Tradition had always been extremely important in the family. You were born into it. You have no choice. The children were not asked at any age if, they want to do it. It was just expected. Sky knew from an early age she had the family talent. This did not mean she wanted to stay in the family business. Her brothers and sisters had all joined in the show the same as she had. Problem was, Sky wanted more. She studied hard in lessons to prove to herself that she could be more. University called to her. She wanted to be amongst likeminded people who studied for pleasure, not because they had to. She sat at her small desk reading the essay she had written on the victorian household. She liked the Victorian era. The fashion, The Royal Family, Jack the ripper it all fascinated her. She absentmindedly played with the clear contact balls in her hands. They looked like they glided and moved on their own through her skilled hands. If there was the time before a show she would go out and entertain the bored children who were sitting ringside with them. She was trained in most of the circus acts. Trapeze, juggling, throwing knives, so many she couldn’t list them all. She never knew what she would be doing before the show. She would walk up to the list her parents printed out each day and see what part of the show she would be performing in that night or if she had a night off. Her parents did this to try and avoid the boredom of doing the same thing every day. They made the list to try and inspire excitement of who would be performing what each night. They were a static circus, set inside a year-long holiday park. They had regulars who came every year to see them, they even knew some by name. Every school holiday period her parents along with herself and her siblings would put on clown school to teach the kids and adults how to spin plates, ride unicycles or dress up as clowns and play with the different props. She enjoyed the clown school. She enjoyed seeing the looks of amazement on peoples faces when they had mastered whichever trick they had tried their hand at. Maybe she could teach? She just knew that she didn’t want to be a part of the circus her whole life, she wanted more. She had known for years but still hadn’t found the words or the confidence to tell her parents. She worried it would break their hearts. Now that the time for further education was coming up. She knew she would have to tell them soon instead of hiding all of the brochures underneath her underwear in her draw like a child with contraband. She had already applied to several universities for early acceptance. That way she would have time to plan what to say to her parents. They were proud to be performers, neither of them had ever thought of doing anything else with their lives. She heard the study door open and listened to her fathers’ footsteps walk to the message board to post tonights show. It was time to rehearse her act for the night. It only took an hour as everyone knew what to do, they just needed to practice timing and which opening they would go out to. It differed slightly every night like the Simpsons couch gag. She closed down her laptop and walked over to the list. Knife throwing, her favourite. She went down the hall to her sister’s room to tell her she would be getting stabbed that night. She was joking, of course, her aim and the tricks of the trade made it extremely difficult to stab whoever stood in front of the comically large target board. She went to the study and knocked on the door, then went in. “Hi dad, I’m just here for my knives, please,” She said to his back as he bent over his desk, probably working on a new routine. She went to his side and looked at the paper he was drawing on absorbed in his work of the presumed new routine he had probably dreamt up. He always said he drank, ate, lived and dreamed in a big top. She waited patiently while he finished his thought. He was a kind man but god forbid anyone ever dared to interrupt him when he had an idea. It seemed to fly away as soon as he stopped working on it if, he was stopped before his initial idea had been jotted down on whatever he had at hand at the time of the idea. It looked like an interesting new trampoline act with the trapeze. The act would probably go to her eldest brother and sister as they were the most confidant with those acts. Finally, when the initial idea was drawn up he looked at her confused for a second then reached into his pocket for ‘The forbidden cupboard’ keys. It held all the props for the dangerous acts. Such as knives, swords and paraffin among other things that could be stolen. Everyone had their own set of knives. Sky’s knives had a blood-red blade which turned into a flame design at the handle. They were designed to look as if she was throwing fire. Sky was mainly a dangerous act participant. Her main skills were Knife throwing, sword swallowing and fire dancing. Her image was a fire goddess as she had bright red hair, a red costume and a phoenix tattoo on her arm. They all had some sort of themed persona at work. Her father was the ring leader with his tall top hat and tails. Her mother was always the gorgeous assistant. She was still stunning even after five children who were all mainly grown-up. She took her knives, returned the keys to her father’s desk as he was back working again, then went out to the target. Her sister was already there waiting to get things thrown at her. She was looking at the props. “I’m feeling brave tonight so I’m thinking balloons to start then I’ll hold a fan near my heart and you can pop the hidden balloon by my side.” Her sister suggested. They had an unwritten rule that, with knife throwing the target person chose which version of the act they wanted to do. “If that’s what you want to do, we can do that” Sky agreed “Then we can William tell it with the apple on the head at the end, do you want to grab the crossbow?” Sky worried that her sister might be feeling too hyper and daredevil for the show. “The crossbow trigger is still broken, but I can use a blindfold if you want?” “Double it! I’ll be blindfolded too, you should miss the first time. Get the hearts of the audience racing” Sky rolled her eyes, she hated it when her sister was this confidant but also proud that her sister trusted her so much. She was her favourite, she would miss her the most if she went away. XXXX “Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the Angel’s triumph circus!” Sky’s dad yelled at the crowd. The sign that it was showtime. The night’s performance was a great hit. The double blindfold with the bluff miss throw made the audience ooh and ahh. Sky had smiled at her sister when they took their bow. She loved it when the audience really got into the acts. After the final bows of the family and their circus friends who also performed with them. Sky’s dad stayed dead centre of the ring. Her mother ran out the back with a flourish. Feathers from her tail littering the floor. When she came back she stood beside her husband with a microphone. “We here at the Angel’s triumph circus would like to say we are parent’s who respect our children’s privacy, mums out there am I right?” the crowd murmured in agreement. “We have been a family-run circus on this spot for three proud generations. Now I am pleased to announce that one of our chicks has broken all that tradition and has been accepted into university.” Sky’s mum’s eyes met hers. Sky could see the proud tears in her parents’ eyes. “You did it, baby. We knew you would be the one to fly the coop” Sky ran up to her mother and the envelope with her acceptance letter in it. She should have known that she would have their support. Sometimes a break in tradition can be a good thing.


As we sit in a movie theater eating the snacks that we brought. My mind fills with words I can't fix my lips to say. It's Saturday night & I am on a date with a boy from school. He isn't just any boy. His name is Ethan Pollock. I've had a crush on Ethan since the 6th grade; we are now sophomores. During science class, he asked if I would like to go to the movies on Saturday. Without a doubt, I excitedly said yes! Now here we are. In a movie theater watching the movie "13 going on 30" I stare at him as he sips on his coca-cola drink. then his eyes latched onto mine & for a few minutes, we stare into each other souls. when the movie ended he & I sat in his car in the movie theater parking lot. "Did you have a good time?" He asks me as his blue crystal eyes shine when he looked at me. "Yea it was a great movie." That's not really what I wanted to say to him. I wanted to tell him how much I liked him since I was 12! & how I wish for this date NOT to end! "Good, glad you enjoyed yourself" Ethan turns the key that is in the ignition. then begin to drive out of the parking lot. "Where are we going?" I asked. "It's late I was going to take you home." In my head I say. No, I don't want to go home. I wanted him to take me to the nearest lake so we could make out & watch the full moon. But, instead, I said "Ok" Ethan parked his car in front of my house. while I sit in the passenger seat with a head full of words that I wanted to say, but just didn't have the guts to SAY them. "This was nice, Laura I hope to do this again someday" "Yea" Ethan reaches for my hand, nervously I allow his hands to touch mine. "Do you feel the same way?" He asks me as he gently touches my hand. "Um, I think this was a good date." here I go again saying shit that I don't want to say. I mean really? What is it with me?! My body language came off weird to the point Ethan became uncomfortable. "I think I should go now. I'm feeling exhausted." I say while removing my hand from his. "Ok yeah I guess I'll see you in school on Monday" That was a lie after the date, Ethan, & I had. I never heard from him again. It's been 2 weeks since our date & I haven't received a phone call from him. I mean I saw him in the hallways in school, & science class but he never acknowledged me. I mean I could understand, during our movie date he was throwing himself at me & I didn't even try to throw myself back. Now, do you guys see where I'm coming from? This story isn't just about Ethan. It's mostly about me not being able to speak my mind properly. Ethan is just ONE of the characters in my narrative. During the lunch period, my best friend Oriana & I talk about trying out for the cheerleading squad. "Do you think that we are good enough to be a cheerleader?" Oriana asks as she sips her apple juice. "Of course we are!" As Oriana speaks, Ethan walks past our table without giving me any eye contact. "Did you hear about who's Ethan dating?" Oriana ask me. "No" although I did hear a rumor that he was dating Leslie Palmer the cheer captain. But instead, I pretended like I didn't know. I thought that would make Oriana stop talking about Ethan. Instead, she kept the conversation going. "He's dating Leslie Palmer. Isn't that weird?" "Not at all" You can tell by my tone of voice that I was crushed by it. But the expression on my face said otherwise. "It isn't? You two were just on a movie date like 2 weeks ago." "Well, I've moved on as he did. It's no biggie." I then stuff a French fry with ketchup into my mouth. I didn't tell my friend that the reason why Ethan stopped talking to me was ALL my fault! I just couldn't fix my lips to say how I truly felt about him. I mean maybe it's for the better. Saturday afternoon, Oriana & I decided to go to the mall. when we arrived at the mall, the first place that we entered was a makeup store. A store that we could try all different types of lipsticks & foundation. Oriana picks a bright red lipstick that she begins to try on while looking at herself in the mirror. I on the other head try on eye shadow. Oriana turns to me with bright red lips & tend to ask me what I thought about it. My first impression of the lipstick was something, Ronald McDonald would wear With a crooked smile, I thought how embarrassing the lipstick looked to be. My friend smiling waiting for me to give her my true opinion of it. I simply say "it looks good." Oriana hugs me as her bright lipstick hurts my eyes. As we walk around the mall guys & girls stare at Oriana's hideous lipstick. "What's everyone staring at?" I wanted to say the hideous lipstick that you chose to put on your lips. then I thought that would be too truthful to say. "Idk, but let's get going my mom is outside for us." Later on that day in my room. I lay on my bed while reading a book. I could hardly read the book because my thoughts were so loud. why can't I just say what I'm thinking? What stops me from saying all of the words that my mind fixes for me to say? What if I need some sort of counseling? The next day these questions still filled my head while I sit in science class bored. As I think about