She never wanted to be a mother, not in any of the ways that could sustain her through the first eighteen years of a life, that is. She wanted to be a mother in the way that some want to learn to play an instrument or wish to discover a hidden talent. The wish is genuine, but the dedication to following through is flighty at best. The older the child grew, the less they held her attention. Every day they grew more independent and less a living doll, the more her interest in them seemed to evaporate. After all, what good is a living doll if it can tell you no? If it can push back against your control, opinions and desires rather than being the trophy and living accomplishment you set out to harness to begin with. She never realized this about herself, though. That she was having child after child in order to grow closer to a mother who had kept her at arms length all her life, just as her mother before her. Three generations of women devoting their every choice to getting the attention, acceptance and love of the other and being unable to harness it, at the cost of their own freedom and long forgotten dreams. But Sandy was different, or at least she hoped to be. As a child, Sandy had been prone to daydream and get lost in thought. Her mother had thought she was flighty, a child untethered to reality for the sake of escaping responsibility. But Sandy was dreaming herself into this very moment that lay before her. After a decade of having door after door slammed in her face, or worse yet, sending project after project into the endless void, she was finally going in for a second interview with a woman who seemed just as passionate about her stories as Sandy was. Walking into the sparse office, the modern decor and leather seats crafted into what some may call futuristic angles, Sandy found herself feeling once again out of place. But this was nothing new for a woman who had never felt at home in her own body. A body she was taught to feel ashamed of and attempted to hide, only to seemingly draw more unwanted attention to herself. Sandy sighed as she scanned the room for a seat she could squeeze herself into, settling on the one she thought would cut into her sides the least but knowing getting back up may present its own challenge whenever the secretary called her name. These spaces were never designed with her body in mind, a fact she had faced as far back into her childhood as she could remember. Most of the world wasn’t designed with her in mind if Sandy were to be as honest as she wished she could be. It was as though the bigger she got over the years, the more invisible she became, and so her writing grew into the one outlet that never abandoned her. “Sandra Davis?” The smooth voice of the secretary cut through Sandy’s drifting thoughts, finding herself taking a deep breath as she gathered the courage to attempt to lift herself from the seat she had squeezed her frame into. You learned a sort of secret ballet when you were bigger than the world thought you ought to be. A dance you did with every seat, doorway and transportation source you encountered to ensure you could maintain that invisibility that society expected you to uphold at all times. The relief on must have flashed across her face as she popped loose from the seat, the secretary gracing her with a knowing nod. “I always hated those chairs. I keep telling her the look is not worth the discomfort it brings nearly everyone but you know how some folks can be about ascetics.” Sandy did her best to keep up as she followed behind the woman down a series of hallways through the offices, not daring to do more than nod along for fear of sounding out of breath should she dare to utter a syllable. “And here we are. Abbey should be with you in just a few minutes. Can I get you anything to drink in the meantime?” Sandra didn’t dare look at the seating situation before the woman left. “I’m alright but thank you so much.” Turning on her heels, Sandra realized how much faster her footsteps were when alone, a sting of all too familiar pain hitting Sandra’s side. Even in the smallest of ways, she felt herself a burden. But that was why she was here today. She was finally at the door to taking hold of her life, of the dreams nobody in her family seemed to believe in beyond the niceties of not outright telling her to not pursue them. Her mother in particular had always been a difficult nut to crack in this regard. She would never tell her not to pursue her writing, but she would also take every opportunity to remind her of every possible plan b she could be looking into. Sandy would share a breakthrough she’d had with her work, hesitantly so, only for the conversation to inevitably cycle to her mothers’ long forgotten dreams of publishing and how she just never could find the time but always hoped to. Never a “well done Sandra” or an “I’m proud of you, dear” to spare, her mother was neither supportive nor unsupportive. Squarely placed in the middle as she was with almost all things, Sandy had finally given up on seeking her approval at all. Had stopped sharing updates about her life and her work for fear of feeling that al too familiar pit in her stomach grow each time news of any progress was met with her trademark silence. Shifting eagerly in the equally uncomfortable seat in the publishers office, Sandy found herself wondering what her mother would say if she could see her sitting there now. She was further than either of them had ever gotten. Surely that counted for something? She had spent years bringing her stories to life herself, recording herself reading them for her small YouTube following, even crafting some into her own one woman radio shows. But this was the goal she had set for herself. The ever elusive mark she couldn’t quite seem to hit and at any moment the woman who held the key to the next step would be walking through that door at her back. Sandra winced a moment at the thought of what she looked like from behind, having poured herself into the seat in a way only those who battle to fit into seats regularly can. She was a cat in a box two sizes too small, but would have to play it off as always from the moment Abbey entered her office, which judging by the clicking footsteps that were approaching, would be in the next few seconds. “Well there she is! Sandra Davis, the newest voice to grace my desk.” Abbeys’ voice was warm but firm as she swept across the office and into her seat behind the large desk. “Now then, I’ve spent a great deal of time with your submission as well as pouring over these other short stories you submitted within your portfolio. The good part is, you have an incredibly distinct and strong voice, which isn’t something I can teach so we are in great shape there.” A laugh bubbled up at the end of her sentence which Sandra was sure was meant to soften what came next, but nothing ever seemed to soften what she had grown to see as the inevitable. “That being said, I think you still need some time, Sandra. I need for you to make more direct, firm choices in your work. No standing in the middle of road and waiting for traffic to push you in one direction or the other. Now, I--“ A high pitched buzzing began to creep in above Abbey’s voice as Sandra fought to hang on. Another no. Another door closing in her face when it felt like surely this was going to finally be the yes she had waited for. How could she be indecisive? How could she be exactly what her mother had always been, when she had fought so hard to remove every last trace of her influence from herself? Sandra caught herself just as the room began to spin, coming back to reality, back to the present moment once again in spite of the disappointment sitting like a two ton weight upon her chest. “But what I will say, “ Abbey continued, “is the bones are good, Sandra. More than that, the bones are fantastic, which means we have something to work with here. You just need more time.” More time, always more time. Always wait a little longer, always fall down seven times, get up eight but something inside her wanted to stay down this time. Wanted to give in because this had been it. This had been the moment that Rebecca, her mother, would finally see her. And just like that, it was gone in an instant, like scraps of meat tossed to a horde of hungry hounds. Her dreams were ribbed to ribbons for the hundredth time and it would be up to Sandra to put them back together again. Abbey wasn’t telling her no, but she wasn’t telling her yes either. Sandra found the irony of her being called indecisive while being sentenced to a veritable no mans land almost laughable. Almost. The car ride towards the hotel was lingered on, traffic merging and battling all around her, but Sandra was worlds away inside her own mind. She couldn’t help but think of the year she had spent dedicated to her latest project. A world filled with vampires, elves and humans all attempting to find balance and peace amongst each other while in the real world, humans couldn’t even find a way to agree on seemingly anything. The worlds contained within Sandras’ mind were an escape she longed to share but continually ran into every conceivable obstacle along the way. And a part of her as she blinked through the tears she hadn’t realize she’d begun to shed, wondered if the path forward was one she had to blaze all on her own? If maybe the door that awaited her, was one she’d need to build with her own two hands, because not everyone was ready for someone who looked like her, to create what she longed to. But did any of her heroes wait until the world was ready for them? Had Kitty Black Perkins waited for the world to be ready for the first black Barbie she created? Had she coyly designed a doll to everyones’ tastes? Or had she brought her own view of our beloved culture forward and dared to stand out? She imagined where NASA would be had Katherine Johnson waited for permission to do her job during the first manned space mission in ’62. So many black women who had come before her, unapologetic in their dreams and aspirations, willing to be the first and to build the doors and windows through which others would follow. Maybe it wasn’t the way Sandra had dreamt it, but she was going to publish this book and the subsequent installments and whatever other worlds she could manage to capture on paper as her mind would race faster than her fingers could manage. Because if there was anything Sandra knew in this world, it was that she was meant to be a writer. She was blessed with the gift of storytelling and she would not rest until that gift was one she could share her way. She would not settle into life to please anyone else and just maybe that determination could set a blaze that would catch on. Maybe setting herself free could finally free Rebecca and Sandra could have the one thing she wanted just as much as she wanted to be a writer. Her mother.


