Here I sit, alone in the dark, insomnia no doubt celebrating its recent victory in our constant struggle. I watch dust fragments shimmer as they break the rays of starlight through my window, each speck a life on its downfall. Each one longing for connection as many fall through the void and enter the darkness alone. While others collide with another, forming tiny bonds, and enter the blackness together. No idea what is ahead of them, together they hold on, together they meet the next challenge, together they reemerge in a new ray. I have seen their relationship, and I know their fate. The ground awaits to bring their short lives to an abrupt end, but they will do it together. They've disappeared once again through my last window into their lives. They have no doubt hit the floor by now. Five seconds together, an entire lifetime is over. I roll over to the other side of my queen bed and am met with more mattress. An entire night to dwell, and just remember the time I was jealous of two specks of dust.


The stream of water made a *tink-tink-tink* as it slowly filled Philip’s bucket. It was made from scrap metal, from sheets of aluminum skin salvaged from wrecked aircraft and riveted together tightly so that water would not leak from the gaps. Philip’s bucket was made from the wing of a Bronco, an American airplane. Philip’s Uncle Andre knew all about airplanes, and taught him all he knew about them. The Bronco, Uncle Andre said, was an attacker, which meant that its job was to knock out ground targets like entrenched soldiers, vehicles, and even buildings. The skies above Cavite were clear, like a blue sea with islands of clouds. “We’re fortunate to have clear skies,” Uncle Andre said one day. “If this were Samar, you would see Broncos flying low above the ground like great, buzzing eagles, carrying bombs and rockets in their talons.” Philip turned off the water and carried his bucket back to Uncle Andre, who lived in a bamboo house on his farm at the edge of the village. Everyone else had houses of concrete with roofs of steel, so that when the rain poured the water did not get in. “Why *did* you build a house out of bamboo, then?” Philip had asked when he was little. “Out of consideration to other people. Other people need the concrete more, Philip,” Uncle Andre replied, puffing on a rolled tobacco leaf. “For example, the Army.” “Why would the Army need concrete?” Philip pressed, filled with the curiosity characteristic of children his age. “They need concrete to make bunkers and ammunition depots and field hospitals,” Uncle Andre explained. “There’s a war going on.” At another point in his childhood, Philip set his bucket down in Uncle Andre’s backyard kitchen after filling it with water, a chore that earned him twenty pesos per trip and that he had been doing for almost a decade. Twenty pesos used to be worth a lot more in Uncle Andre’s time, but at the present could not buy anything more valuable than candy. “Uncle Andre, why did you make a bucket out of scrap metal?” “Everybody makes buckets out of scrap metal,” Uncle Andre replied, scraping the scales off a river catfish while puffing on a rolled tobacco leaf. “Not just buckets, but washbasins and dippers too.” He took a long drag before continuing. “We used to have those things made from plastic. It was lighter and cheaper than metal, and it didn’t rust.” “Well, why don’t people use plastic anymore?” “Plastic is made in big factories that used to be owned by companies that sold buckets and washbasins and dippers. But other people need the plastic factories more, Philip. For example, the Army. So they bought the plastic factories from the companies.” “Why would the Army need plastic factories?” Philip asked, noticing a trend. “They need plastic to make parts of guns and tools and radios,” Uncle Andre explained. “There’s a war going on.” It was as if whoever controlled this whole war business also controlled the things Philip could and could not have, and to Philip this seemed terribly unfair. Nobody seemed to be sure why the war started, or what the bigger picture looked like. The only pictures anyone saw were the posters plastered to lampposts and the walls of buildings, printed in bright, garish colors and depicting uniformed men and women ready to go to war for their beloved country. These patriotic images were often accompanied by slogans urging the reader to support the war effort by enlisting in the Armed Forces, or by purchasing war bonds and donating broken electronics to government recycling depots. Philip wasn’t quite sure how giving away your useless junk helped the war effort, but he assumed the Army needed it more. Sometimes, at movie theaters, shoehorned in between the trailers would be some update on the progress of the war. They announced victory after victory against the invading Americans in Surigao, Ormoc, and Tagum. This gave rise to a question Philip had not been able to find a decent answer to for fifteen years: if the Army was winning, why did they need our concrete and plastic? Political folks, particularly among the intelligentsia, liked talking about the war. The nationalists supported it, the opposition were against it, some oddballs from both sides protested otherwise, while some even declared that there was no war at all, and that the entire thing was a sham to take everyone’s concrete and plastic. Other people like Uncle Andre were apolitical, and liked to smell the flowers and just keep on living. Political folks hated people like Uncle Andre. Apolitical folks, they said, lacked the enthusiasm or interest to concern themselves with important matters. “But worst of all,” Uncle Andre warned, “are the fickle folks. They pretend to be political folks, but in reality do not have any convictions, and only wish to be seen as intelligent and concerned members of society. They have no spines, no principles, and no loyalty!” I am an apolitical farmer. I am loyal to my farm. Today I tend to my farm, and tomorrow I will still tend to farm. Fickle folks, on the other hand, are loyal to *no one.* Today they are loyal to the nationalists, but tomorrow they will be with the opposition, and the day after that, they will be among the Communists, and by the day after *that*, they will have joined a doomsday cult!” Philip set his bucket down in Uncle Andre’s backyard kitchen. Uncle Andre wasn’t there, only the faint odor of tobacco smoke. One moment, all he could think about was the water in his bucket; the next, all he could think about was Uncle Andre. “Are you looking for your uncle?” Philip whirled around. A girl roughly his age was standing at the edge of a banana thicket. She had wavy, dark hair that fell to her shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face, with stunning eyes the color of the sunset. She had a lithe figure draped in a floral sundress, a tribal scarf covering her shoulders like the wings of an eagle. One moment, all he could think about was Uncle Andre; the next, all he could think about was this girl and how pretty she was. “They took him. I saw.” Philip snapped back to reality. Uncle Andre. “Who’s they?” “The police,” the girl said, fingering a pendant around her neck anxiously. “They found anti-government propaganda in his drawers and -” She took a staggering step forward before flinging her arms around him, sobbing. Philip patted her on the back in an attempt to comfort her, wishing he could do the same to himself. “They shot him?” The girl shook her head, buried it in his shoulder. “No. They beat him over the head with their rifle butts, and when he wouldn’t cooperate they - they *bayoneted* him to death. I’m so sorry.” Philip’s knees felt like they were dissolving in concentrated lye. It was the girl’s turn to support his crumpled mass, dripping in tears. She wiped them away with the hem of her scarf. “Come on - sit,” she said, guiding him over to the bench Uncle Andre had carved by hand. “I lost my father the same way.” Philip swallowed the lump in his throat and looked at her. “He worked for the government, but they went after him once they suspected him of being a dissident,” the girl went on. “You know Aling Linda?” Philip nodded. “The old lady with a limp?” “She was hacked in the leg protecting him. They shoved her aside before moving on to him. I was there to see it. I know how you feel, it’s just awful.” “War is awful.” “This entire mess is awful.” “That, we can agree on.” Philip’s days of carrying water for Uncle Andre were over, since he couldn’t carry water for a dead man and still expect twenty pesos per trip. This left a gaping hole in his daily activities that he spent thinking about Uncle Andre and the cruel circumstances of his death - at least, for the first couple of days. One morning a foil-wrapped package showed up on Philip’s front step. He assumed it was empty until he accidentally stepped on it to find it had something soft and squishy inside. It was a chocolate bar, something only the family of a government employee could possibly afford. Taped to the back was a small note. I live in the house down by the river. Come visit when you’re free? Rachel Philip still wasn’t certain about many things, like why Uncle Andre had to die and why the Army needed so much concrete and plastic, but at that moment he was certain he was free.