what I should do with myself. The classroom became quiet to me. As Mr.Rudolph stands in the front of the class his lips move but I hear no sound. I look around the classroom & I see Ethan with Leslie. His arms wrapped around her. His eyes sparkle as he looks at her, the same way they did when he & I were on our date. Shortly after this day, I got a rude awakening for my poor verbal communication. It happened during the sophomore dance. Oriana & I are in the girl's bathroom in school putting on our makeup, as we prepare for the dance. We laugh & take photos while glitter is all over the sink tops. "I have to use the bathroom I'll meet you in the auditorium" Oriana says while entering the bathroom stall. "No way I'm not entering the auditorium without you." I say while playfully banging on the door. "Just go!" Oriana says while laughing. I leave the girl's bathroom & begin to walk to the auditorium. As I walk closer & closer I began to hear dance mix music. When I opened the door to the auditorium I see kids my age laughing, dancing & sipping on the punch. As I look around I immediately started to feel excited! The music was great! The colors of dresses & tuxedos filled the place as if it were a rainbow after a storm. I began to dance in the middle of the floor by myself until I saw Oriana enter the auditorium. I excitedly waved at her. She waved back. As we start to walk closer & closer to each other I saw the toilet sheet hanging from her butt. Instead of thinking like I usually do. I automatically ran to Oriana to prevent embarrassment. but I was too late, everyone started to laugh & point at the toilet sheet that was hanging from her bottom. Oriana realizes what everyone is laughing at & ran out of the doors of the auditorium. I try to run after her until I accidentally ran into Ethan. "Oh, Im sorry!" I say while backing away from him. "Why are you in such a rush?" Ethan asks "Because Oriana needs me" I tended to walk away from him until he said something harsh to me. "Why are you so weird Laura?" "What?" I say while crossing my arms against my chest. "I said why are you so weird?" "I don't have time for this! I have to find Oriana!" "Oh, she's gone probably hiding from you! Im not surprised if you knew before she entered the party that she had a toilet sheet hanging from her bottom!" "You don't know what you are talking about!" I walked closer to Ethan & pointed my finger aggressively against his tuxedo. "I do! I mean why did you think I stopped talking to you? Huh? It's because that night after we watched the movie you were acting so strange in my car!" "Ethan I can explain that." "Oh yeah when? It's been a month! I thought you liked me as much as I liked you! Since 6th grade I liked you! & when I finally had the opportunity to try to express my feelings. You pretend like you didnt care!" "Ethan it's not that I didnt care--" Ethan interrupts Laura. "Do you think that I want to be here with Leslie? No! I wanted you to be here with me! Dancing with friends, drinking punch!" As Ethan goes on & on I see Leslie standing behind him with tears in her eyes. "I have to go find Oriana!" I run through the halls leaving Ethan. "Where could she be?" I say to myself trying to find where Oriana ran off to. Then the light bulb shined above my head like a halo when I realized exactly where she might be! The art room! Oriana's favorite subject was art so I knew that's where she possibly could be. When I opened the door to Mrs. Gartfield's art room there was. Sitting up against the wall pouting. On the wall above her were pictures of drawings. I sit next to her gently against the wall. I reach for her hand. "Are you ok Oriana? " "No, I feel humiliated!" "Don't be! Things happen." "Yea but why did it have to happen during our sophomore dance?!" "I don't know why things happen the way they do, they just do!" Oriana removes her hand from mine. "Look Oriana are you gonna sit here in this dark room & pout? Or are we both gonna go back to the dance?" "Are you crazy?! Im not going back in there?" "Why not?" "Because people are gonna laugh at me!" "So what if they did! We came here to dance & enjoy being sophomores; soon to be juniors!" Oriana looked at me with a frown. "Don't look at me that way. Im being serious Oriana! Let's to the bathroom & fix yourself up & return to the dance! You cannot let them think that they've won!"


He entered the house through the servants’ door. It stood half-open, moonlight slipping through the crack on cat’s feet. The old mahogany stairs stretched up to nowhere. He cupped a hand over the candle and struck a match. The smell of sulfur permeated the air. Flickering, the candle cast its firefly glow into the passageway. He left the door open and crept up the stairs. A wild night wind followed him, teasing at the flame and trickling cold into his skin. Fate was favoring him tonight. The young man paused at the top, hesitant. He put his ear to the door and closed his eyes. One hand strayed to his coat pocket and closed upon tin. The salt-cellar was cool against his fingertips. He drew it out and fumbled in the near-blackness. The candle-flame swayed, uncertain. Far below, the moonlight pooled on the threshold and watched with silent eyes. He took a pinch of salt and flung it over his left shoulder. All of a sudden the shadows seemed to shrink back. Little tendrils of smoke went writhing up from his light and into the cracks in the walls. The candle guttered dramatically and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. The night wind halted--all was stifling gloom. With a shudder he opened the venerable door and slipped through. The hallways of the ancient manor were surprisingly free from spiderwebs and dust. Peeling wallpaper rustled as he moved down the thickly carpeted walkways. A candle in a sconce gave off a dull glow, sending pale fingers of wax down the wall. He walked cautiously, testing the floor with the tip of a boot before each step. His thick black coat did little to keep out the autumn chill that permeated through every crack in the walls. A shiver ran up his spine and stopped his process. He froze, heart pounding. All was completely quiet in the house. The thick emptiness muffled even the faltering sound of his breaths. A chain hung around his neck, with a lucky coin on the end. The dull metal felt almost warm against his fingers. He continued on into the house, moving quicker now. The open door to the parlor loomed up on his left and he hurried past. The bulky shapes of furniture stood, half-concealed by the shadows. Now he was in the kitchen. Here a solitary lantern burned, left perhaps by some forgetful servant. The loneliness began to close in on his mind and he shook it off. He could not afford to lose time. The matchbox hung heavy in his coat pocket. The young man kept moving. It was not safe to stop. He wandered through the kitchen, silent as secrets, avoiding the loose floorboards that nagged at his boots. In circles he went, candle flame casting mad shadows on the plastered walls. The air smelled like aging wood and dust. Rows of drawers with brass knobs stared at him from the walls, begging to be opened. But the young man resisted. He scanned the room with his eyes. There was nothing of notice, nothing more than what belonged in a kitchen of this size. A leggy, insubstantial spider wound its way over the lantern handle and watched him noiselessly. The deep tones of a grandfather clock, resounding from somewhere deep within the manor, sent him darting into the corner. His blood ran cold. Icy sweat dripped down the back of his neck and under the collar of his shirt. He muttered under his breath, reaching again for the salt cellar. But the resonance halted. It was precisely two o’clock in the morning. Now he hunted with greater intensity. There was no time to fear. He found the winding staircase that lead to the study and hurried up it, breathing hard. The ancient stairs made no noise as he passed up them. The candle wavered in a draft, sending golden highlights whirling on his disheveled hair. Ahead, the door to the study stood tantalizingly open. He lurched toward it--then paused. Carefully, he slipped into the study, polished boots sinking into the Persian rug. One hand clasped at the coin around his neck. It felt cool now, comforting. The young man closed the door, nearly all the way, and lifted his candle to survey the study. It was an old room, cloaked in grandeur and smelling strongly of incense. A majestic carved desk took up the majority of the space. Bookshelves haunted the back wall, their ornate fronts illuminated eerily by Newt’s candle. The grinning skull of an ape stared at the silent newcomer. Everywhere were papers. Letters, essays, and notes littered the floor and sat in neat bundles on the armchair. A hefty ceramic jar full of quill pens sat heavily on the desk, scuffed from frequent use. Strange shapes sat on the shelves, wrapped in cloth and smelling of mothballs. This was a room filled with knowledge and secrets. But the young man did not step out into the room. He watched with grim dark eyes. There was no sound in the study. Nothing moved in the dim. It was as if Fate had frozen time. The silent clock stood alone, tirelessly swinging its pendulum. The brass flashed as it reflected the candlelight. Newt reached with trembling hand for the saltcellar. There seemed to be no air in the room. Even the flickering candle brought no relief from the stifling darkness. He clutched the necklace in one hand and flung another pinch of salt with a deft movement. There was no change in the gloom. The salt made a skittering noise as it scattered on the floorboards of the hall. Now he dared look behind him. The staircase was empty. He glided over the carpet and into the study. The piles of ink-smudged papers rustled as he approached--he began to sort through them. The candle was set aside, where it kept company with the ape’s skull. Its little flame cast Newt’s shadow on the wall, looming up like some archaic monster. Weather-worn parchment crinkled beneath his fingers. With growing intensity he skimmed each document and swept it aside. Pages and pages of hand-written material were cast heedlessly onto the floor. A folded stack of papers, wrapped with red twine, presented itself. Newt seized it with trembling fingers and ripped off the twine in one motion. Letters fluttered to the carpet like cream-colored doves. He caught one. One glance at the front gave him the information he needed--the folded paper was emblazoned with an embellished letter W. An electric chill ran down his spine. read. My dearest W, I contact you with grave news. I am writing this from the neighbors’--you know the elderly couple down the road?--where they have so kindly allowed us to stay. For this is a grim situation indeed! It is as we feared. Ever since the trials begin to come we have suspected an ill-meaning presence. And now we have had so much trouble that I am positive this house is cursed. You know of the affairs with Roger’s business, and the garden. Well now I too am affected. This house is always filled with a ghastly chill--I cannot abide it. My -- Here ink splatters had blocked out the majority of the paragraph. Newt scanned it with ferocity, caring not for trivialities. He began to read with desperation born of a hunger for answers. In the last few sentences he found them. He held the paper nearly to his nose, processing. This was the missing piece to a puzzle he had spent months deciphering. As I write this, my daughters are readying the carriage. We cannot stay in this house any longer. Roger refuses to go. He thinks I have gone mad. And perhaps I have! Oh W, I wish you were here. Perhaps then I would feel safe again. The evidence is laid before me, and the verdict is clear. I do not wish to believe it but I must. There is a spirit in our house... a ghoul of sorts. There is a curse upon this manor and I fear it has already fallen upon me and my family. I do not know what the future holds but I know I must protect my poor girls. Be safe, I will contact you again soon. Sincerely, Lona W. He bent and picked up the papers that composed the rest of the bundle. An addressed envelope waited there for a letter that had never been sent. Newt straightened up suddenly, his shadow rearing against the wall like a wild thing. A mad look came into his eyes and a shiver coursed through him. His silent query had been answered. There was an evil presence in this house. A curse upon the home that should have been his. Blind with emotion, he tore the envelope in half. The fragments drifted to the stuffy carpet. His boots crumpled them as he turned and hurried to the door. He pushed open the door and slipped down the stairs, candle smoke trailing behind him. A firm resolve drove him on. As he returned to the main