The Gambler Kage Griffin sat down at the blackjack table with $10,000 worth of chips he’d just won from craps. Tonight was his night. He was going to start earning back all the money he’d drained from his children’s college funds. He motioned to the waitress who was wearing a tiny French maid costume, “Double scotch on the rocks, honey.” “Sure thing,” she smiled. It was a challenge to file a sexual harassment complaint when she was showing half her boobs, she reminded herself. Plus, this was a customer who obviously had a lot of money to spend, and her boss, who was the worst of them all, had the motto that unless someone was counting cards, the customer was right. Someday, she promised herself, she’d find a better job. Until then, she’d continue to put up with the ogling and all the honeys, babydolls, and love muffins. On the green felt, Kage laid down a $100 chip. The dealer dealt two cards face up to each player. To himself, he had dealt a ten and a card face down. Kage looked at his cards. A King and a nine. When the dealer came back around, Kage held firm. The dealer’s facedown card was a jack. He took Kage’s money. Kage laid down three $20 chips this time. No sense in losing big right out of the gate. This time, he won. As he played, Kage allowed himself to think about his wife, Charlotte. Charlotte thought Kage was at a sales convention. Charlotte was starting to think that Kage was having an affair. As much as Kage didn’t want to lose her, he allowed her just enough doubt that the affair was, in fact, the problem. It was way better than telling her the truth. He played for another hour, neither getting very far up or down from where he started. A tall man wearing all black sat down next to him. “Howdy,” the stranger said. “Hi,” said Kage. “How’s the table?” the man in black asked. “Pretty stable. Not too good, not too bad. Just waiting for Lady Luck to show up.” The stranger lifted his glass, “Here’s to the Lady. May she always treat you kindly and never kick you in the balls.” Kage clinked glasses with the man. Indeed, Lady Luck did show up, as the man and Kage both won the next four hands. With every win, Kage added another $20 chip to his betting pile. “Put an extra $200 down on this one. It’s going to be a good hand,” the man whispered to Kage. “How do you know?” Kage asked suspiciously. “Just a feeling.” Kage bet $300 before the hand was dealt. His cards were an ace and a queen. The dealer paid out immediately to him. The man in black busted out. “Well, it looks like it was a good hand for you, anyway,” he laughed. On the next hand, Kage was dealt a king and a ten. “Split them and put $1,000 on each.” “I appreciate the advice, but I know how to play the game.” “Just do it, you’ll see.” “If you’re wrong, I’m gonna kick your ass,” Kage laughed humorlessly. But he took the suggestion. The dealer gave him a seven and another king. “See? A seventeen?” The stranger placed his hand on Kage’s arm. The dealer busted. Kage jumped off his chair and whooped. “That’s what I’m talking about!” They played five more rounds, Kage winning each one and betting ridiculously higher each time. He was up $27,500 from when he entered the casino. “I’m gonna cash out, man. I don’t like to tempt fate.” “Come have a drink with me first.” “Alright, but I’m buying,” said Kage. The went to a table on the edge of the casino with their drinks and sat down in a booth. “So how do you know what cards are coming up next? Are you counting?” “No, nothing like that. I just have a feeling. It usually pans out.” “I’m Kage, by the way, Kage Griffin.” Kage stuck his hand out. “You can call me Ol’Scratch. It’s a nickname some buddies came up with years ago, and it’s always stuck.” “Is it cuz you wear black, or what?” Kage joked. “That, and I’m a helluva pool player,” Ol’Scratch laughed. They drank, and Kage ordered a plate of fries. “I really gotta thank you, man. That table was not being kind to me until you sat down. And I kinda drained my kids’ bank accounts. One’s in college already, and the other one starts next year. That’s on top of my retirement fund, and last year I had to refinance the house to pay back the 401K. Which I then lost. I’ve got a problem, man, but I’m in over my head. I just gotta win back what I’ve lost.” Ol’Scratch nodded in understanding. “Rome wasn’t built in a day, my friend. It’ll probably take some time. And I get it - been there. But now I hardly ever lose. I get a feeling about a table, and I play until it goes cold.” “I wish I had your talent. I’m up more than I’ve been in a while, though. This is enough to pay for my daughter’s tuition and housing for the year without my wife finding out.” “What if I told you I could make it to where you never lose again? I mean, you might lose a hand or two here and there - we don’t want the pit bosses to get suspicious, but I mean, you could win big .” “How?” Ol’Scratch took a drink of his scotch and then pushed it towards Kage. “Drink it.” “That’s your drink, man, I’ve got my own.” “Yours is empty.” Lo and behold, when Kage looked at his own glass, his ice cubes were getting thirsty. “Thanks,” he drank down the other man’s drink. “Let’s go play. I bet we can get you up by $100,000 by the time you go back to your hotel room in a couple of hours.” Kage started. He hadn’t told the man he was staying in the hotel. But they went to the craps table, where the odds were in their favor. Two hours later, they were cashing out and filling out the appropriate forms for the IRS and direct deposit. Kage was up by $109,200. “I can return all of this to my kids’ college funds, and my wife never has to know!” he said excitedly. He noticed that Ol’Scratch had turned in his chips but wasn’t filling anything out or collecting cash. “What about you?” “I have an account with the casino.” “I can’t believe this worked! I still don’t know how you made me so lucky!” “It’s just a little trick in manifestation,” Ol’Scratch said, smiling. “Nothing to it.” # Later that night, Kage sat straight up in his hotel bed with a sharp pain in his chest and numbness shooting down his arm. A moment later, he was dead. Outside Kage’s door, Ol’Scratch lit a hand-rolled cigarette without a lighter or match. He puffed on it and laughed. “Silly man. Don’t you know the House always wins?”


Carrie Thompson was meticulous in everything she did. When she woke in the morning, she let the buzzer on her alarm ring for exactly five seconds before shutting it off. She would then get out of the bed from the left side and have a shower that lasted precisely eight minutes. Carrie allowed her bread to toast for exactly two-minutes-thirty-five-seconds and poured her coffee two-thirds full to allow for her one tablespoon of non-fat cream and one sweetener. She would leave the house methodically at 6:35 AM, to arrive at work by 7:15 AM allowing her fifteen minutes to use the restroom and freshen up before her shift began at precisely 7:30 AM. Carrie worked as an event planner, so her perfectionist qualities reflected on the reactions of her clients faces on the day of their events. She made sure that every detail was overseen personally, giving her inspections a white-gloved approval or disapproval. If there was one thing that Carrie could not handle, it was a nonchalant attitude from anyone she hired. One such person, was a contractor named Lance. He was the epitome of apathetic behaviour. Lance owned a party supply warehouse that rented out tables, chairs, and other party accessories. Carrie was used to dealing with the previous owner, Jake, but had yet to collaborate with Lance since he bought the company a month earlier. It was two days before New Year’s Eve and Carrie was organizing a spectacular gala for some of the city’s hierarchy. The mayor was expected to attend, along with the police commissioner, a few celebrities, and some of the wealthiest benefactors the city had to offer. The main event would take place in the ballroom of the Whitmore Hotel, an elegant twelve story building with ornate moldings along the exterior and interior walls. Lance was to provide circular tables and padded chairs for the majority of the guests, but with the dignitaries being placed at the front of the room at rectangular tables. Lance and Carrie had been squabbling over the cost since Lance had yet to give Carrie his final quote. His reply each time she asked, was, “Don’t worry about it. I will get it to you soon.” He had been saying that for the past two months. She called him on the phone to reminded him again of what all she required for the event and what time he needed to be there to set up. She was growing nervous about using his company, but there was nobody else that she could get on such short notice, so she had no choice. The day of the event, December 31 st , Carrie arrived at the hotel ahead of schedule. She had hired the hotel’s catering staff to cook and serve for the event, and they began preparations early that morning. The florist had arrived by 10:00 AM and scattered larger bouquets around the room. The smaller arrangements were supposed to be set on each table, but Lance had not yet arrived. Soon after, the master of ceremonies, a prominent doctor in town, poked his head in the door to check that everything was going as planned and Carrie assured him that everything would be ready on time. Carrie tried to call Lance at the office, but there was no answer. She waited until after noon for the truck to arrive, but he was still a no-show. Carrie became frustrated and tried to call Lance again, but still no answer. She couldn’t have a dinner with no tables, and the hotel only had enough to support half of the guest expected to attend. At 3:45 PM, Carrie was notified that a delivery truck just pulled into the loading dock. “Finally,” Carrie said under her breath. Lance and his crew began bringing racks of tables in by 4:00 PM. First came the rectangular tables. There were six on the cart, but Carrie only required three. Then came another rack, again they were rectangular tables. Carrie shouted out, “Stop right there!” to the workers. “Why are you bringing in more rectangular tables? Where are the circular ones?” Lance came over and introduced himself. He was dressed in a grubby, worn, winter jacket, and wore a grey winter hat with a pom-pom on top. “Is there a problem here?” he asked Carrie. “Damn right there’s a problem!” she yelled back. “Where are the tables I ordered?” Lance pulled out the work order and read down to the third paragraph where it listed the items required and read, “It says right here that you need three round tables and fifteen rectangular tables, so that’s what I brought.” “You idiot!” she responded forcefully. “You got it backwards. It was supposed to be three rectangular tables and fifteen circular tables!” “What’s the difference?” Lance retorted. “You still have room for everyone to sit, right?” Carrie threw the work order back at Lance and it fell to the floor. “You have exactly one hour to return here with the proper tables and chairs, or you are fired.” “Oh, you needed chairs too?” Lance asked. “I guess I missed that. No worries. We can have them back here in a jiffy. How many folding chairs did you need?” “Are you serious?” Carrie exclaimed. “I asked for padded chairs, not folding chairs!” Her frustration grew stronger as her blood pressure raised higher. Carrie was almost at her wits end with Lance. “Yeah, I got it. No problem. How many do you need?” “I need a total of one-hundred chairs. Can you handle that?” “No problem. I got it covered,” he said before heading back to his truck. “See you in a couple hours.” “ONE HOUR! ONE HOUR, OR YOU ARE FIRED!” Carrie screamed as she stomped off aggravated. She kept looking at her watch. Finally, at 4:58 PM, Lance and his crew returned with the proper tables and chairs. She rushed to get them set up. The caterers then began covering them with white linen and champagne glasses. The centerpieces were set in place on the tables, followed by the silk napkins and silverware. It wasn’t until nearly 5:30 PM, that she noticed Lance still loitering with his workers at the back of the venue. One of them let out a loud belch that echoed throughout the nearly empty ballroom. Carrie went over to enquire why they were still there. “I thought we could settle up the bill for the rental,” Lance said as he handed the updated work order to Carrie. “This is much higher than your original estimation,” she exclaimed. “Well, with the one-hundred chairs, the cost went up. Besides, I took off the double delivery fee.” “Took off the delivery fee? It was your fault the order was wrong in the first place!” Carrie wrote Lance a check and slapped it into his hands. “What time will you be back to pick these up?” She asked. We should be finished by 2:00 AM. Can you be back by then?” “Are you crazy lady? This is New Year’s Eve! You’re lucky I am open today at all. I will be back around noon tomorrow. I need to give my boys a chance to recover from their hangovers. You know what I mean?” he said as he laughed. “But the hotel needs this room back in the morning. Can I convince you to come back sooner?” “I’ll tell you what,” Lance replied. “Do you plan to use these tables after you eat?” “Not necessarily,” she replied. “Okay, so why don’t you fold up the tables after you eat, and I will swing by around 11:00 PM with one or two of my boys to load them up? I might need to pay my boys extra cash though. They won’t be happy if I pull them away from their parties for too long.” “Fine, I will pay you for your time. Just promise me you will be back tonight.” “Yeah, sure. I’ll be here.” The event went off without a hitch and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. The mayor was so pleased with how things turned out, that he arranged to hire her for another gala event in the Spring. As dinner had finished and the dishes had been removed, Carrie began folding up the tables and standing them along the wall near the rear exit. She stacked some chairs and left the remainder out for guests to sit on. With the majority of the floor now cleared, it was time for dancing. The DJ started the night off with a crowd favorite, “Celebration” by Kool & the Gang. In minutes, the city’s dignified elite were shaking their behinds on the dance floor. At 11:15 PM, Lance arrived, but he was alone. He was no longer wearing his grubby clothes. Instead, he was dressed in a sport coat with casual pants. His face was clean shaven, and he smelled of cologne. Even his hair was neatly combed, unlike his earlier appearance. Carrie almost didn’t recognize him. In fact, she suddenly found him quite attractive. “Where is your crew?” she asked as she approached him. “I couldn’t convince any of them to come back tonight. They all had plans, so I will load it all myself.” “You look so different,” Carrie stated. “Yeah, well, I knew this was a big deal for you tonight, so I didn’t want to look like some bum that wandered in off the street.” “I appreciate that. Are you in a hurry, or did you want to stick around for a while? I can help you load some of the tables up later maybe.” “Thanks, I guess I can stick around for a bit, but you don’t need to help; I can manage on my own. I wouldn’t want you ruining that pretty dress of yours anyway.” Carrie took him by the hand and led him to the bar next to the stage. “What’ll you have?” she asked. “Just water is fine. I’m not much of a drinker,” he said. “Well, how about one glass of champagne to bring in the new year. I mean, midnight is only twenty minutes away.” “Okay, one glass, but that’s all. I don’t want to be driving that big truck of mine after a few drinks.” Carrie asked the bartender for two glasses of champagne and handed one to Lance. She took a sip, but Lance refrained. She noticed him swaying to the music and asked him if he wanted to dance. Pointing to the glasses, he asked, “What about these?” She took his glass and set them on the bar saying, “We can get a fresh glass later,” then led him to the dance floor. Just as they started into a fast dance, the DJ spun a slow track for them. Carrie smiled, and Lance smiled back and held out his arms. Grasping her right hand in his left hand, and wrapping his right arm around her waist, they began to sway side-to-side in rhythm with the music. Carrie found the scent of his cologne to be intoxicating. She found it hard to believe that this was the same man she was shouting at mere hours earlier. Instead, she laid her cheek against his chest and listened to his heart beating in time with the song. When the song ended and a faster song came on, Carrie still held him tightly. Lance did not resist. While everyone around them was spinning and jumping in time with the beat, Carrie and Lance became lost in one another. At 11:55 PM, the DJ announced that it was nearly midnight, and asked everybody to grab a glass of champagne. Carrie and Lance returned to the bar and ordered two more glasses. At ten seconds before the new year, the countdown began: “TEN...NINE...EIGHT...SEVEN...SIX...FIVE...FOUR...THREE...TWO...ONE...HAPPY NEW YEAR!” everyone shouted as the DJ played “Auld Lang Syne. Before Carrie had a chance to react, Lance’s lips were upon hers. She was surprised but didn’t resist. Instead, she pulled him closer. “What about the tables and chairs?” Lance asked. “They can wait.”