Let’s start at the beginning, in the last few months of third grade I became friends with a boy named Scot. We bonded over the fact that we both liked history and filming. Scot and I started really writing and coming up with scripts in fourth grade. At recess we would plan a show we wanted to make, drawing and writing in my notebook and talking about things we knew we couldn’t do with the ten dollars we both had. Scot and I hung out a lot in and outside of school. I had bought a camera so on days that worked I went home with him and filmed in his room with my camera and a greenscreen our school had lent us. We would film for hours, rewrite scripts, angle the camera differently, and take a break to eat and chill. Also, we would make fake commercials for Star Wars, Home Alone, Disneyland, etc. In my strange twelve-year-old mind, I think it is important to add that also in fourth grade Scot and another one of my friends, Lousia, and I started writing a little picture book about a lion cub named Dandy. When we all talked about it we would say things like; “Well we have a sorta plot but where should it take place?” and Scot answered;” I have an idea! Knock-of-America!” he exclaimed. And then all at once all of us were consumed in a fit of laughter. By the time I was in fifth grade I had his number and we facetimed often because in march of 2020 all the kids were sent home and told we would be back in six weeks. Well, that six weeks passed and it led to another six weeks and that six weeks turned into the rest of the school year. So while we were doing zoom calls with our class, Scot and I were talking on facetime. We talked almost every day for over two hours. When they let us go back to school Scot’s parents wouldn’t let him go. But we hung out sometimes at his house and even had a picnic and a park, granted we were ten feet apart and it was really cold but still, it was fun. I also got to play with his puppy on a trampoline. As we got later into the spring Scot came back to school and that was fine but we weren’t in the same class and all he wanted to do was play gaga ball, so we didn't hang out much at school but we still talked a lot on the phone. After lunch we would have conversations that went like this; “Hey, how ya doin'?” one of us would ask. “Same as always, questioning my life choices, thinking about how sad my life is.” the other answered. Even though we both know our lives aren't sad, just tricky, we still said it with a silent understanding between us that it made us both feel better because in reality we just needed someone to talk to. When school ended it was the end of elementary school and I was so excited to go to middle school, that’s pretty much all I talked about. During the summer we talked a lot because both of us are pretty lazy. Scot and I were going to different schools so we wouldn’t see each other every day and couldn’t talk as much but I planned to make it work. Sometime around August, I started to notice that when we talked we didn’t even look at each other because he was always playing video games. I was never sure if I should keep talking or hang up to see if he noticed. I talk about the new movies my papa(dad) showed me and the crazy parts in the book I’m reading and if I talk about it for a while he will just hang up. He says he is doing it jokingly but he did it so often that it really hurt my feelings, and sometimes I would call him after he had hung up because I was in the middle of my sentence and he wouldn’t pick up when he did that I had to use all my power not to cry because I have so little friends and he was the only one that would pick up, but he didn’t. And when he finally picked up I would continue talking like nothing had happened. I should have seen that as a sign that Scot was not a good friend, but I didn’t. It went like this for two months. I would talk about this brutal death that had happened in the movie I watched last night and he would hang up. I told him about the plot twist in the book I’m reading and how a character was betrayed and he would hang up. Some days I cried because of how awful Scot made me feel, making me feel like I did something wrong. When I finally told him, he would say he would stop doing that and he was just trying to be funny,.......but Scot kept doing it. It got to a point where I was the only one calling, my parents told me to stop and wait for him to call me. And after about two weeks and no call, I called him. Now I know what you're thinking: why the hell would you call him, he is a horrible friend? Well, the answer to that is that I was lonely and kind of sad, and Scot was the only one who made me feel, well not sad anymore. But then I realized he was the one making me feel that sadness and I needed to step away. And if he wanted to call me that’s fine but I most certainly was not going to call him if he is just taking pity on me for having so few friends. It’s been four months since then and I have received zero phone calls and I doubt he notices a thing. I’m not sure how this sounds but I have had four dreams with Scot and in all of them I ask why he ignores me and he always denies that he did anything at all and the worst part is that that is something he would do. When I wake up from those dreams I always start to cry because I miss our friendship and the days we spent hours in his room laughing and having genuine fun. I still occasionally think about Scot but I have made new friends and I am no longer lonely and sad. I am sad that I lost a friend but believe me when I say I do not dwell on that anymore. I am in the present and plan to stay there and will not let the memories of Scot take me from it. The End.


No matter where I step foot in this town my face is recognizable. I'm the one they say that's riddled with guilt. It's always the same cliche, if only they were there, they'd known what'd happened. Even their accusatory eyes, scorning me, judging me, giving the once over. For my sanity, I have to have thick skin, which is hard going as the mental affliction they inflict is slowly taking its toll. It's even gotten to the point that when I see people talk, I have misconceptions that it's me they're conversing about. That poor girl has gone missing, he must have killed her and dumped the body somewhere. I surmise, as I try to read their lips. I feel it's time for me to leave this place and start anew, but all I'll do is leave the guilt behind. Jesus Christ, I'm starting to convince myself that I am guilty. I'm not, and people need to know that. “Hey Joey,” this guy bellows over to me. “How can you show your face around here, the law might think you’re innocent but we know what ya did.” I want to confront him, but I knew it’d lead to violence. I’ve not known anything other than violence, It’d started at school, those lads pushing me about making all the other kids laugh at me, seeing me as a pathetic weakling. I couldn’t take anymore, so I’d done what my father had said. Son, stand up to them, confront each bully alone and then you’ll see who the real weaklings are. And that’s what I had done. And I never had anymore trouble from those lads again. “Why don’t you tell the police where you’ve put the body. Did you do inhumane things too here?” They even saw silence as a form of guilt. I’d bitten my tongue enough times before. I stepped into the road and made my way towards him. “Hey,” I said from the top of my lungs. “Tuppence was the love of my life, you know like everyone else Mike that I would never harm her.” “The circumstances around her disappearance are all too strange, it was just the both of you together when it happened. So come on man, what did you do to my sister?” I had no answer, the mystery was just as mysterious. I wanted to know what had happened to my sweet Tuppence. “Look Mike I’ve never lied to you, it’s been nothing but the truth. One minute Tuppence was there, I’d left her for a short while -- a couple of minutes max -- and then when I returned, she was nowhere to be seen.” “The whole family doesn't believe you, even the whole town disbelieves you. It was just you and her and nobody else for miles, so you can see why we’re struggling here.” I just stared at my brother-in-law for a split second and then walked away. In his eyes, in the eyes of Tuppence’s family and the whole town, I was guilty. And I had to leave. But I wanted to try one more time, to explain, to bring peace and understanding. This is the most daunting experience, as I’m with Tuppence’s family. My attempts to engage with them are proving difficult as all I can see is raging eyes. “Please believe me when I say that me and Tuppence went into the countryside for a picnic. We were happy she did nothing but smile as we’d laughed and joked. She kept telling me how the river was beautiful and that she wanted to swim in it. We found a safe place to get in where the reeds wouldn’t wrap around our feet and drag us down to the river bed. Tuppence went into the river while I double checked that the car was locked but, when I went to join her she was nowhere to be seen. I did not drown Tuppence in the river.” The police underwater search unit had not found her. I was questioned by the police and then released. But her family thought otherwise. No I had not buried the body nor had I let the currents take her down the river to be lost forever. So I had to leave. * It’s peaceful here in the new town, I’m the stranger in the vicinity but the people here are welcoming. Friends are far and few between, there’s no love in my life, I’m not saying there never will be, I just don’t know yet. Tuppence is forever in my heart and I’m sure I am in hers, wherever she may be. I don’t want to say she’s dead but, I can’t think of it in any other way, somehow the river must have taken her. Or did she allow the river to take her? I will never know that, and that will always haunt me. Even the fact that am I guilty for not seeing that perhaps she wasn’t happy in life? Today would have been our third anniversary, instead of me here alone I should be in her company, I still want her company but all I experience is the thoughts that I tried to leave behind but they still plague me, torment me. This misconception of guilt has bonded itself to me, there’s no escape here for me. It is like I am imprisoned for a wrong doing that I’m branded for doing. If only Tuppence’s mystery could show, so this nightmare could go, then I shall live in peace. I suddenly snapped out of my reverie by the soft kind voice of a waitress as I sat comfortably at a table in the coffee shop. “Was it a flat white or latte sir?” Said the waitress. “I’ll have a flat white and the cooked breakfast please,” I replied. This is my fourth time in this coffee shop, the staff are kind and the coffee is good and for the food, sublime. But the enjoyment of the coffee and food doesn’t end there for me, today I have company joining me for breakfast. I hope she will be the turning point in my life, where the past can be left behind. I watch another waitress bring my coffee to the table, she smiles and sits beside me. "I've clocked off now, I thought you'd never come, Joey. Does all my horrible, controlling family believe I'm dead?" "Yes Tuppence, we can start a fresh new life together where no one disapproves of us."