floor of the house, the unblinking stars watched him through the cracks in the curtains. He moved with less caution now, striding across the aging floors without fear. He passed through the parlor and down a set of steps.This was the east wing of the manor--a little tower of sorts that jutted out from the corner of the house. Here, a small yellow door sat framed by floral wallpaper. A thick round window set in the conical roof let in the creeping moonbeams. The scent of dusty rose hung in the air like something out of a dream. Newt cracked open the door and looked reverently into the little room. All was still. This was a pristine place, a place out of time. A vase of purple autumn flowers rested on the nightstand. Embroidered linen curtains hung motionless. The faded pink quilt on the bed was neatly folded. Even in illness, the occupant of this room had clearly taken pride in keeping up tidy habits. Not a thread was out of place. He took this all in breathlessly. It was as if he was looking down into a locket. This place held memories--memories he could not again enter. He exhaled, melancholy creeping into his veins and grasping at his heart. For the first time since entering the manor he allowed himself to close his eyes. The madness in his heart loosened its grip on him and lay down softly, like a great cat. On the whitewashed wall above the bed there hung a portrait. Daubs of oil paint glistened in the candlelight as he crept forward. It was a new painting, perhaps a few months old. The frame was gilded with gold leaf, in a fashion that had always pleased the dwellers of the manor. The girl herself looked radiant in the portrait. The ruddy cheeks and dark eyes were as lifelike as any artist of the time could have portrayed. One fair hand clutched a wildflower. Curls of hair framed the face, as elegant as befit a Roman goddess. Around the maiden’s neck, a silver coin hung, glinting in the painted sunlight. He choked--fell to the floor. His pendant seemed to tighten around his neck, threatening to steal his breath away. It was on a longer chain than hers. He remembered finding the two coins in the manor attic. A single hole ran through the center, bored long ago in a foreign mint. She had suggested mounting them on chains, hoping they would bring good luck. They had spent hours in the attic, fiddling with the chains and talking. The charm was meant to keep him safe, yes, but it was a mere piece of metal. She was his good luck charm. She always had been. But now the charm was all he had left. She had faded away slowly, a wildflower bitten by frost. The illness was full of ups and downs. It teased with sharp claws, played with her like a hunting cat. One day she would be able to sit up, and to eat again. One week the doctor had pronounced her well enough to go outside. But the curse was patient. It stalked her, caught her again and pulled her back into the darkness. With the summer leaves she had finally wilted. And Newt had never been the same. But now the hole in his heart was filled. Now all his questions were answered. It was not Fate that had stolen his lover away. No, Fate was a longtime friend of his. It was something else, a hateful creature from the black mists of death. Some kind of spirit formed from shadows who’s cruel possession over the manor had cost him everything. It was a tangible enemy, an outlet for his emotion. And now he felt nothing but madness. Bent on the carpet, he clenched his fists until the blood left his palms. It rushed into his face, hot and blinding. The lucky charm burned against his chest. The candle fell from nerveless fingers and lay against the wood floor, scorching a black hole in the varnish. He staggered to his feet, turned away. The soft eyes of the girl in the painting seemed to beg him for help. The room swirled around him. The curtains rustled in an unnatural breeze. Against the floorboards, a black tendril of smoke curled up like a talon. The tears lasted only seconds. He ran to the window, breathing hard. The smell of burning tugged at the edges of his senses. Outside, the cold, emotionless moon stared down on the manor. It peered through the window at the hopeless boy in the room of his love. Somewhere in the house, maybe the ghost was watching him too. The blurred stars were the eyes of Fate. She was smiling down upon him. His eyes burned and he dug his fingernails into the windowsill. They left little half--moons when he turned away. There was nothing here for him any longer. Everything had been stolen from him. He strode numbly across the floor and knelt to pick up the candle. A little section of the boards smouldered, glowing cracks spiderwebbing across the charcoal. The lucky charm burned like the dying candle. The hair on the back of his neck stood up and he knew his enemy was near. He stared at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes, watching. No sound came from the house. “I know you’re here.” He rose, trembling. A piece of flaming ash dropped from the embers of the candlewick. Hot wax oozed slowly down his wrists. The darkness seemed to shift, to form. The ghost was at the door. Air trembled as an imperceptible tremor went through the room. The painting smiled down at him, innocent. Fate had always meant for this to happen. He knew now what he must do. Fever quivered in his veins. He tore the lucky coin from his neck, pressed his lips to it. The candle grew hot in his hands and he strode to the curtains. The candle flame caught easily in the soft, dry velvet. It shone, reflected in his lover’s painted eyes, as the room began to burn.


Julian has seen lots of things in his life, seen things that made others scratch their head. With a camera and hawk-like precision, he took pictures of these things, catching the infinite beauty tied with the landforms. Today, though, was a special place. Before him stood a landmark that no one could ever quite explain. Around him was a barren desert. On the trek to this place, his shoes hissed on the cracks of earth, little rocks spurring in his wake. Dust settled into small clouds on the surface, hiding his ankle and shoes in a dim mist. He could still hear and feel the earth beneath him, deprived of water and greenery. But the place that stood in front of him was the opposite of a desert devoid of life. It was a pond. Somewhat big, a perfect circle. The waters were shimmering blue, rolling waves like the silk of the dress of a fallen queen. The waves lapped to his feet, gently sloshing against his shoes. Even through the thick fabric, he could feel the bite of cold, like an icy kiss. A pond in a desert. That might seem strange enough, but it wasn’t even the strangest part of the place. Sure, glistening waters in a dead zone were startling, but it was what stood in the middle of the pond that was the star, that had scientists grumbling and local folk whispering. Straight at the heart of the pond stood a tree. Its trunk was thick and sturdy. Julian thought that the color of the trunk was that of aged paper, like it was dipped in fine wine and left out to dry. Grooves ran up and down the length of the trunk. Some were black and wide, others were a dim white, almost as if the tree had battle scars. It ran the entire length of the tree before vanishing in the leaves and branches. ` But Julian’s breath caught when he looked at the leaves. He had focused his camera lens on those very leaves, shooting at multiple angles, but even with his expertise, his pictures did them no justice. The leaves were like cuts of emerald on diamond branches. They were aglow in the sun, veins running through them, beams of sunlight shining behind them, making them turn shades of orange and yellow. The branches were pure white, dazzling in the afternoon sun. They were thick and strong, reaching up to the sky, the clouds. The leaves rustled in the wind, making a whispering sound that sent chills down Julian’s neck. He didn’t care if people thought he was crazy for thinking this. But he fully believed, with all his heart, that this tree was alive. Of course, he passed middle school, so he knew all plants and animals were living beings. But that wasn’t the case with this tree. He believes that the tree has a conscious. As if it’s aware of everything around it. The way the leaves rustled was as if it was whispering. The way the trunk stood was as if its back was straight, ready to face the world. The branches were like arms and hands and fingers, reaching towards him, reaching towards the sky. It’s as if the branches were praying, praying to the gods who listened. With this thought, Julian shivered and stepped back, his toes immediately warming without the constant lapping of the glass water. The wind seemed to form a cocoon around him, trapping him so he could hear its murmurs. You are not crazy. You speak the truth. Julian’s mind just froze. And then the wind, the voice, all stopped. He just stood there, camera in shaking hands, as the wind left him alone. Whenever people visited this place, they never left with a sane mind. His own father had journeyed here to capture the pond and tree’s beauty, and when he came home, there was a crazy gleam in his eyes. “Jewels,” he had said, clinging to Julian’s shoulder. Julian had been nine at the time, and seeing his father like this set him on edge. “Those winds... the trees... they whisper, Jewels,” he mumbled, his voice slurred, as if he had drunk numerous bottles of wine. “They whisper ancient knowledge, all you have to do is listen.” Julian had tried to pry himself from his father’s grip, but he didn’t waver. His father just looked at his son, as if searching if Julian could listen to the whispers. “When you get older, promise me, Jewels. Promise that you will go there, and you will listen to the whispers. The wind... oh, their knowledge, their sayings,” he had said, drifting off into the living room, muttering to himself, swaying in place. Nine-year-old Julian had been terrified. Had vowed to himself that he shall never go to that ancient place in his father’s photos. But now he was here, standing in front of the waters, taking picture upon picture. He still wasn’t sure why he did it. You are doing it because of your father’s legacy. His last dying wish. Julian froze again. The winds spoke the truth. On his deathbed, Julian’s father had clasped his hand, looking at his son with murky eyes. “You will go to the ancient site. I have a map... in my room. Go, Jewels, go,” he had rasped. After those words were uttered, his father turned his head and sighed, the air permanently leaving his body. As if Death had waited for those words, then whisked him away. We know Death. Cunning man, swift on his wings. He claims those who are old, those with illness. What is your thought, Julian Mare? “Stop,” Julian whispered, shaking. The water seemed to edge closer to his toes, though he was several feet from the shore. “Please, stop.” You are worried about becoming like your father. Interesting. Fine, we shall no longer bother you, Julian Mare. But know that with your father’s legacy, your lifeblood belongs to us. “What do you mean,” Julian said, his voice clipped. This was not a question, but rather a demand. Long ago, your first ancestors swore an oath to us, this tree, the waters. They said that every male in the family shall visit this site, and in return, we shall protect their life. Death can only claim them when they reach old age. Julian sank to the ground, his hands in his hair. He was going crazy, just like his father... Look at the water, Jewels. Go to the glass. And for some reason, the command struck into his soul. He found his hands pushing off of the ground, his feet lurching towards the waters. And with his torso leaning over the waters, he looked. And saw a spirit beside him. Julian didn’t move, couldn’t move. The spirit was made of wisps of smoke, like its whole body was a shadow. And Julian could make out the faint line of a smile. You are not going crazy, Julian. You are just seeing what every male before you saw. “Why did my father go insane after visiting this place?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the spirit. He could have sworn it grimaced. Your father went too far. He swam in the sacred and forbidden waters. As a punishment, we required his sanity. His debt was paid. And with that, Julian found his body walking backward, away from the waters that seemed to turn black. It was like the galaxy swirled around the tree. Just pure and endless black spotted with shades of red and purple and blue. Julian turned, facing oblivion, his ears ringing and mind whirling. And he felt a gentle nudge on the small of his back. As if a child’s hand pushed him away from the waters. Come back soon, the wind purred as Julian walked away. Away from this sacred place that held his life in their wispy hands.