Chapter 1 Most people don’t know this, but life is just an endless loop. When you die, you’re reborn as yourself, not anyone new (or some other life form.) You also forget everything about your past life, so you walk into the new life believing it’s your first. The concept of reincarnation almost had it right. I personally like that spiritual system more because there’s something hopeful and beautiful about it. But, unfortunately, you’re stuck as yourself forever until the end of time, which is probably never. This could be awesome if you’re a happy, wealthy person, but for others it’s miserable. Suicide will only bring you back to the start, only to relive the pain. Suicide loop is pointless, but so is a full life cycle if you think about it. This is the existentialist’s greatest nightmare, but the closure is pretty nice, I’m sure some people will find it relieving. Oh, I was wrong about something though. Your life is not just an endless loop. It’s possible to remember bits and pieces of your past life, which is known as Recall. And trust me, that shit is gold. You can use that information to better your current life and the next (strategy known as Stacking) which will inevitably alter your behavior and others. This consequently becomes the driving force of change in the universe after each iteration, so calling it an endless loop is inaccurate. The world is moving forward, for some at least. But how is that possible, you must be wondering. These flashes of memory manifest themselves in many ways and some are more powerful than others. The most volatile form of Recall is through dreams and the phenomenon we call Déjà Vu. However, they are extremely forgettable due to neurological conditions the mind undergoes to produce such visions. Even if you’re able to remember the Recall, it is unlikely that you will believe it as truth. The most tangible way you can attain past memories is by being Visited, which is as rare as winning a lottery. An angel-like being will visit your dying self to deliver a message to your next incarnation, and it will do whatever necessary to convince you. I know all of this because I’m one of the few who have been visited. I died a horrific death in my past life and my message, or warning, was to avoid the girl in the red dress. I was told this two years ago, now I’m 24. I avoided every girl wearing a red dress since then. That’s my ridiculous strategy. I see a girl wearing one in the street, I cross to the other side. I see one at a party, I leave. I see women I know wearing one, I ghost them. A life like this gets lonely. I don’t meet a lot of women now, as you can guess. I usually spend my days glancing out the window, where I feel safe. Nothing interesting happened the past two years I wasted by people watching, until a week ago. Every woman who walked by my apartment wore a red dress. An insane coincidence? Maybe, it’s probable, but this trend hasn’t stopped! Edit: I meant SP, speculative fiction...


(I mostly write NSFW stuff but occasionally I like to write family friend stuff like this attempt at a fable.) THE GIRL AND THE MULE Once upon a time, not so long ago, in a town much like yours, on a street you would be familiar with, there was a girl. This girl sat in the doorway of an old dilapidated shop. Very little of the worn facades revealed its once popular past. The name of the original proprietor faded and obscured by graffiti. There was nothing remarkable about this girl, indeed hardly anyone knew she was there. The girl just sat in the dimness of the doorway with her knees pulled up to her face, head bowed. No one knew if she had been there a day, a week, a month or even a year. In fact no one ever thought to ask her but then again no one thought to actually speak to her. They just simply went about their day without giving this girl a moment of thought. Then one day, a day much like the one you are having now, something curious happened. The girl was no longer alone in that dingy, dank doorway. She now had company, for laying next to her was a mule. Now the people of the town immediately noticed that there was a mule laying in the doorway of a shop. It is, after all, an unusual sight. "Where has that mule come from?" someone asked. "It must have escaped from the local farm." suggested another. The local farmer was called who declared that his mule was still very much at his farm. Such news panicked the town folk. "It's a wild mule!" "It may kick us!" "It'll bite the children!" Concerned for their safety and the havoc such a wild beast may cause a call went out to all manner of emergency services to remove this ferocious animal from their town. Yet no one seemed too concerned for the girl whom the mule lay next to. Soon, nearly all the town were surrounding this doorway. "A wild mule! In our town? We must get rid of it" The local fireman and vet were called upon to remove this creature from their town. The crowd were silent as they approached. The mule did not run away as they approached. Nor did he try to kick them or bite them. Instead, he did something rather strange. He danced. It was such an odd thing to see a mule dance that at first the townfolk thought their eyes were deceiving them. "Is that mule dancing?" they asked in unison. The mule had slowly lifted himself up on to his legs and proceeded to perform a merry jig. On seeing this the crowd forgot their previous fear that he may have a disease or might bite or kick them. "Oh! How unusual to see a dancing mule" they cheered and applauded along with the merry steps of the mule. When the mule had finished he gave a bow much to the warm hilarity of the crowd. "Have you ever seen something so magical?" the crowd exclaimed. It was settled. The town would not be removing this mule. How could anyone exile such a creature of talent? The mule slowly returned to the doorway and curled up next to the girl, who had not moved at all throughout the performance. "Such a majestic thing cannot stay there" someone said "You're right" agreed another "He can stay with me!" "I have a large stable he can stay in" a voice was heard to say. But the mule would not be moved. No amount of coaxing budged him from his spot next to the girl. Reluctantly, the town folk let him remain in that wet, uncomfortable doorway. By morning the crowd had gathered again and the mule was happy to perform another jovial dance. Then, as before, he would return to the doorway. This continued day after day and the people of the town grew fond of the mule. At night, many would bring it food, water and blankets commenting as they did as to why someone would chose to sleep in such an awful place. Before long news of this dancing mule spread to the neighbouring towns and many people came far and wide to see this amazing beast perform. The mule did not disappoint the eager onlookers and performed dances and tricks much to the delight of the ever growing number of people who came to watch. All eyes firmly on this funny dancing mule but never on the girl who sat still, head bowed as the crowd clapped and cheered along to the creature's antics. Then as suddenly as he had appeared the mule was gone. It happened on a fine spring morning and the crowd,as in previous days, had arrived eager for their daily show. Yet there was no mule in the doorway, just the girl. The crowd, of course, did not see the girl. They were too concerned with the absence of the mule to notice anything else. "Where has he gone?" they asked "Maybe he will be back soon" suggested someone, hopefully. Day after day the people of the town returned to doorway in the hope that the mule would be there. However like the day before and the day before that the only person who occupied the doorway was the girl. Before long, the people had given up hope of ever seeing the mule again. With a heavy heart they went about their normal daily life. Occasionally they would stop as they walked past the doorway, their eyes never on the girl but at the space where the mule used to sleep. One day, a Mother was walking down the street with her young son. Stopping at the doorway the mother sighed in remembrance of how fun the mule was and how she missed him. She allowed herself a moment to wish he was safe and well. She went to move off but her son did not follow. She tugged on his arm but he remained rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on the doorway. "The mule isn't coming today. Let's go" the Mother said impatiently. Looking up at his Mother the boy asked "Do you think the mule belonged to the girl and she is missing him?" Puzzled the Mother replied "What girl? The boy stretched out his arm and pointed to the girl who sat in the doorway, her knees raised, head bowed. The Mother followed her son's finger and gasped with amazement as she saw the girl. She'd never noticed a girl in the doorway before. Where had she come from? Walking over to the girl, the Mother bent down and asked "Have you just got here? Are you waiting for the mule?" The girl slowly lifted her head, her skin a map of the extremities she had endured, her eyes swollen and red, her lips dry and cracked. "Oh My!" exclaimed the Mother. The Mother's actions had alerted the other townsfolk who had thought the mule had returned. They rushed over to the doorway to see the Mother knelt next to the girl. "Who is she?" someone asked "Careful she might bite" said another. "She looks dirty" "Well she can't stay here. This is where the mule sleeps. What if he comes back?" warned someone else. As the crowd argued as to who should remove the girl from the doorway no one noticed her leave. As she rose from the spot she had occupied for so long she was as invisible as she had always been. Indeed, it took a while before anyone noticed that the doorway was now empty. Yet the townfolk could vividly remember the mule being there but never the girl. It is a number of miles to the next town. A long road the only route between the two. Those travelling between the neighbouring towns often reported seeing the mule walking along the dusty track but they never saw the girl who walked beside him.