Mavis looked around her makeshift art studio - the place where she would isolate herself from the world for the next month. Stacks of clean canvases waited to be transformed. Brand new paints, pastels and brushes her parents gave her at college graduation last month were neatly arranged in clear plastic bins. Her easel was angled just right to catch the morning sun that streamed in through the large picture window. In exchange for house sitting for her aunt and caring for her two cats, Mavis had been gifted this guest room as a place to hone her craft. But where to begin... She tied on her clean new painting smock and looked out the window at the trees, which surrounded the house for miles. She was a 20-minute drive from the nearest town. But she had everything she needed for now, and her aunt had left enough cat food and litter to feed an army of cats. She promised herself she would fill some of these canvasses before she ventured into town to explore and do more shopping. But her mind was blank, until she thought of that phrase again -- an army of cats . She looked at Sandy, the beautiful red, black and white calico, who sat patiently watching her from the sunny windowsill; and then at Sylvester, her aunt’s Siamese cat who stood alert, his piercing blue eyes tracking a squirrel in a tree outside the window. It felt as if the two cats were standing guard, waiting for Mavis to pick up a brush and get started. They were her only companions for the month, the only living, breathing things she would see most days. Why not start by painting them? As she scanned the paint colors, a vision began to form in her mind. She started with Sandy, combining red and yellow to get the perfect blend, before adding in black and white to recreate the intricate mix of colors that made up her fur coat. Then she focused on Sylvester, mixing up several shades of gray and brown to recreate his regal and muscular body. She stood back and admired what she had done. Now for the rest of the cats. After mixing red, yellow and blue in every possible combination, she painted 10 more cats, all different sizes and shapes and fur patterns. The stars were out by the time she put down her brush. Mavis yawned as she set the canvas to dry, cleaned up, and left the studio. She made herself a light dinner from the groceries she had purchased earlier, sitting alone at the small kitchen table. The house was eerily quiet. After dinner, she moved to the lumpy living room sofa and flipped through the channels on the old TV. She went to sleep feeling alone in the dark house, and grateful for her two companions, who curled up beside her in bed. *** The sun came into her room early. The window blinds were open, and stripes of light reflected on the wall in front of her bed. Mavis yawned and stretched before getting up and heading into the bathroom to get ready for the day. As she was brushing her teeth she heard the faraway sound of a cat meowing, and then a sharper sound, almost like a baby crying. That must be Sylvester. Her aunt had warned her that Siamese cats are quite vocal. She got dressed, and by the time she went downstairs, the two cats were both crying anxiously and pacing in front of the front door. What did they want? They were allowed outside, but her aunt said they’d be in the kitchen waiting for food first thing in the morning. Mavis opened the door and yelped in surprise. There were cats, a whole bunch of them, sitting on the front porch and lawn. She scanned the group, counting 8, 9, 10 cats outside, plus her two, made a dozen cats. The hair rose on her arms as she stared at the scene. She slammed the door and ran up to her studio, her whole body trembling. She picked up the picture from the table where it was drying and yes - the cats outside were almost identical to the ones she had painted. She dropped the canvas. Okay, Mavis, calm down. Slow deep breathes. There’s a logical explanation for this. Maybe I saw those cats in town yesterday and just didn’t remember. Or maybe it’s just a big fat coincidence. Sure, it’s possible I drew 10 cats and those exact cats happened to show up at my house the next morning. But then something else occurred to Mavis - something that defied logic but seemed the only possible explanation. Maybe anything she painted would appear before her eyes the next day. Maybe she was a witch, or this house was magic, or someone had cast a spell on her paints. There was only one way to find out. Mavis quickly ate breakfast and fed her cats, putting a huge bowl of food and water outside for the others, who had made themselves at home on her front lawn. Then she went back to her art studio. She picked up another blank canvas, the same set of paints as yesterday and put on her now-stained smock. But what would she draw? What did she want? Well, there were a lot of things she wanted, but she wasn’t sure how this power worked. Maybe something terrible would happen if she didn’t use it wisely. Isn’t that what always happened in movies? People got too cavalier with their power and the next thing you know they destroyed the world, or an entire population of people was wiped out. Get a grip, Mavis. That’s not going to happen. Just come up with something small and innocent like cats. But what... Then it came to her, and she smiled. If this worked, it would be a wonderful surprise, and if not, well, hopefully no harm done. Her aunt’s house was drab and dated, the cushions on the tweed couch sagging, the kitchen cabinets were practically falling off the hinges and the front porch railing was falling apart. I’d better not change the front of the house. The neighbors are probably already wondering about the cats. They might get really suspicious if the outside of the house changes visibly overnight. But the inside... She could surprise her aunt with a newly designed living room and kitchen. She just had to picture it and draw it, and with any luck it would turn into reality when she woke up tomorrow. She still had a long month ahead of her in this house, and new furnishings would certainly make it more homey, help her feel less isolated. Mavis already missed her friends terribly, and wondered if she made the right choice staying home instead of going to Europe with them for the month. They were visiting six cities, including London and Paris, staying in youth hostels and travelling by highspeed rail from one adventure to the next. They begged her to go, but she didn’t want to spend the money. Plus, she had promised her aunt months ago that she would house sit before she started her job hunt. It was nice here in the country, especially with all the cats, but her life had gone from one nonstop house party to living alone in the woods in just a few short weeks. What do I have to lose by trying to make this house nicer. Heck, I’m going to paint a picture today anyway, so I might as well try. If it doesn’t work, nobody will know how crazy I am -- except me. It was a long day of painting. Mavis wanted every detail to be perfect. She knew her aunt liked calm colors, so she drew the living room in blush tones and grays, with a large comfy sectional sofa and big coffee table with a matching area rug. Plus, one of those big screen TVs and a little bar area where her aunt could keep her bottles of wine and something called Harvey’s Bristol Cream. I don’t even want to know what that tastes like. For the kitchen she drew white cabinets and black marbled counters, just like they showed on all the decorating shows. She made an island in the middle with chairs around it, and mixed grays and whites to create stainless steel appliances. She was pleased with the result, and hoped she hadn’t missed anything. She made herself another simple meal, and decided to let in the cats into the house before she went to sleep. They had been making a racket out there on the lawn since it got dark, and she wanted to keep them safe. After all, she had created them. Mavis was woken up not by the light coming through the window, but by the feel of something pressing down on her, and something tickling her face. Her eyes shot open. Seven cats were on the bed with her, one laying on her chest with his tail swaying up and back across her face. Four were cuddled up at her feet and another two were on her pillow, one practically wrapped up in her hair. Okay, the cats are still here. That has to mean something. But what am I going to find when I go downstairs? She felt a bit foolish to think that the living room and kitchen could have transformed. That was a far cry from 10 cats showing up on your lawn. This would be the test of her powers - and how far she could take them. She took her time getting ready, afraid to see what may or may not have happened to her aunt’s little cottage. When she finally walked down the stairs, cats moving between her legs and meowing loudly, she blinked twice, unable to believe what she was seeing. The scene in front of her was a real-life version of the picture she painted, right down to the color of the walls and the pattern in the area rug. It looked like a different house, brighter, cleaner and more welcoming. She walked over and sat down on the soft cushions of the large sofa, sinking into it. The cats followed, surrounding her, their hungry mews softening for a moment as they, too, seemed to be processing the changes to the room. Mavis could have sat there all day, but she had a kitchen to see, and many mouths to feed. Walking from the stylish new living room into the modern kitchen, she took in every detail of the space, details that were at once foreign and very familiar. The kitchen was perfect - every detail replicating her painting. She fed her cats and then sat at the clean new kitchen island to eat her own breakfast before she returned to the comfy sofa to process what had happened over these past two days. She couldn’t believe she was going through all this alone. She desperately wished she could talk to someone about what was happening, but she couldn’t exactly call her friends and try to explain. They’ll think I’ve lost my mine - and it’s quite possible I have. An intense wave of loneliness caused a lump in her throat. As she stared at her big-screen TV, the cats purring loudly around her, she felt overwhelmed by weight to this new power she had discovered. She could use it to feed the hungry, to house the homeless, but thinking about that made her brain hurt. She was only 22, and she wasn’t sure what was right, what was ethical or even if her powers would go beyond this small country house. Maybe it was best she didn’t push her luck. But as an idea formed in her mind, she realized what she needed to do. There was risk to the next painting she wanted to draw. Maybe a big risk. But she had to give it a try. She left her cats napping on the new couch as she went back upstairs to her studio. She took her third canvas in three days, tied on her painting smock and contemplated what she was about to draw. The decision was made - there was no turning back. She focused on this project more intently than she had ever focused on any painting. It was late in the day before she finished. She was hungry and tired, but she felt at peace, prepared to face the consequences of what she had just done. She took one last look at the canvas before she moved it to the same spot she had put the others to dry overnight. Looking back at her were the smiling faces of her four best college friends. They were sitting on the new couch in her living room, surrounded by her 12 cats. The picture had come out exactly how she planned it. But what if something goes horribly wrong? What if I’ve gone too far, trying to manipulate time and space? B ut she couldn’t let herself think that way. The decision was made, and the paint was already starting to dry. Mavis started to feel better as she ate her dinner and took care of her cats. Before she went upstairs for the night, she straightened up the house for her visitors. As she settled into bed that night surrounded by her cats, she said a little prayer that she would wake up to the doorbell ringing and the squealing voices of her friends. Her logical mind told her it could never happen. This is insane. It doesn’t make any sense. But in her heart, in her soul, she knew they were already on their way, and her summer of magic and adventure was just beginning.


