N.B: A general parody of Dr. Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes series. I'm not even close to his shoe's level but, just wanted to give it a try as a fan. In this parody, Jhonlock is equivalent to Sherlock, Sherlson is equivalent to Watson. Decided to keep Mycoft and Moriarty unchanged. The case of the GrassYard Café : By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. It's Autumn alright, the season of letting go. But in my case, it brought an end to my long wait for a vacation I was so desperate for. Of course, there was a reason for my being so mad. I was wild to meet my dearest friend. Describing my friend's abilities with a pen and paper is an impossible task for me. I've always struggled to keep pace with his melodic methods and sheer intelligence but still, never let down any chance to witness his charishma. But my luck wasn't that good as I got transferred to another district soon after marriage. Of course, marriage wasn't enough to hold me back from the honey of wisdom my fellow pal always offered me. Since the day I was transferred, I had been looking for a chance to meet my dear friend Johnlock Wats. Yesterday, the chance had finally come. ********** It was only a 20-minute walk from the station to reach his apartment in B122 hocker street. I could have enjoyed the crisp fall air and the fiery trees around me by taking a walk, but decided to take a cab being unable to check my intense ambition to meet him. "Too many passengers, sir. You have to share." "No problem, anyone would do as long as he wants to go somewhere near the hocker street." "Oh, then you are in luck. There's already one waiting inside that one." He pointed his index finger towards an old looking cab, scratches, and stains all over the steel cage. "That will do." I was desperate to see him. So, that kind of thing didn't even compete as a disturbance. I settled down myself beside my travel companion, an old man with a bushy white beard, bent forward as a result of age. Couldn't say for sure but it was obvious at least 3 layers of clothing were wrapped around him. I was looking outside from the window as soon as the cab started to move. As the temperature dropped to the tune of leaves falling, autumn was illustrating the beauty of letting go. But I wasn't interested in it. "Oh my dear, Sherlson." A familiar voice startled me to my limit. I looked at my companion, The old man beside me got back the fire in his eyes. His spine straightened, all the wrinkles are long gone from his tanned face. "Jhonlock, You!" It was the exact person I was so mad to visit. He chuckled, "It appears that you are stunned as always, yeah, Dr? Nevermind. Why did you choose 'Amanda express' over 'Rose express'?" "How in the world you know that?" It was true. I always preferred to travel on the trains of the Rose express. But in this particular case, I chose to go with Amanda express. I couldn't find a way how he could know that. My companion giggled." I didn't know, Sherlson. I deduced. The thing itself is, absurdly simple." I insisted, " Please tell me, the method, if a method there is, how you could guess that?" "Explanation is always tougher than realization. I know you always prefer to take a window seat. It wasn't altered in this case to-day. And more specifically, you took a window seat from the right row of that specific train." "Yes, It was just as you described, but I don't see any connection." "That's because you don't observe. It's only human nature to peek from the window of any transport they are in. You naturally placed your right hand on the window without even realizing it. There IS a connection, dear Sherlson. If you observe the right sleeve of your black cotton shirt closely, there are some stamens of 'Autumn Hawkbit' stuck in the right corner. It's only the slightest bit of it, but you know, I've done much research on stamens of flowers, so I'm not wrong." I looked at the sleeve and found his ever right observations to be correct once again. "But I still can't see any connection." "Ask yourself, why the stamens stuck in your sleeve?" "The train window?" "Exactly. And where did it come from? Certainly from an area rich with that particular flower species within the route of that particular train. There are only five railway transport agencies working on joining your district to mine. And if you've done your homework, you should know, the Rose express route doesn't cover any such area. According to the data I have, only Amanda express' route agrees with our conditions. So, Amanda expresses it is!" Childlike pride bloomed in his over-expressive face. "Wow. I didn't see any of that coming. By the way, what are you doing here with this kind of