“Names have great power, Sunny dear,” Grandmother’s voice echoes in my head. Grandmother, who had been christened Alexandrina at birth, but had donned the name Victoria on her coronation. It is only fitting, I think, that I take my first steps into my new life taking a name reminiscent of Grandmama and Nicky’s adored ancestor, too. Alexandra. I still struggle to think of myself with such a weighty, regal name, a name suited to authority, a Tsaritsa’s name, so used I am to being Alix. The silk of my gown clings to my skin, softly rustling with every movement. It is a heavy gown, the train difficult to bear. The Court Dress here, especially a wedding gown, is much more detailed and intricate than it is back home at Hesse. Truth be told, I hardly feel like I am standing at a wedding, my own wedding. It feels naught more than a continuation of Father’s funeral rituals. Nicky would hate it if he knew I think this. He wanted this wedding so much, so ardently. Truthfully, I can understand why Nicky felt so. He is hardly ready to be Tsar, he feels. Perhaps that is true, I do not know. From our long conversations into the night, I understand that he wants someone with him. Someone who will support him, be his mate in truth. It is my great honor that he has chosen me to be that person, I shall definitely do my best to be worthy of his trust, his heart. “Daughter,” The Empress Maria. I sink into a curtsy. “Mother,” She helps me raise. “Mama, Alicky,” she says gently. I smile at her. “Mama,” She nods at a page. “Keep it here.” The page duly deposits a large box on which Russian words are written. Of course, I do not understand one word of it. I need to learn the language, the people of this country are going to my people. One of my ladies enter. She has a veil in her hands, one that brings tears to my eyes. Mama’s veil. I have seen it so many times in photographs, yearned to touch it for years after Mama’s death, today, it will finally be mine. Nicky’s mama, my mama, smiles at me again. She opens the box carefully. Inside sits a crown of splendor, accompanied by a glittering necklace and similar earrings. “Tsaritsa Catherine’s, Alexandra,” she says quietly. Just like that, the two of us were distant again, no longer Alicky and mama, but Alexandra and the Dowager Tsaritsa. I am not used to changing like this in an instant, but it is part of life, whether I like it or not, and I shall try. I do not have a choice. I sit down as she gently balances the nuptial crown on my head. The necklace hangs heavily on my throat, its weight almost reassuring, but also a reminder, much like the sash tied across my dress, heavy with meaning. “Come,” says she. I take her hand as we walk out. Nicky is standing outside. He looks resplendent, the light of the chandeliers hitting his medals at exactly the right places. My eyes are drawn to the sash of the Order of Hesse Und Bei Rhein that cuts across his uniform, same as his take in the sash of the Order of St. Andrei across mine. We bear each other’s symbols, it is clear to see. We barely have the time to exchange smiles (even his smile is brilliant, glowing), when his mother leads me to the front of the procession. Nicky obediently falls in line behind her. I hold back a frown. Nicky is the Tsar now, he should be given importance! I and Nicky have discussed this at length. Until Nicky is crowned, he does not have precedence. I think it is most unfair. He is expected to do all the duties, should he not get the precedence too? I know that Nicky would not want anything to ruin this special day, so I remain quiet. I cast around for a distraction. The ostentatious decoration of the way to the chapel is good enough, the rococo designs, as clear as though it is life itself and not a painting. There is a murmur of conversation. I can feel eyes on me, the familiar painful shyness instinctively curling me into myself. I fight it, straightening my shoulders, smiling slightly. Alexandra, not Alix. I keep my eyes trained ahead, at my destination. The altar. Where the intangible yet so real bond that I and Nicky share will have a new meaning, finally tying spiritual to the earthly. After I catch sight of the altar, I cannot remember much else of details. Individual moments stand out of the ordered ceremony, moments forever dear to my heart. Nicky standing at the altar, light flooding through the windows, limning him in a halo. The heady mixture of uncertainty, the tug of fear and yet hope. The priest handing us the rings. The feeling of my heart filling more than it ever has before. Nicky’s beatific smile as he slid the ring on my finger. Our voices melding, almost, into the vows. At the end, there is but a single thought. I am his, he is mine. I am his, he is mine. Forever. “Sunny? Sunny? Alicky?” I blink, so lost am I in memories. That day, I wed the man who belonged first and foremost to his country. My husband, standing in front of me, his face creased in a worried frown. My dear, darling Nicky. “You’re back? I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” The council work usually takes longer than this. Nicky laughs. “No one wants a tired Tsar dropping off at his coronation, do they? So they let me off early.” I laugh back. “I see.” “What happened? Are you missing Olga? You looked lost.” “I can’t stop missing her, Nicky, but no, that’s not what I was thinking of.” “Then what is it, Alicky?” “I...” “Alicky?” “I was thinking of our wedding.” “Oh! Yes, a wonderful day. By far more wonderful than the day to come.” “Nicky...I know the coronation reminds you of papa. I know you feel that you are taking his place too soon. But, dearest, God above has a place for everyone. This is yours. As the Father of all Russia.” Nicky bows his head silently. I continue on, “Did you see the splendor all around? When we entered Moscow?” Nicky smiles at me. “I did,” he says. So did I. More than anything else, I remember Nicky on his horse, his right hand raised in salute, straight-backed and proud, set apart from the lavishly dressed army officers in his simple but neat tunic. I remember the cheers, the people spilling across the barriers, reaching out to touch Nicky. His name and mine, chanted over and over again. And hers. It is an insidious thought, something that has been haunting my mind. I shake my head. She is Nicky’s mama. My mama. She deserves her place. But that voice is not quieting down, it isn’t. I am his wife. I am his Tsaritsa. Should I not be at his side? How long will she keep him under her thumb? Rationally, I know that I will be at his side, it will be I who will become the Matushka, the Mother of the people, tomorrow, not the Dowager Empress. But these deep seated fears...I shake my head. God has a place for everyone. Tomorrow, I take my place. “Sunny?” “Oh, Nicky. Tomorrow...it will change us, won’t it?” Nicky looks solemn. “It will,” he says slowly “and it won’t. Tomorrow, you and I will be anointed, yet, in private, we’ll still be Nicky and Sunny. Besides,” he gives me a boyish, disarming shrug, “you’ll be at my side. I can weather all the changes to come,” I take his hand. “We will weather them together, dearest,” I say. For all my brave words, when the day dawns and the furor begins, it is Nicky at my side bolstering my strength. As his valets help him into his regimental uniform, he keeps up a steady stream of reassurance. I smile weakly at him. Part of my fear and anxiety stems from the feeling of being so tangibly close to divine. Will I be enough for that role? I am no Goddess, I cannot fail this, it means so much to me, this country... “Sunny.” I look at Nicky, the coronation mantle wrapped around him. He smiles at me. “This is the place God has ordained for you,” he says quietly. “Remember that.” I smile at him. “Using my own words on me, Nicky?” He shrugs, holding up his hands. “Guilty.” We laugh together. My own mantle is at my side, my maids helping me into it. There are so many buttons on it! My hands clasp and unclasp them, over and over. When the time comes, nothing should go amiss. Not even buttons. There is controlled chaos in our apartments. Servants are bustling here and there, my hairdresser styling my hair so that the crown can be safely positioned. Nicky stands above me, the heavy crown in his hands. The crown that will give me authority and yet take away Alix forever, relinquishing itself in the Tsaritsa, not the girl who yearned to love, to laugh, to live. I take a deep breath. I do not need to lose that part of myself, I can still retain it being the Tsaritsa. The crown lands on my head, finishing that internal debate. The connection I feel is powerful. It feels like a marriage of its own, a marriage ethereal yet so easily felt. It feels like the hand of Fate itself. The hairpin goes in too deep, scouring my scalp. “Ah!” Nicky immediately removes the crown from where it was, his hand reaching to my head. “Sunny! What is it?” “Nothing, Nicky. Just a hairpin gone in too deep.” I smile at him. He looks relieved. Relief is the last thing I feel. Stop seeing omens and portents everywhere. Sometimes, a hairpin is just a hairpin. The doubts submerge, but stay where they are. I watch the procession start, standing in my place, holding Nicky’s hand tight. Nicky is tense, I can see it in the way he holds himself, but his face shows none of it. The priests lead, with the Dowager Tsaritsa following. The city is sparkling, the skies clear. The bugle blows the traditional three times. Nicky and I slowly walk down the stairway, hindered by my heavy train. At the end of the stairway, we bow our heads. It is a solemn moment, a prelude for what is to come. The priests anoint us with holy water, marking us apart forevermore. As we enter, walking towards the altar, soaring music plays. It almost feels like I am floating far above the cathedral, touching Heaven itself, and yet I have never felt so grounded and immersed in my entire life. The walls of the church is lavishly decorated with art I don’t pay attention to, my eyes are riveted on the screen of icons, of God and the saints. The altar is crowded with the high and mighty of the clergy, the light striking the jewels on their regalia lending this moment even more of an unearthly air. In front of us are the coronation thrones. Nicky sits on the throne of Mikhail Feodorovich, the Dowager Empress on the throne of Alexei Mikhailovich and I on Ivan’s throne. The services begin. I have never felt so positively energetic in my entire life before. The hymns and the liturgies float in the air, elevating us above common man, above our own selves, tying us to a calling that is sacred, a command from God. Time seems pointless, our earthly bodies mere shells when compared to the sacrament we are receiving, so wholeheartedly from the people of this country. The ceremony swirls around us, the notes of the Mass lilting and beautiful. We stand as one when the Mass ends, the robing taking place, for Nicky first and then for me. The robe moulds itself to my body, my soul. I sink to my knees, praying with the Metropolitan for God to preserve the Tsar, to prove myself worthy of the great responsibility vested in me, to give me the power to serve Russia and her people. In a way, this ceremony cements my marriage with Nicky, ties me as irrevocably to his country as he is tied by virtue of birth. It marries me to Russia, to the man who bears Russia on his shoulders. I know now that Alix is needed no more, that Alexandra is who I shall be. Not for me anymore the ease of life I had at Hesse, the lack of responsibility; the woman who shall rise will a Tsaritsa in truth, wed to the country and the Tsar. I stand, armed with my conviction. For once in my life, my heart is certain. Nicky kneels then, the entire congregation standing, to pray for our country and her people. I cannot see his face, but I know Nicky. He is wholehearted in whatever his endeavors are, he will serve the nation well, lead its people to heights untouched before. He stands as the Metropolitan anoints him with holy oil. His voice echoes in the vaults of the cathedral, clear with conviction, as he takes his oath. As he ascends the stairs to the altar, the chain of the Order of St. Andrew slips from his shoulders to the floor. Time stops then. Is it an ill omen? Nicky’s steps are unfaltering as he smoothly picks the chain and sets it back on his shoulders. I smile. No. It is no ill omen. It is an omen of hope. A sign that says Nicky shall hold strong, come what may. He takes the Imperial crown from the Metropolitan’s giving hands with practiced ease, setting it firmly on his own head. After a charged moment, he removes it from his head and places it on mine. I force myself not to bow my head at the weight of the crown, instead draw strength from it. My strength is Nicky’s, his is mine. We belong to each other, the coronation a more sacrosanct validation to our wedding. At the wedding, Nicky and Alicky swore to uphold each other. Today, we, the Tsar and the Tsaritsa, Nikolai Alexandrovich Romanov and Alexandra Feodronova Romanov, give ourselves to our nation together, shoulder the burden of the people together, to have and hold not only each other, but this sacred tie as well. Nicky lifts the crown off my head and places it back on his. What is his is mine. What is mine is his. A lighter, softer crown rests on my head, symbol of my lighter and softer duties in an official manner. But I remember the weight of the Imperial Crown, the weight that Nicky bears, the weight that makes him the Tsar. You will not bear it alone, Nicky. I shall always be with you. He bends slightly, flashing me a smile that’s mine alone, as he seals the ceremony with a kiss. The spirit of the nation, now embodied by Nikolai, by my Nicky, enters my soul as well, making me Matushka, the mother of the Russian people in truth, the consort to my husband for all my years to come.


