances of the rain now filtering into my car and I begin to relax. My mind wanders back to the smell of another rainstorm at Easter when I was eleven years old. I was watching the rain sitting cross-legged under the eaves of the field house across the street from my childhood home. I had quickly left the Easter holiday festivities at my home which was filled to the rafters with people, most of whom I would rather not know. At eleven it was easy to react this way. Sitting there in my Easter finery watching the rain under the eaves, I saw two very tall thin nuns from my Catholic grade school, sans umbrellas, running down the walkway across from the field house where I was sitting.  Dressed in their black habits, rosaries jingling from their waists, they ran towards their convent at the end of the street to escape the rain. The nuns were disheveled, and their sopping wet religious begun to resemble clothing at the beginning of the rinse cycle of a load of black laundry. I was disenchanted by my observation as I had come to prefer my nuns to be dressed in well preserved and pressed habits with humongous rosaries hanging at their waist. But I had also been disappointed the previous year once I discovered out that nuns had breasts. In my young mind, nuns had an image to uphold. Following the towering nuns, a third shorter and chubbier nun with wire framed glasses was ambling some twenty feet behind them. She was one of the older nuns at the convent. She was also my sixth-grade teacher. She suddenly stopped and threw her arms upward and tilted her face towards the sky. At first, I thought she was praising Jesus, as the nuns of my childhood tended to do. I wanted to run up to this bespectacled nun to have a closer look, but I had earlier learned that you do not get in the way of a nun and her Jesus. So, I did what any normal Catholic kid would do after finding a nun doing something unusual, I stared. The nun, sensing my staring at her, used her pointer finger to beckon me to cross the street to her. My earlier disciplinary encounter with this nun had involved my sharing spitballs with some boys across my sixth-grade classroom the previous winter.  Upon discovery, it did not go well for my disobedient tribe. We had to stay after school and to write something like “young Jesus did not throw spitballs” one-hundred times leaving to me to ponder if an older Jesus ever did. Did it stop my fascination with illicit classroom activities? Not really. My compadres and I just chose a more discreet activity, making armpit noises. So, based on my prior corrective experience with this nun, I went to her hoping that I could avoid having to write “thou shall not stare” one-hundred times as it was a holiday. As I walked across the street in the rain, my Easter dress began dripping through to my skin.  I started to take slippery slides inside my coveted pair of white patent leather shoes as they filled with rain. As much as I liked errant classmates of the boy persuasion, I loved my dresses and shoes. The embroidered violets on the collar my dress began to merge with the yellow nylon bodice of the dress. I no longer was the model ripped from the very pages of the 1963 spring/summer Montgomery Ward catalog (page 13). I had become a traumatized piece of nylon with flopping patent leather shoes.  I was grief-stricken as I begun to ruminate that I was the only one who ever had experienced this ordeal in my eleven-year-old universe. I would be an outcast for the rest of my life! As I reached the other side of the street, the short round nun took hold of my hand and asked if I felt the rain upon me. I hesitantly said yes hoping that this encounter would go better than the spitball incident. It almost did. She then asked if I could smell the rain, that it was a gift from God. Breathing in, my eyes suddenly sprung wide and I nodded that I could. I felt like I was witnessing a classroom science experiment in which I was interested and not bored napping with my eyes open. The smells of freshness, grass, and coolness fed my young soul. I inhaled these scents a thousand times before but this time I felt I had finally met my own Jesus, as my awareness was at its peak. What I thought was my newfound nun friend and I stood together arms out and faces upward. We began to spin like two visiting swirling dervishes from Turkey. The slow drizzle of rain continued as we enjoyed the scent of the and spun what seemed an exceptionally long time. My arms grew tired and I became dizzy.  I stopped to wobbly investigate the nun’s wet and opulent face hoping to find some alliance there. However, she stopped and took the moment to advise me that throwing spitballs was not a godly gift and that Jesus never would throw a spitball at others. Alas, the disobedience of my friends and I would never be forgotten. The once forgotten memory passed and I return to the current situation inside of my car. The rain has stopped, and my car windows began to defog. As I open the windows of my car, smelling the scents of the rain, I smile remembering that the scent of rain is truly a gift as taught to me at the hands of my sixth-grade nun. And while I no longer throw spitballs, I still must let go of armpit noises.