disguise?" "Waiting for the cabman to take me to the heart of all mysteries, one of my born enemies." "So you are in the middle of something." "Indeed. At times like this, I never regret a collaborator, especially you, Sherlson. If you have any energy and time to spare, you're welcome to join me in this bizarre adventure." "What's the case?" I was already agreed, in fact, I was born agreed to go on an adventure with this fellow 'candle of wisdom'. "This one is nothing but a tiny-simple puzzle. It seems to be ridiculously obvious but still, there is no string to pull. I, at once deduced 'how', but couldn't find any 'why' in this particular Riddle." "And what might that be?" He looked directly in my eyes," Mr. Garrison. An average unmarried government employee went to the GrassYard cafe to enjoy some Autumn drinks with his fiance. And guess what? She died. The police started the investigation only to find she was poisoned. Until then, it was pretty normal. But the next findings startled them to bits. The 'pumpkin spice iced coffee' was poisoned. But the problem was poison strain was found in both servings. But mysteriously, Mr. Garrison wasn't affected." "Certainly he didn't drink that." "No, you're at fault. He did drink the coffee." "How in the world that's possible! So, who was the culprit?" "The police have imprisoned the bar owner and staff. Though they don't have the slightest clue." "And, what about you? You can make something out from it?" "Just as I said. I know what happened. But don't know 'why'. And I'm in this peculiar form only to find that 'why'. You know where are we going now?" I moved my head, "No. Where?" "To the magistrate office." My eyes almost popped out of its sockets, "The magistrate office!" "Quite so. There, we'll receive the key information to pin the king piece." "And....." I couldn't finish my sentence as I looked up at my dear friend, already switched to his typical thinking posture; eyes vacant, looking upwards, mouth slightly opened, a mysterious shadow playing upon his passive face. I was his only friend but still didn't have the might to disturb him in this situation, as I had only one head on my shoulder. ( meaning if he blows one up, I wouldn't have any more head to spare.) Our cab continued and I continued to think over a question that arose in my mind but couldn't let it out. The office wasn't far. It didn't take more than 10 minutes. By the time we were standing outside the office, a content smile was lying upon my companion's lips. Of course, he was again the 'old shrunken man' as soon as he descended from the cab. We were standing just outside the office when I saw a pickpocket entered his hand into my pal's pocket. I was about to say something but reassuring me with a knowing gaze, he went inside the office followed by me shortly. There wasn't much crowd, maybe one or two clients waiting, and one ongoing. We didn't sit close to each other as I didn't have any idea what's going on there. Suddenly I saw the old man fall upon the floor with a terrible scream gathering crowd around him. Everyone in the room became busy with him instantly. "What happened! What happened!" "It's maybe a cardiac arrest!" "We must take him to the doctor." I didn't know what to do, but I thought it to be one of his tricks. Many of the inside men along with me handled him outside the room to put him in a cab standing outside. Who will accompany the patient? I instantly declared myself as the candidate. Everyone was quite helping, but, they had their own business, so, no one argued much leaving me the only one with Mr. Jhonlock in the swiftly moving cab. Soon the unconscious man sat down perfectly normally with a melodically smiling face. "So, it WAS one of your tricks." "Quite so." "When did you attained the information?" "Oh my dear, Sherlson. It wasn't me who secured the evidence. It was one of my faithful rats, one of the irregulars. I noticed you got quite startled by the pickpocket. He just provided me this." He dragged out a piece of paper from his pocket, holding the corner of it with his thin fingers. "And what may that be." "This the testimony of the authenticity of the hypothesis I was working on. Or, you can also say, this is the method of catching the 'smaller fish' of this mystery pond." "Oh, can you clarify the matter for me?" "No need for that. We're heading to the hotspot of mystery to solve the problem once and for all. Now my one last question. Did you recognize the cabman or not?" "Huh?" "Very well. It's Mycroft and he is the person who secured the key evidence from the 'irregular''." I could only offer him an amused stare. ******** Now, the time has come for me to write about the method, the climax, the