“Tell me again why living in Florida during the summer is a good thing,” I said, turning on the garden hose. “It's nothing but nonstop heatwaves.” Sitting nearby on a lawn chair, my roommate and best friend Crystal let out an exaggerated sigh. “I would but I’m suffering from heatstroke so hurry up and hand over the water.” “You don’t think this is a bit pathetic?” I adjusted the flow to an easy stream before handing the hose to her. “Sitting in our backyard, dressed in hot pants and tank tops while soaking each other with a garden hose?” “You got a better idea on how to keep cool with the AC on the fritz?” she said, letting the water pour down her head and shoulders. “We could get a pool.” Crystal flicked the hose in my direction, cool water splashing me across my face. “I think you’re the one suffering from sunstroke. There’s no way we can afford a pool.” “I didn’t mean we get a big one,” I said, wiping the water from my eyes. “They do sell above ground pools. They only cost a few hundred.” “I don’t know. Putting together a pool sounds like a lot of work.” I took the hose from her and drenched my chest and the back of my neck. “It’ll be worth it though. We’re going to be hot no matter what we do. At least with a pool we get rewarded for it.” Crystal shook her head. “I’m not interested in doing it. Too much money, too much work just to use it one or twice. You have to maintain a pool and neither one of us will put in the effort.” I was too hot to argue and she actually had a good point so I let that idea go. “Alright, then what do you want to do? The AC won’t get fixed until sometime tomorrow and it’s only 12:45 now.” “Let's go for a drive. The car has air conditioning so even if we just cruise around for an hour it’ll be worth it.” “Just aimlessly drive around? Won’t that just burn gas?” “Again, the car has working air conditioning so it’ll be worth it.” I tossed the hose on the ground and turned it off. “Fine. You’re driving.” We both retired to our rooms to clean up and dry up. The temperature in the house felt like the inside of an oven set for 350. If it didn’t cool down by bedtime I was going to sleep naked in the bathtub and I didn’t care if Crystal put me on blast for it. She was waiting for me in the living room, fanning herself with a magazine. “Why don’t we fill the car with as much stuff that will fit and move to Vermont. I hear the hottest it gets is 80 and it snows there.” “If we hadn’t just renewed our lease for another year I would agree,” I said, following her to the garage. “Though driving in snow sounds rough.” “So we’ll either use Uber or hibernate during the winter months,” she said, hitting the garage door opener on the wall. “A few snow days has to be better than being cooked alive in your own home.” Inside the car felt like the bowels of Hell and I nearly broke the air conditioning dial twisting it to max as soon as Crystal turned the key. Thankfully we have a good car and the temperature soon went from death to heavenly cool. It felt so good that I leaned against the dashboard, face next to the vent and stayed there until my skin became stiff and numb. We drove in silence for some time before Crystal said. “I’m thinking about going back to school.” I was too caught up in the joy of breathable air that her words didn’t fully register. When they did sink in I sat up and looked at her. “You’re going back to where?” She wouldn’t look at me, her eyes fixed on the road. “School. Cosmetology to be exact. I want to be a beautician.” “Why? I mean it’s great that you want to do it and all but what made you decide?” She shrugged. “Lots of things. I’m sick of working two dead end jobs that don’t excite me anymore. I’ve been working at Pax Boutique for almost 5 years, it’s given me retail burnout. I love doing hair and makeup so being a beautician should be fun.” “Are you going to be able to work and do school at the same time?” “I’d keep working at Pax for as long as I can since I’ve been there the longest and I like it better than working as a Pizza delivery driver. I haven’t applied yet or anything, I was just thinking about it.” I pushed back my seat in a reclining position and angled the air to blow over me. “Well, if you want my opinion I say go for it. Apply for financial aid and see what happens. You’re 25 so it’s not like this is your one shot at college.” “You think so? It’ll be a lot of money. I don’t want to screw you up because I blow all this money and we end up not being able to pay rent and our friendship gets wrecked over this.” I reached over and poked her arm. “Don’t worry about that. We’ve been friends for how many years? Since grade school, right? Between the two of us we’ve blown money on many boneheaded ideas and get rich schemes. Going back to school isn’t a boneheaded idea.I hate school so if I went back it would be throwing money away. You on the other hand seemed to love schoolwork. I used to get so pissed and jealous when we got our report cards and you got top grades and I was down around the middle. You’ll do great so go for it.” Crystal smiled. “Thanks. I’ll start looking into my financial aid options tonight. There’s a school about an hour’s drive from here. I think the course is 8 months, give or take, after which I’ll have to pass the state licensing examination before I can find work.” “One thing at a time,” I glanced out the window at our surroundings and perked up.”Hey, we’re near Bruster’s ice cream. Let’s stop there.” “You buying?” I brought my seat back up and reached underneath where the emergency money was kept. We try to keep $100 there at all themes though it never lasts, it’s constantly replaced at least once a month. Luck was on my side and I pulled out a $20, more than enough for two cones or shakes. “This is our last splurge so lets make it count,” I said, handing the money to her. “Once you become a big shot hairdresser you’re buying me dinner at Sky.” “Keep dreaming.” I laughed, found a good song on the radio and cranked up the volume.


Being the smallest in the gang, my hunting position was clear: stay on the lookout. I was to travel in the trees and warn of prey. There was that one time, though, where curiosity got the better of me. The Fighters below launched at full speed. Meanwhile, I hopped branches with the fluidity of a monkey. I aligned with our leader and avoided rain-greased leaves like my life depended on it. Then, the pounding began. In the corner of my eye, a red-feathered beast smashed its beak against oak. I froze on sight. What the hell is that thing? And more importantly, how long until it gets brain damage? By the time I gave out the signal, the ground unit was far gone. Catching up in these conditions was like running a marathon in a blizzard. I slipped to the floor and hurried my legs beyond capacity. The caw and the squeal still resonate in my head. Sam’s death-by-owl scarred the crew so badly, they hired a sewer dweller to replace me. Tonight, this would be my first mission alone. The log cabin glowed in the blackness of the night. Clanging plates and drunken laughs boomed throughout the forest. An invisible wave of burnt chicken infiltrated my snout and turned my paws on shuffle-mode. I scurried through the snow blanket, leaving the imprints of an amateur thief. There would be food. That, I knew for sure. A leap and a squeeze later, I was in. I followed the scent, jumping across beams like an acrobat. The voices on the other side of the wall grew louder as I approached the sliver of light. I peeked through the crack. Humans were feasting at the table a safe distance away, so I rushed for the door. A tsunami of regret flooded over me as a woman’s scream deafened everyone inside. With every foot stomp heading my way, I panicked. I never thought I’d die like this. The giant surveyed the bathroom. He let out a guttural bellow and whacked a broom on the cupboards. Clearly, no intruders were allowed in the home scott-free. As the shower curtains were pulled, I zoomed from behind the toilet bowl. Left. Right. Left. I zigzagged the attacks. The silly sprint successfully led me back to the crevice unharmed. From down here, it’d be near-impossible to reach the plank. Drained of my energy, I was a rubber ball, getting closer to the ground with every bounce. My better judgment told me to stop. I was safe. For now. I could pause and figure it all out later. There was silence as I woke up. The party had died, and it was my time to go. I muscled another futile spring. My only options now were to starve in silence or find an exit. I crept into the danger zone and scanned the area. Coast is clear. That’s when I saw it. Like a trophy on display, a beach in the desert, a princess in the tower...cheese. I salivated at the thought of a full belly. Without a second to lose, I journeyed to my prize. Halt. It seems the fine cuisine rests on some sort of contraption. I grazed my finger on the block. Nothing to worry about here! I stepped on the plate and snapped my neck. Death released her grip as quickly as she arrived.