ftakoj

She's My Collar

"It IS the kind you buy in a second hand store!" Tabitha squeals. Her and her found again bestie, marvel at their thrift store finds as they comb the streets of their home town. Both gals ended up making their way back home to their folks a few months apart, due to a split in both girls' marriages. Very different as far as scenarios go, but equally dramatic in nature. Elise and Michael met their demise in silence. They both agreed on everything mundane, but disagreed on some pretty important things. The severity of the strangeness lies in the silence, for sure. Never an unkind word or knock down drag out fight, but many chances given on both parts. A lot of boundaries were crossed over the 15 years of marriage, but all in Grace and stride. Almost like it had been planned. Like the two played a part in some new age, black Broadway Show. Elise marvels at this out look when she paints, often. It makes the art she sees in random locations literally slap her across the face. This sort of intensity she desperately needs. This concept has become clear to Elise in recent days, but she hasn't quite put her finger on it yet. The idea that she has some sort of Divine Purpose intrigues her at this time, but the idea of Jesus Christ feels uncomfortable and flat out fucking strange, comes to mind often. Tabitha likes to test Elise on this, in a playful manner rather. Her views are much different, but expected and heard by her dear friend, Elise. Tabitha and Jack split a little different, teetering on the brink of volatile almost. She definitely wore the pants in the household and Jack needed a little more than she could offer up. Neither's fault at all, just separate expectations and emotional fulfillment that was way too far to reach. She is very spiritual and connected to nature and her body, which seems to grow in each way. Tabitha values her peace seeing as how she has been lacking it for several years until this point. It's okay though at this moment, new beginnings/fresh starts are underway. The gals are leaving a thrift store "grab and dash" experimental type trial run before the big day. "Three fucking days dude!" Elise squeals from the passenger seat. The ladies have a big plan, the craziest thing they have ever done. For sure. "This is insane, but I am so excited and nothing could possibly go wrong. We have worked too hard." Tabitha replies. She's certain in her sound but her anxiety soars when she speaks out loud about this. "I mean, it has to work. We have no choice. We need to get Nicholas out of there before that maniac kills him or something." Elise laughs, but with actual concern in her voice. After her 10 month dating hiatus, Elise reconnected with an old flame from junior high that moved to Los Angelis a couple decades ago. Social media is to blame for the reconnect, but this reunion is welcomed and adored for sure. Nicholas is in an unideal living arrangement, a mentally ill roommate that he met year back in the military. Being in consider financial debt to this diagnosed schizophrenic roommate has put this new love under duress, to say the least. The objective is to buy the plane tickets for Nicholas and his German Shepard, Katie and get them home ASAP. Tabitha and Elise benefit considerably from this heist as well. Both gals left their marriages with some unwanted financial baggage. The plan is simple. The nearby one hit wonder bank, Bank of Fallen Angels, is due to close in 6 weeks. The police will be hesitant to touch these two African American ladies due to the present conditions of the world. They wear their mandated masks, headress, many layers of clothes in many different colors. "Confuse the fuck out of them." Elise says confidently. "We got this shit, ladybug." The girls laugh. "Alright, bitch. We ride at dawn." Tabitha drops Elise off after they polish up the grand plan. Tabitha's constant communication with God and her spiritual guides have secured her through this ascension she has been plowing through that this will be alright. The assured promises she receives through her dreams remind her that she will be safe in the arms of Jesus Christ and there is a divine purpose for this mission. She has told Elise on several occasions that she has this purpose and with Elise's goals and motives in tact she feels as if this is a safe bet. As much as her "mind's eye" will allow at this time. Elise has been listening to the Gorillaz on loop for weeks now lately, every lyric and beat flows through her. It's an addiction at this point in time. This will help, she thinks as she drifts to sleep with one ear bud in her ear. Nothing to be justified in Just one thing, you should feel nada I know she lies alone, she's my caller I sense her in my mind, she's my collar The words help her drift to sleep. They are ready to go. The heist goes smooth. "Just as God intended!!! Tabitha yells, as she peals out of the parking lot. The girls don't know it yet, but they cleared $25,000. The scarfs, headresses, sweaters and socks of all colors of the rainbow the girls chose from the Goodwill helped with their disguise and the note they slipped was simple and sweet. Dear Young Lady, Put the cash in that bag and noone gets hurt. God Bless. The little flash of Elise's pretty silver 9mm pistol didn't hurt her decision to comply either. The young, blonde haired girl at the bank was afraid to be insubordinate to the two beautifully layered Goddesses. This helped a lot, and God kept his promise which is most important. Humility, by the Gorillaz comes on the radio as soon as the ladies hit the interstate. "This is magic dude..." Elise says as she rolls her window down and marvels at the sky. It is purple, pink and orange. Absolutely magnificent. The relaxing lyrics flow through the air Calling the world from isolation cause right now that's the ball where we've been chained And if you're coming back to find me You'd better have good aim "God is good, dude." Tabitha exhales into the wind flowing through the small, black 10 year old Honda Civic. "Yeah, I see..." Elise replies calmy. She looks back into the sky as she succumbs back to silence. Somehow she is able to stare directly into the sun. What the fuck is going on dude?