checkmate. My hands are shaking. How melodic! The method of his deduction was indeed extraordinary. I am getting the thrill only to think about it. It's unlikely for someone like me to ever be able to describe the method properly. But I'll try my best to underline. We got into the cafe, Johnlock already disposed of his disguise, revealing his real human-calculator form. My friend told me about this cafe's being shut, but he requested the police to bring the bartender, Mr. Garrison, and other staff back to the spot. It seemed like the police abided by my pal's suggestions. We took a seat across Mr. Garrison. "So, Mr. Wats, any progress?" Mr. Garrison asked, still grieving over his fiance's death. Johnlock giggled, "Progress? We already reached our conclusion." "So, who is the killer?"The officer standing by the table asked impatiently, scratching his reddish cheek harshly with his right hand. "Mr. Garrison himself!" "No, what?!" Garrison slammed his fist on the table rising from the chair. "Pray sit down, Mr." My friend still calm as usual. "Impossible! He drank juice too." The bartender pointed out trembling with shock "But he didn't die, did he?" My friend spoke in his ever assured voice. "No, but..." "You saw him drinking?" Jhonlock snapped before the bartender could finish his sentence. "Yes, he finished his glass even before Mrs. Carl getting the chance to take her first sip." He smirked, "That's why he is alive." All of us still remained in the dark, unable to form any connection. I pinched my friend with a questioning gaze. "What?"Oh, you still have no clue? The poison was in the ice! He drank the juice fast only because he knew it. Ice needs time to melt." As always, he made everything explainable. The matter, at once revealed itself to be crystal clear to me, along with everyone standing there with dropped jaws. "Mr. Wats. You can't just blame me like this. Do you have any proof?" It looked like Mr. Garrison was about to cry. "Quite so. I think you happened to lose a very important paper today. Can you recognize this?" He dragged out the land record certificate, the cabman, or should I say, his brother, Mycoft gave him earlier. "That's mine! What in the world!" "Indeed. You knew Mrs. Carl didn't have any relations whatsoever. You didn't love her, you loved her property. That's why you secretly married her a week ago and killed her off to get a hold on the property." "That doesn't make sense. You have nothing on me." "Maybe. But he does." A fragile-looking boy entered the scene from the open front door. I could see some of the regular 'irregulars' behind him laughing hysterically. "Sith!" The bar-owner exclaimed. "Correct. Sith, the boy who supplies ice cubes to this cafe. Hey, now, Mr. Sith, do you recognize this coyote?" He pointed his thumb towards the shocked person, sitting across from us. "Yes, he is the person who gave me the bucket of ice I delivered." Mr. Garrison hurriedly stood up realizing the defeat but failed to run away, as he saw a steal-made handcuff wrapped around his wrists. "Do you have anything to say?" My friend asked in a cold voice. "Wait. Why Sith delivered the ice, he gave him. Why he didn't deliver from the factory as usual?" The bar owner asked. In answer, my friend just smirked and fixed his gaze upon the questioner, "That's because he was bribed." Hence, the case was closed. At last, I got the chance to ask the question arose in my mind during our cab journey earlier. "Oh, Johnlock." "Yes, my dear, Sherlson." "Why you didn't...." "I understand. There is a reason for that." I don't know how, but somehow my dear fellow figured out what I intended to ask. I really wanted to know, why he needed Mycoft in a case like this? And why was he waiting in the cab in the first place? Is there still something in the dark? I asked with some scared confusion, "Could it be?" My guess was correct. His gaze became sharp, lips tightened, "Jim Moriarty." *****


Eduardo stood in front of the newsstand, eyes and mouth carefully hidden behind cheap sunglasses and a mask, looking at himself on the smooth laminated magazine cover. The full effect of his brooding but powerful stance, him dressed in an elegant black suit, didn’t really come across as he had imagined, with the sun reflecting on the shiny dark page. It was not as imposing and sexy as he had wished it to be. When he’d gotten the call from his agent, that he had been named People magazine’s sexiest man alive, he had not been surprised, it had only been a question of time. He rather wondered why it had taken them so long. “Eduardo Sullivan, the modern hero we needed on our screens and in our lives”. Yes, he was a hero, one could even say that his name had become