5. I miss you. He is a silhouette sitting on the railing of the balcony overlooking an island. His island. He takes another sip from the half empty bottle of wine then shouts: "At least I own an island!" He is an island of grief in a sea of happiness, resilience, normalcy. That one thought, "I miss you" is an island in his mind, surrounded by the tepid waters made up of all the other mundane thoughts he has; thoughts of beats and lyrics and female fans, so many female fans, so many willing female fans... His fingers drum an impatient beat onto the balcony railing. He wishes he could turn back time. 4. “Enjoy the little things." That's what she used to tell him. One of her favourite quotes was by Galileo Galileo, the one about how even though the sun has planets depending on it, it still has time to ripen grapes, as though it had nothing else in the universe to do. He lifts the bottle of wine up to the sky. “Happy anniversary.” He takes the first sip and swallows the wine and the overwhelming urge to weep. It takes him a while to get back control. The sun is setting as he leans on the railing of the balcony and takes another sip; then he takes the hundredth, thousandth, millionth sip of the wine that is his memories of her. He misses the little things about her. Her smile. Her laugh. Her voice. He misses the big things about her. The way her smile anchored him. The way her laugh threw him overboard, making him get lost in her sea of laughter. The way her voice could both make him feel small and insignificant in the presence of her brilliance and also make him feel like the king of the world and more importantly, the king of her world. She was the sun, brightening up the whole world, yet shining on him as though she had nothing else in the universe to do. The solar-powered garden lights come on. 3. No man is an island? Alone again. The refrigerator light illuminates the darkening kitchen. He grabs the bottle of wine and removes the foil from the top of the bottle. He swallows down a sudden urge to weep. He inserts the corkscrew into the center of the cork and twists the top handle to insert the corkscrew farther into the cork. He blinks back tears. He uses both hands to press down on the levers of the opener, downwards towards the center of the bottle. A rogue tear makes a break and runs down his cheek. The levers go down, the cork goes up. He impatiently wipes the tear, grabs the bottom of the opener with one hand and the bottle with the other and wiggles out the rest of the cork. He takes one deep breath, lets it out, takes another deep breath, lets it out and regains a modicum of control. He walks past one of his many drum kits and out onto the balcony. The view is spectacular. Sun, sea, windmills, trees for days. He can’t see the forest for the trees he planted in memory of her. Mango trees and avocado trees and orange trees. She had always been a nature person, always concerned about the environment and Mother Earth in general. She used to say: "We are all connected. No man is an island." Today, at this moment, he feels that she was wrong. He is an island that lets the many, willing female fans surround him, drown him, like a Tsunami. Yet he never connects with them where it really matters. He makes sure of it. He lets the movement of the windmills hypnotize him for a few moments. She was like a windmill. Tall, majestic, powerful - the quiet, gentle, pure kind of power. She taught him a lot of the important things he now knows and also some things that he did not want to know. She thrived during storms... but even the strongest windmill cannot withstand the blast wave of a toxic workplace nuclear explosion. 2. After the fireworks This one is talking to him. He can’t hear her. He doesn’t want to hear her. He wants wine and her gone. She is making the bed, destroying the evidence of what transpired. If only life were an unmade bed that could be straightened out in a few moves. She shyly asks for his autograph. He can’t remember her name so he writes: "To my favourite fan". She squeals in delight, goes into full fan-girl mode. Another happy customer. His heart hurts. She wants more of him, more from him. He just wants wine and this one gone. She persists, pouts, begs, seduces, threatens, blackmails. He pretends to give in, convinces her to start the shower running and he would join her shortly. He glares at her silhouette as she chats incessantly while showering. She is mapping out a detailed future of their lives together, complete with twins, dogs, cats and a horse. He switches on his phone. Several missed calls from the band’s publicist. He sends him a message assuring him that he is okay so that he doesn’t have a meltdown. The shower stops running; her mouth doesn’t. He calls security and organizes for her to be flown back to the main land. A few minutes later, she is carried away, kicking and screaming, yelling at him her invitation to call her any time he wants. He just wants wine. 1. Another notch on the bedpost He misses her . He hides that feeling, that time-bomb, in the beautiful body of this one who isn’t her. He uses experience from his previous job to convince himself that it's no big deal, that it's just skin and bones and hormones and blood rushing where it's needed. His current job ensures that there is a steady stream of no-strings Someones. They get their fifteen minutes of intimacy with a famous person. He gets fifteen seconds of forgetting her. Her shadow paints every touch, every kiss, every sound, every memory, every...thing.


My childhood is a far away memory, abstract and serene. Green trees and mountain hikes are what I remember best. Such a jarring divorce from today. Now, everything happens on our smartphones, but this is not the smartphones of old. Smartphones on which we happily shared pics and vids of our happy lives on Instagram or Tic Tok. The smartphone is now your life, literally. No smartphone, no money. No, smartphone, no freedom, that is if freedom is what you want to call it anymore. Covid 19 came and went, then it was the climate crisis overlaid with a bunch of foreign forever wars, then Covid 25 and the first real lockdowns and forced injections, then Covid 27, 28,... and then we stopped counting. Just a merry-go-round of lockdowns, medications and ever more censorship. When the fight went out of us, we were gradually herded into oppressive slums. Now drones constantly scan our smartphones from above, checking vaccine status and of course our precious social scores. To add to the insult, CBDC wallets capriciously choose what you can or cannot have and how much, where you can go or what you can do. A single litre of synthetic milk (cows are banned or extinct, we are not sure anymore which) is all a family of four is allowed each day. Bread was more like a thick cracker. Then there were ‘matties’. A patty of fake meat. Cost: virtually free. It’s the only thing that we can eat without limit. We had long given up speculating what it really was, so the popular debate was, how close to real meat it in fact tasted? *** Your social score is everything today. Those that fall below 8 vanish. Theories as to where they go are whispered in hushed and paranoid tones. Discussing it is taboo on MetaX, the only social media platform that exists. Though strategies on how to improve your score abound and are easily the most discussed topic online, though bitter experience, raising your points was akin to blitzing a snap test in a subject you never studied. But losing points, now that's as easy as breathing. I had 9.2 and John, my brother, had 9.3. Clive, from next door showed me with mock rebellious bravado that he had only 8.1. That was a few weeks ago. I have not seen him since. I wonder how brave he feels now, or indeed where he is. This was the other eternal topic, where did the sub 8’s go. Nobody I know had ever witnessed any abductions, or arrests, but nobody dared to discuss this on MetaX. *** Clive had a sister that I liked, but I was sure she didn't even know I existed, until today. I was coming back to our apartment with whatever I could find at the market for us to eat when she suddenly grabbed my arm in the crowd. What I remember was the look in her mesmerising blue eyes: manic fright, as a bizarre counterpoint was that pink tight cardigan she wore, with the top button undone, hugging her inviting breasts. I could not help but smile to myself for the sudden attention. She grabbed my hand and sharply led me to one side out of the crowd, behind a large dumpster. She pulled my head close to hers and in a raspy whisper said: “Clive, they took him!” Before I could ask where , my smartphone chimed. I looked at it and saw the screen: bright red and in the middle -1 flashing in large bold yellow characters. My knees went weak! A -0.1 was chilling enough, and the rare -0.2, was always accompanied by a colourful story, but -1! I tore out of her grip and boldly reentered the crowded lane. Looking up for a drone, I loudly proclaimed “What have I done wrong, why a minus one”. The crowd gave me immediate space. “What did I do?” I hollered into the air. I looked back at the dumpster and Clive's sister had melted away. I was alone in the crowd. My smartphone chimed again. Another -0.1 gone! “What's going on?” I yelped into the air in desperation. A drone silently approached overhead. Then a second. I was looking up at them questioningly when I felt a yank on the plastic bag in my hand. A grubby child, face hidden in a hoodie, was tearing at it. The strength was unexpected. I lost interest in the drones and began convincingly losing a tug-o-war over the bag down the darker lane behind the dumpster. Only a handful of metres away from the thongs of people, the urchin turned and stabbed my hand with a needle, then everything went dark. *** I woke up lying on warm concrete surrounded by a crowd, all ignoring me. Knots of people stood at concrete tables toiling at some strange tasks. Others just stood or milled around whispering to each other. Everyone was naked except for black boxer briefs. All ages except the very young were there, but no women at all. Everyone's faces: grave and serious, and the smell! An intense mix of faeces, urine, sweat and vomit scorched my nose. An older gaunt man slowly approached me and gave me a hand standing up. “Your headache will pass” he said in a quiet voice. “Whats going on? Where am I?” “Block 9” “What is block 9?” I asked “Everyone has the same questions when they get here. Sorry but it's too dangerous to answer some questions. All I can tell you is where you are,... or else”, the man said, ending with ominous foreboding. Before I could get another question out, a loud siren wailed. Everyone stopped