gbre6x

Runaway

When I walked in and saw the bedroom Her and I used to share I could not exactly identify the whirlwind of feelings encircling through and around me. "What in the.... fuck...." I say out loud to myself. That word echoed through the deafening silence, circled back around, and stabbed me directly in the heart. Maybe, at this moment, I felt her pain for the first time? Maybe all at once? I'm really not too sure at this moment, but it really hurts. She destroyed everything that I love, my guitars, my laptop. I need these things, but I am the one who allowed this to happen. I know this now. I, very strangely, snap out of this sorrow and into this adrenaline soaked anxiousness to clean up this mess. I probably should take pictures but I can't bring myself to pull my phone out of my pocket. I pick up the neck of the electric guitar next to my feet with a lump in my throat that is too large to even attempt to swallow, I miss our son, instantly. I miss Her. Why?! Look at this, this SHIT! Why did she do this? Doesn't she understand that I am suffering too? I can't pick up the phone when she is like that. Her feelings terrify me. I wasn't even with another woman. But I have been and when she needed me most. I deserve this, but I cannot except that. I need to go... I clean up this fucking disaster and make a few phone calls to expedite my departure. I call my mother first, not really looking forward to the judgements, opinions and questions, but it's whatever, I need to get the fuck out of here. I exhale a giant sigh of relief when the voicemail picks up, I then proceed to shoot her a text. Colin- Mom, I need your help to leave this condo. Val smashed all of my shit. Mom- Jesus, okay. I'll call some of my church friends. We are at the store right now. I will call you back shortly. I proceed to make my next phone call to Leslie, my ex-wife. She picks up instantly, as usual. "Yo." I say, my voice is trembling out of control. I'm glad she starts speaking about nonsense as usual. "Oh my God, the pants I ordered off Amazon are still not here! Can you believe that? Like, seriously..." Leslie says immediately. "I don't know what to tell you, send them an email. Hey, I can't come over this weekend. Val swung by here last night, apparently and broke all of my shit so my mom is coming to help me get down South a little sooner. I'm sorry, I just can't be around them like this." I say, as if I vomited this all out into one, giant run on sentence. "Are you serious?! Did, you like, take pictures? I really hope you took pictures. Do you want me to ask my mom to watch the kids and come over there? What a stupid bitch! You should go get Sam, right now and bring him over here! It's safe here." "No. Leslie. I can't even think right now. Just please, tell the kids I'll see them next weekend." "Are you retarded? She can't get away with this! I'll call the cops if you don't and I am calling CPS too! Maybe I just HAVE to because you can't do this for yourself right now! Why won't she take your PTSD, like, for real? What a PSYCHO BITCH! I'll take care of this baby, don't worry." She screams, as I hold the phone approximately a foot away from my ear." "Wait, what? Baby?! Leslie, you aren't calling anyone and you KNOW I cannot handle this right now. I will reach out when I get things sorted. " I hang up and throw my phone onto the bed, hit my knees and PRAY harder than I ever have. JESUS! PLEASE HELP HER! JESUS! PLEASE HELP ME! JESUS CHRIST, PLEASE HELP US. I am sobbing, out of control. I haven't cried in over five years. I laid there on the floor for what seemed like eternity, completely lost in my thoughts. I need to leave. Maybe I need to do this for her more than for me? I destroyed her and she loves me. Why couldn't I just stop? Why couldn't I hold her when she cried? I have always wanted her and only her but I run away every chance I get! Why?! What have I done? I miss our son. Our moo moo! My heart is fucking broken, man, I GOTTA GO! I need to go! I want to go back in time so bad I feel like I could die. I am freezing to death in here, which is unusual because it has always been hotter than Hell in this room. Valerie hates when I open the window when she's asleep, she has terrible allergies. God damn, I miss her. God damn, ME! I cannot think of one way to fix this besides to GO. Maybe, she will find herself and I as well and we will come back together? What if she falls in love with someone else? I can't handle that. I can't allow that. She's my soul mate. Fuck, but she's crazy, but that heart man, I wish she could control it. I wish I could control my busted ass urges, who in the HELL is haunting me? Leslie keeps calling and calling and I can't pick up. I shouldn't of called her. Her nerves are shit and she hates Val. She is always talking about, co-parenting counseling in a marriage counseling kind of way. That I see in this moment. She's so intrusive but helpful, but what is she helping? I turn off my phone, slip it into my pocket and head down the stairs. The sun is blinding me as I walk to my car but I am too numb to even squint. I open the car door, sit down and start the ignition. The song Run away by Kanye West is playing on the radio. Are you fucking kidding me , I think at this moment as I sit there in this desolate, mental state of Hell. The lyrics stab me all over my body, like tiny, fat needles. Every ding of the piano key, every single sound coming out of the radio. And I always find, yeah, I always find something wrong You been puttin' up with my shit just way too long I'm so gifted at finding what I don't like the most So I think it's time for us to have a toast Let's have a toast for the douchebags Let's have a toast for the assholes Let's have a toast for the scumbags Everyone of them that I know Let's have a toast for the jerk offs That'll never take work off Baby I got a plan Run away as fast as you can I've heard this song a million times but never really listened, I guess. Damn.