Cold, moist air moved uninhibited through the massive ponderosas as amber streaks of dawn burst through the sparse canopy. Brenton fidgeted in his sleeping bag as we moved with cumbrous angst in the confined space. He took mental note that the tag on the bag said twenty degrees, which he presumed to align with his warmth at temperature that low, but throughout his first night ever sleeping outdoors he realized it was more of a suggestive survivable temperature threshold than a designation of comfort. The orange nylon walls of his tent, bought only a couple days earlier, quickly brightened as the sun crested higher over the horizon, and the thin walls were thoroughly covered in water droplets formed overnight as the temperature dropped to just above freezing. “Better than being at work,” he thought to himself as he thrust an arm out of the bag and shook the tent walls, curious as to how the beads of moisture would react as a cold shower of false rain fell onto his face. He shook his face and felt suddenly awake from the shockingly cold water. A faint smile crept onto his face as he knew all the stress, anxieties, and pressures of his demanding world back home was a hundred miles away. Brenton slowly crawled out of his sleeping bag, feeling all the aches and cramps of laying on the rocks, roots, and pine cones that created the forest floor, and opened the zippered door. He’d never been seen the morning light on the woodlands of the Colorado Plateau and was awed by the portrait displayed in front of him. Thick beams of golden light showered upon the brown and tan trunks of the hundred year old trees that towered a hundred feet upwards with vibrant green needles creating a net between the ground and the strikingly blue cloudless sky above. It smelled of freshness combined with a notable tinge of organic plant materials slowly decomposing underneath; a naturalness not found in his usual urban life that allowed limited time for moments of serenity. He felt relief of this wondrous discovery; of finding nature; of overcoming his physical discomforts from sleeping on the hard ground. Having spent ten hours cocooned in his tent through the night a surge of another need for relief soon powered its way through Brenton. Putting on his moistened boots Brenton got up and walked over to a nearby tree. It was quite the opportune restroom, deserving just for him, and with nobody else around he felt at ease leaning over the bed of pine needles. Then, out of the ordinary, he discovered a sweet, butterscotch aroma that wafted from the ponderosa to his nose. This required a second, closer inquiry as Brenton postured with his nose stuck deep into the pine tree’s furrows, stunned at the scent the tree gave off. It was enough to make him hungry, enough that he licked the tree’s bark, but decided that the taste wasn’t going to match the scent as he’d hoped and spit out the woody debris. He continued walking between trees, enjoying the calmness of the pines, seeking another discovery that’d connect him deeper with nature. As awkward as he might have looked to an observer - still holding onto a semblance of suite-and-tie professionalism - he decided that he didn’t really care too much and continued his meandering through the woods as a gleeful wood nymph. Each step furthered him from the routine of his life back home. There was a slight magic, a positive cleanness and burst of energy within the air, which the forest was bringing out within him. Startling Brenton, he heard the undulating whoosh of a large raven flying overhead as he spied the bird gliding through the under-story of the pine forest. A few more birds followed the same path as they sailed over the small hill just beyond his tent. All of the birds disappeared out of site, but, as Brenton concluded, not too far away. There was something out that way, something those ravens were interested in, and Brenton felt inclined to include himself into the venture. He kept a line of sight on his tent as he walked towards the cawing, but eventually needed to lose the visibility of his home base to continue forward. It’d be fine, he figured, since he could just turn around once he found whatever it was the ravens were congregated around, and then he’d simply retrace his steps until the fluorescent orange tent reappeared. The butterscotch aroma dissolved from the air as an unpleasant profuseness overcame his nostrils as Brenton narrowed upon the ravenous birds. There were three of them congregated in a triangle that involved plucking and scratching at something. Squinting his still sleepy eyes he noted blotches of dark red on the birds’ beaks as he closed in, moving more cautiously now as he become nervous to what he might find. Suddenly that feeling of stress, that surge of discomfort from opening confrontational emails and dealing with distraught clients all day - the reason for his wilderness escape in the first place - reclaimed his emotions. The logical step would be to just return back to his tent, figure out his gas stove, make a coffee, and just pretend whatever was over there was nothing. Yet, human curiosity forced him forward; to find out what was there; to unearth the mystery of the thinly veiled. With two strident and careful steps he peaked over the murder of black birds. He gagged as he looked upon a partially decomposed doe that the ravens were voraciously picking apart with their tipped beaks and stringy claws. The deceased animal stared at Brenton with its death-riddled and lifeless black eyes. He let out a screech of panic, high-pitched and resonant, that erupted out of his mouth uncontrollably. The ravens, drunk on animal flesh and blood, turned toward him and instead of fleeing from his presence, shouted angrily with blaring, pugnacious caws. The birds appeared possessed as they hobbled in Brenton’s direction clearly disturbed by his presence. “Intruder!” they cawed at him over and over. Scared and unduly shocked by the aggressive birds Brenton stepped backwards, but tripped his heel into a rock. Suddenly, he was lying prostrate on the damp pine needles and dirt. He soon found his eyes in line with the three large birds’ belligerent and blood-riddled faces. “Get away from me!” he yelled at them, scuttling away on his hands and knees until he gained his bipedal stature, and sprinted uphill to gain some distance. The ravens continued their serious and unrelenting warnings as he retreated. The birds they stayed put at their carrion feast and changed their note to what felt like cackling to the frightened Brenton. He only looked back once, to ensure he’d made a clean escape and none of those devilish birds were following, but found that he’d lost his navigation through the monotonous forest. The tent wasn’t yet visible and each tree looked like the next, each opening similar to the one adjacent to his campsite. With a still racing heart, feeling the impending doom of becoming lost in the woods with no one aware of his location, Brenton continued frantically searching for his tent. He could still hear the birds and was unsure of their intentions. From the corner of his periphery he caught a glimpse of the bright orange nylon behind a large pine’s trunk and he took off urgently towards it. His nose was runny from the cool weather and his toes nearing numbness as he fought to keep himself gathered, staggered inconsistent breathes hampered his chest. Finally he reached his tent and decisively went about tearing all parts of his camp down as efficiently as he could manage. As he clumsily shoved hand over hand of tent, pole, and sleeping bag into his backpack a loud, shrieking caw enveloped his senses once again. Frozen, Brenton followed the flight of two additional ravens as they met up with their feast of dead flesh. “I just need to get home,” he spoke an instructive, survivalist mantra to himself as he took what he’d succeeded to pack into his backpack. Without caring beyond his withdrawal from the gruesome forest Brenton left behind a trail of brand new gear, left behind and unpacked. He booked it back towards his car, which was parked a half mile up the forest trail, furthering himself from the dreadful ravens with each step. Once he loaded his backpack into the trunk of his car, tossing it with vehemence, he got into the driver’s seat, locked the doors, and sighed in the relief having achieved relative safety. Reaching into the glove box with cold, wet hands, he took out his phone and turned it on. As he looked at the sentinel trees looming over, tree that had tricked him into feeling relaxed and vulnerable, he felt the vibration of messages coming through; he’d only been gone for less than a day. It was only when Brenton checked his messages as he was driving out of the forest, cursing as he saw even more ravens flying through the wooded landscape, did he relax knowing the safety and comfort of his routine awaited him back home.