synonymous with the word itself. Who else had played James Bond, Iron Man, and countless other fictional world-saving heartthrobs? He smiled under his mask, time for the big reveal. He didn’t need to buy the magazine, they had sent him a copy of it already, but he’d never miss an opportunity to relish in the awe of his admirers when they met him in person. To bestow that honour upon them had gotten him out of bed more than once already. Unfortunately, for he had not yet made plans for the night, the person selling these magazines wasn’t a woman. Slowly he took off his sunglasses, getting the vendor’s attention, before sliding down his mask under his chin. With his brightest smile he showed the guy owning the newsstand the magazine and said in his lowest, most imposing voice: “Why don’t I give you 20 bucks for this and we’re good?”. Charitable as ever. He could see the confusion, felt it, but Eduardo did not doubt for a second that this guy knew him, had seen at least one of his movies, and would recognize him soon enough. His arrogance driven instinct was correct, as always, for after a first furtive glance the newsstand guy could not get his eyes off Eduardo, trying to decipher whether it was really the world-famous actor that was just casually standing in front of him or just a really convincing lookalike, before concluding that it must actually be the happiest and luckiest day of his entire life. This last bit was obvious for he grabbed the newsstand to steady himself and unconsciously shook his head, not yet entirely sure what to make of the situation. Eduardo tried to suppress a victorious smile; he had done it again. “Of course, Sir, thank you!”, the guy took the money and Eduardo could see that he was contemplating saying something else, he probably wanted to ask for a picture, which, Eduardo knew, he would humbly and gracefully agree to, pretending that he could make some time in his busy schedule because he cared so much for his loyal fans. “You know, Sir,”, he stopped, not sure if he should continue, but Eduardo just gave him an encouraging smile, hoping that he could soon be on his way, “I was there, at the audition for your break-through role, I auditioned myself, and even though you were not famous or anything back then, I still remember you, you helped me calm down because I was so nervous about it, you even made me tea so I could calm down, and”, he nervously fiddled with his hands, “I just wanted to thank you for it”. This guy was around Eduardo’s age, the latter realized half surprised. “What’s your name then?”, he tried to act interested, to be a good role model. “Clint, Sir, Clint Baker. Ever after that day, I looked up to you and wished you only the best, it’s an honour to be meeting you again!” “Well, thank you. But what happened to your acting career?”, he knew he could have walked away just then, but he needed to confirm a suspicion he had. He might remember this guy and that specific audition, one of his first, for a minor role that had gotten him the attention of the agent he still employed today. Flattered that the sexiest man alive would show any interest in him, Clint continued: “Even though you were so kind to me on that day, the nerves had really gotten to me, and I started to feel so sick that I could not go on with the audition. It was so bad that I could not leave my bed for the next 3 days and I just realized that acting wasn’t quite for me, that this kind of nervousness would never allow me to get a role. So, I quit, but I don’t regret it, Sir, I am just as happy with where I am in life right now, acting just wasn’t for me.” He seemed to actually mean what he said, weird. Eduardo had rolled up the magazine and, holding it in one hand, he extended the other one to Clint, just to make his day even better: “It was nice meeting you Clint Baker, maybe fate will let us cross paths a third time, I wish you all the best until then”. And while he turned away, feeling the weight of Clint’s stare on his back he smiled, thinking about the moment Clint would get home to his partner, and maybe kids, and tell them about the surreal experience he had had today. While he was walking toward Central Park, he put his mask and sunglasses back on. Although he did like to be recognized, it had to be on his terms. What surprised him was that he did indeed remember Clint, he had been the first person that Eduardo had deemed worthy of getting rid of, all these years ago. It amused him to think that Clint thanked him for that tea that had caused him to give up on all his dreams. Why would he need to feel bad about it? The acting world was a cruel place and only those that were ready to accept the reality of it and fight for what