whatever they were doing and began to head in one direction. The old man clapped me lightly on the shoulder and said, “Chow time” It took me about half an hour pushing and shoving in the crowd to get to the ‘feed trough’ filled with matties. I managed to grab 2 of them in the melee of hands. They were cold and definitely tasted inferior to those I was used to. There were bits in them that did not feel like food at all which I spat out. As I was retreating through the crowd, the man from before came up next to me and led me away to a quieter spot. “I am A3F49r-9, but you can call me Alex” I gave him a stunned look. “Your ankle tag...”, he added. I looked down to notice the red ankle bracelet fixed to my own right leg with a large bold white number V8h8R2-9 written. “We are the sub 8’s” Alex added while wolfing down his food. A lingering question about Clive was now finally answered. “How long do we need to be in here?” I asked. Alex shrugged, then added, “I only know of people going down.” “Down?” “Yes, down. None of us really know for sure, but we know there are levels below us” The stunned look on my face triggered Alex to stand and grab my arm and lead me off through the crowds. The entire place was a single open space with concrete floor and ceiling interspersed with imposing columns, like an ancient car park of old. As we walked on, the smell in the air freshened and a new quality to the light grew. We finally reached a low concrete barrier above which was the outside. A wide brown featureless desert vista yawned open topped with an intensely bright blue sky. The barren landscape was dotted with enormous cubic structures emblazoned with huge numbers: 8, 7, and 6 barely legible in the distance, with many more blocks stretching to the horizon. Block 8 was close enough to make out some detail. The bleached concrete block was ringed with black bands in which I could just make out small figures moving around. There were dozens of layers, which became more tightly bunched toward the ground. The only interruption to the minimal form was a circumnavigating upward facing angled wall protruding beyond the cube’s footprint. I guessed it was to catch rainwater, but that sounded ridiculous. The only other movement was from large drones flying back and forth between the blocks. “Well maybe down is out?” I suggested, but Alex’s jaded look did not boost my optimism. “The only rules I can tell you about are that if you work at the tables, you are rewarded with a few minutes advance notice of feeding time. And if your collar continuously vibrates, that means you are going down. The tubes to take you down are in the corners.” Alex said in a flat voice. I ventured with naive hope: “And out perhaps” Alex just shrugged and cocked his head with mock optimism, then shuffled away. *** Over the next few days, I caught sight of Alex a few times but otherwise I kept to myself like most of us did. I tried to get to the work tables but they were popular. But to my delight I ran into Clive. “Hey neighbour” I said gaily, siding up to him in the crowd. Clive looked at me with shock, then glee. I hugged him despite us not really being much of friends. But then a second later, the mirth vanished from his face and a tear began to roll down his cheek. “Hey man, it will be OK, we will get out of here sooner or later” I said in a vain attempt at levity. His face did not brighten. “I was so stupid. A stupid fool full of bravado, showing off how low my score was. Well now I am here and I don't see how I will ever get out. I don't even know where here is. None of us do.” “Come on Clive, do...” Clive clamped his palm over my mouth with force before I could say anymore. He whispered close to my ear, “I am not Clive. Never use my name. Never tell anyone your name, I mean your outside name. NEVER!” “Ah, OK” I said, trying to fit this new fact into my understanding of Block 9. “How did they get you, aah...” I looked down at his ankle. ‘D2Jf76-9’, “...David?”. He shook his head in short jerky movements, then said: “Have you seen Claire?” I understood his signal and change of subject, and casually answered “Yeah, she’s fine” and I tried to add as much context with my eyes as I dared. “Ahh, she’s a great kid, everything I am not. Beautiful, smart,...” Clive wanted to continue but was unsure what he could safely add. A relief washed over his face. “I feel better knowing she is OK”. He leaned in to me and said in a whisper, “I only have this one thing to remind me of her”, and he stuck out his tongue. On it, in the dim light I could see a pearly pink button glistening. The memory came flooding back. This was the missing top button from her cardigan. One of the last endearing memories I had from the outside. Now it was my turn to shed a tear, at which Clive, no David, gave me a glance with as much concern as he could. I simply nodded and gave a thumbs up to dispel his anxiety. *** If you stay near the edge, then you enjoy the change of day and night. Inmates' jealousy held onto these positions, but the troughs were nearer the middle where the work tables were so migrations around the floor were constant and holding onto any territory was almost pointless. Despite this, bullies still persisted in vain territorialism. I managed to get a few sessions at the tables but this earned me no advantages so I stopped bothering. I was hanging out near the perimeter one day when my bracelet buzzed and would not stop. A few guys nearby gave me looks of trepidation mixed with hope. In the very corner of the level was a group of round disks. One of them was lit showing my number, I stood on it and a metal tube came down around me, then came the sensation of descent. The tube retracted and I found myself on a new level, much the same as the old one, except the ceiling was noticeably lower and the light dimmer. *** And so the next few weeks progressed and I moved down the levels. I ran into Alex one more time but only in passing. An oppressive unspoken resistance seemed to be associated with any kind of bonding between inmates. Like an infection of the mind, but I could not say what it was and I was not keen to discuss it either. Nobody seemed to know each other well, nor cared to become friendly in any way. It was very lonely being in such a densely crowded space without anyone to really talk to. The days were very long and tiring, shuffling around the huge featureless space. I developed some painful sores on my hip from sleeping on the filthy hard floor, but there was no one to complain to. One day I found a spot close to the elevator tubes. They were constantly busy with people vanishing and appearing from the tubes. At least it was something vaguely interesting to watch. A disc lit up with a number. A tall man approached with trepidation and stopped just short of it. He was hesitating. This began to attract attention. The buzzing grew louder and more urgent and he was experiencing increasing obvious discomfort from the bracelet. The disc began to flash along with his bracelet. His head was just shy of the concrete ceiling and I empathised with his plight. The flashing and buzzing intensified, then the ankle bracelet suddenly exploded with a dull thud. The man fell to the ground, his right foot blown off up to the shin. A large bloody stain spread out on the floor with pieces of meat and bone strewn for a metre or so. His scream was not what I expected. It was not one of shock and pain, but a cry of pathetic defeat. A sound I will never forget. Nobody came to his aid, instead many just turned and left the scene. Three discs which I assumed to be lifts raised out of the floor and disgorged three drones. Two came to either side of the man and lifted him bodily into the air. He made a feeble attempt at resistance as they moved to the low wall and threw him over. The third busied itself cleaning up the mess while playing a kind of pacifying elevator music as it worked. An AI’s demented idea of a ‘human touch’. It was completely surreal and horrifying. The whole episode took under 20 seconds. *** The inventor of this abomination must have had a macabre sense of humour, or was an especially bitter midget indeed. The lowering ceiling over the next 2 levels brought almost everyone to a permanent slouch or hunch, with the tall reduced to sitting or crawling. Defeated and broken would sum up the collective mood perfectly. Few bothered with the work tables any more. The hymn of droids as they carried out their grim work was heard more down here. The only highlight I can share is spotting Clive. I tried to approach him but paused when I got up closer in the dim light. Sallow and gaunt, he was blindly shuffling about with his chin buried in his chest. I had to admit that I was not far behind him, but I am an stoic optimist by nature and was probably proving harder for this prison to break. I found stupid trivialities funny and broke out in manic laughter at the slightest prompt. Others would look at me like I had succumbed to insanity. Perhase I have in my own way. Everyone had to dig deep into their souls to find a way to cope. Staying near the edge was popular down here. The light hardly filtered to the centre of the floors anymore. I was scared to even venture into that darkness fearing what I may find. Around the edge, the air was somewhat more bearable, but the price was steep: being a witness to the stream of human tragedies. I watched as inmates would take their own lives over the edge. The regular monotony of it destroyed our souls. Some prayed beforehand, some just lept, and others hollered their epitaphs. I began to guess that this was the only way out. *** I just got sent down this morning, but where I landed can only be described as abominable. As the tube retracted, it stopped at my waist. I squatted down on rickety knees and froze at the scene I beheld. A dim light filtered past figures crawling on hands and knees. The ceiling was so low even standing on your knees was impossible here. The moaning and despair filled the air along with the heavy smell of death. Inmates now uncaring about their fate ranted and raved. Their echoes tormented those still clinging to sanity. I crawled away from the lift, but not far. I don't think anyone gets far down here. I lay down the first chance I got and stayed till the siren howled for meal time. It took an enormous effort to crawl to the trough. I grabbed a mattie and shuffled away to eat it in peace. As I chewed it, I bit down painfully on a pebble or a rock. I spat the piece out into my palm. This was no rock, it was a broken piece of plastic. Not just any plastic either, this was a broken piece from a pearly pink button. Claire’s button. That was the moment I died inside.