We never found grandpa's gun. The family lore on that one was either that the neighbor lady or his nurse took it. We never found that money he said he hid either. We sold the house and some guys gutted it out and flipped it. I hope they found grandpas money cause we sure didn't. He wasn't a rich man anyway, we're most of what he left. Only a few things of his are still here, almost all army stuff. Grandma has the trifolded flag with her, my uncle has his purple hearts. There was some other war paraphernalia my dad and uncle found, photos, a Japanese flag, and something they told me they wouldn't tell me about, all of it got lost. And apparently there was at a time a Japanese rifle, but Grandpa stored it in the garage and it too disappeared. I don't have anything of his, but I got handed down something he took. A Japanese bayonet, all that is left of grandpa's war. It now has no handle or scabbard, it's dull and rusted but you can still see the markings on it. It has a mount to be put on a gun, to stab enemies, like my grandpa, when they are close. It was made for a very personal kill, seemingly ancient and barbaric to me, but from near in history. The bayonet even has a large hook, I guess to catch cavalry swords. It's Japanese etching make it clear, this gun mounted sword does not really originate from my family, at least it's not American or even Polish for that matter. But I hold it, and I truly don't know the specifics of how Grandpa got it. I know he lied that he was older to get into the army, shipped off to the Pacific to fight as a teenager and kill strangers. Although I was too young to hear anything dark from him about the war, my dad has since related some of it. As a kid I was told he had bad dreams, I didn't understand what that meant, my understanding as an adult is pretty lacking. Sure, you can say Grandpa shouldn't have stolen from the battle field, maybe it was things like the bayonet that haunted him, but I'm pretty sure the damage was done. The man who lost the bayonet surely didn't need it anymore. If he could get anything back to his family I imagine he'd have a letter sent to them, his wedding ring maybe, certainly his bayonet was low on the list. And was it really his? It was issued to him to stab at enemies away from home on the remote islands of the Pacific. Come to think of it, we don't have Grandpa's gun, or bayonet. I presume they just belong to the Army anyway. Or maybe Grandpa lost it, whether it was in his garage in Chicago or on a beach on Iwo Jima I'll never know. I hope I keep a close eye on my family heirloom and keep it, although I don't really know it's story, and for all those war stories too dark for grandpa to tell, I wish I could tell him thank you.


There are stretches of the American highway system that run through miles of desert. Sometimes, roads turn off into apparent nothingness. Uncultivated lands. One might assume that these disused paths once went somewhere, but have lost their purpose. Sometimes this is true. Other times they lead to fixtures power grids requiring only occasional maintenance. Or they take you to access points for water and oil pipelines. Then there are some--and these are easy to pass by unnoticed--that lead to a dead end. Unnamed roadways terminating at chain-link fences labelled with some forbidding sign: ‘RESTRICTED AREA,’ ‘DO NOT ENTER’. It was one of these roads that I was trying to locate. My association with XXXXXXX was based on professional chauvinism. I knew him from college when we were both idealistic journalism students. He truly believed in the power of reporting to hold the world to account! It was that same sense of purpose that led him to an unprofitable career writing for obscure magazines and blogs, while I pragmatically rose up the elevator of jobs at respectable newspapers. If he knew how many jokes he was the butt of amongst the rest of our cohort, he may never have shown his face in class. Or, maybe he did know, and just didn’t care. His belief in principle over everything was unshakeable. It might have been that he forgave our scorn with a similar sense of superiority that made us look down on him. Who is the winner and who is the loser depends on one’s scale of values. It is anyone’s guess why he chose to maintain contact with me over the years, yet he would send me emails sporadically. Sometimes they were very short remarks on some developing situation in the world. Sometimes they were meandering rants, like you would at 4 AM and immediately regret sending. I don’t think he ever regretted them, though. I rarely responded. But his last communication was different. This was not the usual obsessive rumination that one could simply dismiss as a manic side effect of skipping daily meds. It had an urgency to it. Like a saint about to be thrown to the lions. Also, it included specific coordinates. XXXXXXX had been, as far as I could tell, chasing the tail of an alleged government conspiracy involving kind of prison/laboratory complex in the New Mexico desert. Theories were abundant on less-than-reputable online chat forums speculating about human testing or extraterrestrial communities. These rumors circled around a specific few acres of land, which was deliberately obscured in Google maps. Also, some anonymous troll claimed to be a whistleblower, but was agonizingly ambiguous about the nature of the operation. After his message to me, XXXXXXX could not be reached. No one knew where he was. No one I contacted had spoken with him in weeks. All I had were the coordinates he had sent me. Despite the far-fetched nature of whatever this adventure was, the dire nature of the message drew me in. If it wasn’t a physical dilemma, it was still a cry for help. Also, a good journalist doesn’t let go of a lead... The side road was easy to miss. It was unpaved, and obscured by brittle plant skeletons. Still, there were faint tracks of the occasional vehicle. The GPS coordinates were exactly what I had received. I drove a little farther up the road, and pulled my car onto an unobtrusive shoulder. I wasn’t sure how long this path would be, but I betted that I could investigate it more clandestinely on foot. It was a pinkish dusk. I had a flashlight, but was avoiding using it unless it became completely necessary. I had no idea if I was walking into an ambush. The signs of road vehicles were clear. Judging by the tracks, they appeared to be large off-roaders. I followed the trail through dry brush and rocks. It proceeded gently uphill for a while until I reached a decline into a depression in the terrain. The geography provided a perfect subterfuge from curious eyes on the road seeing the tell-tale gate: a chain link fence. The sign just read: ‘NO ENTRY’. Beyond the fence, in the distance, I could see a cluster of nondescript buildings. They could be mistaken for some kind of abandoned military or industrial installation if not for a few lights in the windows. I took off my jacket, hung it on my shoulder, and started climbing the fence. At the top, I draped my jacket over the barbed coils on the top of the fence, and hoisted my body over. There goes a good jacket! Luckily I was wearing tough boots. It took me a minute, clinging to the fence, to extricate my jacket from the barbs, but I didn’t want to leave any evidence. The maneuver had taken a few minutes, and it was almost dark now. I closed my eyes for a moment to adjust to the darkness, then surveyed the abstruse compound. Dammit, I should have brought my binoculars! In the darkness, I could just barely make out a fenced area that looked like a basketball court. Suddenly a spotlight flashed on, illuminating the court. I froze. A group of people paraded in single file out of the adjacent building. They were dressed in matching striped outfits, like old-timey pajamas. They were followed by someone else, dressed like a military officer. The officer yelled something I couldn’t understand, and the pajama people proceeded to walk slowly in a circle. Crunch! It was the sound of shoes on the gravel directly behind me. I froze. They must have been very stealthy to get that close without me hearing, which meant this sound was an announcement of their presence. I made my hands visible at my sides, slightly away from my body so as not to appear dangerous, and slowly turned around to face whoever was approaching. A flashlight ignited straight in my eyes. Squinting, I could see a figure in the darkness. They seemed to wearing a helmet and carrying an assault rifle. I raised my hands in surrender. “This is a restricted area. Turn around, get on your knees, and lace your fingers behind your head.” I complied. He zip-tied my hands behind my back and pulled me to my feet. “Walk!” He marched forward toward the mysterious compound. We stopped in front of an imposing door. The armed man looked into a surveillance camera on the wall above. “Intruder apprehended,” he told the camera. After a moment, the door automatically opened. There was no one to greet us in a hallway lit only by red lights. He marched me down the hall to a second door. The door was immediately opened by a man in a suit. Total G-man. I was ushered into a sparsely furnished room lit by white fluorescents. I turned back to see my capture in the improved lighting. He looked like military police. “Sit!” he said, gesturing to a chair in front of what I assumed was an interrogation table. I sat, bracing myself for the worst. “I’ll take it from here,” said the G-man. He stood in from of me on the other side of the table. There was no chair at his disposal. “Would you like to tell what you are doing here?” “I don’t know. What authority are you?” “I’m with a government department you have never heard of. You can call me John,” he said calmly. “I assure you that if you cooperate and answer my questions you will be safe in our custody. Now, ma-am, who are you?” “Give me an attorney and they can tell you.” “I’m the closest you have to an attorney here. And there is no phone call.” He smiled. “So you may as well talk to me... or sit in silence as long as you please. I have time.” “I have rights” “Not on this side of that fence.” “I’m a journalist!” “I guarantee you, my agency supersedes the power of the fourth estate. Would you like to tell me your name. It will make this conversation more pleasant.” I remained silent. “There’s no point in pleading the