It is John’s birthday, his thirtieth, to be precise. He does not want to make a big fuss out of it, so when we meet him, he is walking his elderly neighbour’s dog like he always does on Wednesday afternoons. The dog is small, stubby, and shaggy and has bright brown eyes that look curiously into the world. So basically, he looks a lot like John, even if he is not the owner. John always wanted to have a dog, but his parents never let him when he was a child and since he has been an adult, his landlords would not let him. So, Spencer is what he got, but it is fine, really, no responsibility, just a walk with a dog once a week. John would have enjoyed his afternoon walk more if it was not his birthday. He generally did not like holidays, the pressure to do something special and the forcedly good mood...His birthdays were the worst. He never really understood the point of them. It had neither been his effort nor his wish to be born. So why celebrate? Why pretend that this was a special day? Of course, his parents had a completely different opinion about this. For them his birth was a very significant event, an event that had changed their life profoundly and that had fulfilled everything they had at one point stopped to hope for any longer. So, he had to have a celebration of some kind. Typically, it included dinner with his parents and a lot of presents he did not want but got anyways. Tonight they were going to his father’s favourite Italian place, one of those exquisite restaurants with long white candles in silver candle holders on white table cloth, just the place where you go with your doctor parents and have a glass of prosecco to celebrate your getting together. He had to get home and get himself ready for the evening, get a shower, maybe do a little meditation to relax, put on some comfortable clothes that would not prompt his father to make his usual remarks about the importance of exercising regularly. And he must under no circumstance open the letter he had been hiding in his desk drawer for the last couple of days. It would only upset him. It always did. As long as John could remember he knew that he was adopted. He was everything his parents could ever have wished for: a son, a baby son of their own after years of failing to conceive. They had sworn that they would do everything in their power to make him the nucleus of their new atomic family. He would grow and prosper and become their son not only by name but also by his complete being. They had also sworn that they would not lie to him about the circumstances of his birth and their parenthood. He asked the inevitable question when he was three years old and their neighbour was seven months pregnant: “I was in your belly, too, mommy, right?”. He was clearly expecting a simple, reassuring “Yes”, but what he got was a fairly complicated “No”. That day he learned about the concept of adoption. He was mature enough to grasp the basic concept, but too little to deal with the emotional impact of the fact, that he had another mother, a mother who gave him away. Was he bad in some way, damaged goods? Too little to understand or to ask, his young brain compartmentalised the issue: he understood that he was special due to his adoption because and told everyone who would care to listen, to the horror of his parents. The more traumatic aspects of the whole affair sunk deep down onto the ground of his subconscious. They lay down there like the carcass of a whale, slowly rotting and releasing tiny particles into its surroundings; bigger chunks were eaten by fish and other creatures of the deep sea and resurfaced in disguise. They emerged as profound self-doubt, a lack of basic trust and the uncanny ability to present himself as the person the other one had always wished for. Unsurprisingly. John became the perfect son his parents had wished for. They could hardly believe their luck since they knew that adopted children could cause a lot of trouble, their biggest fear was that his birth mother had been a prostitute and John would turn out to be a drug addict or criminal or just bad. Alas, John never did. The mystery of his birth mother accompanied him his whole life and, on his birthdays, it became especially intriguing. He never wanted to tell his parents about it since he did not want to give them the feeling that they were not enough, or that he longed for his ‘real’ mother. He didn’t, not really. And still, as soon as he turned eighteen and could contact the youth welfare office to ask for more information on his adoption, he did so. Maybe the mystery had grown too big, maybe the resentment for her had become too big, maybe he just wanted to close the case, which would have been easily possible if his mother was indeed a troubled person. Or, on the opposite, how would his life change if his mother was amazing, maybe a famous actor or even noble and rich? As is turned out, none of his hopes and fears became true. His mother was a friendly common woman, still young and very warm-hearted. She said all the right things, for example that she regretted giving him away every day of her life. She explained to him that she had been very young when she was pregnant with him - 15 - and that she was raised in a very difficult family and just did not see any way to keep him at the time and that she just wanted the best for him. She was so happy that he had gotten in touch with her and she could not wait to introduce him to her new family who all knew about him. John was very disappointed with this. He had expected more drama, more feeling, more something. He could not really put his finger on it. He met her more often, he met her family, nice ordinary people all over. In some respects, they were quite like him. Like him, they always had tea for breakfast. His parents preferred coffee. They had the same favourite colour (blue). And they had a dog. They greeted him very warmly and he instantly became a member of the family. He hated it. You would expect that every adopted child longed for exactly this. But he just hated it. All these years, he had managed, he had fantasized about his mystery mother and it was ok, not great, but ok. And now he felt this rage, a rage that had been buried very deeply inside him. He did not want to belong to them, he did not want another family. He wanted to hurt his birth mother for having abandoned him. So, when he turned twenty-one, he decided that he’d had enough and did the only thing he could think off: he abandoned her. He did not return her phone calls; he did not write to her and he forgot her birthday. The last time they had seen each other, he had told her to her face that he despised her. He kind of enjoyed her tears. Unfortunately, she still had his address. A letter from her had arrived two days before his birthday. Just seeing it had made him feel uncomfortable: slightly ashamed of himself and slightly satisfied. He had buried the letter unopened in his desk drawer; he could not open it before he had had dinner with his parents because he was afraid that they would see it in his face. Mollified by a couple of glassed of vino rosso and some grappe he returns home. The evening has been a relative success, they have gotten along quite well, his father has not made any remarks about his physique and they have given him a city trip of his wish as a present, something he was actually looking forward to. When he enters his dark apartment, he is in a bright mood and filled with some tender nostalgia. He is ready. He opens the letter. He does not read the card but slowly and pleasurably rips it apart and tosses the shreds into the bin. There is also a little present in the envelope: a pair of red-blue socks, hand-knitted. John looks at them and sighs. With a tiny uninterpretable smile on his face he takes them to his bedroom. There he opens the undermost sock drawer and puts the pair in there, next to their nine colourful hand-made siblings. Just where they belong.


A flicker of light and she appeared in some beautiful and unusual place. There was a beautiful garden around, the trees and flowers were different, but at the same time they complemented each other. The sounds of birds were heard, the sun was shining. It was so harmonious and calm there that she forgot about everything, about all her failures and achievements, did not think about the past or the future. The girl was sure that this was a dream, but she did not want to wake up. She just wanted to be and feel this moment as the most beautiful in her life. She just closed her eyes and felt her presence. This magical place gave her back to her, that girl who once dreamed and believed, who wanted to love and be loved in return. The girl looked around, at every detail, as if she was afraid to miss something very important, she looked very carefully in the hope that she would have the opportunity to return to this magical place one more time. Walking, she saw a fountain and decided to get closer. The sounds of the water were like heaven to the ears, like the most beautiful melody. She began to dance listening to the sounds of the water. Her movements were beautiful, calm and at the same time filled with bliss. There was a light, sweet emptiness in the girl's heart. Is she really happy? Feelings of happiness were foreign to her. Thoughts of past events and worries about the future simply did not give her the opportunity to enjoy the moment. Happiness was always inside, she just didn't notice it. I wonder if people always do this? Do they only appreciate when they lose? The girl spoke to herself. After a while, she wanted to return to the place where her walk began, but suddenly she saw a woman. The woman had blond hair and blue eyes, The girl asked her "where am I." The woman smiled instead of answering. Her smile fascinated and warmed the soul, and in her deep and kind eyes one could feel care and love. The girl involuntarily smiled back and said that she really likes it here. Before leaving, the woman asked her 2 questions "Were you happy?" "Have you made someone happy?" The girl thought. She was so focused on her problems and failures that she forgot about the main thing, about the meaning of life of every person, about love for herself and for others. Looking back, she realized how beautiful her life was. How much the universe loved her and cared for her. She realized that all the failures and not-so-good events that happened to her were blessings in disguise. She realized that her path began when she was in pain, when she did not know where to go, she was already on her way. She realized that everything is right exactly the way it is. That she was always in the right place for her and the experience she had that was right for her. Yes, she experienced many disappointments in her life, and this wound bled for a very long time, but this experience hardened her, made her stronger and wiser. After the girl smiled, looked at the sky and said thank you. Thank you for your love, for loving me and not leaving me alone even if I do not do very well. I am grateful for this life for every event, for the people who surround me. Gratitude and love is all that was inside the girl. After some thought, she told the woman "If I had the opportunity, I would change everything. Only now I realized that I missed the most important thing, I realized the beauty of this world." The woman looked at her brown eyes in which there was so much regret and smiled and answered you have such an opportunity. Continue to live this wonderful life enjoying every moment and bring your inner light to others. A flicker of light and she's in the hospital. Already dawn. The feeling that the sun is not only in the sky but also in her soul. She took a notebook and began to write: “My little girl, you didn’t know what could be otherwise, didn’t know how to change your life for the better, how to survive difficulties, how to cope, where to go. You did everything you could to not back down and you did it, I'm very proud of you. But from now on, you are not alone, I am there and will help you. I will help you go through your fear. We will learn what we did not know, we will cope with everything together. We'll make all your dreams come true, I promise My little girl, know that someday all your work on yourself will be transformed into something very big. You have no idea what a happy life awaits you. Just keep going. “ Tears rolled down her cheeks from the realization that her life would no longer be the same, that she is not alone and she has support. This event became for her a springboard to a new life filled with awareness and happiness. It changed her, she became better and happier, she got closer to the girl she always dreamed of being. She already has a landmark, she knows where to go and what to look for. Is this not happiness? After such deep reflection, she set the intention, instead of complaining about the darkness, to become a light for herself and for others. The girl decided to learn how to bring positive to people around, and look at them from an expanded state, with the eyes of the soul. She made the decision to live out of trust in life and let the world take care of her. She made a decision, she can't go back, only go forward. With small steps will go as slowly as necessary so as not to stumble. But she can't go back. Ahead is a white sheet, it remains only to pave the way. Can she? Whether she will reach her aim, she does not know. But she can no longer go back, there is an abyss. Deep down, she believed that if people make a decision, they can go anywhere, but she also knew that mood swings are inevitable. She knew that there would be days when she would not believe it, there would be days along the way when she would want to turn back, when her dream would be somewhere far, far away in the future. But she believed that at that moment she would gather all her will into a fist and just take one more step. And then it turns out that if there is fog around and nothing is visible, you can get out of it if you just go.