I can’t even remember the Sun. ...... It had been the strangest thing when the aliens had landed, because very little actually changed. We felt them in the vibrations of the earth long before we heard them. We heard them as a low thrumming drill deep in our skulls long before we saw them. They flew in in their great grey spaceships by the thousand. Each as large as a city and perfectly cuboid, their steely surfaces glinted evilly in the sunlight as they hovered, before descending as vast metallic falcons upon their prey. Their perfectly straight edges fit against each other like roofing tiles until they seemed to create a sheet around the whole world. For the briefest moment of sheer terror, there was almost utter darkness, but it was short-lived. The soft blue-white underlights of the craft turned on, bathing the earth in their artificial glow, as great pylons extended out of the base of each ship, settling underneath them. Ramps began to filter gradually out amongst the pylons, and the aliens began to descend to their new home. There was some initial alarm on account of how similar to us they looked. As they descended from their craft in their droves, the resemblance to your average subway escalator at rush hour was uncanny. They were, on the whole, just slightly too pale to be human. Slightly too slim and slightly too tall. They all looked different from each other, as we do, but just slightly too different. Like each face was a brand new face, with no components shared. As they milled around the crowds gathered in awe, they would incline their heads and say “We come in peace” to each human they passed in turn. It took several days, probably, though they seemed tireless. Their tone would never falter nor the incline of their bow, and they left no one out. The Earth shook with the fervent refrain of “We come in peace” echoed by a billion slightly-too-human voices. The vast majority of them had returned up their ramps into their craft when the greeting was over, and the ramps had shot up behind them. The scattered few that remained on Earth had clearly done so for a reason, and they went off their separate ways, blending in just a little too well to our way of life. The easiest way to be sure if you passed one on the street was to say “Hello” and see if you got a “We come in peace” in response, or at least it was until humans started saying that to each other for a laugh. But aside from that, nothing was any different about the way we lived our lives. We ate, we shat, and we went to work. We kissed our loved ones and grumbled about our co-workers and scoffed at the idiocy of contestants on game shows. Except there wasn't any sun. There wasn't any moon. There wasn't any night or day at all, just the same incessant ambient blue-white glare from the aliens' ships. They had completely blocked out the sky. Flags across the globe hung limp and useless, flowers wilted in their arid patches. Animals began to behave very oddly, confused by the endless light. We hardly fared any better. How do you sleep when the sky has become like a giant computer screen staring you in the face? We had become like guinea pigs in a lab, trapped under the shining lights, waiting in ignorance of what experiments lay in store for us. But nothing happened. It seemed no experiments were in store for us. Three months on, and apart from wrecking my sleep cycle and once or twice startling me in the street with a "We come in peace", the aliens have done me no harm, nor anyone else as far as I can tell. They are nothing but pleasant and courteous, if they interact with you at all. Our lives have continued just as ever they did, only now under a spotlight. It's driving me insane. They must have come here for a reason, whether "in peace" or not. Why are they parked on our planet, blocking out our sun? Most of them have stayed in their ships anyway. What business have the ones who came down here, filtering into our offices and communities? What does the sun look like? What does rain feel like on my face? A slight breeze? They've rendered our existence sterile. These are the thoughts that assail me as I come wearily into the office today. I know I look like shit, but fortunately, so does everyone else. A good night's sleep has become a long-forgotten thing. I see Bob heading towards me. He's worked here for years, almost as long as I have, but we've never been particularly chummy. He looks a little clammy, which is no big surprise. "Hi Bob." I say as I pass him, "Good weekend?" "We come in peace." I barely pause. "Haha. Good one Bob!" I laugh, adding under my breath "You freak." He's always had an odd sense of humour I could never really gel with. Shaking my head to myself, I head to my cubicle and get set for a day of mind-numbing dullness. Bob's hysterical prank proves to be by far the most interesting event of the day, and I sign off in no worse a mood than I ever am. This is obviously too good to last, however, as on the walk home I see ahead of me one of them, walking right towards me. By now, I can occasionally spot them from a mile away. The paleness is no longer such a factor as it used to be, since we're all living in the same vacuum now, but their eyes... their eyes give them away. Every human I know has the look of someone who hasn't slept properly in three months, because that's what they all are. They have black bags that leave them looking like a handless boxer. But the aliens look as pristine as the day they landed. The fuckers. "Hello!" I greet it with exaggerated exuberance, taking some petty delight in mocking it without it realising. "How fare you today, good sir?" "We came in peace". The response comes hollow and dull in the breezeless air, and hits me like a cannonball. For the first time in months, I feel something real. "Pardon me?" I stutter, sure I've misheard him, although I know that I haven't. "We came in peace". "I'm sorry?" I say incredulously. It looks up at that, and meets my eye perfectly. "We forgive you." ...... A couple of days later, the ramps come back again. The noise is unbelievable, and people are flocking out of their houses to see what all the commotion is about. As the ramps touch down, the aliens start to descend them in their billions, and I'm reminded of the day they came. They flit around us with the same dogged efficiency as before, inclining their head perfectly the same each time, and greeting each human in turn: "We came in peace". The earth shakes with the chorus, "We came in peace", and I see the other humans looking around at each other, perplexed, startled, horrified. The whole affair takes, I imagine, a few days again, although without the visible cycle of day of night, it's hard to judge, and time has become a very loosely real concept to me now. The moment each in turn is done, without ceremony, they start to return to their ships, flooding up their ramps into their cuboid metal ships like busy commuters with a place to be. As the tumultuous crowd around me gradually begins to thin, I see Bob, standing opposite me, looking me directly in the eye. Against the tin-tin-tin of their feet rapping against their ramps, the flustered muttering of the bewildered humans around me, and the ongoing mantra of "We came in peace", I hear him like a gunshot into the void, clear and crisp as bone snapping: "We came in peace. I'm sorry. We forgive you." He turns to make his long way up the nearest ramp, into the daunting vessel above us. The chorus changes around me. "We came in peace. I'm sorry. We forgive you." They all begin to chant as they take their leave. Soon the last few stragglers are making their farewells, "We came in peace. I'm sorry. We forgive you." and we are left looking around at each other, bereft. I feel no relief, only confusion and fear. The earth feels suddenly empty. The lights on the undersides of their ships go out, and we are left in perfect darkness. After the eternal ungodly sunlight of their tenure, it's the most terrifying thing I've ever known, to be suddenly robbed of my sight. But just as when they arrived, the darkness is short-lived. The lights begin to glow a deep red, and the earth is in hellish gloom. The very air looks drenched in blood. Their engines turn on in unison, and the noise is literally deafening. A monumental crash of sound and then I can't hear anything at all, only the ringing that is always in my ears, and I can't see anything, only blurry red. The earth begins to shake, and shake, incredibly. I am thrown to the ground like a ragdoll, and feel the people around me tumble too, limbless and weak. I stumble around blindly, groping at the ground as it quakes beneath me, feeling the tremors surge up my arm and seem to rattle my organs from within. My heart stutters and my head swims in protest, and I vomit spectacularly, retching my guts all over my hands. The heat begins to swell dramatically. Of course, I realise, their engines are about to propel them off the planet. And we are trapped in here, like guinea pigs in a lab. And it seems the experiment we never realised we were in is finally coming to an end. Sweltering, blind and deaf and powerless in a gloomy red inferno, I know that I am in Hell. This is where it all ends for me. And I can't even remember the Sun.


A God and a Girl in a Pool  The whole night was a fever dream. My God was even there. She wore a tight black t-shirt and three necklaces--a lock, a key, and a crystal. You could see the top of Her pineapple tattoo in between her breasts and all four piercings in each ear. We swam in our underwear underneath pink and purple pool lights. We kissed underneath the moon. Touched elbows underneath the stars. I love the feeling you get when you swim at the bottom of a pool. When you look up, you see the world in a screaming color. But when you look forward, all you see is crystal clear. I stopped holding my weight and let my body sink. She swam toward me. I reached out to grab Her hand and swam back to the top. We stared at each other above the water, Her back towards the side of the pool. My God looked so beautiful with her wet hair and Her tight black shirt all wet and Her three necklaces dangling. Water droplets dripped from Her chin. It was easiest for me to make the next move since I already grabbed Her hand first and I could easily push Her against the wall so we have something to lean on.  Like a shooting star suddenly deciding to soar in the sky, I moved to Her body and grabbed her waist. I felt my breasts against Hers and kissed Her mouth softly. I tasted the chlorine on our lips. She bit my lip and I bit Hers back and She bot mine again, harder. My God is so soft. I still kicked my feet softly underneath the water to hold my body up when She pulled my body towards the cement. Now I don’t have to kick anymore because She is holding me up. I wrapped my legs around Her body and took in the moment. *A God and a girl in a pool.* The colors pink, purple, and blue. The smell of chlorine. The sliminess of shaven legs underwater. The softness of Her lips. I used to think I was going to hell for loving the salt on Her lips. Now I know I was wrong. I know I’m saved. *This* is heaven. My legs are still wrapped around Hers as I snap back into reality. We kiss against as if we were breathing for air and needed it out each other’s lungs. Eventually, she swims towards the ladder.  She grabbed my hand and led me into her studio apartment. Plants. Plaid tablecloth. Christmas lights. No couch. Just floor cushions. A painting of Buddha. A messy bed with a white comforter. Small kitchen area. Salt lamp.  I told her I loved her place and she said thank you and we went on her bed to watch cartoons on her laptop and she opened a bottle of red wine and we smelled of chlorine and the night was perfect. But just like the wine, the night slowly seeped away, like pool water drying on my skin.