f1pp33

A Slow Burn

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. “What in the hell are you doing?” My brother jumped, turning to me, his smile wiped clean off his face after seeing the anger and shock on mine. “I––I was just––” “Get inside. Now .” I hurried to grab the hose from the side of the house, my fingers shaking as I fiddled with the nob to turn on the water. At the corner of my eye, I saw my brother run behind me, narrowly escaping the fire that was beginning to build in our backyard. Finally, I heard the water running. I yanked the hose forward and sprinted to the pile of burning leaves in the middle of the yard. The flames stretched toward the sky, composed of tendrils of orange and red and black that ate up the lawn inch by inch. It began to spread further and further, hungry for anything it could reach. I pointed the hose and sprayed like hell. Water spurted and gushed from the spout, drowning the fire. I sprayed and sprayed until the lawn was soaked with mud and grass; the fire disappeared in smoke. I turned off the hose, panting, staring at the watery, dirty mess in the yard. It looked like a pool of mud rather than a neatly manicured lawn. “That little…” I threw the hose on the ground and stomped toward the house, hands clenched into fists, fuming. I yanked open the back door and shoved my way inside. “ Nico !” I ran through the house until I saw him there, in the living room, perched on the couch, knee bouncing nervously. His head was in his hands. “Nico!” I yelled. “Why would you do that? What were you thinking ?” His head snapped up, his big brown eyes wide and full of guilt. “I’m sorry––” “You could have burned the house down! Or, worse––you could have been killed!” I paused. “You know what, after a stunt like that, switch that order. Would have been much worse if the house burned down.” His eyes flashed angrily. “Would you just stop––" “And, not to mention, Mom and Dad would have killed you if they found out––” “ Shut up !” Nico exploded off the couch, vaulting to his feet, hands curled into small fists at his side. His eyes blazed. “Shut up, shut up! Stop talking about Mom and Dad!” I stepped backward in surprise. A memory of the burning leaves eating their way across the lawn flashed across my mind, and my resolve returned. “No,” I snarled. “You know, I am sick and tired of looking after you every two seconds; if you’d just listen, and not go off––” “You wouldn’t have to look after me if it wasn’t for them !” He shouted, angrily pointing to a picture on the wall. I followed his gesture to discover the family picture of the four of us. It was from last fall, at our annual Bonfire Gathering. We sat at the base of a clump of trees just beginning to change color for the season, near a large fire pit off to the side. Mom and Dad stood behind me and Nico. They smiled. So did we. It felt like a lifetime ago. I turned back to Nico. I cleared my throat, voice softening––slightly, anyways. “Don’t blame them, Nico.” “Don’t blame them? Don’t blame them?” His voice only grew louder. “Why are you defending them? You wouldn’t have to spend all day here if it wasn’t for them!” “That’s not what I…” I took a deep breath, trying to slow my heart. “Nico, all I’m asking is that you don’t set fires in the backyard. Mom and Dad might not be… here, but this house is. We need to keep it safe.” “Who cares about this stupid house,” he snarled. He fell back on the couch, crossing his arms. “It’s not like either one of them is going to keep it after the divorce.” “We don’t know that yet,” I said quietly. I sat on the opposite couch, facing him. “And you know why we don’t know?” He asked, sniffling. “Because Mom and Dad aren’t here to tell us. They’re never here. They’re always off fighting somewhere.” “I know,” I said, sighing. “I know it doesn’t really make sense right now. But it doesn’t help anyone to be mad at them. They’re getting a divorce and there’s nothing we can do about it.” “That you know of.” "What? Care to repeat that?” Nico glanced at me, and then looked away. “I had a plan. It was going to be great, until it got… out of control.” I struggled to keep calm and not scold him again. “What do you mean, ‘out of control’?” He just sat there, avoiding my gaze. “Nico, please talk to me.” “Why? All you ever do is yell at me lately. I don’t get it.” I sighed. This time, I was the one to look away. “Well. Ben dumped me. Not that it’s an excuse; it’s not. I’m sorry that I’ve been so angry lately. It’s just… with the divorce… with Ben…” I feel my eyes water and blink furiously to keep the tears at bay. “It’s just been hard.” “Oh.” “Yeah. But, I’m sorry. I promise I won’t yell at you anymore. Well, I’ll try not to.” I turned back to him, trying for a smile. He returned it warmly, grinning. “Fine. Then I’ll try not to listen to you.” “Fair enough.” I cleared my throat. “So… what were you doing, then? Outside? If you weren’t trying to set the world on fire?” He rolled his eyes. “I was trying to… well…” he hesitated, looking away from me again. “I was trying to recreate the Bonfire Gathering. You know. With the fire, and the s’mores, and the games. I’d just gotten to the fire part. And it, well, it didn’t––it didn’t––” “Go well?” I offered sarcastically. Nico shot me a look, but his shoulders slumped. “Yeah. It didn’t.” We were silent for a moment. “Nico,” I start quietly, “I don’t think that would have brought Mom and Dad back together. I think it was a wonderful idea. But I don’t think they’re getting back together again. You have to understand that.” He stared at the ground for a moment. Then, he nodded slowly. “I know,” he said quietly, the words full of mourning. After a second, he peered up at me, offering a small, kind smile. "I'm really sorry about Ben, Natalie. That sucks." "It's okay." "You sure?" "Yeah. I'm sure." We sat there in silence again. “I have an idea,” Nico said suddenly. “That’s not good.” “Shut up.” “Fine, fine. What is this grand idea of yours?” “Follow me.” /// "Gin." "What? You have got to be kidding me." "No-pie-one!" "Huh? Say again?" Nico swallowed his s'more, grinning at me. "Nope! I won!" "Dammit," I said, scowling at him. I threw down my cards in defeat. "Fine. You shuffle, then." "Don't mind if I do." I rolled my eyes, laughing. Nico shuffled the deck on the kitchen table, where we'd accumulated all the candles in the house that we could find. Bags of marshmallows and bars of chocolate were scattered across the surface, along with the plastic knives that we were using to hold the marshmallows above the candle flames. We'd played over ten games of Gin Rummy and something told me we'd still be playing long into the night. Nico had even made a little sign for our escapades, which he set against the candle sticks. On a notecard read: Lawnfire Gathering: Family Edition