fifth here. We’ll find out who you are regardless.” “Nancy. My name’s Nancy Drew, and I’m a detective.” “Cute. Have it your way, Nancy. Now why are you hopping fences in the middle of the desert?” “Who are those people out there, walking around in circles? Political prisoners?” “Hmm. Hard to explain. Let’s say, they are one of America’s greatest untapped resources. Now would you like to tell me how you found this place” “Are you holding another journalist here? Or did you kill him.” “Ahh, I see.” The G-man chuckled. “You’re looking for XXXXXXX. I assure you, there is no need to worry about his well being.” “Where is he?” The G-man sighed. “Ok.” He walked over to an intercom on the wall. “Can you locate XXXXXXX and tell him to report to exam room A-2. Thank you” After a few moments of sitting in angry silence while the G-man casually ignoring me, the door opened. XXXXXXX entered. He was dressed in uniform. It was the uniform of a Nazi SS officer. “It’s good to see you,” he said. “What the fuck is this?” I yelled at the G-man. “Is this a sick joke? Did you brainwash him? What in the actual fuck?” “Well, perhaps I will let the two of you catch up,” said the G-man. He walked leaving me alone with my old colleague who apparently was playing some king of perverse gag. “Listen. this is no joke.” “What the hell is going on here?” I demanded. “ It’s a long story.” “No shit!” “Ok, where to begin?” “What is this? CIA?” “Actually it is a top secret division of the department of energy.” “WHAT?” This was getting more absurd by the minute. “Let me explain. I’ve was chasing down some rumors about a secret government project. It seems there was one whistleblower, but it was all very cryptic. The word ‘Project Hatchet’ kept popping up. For years every lead went to a dead end. I scoured the dark web. Eventually, an anonymous leak released some numbers. Finally, I realized, they were coordinates. That brought me here. Now, a little history: at the end of World War, American military intelligence discovered an experimental German program developed in the concentration camps. At first they thought it was insane, but the results proved otherwise. You see, there was a small, secretive sect of Jews in Poland. Something what you might call ‘Jews for Jesus’. They claimed to possess the original teachings of Jesus, and practices what they call ‘the Doctrine of Extreme Forgiveness’. The Nazis were experimenting with electromagnetic and using prisoners in the camps as test subjects. With this particular Jewish sect, they got some astonishing results. They found that whatever tortures they did to these particular Jews, they kept insisting on forgiving their tormentors. This extreme forgiveness created an amazing energy that the Nazi scientists found a way to harness. I mean, it was so powerful it could light a city.” “You are fucking joking.” “No, it’s true. After the war, the Americans took the technology and recreated the experiment.” “You mean this... is a CONCENTRATION CAMP?” “Yes, but they don’t kill the Jews. They are far to valuable an energy source. Just torture. The problem is, production is far too labor intensive for it to be viable now. The theory is to store the energy, and, as fossil fuels diminish and become to pricey, use the forgiveness energy as a replacement.” “And... you?” “Well, once you discover the project they won’t let you leave. They give you a choice: become a Nazi or a Jew” “Are you saying they’re going to hold me here indefinitely?” “Yes. You just have to pick a team”


Where once was a sanctuary, now lay decimation. The shrine that held their union had been long since robbed of its divine architecture, monuments of pure silver, drapes of sapphire which blew softly in the sweet breeze. However, the pews remained filled with witnesses. Bloated. Decayed. Mouths agape with flies and their offspring. Should a fire take this place now, the surviving insects would creep away lamenting their own sanctuaries, just as the Wretch who now knelt before an altar of void faith. The wings of rot now the only praise heard. For the Wretch, this region of disease held no more apprehension than that of simple regret. He would want nothing more than for his memories of purity to be rebuilt and the stench of abandonment swept away. However, should a miracle break through the smoke of desolation, seize hold of the altar, purge the sanctuary with searing light, and finally leave behind a hollow but pure temple for troubled souls to find, the Wretch felt that he himself should be excavated. For the rot had taken him as well. He was simply a fly in search of another corpse, another of Hope's carrion. Yet, his trembling hands were raised. The rags which encased his body he wore as Holy as filthy robes could achieve. The tingling of many tiny lives scurrying beneath his flesh were forgotten. The faded silver image of the crescent moon enveloped his whole consciousness. Should the past return it would find him here faithful. Then her steps filled the sanctuary. Soft but echoing. She had found him after an ongoing pursuit that began at this very shrine. The Wretch lowered his hands and bowed his head in defeated prayer. “I am here for you.” Her voice was that of a clear spring found in the lower valleys. He wanted to taste those waters again. She halted her approach. The sound of silk and metal falling silent. The Wretch lowered his hand instinctively towards his own rusty blade. However, the scent of her was carried through the wind. The stench of the sanctuary and he dissipated for a precious instant. The Wretch's hand hovered over the weapon, but he rose instead from where he knelt and turned to face her unarmed. Her eyes gazed into his immediately as he turned. This was always the beginning of opposition. She stood still in the midst of the pews of decay. Her lovely features never flinched in disgust at her surroundings. Instead, she eyed her espoused with the glee of a young maiden awaiting to be betrothed. Her black hair falling down her back and to her breasts. Her femininity, unhidden by the golden shards of war. There was blood on her age. “Let...me...worship...” The Wretches voice flaked with the dryness of long silence. Her eyes flicked for a disregarding instant. “Worship what?” She asked with a smile. He had no answer to give, for she already had it to begin with. After all, it was she who stood with him before the crescent moon. At least the illusion of her. The Wretch felt his legs quiver as she slowly approached. She sheathed her blade, however, spying his laying upon the stone floor. “Are you submitting to me?” The girlish tone mingling with the sound of flies. “At last, you long to be mine?” The Wretch held up his desiccated palm before her and inhaled strenuously for words. “There is...a...large crevice...between longing...and being...” She laughed as she took hold of his outstretched hand and placed it gently to her breast. Her heart pulsed through her warm skin. “Then let me extend a bridge to you, my love. We can walk across together.” Her veins slid from her smooth skin and entered his wrist. Warmth passed through his body. His heart began to beat again. The first time she had performed this act was in the golden city of Rehcash'pl. He had very little rot for her to devour. Now her eyes rolled back in ecstasy at the banquet prepared after so long a chase. Her scalding blood poured through him. He breathed in deeply her sweet scent, feeling the strength of youth returning and the weakness of his lust. The Wretch fell into her soft arms and they both sank down to the stone. His back was to the moon. He was kneeling before her now. All that stood in this hollow shell of former radiance was her radiance. Her beauty. Her voice heaved softly in his ear. Why not just submit? Even if the moment was fleeting, it would be his. She would belong to him as his bride. No, not a bride but a harlot. Then she would be his harlot! She belongs to no man. She was all he ever wanted in this life! No power over the corrupting serpents! No miracle performed in the name of That Which is Whole! No tongue to teach and spread the hope of the forgiveness of the Crescent Moon! What good did it do the faithful? They rot in the presence of their Hope! Yet they can still be found before it. The Wretch felt the tears fall down his rotten cheeks. He took up the rusted blade and pierced her side. She screamed and withdrew her veins from him. The warmth now gone. It would be easier now. They clashed together. The eyes formerly that of a pure young maiden now filled with malice. They fought all over the sanctuary. Falling into the pews of corpses. Shattering the images of their Faith. It didn't matter. For her, the fight was simply to cause agony to the Wretch. For The Wretch, it was to simply contend with this entity that had hindered his very existence. Their conflict brought them once more to the altar. Her blood spilled from the wounds of both combatants. Their forms identical battered flesh, ripping at one another, till finally she pinned down The Wretch and began to reign blow after blow till whatever could be recognized as a countenance crumbled. When his resistance faltered, she lowered her broken hand down to the remnants of The Wretch. “Submit.” It was a tired voice. A defeated voice. For she already knew the answer, but she was constrained to hear his response. “Never.” She rose up from her former victim now Victor. With broken steps, she stumbled her way out of the sanctuary. Her thoughts never considered the many victories she had achieved, but the hatred for these few failures. Before she had exited the doorway of dilapidation, her beauty had returned and her flesh no longer retained any semblance of her struggle with the Wretch. Her steps renewed with vigor. There were more like him. Far too many more that would give in. Yet, when she looked into their eyes, she always feared that which had just transpired. But she would die before she ever revealed that fear. Die. The Wretch lay unmoving till nightfall. Eventually, the lunar glow of late evening shone upon him through a break in the clouds. He rose whole like before. A Wretch. Yet he turned again to the faded altar and knelt once more. As he worshiped, his eyes caught sight of his reflection in the faded silver, with hands raised in praise and a congregation of fellow worshipers behind him.