I leaned back on the chair facing the backyard garden upon which I had squandered half of my savings. My father bought that extra half-acre land with the last penny of his fortune, just so I could dig it up for nothing. I looked around, envisaging the blossoming flowers and the fragrant aroma of ripe fruits stagnating in the air. It would’ve been a reminiscence of those summers I grew up in. I used to spend the vacations at my grandpa’s place. I’d wait all year for the summer, to spend a couple of months at his place. My grandpa was too old to get his hands soiled, thus he used to stand behind and guide me as I dug up the flower beds, added the right amount of compost, and planted the seeds. We’d learn to grow different fruits every year. We’d sit in the shed and I’d listen amazedly as he told his stories. After storytime, I’d spend the rest of the evening looking at all my efforts ripening into lushly green fruit-laden plants growing taller than me. Sometimes I'd roam around the garden with my father. My father was more into flowering plants; his favorite was the Buddleia or the butterfly bush . Buddleia is known for attracting butterflies. He used to say, “Flowers are pleasant to look at but butterflies are the real amazeballs .” Once he made me look closely at the butterflies that hovered over the Buddleia flowers. I was in awe of the varied patterns on their vibrantly colored wings. He told me to gently touch a butterfly resting on a bud. As I approached, it spread out its wings and flew off, showcasing its magnificent asymmetric patterns. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen up close. I was brought back to reality when my gaze came upon the tomato plants lined up in front of me in ten pots. Those were the first and only ones in the garden. The plan was to start with tomatoes and gradually progress to other varieties. I staked half the money in setting up the garden and preparing the soil, forecasting a diminished profit in the first time but steadily working its way up. Things all went south when my father got diagnosed with Stage IV Leukaemia . Medical bills slowly began to pile up. I took out a mortgage loan against the half-acre land. Most of my time went by in the hospital; I only came home to water the plants. This went on for two weeks and before the tomatoes began turning into crimson red, my father took his last breath. I had ordered twenty medium-sized pots for the garden before the chaos. They were for radish, spinach, potatoes, and some flowering plants. The delivery service didn’t bother to ask to keep them inside. Neither did I. I’d already paid them upfront so they kept those pots outside the wooden fence surrounding the backyard, rang the bell for signature, and left. I went inside to make myself some coffee. I wondered what to do with those pots. They had been outside for around three weeks by then, and creepers had climbed on them. I couldn't fathom the point in bringing them in when there wouldn’t be any place to keep them. I decided to leave them outside. I wanted to sleep for a month straight. If I woke anytime in between, I might go and water the pots. But then I found it a better solution to sell the tomatoes after one or two days when they fully ripen and then bury the plants. I’d buy some Buddelia seeds and add some extra compost when planting them. Buddleias can grow well of their own. After that, I will go for that sleep. “Gracie... Gracie...” I heard someone shout in the backyard so I rushed outside. I saw a German Shepherd rummaging through the tomato plants, half-chewing each tomato then leaving it for a new one. I wondered how the dog got inside. I saw a ball lying at a distance and a kid’s voice coming from outside the fence. I opened the fence door and let the kid in. He rushed to get hold of his dog by the collar. The dog was too distracted by the tomatoes to pay any heed to his master. After a little tussle, the dog backed off the plants. “I’m sorry about this. I was playing fetch and accidentally threw it inside,” the kid apologized. “It’s all right buddy. Don’t throw it inside a property next time.” After they were gone, I went outside to have a look at the reason behind the dog crossing a five-foot-high fence. I saw the pile of pots lying on the ground, some of them broken. The dog had stepped on them to cross the fence. I went inside to take note of the mess that lay in the middle of the garden. I felt relieved that I was getting that sleep sooner. *** I looked at the flower vases kept on display at the storefront. They were undeniably eye-catching, especially the pots and the vases. I’d never seen such beautiful ones. I felt an urge to buy a few of those; the vases. The pride in growing a plant is incomparable to the one you bought from a store. I went inside the plant shop and the perfumed fragrance residing in the air made me want to throw up. I went to the seeds section, picked up a packet of Buddleia seeds, and walked straight to the payment counter. A girl stood beside me at the counter. She was signing five-six papers hurriedly without reading them. I presumed that she was buying the shop. Anyway, it wasn’t my concern. I wanted to reach home. I made my payment after the girl left. I was too tired to take a bus ride because then I had to walk half a mile from the bus stop to my house. I wondered why I was so impatient to buy those seeds. Maybe I was just missing my dad or maybe I was getting too impulsive. I put my thoughts aside and stopped a cab passing by. As the cab halted in front of me, I heard someone call out for it. I turned around to see that girl from the shop rushing towards us. Our eyes met for half a second before the cabbie asked us our destinations. The girl was going four blocks ahead of my place. We agreed to split the fare and got in. “Thank you. I’m Alice.” “I’m Austin.” She saw the packet of seeds in my hand and asked me if I was a breeder. I replied that it was for my garden. I told her that I saw her inside the shop, signing off the papers at the counter. It turned out that she was signing off the payment slips for the pots and vases they supplied to the shop. She was a craftswoman of some sorts and ran a local business along with her four other friends who made things for decorations and recreations. I ended up telling my whole story when she asked about me. When I stopped, it made no sense why I blurted out everything. Luckily I didn’t break down. It’s like the dam burst, but there wasn’t any flood . “What are you going to do now?” “I have a degree in graphics design. So I might just make something of it.” “But your heart is in farming. That’s why you weren’t doing graphics designing in the first place, right?” “I have some plans. Let’s see what lies ahead.” She nodded and we stayed quiet for a while. I thought about how this goes on in movies. Someone tells a sad story, the other person is moved to tears and their pity turns into love. It felt creepy when I thought about it. I looked sideways at her. She was busy with her phone, reading comments on Facebook . I let out a quiet sigh. The cab suddenly screeched and I grasped the seat tightly as the driver slammed the brakes. A dog had come out of nowhere and was sniffing the road. “Get hold of your fricking dog!” he shouted at a man who rushed in and pulled the dog out of the road. “Poor soul. They are so naïve.” I looked at her and then the driver, who looked at her then me through the rear-view mirror. “Sometimes not in an innocent way,” I smirked. “I have come across a lot of dog messes today,” she chuckled. “Do you like dogs?” “I’m more of a cat person but yeah, I do like dogs. It’s pretty evident that you love dogs, right?” “Yes, I do. I neither like nor hate cats. I’m just very scared of them.” She continued, “Um, I wanted to tell you that we are looking for a designer to handle our advertising and brochure designs. As it happens, I’m sitting beside one, and if you’re interested, we will like to see your work.” “Okay, sure. It’s fine with me.” I cursed myself for my over-enthusiastic response. We exchanged numbers and she gave me her address. We set up a meeting at her place the next evening. I asked her if it was their office. She said that she grew up there with her parents and the Barnhouse then served the purpose of their office. When I told her, we both were astonished to know that we had lived our entire lives a few blocks away and still never met each other before. The cab stopped by my place. I paid my share and got off. “See you tomorrow,” she said, getting her face close to the window. “Yeah, see you.” It was the shortest twenty minutes of my life. A part of me wanted to crash on the bed and get up before the next evening, and another part of me wasn’t sleepy anymore. *** Six years have passed since that day. A half-an acre of bleak land has expanded into an acre of farmland. I sit under the shed in the middle of the farm, looking at the saplings sprouting and basking in the sun. I hear Alice calling. “Missy, come to mommy... Honey, come inside and bring along Missy.” Missy is our cat who is chasing the butterflies hovering over the Buddleia in our backyard. A cat’s life is the best; sleep eighteen hours a day, get food anytime you wake up, beat the dog, and cry to be let out in the evening to play with the butterflies. Alice and I married after dating for two years. We adopted an adorable pup and named him Jesse. We found Missy near the Buddleia one day and decided to take her in. Jesse got a playmate so now Alice and I are finally getting some privacy. We are planning on having kids now. Alice completely backed me with the funds to set up the farm. I started making generous profits in no time and now two-thirds of our income comes from our YouTube channel . She has always supported me through the risky choices I made and it’s quite rare to find someone who trusts you like that. I never knew about the Butterfly Effect before; ' one thing affects another’ . I came across it online a few days back. I asked Alice if she knew about it. She did. I was quite fascinated by it and ever since it’s been living in my head. I always wonder what would’ve happened that day, if I had decided to bring inside the pots kept outside the fence, or if the dog didn’t destroy the tomatoes, or if I didn’t go to that plant shop, or Alice and I didn’t share the cab. One different move and life could’ve ended up differently. It’s amazing how our decisions can affect not just our lives but also those around us. I love Alice a lot. She and the pets are the only family I have. Sometimes I wish I had met her earlier in my life. Damn, I should have spent a vacation or two playing around in my neighborhood. It's funny how everything we want is already nearby, veiled from us by destiny. Blink once at the wrong time and you miss it forever. Even it’s surprising how Alice chose me. How incompetent I sounded that day in the cab and yet she hired me for the job, which I also left within a year. I won’t even choose myself for the job if I had other options. Maybe the sob story worked on her. Occasionally I ask Alice what she feels about that day and the cab ride we shared. She still calls it ‘the most expensive cab ride she ever took’.