Appleton rushed to scratch the message onto the back cover of a magazine lying face-down on a table near the telephone. Scratch--because the pen didn’t want to cooperate; the ballpoint stuck. Appleton’s fingers shook. It was a prank, surely. The conversation had been recorded. He would end up on a website somewhere, the anonymous out-of-touch butt of some teenager’s joke. Yet there was something in the quality of that voice, a voice that didn’t belong to any teenager, that forced the shapes of the letters through his wrist, onto the paper. Even as he felt the fool, he also felt the chronicler. The words could be historic. The words: after a plain “hello” the voice had excused itself and muttered something about a wrong number and galactic interference. Then it had said, exactly, “No matter, you will have to do. My name is Charles R--and I am calling from Mars. First, record the date and time of this communication. Second, please bring it to the attention of one Mrs Mary Clare of 34 Wentworth St, Nottingham. Pass along also that I am doing fine and that, though food is scarce, I have had my fill, and that water is plenty once one digs past the red surface of things.” That was all. Then the phone went dead. The connection had not been good to begin with, but there was no doubt about any of it. Nothing had been made up. There was no uncertainty. Having written these five sentences, Appleton let go of the pen, wiped his forehead and retreated to the safety of his customary evening chair. It was a few minutes after six--his regular reading time--but Appleton gave no thought to books. Today, he sat silently in his chair until the clock struck seven. His neurons fired incessantly. By eight, he had made up his mind: in the morning he would fly to Nottingham and personally deliver the message to Mary Clare. There was only the slight problem of the wife. She would arrive home tomorrow afternoon and find it empty. She would worry. Appleton’s greatest fear was that the wife would worry. She was of good breeding and delicate constitution, and worry might weaken her system enough to allow otherwise harmless bacteria to set up residence, which would lead to complications and eventually a prolonged bedridden death. He shuddered at the mere inkling. Right, he would have to compose a note: “My dear, I am off on a scholarly pursuit. Do not worry. I will return by Wednesday. Sincerely, your devoted husband.” He folded the note and placed it on the dining room table. That, he realized, was more writing than he’d done since his tenure at Oxford. He felt productive again. ## - - - The plane skidded as it touched down, but the flight was otherwise without incident. Outside, grey clouds produced a cold mist that collected drops of water on the brim of Appleton’s hat as he waited by the terminal. Although no one could say so by looking at him, he was nervous. He nearly misspoke while telling the driver the address. In the taxi, he caught himself rubbing his thumb compulsively against his forefinger like he hadn’t done since his rugby days. ## - - - The house at 34 Wentworth St was made of pale yellow brick. It was smaller and set farther from the road than neighbouring houses. A stone path led to the front door, on either side of which bloomed a well-kempt garden. Appleton walked the path slowly, cherishing the smell of wet flowers and realizing that over the last twelve hours he’d developed a particular mental image of Mary Clare. It was something like the opposite of the wife. He stood for a few moments before the front door and deliberated whether to ring the electronic bell or use the bronze knocker. Eventually, he rapped his knuckles against the wood. A woman opened the door. “Yes, hello,” said Appleton. The woman looked suspiciously at his hands, but he wasn’t carrying anything except the back cover of the magazine on which he’d written the message from Mars. “I’m not selling,” he said. “I’m looking for Mrs Mary Clare. I’ve been informed that she lives at this address. I have a message for her from Charles R--.” “Did he send you, the scoundrel?” Appleton blinked. “Well did he or didn’t he, speak up. All these years and he can’t even come back to show his face, sends some other poor fool.” Her eyes studied Appleton’s hat. “Or maybe he’s dead. Maybe that’s what you come to tell me. Last of kin or some such.” “No, Mrs Clare--“ “Simpson, but one and the same as you’re looking for.” “Mrs Simpson.” Appleton fumbled the correction. He’d shoved one hand into a cloak pocket and was furiously rubbing his fingers together. “Yesterday evening I received a phone call. I wasn’t meant to receive it, you see, there was a mistake with the connection. The call was from Mr Charles R--. He asked that I deliver this message.” Appleton read aloud what he’d written on the magazine cover. The woman laughed and stomped her foot. She was in her sixties, Appleton realized. Sections of her hair were greying. The lines under her eyes were deep and permanent. Her laughter was not a joyous laughter. She said, “Whatever trick it is you’re playing, and whoever you’re playing it with, I’m too old for it, you understand? The past is dead. Mr Charles R-- is dead. And I deserve to be left to my own peace. Don’t come back here.” But before she could close the door, Appleton put his hand on her shoulder. It was a soft shoulder. Appleton gasped. Never had he been so forward with a woman. “Please, Mr Charles R-- is not dead. I spoke to him. I heard his voice. I’m telling you the truth. He’s alive. He’s just on another planet. It’s utterly remarkable!” Mrs Simpson looked at Appleton with suddenly sympathetic eyes and, even as she removed his hand from her shoulder, kept her voice calm: “He’s dead to me.” Appleton’s hand fell limply against the side of his cloak. “There are certain things you do that, once you do them, their consequences are permanent. There is no pretending and there is no coming back. Take care now, Mister.” With that, she shut the door. ## - - - Upon returning home, Appleton’s life returned to normal--at least in all superficial respects: he smiled to his wife, he kept to himself, and, at Six O’clock each evening, he retreated to his customary chair to read his customary books. The magazine cover on which he’d written the message from Charles R--, he placed in a private drawer in the desk in his study, underneath unfinished essays and research into particle acceleration and magnet engine propulsion and other old academic bric-a-brac. For weeks, whilst trying unsuccessfully to locate more information about Charles R--, he kept the drawer unlocked. But, once he’d given up hope, he turned the key and, with one click, banished all thought of Mars from his mind. Or at least that’s what Appleton intended. For there are certain neurons that, once they start firing, are impossible to stop. At most, they can be slowed--their work delayed. They are not obtrusive neurons: they do not prevent, say, smiling to one’s wife or reading customary books. But they are persistent and every so often they make the results of their operation known. This happens most-of-all at unexpected times, as, for instance, when Appleton, having bent to retrieve a particularly large pine cone from the grass, stood up with the complete schematic for the Magna-IV Engine before his eyes, or, upon having been asked by the local lady grocer for his opinion about a recent stretch of fair weather, replied, “My God, Ruthenium!” Once such ideas made themselves known to Appleton, he began putting them to paper. Once they were on paper, he tasked other, more compliant, neurons with dividing and conquering any problems that the papers made apparent; and, once those had been solved, what else was there to do but gather the necessary materials and construct the first prototypes? Appleton kept mum about this, of course. To his physicist colleagues, he was still at work on the same book he’d been working on for the last decade. He was still irrelevant. The wife, as long he smiled to her, suspected nothing. It was only his books that could have given him away--lying unopened on their shelves, their regular Six O’clock appointments long forgotten, their yellowing pages gathering dust--but books by themselves cannot speak. Appleton’s secret was safe. Even as the project approached completion, not one soul suspected. When launch-day finally dawned and Appleton, having composed a note to his wife indicating that he would be away until Wednesday on a scholarly pursuit, packed the pieces and prototypes into the back of a rented truck and drove to an old farmer’s field, from where he would blast off that very noon, the whole world was still naïve to the history that would soon be made. In the field, Appleton worked diligently. He filled the shell of the rocket with each of the separate machines he had designed and constructed. He had a life support system, a navigation system, a communications system. He had propulsion. He had fuel. He had everything that was necessary. Nothing had been overlooked. As the sun rose, it rose on years of endless effort that, today, had physically and for the first time come together in the middle of such a previously insignificant English spot on Earth. By Ten O’clock, the rocket was nearly complete. All that was left was the installation of the final ingenious detail: the captain’s seat: Appleton’s own customary evening chair. That done, Appleton looked for one last time at the earthly sky, its thin clouds moving slightly across an orange sun, then climbed into the rocket and closed the hatch. The pneumatics sighed. The inside air was warm. As he set the navigation, every click and beep audible as if within his own skull, Appleton wondered what became of Mary Simpson. But just as it had come, the wonder passed. He confirmed his intended destination on the small liquid crystal display and took a deep breath. The destination was unbelievable: Appleton felt feverish. He maneuvered into his chair and strapped himself in. Space was tight but he was not uncomfortable. Besides--he thrust a needle into a vein in his arm--he would be asleep for most of the journey. The sedative began to flow. He activated the countdown sequence. When he awoke, he would already be in Saturn’s orbit. ## - - - “Hello? Can you hear me?” The communications equipment produced only a monotonous hiss punctuated by crackles. Appleton scratched his head. He’d programmed the system to link directly to the telephone in his home. The signal was strong enough. It should be working. He tried another connection. This time, there was a faint click and the echo of a voice. “Darling! It’s me. Please say something,” Appleton spoke into the receiver. The voice wobbled. “I hope you can hear me. I hope you haven’t been worrying. I hope I haven’t caused you harm. Please, darling, say something so that I know there isn’t a malfunction.” The echoing voice suddenly came into rather clear focus. “Who is this? And do you want to speak with my mum?” Appleton knew right away that it wasn’t the voice of the wife. In fact, it wasn’t even a female voice. It was the voice of a boy. “My name is Appleton,” said Appleton. “I am attempting to contact the wife. Unfortunately, I may have miscalculated. Nonetheless, if you’d be a good lad and please make a note of the following: I am calling from Titan, which is the largest moon of the plane-- “Saturn, I know. I’m not stupid.” Appleton cleared his throat and adjusted his headset. “Yes, that’s mighty good of you. As I was saying, I am on Titan, having only just arrived, you see. But the situation thus far appears manageable. I predict I shall make a fair go of living here.” He remembered his reason for calling. “Right, then, if you could tell as much to the wife, whom you will find living at 11 Golden Pheasant Lane in Beaconsfield, I would be much obliged. Her name is--“ The connection went dead. The communications system went offline. Try as Appleton might, no amount of banging, prodding and reprogramming ever brought it back. ## - - - Phil Jones replaced the telephone receiver. “Who was that?” his mother asked. Then disappeared down the hall without waiting for an answer. Phil went back to the homework spread out on his bedroom floor, whose doing Appleton had interrupted. Geography lay beside history, which bordered an island of English. Phil tried all three subjects--cross his innocent heart, he did--but all at once the history was too boring, the English too imprecise and the geography too much pointless memorisation. He rubbed his eyes. Next year he’d be in high school. The homework would only get harder. T-I-T-A-N He typed the letters almost absent-mindedly into a Google image search. The moon stared at him. Somewhere inside his head, certain neurons were beginning to fire.