“Once upon a time..” “Don’t start it that way!” “Why not?” “You’re being facetious Al. I hate it.” “Fine. Yesterday.. is that better?” “Much.” “Alright, but like, it doesn’t have the same drama. The same level of intrigue.” “We’ll live.” “Now who’s being facetious, Carrie? “No, that was sarcasm. There’s a difference.” “What’s the difference?” “Do you really care?” “No, not really. So anyways, yesterday I was driving along--“ “Wow what an unusual activity for a Monday!” “Well, I was telling it in a more interesting way, but you shut me down.” “That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” “Of course. How could I have forgotten? May I continue?” “By all means.” “So, I was driving along Route 9, when all of a sudden my tire blew out!” “Don’t tell me, you didn’t have a spare so you had to wait until some cute girl came along to rescue you.” “No, because that’s how you get murdered.” “Murdered? By a cute girl?” “Maybe! But also by the ten serial killers who are bound to pass by before you even get a chance of seeing a cute girl who is not a serial killer.” “I appreciate that you didn’t assume that us cute girls can’t be serial killers” “Are you including me in that statement Carrie? Never mind. I don’t even want to go there. Besides, I have a survival kit in my car, you really think I don’t have a spare and a jack?” “Fair point. Ha, I forgot about your zombie apocalypse phase.” “Okay, there are many potential types of apocalypses, and limiting it to just the zombie variety is a classic oversimplification..” “Well, excuse me. I didn’t mean to stereotype you.” “Thank you. I accept your halfhearted and sarcastic apology.” “I mean sure. You’re welcome, I guess?” “I am welcome, thanks. So anyways, I was on the side of the road, fixing my tire all by myself.” “I’m so riveted by this story Al. It absolutely does not seem completely ordinary and mundane.” “Will you stop with the sarcasm and just let me tell my story!” “Asking me to stop with the sarcasm would be like asking Shakespeare to stop writing plays. In other words, crazy, impossible, and wayyy too late. But go ahead.” “Sure. Okay. Well, I’m on the ground setting up the jack when I notice something shiny.” “Come on, Al, not another freaking coin discovery story. You’re like an overdramatic crow, I swear.” “I’ll take that as a compliment. It means my four grueling years in highschool drama amounted to something.” “Well, something, that’s for sure.” “Hey! What’s that supposed to--nevermind. So I go to investigate, driven by my natural curiosity.” “Of course.” “Yes, naturally. And lo and behold--“ “Lo and behold? Really??” “Lo and behold, what do I find but a genuine diamond ring.” “You’re kidding.” “Would I ever kid with you, Care? Would I play your emotions like that?” “Oh absolutely.” “Good. I’m glad you know me well. So there’s this beautiful, diamond, engagement ring just sitting there on the shoulder.” “Shoulder.. I always wonder why they call it that. Does that mean we drive on the chest of the road? If so, I gotta respect her curves.” “Can you stay focused for like, one second?” “Oh definitely. Especially if there’s a diamond involved. Who even leaves a diamond by the side of the road though. Unless... was it super ugly? Was it emerald-cut ?? “Um.. I’m not really sure... about any of that. Oh wait, no. It wasn't emerald-cut. I know that much. But don’t ask me any more questions about the ring!” “Okay, but that’s pretty limiting Alex, I mean, so far it’s really the only thing remotely cool about your story.” “Limiting your questions wouldn’t be such a bad thing, Care. Besides, it’s the whole point of the story, I just haven’t gotten there yet.” “Well by all means, do go on!” “So I do the natural thing, of course, and I go to pick it up. And well, I do. I mean uh, picking it up wasn’t the hard part or anything.” “I didn’t figure... It can’t be that heavy, no matter how many carats it is. And, this isn’t like, a Percy Jackson world where the diamond might be some summoned underworld treasure that will curse you forever.” “Right, so I’m holding it, and I start to wonder, like you did, and like any rational person would. I wonder, ‘Why is this diamond ring here?’ And, because I’m a realist, the obvious answer soon presented itself to me on a perfect gold platter.” “You’re not a realist. And the expression is silver platter, idiot.” “Gold is more expensive and more dramatic. Plays with the audience’s minds, you see. Forces them to stop and think. And you’re right, I’m not a realist. But you’re a realist, and I’ve spent enough time around you to hear your shrill little voice in my head sometimes.” “My voice is not shrill, Al!” “Uh-huh, whatever. So, Ms. Realist, what’s the answer?” “What?” “I’m asking you, Carrie, what the answer is? Why was the diamond left by the side of the road.” “That sounds like the beginning to some stupid joke..” “It’s not.” “I know, I was making a stupid--nevermind.” “So?” “So? It was probably a break-up. Classic. Girl throws ring at guy, misses, guy is either too dumb or too rich to not go retreive it.” “Exactly! But come on, Care, do we really have to assume the couple is hetersexual? Are we stooping so low so as to feed the fire of such base stereotypes?” “No. I’m not assuming they’re heterosexual. I know they’re heterosexual. A girl would have picked up the ring. Gays are resourceful.” “You know, I’d like to argue with you, but I really can’t, considering I did pick up the ring.” “See? Wait, you picked up the ring! Al! Why? What if someone was going to come back for that!” “I thought we just agreed that wasn’t likely. Besides, finder’s keepers. And in order to answer your beautifully phrased question of ‘why?,’ I must first ask you to imagine my reaction, as the person I am.” “What, an optimist? Oh god. You’re a hopeless romantic. You believe in fate and all that bullshit. Shit Alex, don’t tell me you proposed to some poor helpless girlfriend of yours?” “No! Mostly because I don’t have a girlfriend right now! But you hit the mark with your talk of fate. I thought, what is this ring here to get me to do? And the obvious answer is--” “Propose.” “Exactly. But, as aforementioned, I don’t have a girlfriend to whom to propose.” “That can’t be proper grammar.” “I’m not sure. But it sounds cool, doesn’t it?” “No, not really. You never do.” “So then I started to think--hey!! I started to think, well, what is proposing, but acting on feelings you’ve had for a long time.” “I mean, that seems like a weird oversimplification, but sure.” “Well..” “Wait--no! Al, we’ve talked about this. Don’t even go there.” “Are you sure you don’t want me to go there?” “No, stop. Get up. Hands away from your pockets.” “But Carrie?” “What?” “It’s pear-cut. See, it looks like a pear.” “Damnit Al, you know I love pears. How can I resist?” “Ya simply can’t, my darling. The charm is just too great. I asked the jeweler about the ring! I learned way more about diamonds than I ever needed to know.” “Seriously though Alex, why couldn’t you have just sold it?” “Well... well, because gays are resourceful.” “Touché.”


The images saved on my boyfriend's phone flashed in my mind, they were of a petite blonde woman lying seductively on a bed, as well as the photos I had taken of their conversation together. I pushed through the pain and continue to get ready for the dinner we had planned for tonight. There was no chance I was going to let him off the hook easy and do a clean breakup at home. I was going to attend the dinner and make him realise what he had lost. I picked up my red lipstick and pouting I applied it along my lips. I gave myself a reassuring smile with the lipstick still resting in my hand and my reflection in the mirror smiled back at me. Placing the lipstick on the dresser I seized my car keys and made my way downstairs. I climbed into the car and hit play on my favourite playlist. The car purred to life as I started the engine and put my foot down on the peddle. Just as I arrived outside the restaurant the rain began to fall. I could hear the pitter-patter of the drops on the car roof as I sat in silence for a moment, before plucking up the courage to get out of the car and face the inevitable. Stepping out I shut the door and locked them then made my way to the entrance of the restaurant. I walked in and glanced around till I saw Kyle sitting at the far end table. Striding over I took my seat opposite him and a waitron made his way to our table filling my glass with the same wine Kyle had already started sipping. I sat there a while and let him ramble on about work and how the guys and him had a weekend away planned. After receiving no reaction from me he frowned, crease lines forming on the top of his forehead. "What's wrong babes," he asked as he took another sip of wine. I mustered up the courage to fake a smile and reply with "nothing". A waiter made his way to our table and we both placed our order. Once the waiter had headed off we continued with our conversation. As Kyle finished each sentence I just nodded in agreement. Nervousness stirred in my stomach and I wanted to dash the door. The waitron had finally arrived back with our plates of food and I picked at it with my fork as I puzzled on how to start the conversation that was tugging at the back of my mind. After a moment of silence I started out saying " Kyle, do you love me?" His expression confused "of course I do, I always have" he says and I want to scream I want to yell at him and tell him how he's a lier and how he took something beautiful and destroyed it all for another woman. I held my tongue and nodded. Another moment passed "Who's the blonde then?" I sneer. I reached into my bag and pull out my phone. I had sent the images late the night before to myself so that I had them as proof. I open the one where the women was laying on her back completely nude with one hand placed on her left bre**t and the other down where her c**t was while staring seductively at the person taking the photo. I slam the phone down on the table with a bit more force than I intended. Kyle's eyes glance from his glass of wine, to his food, then the phone, as he looks up at me the colour from his face drains to a sickly grey. He begins parting his lips as if he's wanting to say something then his lips harden in a stubborn line and anger fills his eyes. " What's this all about now Grace!" He demands as anger spits in his voice. "Don't you recognise her" I tease. Of course, he does, he had been seeing her now for almost six months behind my back. I swear I see a look of remorse flicker across his face but just as quick as I see it, it's gone once again. "You know things haven't been great between us, I get home from work and you complain that I don't help around the house enough, you are always too tired for s** and you seem to always have a problem with me going away for business or out with the boys. I needed some release Grace!" he spits out with anger flaring in his eyes. I am astounded, my mouth dry with a loss for words. I slowly take a breath in and calmly say "I work all day, I get home, cook and clean, I then have studies and on top of that I constantly run errands for you, I cancel plans to make sure I'm available to attend your work functions and I've been paying the rent and petrol all on my own yet while I've been doing all this you have been sleeping around, lying and sneaking out at all hours of the night!" I raise my voice higher than expected as it cracks and I feel tears stinging at the back of my eyes. I hope for a decent reply, a bit of regret or pain but instead, Kyle looks at me as if the blame is all on me. A blank expression on his face as his fists are clenched on the table. "I think we are done here Grace, no need to embarrass either one of us like this. I loved you but I don't feel that way anymore" those words cut through my heart leaving me feeling numb and bare like an open wound. I slowly stand and as I gather my bag and keys, realisation crosses over Kyle's face and he looks panicked like a dear that's just been faced with headlights. "I'm sorry Gracie I didn't mean that" he whimpers trying to reach for my hand but I had heard enough I knew now how he truly felt. His grand my wrist trying to usher me to sit back down, I yank it away and turn on my heels. I wasn't going to stick around to have my heart torn out anymore. I began walking away and I could hear him calling after me, I didn't glance back as I walked out into the rain.