y95del

Everybody Knows That

Everything’s just out there. And you're just here. You feel nothing can be a part of you, and you can’t affect them. At all. It's a feeling as if you are running through a ring, over and over again, with the billions of people running through their rings around you. You bump into each other, sure. Yet you’re never in the same ring at the same time. Their…. Existential. They exist, but not to you. Thinking of this, rolling through life in my ring, letting my mind run free through the field known as the universe, how is it possible that I saw that man? That day? How is it possible he doesn’t run in a ring? He’s not obstructed from the world, and he sees it as it is. He sees me, in my mind, at my desk, thinking my thoughts. And somehow, he just knows. He knows I can see him. Now, I said the man. That's a lie. He was a boy, not very much older than me. He just has the mind of a man. Well, I guess that’s a lie, too. He has the mind of the universe. Anyone can tell that. He just decides to depict the universe through music. Another strange thing. And, when he’s near, that beating just….flies away. Not the beating of my heart, though I wish it were, but the beating that presses against the ridge of my nose, the sides of my head, the insides of my hands. The beating that is telling me “you don’t need to think this hard. You’ll be perfectly happy without thinking this hard”. Have you heard that beating? In this boarding school, the absence of public chaos does nothing to alleviate this drumming, pounding, condemning beat. It is excruciatingly painful, and it just flies away as he steps near me. Then nearer. Then sitting next to me in the desk on my right. And God, for once my head is relieved. I don’t look at him. I know I should thank the man, the Universe boy, but how could I if he didn’t even know what he did? Now I feel as if he should never leave my side, like how you never want to leave a spot by the fire to head into the cold. He looks at me instead. “Aren’t you gonna thank me?” he asks, and I am just astounded because there is no plausible way he could have known. “For what?” “Weren’t you in pain before? Are you not in pain now?” he says this with a manner that makes it seem as if he’s from the 19th century. So, strange. I may think that way, but I don’t speak that way. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say to end the conversation, but I don’t look back at my book. Why can't I just turn my head back to my book? “Yes, you do. I can see it. Well, you're welcome.” “Who are you?” “A fairy tale boy with a fairy tale name,” he says, and somehow, I believe it. It makes sense. He pulls out a book, with no title, and what looks to be no words as he flips through. But he stops on a page in the middle of the book and looks as if he’s reading. Now how can you read a book if it doesn’t hold any words to read? “Stop staring at me,” he says, as he pulls out a pair of earbuds and goes back to “reading”. I do stop staring, and I don’t ask any questions. You never make friends on the first day of class. Everybody knows that. __________ Why are words on paper so much more sacred and believable than the words we hear? What is it about the tone we put into our pencil, to make it scratch the surface the way it does to relate to anyone? Like emotion pouring out of a fountain, knowing that it will somehow touch another living, breathing soul. Yet just a touch is all we want. How do we get touched more by what we read rather than what we hear? __________ My head in my book, my real book. His head in his….book? If it is a book. Again. For the fifth day in a row. How does someone come every day, sit in the same spot next to the same girl, listening to the same lecture every single day without change? Every day he “reads” the same book. He “listens” to the same music. And guess what? It’s not even music. I checked. His earbuds? They lead to nowhere. He’s listening to niente. Nothing. Nothing changes. ever. You’re not allowed to just….stay the same. Everybody knows that. __________ We are all really two people. Everyone denies this inconceivable thought, but it’s true. You might not know it, but you have a conscience. And that conscience is not you. Not one single bit. Your conscience is made up of everything around you, not you yourself. It’s like that one friend who you are always seeking approval from. If you’re a straight-A student and skip fifth period, your conscience is going to beat down on you. Technically, that’s not you, because you make the choices. I am not me, I am we. no one will see these thoughts though. Not one. Only me and my conscience. __________ Three weeks. He walks in, takes eight long strides to his desk and sits. He looks at me for about 13 and a half seconds, and I look back. I always do, and that’s what drives me crazy. He looks forward for about 20 seconds, then down at his desk for five. He pulls out his book now and reads. I have it all memorized. Every action this Universe boy does, and yet I still don’t know his name. After three weeks of this damn class, how do you not know someone's name? It just drives me crazy. Like everything he does. Not crazy in love, God no. Crazy as if he were my little brother. Crazy as if he’s driving my thoughts insane, and he knows it. Then I make a revelation, something else crazy that has not crossed my mind before. How could I not have noticed? “Why isn’t your name called every day when we take attendance?” my brain is congratulating me for thinking so smartly. It’s throwing a small little party and telling my heart to call the pizza guy. It’s a crazy party. “That’s not the question you want to ask,” he says, without even looking up from his “book”. “What do you mean? Of course, that’s the question I want to ask. Why would I ask a question that I didn’t want to ask?” “Well, it’s not so much that you didn’t want to ask