The pain of thought tortured many. He flung himself down in a rickety chair in his dusty apartment, feeling the ghost of thoughts come on like tidal waves--relentless pursuit with a water baton raised until he succumbed and prepared himself for the unceremonious thump of impact, the blow that’d knock him out cold; that was what recalling one’s hurtful memory felt like. He was trying to recall what it had felt like. His exhalation caught in the thorax, never arriving in the realm of existence. Just as he thought he was going to give out and be demoted to his previous mundane self, before all this had happened, a thought danced in his mind--there would be no return to any semblance of normalcy once one had a taste of the transcendental; he knew, he confessed to himself, feeling a draft of air journeying through the lungs, then trachea, energy being restored where it had previously been dislodged or stolen or held prison. It’s better to slap oneself with truth then to wallow in the comfort of self-delusion. A month ago, after this particular ordinary middle-aged man came home from an exhausting night, he sprawled on the couch, lost in thoughts about the torment of the night. Strange circumstances crept through his mind as the content of the night was suddenly lost to him, tossed by a pair of mysterious wilful hands into the abyss, and so strikingly sudden and absolute in its unmovable reality he found his power to be, his reaction was nothing besides a frail cry, after which he tipped over into slumber right there on the couch. It was only when the afternoon sun blazed across his eyes, the other day, was he hit by the full-blown recognition of what had happened--he had erased his memories. Specifically, a cluster of memories that had scarred his long-barren heart, proving the incident associated to be too hard to take. And indeed, he felt lighter, giddy, almost. There he was, hair sticking up in places and stubble accumulating, he had, by the graces of magical entities and ancient deities, gained the power to erase pain. That night, his overly empathetic neighbor visited with a home-baked lemon pie, which she immediately stepped in and put down onto the dining table after she was greeted by her pallid and somber neighbor. A couple of glasses of wine in, he told her everything. He feared, at first, she would think he was going insane, but as her wide-eyed, stunned expression gave way to more an understanding one, he thought he gained an ally in this craziness. “That’s awful. You know, you never told me where you were going...But I recall you getting agitated over minor things the past week. It must’ve been something terrible.” Her mouth twisted, brows knitted in genuine concern, what was on her mind, though, was not mere worry. “Yes, although I’ve forced it out of my brain, I somehow feel it in my heart.” His eyes swept past the photos on the shelves, with his father’s strained smile in the family and his graduation photo, palm snaking its way up from the abdomen to the heart, as if finding its way back; and the ensuing two pats on the heart, felt like a wound. “I’m so sorry to hear.” Her slender fingers brushed his shoulder, “I might have an idea to cheer you up.” “What?” He retracted his gaze. A glint in her eye. “See if this is only a power you can use on yourself. You can try to erase my memory. Well, one, if I focus on it hard enough.” After much back and forth haggling, flirting, but possibly it was the wine that made him chuckle and nod. Why not, she’d promised to focus on a trivial, soon-to-be-forgotten memory--her going to the CD store last week to buy some records. It worked; she had no recollection of said shopping experience, nor the items she bought, sitting right there in her apartment--as she ran back to check and afterwards rapping on his door to announce, you only change the memories, not the facts, the world turns just the same, or something to that effect in her alcohol-slurred speech. And he got more scared. But then the alcohol really started to kick in and she, his very own manic pixie dream girl also in her middle age, widowed, and indeed lovely, suggested making a living out of this strange super power that must’ve slipped right from the pocket of some absentminded angel and fallen into his lap. “People choose, if they really do come to you, people must’ve thought it through; it’ll never be your fault, and think about how much you can help those people! Those miserable lives altered by your mere thought! And excuse my bluntness, you’ve been between jobs for what, now? Two months? And it’s probably time to get something going on the road.” Her bird-like hands wrapped around his, “This is amazing, you need to grab it, before it disappears.” She didn’t know he worried about its sticking, not its disappearing. >>> As he sat in his apartment now--alone and expectant for a client--he was once again attacked by a terrible thought: what if this thing grew and split like cells according to the irrefutable rule of nature, then another power developed inside of me? He closed his eyes--how else, then, would I feel in my heartbeat a messed-up rhythm? This intermittent march, bringing to his mind’s eye the unsure, at times stalling footsteps of the client whom he was supposed to meet any minute now. Maybe now he could direct his sensory inner workings with whomever he focused his thoughts about; maybe he’d been pulled deeper into this mess, this pool of poured cement gradually setting with his face--his brain, his mind--submerged inside. Nonsense, he was dismissing his own radial thinking as the door rang. He blew out air, and the tight lump in his chest loosened ever so slightly to grant him a window of time in greeting this client. A tall woman in her early thirties was standing there, fidgety, a high forehead seemed to be the primary feature catching attention as eyes fall on her long, smooth face, the mousy hair was done up, with strands spilling out here and there, she had on a midi dress with complicated patterns his eyesight were not relenting enough for him to make out. She hesitated, brown inquisitive eyes darting around his apartment, then said, “Should I come in?” “Yes, yes, please.” He made way. “How rude of me.” He was starting to gather threads right then and there, her signal was strong so he was hoping for a quick and easy erasure, then receive the small sum of money that each of his clients, joyous with the troubled memory lifted off their shoulder, insist he take. It’s during those moments of feeling he had been the reason for people’s relief and contentment could he overlook the terror that came with this power. “Thanks.” “Would you like some tea?” “Sure, why not.” The kettle was thumped down onto the stovetop; the woman gave a start and he apologetically nodded in her direction, gesturing towards the plump couch. “How may I call you?” His demeanor took on a gentler, mellowed-down quality in a stranger’s presence. “Clara, please.” “And...” He repeated what he’d said over the past month in this kind of moment, “How may I help you today?” Instead of an answer’s arrival, he saw Clara’s gaze was fixed on the overturned picture frames on the opposite shelves, all except one, his graduation photo, by himself, had on the cap with boyish bangs spilling out across his forehead. He brought over the set of teaware. A sudden idea seized him, and he was sure it was engendered by the way Clara didn’t ask about the photos. “Do you want to prepare the tea together?” He asked, sitting down. “I’m not sure...” “Ah,” Faint smile blossomed on his wrinkled face, “this is a traditional tea practice, where the tea is poured over and over onto the clay; with repeated brewing, the fragrance of the tea is infused with years and years of aroma trapped within the clay.” A pause. “You can share with me your story as we pour the water and the tea together.” “Okay, sure.” “First we cleanse the cups. Here, I’ll show you how.” So there she was, pouring tea nervously over the delicate equipment, a month after the man discovered his power right on this couch, attributed to his neighbor’s strong social network, so naturally all of her friends at the baker’s store and the grocer knew about it, with some dismissive, some believing. “I taught my nephew to hate my sister.” She said, hand hung in midair, and the clear, yellowish liquid flowed out, unleashing white tendrils. The steam obscured the tiny space between them. He simply nodded, and let the ceremony consume them; it could do that, as he had learnt as a boy, him inching closer to his taciturn, distant father on the couch of his childhood home, and his father hadn’t leant or turned away or become quiet and rigid. He ruminated often, even as a boy, about his father’s behavior and temperament, as if this big man were a scarred squirrel who didn’t know what to do with its infants. “The tea, seeps into the clay over time, stronger flavor that way.” His father explained. And he, dared not, even, to nod along, afraid the slightest of response would jolt his father out from enchantment by the steam--he simply sat there and absorbed every word like a ravenous dog, delivered softly from his father’s lips. Stabs of pain shot out from his core, where his heart resided, as he recalled this, one of the few memories he’d held so dear like feathers, like a bunny, like a clay teapot. >>> “I have always resented my sister,” Clara whispered as she too was reliving her memories inside the cloud of mist, “But maybe not as deeply as I thought.” Clara’s sister, Naomi asked her, on a Tuesday afternoon, to come over and watch Kyle because there had been an emergency run-through and her presence was mandated -- Naomi was a designer at a bridal company. As urgent as it was, Naomi could only think to phone people she knew and who lived not far away. All the same, Clara was reluctant and surprised to receive the call, her sister’s voice growing anxious on the phone, just like sandpaper that is desperately trying to smooth over rough patches, reassuring her, it’s only for a few hours , and Clara’s heart was suddenly filled with stale memories of petty quarrels, accusation towards their parents’ favoritism, their competitive streak in everything--the likes, at which Clara’s eyes rolled and hand waved. So as she finally gave in--as was her usual reaction in quarrels, confrontation and bargaining with Naomi--Clara was stricken with latent bitterness when she arrived at the place and greeted six-year-old Kyle, just off from school and drawing on the legal pad. He was drawing his mother as he thought her to be, a pretty woman whose smile broke like sunrays. That enraged Clara, who saw in her big sister of five years a backstabbing, black-mouthing, manipulative bully well into their adulthood, someone so far a departure from the angel that was practically depicted on the yellow pages. Then, as was understandable in one who’d been blinded by resentment, Clara contaminated that angelic image in Kyle’s mind with poisonous words; she told him about the time Naomi had poured breakfast milk over her dress, then leered at her over the counter, just so Clara would be scolded and would have to do the dishes; she told him about the way Naomi had ignored her during school lunches even though she’d seen her sitting only a few benches away; she told him about how Naomi had stolen her project ideas; but most importantly, she told Kyle, all innocent eyes swirling with traces of green and blue, his gaze on the rapidly moving lips of Clara, belting out one last secret: Naomi didn’t want Kyle at first. And though it was true, it wasn’t Clara’s place to tell it, least of all in such a malicious way. Afterwards, he grew even quieter, put down the color pencils, and went to his room to play with legos. Left alone in front of the drawing, Clara was confronted with a deep, foreign sense of guilt, directed towards Kyle and her hateful sister. For a moment, as she stared at the drawing, she experienced a sudden and horrible dislodging of memory, in which she was prompted to think about Naomi’s maturity over the years, and how she herself had been projecting Naomi in such a light her big sister didn’t even have a chance at redemption. But hate, accumulated over years, possessed the power to trump all other trivial slivers of emotions, so, Clara wished to erase that spark of sympathy for Naomi, and with that, the memory of that afternoon. After a while into her recount, though, the man found himself losing track of what Clara was feeling and instead, focused on what Kyle must be feeling. “Don’t you think, if anything, Kyle also needs to be here today?” He gently pushed. There was only silence amidst the thickening steam. In a minute, the heat distributing evenly, leaves swirling inside the cups, the tea would be ready; and inside this minute, the two’s breathing slowed down. Then, his brain shifted in a manner alien to him with the thin smoke evaporating; he