“Hello, this is Nina from Ryder Share. How can I help you today?” “You can tell me why my stupid account isn’t working and you’d better make fast it, Nina.” She could hear the sneer in the man’s voice as he over pronounced the two syllables of her name. Was it a sexist thing or just a jerk thing? God, it was just her first call today. “Sure, happy to help your car sharing experience go more smoothly. May I ask who I’m speaking with so I can take a look at your account?” “I just told the god damned machine who I am so why the hell do I need to say it again? Or was that just to waste my time so you could ask me again?” “Sir, I know it is frustrating to have technical difficulties, but please let’s keep the tone of this call friendly. I need you to confirm your identity for privacy reasons before we move forward, but yes I do have a profile in front of me.” He confirmed his name for her (she affectionately nicknamed him John the Jerk to herself), grumbling through the process of securely confirming his identity like she was doing him a favor. Then came the part where he actually had to explain the trouble he was having. He didn’t know how to open the car door and, as was typical, he was pissed that he had to call for help for something so basic. “I did what the app said and waved my credit card in front of the sensor and it didn’t do anything. Are you going to send me an actual technician so he can help me with this issue?” Nina reminded herself it was funny that he was trying to be so blatantly sexist to rile her up, but she wasn’t finding this amusing lately. Still, she was going to take him down a notch which was mildly satisfying. “Hopefully that won’t be necessary, John (the Jerk). I believe we can resolve your issue with one question- do you have the member card we sent you available?” “My what?” “Your member card with the Ryder Share logo? It’s green with an old fashioned looking key in black in front of-“ He cut her off, of course. “No, why would I need that? Doesn’t that just have my account number on it?” Nina smirked. She imagined speaking to him in the same condescending voice he had used with her, somehow making her own name sound like a put down. Sounds like you didn’t read the basic instructions, John. They were a paragraph long with cute graphics and said to keep this with you, John. You mentioned your credit card for some odd reason like every third caller, John. People didn’t like it when we didn’t send them something familiar and tangible, and begged for a key card that no one bothers to keep. She said none of that. “ I see the source of the problem,” Nina allowed herself a small smile, “Ryder Share clients use the member card to swipe on the car’s sensor to let the car know who is there, so to speak.” She paused, John started softly under his breath. “But not to worry, John, there’s a technical fix that I can help you with right now.” She couldn’t help pausing here for emphasis. “Yes, and that would be?” He was actually gritting his teeth now. “You simply open the Ryder Share app on your phone, you do have that downloaded?” She got a grunt in the affirmative here. Nina smiled wide because people can hear you smile on the phone, and laid on her thickest customer service voice. “Wonderful! Now, just go to the account screen, tap the “virtual member card” and when it brings up the QR code, hold your phone up to the sensor. Please go ahead and try this, and let me know how it goes.” She heard a rustling as he angrily punched at his phone, and did she what she said. “It worked.” John sounded mildly surprised but still really annoyed, which annoyed her. “Great! I’m happy I could help you sort that out. Anything else I can help you with today?” They finished the call with the scripted good bye she was required to use and hardly a thank you from John. Nina’s brief feeling of triumph was already gone. She looked at the doodles and customer comment tally she had in her notebook. They ranged from positive “thanks so much for fixing that quickly, I was so stressed about getting stranded” to negative disgusting garden variety insults. And of course the insults always outweighs the kind comments. She used to worry about what this meant for her job security, but she’d outlasted most of the people in her orientation group and was seen as an average to above average representative in her department. What did that really say about people- that they’re just rude when they have a bit of power or was it like faceless trolls on the internet? Nina glumly went to get a bagel from the break room. A group had gathered in the, frankly, sad beige little room. The room buzzed with conversation and she had no idea why. She leaned against a plastic counter near her cubicle neighbor Maddy and asked why everyone seemed so excited. “Brian made a huge announcement a few minutes ago, he seemed surprised, too. They’re going to let our office test out the beta version of the new video customer service chat service! There hasn’t even been an email, but since one of our engineers came up with the idea they’re letting us be the ones to “break it” and find the bugs.” Clearly happy that she got to pass on brand new gossip, Maddy took a huge bite of bagel and turned to listen to the group debating over if this was good or bad. “Are people going to just be rude to us to our faces now or maybe they’ll actually treat us like, you know, humans?” This came from a guy named Jorge that was a row over from Nina and Maddy. “Don’t be silly, they’ll see your face and just hang up!” Jorge’s best friend Ron got a good chuckle for this pathetic joke. People really were excited if they were laughing at his “zingers.” Jorge laughed, but then sobered a bit. “Actually, that’s a good point. What if we have an increase in racist comments from customers? I’m sure sexists will be worse, too.” The room went quiet as this new possible future seemed a lot less excited and a lot more soul crushing. In a store customers were polite more often than not when surrounded by people adhering to social norms of shopping, but video chats might give shameless online trolls the chance to scream at you. Nine asked, “I hope they’ll actually listen to our feedback when we test this out. What if we could rate our interactions with customers?” The group seemed interested in this, but doubtful, and everyone slowly went back to their desks. The next few days were filled with a series of mind numbingly dull training sessions on how they were going to ethically try out the new app on customers. Ethics and fairness were emphasized because “ethics” was in the company mission statement, and fairness because employees had voiced their serious concerns about angry customers. Shockingly Ryder Share decided to take this seriously and went with something similar to Nina’s “rate the customers” idea. Brian, the head of Nina’s department, tended to lean heavily on business jargon but at least tried to explain this succinctly, “We’re just trying out this new technology for a short time, but as a company Ryder Share is always concerned with employee satisfaction. We appreciate your energy and buy in during training this week, and want to keep this a positive work environment. Therefore, we are also trying out a rating system. You can give one to five stars per interaction with customers, and we encourage you to tell customers if their language is inappropriate. In business appropriate language, of course. If anyone experiences any egregious examples of sexism, racism, or the like, you are at liberty to label it as such for the customer. You can even suspend the account of the person temporarily until a manager can review the situation, as we will continue to record all customers help calls.” There was a literal gasp at “labeling language and stunned silence at “suspend account”. “Just to make sure I’m understanding this right- we get to rate customers and if they treat us like dirt we can take away their service?” Nina wasn’t sure who had asked this question, but appreciated their candor. It seems Brian didn’t know either and and frowned a little. “That’s correct. The video customer chats will give us a better chance to connect to customers while also protecting your workplace experience.” Nina walked away from the meeting in shock. She could punish someone for treating her like dirt? They were taking the customer’s anonymity with video chats plus allowing employees to speak up for themselves? She ran through all the possibilities and couldn't stop glancing at the many, many pages of insult tallies at her desk as she worked. The many times Nina had to bite her tongue and let people walk all over her sprang to mind, the dejection she felt having another human being tell her that she was bad at her job stung every time. The new program was rolled out on Monday and everyone in the office was noticeably more put together. They did a cheesy group picture for the staff website and then everyone settled down at their desks. She could hear Maddy’s bubbly voice and smiled as she put her headset on. “Hello, this is Nina from Ryder Share. How can I help you today?” After a moment a 30 something year old man with dark brown hair and green eyes, wearing business professional clothes appeared on her screen looking startled. “Yeah, hi. Didn’t realize this was a video chat. My account or the sensor on the car isn’t working or something, can somebody fix it?” That would be me, sir, Nina thought, but she kept her smile plastered on her face with effort. “Yes, I’m happy to help your car sharing experience go more smoothly. May I ask who I’m speaking with so I can take a look at your account?” He visibly took a deep breath before answering, “I just typed all of that in from the app before speaking to you, what was the point if you don’t have it already?” “We are just testing out our new video chat customer service line, but we still need to confirm your identity for security reasons. Thank you for your patience while we stream line this system!” He fixed her with a stare that seemed to suggest her answer had been garbage, but gave her the information she needed. His name was John, which didn’t help her growing disappoint with her first video call. “Anyway, I swiped my card over the sensor and it didn't work.” “Did you swipe your member card with the Ryder Share logo on it?” “My member card? No, I don’t remember getting a card. Besides who the hell gives out member cards now anyway? God, am I not going to be able to use the car now?” He worriedly ran his hand through his hair and Nina heard another voice on the video. “You probably received it in the mail a while ago, however-“ “Can I use the car or not, Nina?” She heard her own name spat back at her and it was accompanied, for the first time at work, with a glare. “Yes, as I was about to say-“ there was a voice from the background again and John interrupted her again. “Just spit it out, I don’t have all morning. Some of us actually have lives and work hard. We can’t all read from a script like some bimbo.” Nina could feel her blood boil, while also thinking in the back of her mind that he wasted more time interrupting her and insulting her. She glanced at the new policy pegged to her wall with “sexist comments” under the suspend-able offenses, and set her jaw. “That was not-“ She stopped speaking when she saw a small child with curly hair wearing a uniform move in front of the phone and ask John if they could drive to school yet. She heard John murmur something and then saw him glance back at the phone, but the child, a little girl also watched Nina. Her mouth went dry. She cleared her throat and heard herself speak. “Sir, I know it is frustrating to have technical difficulties, but please let’s keep the tone of this call friendly. You simply open the Ryder Share app on your phone, go to the account screen, tap the “virtual member card” and when it brings up the QR code, hold your phone up to the sensor. Anything else I can help you with today?”