Warning beforehand. The story contains swearing words and mature scenes. THE REASON WE GOT MARRIED The room was lit with scented candles having tint of lavender aroma all around the house. The door opens and a woman enters with an elite aura around her. “Happy wedding anniversary!!” A man wearing a tuxedo suit wishes and few more people comes with cake and celebrations. Everyone were wishing the main girl of the day. Wishing the main couple of the day. Link and Iris... The 26 years old couple also business partners.... Match made in heaven... according to others. The party ended, the guest left. It was Link and Iris... Only two of them... Even though they live together, been married for 4 years they never felt this tense atmosphere before... The silence was killing them... It wasn’t awkwardness or lust. It felt like a time bomb which could blast any minute. “I’ll clean up the-” Before Link could complete his sentence Iris spoke “Who the fuck told you to plan this? I hate social gathering and parties. Are you unaware of it?” Iris was annoyed yet spoked in pretty calm voice. “It was for our reputation and I thought if we could do something different this time” Link replies and Iris scoffs. “I hate anniversaries. You better don’t plan anything, it’s just like any other normal day. Anyways, it’s so annoying to act good.” Iris said and was about to walk away but... "Why did we even got married when you want to act like this?? After all the years together... Even when my family went to bankruptcy you stuck to me like a glue. I really thought... I really thought that you finally love me!!" Link yells letting out his frustration. Iris walks towards him with the same unreadable expression on her face... "You really don't know why we got married? Want me to remind you?" Iris scoffs and holds his collar pulling him closer. She leans towards his ear whispering "8 years ago... You... RAPED ME " 8 years ago. Getting off from part time job Iris was heading towards her house. It was almost past midnight and the streets were empty. Iris was walking off by her normal route which is from the alley. "BYEE GUYS I SHOULD GO HOMMEE!!" Iris heard a loud voice and couple of people muttering. She could feel the trouble knocking at her door and her instincts was telling her to leave the alley as soon as possible. She increased her pace but could hear the sound of footsteps following her all way. “Excuse me??” The voice made her stop and it sounded pretty genuine. “You dropped this” The boy seemed to be same age as her said returning the handkerchief. “It’s not mine. Sorry” Tris replies and was about to walk away but.... “I just want to return this. Why won’t you accept??” The boy said slamming her against wall. Iris could feel the hotness coming from him as if someone gave him flibanserin (drug which increases lust drive) She struggles to get away from his grip but he was a way too strong. "Please... let me go" Iris whimpers in pain as the boy pushes her down on the ground. "Shut up!! I just wanted to return this fucking handkerchief!!" The boy replies harshly pinning her. The boy started striping her pants. Iris knew there is no way to escape. He was drunk and stronger than her. "Shouldn't you ask permission for it?" Iris asked with a blank expression on her face and the boy looks at her confusingly still he was botherless. "This is wrong... I don't want this..." Tear drops could be seen falling from her eyes. "That's how the world is... you better live in it." The boy said and started thrusting in. Iris didn't had strength to speak... She was lost in her thoughts... She was feeling numb and disguise by his every touch. "There is no used even if I want to stop you... then... If you are doing it... You better do it properly " Iris said but the boy was drunken and alcohol took over him... making him botherless by any of the things happening around. "Oh gosh... I freaking love you!!" The boy said kissing her all over the body. Next Morning. Link wakes up with massive headache. Without thinking twice, he head towards the bathroom to fresh up. As each waterdrop drips from his skin made him remember each and everything happened yesterday. Regression, guilt and fear took over his every cell of body. "Its fine... No one knows about it... Nothing happened..." That's what he kept repeating. He head towards the hall room only to see his family having breakfast with an unexpected guest sitting on the dinning chair. "Link? Honey? You didn't tell us you have such a pretty girlfriend? Mom is upset that you are starting to hide from her." Link's mother said with a mother’s love in her eyes while serving the breakfast. "What are you doing here? Why are you wearing my school uniform??" Link was shook by her sudden appearance. “Link is this way to talk??” Link’s father scold him as they come from an elite family. "It’s okay father-in-law. (Smiles and looks at Link) I transferred to your school today. Do you like my surprise? Link?" Iris replies having a soft yet creepy smile on her face. "How did you two met if you aren’t in same school?" Link's older brother asks feeling suspicious. "Oh! yesterday we had-" Before Iris could speak further Link drags her out of the house. ... "I know you are pissed I am extremely sorry for yesterday. I got drunk for the first time and it was a mistake. I'll give you all the money you want. Please just-" Iris cuts off his sentence by saying "Money? I don’t want money. I'm just doing what you told me to do. Living in this world with someone who love me. Yesterday you told me that you freaking love me . We should be with someone who freaking love us. I’ll be with you forever . I obeyed you... I am a good girl, aren’t I?” Iris questioned with a smile plastered on her face. TODAY. "You could have sued me!! I.... I did wrong to you... I admit it... You could have report me to police. You had every right to do!" Link said with tears dripping on his cheek uncontrollably. "How am I suppose to do? You were rich... Your dad worked in lawsuit... You mom was businesswoman... What do you expect? Walk into lion’s den? Do you see me as a fool?" Tris replies with pretty calm voice. Link knew what he did was unforgivable and for that her has to pay... He accepted it... “It’s been 8 years since then... I didn’t like you at first but eventually I fell for you. That’s why I never oppose you... I know I did wrong... I won’t ask for forgiveness because I don’t regret any of it.” Link said holding her hands while tears just kept on falling. “All I wanted was to study... get into university... Marry someone who freaking loves me ... When I told my parents about what happened that day. They kicked me out of the house because it brought shame to my parents. You aren’t aware of that right? After all this years have you ever asked about my parents or where I lived? How I survived? The thing which every woman cherish is her virginity.... You took it from me... But you said you freaking love me.... So, I am yours.... Forever. " Iris said with tears in her eyes for the first time in those 8 years. It felt like she poured out her heart. “I am sorry for everything... I know what I did was wrong but it’s all past... Please just stop treating me like a crap all the time. Can’t we just move on? Start a new life..?” Link said with apologetic eyes. Iris scoffs saying “Move on? I’ll be with you just like this... Forever. Even after I die” With that Iris leaves the room. It’s been 8 years... they never had any kind of conversation on this topic. It left them buried alive. Past Midnight. They both freshen up and were laying on the bed. They both were awake yet pretending to sleep. Having two different yet similar things in their mind. Iris If he wanted he could have killed me or when we were living together he could have kill me. Even now he can kill me. Destroy me any second he want. Did he really fell for me...? He raped you Iris... At the point when your life was getting better he ruined you. Your dreams... were crushed but... I can see sincerity in his eyes... Iris... You shouldn’t trust anyone. At least not the man who- Link. She always insults me in the business meetings. That sharp tongue of hers never leave me... I know I don’t have potential like her yet I am her husband. Still... She have every right to treat me like a crap. To be honest I regret everything I did... but at some point I don’t regret because if I haven’t met her in that alley. We never got married. Fuck it!! I gotta work tomorrow I should just sleep!! Link moves sideways at the corner of bed. Suddenly he felt someone pulling him into a back hug. Tris clears her throat wanting to speak “The reason we got married may full of vengeance but I can’t let you go... You know that...” Tris seemed to be lost in words. A never seen side of hers could be seen. Link didn’t had words to describe how he was feeling for the moment, the misunderstanding was cleared... Link turns around engulfing Iris’s cologne, hugging her with every energy he have. Sometimes action speaks more than words and sometimes we gotta speak honestly so that we could understand each other. A proper conversation... A proper understanding could be a source of telepathy. It took 8 years for us to know the reason we are together... and 4 years to know The Reason We Got Married. -1692 words


Her jet-black hair blows gracefully in the wind as she turns around to look back at me, giving me a wink and a peace sign with her fingers. Her high-school uniform fits so perfectly on her, just the right length for her skirt that I can see her beautiful long legs but not too much that it’s too revealing. Her blouse perfectly buttoned, not too high that I can’t see her cleavage, but just low enough to leave things to my imagination. Her hair, medium length, of course I will say how just right it is. What can I say, she’s perfect for me. I couldn’t have asked for a better senior year, with her by my side. I’m planning to enter the same university as her in just a few months after summer’s end. I need to follow her wherever she goes because she is that magical. We are those eighteen-year-old high school sweethearts. *Could* I *marry* her *one day?* I only wish we can keep things going the way they are, because I never want our story to take a turn for the-- “--Haruka!” She let out a laugh of contentment, “Kanako!” She shouted my name with her hands cupping around her smile. “I love you!” I run towards her in panic as she stands upon the rooftop edge about to take her next and final step to death. *ONE MONTH EARLIER* She sat at the piano playing a tune she told me her grandmother used to sing to her when she was a little girl. I sat beside her at the piano and listened. It was peaceful until she said, “Kanako...Want to wake up with me?” “What do you mean?” I asked as her fingers faltered on the keys. “You know, I’m so happy with you. This must be a dream,” she said; “Wouldn’t you want to wake up with me? If we were dreaming, I’d want to wake up next to you.” *I shouldn’t take her seriously*, I thought*.* She was probably like this with all the girls at Kodachi High. After all, she was popular with the ladies. “Haruka, stop playing games,” I said but she hushed me with her lips. They were as soft as I expected. I pulled back. “I’m not--” Before I could say anything she leaned in again, this time not only kissing me. I felt her small hand caress my breast. Tingles ran through my stomach and my hands went cold. I was nervous and she must have read my mind. “Don’t be nervous,” she whispered between tender kisses on my lips. Her other hand creeped slowly up my leg and under my skirt. She was about to touch my valuables, when she just stopped. She leaned back and sighed, and looked disinterested. My heart was racing, I couldn’t comprehend what just happened, let alone why she stopped when I was getting so hot for something I didn’t even know I would like. Then she said to me, “You know, I’m not a lesbian.” She looked me dead in the eyes with the uttermost seriousness before breaking out into a laughter, “I just like to mess around, have a little fun. I never go the whole way...” Her right index finger caressed the keys on the piano in a shy manner. The third period bell sounded and we could hear the others filling up the hallways. I grabbed her right hand with my left. “Let’s get to class.” There was one other time that I should have noticed... “I’m actually in love with you,” I confessed my love to her at the firefly festival. The sky was lit with only stars and the lanterns illuminated the pathway in the garden behind our school. It was just me and her sitting on a bench enjoying the scenery. She got up to try to catch a firefly. “Are you even listening to me?” I was getting a little irritated that she wasn’t taking me seriously. She had changed me in so many ways; she was my best friend that turned into someone I love. I needed her approval to make us official. Haruka finally captured the firefly, then crushed it in her hands. My eyes widened. I couldn’t believe she would do that. “My hands were like life,” she turned to me as she rose from her crouched position. “You and me--the firefly. Given the right condition,” she wiped her hands on her skirt, “ life can destroy us into the bliss we never knew we needed.” “What does that even mean?” I was confessing my love and she was spouting randomness, so I dismissed it and asked, “Do you even love me back?” “Yes,” She said. “You will be the only one I ever love.” I was relieved. She was mine and I was hers. So when she tells me to come to the rooftop today, our graduation day, I’m eager to see her, but this is not what I expect to see. I run toward her, everything makes sense now, I can’t let her go through this alone, I have to be with her. She soon steps off the ledge, I grab her as we plummet and we hold each other hard. Life’s grasp is enclosing, and these are our last nine seconds. “Why?” I ask her. “Because, I want to wake up next to you,” are her last words.