Guilt is good, I think. Feeling guilty means you have empathy and are not a careless monster. Bad people don’t feel guilty. On the other hand, would a good person have something to feel guilty about? I suppose it’s not black and white but it feels like an unnecessary burden--a weight hung around the necks of good people for irrational reasons. Will, my boyfriend sitting next to me, driving, is the cause of my guilt. We’re on our way to his deceased grandparent’s house to help his family clean out the place. I’ve decided to break up with Will. Actually, I decided about a month ago. As I was about to end it, Will’s grandmother died of a stroke. Not even two weeks later, his grandfather passed as well. It was only days after the funeral that Will’s grandfather’s heart stopped. A tragic, but an undeniably romantic story. After nearly sixty years of marriage, they couldn’t live apart for more than a couple of days. Heartbreaking and beautiful. I’d only met Will’s grandparents once, at Thanksgiving last year. We’d been dating for about five months at that point and it was my first time meeting his family. Now, we’ve been dating for sixteen months and this will likely be the last time I see Will’s family. It’s October and the holidays are coming up again. I can’t do it. I can’t sit down at Thanksgiving and give vague and noncommittal answers to questions about our future. I can’t have Will and his family buy me presents and pretend like everything is okay. I can’t kiss him at midnight on New Year’s Eve with this truth stuck in my head. It wouldn’t be fair to Will anyway. No, better a clean break. The sooner the better. This week. The guilt will only grow the longer I put it off. Breaking up is the rational choice. Still, I feel guilty. It pangs my chest and makes my eyes dart away from his. It sneaks up on me in the quiet moments I’m with him. I would’ve dumped you by now if it weren’t for your grandmother’s death. I’m calculating the right amount of time after your grandfather’s funeral to officially break things off. This guilt--this truth only I know--hovers over me and never leaves. Should I feel guilty? Relationships end, people grow apart, it’s entirely understandable and expected. We’re only a couple of years out of college and both have time for new and better relationships. I don’t know if Will loves me. That’s not true, I’m positive he does. He says it all the time. A small part of me hopes he only says it because that’s what’s expected of a relationship that’s lasted for a year--love. That’s why I say I love him when I don’t. Maybe the first time I said it I meant it but not anymore. No, that’s not true either. If I meant it the first time I’d mean it now. It was about two months ago when I realized I didn’t love Will. I only really liked him. If I didn’t love him then staying in the relationship wouldn’t be fair to either of us. I repeated this to myself to build the courage to dump him. I’d never dumped anyone before. Will deserves a girlfriend who loves him but that can’t be me. So, really, I’m doing Will a favor. Will is a good boyfriend. He’s one of my best friends and a great roommate. But none of those things are love. I love Will’s family, but not in that way. They were extremely welcoming and nice to me--especially his mom Maddy and older sister Breanna. Breanna and I text all the time and even hangout without Will occasionally. She’s introduced me to her friends and I’ve done the same for her. I think of Maddy as a friend, too. We talk and text and joke around on Instagram all the time. I hope some part of those friendships will survive the breakup, but I know that’s more reckless hope. What mother and sister would stay friends with an ex-girlfriend? I’ll miss Will’s family. They’re a close family, which is very unlike mine. I barely speak to my brother and see my parents once a year during the holidays. Will’s family--the Greene’s--made me one of their own almost immediately. It was nice, being part of one of those close families. “You okay?” Will says in his baritone voice. It’s always funny to me that Will is a tall, lanky kid with a boyish face and only the wisps of facial hair yet he has the voice of a mountain man. I lift my head off the cold passenger-seat window. “Yeah, I’m fine.” “You just haven’t said anything in a while.” “Sorry, tired. Didn’t get much sleep last night.” “It’s okay. Thanks again for helping with this. My parents will appreciate the extra set of hands.” “It’s no problem. Anything I can do to help.” “They’ve been putting this off. Going inside that house and sorting through sixty years of crap. They’ll love seeing you, though, they always do. It’s gotten to the point if I visit them without you they’re disappointed.” “What’s your grandparent’s house like?” “It’s an old house. My mom would talk about how impressive it was when she was little but they didn’t take very good care of it as they got older. The second floor hasn’t been touched in years--my mom and her sister’s old rooms look practically the same since they moved out. That’s mostly what we’ll be doing. Clearing out the rooms.” “What will you do with all the stuff?” “I don’t know. Probably throw out most of it. Maybe we’ll find a few things worth a buck on eBay.” I do my best to attempt a smile. The icy windshield feels good against my forehead, so I rest it there. Outside, the wind sweeps brown, yellow, and red leaves onto the road and muscular gray clouds cover the skies overhead. As we pull in, I understand Will’s description of the house. It’s not a mansion, but it isn’t small either. It’s an old house that seems dignified. Its brick is faded and its white paint is chipped, but it’s easy to see it had once been elegant and one of the most expensive houses on the block. Will’s dad sees us and puts down the box he’s carrying. “Ha-ho! There they are!” he yells, which is his standard greeting. He is an adorable old man with his white beard, red cheeks, and portly belly. His whiskers brush my cheek as he hugs me. “Thanks for coming, darling.” “Happy to, Vincent.” His heavy hand slaps Will on the shoulder. “Head on inside, Madeline’s got jobs for each of you in there, she’s already bossing your sister and brother around.” Vincent always calls Will’s mom Madeline even though everyone else calls her Maddy, which is very cute to me. We step through the open front door and into a small entryway with a hall leading to the living room. Maddy apparently hears us come in because as soon as we step inside she pops her head in from around the corner. “Hey guys!” she says with a smile. She hugs and thanks me like Vincent did and the rush of guilt turns my stomach. I say hello to Breanna who is packing boxes in the kitchen and Drew, Will’s brother, who walks past with a box full of tools from the garage. “Will, take those boxes and start in the basement, would you?” Will does as he’s asked and I’m left waiting for instructions from Maddy. “Nicole, sweetheart, could you do me a favor?” She insists on calling me Nicole even though I’ve repeatedly told her Nicky is fine. The family seems to have a connection with formality and love I don’t understand but find charming. “Of course, I’m here to help.” “Could you take these boxes upstairs to the second bedroom on the right and start boxing up the books in there? There’s a wall of shelves and books. Don’t worry about bringing them down because they’ll be heavy but just start boxing them up.” “No problem, Maddy.” “Thank you, sweetie.” She brings her right hand to my cheek. Her right hand is incomplete, with a nub where her ring finger should be. The story goes it’s the product of a cooking accident from years ago. “You’ve been such a help for us and Will these past few weeks. Know that we really appreciate it,” she says, grazing my cheek with her thumb. Guilt again. I shove a smile to my face and grab the boxes and head down the hallway towards the staircase. I pass Drew on the way and as I ascend the steps I can hear Maddy mumbling to Drew. “Why can’t you find a nice girl like Nicole?” “Mom, don’t start,” he groans. When I reach the top of the stairs I can see for myself that Will was right about it never being used. Dust clings to the banister and half of the lights are burned out. There’s a noticeable draft and the wooden floor moans underneath my feet. I enter the second bedroom on the right and find a modest bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows on the far side that look out over the backyard. I hadn’t noticed that the house was on a small hill with a green lawn encompassed by tall trees. The lawn is covered in colorful dead leaves that casually flutter in the autumn breeze. There’s little else in the bedroom except for a twin bed and a wall of bookshelves filled with dusty volumes of text. They all look like thick, important, leather-bound books that are more than twice my age. I carefully start taking them off the shelves and placing them in the cardboard boxes with only cursory glances at their titles. Most seem to be history books--specifically European history with a focus on the Scandinavian region. Some look to be about the Vikings and their Norse gods, while some are more modern and about wars and politics. One catches my eye though. It’s wrapped in fine brown leather and the title is engraved in a different language, perhaps Norwegian. When I open it, the entire book is in the language but it still pulls me in. Rune drawings frame the words typed in a Norse-like font. There are plenty of illustrations, one almost every other page. The pictures are gorgeous and graphic. They’re full of animals and mythical creatures--wolves, ravens, warrior-men, elves, dwarves, and dozens of others I have no name for. They’re all twisted and intertwined with one another in war or in love. “How’s it going in here?” Maddy’s sudden voice startles me so much I nearly drop the book. I realize I’d been looking at the book for longer than I thought. She chuckles as she enters the room, a steaming mug in her hand. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. It gets chilly up here so I thought you might want some hot tea,” she says, handing me the hug. “What’re you looking at?” “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been snooping,” I say, slightly embarrassed. “Nonsense, it’s just a book. Which one is that?” “I don’t know, it’s in a different language. I was just looking at the pictures.” I hand the book to Maddy and she fans through its pages. A grin spreads over her face. “Oh, I know this one. This was one of my father’s grandfather’s books. He brought it with him when they came to America from Norway. It’s all about the Norse gods and the Vikings and all the stories about them, really fascinating. I loved looking at the pictures when I was a kid.” I pick up the tea and sip it slowly, it’s hot contents warm my belly. Cold wind whistles by the windows. “The art inside is beautiful. This must be really old if it was your great-grandfather’s.” “Honey, this was old when my grandfather’s father had it. It’s been passed down the family for generations. “That’s incredible. Something you want to keep, right?” Maddy smiles and briskly turns through the pages. “My grandfather could still speak and read Norweigian and he would read us parts of this book. There are some really scary stories here.” “Scary stories?” “Well, to a child. But, to be fair, the Vikings weren’t exactly Quakers. There’d be some really graphic tales here about warriors and gods. There’d even be some rituals and ceremony instructions that would creep us out.” “Rituals?” “Oh, you know, how they’d properly sacrifice a goat or an ox or whatever to appease one of the gods. They were a warrior-culture, you know? Everything was about spilling blood.” “That’s so cool that you have this history. I didn’t even know your family was Norwegian.” “Well, only my side is. And, my great-grandfather changed his last name when he came to America from Jacobsen to Jacobs. I’m not sure why, though. Maybe to fit in a little better.” I sip the tea again and it’s strong and filling. “Good in here?” Will’s strong voice sounds from the entryway. He sounds like a Viking descendent , I muse within my head. “Yeah, honey,” Maddy answers. “We were just looking over some of these old books. This one was your great-great-grandfather’s. Isn’t that something? He brought it on his trip from Norway.” “Huh.” Will looks over Maddy’s shoulder at the book. He looks cold and a little pale, with his hands stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie. He didn’t seem like that when we came here. I must’ve been too caught up in my own head to notice. “Actually, I know there’s another one like this--here it is!” Maddy puts the book down and grabs another ancient text from the shelf. “You’ll love this one, Nicole, it’s all about the god Freya, who was Odin’s wife and goddess of love and fertility. But, she was also a warrior goddess. She was always my favorite as a kid.” I giggle as I sip my tea and look over Maddy’s shoulder as she opens it. “There are all kinds of stories and myths about her here. There are even some rituals they would perform to ask for Freya’s blessings.” “What would they ask of her?” “Oh, all kinds of things. Some were ceremonies to help get pregnant or to bless a marriage. Some were even rituals to get someone to fall in love with you.” “Really? A love spell? What would they do?” Maddy places the book down and points at an illustration. “Like, this one for instance.” The picture shows a plain woman kneeling before a levitating goddess in a forest. The normal woman holds her hand up to Freya, with blood coming from it. “One would make a small sacrifice to Freya and then have the other person--the one you wanted to fall in love with--ingest something of theirs, like, say, blood. They make a concoction with their blood, the other person drinks it, they say a few words, yadda yadda yadda, and poof , the person loves you for life.” “Crazy,” I say. “Drinking blood. What would the sacrifice be?” “Nothing big, but something to show your devotion. Usually, a finger does the trick.” I stop sipping my tea. I look at Will, who is staring at the book, avoiding my gaze. My eyes press to the book, where Maddy’s hand lays on the page, her nub of a ring finger rubbing the text. I clear my throat and put down my tea. “Strange.” “Not so strange, sweetie,” Maddy tells me. Her voice is flat and unnerving. “We’d all make sacrifices to be loved by the one you love most in this world, wouldn’t we?” I don’t say anything. “I know I would.” She straightens her posture and looks at me as I step back. Her eyes penetrate me. I look to Will, but his eyes are glued to the floor out of shame or fear. “Wouldn’t you, Will?” Will slowly nods his head and takes his hand out of his pocket. A heavy bandage is wrapped around his hand, specifically the ring finger, which is noticeably shorter. “Jesus, what did you do?” I yell as I feel my heart punch against my chest. “I know you were planning on dumping him,” Maddy accuses me. “I could see it in your eyes at the funeral. I know that look because my husband once had that look. But, then, I made a small sacrifice and made him some tea. Now, look how happy we are.” She steps toward me. I step back. I can feel the freezing window pressing against my shoulders and head. My focus begins to blur and my head starts to vibrate. “Maddy, you’re scaring me.” “It’s alright, sweetie. It’ll all be over soon, and then you’ll be in love for the rest of your life. Doesn’t that sound wonderful? Don't you want to be in love for the rest of your life?” My throat feels raw and harsh. I try to rub the blur out of my eyes but it only makes it worse. “You drugged me,” I mumble, the words slurring out of my mouth. “You’re insane. Will, please.” “Deep breathes sweetheart.” I fall to the floor. My fingers feel numb and my tongue sizzles in my mouth. It feels like death is slowly gripping me and squeezing myself out of my own body. The last thing I hear is their chanting. It starts slow and melodic but then grows louder and I think other voices join in. They’re harsh, cruel chants in a foreign language with wicked tongues and vengeful rasps. They chant and chant as I writhe on the floor and my very eyes feel like they’re about to scream out of my skull and my eardrums will explode. Then, darkness came. When I awake, I am in love.