I have technically have a stubborn mind, with a stubborn thought that sleep is just wasting time. I always refuse to sleep, no excuses, because for me, there are things that are definitely more important than rest. But as hours, days, or months passed by I began to realize that sleep is not just leisure time. It is like the periodical check-up with you doctor or dentist, or your daily intake of food. Sleep is as important as school works, *no scratch that*, sleep is definitely more important than school works.  Sleep became my comfort, an unconscious comfort. Of course, I don't know that I am sleeping while *I* am sleeping. But the highlight is that I wake up one morning with mind reset, like it is a new start. Memories and feelings from the past are not forgotten, but *calmed down*, thanks to sleep. I can comfortably start my day pondering what I need to prioritize because my worries are washed away last night. If I were to give a simile about sleep, then I will compare it to a power bank. I am aware that it's *cliché* but people are strangely attracted to *clichés*, and a power bank perfectly explains my own perspective of sleep. It is not unusual that problems and certain circumstances drain my energy, but because sleep is available whenever I need to recharge my battery of +AAA, I didn't break. Also, sleep is my daily medicine. All of my headaches, *brain*\-aches, and slight heartbreaks are given remedy while I am off to dreamland. However, it doesn't help with body aches, especially whenever I woke up on the wrong side of bed (which is ironic because I don't even have a bed, just a mattress.)  Kidding aside, sleep must not be disregarded. I harshly realized through own experience that without sleep you cannot accomplish anything (maybe you can but it's not going to be the best.) Your head will seem to be in the clouds while you are daydreaming with eyes bulging out of its sockets. You will look terrible like someone punched you in the eye, *or eyes*, because of its blackness. In conclusion, you need sleep. It's that simple. Just close your eyes, sleep your worries away, and the job will be done. Then open your eyes and see a bright new day ahead of your life.


The drizzle sprinkles across the edge of your umbrella like the graininess of a record player. The early morning light feels like waking up in a queen sized bed and reaching out, only to find vacant sheets. On the way to the train station, you watch your feet to keep them out of puddles despite the rain boots you adorn. The little pools were to remain undisturbed. They are mirrors that reflect the sky and your passing silhouette, framed by the other passengers arriving to wait. You scan your prepaid train card on the little gate as you make your way through the shiny metal turnstile. There are many people crowded around the seating and vending machines. You claim one of the bucket seats as your own and arrange yourself comfortably. It should be a little while before your train arrives. You become an observer. There are people standing in line with the yellow markings on the ground indicating where the doors will open. Someone sitting next to you is reading a book. You try and see what has their attention, but it's just white pages with unfamiliar black markings that run up and down the pages. The stranger doesn’t notice you and flips the page backward from what you’re used to. You’re startled out of your investigation by the shrill giggles of some high school girls over by the vending machine. They become very animated, but you have no idea what they could be saying, as you do not speak their language. Everyone around you is wearing muted clothing. Their faces are blurred out, just the presence of hands and shiny shoes. Your trance is broken every few minutes by the sound of the train approaching, doors opening, sudden mechanical rotation of bodies passing in and out, then silence before the murmur of waiting resumes. You know the name of the place you are heading towards, and have repeated it over and over in your head in preparation to take this trip. The anxiety of getting lost in this place tends to make you over-prepared. You even took a screenshot of the name of the location in its traditional symbols in case you are forced into asking for assistance from one of the faceless figures around you. The cadence of the language here is something you decided months ago that you were not confident enough to attempt. In comes another train with more sound, pressure, and passengers. The soft, almost robotic, feminine voice that announces the trains eventually catches your attention with the word you were waiting for. You gather yourself and join the line of strangers. Your heart skips a beat as the doors open. Remember to stand aside and allow movement out before flowing back in. A wave on the shoreline. It is always an odd sensation when boarding the train. Suddenly, personal space becomes an unspoken impermanence. Strangers with different lives and destinations come close enough to touch in the swaying motion of the train car. You are met by yourself in the window’s reflection surrounded by faceless figures. It is now time to put in your earbuds and close your eyes to regain some inner isolation. Every time the train stops, you keep count in your head. The motion slows and the doors open. Pressure changes as bodies move in and out around you. Only a few more stops until it is your turn to flow out with the rest of them. Your eyes open when it is time and you feel weighed down by the strange lull of the train that has a few of the passengers slumped in their seats. You shake it off and press out the door. You blink as you emerge from the station. The ground is damp here, but the sun warms your face. You mutter learned apologies as you bump into bodies. It feels strange because you notice that is the first thing you have said out loud all day. Your mouth feels as foreign as the phrases you memorize. A wisp of something sweet entices your attention to the small food stand to the right of you. The warmth of the smell causes you to salivate. The faceless man in the stand greets you in a native phrase. You bob your head politely and point to the picture menu in the window, holding up a number of fingers for how many of each. You exchange coins on a tray placed between you for warm bags that you take to the side to examine. The bag holds a small assortment of little fried fish-shaped pastries. You can’t help but open the bag for a direct sniff of the sweetness. The custard ones always remind you of the mornings you used to have brunch with friends back home, like pancakes and laughter. Chocolate is always the messiest, and it brings back memories of your mother scolding you for getting dessert all over you as a child. The other pastries are what you have learned is red bean paste. They are a new contrast to the places and faces you are used to; they smell like new experiences and taste like a foreign language on your tongue. Folding the paper bag again, you head towards your destination. You occasionally check your location on your phone to make sure you’re headed in the right direction, but as you get closer, that is no longer necessary. The smell of roasting coffee beans guides you the rest of the way. The cafe is notated with a simple symbol above the door. All the tables outside are filled. You have the passing thought to turn back, but the smell of caffeine is enough to draw you inside. You follow the pattern you took before; point and order, one finger held up, money exchanged on the interception tray, and food delivered. You find a two person table in the corner and sit with your back to the wall. Your treat is something you have never tried before, but it looked interesting enough. It is a delicate ice cream swirl topped with thin almond slivers that look so perfect they could have been individually placed for your enjoyment. To the side is a small silver container of steaming espresso. You see your face reflected in it, stretched and distorted. You take the delicate spoon and dip it into the espresso to taste. It is darkly rich and bitter. It burns your eager tongue a bit. You taste that the ice cream is sweet, making your eyes sting. It tastes like home and companionship. The girls seated at the table only a foot away from you make excited exclamations. They are sitting across from each other, wearing matching hair pins and have matching shirts. They take pictures of their desserts just like yours and enjoy them together. They make happy sounds, and you leave them to it. You glance at the empty chair in front of you as you pour the espresso over the ice cream. The first spoonful is warm, but not scalding. The sweetness is mellowed out by the freshly roasted espresso, accented by the intermittent crunches of the almond slivers. You close your eyes. Your exhale is a resignation. The loneliness is palpable. It is more than a state of being. It is as heavy as morning fog, a denseness that surrounds you and muffles ambient noises. It lingers between the busy passengers of life, almost at a standstill between the flowing pathways we take. It is a friend in passing, someone you think of while enjoying a parfait alone in a foreign cafe.


Mr. Forma’s eyes pointed in opposite directions behind his huge glasses. He was covered in a blanket and shivered as he spoke, a sickly smile on his face revealing his weird teeth. Other than being strangely unsettling, he was polite: he had apologized for the warmth of the room already. “In the future, people will worship the algorithm like they used to worship God.” I wiped the sweat off my brow. The heater was going full blast in the little apartment. I took a seat and drank another glass of lemonade. “You big on computers, Mr. Forma?” He smiled again. “Indeed I am.” “I bought my nephew a computer this summer,” I said, trying to make conversation. “One of those Commodore ones. He says he likes it.” He always had that smile. He smiled like a goddamn loon. I didn’t like him. A reclusive millionaire that lived in an abandoned motel by a random highway... And his eyes - I know he couldn’t help it, but the fact that he never really looked at me was unnerving. Finally he spoke. “More primitive than a baby’s first abacus compared to the computers where I am from.” “That’s right, you claim to be a time traveller.” Forma tapped his glasses and grinned - as per usual. I chuckled. “You are a difficult man to get an interview with, Mr. Forma.” I reached into my bag and pulled out his board game from the mid-60’s: The Unspeakable Tale . It plunked heavily on the little wooden table. “It was even harder to find a version of your board game that hasn’t been destroyed.” This time he laughed out loud - a kind of bark that slowly turned into a wheeze. “Have you played it? It’s Turing complete.” “I tried to play,” I said, drinking some more lemonade. “It’s a little complicated for me.” “Oh, come now miss Robertson - don’t play dumb. You had to have gotten to at least level thirty-one to decode the location of-” he gestured around him “-my home.” “I suppose that’s true, Mr. Forma.” I didn’t tell him that a dozen other reporters were helping me with it including Jonathan. I still needed to thank him - he figured it out almost completely by himself. Mr. Forma continued. “It’s more advanced than any computer around today if you follow the storyline. It can tell the story of my home. You can play it alone or with five-and-a-half billion others. You can turn on all the lights or none.” I pretended to take notes then leaned forward. “What about the disappearances of the people who played it?” “What about them?” I thought about it for a second. “Well they all had played the game for months, apparently becoming obsessed with it. One of them was from around here: Gerald Hessted spent a hundred thousand dollars getting more sets until his house was filled with it, and then he just... disappeared.” Forma continued his smile. The shadows in the little room were disconcerting, and it was still extremely warm in there. “My board game follows an algorithm, miss Robertson. You know what that is, do you not?” I nodded. He continued. “If you play the game long enough, you’ll unravel the pattern - the algorithm. You’ll be able to play it without the pieces. You’ll learn the forgotten history of the future... as Mr. Hessted did.” That was an interesting quote: I wrote it down. “Can you tell me the story of where you claim to come from? Of your home?” He shook his head, his smile fading a little. I hear the door behind me opening and his goon standing there. “I believe our interview is over. I hope your article is successful. I made sure the parking lot is well lit for you, miss Robertson.” I drove home with what notes I could gather along with the game I brought with me. Already the name of the article came to me: ‘ The History of the Future: A Rare Interview with a Reclusive Genius .’ I pulled into my driveway and called Jonathan again to try and thank him for his assistance with the game. He still wasn’t answering - I’d try again in the morning. I then swooped down to my typewriter and tapped out the title. Forma hadn’t been heard from in a decade: He was a suspect in a few of the disappearances, but nothing ever came from them. A title was good enough for now , I thought as I turned on the tv in the living room. It had only been a few hours but Forma’s old photo from when he was part of the Manhattan project was on the screen. “ Reclusive millionaire Thomas L. Forma has issued a statement saying that he will now only take interviews and win ten thousand dollars from persons who reach level thirty-seven of his popular, yet banned, board game, ‘The Unspeakable Tale.’ Out of publication since 1979, ‘The Unspeakable Tale’ is now the most sought-after game--” *Click* I wandered back to my typewriter and started at the beginning. Mr. Forma was only twenty-two when he joined the Manhattan Project. He grew up in a New Jersey suburb. The government was very tight-lipped about how such a young man joined the prestigious group of physicists. Mr. Forma himself said that he sent intriguing notes and blueprints to some of the members. Over the years, Forma began to embellish and claimed that he was a time traveler intent on changing the past. “He never said if he was changing the past for the better,” I wrote as I said it out loud. Curious detail to leave out of one’s personal history if someone was going to be so outlandish , I thought . I took the box out and just started looking through the pieces and the hefty manual. The setting of the story was a fantasy - a dead world where you and your team are the last survivors of a race of creatures who could warp the world to their wishes. The ‘board’ pieces themselves could be fit together in myriad ways, constructing a new world for the players to play in, but it always hinted that there was a “correct” state - a ‘canon’ version to play the game if one wanted to. I wrote up a quick explanation of how to play the board game when I looked at the clock again: nearly eleven at night. I looked out the window to the edge of the suburb where the woods started. A thought entered my head about Forma but I dismissed it. No, he wasn’t a time traveler , I told myself. Yes, he’s very clever, but that doesn’t mean he’s from the future . I kept staring into the woods and watched the trees slowly move back and forth in the wind. The stars were blinking in the night and for a moment I felt unmoored.