that question, it’s that the answer I give you will not be the answer you’re looking for. Ask me a different question.” How? It has to be intentional. It just has to. “Ok, then, what is your name?” “Bingo! That’s the right question” he says, now looking up from his book and turning towards me. “What is my name. Well, what do you think it is?” he asks, actually inviting a real conversation into his head. “Um, what?” “No, that wasn’t rhetorical, you have to actually guess. What do you think my name is?” I don’t know how to guess, but the only thing I have to go off of is one of the last things he told me. “A fairy tale name?” “Not just a fairy tale name, but what you think sounds like a fairy tale name.” he has fully pulled out his earbud now, and the teacher keeps eyeing us. What, has she never witnessed a conversation? “Well, what do I think is a fairy tale name? Something like Jonathan Smett?” “Yes,” he says. Looking back at his book, he puts his earbuds back in, and I don’t think I’ll be able to get another word out of this boy. Yes? Yes to what? You don’t just say yes. Everybody knows that. __________ Du bist der Sonnenuntergang über den Bergen,  mein Blumenmädchen __________ He comes in storming, yet not in madness. It’s a storm that comes after confusion. It's a realization. He sits down on my right, this Universe boy, and just looks at me. For a while. Why is he breaking the schedule? “I figured it out,” he says. “You and me, we’re connected.” “How so?” I try not to look up from my book, not a single look towards him. If I do, then I would be keeping my own schedule, and I guess this is a day about breaking schedules. “Guess,” he says, with a sort of arrogant airiness about him. “You make me guess too much,” I say, trying to seem annoyed so he would just tell me. “I can’t say it out loud because I don’t think you would let me.” Here is where I question. I’m pretty much an open book. Well, almost. There’s no way he could possibly know, right? Right. I mean unless he’s a mind reader, he can’t know. Well, I guess he is a mind reader, isn’t he, if he holds the universe in his mind. “Ok, well, write it,” I say, handing him a piece of paper and a pencil at the end of its life. He writes with a preciseness that only comes with years and years of understanding just how much visible words on a page can mean to a person. He hands back the paper and pen, carefully observing my reaction to the words he has written: There’s always a link between two people who have anything in common, and I can feel our link. It’s something major, like love, yet love equals death in a strange sort of way. Our link, for a lack of better words, is girls “What?” I nearly shout, yet I get a glare from the teacher. My hands are shaking, and the back of my brain is telling me the answer to this, but somehow I don’t believe it. I mean, there has to be a different meaning why he said girls. Right? “Oh come on,” he says, looking at me with wonder. “It’s obvious! Girls… “ “Um….I don’t quite see it.” he gets a bit frustrated with this, so he takes back the pen and paper, with the teacher glaring at us over the computer screen. You like what I like. You know that right? We are linked and I think you're afraid to admit this link. How could he know that? How in the world could he know that? You don’t just somehow randomly guess someone's deepest secret. Everybody knows that. _____________ My mind is just a farm. There are chicken coops everywhere that house the dreams. But instead of letting them loose during the day to feed on the sun-kissed grass, they can only come out during the night, where the moon makes the flowers all the more sweet. Even when the stars are covered, the clouds provide a blanket for the dreams to drink from. And sometimes, when the dreams leak through reality, new rivers and creeks are made on the farm. I hate those rivers and creeks. Almost as much as I hate those dreams. ____________ I remember a dream I had. It was a repeating dream that happened every night for three months. It felt like it fed off the moon. I hated that dream. Hating that dream made me hate myself, and now this strange Universe boy just feels like how much I hate that dream, but I don’t hate him because I shouldn’t. Didn’t he say we had a link? What he wrote on the paper the other day, it just reminded me of the dream. The dream was about a girl. She was a girl I knew really well before she….well….she left, in an untraditional sense. I hated her and loved her all at the same time. I hated her because I loved her. I hated me because of her, and I hate him because of me. The strange shapes that you trace in your head always lead back to you. “You’re right, you know.” I nearly scream as I turn to see the Universe boy sitting right next to me, slowly twisting a feather in his hands. I didn’t even see him walk into class, let alone take out all of the materials on his desk right now. “I’m right about what?” This boy that seems like the second part of me, my tangible conscience, is really starting to put me on edge. “You’re just right. You’re always right, Everliegh,” he says this as he hands me the feather, letting me touch the sleekness of flight. I stare down at it, completely complexed by the means of his words when I realize something. Everliegh. No one calls me that, except my grandma. This world knows me as Evie, even our teachers know well enough to avoid my full name. “How did you kn-” I snap my head up to look at him, give him a curious glare, but he’s gone. My teacher gives me another hushing look, yet she doesn’t seem surprised that the boy next to me is gone. Nothing left of him but the piece of paper we had written on a few days ago. He added more onto it, underlining the delicate words. You aren’t just one person, are you? Sometimes secrets need to be let out, making them a part of ourselves. Everybody knows that Everliegh, but do you?