The view from up here. They are solemn. Peaceful. Obtrusively gentle. They are a finger tracing the runes of her spine. They are the hills climbing upon her back. A heart swelling over the edges like dough in the oven. A pair of light blue eyes. The narrow slits forming. The wide moon uncovered amongst grey skies. A girl with a red scarf boarding the train. Searching for something she hasn’t yet discovered. Looking through the fogged glass for self-reflection, blank eyes stare back. They release no messages yet. An upsurge of salt weakening against the sand. Fingers grazing towards the shore. Tides breathing shallow breaths that of a weary man. Butterflies stretching to break from mummified cocoons. Soft touch amongst the earth, a delicate touch of Mother Nature. A baby cries in fistful slumbers, furrowed in colours and bewildering echoes. A plate smashes into in mendable jigsaw pieces. Shards to cut the flesh with sharp edges and jagged tips. Mother birds burrowing their beaks in search of worms for hungry cries follow her in the gust. A relationship crumbles through stacks of papers and a three piece suited lawyer. Looks of unmoving emotion. Locked windows, shades pulled tightly. Bitter shadows creeping in their skies. A battle clouded by loves weather spells. Another grows as they whisper sweet love in each others embrace, a comfort spoon feed to each other. A nagging heart longing for acceptance to full the bottomless pit. A glass empties. An old man hobbles onto the bus, waves a silent goodbye. A tide pool swelling beneath his eyes as he looks amongst his family. His mind is betraying him. He can no longer remember their names. Oh, the quiet downpour of the years drowns the youth away. The creases of books etched upon faces, folding the skin into pages that sigh life. Hands caress decaying skin. Two blue turnips. A final petal sways in his eyes. Shaking wind caresses the lungs. A final shallow breeze sighs through. A flower falls in the rain. Oh the view from up here. A father lets a single tear fall down his cheek silently, he is alone. A mother embraces her dying daughters hand another silent goodbye, she is alone. Collapsing against hard floors, bruised bones and wounded souls. A grim reaper pushing against the barricade. A daughter begging her father for a relationship. A clockwork woman with tv playing static in her eyes. Her eye's aren't seeing, her ears aren't hearing. As she binge watches the past mistakes. Replaying this channel of regret and waiting for the next season. A pout of cigarette stains. Smiling through the lung pains. Swimming in nausea, crashing nicotine waves. A child steals with sly fingers and cunning eyes. He screams. She whimpers. A hand raised. A blood vessel bursts. Wild blue eyes. Swollen, red sadness. A slave for violence. A slave for comfort. Promises used to mend a broken seam, stitching with shaking hands and shaking minds. Small lips curved upwards stretching towards the heavens. Deep blue pools waiting for one to swim amongst them. Emotions swirl down the drain. Dirty water tears. Rinsed off with swallowed screams. There is something blocking her sink, for she is overflowing and feeling too much. I see all from here. Yellow striped tennis balls flying through space upon green turfed courts. An orchestra bellowing to the heavens, delivering spirits to the skies. Praises to the almighty as above so below. He passes a meal to fragile hands. Hushed love with a side serving of the laugh stroked memories. Feet that fly along wooden beams. The passing of pointless notes. The euphoria of naughtiness. Fingers reaching to grasp the sky. Swollen light. Spilling into one another. Secrets bursting through open hearts. Lies whispered through closed doors. Kisses laying gentle against skin. The warmth of an embrace. The cold furls of silence. A raised chorus. The lightening eyes. The slam of a door. The back of heads. Fingers reaching towards the other. Unshed rain. The taste of regret. Shallowing shards of glass. A message unsent. A lover lost. A friend twirling into the unknown. He buries himself away from the sound of her crying. Her voice cracking under the weight of a million tear drops. Swallowing the life of her. Chewing and grinding it to ragged pieces that cut open his body as he tries to swallow the taste. A child’s toothy grin infecting a gathering of strangers. A man falling to his knees. A woman closing the door. A young girl watching herself in distaste, spiralling to the dark hollows of her mind. Scratchy girls opening their skin, to feel something within. A rope, a death sentence hung upon a tree by the quiet child you pass in the hallways. Laughter as wine glasses cheer together in unison while he swings across the interstate. How does one explain the view? Close the door. Slam it shut. Open it gently. Lock it profusely. Let the light touch you. Keep the darkness burrowed within. Smile. Cry. Scream. Laugh. Feel her warmth. Embrace his flaws. Him and her. You and I. Open minds and rusted locks. Breath in life. Sigh it out. Capture silent wonder. A moss covered branch swaying in a cool breeze. A snowflake floating to meet the pavement. Trees hiding their voices amongst whispers of rain. Birds singing to our cries. Hidden messages. Locked secrets. Delight in the beauty of hearing. Yet not understanding. The ripple of water, sunlight on a spider web. A dance between stars. Escaping the shadows. Raising the stakes in the poker game of life. A label machine. Being still. The awakening. The falling. A storm. A scar. A crying kiss. Soft brown hair. An empty house. Foot prints walking away in the mud. Surrounded, yet alone. Creatures born of dark emotion. Sinning from the first light. A fierce hate. Intense love. I want all of you. Yet none of you. You make me feel too much. The view. The view of all things. The view from up here.


A small, meek man walked down the street. He held a physics book under one arm and took each stride with purpose and valour. He quickly pushed his hair to the side in a quiff as his mind began to race on what his thesis could actually be; theorems and formulae that were far too complex or specific smashed themselves around his head like bats screeching within a cave, clouding his thoughts in dark, leathery wings. The sun beat down on his scalp as he restyled his hair into the aforementioned quiff. He pushed his glasses up his sweaty nose as he passed a towering woman with a very fierce yet beautiful structure. He took her into account as he approached, she seemed to be celebrating the deployment of the atomic bomb on Nagasaki -- ‘ Like all those other murderous hooligans’ the man thought as he shook his head, locking away his monologue and smiling at the parade and then at the man next to- Electricity fizzled throughout his entire being and he stopped in his tracks. That beautiful woman was staring at him, he could feel it on his back -- like some sixth sense. He turned to look at her and their eyes met. The electricity burst throughout him and he felt elated. It was as if God himself was pulling him up to Heaven and pushing him down to Hell simultaneously as their lives together flashed before his eyes. He stood there dumbstruck. The woman revealed her pearly, white teeth in a smile and winked at him... He had to go up and talk to her, he had to. Pieces of spaghetti dragged his torso along the sidewalk as he approached the personification of Eden. He stopped about ten metres before her realising how abhorrently out of his league she was. She caught his eye again, giving him a small wave and delicately walked off -- a testament to the limitless bounds of beauty. The door closed as if it were the back end of a book and she collapsed on the bed. The shadows from the curtains stretched over the ceiling and she watched them slowly creep to the edges of the room. Suddenly, she sat up as she reminded herself to reapply her make-up. The woman looked in the mirror to see her hauntingly beautiful features staring back at her, her cheeks were ignited with a rosemary pink as she dabbed them gently, her mascara struck the top of her eyelashes, and her nose, her nose... the most peculiar of abnormalities... her nose began to grow. It was very strange at first, but her once petite and perfect nose began to grow into a horrifying, grotesque hook akin to that of a witch’s. Her eyes began to move in opposite directions as she realised how unsymmetrical they were -- as if her face was designed to be purposefully surreal -- when did her teeth get so mustard with disgusting plaque and were her lips really that chapped? She stood up in disgust as she moved away from the little mirror. She closed her eyes for a while, panting gently as her heart slowed down its imperative sprint. When the world reappeared before her, she saw herself standing an arm’s length away. “ This must be what going crazy feels like” the woman thought, before realising that what she saw before her was not actually her physical form in flesh, but purely a reflection from the large mirror that stood at the back of her room. Her face was back to its aesthetic perfection. Was it the dress that made her stomach look as if it were protruding slightly? She ran her hands down her frame and shivered, was she getting... fatter ? No, no, she was far too young, she took a closer look in the mirror to see that -- yes -- it had just been the angle from which she was standing that gave that impression, that's all. Something soft yet teeth-grindingly aggravating stroked the sole of her foot, she bent down and came up with a small piece of paper she had drawn on. It was a baby and a pram in Hell. She lay back on the bed, chuckling to herself, as thoughts of that silly man she had seen today swam around her head. The electricity she had felt. It was almost comical that she could feel that way about such a shrimp . Her chuckles became a very ambiguous sound as she tried to label exactly what it was she kept feeling, in that room alone, staring at the ceiling. The sanctuary for his focus arrived in the shape of the library. The man would make his way there, knowing that the aroma and silence were bound to make him see clearly. “I hate love” the man thought, catching himself on that last word. He sat, pondering about everyone he has ever known, ever will know, would they compare to her? He hurriedly got up, fleeing away from the depressing thought’s harrowing claws. He couldn’t have been more correct if he tried; he sat in the middle of the library, smiling to himself as he felt the atmosphere crash over him like a tidal wave of nectar. The smell, the silence, the books, the tranquil, quiet footsteps of the librarian guarding her palace -- keeping chaos and confusion at bay. The crisp sound of a page turning like leaves crunching under feet, the leathery feel of the spine of his physics book, the electricity... the electricity he suddenly felt as she walked in. Suddenly none of it mattered anymore, none of it. How she stood there, Aphrodite’s bias on creation. He approached her meekly. He couldn’t mess this up again, “Umm...” he gulped as her pearl blue eyes broke through to his very soul, “Oh, hello there...” The woman smiled a pirate’s smile and winked at the man, she slowly moved out her hand for him to kiss, “Oh, umm...” Awkwardly the