The West Coast of the United States is one of the most concentrated areas of wealth and power globally. And In Portland- there's one woman more powerful than all else- Christina Pierce. Standing at a slight five foot three inches, her platinum hair, aquiline nose, and luminescent smile don't scream "Overlord of squirrels," but you'd be wrong. We all were. Christina's story starts in the depths of the Susquehannock State forest. The DuBois wildlife sanctuary was five miles away from the Pierce family cabin. A fact that didn't seem relevant until the outbreak. Christina was eight years old when a primordial beast escaped the electric fenced enclosure of the DuBois sanctuary and stalked towards the Pierce cabin and the smell of food. Death, thy name is Ostrich. Two legs built like tank pistons- they're capable of mass destruction when the mood strikes. And for fuzzy birdbrains? The mood always strikes. Night hid the grey plums of the deadly bird- and only little Christina stayed upstairs in the cabin once the screaming started. By the time the sun cast light over the scene- Christina's family had been dead for hours. She stared at the blood-stained tracks of that two-toed fuck and knew she would claim her revenge. Schools were challenging until Christina learned to hide her rage. A myriad of teachers and institutions blurred past. The only thing that mattered now was the extermination of a species. And that took patience. Her momma did say, "Go big or go home," or maybe it was "Go dig in lome," either way, Christina drafted a plan for her vengeance. The records never explained how a troubled girl managed to corral over a hundred thousand squirrels. But by 2017, she had amassed an army worthy of a Kahn. No amount of civil disruption, police enforcement, or gentle coercion could persuade her to release her hold on the vermin. At first, the scenario was cute. A single squirrel here or there that nibbled the proprietary treats she created in her studio apartment. The animals would follow alongside her like some live-action Disney flick- but would lose interest as the treats digested. She kept a notebook with meticulous records. She timed the entrancement she placed on the furry critters. Her progress grew exponentially following an online explanation of excel and the app lock on Instagram. Meanwhile, her neighbors took interest, but little alarm. Because when have squirrels ever created mass chaos? The answer would arrive with the annual Rose Parade. The news reported an Ostrich run on the final day of festivities. The news awakened her childhood revenge, and she knew her squirrels would be ready. The squirrel entrancer began to amass a furred horde- and soon turned from simple treat crafter to dominant overlord. Her legions prepped their arboreal assault on the festival to rain hellfire and acorns upon the ostriches. The warm, slightly overcast day provided the perfect cover got her troops to arrive along the festival streets with leafy cover. The celebration drowned out the scritch scratch of one hundred thousand tiny bodies scampering over branches. With a practiced aim and toned forearms that any bouldering veteran would possess, she launched the signal squirrel into the packed masses near the Ostrich pen. The memories of what happened next stay isolated to therapy sessions, and a censored Koin-6 broadcast leaked on Twitter. The swell of tanned squirrels swept into the streets and aimed at the dreaded birds. The ostriches held their ground, biting and stomping on as many bodies as possible. The pavement turned into impromptu cement slabs of toast to the remenants of squirrel jelly that the ostriches stamped them into. Squirrels flooded the pen with their bodies, and soon the sharp tang of death pinched the salty carnival air. The overcast sky couldn't hold off the young summer heat- and the odor announced itself to any brave and idiotic bystanders that didn't flee from the initial horde of tiny rodents. Christina mourned her losses- but took a deep, celebratory sip as reports of the final Ostrich going down reached her. A wicked grin cut her face- one shared by other legendary commanders- and she knew that her experiment was a success.  Australia was next.


What can one do when the one they loved the most was sufferings? No matter what you try, how much money you send, and how much hope you have, you know that there is nothing you can do to save them. Wilhelmina stood over the limp form of her husband and held back a sob. She pressed a hand to her mouth and closed her eyes. He could not die. She needed him too much. She bit her lip and forced herself to calm down. She would not cry, could not cry. She had to be strong for him. Perhaps her strength would carry over to him. One of the maids at their estate tapped on the door and looked at her. Mina knew what she was here for and nodded. The maid nodded back and walked out. In a moment, she would return with the doctor. Though his visit was unnecessary. Every time he came calling, he told her the same thing. Her husband’s health was in a fragile state, and there was nothing he could do about it. And yet, having the doctor come, gave her a small bit of comfort. Something she rarely had since her husband’s illness. She heard her husband mumble a bit and she rushed to his side. She wiped tears from her eyes, tears that she hadn’t been aware she shed. “Dear, i-is there a-anything I can do?” She twisted her hands, desperately hoping that he would need something from her. For the past month that this unknown illness had taken place in her husband’s body, she had felt so utterly useless. Powerless even. She had tried to help him, but there was nothing that she could do to ease his suffering. How she ached to take his pain as her own, but she could not. In fact, she could do nothing, but pray that he would get better. She looked back down at her husband, but he was sleeping. She let her tears flow. They dripped down her face and chin, and finally came to rest on her clasped hands. What if her husband never got better? What would she do without him? The doctor walked into the room, giving her a respite from her morose thoughts. He smiled gently at her and patted her shoulder before moving past with his medical bag in hand. “Doctor,” she whispered, so as to not wake her husband, “is there anything I can do?” He shook his head, not taking his eyes off his patient. “Just give me so space.” She nodded and sighed. Then she walked out of the room and pulled the door closed behind her. She found the maid standing there, waiting. “Is there anything I can get for you, Madam? Perhaps some tea and biscuits?” Mina shook her head and brushed a hand under her eyes. “No, thank you. I am well.” A lie, but what could she say? ‘Yes, I would like to enjoy some tea, while my husband is ill and near death.’ The maid gave her a sad, almost pitying look, and then turned and left the hall. Once the maid was out of sight, Mina sunk down on to the wooden floor, her heavy skirts weighing her down. Even though it was unladylike, she pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. A moment later, she felt a tap on her shoulder and realized that she had fallen asleep. Th doctor stood over her. “You should get some rest. You will be little help to your husband if you make yourself ill.” She was little help to her husband when she was well, she thought, but she did not say it. “How is he, Doctor?” He shook his head and ran a hand over his balding head. “As I said before, his health has been failing. I gave him some laudanum to help with the pain. I also left some extra, you know how much to give him in that case.” She nodded. “And?” He frowned. “I have never seen this illness before, but from what I know, he is in a bad state. I did all I can for him, so the only thing you can do is monitor him and send for me if his condition worsens. I’m sorry, Mrs. Clark.” She shook her head. “I know you did all you could. Thank you, Doctor. I will have one of the servants come around to you so that I pay you.” “Take all the time you need. The most important thing is being with your husband.” She nodded and turned back to their room. She knew that she should walk the Doctor to the door, but she knew that he was aware of the exit and would be able find his way out without her. Plus, as he said, the important thing was being with her husband. She reentered the room and felt the familiar helplessness creep in. Her husband needed her support and love, but she wanted, no needed to do more. She sat in the chair beside his bed and laid her hand over his where it rested on the coverlet. And then she sobbed. Quiet, yet heart-wrenching sobs. Sobs for the pain her husband endured. For the helplessness she felt. For the fear of losing her husband. And for the sorrow and pain it would cause her. She was so lost in her pain that she barely noticed her husband’s hand grab onto hers. She looked down at him and met his gray eyes. “You’re awake.” He tried to smile, she could see the strain it caused, but his lips only lifted a slight bit. “It...appears...I am.” She pressed a hand to his face. “You have not woken for a while. I had hoped to see you awake, but you just slept. I know you needed the rest, but it has been so hard not knowing if you would...” She bit her bit and did not continue. “How do you feel?” He shrugged one shoulder and grimaced. “I feel...like I have...been stomped on...” he paused for a deep breath. “by a racehorse.” “Do you need some laudanum?” “No, just sleep.” She nodded and stood. She started to turn for the door, but she stopped. “Can you promise me something?” He looked at her with those gray eyes of his. Those beautiful gray eyes. “Anything.” She bit her lip. “Will you promise me to try to get better?” He smiled, a real smiled this time. “I promise.”