felt something started to displace him, his tether to this moment evaporating along with the fading whiteness. He saw his father, through the mist that day on the wooden couch of his childhood, making out his father hard-edged outline, and a faint smile; he saw his father, drunkenly stumbled into the foyer, an anomaly, after that he learnt his mom ran off with a man who knew how to make her laugh; he saw his father, putting on a suit as if he was the one receiving the certificate, tying a necktie in the mirror, brows knitted tight; he saw his father, insisting on living in the old house and refusing to venture into the city, as suggested by him, twenty-two, ambitious and who’ve secured a job position in an architectural firm, his father said that day, spine pulled straight yet still shorter than him, “You’re all grown up, you don’t need me anymore;” he saw his father, on the hospital bed, with tubes in his body, breathing raggedly, and when his eyes opened, it’s as though he’d been greeted by an astrological rare event for which he’d been waiting his whole life; he saw his father, inside the coffin, snug, small, traces of the quiet giant of his childhood crushed in the cruel hands of time, he thought, as he looked at his serene face, always mysterious, always stern and harboring secrets, and he cried all those tears that he’d been too afraid to cry in front of his father, and he’d hoped his father, in some other dimension, hadn’t heard him. “I remember...” Shakily, the words slipped out of him. That night, he had erased the memory of lowering his father’s coffin into the ground, he had erased the pain of lost chances at connecting with him, the lost time in which the two, timid, had never known each other. And in all those years, his vicious heart that was shut up by years of silene, study and knowledge and books, had wrought upon him a kind of hatred towards his father and the void between them, quite undetectable yet lethal--that which was nowhere to be found in the valves of his heart, after he’d lost him in his memory, which was the cruelest and most absolute form of loss. As Clara waited in the shared silence, her resolve in erasing her own feelings of sadness and guilt towards Naomi was shaken, and as she lifted the tea cup and sipped, her toxic and obsessive thoughts were afloat in the tea’s bitterness and the tinge of sourness--they were carried downwards, whereas previous they had been lodged in her throat, eager to somersault into existence. And the man, opposite her, whose profile was no longer shrouded by the mist, professed, “Sorry, Miss Clara, I can’t do it.” “I don’t think I can do it, too,” She aimed a faint smile at him, rejuvenated by the hot tea that warmed her core, “I think I need to go and do some explaining. Untie some knots.” He nodded. They stood, shook hands, and he was left alone by a client for the very last time. Because with Clara’s stepping out the door, hate and hope mixed within her, the pain and hurt and revelation keeping her head level and her hands shaky and her legs determined, the man’s power went out through the same door and never came back.


After I passed through the gate into the lane I felt different. My feet were fatigued. My mind in a whirl of worries and uncertainties. The typical english weather specifically suited to my temper, a torrent of water pouring down onto the frosty, lifeless, dark green grass. The wind battling with the branches. Suddenly I see a light , a red light in the middle of the darkness surrounding me. An ear-splitting sound puts me back into reality and I realize that my trip to the lane might be over... I came to life by hearing a loud beep from the heart rate monitor getting faster by the minute I lied down faster than I got up but I didn’t lay there for long. The nurse at the hospital told me to get up and get out as there are many others in a worse condition than me . Whatever she meant by that , I had to go out fast. I didn’t quite know where I was , who I was or where I was heading but I knew this would make my life different than it was before .Before leaving I had a quick look in the mirror,the same old me greasy jet black hair in a messy pony tail , I was thin and starved but I also had a peculiar scar on my left leg , it looked as if it was still fresh even if it didn’t feel like it. When I left the hospital , I found myself standing in the middle of nowhere with just the continuation of the lane to lead me somewhere. As I walked I decided to look back , what I found was just an addition to all the questions I already had . The hospital that was there 5 minutes ago had completely vanished. I decide to sit down and look around me . The sky that was once blue is now covered in a pitch-black blanket, the sun and moon have been replaced with nothing, the weather is like no other I've seen before, no resources to be found, no trees , no water, no animals or human beings. The world was bare. Deafening silence filled the area that I decided to call hell. I have nowhere to go ,nowhere to live, nowhere to go back to. There is nothing that could save me , nothing that could help me . I am alone , sitting on the now unseen ground. I cannot stay here any longer , I decide to run into pitch-black smoke surrounding me . Is there a chance of survival? I am starting to have a headache but I don’t stop running. I feel as if wrapped in a blanket of fire, but with no feeling of pain. After wandering for what seemed like eternity to me ,I stopped and realized I have nothing to run for , nothing to live for. With no sources of food or drink , It appeared to be almost impossible to endure in this desolate landscape. I was certain death was coming soon. Seconds, minutes, hours, even days went by , my stomach kept shrinking , It was almost gone .My bones started to become more visible than my flesh . My face hidden behind misery and depression. Every part of me shaking as I crawl on in the search for hope. At last I find an object, a key to a better place . It was a dark red sign and in big ,bold, black, letters it said "HELL".


The rat is the ugliest animal of the animal kingdom. They eat trash. I mean, think of that - you're at a restaurant and some guy gets a menu and says "I'll have the rotten egg with some shit on it." That's what rats are like. They also will eat each other when they run out of trash to eat. So, it's like they are at that restaurant and they are like "What's on the menu? Oh, nothing. OK, I'm just going to eat my children." Then they make those rowwrowrow eating noises and everyone tries to ignore them, but they can't because it's horrific and then everyone leaves and it's like "OK, way to fuck up dinner, rats." Then you never go back to that restaurant and they go out of business and that's what's wrong with the economy. *The Human* The human is like a dog, but bigger. *The Goatee* The goatee is a special animal, and not to be confused with the goat. The goatee is a hairy little muskrat that will climb on your face if you play old Phish albums and stay there until you get a job. *The Goat* The goat is like a dog, but with horns. They will eat anything. This one time I fed a goat some nuclear waste and it was like "Dig in!" And it ate all the nuclear waste and became a super goat. You might wonder what a super goat does - anything. I actually got it to get me groceries and clean my yard. The super goat is totally cool. But the regular goat, like the one before the nuclear waste, they suck. Sure, they will eat anything and can clean up your lawn, but do you really have respect for that kind of animal? No, it's like the manual labor slut of the animal kingdom. I have no respect for goats. *The Pig* Often maligned, the pig is actually a pretty cool animal. They will eat almost anything. Not everything, they aren't scumbag goats. They have self-respect. Anyway, they are also cool because they will turn themselves into bacon for BLTs. But don't go asking them for mayo or lettuce or bread or tomatoes - they aren't goats. *The Horse* The horse is like a dog with really long legs and way more obedient. The dog will get your paper and stuff, but the horse will actually let you ride it around. It's all piggy back time with the horse. The horse doesn't care. Anytime - "Hey, horse, can I piggyback ride you?" And the horse is like "You bet, I'm always game to give you a piggyback ride." The horse is cool. *The Ant* The ant is this little speck of a guy that trundles to and fro all the live long day on the ground. They pick up food and are like "Hey, better get this food back home." So, then then turn around and take it back home. But they're like Communists, so they share their food with an entire hive of ants. There's like millions of them. Just hanging out and waiting for food or running out and getting food. But there's also a queen. She has wings. So, on holidays she'll fly up and get really cool food, not just stuff that other ants found on the ground. Like ripe apples and berries. But the joke's on her, the apple is way too big for the hole in the hive, and she just ends up plugging up the exit hole and all the ants die because she's stupid. Stupid queen. *The Possum* The possum is the only animal that is always dead. You would think that the definition of animal would include being alive, but not the case with the possum. Every. Single. One. Is. Dead. They are born out on the street and they are basically some fur and a bunch of guts. They just lay there and wait for hillbillies or the highway patrol to pick them up and eat them or bury them. They are the laziest animal besides the tree. *The Tree* The tree is like the laziest animal in the animal kingdom. It literally does nothing. It grows, but that's not really doing something. It can't move, unless the wind blows. And when that happens, all its leaves fall off and then it's just this naked tree in the woods and you have to shield your kid's eyes, because it's a naked tree. You're like "Hey, isn't it beautiful out here?" And your wife goes "Yes. What's that?" Then your kid goes "That tree is naked!" Then you freak and your kid is scarred for life and you burn the forest down and YOU end up in jail. Not the tree. Bunch of bullshit. I hate trees. *The Bird* The bird is like a dog with wings. They eat food and fly. That's all they do. Sometimes they air-hump and lay eggs, but that's it. They are like the most boring animal. But, they sometimes will give otters rides on their backs and then the otter is in control and he will do loop-de-loops and cool 360s and stuff. That's when the bird can be cool. Otherwise, the bird sucks. *The Dog* The dog is said to be man's best friend. But in truth, man's best friend is Jim. The dog has been a companion for man for millions of years, but Jim will let you borrow his car and sleep with his wife. Jim is THAT nice. You try asking a dog for that kinda help. *The Rhino* The rhino or rhinoceros is the last of the dinosaurs. They have been around for millions and millions of years and are still dino-looking. They are also the most dangerous animal after the hippo. But the most dangerous animal is the hippoceros. At 7'5 it has a vertical leap of 7 feet and can ruin your game. *The Tiger* The tiger is basically a lion with not as much fur. Basically, up in heaven, God was sending animals down and he was telling everyone of them "Don't forget your coat." But the tiger was like "I don't need a coat, I'm good." And God was like "But it gets cold at night, c'mon, wear a coat." And the tiger was like "No, I don't want to wear a coat; you can't make me." Then God was like "OK, have it your way." Then the tiger got down to Earth and found out that God was right - it was cold. Some of the tigers pleaded with God to give them coats, and God was nice enough to do it. And these tigers became lions. But, there were some tigers that were too proud to ask God, and they remained tigers. This made the lions proud, and that's why a group of them are called a Pride. A group of tigers is called a bunch of whiny jerks. *The Beaver* The beaver is a builder. No one is sure how the beaver learned to build, but he builds all day long. Sure, he'll stop to get a coffee and a doughnut, and later have a sandwich, but the rest of the day he's building and bitching about the union. The Beaver Union. They are a million strong and they will shut down a dam in an instant if they don't get paid. The thing is, they are paid in wood, so no one really cares and they really don't need the union. But they are proud of it. *The Lion* The kindly lion is possibly the most important animal in the jungle. This is because he is at the top of the food chain. That means the lion can eat anything. So, if you are at a restaurant, he totally doesn't care what he has. He'll just say "Whatever." Therefore, everyone wants to have dinner with him because he doesn't take nine years to order. That is why he is the most important animal.