The two poets watched as the morning sunrise struggled into dawn. One was young, the other near the end of his life. The soft rose-pink light colored both their faces, the one like a smooth, blank palette, the other interrupted with aged canyons of shadow. "What, is it sunset already?" the older one wondered out loud. "No, Master," replied his young friend. "It is dawn." They sat gently rocking in a simple boat on the lake. If you listened carefully, you could hear the miniature waves lap against the cobbled shore. Shore birds, having anticipated the light, wheeled overhead in the cold air that cut through their cotton robes. The wooden slats of the boat groaned their complaints. "I'm cold," stated the ancient poet. "Let's go inside and have something to warm our blood." The young man studied his superior, wondering at the man's seemingly infinite capacity for drink. The old man was a famous poet, but you would never know it by looking at him. He sat there like a barren hill, his bald crown flowing down into broad shoulders and a chest that had fallen into his lap. The youngster felt that there was deep philosophy in the man's stoic patience. On the one hand, he knew that if he rowed back to shore, the old man would embarrass him. On the other, he didn't want to be responsible for the great man's death from cold. His sigh was lost among the tolling of the birds as he turned the craft and headed back towards the rickety pier. The ladder up the side of the pier appeared to be in even worse shape than when they had set out late last night. There was cause for concern that the dilapidated structure might not hold his friend's weight. The young man could only hope that the water here was shallow, as he could not swim. Once on dry land the elderly poet seemed to be reborn. He took off with unanticipated speed towards the inn's front gate. The young scribe had to scuttle to catch up with him. At the gate, the young poet rapped delicately on the rough wood. "That's no way to wake the dead!" roared his companion. He pounded on the double gate with a huge fist that looked the size and coloring of a young piglet. Almost immediately wooden shutters directly above them slammed open. With an agility that belied his size and age, the older poet leaped back just as the contents of a chamber pot splashed against the hard earth. His young companion reflected that this was obviously a happenstance the great poet had come across before. While the old man's robes of brown over an inner layer of yellowed-white silk remained relatively unsoiled, the youngster's four layers of red embroidered in gold thread, green, cream and black silk did not fare as well. "What do you want?" called down the enraged inn keeper. "Can't you see that it is the middle of the night?" "Can't you see," retorted the famous poet, "the dawn's early light?" "I am not opening my business this early!" shouted the inn keeper. "Send a servant out with a jug of your finest wine," suggested Li Po, "and we will not bother you until lunch." Yes, this was the famous Li Po, whose poems were well-known throughout the land. However, even the best of writers must moisten their lips. Once in possession of the large ceramic jug, he expertly turned it over the crook of his elbow and took a hearty swallow. Lips now lubricated, he released the jug to the care of his young friend. They had been wandering the southern lands of the empire for weeks now, and the lesser poet knew that he could not match the great man swallow-for-swallow. He drank enough to take the edge off the morning's frost, no more. Then he suggested the two of them wander around the neighborhood until time for their mid-day meal. He hoped, that way, to keep his friend out of further trouble and himself out of further embarrassment. They were in an agricultural part of the empire and so it was not surprising that they soon came across a farm. The farmer, still a young man, was hoeing weeds. Sweat poured from his face like rain. "My friend, my comrade, my fellow farmer!" Li Po called out in his effervescent, dramatic fashion. He had once tried his hand at farming, when his son and daughter were young. He had made an absolute disaster of it, just as he had when he'd tried being a politician. But he still thought of himself as a farmer, and a member of the emperor's court. In fact, he also considered himself a soldier, although it was one occupation that he'd meant to try but never gotten around to. The farmer was a naturally friendly fellow and smiled his toothless smile at them. "Come join us in a drink!" Li Po invited him. His young friend marveled at this display. You'd have thought he had been next-door neighbors with the farmer for years, so familiar was his manner towards him. Leaning on his crude hoe, the agriculturalist thought this over. "It is not good to drink on an empty stomach," he finally pronounced. "Come up to the house with me, and my wife will provide us breakfast." As they trudged up the slight slope to the man's abode, Li Po turned to his fellow poet and exclaimed, "See? Didn't I tell you that farmer up ahead looked like he had a fine head on his shoulders?" He had said no such thing. "Although he has spent his entire life on this farm and never ventured farther than the nearest market town, he is wise in the ways of men!" The farmer's wife, looking out at the rise of strange voices and seeing her husband followed by two distinguished-looking gentlemen, rushed out to greet them. Li Po thereupon lavished praise upon her until her already-ruddy cheeks blushed red. The younger poet was just pleased to find that their place didn't smell too bad. Breakfast was the usual of the poor peasant: cold, thin rice gruel. The bowls were small and Li Po had downed two before realizing what he was doing. This young man and wife would now have to do without gruel tomorrow morning. The jug had been passed around to all and was now empty. The temporary sobriety gave the hero a sudden clarity. "Bring me paper!" he demanded of the farmer. The couple had to pause, not quite sure if they owned such an item. "There is that letter that your uncle, the southern border official sent you," the wife reminded her husband. "Is it blank on the other side?" Li Po asked. They thought that it probably was. "Then bring it!" their guest commanded. The younger poet, and there is much disagreement as to his name, knew exactly what his master had in mind. He got out his ink stone and one of his lesser quality brushes. There was no need to waste the hairs of a finer brush on these two. The finer points of calligraphy would be totally lost on these yokels. Although the old man was well past his prime, and losing his eyesight, his touch with a calligraphy brush was still as amazing as ever. The tip of the sable hairs seemed to just barely touch the rough paper. His wrist was as supple as a child's, his fingers sensitive to the multiple meanings of each written character. When he was done, he sat back and gave a simple grunt of satisfaction. The younger poet looked over his shoulder and marveled at the sight. "One of your very best, Master!" he exhorted. There was no hint of flattery in his voice. The poem started out with mere whips of lines, almost as thin and airy as a spider's thread. Then, as it progressed, the lines became thicker, more energetic. Subtle flourishes were hidden everywhere. By the last character, Li Po had applied the brush almost flat, emphasizing the poem's noble meaning. "Should I read it to you?" the young poet politely asked. "Please do," replied the farmer. He bowed low. Already he knew that he had been highly honored. "My young friend," explained Li Po, "has excellent diction and enunciation. He comes from a very rich family and they afforded him the very best of tutors. There is no one better to speak my poem." Both husband and wife bowed low. They held that position as their gift was read to them. Stared into my wine cup unaware of the growing dark until falling blossoms filled the folds of my robe's bark Drunk, I stumbled to the moon floating in the clear stream where the birds had long flown away A few men shared my dream. The wife let out a surprised gasp before the recitation was even finished. "I remember my mother singing this song to me!" she exclaimed. "Until now, I did not fully appreciate the honor of your presence in our humble home!" Li Po looked very pleased with himself. There was nothing he loved better in life than to be told how far and wide his fame had spread. It was the most intoxicating of wines. "You can sell this poem anytime for good coin," said Li, "but if you can afford to hold on to it until I die, it will fetch a small fortune!" Soon after, the old poet asked the farmer to show him his sturdiest tree. He settled in its shade and quickly fell asleep. His companion explain to the couple that they had not slept at all the night before. "From sundown to sunrise, we drank, made up poems and watched the Empress Moon promenade across the sky." The farming couple went away impressed with how hard it must be to be a poet. So much work, to take all night! By late afternoon the poets were back at the inn. Li Po had awoken with a terrible thirst. At first the innkeeper didn't want to serve them. "No, I do not want any more of your poems as payment!" he growled in anger. "I already have enough of the worthless scribble to paper all my walls!" "But you saw the letter I wrote to my father asking for more money," the protege protested. "You yourself posted it to the mail!" The innkeeper could not argue with this and in the end he relented. Besides, the jovial old man brought in much business. Amateur poets and lovers of verse came from miles around to see and hear the famous fossil. That day, in fact, the crowd was greater than usual. So busy with the business of merriment were the two that it was well past sunset before they noticed the sun had left the sky. Li Po's most fervent fans insisted on joining them out on the lake and a small armada of dinghies had to be found to accommodate them all. Finally, though, it was just the two of them out on the water, just as they had been the night before. The loons had long settled in to sleep and the only remaining sounds were of crickets, frogs and the soft lapping of water. Overhead, the gods had ground so much ink that the entire sky was black. If one looked in the opposite direction of the inn, it was not possible to tell the heavens from the horizon. Occasionally, the calm was broken by the sound of a jug being raised to lips. Both poets contemplated the inky blackness of the still lake. "It is like the world has been blotted out by one large, bold character," the younger muttered, half to himself. His elder had no time or interest in such a simile. The moon's reflection in the water was so clear, so faithful a reproduction, that he had a hard time telling which was which. If anything, the mirrored version seemed superior, as it appeared larger than its original. "I hear the gods beckoning me, Du!" Li Po cried out. It was not his old friend Du Fu beside him, but the younger poet did not correct him. It was a distinct honor to be so confused with the other great poet of their age. Li's long sleeve could just be made out as he waved out towards the moon's reflection. "See how Goddess Moon calls me! Is she not the most beautiful woman you have ever seen? How wide and round her face, how pale her countenance!" "Yes, yes," grumbled the ersatz Du Fu. He was nursing a grudge. This would be the second night in a row that he would spend out in the freezing night air. How much warmer and more comfortable would a bed in the inn be! Besides, Li Po had spoken of this fantasy for years. When well in his cups, he liked to boast that the gods had sent him down from heaven. Sooner or later, he promised everyone within earshot, the gods would call him back home. Now he, too, looked out from their little swaying boat at the crisp, sharp image of the moon upon the lake. "You are too beautiful for me to resist!" he heard the old man cry out in passion. The bright orb, silvery white, hypnotized the young man. Only after the fact was he able to remember that the boat had suddenly begun rocking back and forth more than before. Only the sound of splashing water and the icy spray upon his skin brought him back to reality. "Li Po?" he called out to the empty seat next to him. "Li Po?" Being a bright young man, he immediately hit upon what had happened. He sighed. Whether it was a sigh of sorrow, regret or resignation, he could not say. "I am sorry that I cannot swim, Master," he called out into the ink. Then it came to him that it might be for the best. Li Po had gone home to his ancestors. He looked up in the sky, at the still, bright, eternal moon. the end