man put out his hand and shook hers, she wrinkled her nose, “I-I’m Arthur” a soft, british accent licked the inside of the woman’s ear, “Nice to meet you, Arthur ” She giggled “It’s nice to meet you, uh” suddenly Arthur had an impulse, he knew her name -- her beauty inspired only one suitable label -- “ Mary ” The woman smiled at him, “My name is Alice ” “Oh... And what is your last name, Alice? ” that question sounded a lot less intrusive in front of the bathroom mirror, The woman’s smile faltered a little before returning to its flirtatious state, “Atwood, Alice Utwood” “ Ah, that’s a nice name...” Silence filled his mind, cymbals crashing over an orchestra, his palms sweated as if he had just been swimming through the tumultuous currents of the River Nile. “Say Arthur, you look like you could use a drink to calm you down, why don’t you come along with me?” “No thanks, I’ve got to go to the thesis to work on my physics section” Arthur’s legs drove him away as his mind stayed behind, his veins pumped with self-hatred. His finger ran through the phone book as he searched for Alice’s last name. Was it Atwood or Utwood ? Her flirtatious accent had sprayed a cloud of ambiguous mist over her crucial surname, he reformed his hair into a strong quiff in order to let out his frustration. “Ah!” he had found the name Alice Atwood and... “Ah ha!” he exclaimed. There was no such person with the name Alice Utwood, well they didn’t have a phone at the very least. He pain-stakingly rotated the dial, he felt as if he were reversing a clock. “Hulloh?” a deep, gravelly voice answered the phone, it leered over him, Arthur could almost feel it readying itself to claw out his Adam’s Apple, “Sorry to bother you, sir,” After hearing the voice on the phone, his own voice sounded very high and nasally, he cowered behind the microphone: “Can Alice answer the phone?” Arthur assumed this was Alice’s father. A menacing silence ensued, “Who is this?” the voice replied darkly, “I am... an old friend of Alice’s” he coughed “from her schooling years”, “Alice went to an all-American, all-girls school” Arthur felt strangely flattered by the stranger, maybe his voice was more deep and gravelly than he first believed, “...I smoke very heavily” he said in a cheap New York accent. The deep voice seemed to be unfathomably satisfied with this answer and called out: “ALICE, BABY! IT'S FOR YOU!” There was a slight pause and then “I don’t know who it is, sugarplum , just one of your old smoker friends from highschool” another slight pause, “Well, how was I supposed to know you didn’t go to highschool? Just answer the phone, this is the last thing I need today!” This obviously was not the right Alice. Arthur’s blood ran cold from the minute he heard “ sugarplum ”. He was about to lift the receiver and slam the phone down, when her voice swam its way smoothly into her ear -- a dolphin pushing itself with ease through paradisiacal waters to find its true love. “Hello?” Electricity. Earth shattering, catastrophic electricity. The line hung up as Alice repeatedly said “Hello?” into the phone, “Why is it screaming at me?” she finally exclaimed. “That means they’ve hung up, honey-pie , their line’s disconnected. They must have been asking for a different Alice ”, “Oh.” Her heart dropped. She began to edge her way back up the stairs to her room, to her ceiling. “Say, Alice, how long have you been spending up in that room? You’re looking a bit more...” His deep, gravelly voice trailed off as he searched for the right word: “... piggish than usual” “I’ll try that new diet you recommended to me yesterday , and I’ll see if I have time for a run tomorrow...” “I think the diet might be a good idea” the 6 foot 3 inch brute of a man smiled at her reassuringly, it depressed Alice that she had to label that buffoon as her boyfriend , “However, I don’t think you should go through with the running, best case scenario the neighbours will be thinking you’re trying too hard and we would not want that, would we ?” “No.” She felt so small. Just then, a basket of clothes came into the kitchen -- held by Alice’s mother -- her boyfriend greeted her, saying: “You hear that she wants to go for a run tomorrow!” Her mother chuckled, “Oh, seriously darling, ‘running’ is not a proper thing a lady should be doing to keep fit, have you tried putting some good elbow-grease into your ironing? That’ll do the trick”, “I’ll try” Alice mumbled defeatedly, “Honestly,” Her boyfriend laughed, “they’d be calling you hysterical”, “Yeah...” Alice accepted as she began to retreat back to her room, where she would watch the shadows creep across the ceiling. Alice’s stomach clawed the flesh off of her oesophagus as it begged for any food to replenish its emaciated fashion, but Alice’s fork held the maximum amount of salad she could manage without risking public embarrassment. Despite this, she was rather pleased with herself. She had created a new dress for special occasions -- such as this one -- in order to seem more lady-like and put together in front of her mother, as well as the ever watching needles of the public: weaving her past, present and future off a single reference. She had even made the effort to tell her boyfriend and mother that she would be wearing the dress out tonight. However, neither made an effort to say anything, and soon she fell back into famished depression. Once her boyfriend had slurped up his spaghetti, he sat back and looked at her lustily, licking his lips. She smiled neatly back at him, her small hand trembling. “Really, Alice?” Her mother sighed, “I’m sorry, mother?” She watched as her mother cringed away everytime she even talked or opened her mouth, “Alice, it's disgusting,” her mother physically gagged, a lump formed in Alice’s throat, “you have a leaf stuck between your teeth” “Oh my goodness! I am so sorry!” Alice attempted in vain to hide her mouth as she tried to pick at her teeth with her finger, “For Christ sakes we are in public, you silly girl!” “I’m sorry, it’s not coming out” A tear fell into Alice’s salad. It was as if she was balancing spinning plates, except there were six plates on her nose, ten in each hand, five on each toe and she was in a crashing aeroplane. Suddenly, she felt electricity tickle up her spine. “Y-y-your dress looks nice, I think” It was Arthur, her hero, “Thank you” she smiled, that leaf still lodged between her teeth, “No prob-” Arthur caught sight of her boyfriend and went sickly pale, without a word he speedwalked off. “What a blunderbuss!” Alice’s boyfriend laughed as Arthur tripped on his way past him, “Oh, honey, you’ve still got that wretched leaf in your mouth, please deal with it. You’re not a cow munching on grass, are you ?” Black tears fell, daggers from heaven, onto Alice’s salad as she struggled to repress her sobs, it was no use and her sobbing began to crescendo. The orchestra readied for climax. “Now, honey, don’t cause a scene” Her boyfriend awkwardly placed his hand on top of hers, like a brick squashing cement. “Please stop crying, angel, people will think you’re mentally insane.” he kissed her on her wet cheek -- the violinists propped their instruments under their chins, the horns pursed their lips -- “there, there, buttercup, blossom for me please? Just for me?” And the orchestra erupted. Timpani smashed the paintings off the esteemed restaurant walls, the table cloth was ripped straight off as the strings lead powerful modulation after modulation, the virtuoso stood up as they played such a heart-wrenching and painful melody that it made the owners of the restaurant come to the front in curious outrage. Tears splashed onto the keys of the piano as fast, chordally progressive arpeggios flipped the entire table upside down. Diminuendo followed the woman as she fled the scene, crying and crying and crying until she didn’t even know how to. She found an alleyway between two buildings and sat at the edge of it, below a balcony. Electricity. And there he was, Arthur, she had never felt love, so she would never know if this was it. Arthur got down on one knee, her stomach did a flip, “Hey, are you okay?” he asked, “Please leave me alone.” “Look, I saw what happened in there, everything actually. And that wasn’t right.” Arthur tried, Alice replied with a heavy silence, Arthur took the message. “I’m really sorry, I thought I could say something, like they do in the movies or something but obviously I was-” “Do you feel it?” Alice said, Arthur thought she had never looked so beautiful, with her golden hair flowing through her hands supporting her head. “Sorry?” He said in admiration, “Do you feel it? Everytime we see each other? Everytime we keep bumping into one another?” “I do” Her stomach did another flip, Arthur sat down next to her, it began to rain but the balcony above covered their heads, “ Alyssa , I think I love you” Arthur smiled, Alice chuckled to herself as her sobs mimicked the pattern of the rain. Today was the day, it didn’t matter how big her ‘boyfriend’ was! Arthur was going to ask Alyssa’s mother for her daughter’s hand in marriage. He’d already asked Alyssa but she said she would get back to him next week and that he should come to her house when he felt ready, but he was already confident in her answer; he had been there for her when she was at her lowest, he had confided in her his stresses about writing his thesis, he’d like to see her bull-dog looking boyfriend do that! His knuckle met the face of the door as if it were St Peter at the gates of Heaven. Alyssa’s mother answered. “Is Alyssa home?” Arthur asked confidently, “Do you mean Alice? Yes, she’s in.” “Good! First though, I wanted to ask you something...” He hid the ring in his hand but she had already seen it, she winked at him and nodded, “You have my approval, she’s upstairs” Arthur grinned so wide his mouth almost burst off his face, he laughed out loud as he hugged her mother, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” he exclaimed, “I won’t let you down!” and he sprinted up the stairs... “Alyssa! Alyssa!” he called... Once he arrived at the top of the stairs, the air seemed to disappear from the world. The slight creak of a rocking chair was heard in a room two doors away from him. “Alyssa?” He turned into the room to see two empty eyes smiling back at him. His face dropped, the room stunk. “Yes?” Alice barely spoke, her lips just formed the words behind heavy breath, “Your mother approved of our engagement, we’re going to be married!” “Oh my, thats nice” Alice sat slightly dazed on the rocking chair, “I’ll have a big family, I won’t have to worry about it anymore”, Arthur stood there, perplexed. What was the matter with her? “Darling, I don’t think you understand what I’m saying to you... We’re going to be married! With children! It’s going to be amazing!” “Hmmm... yes, children” She chuckled, “I’ll have a big family, and I will not have to worry about it anymore” silence stank out the room, “I’ve had an operation” Arthur moved forward towards her and saw a large recently healed scar across her forehead beneath her fringe, like a river of stone magma in a dormant volcano. Arthur stood stunned to the spot, too horrified to speak. Alice giggled monotonically, “You’re as silent as a newborn babe...and I will not have to worry about any of that anymore.”