It was a sweltering day in the middle of July in New York City, the kind of day when the humidity was so high that it felt like you were walking in a thick soup. Billy, who was fifteen years old at the time, had spent the entire day cooped up in his apartment, trying to keep cool and stay out of his mother's way; but she told him to go outside, and that's what he did. While out and about, Billy found a strange, shiny object on the ground outside the entrance to Central Park. It was a Galaxy S22 cell phone and charger, but Billy obviously didn't know that; he just thought it was an interesting-looking thingamabob. He was aware that it was a device that required access to an electrical socket. Billy's mother was a little bit of a technophobe, and she didn't like using any newfangled gadgets that she didn't completely understand. She told Billy she didn't trust the unusual contraption and wouldn't let him plug it in. Secretly, she didn't want to unplug her new Toastmaster 3000, a device that promised to deeply burn toast in a matter of seconds. Despite this, Billy considered it to be an interesting thingamabob and did not want to throw it out. It was a sleek rectangle made of black glass, and he was intrigued by it. So, he decided to keep the object to fix his wobbly table, and he positioned it to support one of the legs of his table. The most influential invention of the 21 century just ended up sitting there for the rest of the summer, collecting dust, supporting a table that would be garbage by the end of the decade. In September, Billy's friend invited him to play baseball at his house. Billy noticed an unused electrical socket while searching for additional gloves. Billy remembered the strange object he had found over the summer and asked his friend if he could plug it in, to which he agreed. He was so excited to find out what would happen if he plugged it in that he hurried back to his apartment to get it. The thing started moving as soon as he plugged it in and turned it on, so he knew it was working. When the screen displayed a logo, Billy and his friend were astounded to realize it was a television they could hold in their hands. At first, they were more concerned with some of the games on the device, such as the calculator, flashlight, and their favorite game, camera. They would sit there for hours taking pictures of inane things such as the cat, themselves in the mirror, and food. I guess, no matter the time period, humans will always want to take pictures of their food. The boys do end up learning about Google Chrome when it is accidentally pressed. The phone was connected to the internet from 2023. They both are big fans of Charles Lindberg, so they search for planes and immediately find pornography. 24 hours later, they stumble across Wikipedia and begin to educate themselves on issues in the future. They spent the next few days using every second of spare time they had to explore the internet and read about a wide variety of topics they had never heard of before. They were sure that everything that happened before their time was correct because they checked it against facts they looked up in the library. They started to believe that the events that were going to take place in the future were also accurate. Billy, who was adamant about doing something about the device, brought it to his uncle, a nearby university professor. His uncle was fascinated by the device, and he listened closely as Billy and his friend filled him in on all they had discovered. He urged them to arrange a presentation for the university officials in the hope that those individuals could judge whether or not this technology could forecast the future. At the presentation, the boys warned the officials about The Great Depression because it was set to begin at the end of the month. Everyone listening becomes very depressed because they all have their money in banks. One of the officials was spotted slipping out the back; there is no evidence to suggest that he went directly to the bank and withdrew all of his savings. The boys then discuss World War II, Hitler, the Holocaust, Hiroshima, and Nagasaki. Everyone listening immediately gets wide-eyed and has a horrible feeling in their stomach since they were all alive for the Great War. They desperately want to hear more, something a little more optimistic, but they don't tell the boys that. The boys begin to discuss major events further into the future. They discussed such topics as the Cold War, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, Agent Orange, Napalm, the Nuclear Weapons Arms Race, domestic terrorist attacks, school shootings, 9/11, the War in Afghanistan, the War in Iraq, and COVID-19. A grown man started to cry. "Is there anything that happens that is not tied to death and destruction?" The man asked in desperation. The boys nodded as they continued, "they found out that the Earth is flat, we faked a moon landing, aliens are locked up in a military base in Nevada, and the government implants a tracker just under the skin in all infants." In the front row, a man passes out, prompting a woman to hug the person next to her. The officials decide to take the thingamabob, place it in a box, set it on fire, pour acid over it, and then bury it in the Nevada desert, fifty feet deep. They conclude that the future is the future, and whatever will happen will happen for a reason.


I died today. It started as most days do with a song I had grown to hate blaring from my phone. It ripped me from my sleep, from my dream about seashells and sandwiches and... and a bridge? I couldn’t pull it back, the dream was gone and I was awake. I turned off my alarm and crawled out of bed, made my way to the bathroom and peed like I had been holding it in for a year. I turned on the shower and climbed in, willing myself to wake up as the water rushed over me. I used the good shampoo, the one that smelled like honey, Emma was working today and it always made my hair soft and easy to manage. I suppose I thought she might like me if my hair was soft. As I brushed my teeth I studied myself in the mirror. I looked like my dad, like the picture of him and his best friend from their fishing trip 30 years ago that hung in my parents house. I looked just like him, then, but with freckles. Mom always loved my freckles. Maybe I could swing by their house after work, I hadn’t seen them for a while. I got dressed, grabbed an apple and a dog treat from the jar by the door, patted myself down *phone, wallet, keys* and left. It was a beautiful day. Early enough that the sun wasn’t blinding but the sky was a welcoming blue, spotted with clouds. I could hear the seagulls but I couldn’t see them, I thought how this might be a good thing, how I wouldn’t get shat on. Looking back now it would have meant going home to change and missing my bus which maybe would have been a blessing. Funny to think that bird shit might have been a blessing. Isn’t there one of those sayings about it being lucky? Toby was at his fence waiting to greet me as I walked past, as he had been every day since I started my job and as he probably will be every day now that I’m gone. I stopped for a second to pet him and threw the treat into the garden for him to chase after. He’s a good boy, I hope he meets a new friend. The bus was quiet, just about the only perk of working so early on a Saturday, that and seeing Emma. I thought about how the office would be quiet too, we were only going in to get a few reports finished and then maybe Connor would let us leave early. I knew he’d rather spend the day with his girls anyway, the twins started school after summer and he was trying to squeeze in family time while he could. As we passed houses and trees, half listening to the small boy chatting excitedly about what he would play on at the park to his mother, I thought about the family time I might one day have with Emma. Maybe we would have a boy who looked like me but with her blonde hair. Maybe we would have a girl with my freckles. We could get a dog like Toby and a house like my parents’ and grow old together, sitting on a porch swing like one of those cute old couples. Not now though. I walked into work and past Gladys, the sweet elderly lady sitting at the front desk. A few weeks from retirement we had already planned her surprise party, but she most likely already knew. She always was the office gossip, although I don’t think any of us really minded. I was sitting at my desk when I heard the first shot. A sharp, loud boom that left a ringing in my ears. I thought maybe there had been a car crash outside, or Dan had left his fork in his pot noodle in the microwave again, or the roof had fell in, but it was Gladys, still sitting at her desk, mostly. The rest of her had been splattered against the wall behind her. I didn’t know someone could be so *red* on the inside. Then I saw him. He walked around the corner and fired another shot at Clay, who sat in the first cubicle. He hadn’t been here long but was quickly securing his position as “the office partier”, not anymore though. I recognised the shooter, while I was standing up, it was Emma’s ex. The one she cried over while Gladys handed her tissues, the one who keyed her car, the reason I walked her to her car every day, the asshole who gave her a black eye at the Christmas night out because Clay bought her a drink. I barely had time to stand, I didn’t have time to take a breath so I could shout something, I didn’t have time to do anything. He saw me, he shot me, right in the chest. I fell, knocking my chair over and landing right here where I died. I could see the window, and amongst the gunfire and the screams I could see the sky, the same lovely blue, and I could almost hear the seagulls. ---------- I wrote this in response to a writing prompt but the post was removed so I thought I would try posting it here. It’s the first thing I’ve written for a long time, and the formatting sucks because I’m on mobile (sorry!) but I’d really love to hear what people think. I’m a sensitive soul so please don’t be too mean but constructive criticism is happily accepted.