if542p

Bezdelniks

I. SUMMER …and again the Black Sea turns toward a star called Sun. And on and on for a billion years. …So what? “You awake?” I look over at the lawn chair next to me. Kirill’s on his stomach, his legs up at the head of the chair, his head hung over the foot of it, lifted to another sunrise, challenging the ball of atomic radiation to burn his corneas through his shades.  Kirill shifts and slides out a quarter-read hardcover of Solzhenitsyn’s In the First Circle from under him, which he’s been making his way through the past two-and-a-half years. He opens the marked page, scans a few sentences and drops it under the chair. “Who’s that American musician –” “Layne Staley.” “Yeah. That’s right.” People tell Kirill he looks like Layne Staley. I tend to get ignored. He don’t do shit. I don’t do shit. So I got this habit. Every morning, I blare Kino’s “Bezdelnik”, and that’s basically our theme song for the day. Every day. Kirill’s got places to be. I tag along. We hop a street-car and I immediately lift a paperback of Moscow-Petrushki from my back pocket. Kirill spots a girl he knows and moves past me. She wears a faded Duran Duran ‘Rio’ T-shirt. Whatever. He tries to get into her pants the whole way. I read about the Russkiy equivalent of Hunter Thompson stumbling around in a stupor trying to spot the Kremlin. The girl gets off with us. He shows me off to her. The stocky cue-ball-headed cousin. I’m wondering: this the chick he told me about? One he met in some basement-club off a side-alley where they only play Depeche Mode, everyone grinding against each other in the dark and strobing lights? Someone waves me over from a shop we pass. They go on without me. I pick up a few rubles here and there for translating English text whenever someone needs it. The two kids who wave me over are relatively fluent, but this is Hawthorne. Even I have trouble with Hawthorne. Couple guys who went to school with Kirill come in and see me leaning on the counter. They tell me some of them are going to the beach tonight to shoot fireworks. Ask Kirill if he wants to come. I walk out and can’t see where he went off to. Call him up. Wander around. Can’t make out what he’s talking about. Give up. Go home. I walk into his room. Rummage his CD’s. Mostly Bi-2. What a schmuck. I crack open each case, switch out every Bi-2 CD with t.A.T.u. Then I take my house key and carve “KIRILL IS GAY” into his desk. In my own room, I lie on the floor and listen to Pulp’s Different Class. As the second track ends, I get up, call Kirill. When he answers, I ask if the girl’s with him. “Yeah?” Put her on. I don’t say a word, just hold the phone up, making her listen to Common People.  Street lamps come on. From the balcony, I hear voices. I come down and join Eastern Bloc Harry and Sally. A car, top down, screeches to the curb. Someone whistles to Duran Duran girl. Two roid-monkeys she knows. She leans over the driver’s door. They invite her to watch the fireworks display. She glances back and jerks her thumb at us. We drive to this sorta natural esplanade along the headlands slightly jutting into the sea and get out. They shoot fireworks over the sea. I squint. Far away, I see three old whinos on the boardwalk pound down green bottles. I ask on the off-chance anyone has binoculars. A roid-monkey pilfers the car, then moments later produces a small set. I look down at the boardwalk; looks like they’re singing. I motion Kirill over and stick the binoculars in his face. He can read lips. Sez they’re singin’ “your honor, lady luck”. So now we sing it.  II. AUTUMN Not much happened. I watched the leaves change and rode the street-cars. Street-cars make me nervous. They’ve made me nervous since I was young and read The Master and Margarita, and got to the part where Berlioz crosses the tram tracks, slips on sunflower oil, and gets decapitated by a passing street-car. We sit on the couch and watch Brother for the hundredth time. Kirill always gets psyched at the part where Sergei Bodrov buys a shotgun, saws down the barrel, fills the shotgun shells with nailheads, then in the next scene he enters the apartment where he blows away the goons. We debate which is better – this or the sequel. I say the first – it’s more even and has an aesthetic like an early Guy Ritchie movie. The second one’s great for the first half, but when Bodrov goes to America, it feels like a cash-grab – but we both always mouth along to the scene where he gives his whole “tell me American, what makes you strong?” speech. Another night, we go walking through forest park in the hills. After wandering the confusing trails, we follow the increasing trickle of human voices and stumble out on a semi-abandoned mini-amusement park. The host of the evening threw a sheet between concession stands and projects a movie onto it. An old Giallo called “Footprints on the Moon”; a screwy edit that kept alternating between dubbing and subtitles. We walked back and took a path different than the way we’d come, and stood on a creaking wooden overlook in the dark around eleven at night after we’d got lost and had to double back. Kirill scores with every chick he sees. I scored twice that fall, once with the Duran Duran girl. Oddly, they all tell me the same thing: getting in the sack with me is like the way you’d imagine it’d be like to grind against a mannequin of Harvey Weinstein. Every time, without fail. I swear. I shed a tear and throw on “Enjoy the Silence”, and softly sing along with Dave Gahan as she dresses. Later, I wake up and see a spider crawling across the lit-up face of my digital clock. By the time I switch on the lights, it’s scurried off under the desk. III. WINTER In winter what we do is, I’ll throw on my leather jacket, and if Kirill sees me in my leather jacket, he’ll wait behind the corner on some random pathway, jump out - taking me by surprise – and pretend to shiv me like Viktor Tsoi gets shivved at the end of The Needle when lighting a cig for his would-be assassin, spilling a few drops of blood before he picks himself up and walks off into the snow-covered night. Kirill uses the end of a toothbrush, only partly whidled down. There’s a statue of Tsoi holding that lighter in Almaty, on the very pathway where they shot that scene. Kirill took a photo in front of it, when he was little.  Ice floats break on the shore. Maybe a bit dramatic, but I figure it’s close enough. Once, our uncle took us on his friend’s yacht. We’d packed a cooler full of snow, and we’d scoop out handfuls and pack them tight and flung the snowballs at passing boats. It was still coming down when we pulled in that afternoon. Sometime between western Christmas and New Year, I’m getting back to the house after making a run to the store; I stomp the snow off my boots on the front step. Kirill’s plugged in his Fender an’s screwing around before playing a pretty good cover of Akvarium’s “Ploskost”. Everyone in the house joins in. I know my voice would be drowned out by the rest, but I don’t sing. I wait on the doorstep until they finish. From the front hall, I move into the kitchen. I pass Kirill’s door and notice Solzhenitsyn’s novel is now marked nearly halfway through. The garland buzzes, wrapped around a small pine in a corner in front of the glass sliding doors onto the balcony. There’s frost on the railings where the snow’s been brushed off. After a while, people notice me on the balcony. I left everyone, Kirill plucking the electric guitar strings, starting on Joy Division’s “Ceremony”, shut the door and stomped through the snow drift. Above town, the trails of forest park wrap around and continue past abandoned playgrounds and run-down sporting complexes. I wander through a forested garden, step off the path and stop at the edge of a shallow pond. There’s the moon out there, where the Americans left their shit. We could’ve done that, I guess, but skimming past the atmosphere was apparently enough for us. 

345lgp

My wire man

When I was little, say around the ages of 7 to 9, I went from watching any cartoon children would generally watch to watching only actions cartoons. Born in the northern part of Nigeria, we had a few channels that were allowed to air programs freely, pro-western programs specifically as the region was predominantly Muslim and at the top of the list of that group of channels was mbc an Arabic based network which also aired Western movies, but then I was more into cartoons, so every morning by 7, before school, I would tune in to mbc3 to catch the morning episode of batman the dark knight, my favorite show on tv. and although everything they spoke in the cartoon was Arabic with no subtitles, I was totally captivated by the program. Watching how batman took out the bad guys from the streets of Gotham and rescued innocent night walkers, who for reasons I couldn’t tell would leave their homes at late hours of the night and sleep walk till they found themselves at dead ends of alleys about to be robbed by hoodlums. How he would appear on the scene of a crime, the bad guys totally confident of having secured the area, leaving no access for batman to intrude or disrupt their sinister plan. He would simply swoop in from rooftops picking them off one after the other, leaving those on the ground scared and frantic about who would be the next to be picked and disappear, they never saw him coming. I was totally infatuated with batman, not much with supes.  So when I saw the adverts of action figures like batman on tv, I wanted them so much that I told my mum to get them for me and when she said she know where to get them, I told her ‘Saudi Arabia’ and she asked how she would get there, I responded ‘by bus! She said it wasn’t that close to go by a car, so I said use a plane. She said she it would be too expensive and she didn’t have that kind of money. I was distraught. I couldn’t go ask my dad cos he would have none of it. I didn’t eat a couple of times in a few days of my tantrum. I couldn’t go on a complete hunger strike, I wasn’t old enough. My mum would promise a few times to get them for me, but I knew she was just saying it to get me to eat, my dad didn’t give a damn, he was a strict Nigerian father. When I finally got exhausted of going hungry, I gave up the notion of having an action figure and had to make do with the brick toys my mum got me as consolation. On a particular day, I got playing with copper wires and found I could bend them to any shape I wished, so I got the idea of shaping it into a man’s figure. It looked nice when I was done and that became my new toy, a while later, I decided to create my man a horse he would ride like that of the legend of Zorro, it panned out fine. I went on to create a headgear for my wire man like that of batman with tow pointed edges. I got a piece of cloth that would serve as his cape, tore it to a good size and attached it to him and I had my own hand made batman action figure. He became my favorite toy and when it got lost, I made more. As time went by other kids some my age, some younger, others a little bit older came to the knowledge of my wire man and they liked it. They would come to play with me just to get to play with my man, it attracted a lot of friends to me. Some stole them, others would ask me to make one for them promising to pay me by cash, candies or the rendering of a service. Those closest to me got theirs for free. Some boys decided to rival me by making their own themselves, but it was never as good as mine. By the age of 12, I had myself a young apprentice by the name Gaius, who was 7 at that time and was as interested in wiremen as I was, he showed the same passion as me when I first began and was quite eager to learn, so I thought him and he was the only one I knew who came closest to rivalling my work. By the time I was 14, I had lost most part of my interest in playing with my wire man, adolescence had set in and I wanted a phone instead, kids my age were getting social, chatting and making friends online, nobody was coming to me anymore to make action figures of copper wire for them, at least no one my age and I felt I needed to be part of the trend, so I shed most part of my childhood leaving it to my young apprentice and his generation of action figure enthusiast. By age 17, I would occasionally fashion a wire man or two for any kid who wanted something to play with, I was still pretty good at it. Now I am 20, adulthood had come beckoning at my front yard, I had more serious things to do, I had been admitted into the University, my future dependent on the decisions I make, these I had in mind while trying to make the best of my stay in the university, to have fun as much as I could, make friends, go into relationships and date as many girls as possible and at the end of it all make my parents proud by coming out with the best grades, my wire man making days were surely over. These days when I walk around in my neighborhood and I see young kids playing with the wire man, I smile knowing that feeling, how much fun I had when I was their age and the knowledge of my action figure had been passed down. I look back and realize ‘damn’ it was easier to be an influence as a kid I use to think when I grow up, I would have my own money, buy whatever I wanted, go wherever I wished, do whatever. I used to dream about becoming an adult, but things don’t always turn out as you wish. These days I have few friend in the general sense of it, fewer I could really call such and less fun, adulthood is a sham.

s3rv5j