they wanted should be granted any success. If Clint, or any other person in that audition that day or on any other day, had had his drive and ambition, they could have done the same thing to him. That Clint just gave up because of it showed that he did not have the necessary dedication for the craft, that even if he had gotten the role, he would not have been worthy of it. Eduardo knew that he himself was worthy of all that he had achieved for he had fought for it, just as the heroes he had portrayed had fought for what they wanted in life. Of course, Clint had not been the only one that had suffered Eduardo’s ambition in the course of his career. He had always incapacitated whoever represented a real threat to him, one way or another, and sometimes, when he was lucky enough and the casting director had shown any interest in him - an interest of a more sensual nature - he had not even needed to go meddle with the other candidates to get the role. He hadn’t interfered in a casting process for a while now though, mainly because he did not have to go to castings anymore. Film directors were usually coming to him, begging him to consider being part of their projects. It didn’t help that it was more difficult to get established actors out of his way than to get little Clint Baker sick. The last time he was able to resort to his methods, which had become a little good luck ritual for himself, had been for the casting of James Bond. After the news that the then-current 007 would not continue in his role, he had gotten a call from his agent that they were considering him as one of his possible successors, that he did not have the role secured however because there were two other actors that they were interested in. Shortly after, one of the two had some serious child pornography charges to deal with and the other one had not stood a chance against Eduardo either way. He finally reached the cooling shade of the park and went to one of his usual spots, a small path in the shadow with an empty bench waiting for him. It was perfect because not entirely deserted, only a few people ever came across it, assuring that whenever he got recognized, he would only have to deal with 3 or 4 people at a time. Looking behind him he could see the dark shape of his bodyguard in the distance, always alert but not too worried. He had done this a million times by now and nobody had ever attacked him. Who would ever want to hurt “the modern hero we needed on our screens and in our lives”? Eduardo grinned as he took off his mask and sunglasses. Looking down at his face on the magazine he wondered what the press would write about him if they knew what he had done, what he had sacrificed to get where he was now. They would probably not hail him as their hero anymore but condemn him as some degenerate monster, too ambitious for its own good. Idiots. The world would judge him for what he had needed to do, while they continued to celebrate their favourite British spy that had harmed and killed countless people to get what he wanted. People were hypocrites, ugly and whiney and dumb. Eduardo pulled out the book his agent had told him to read in public, he did not know what it was about, didn’t even care for its title. Two people came strolling about, and he could feel the moment one of them recognized him. Excited whispering, slowed down walk, uncertainty whether they should bother him or not. Eduardo looked up and with a humble smile invited them to approach. “Unambitious, stupid hypocrites”, was all he could think, as they stood next to him, smiling into the lens of their overpriced smartphone.


The smell of fresh cookies wafts around my one story house, making the place seem warm and comforting. The timer on the over goes off and I pull my thick blond hair back into a ponytail, stepping around my sleeping dog as I rush to turn the heat down before the neighbor's Halloween cookies get a little crispier than needed. I slide my hands into oven mitts and open the stainless steel door, heat fogging my glasses up. I set the pan on a rack to cool and rub my lenses clean on the fabric of my Harvard hoodie. Quickly, I ice the fresh cookies and bag them individually to perfection. Setting them on a clear plastic tray, I step out into the chilly October air and begin the short walk down the street towards the big house on the corner of the block. The grounds are meticulously kept and as I approach a facial scanner recognizer my face and the gates creak open. When I pass through, a chill runs down my spine and the slow, mechanic noise of the iron gates sounds behind me. I glance down, frost that I hadn't noticed before now settled on the dying grass. Why had I only worn a sweatshirt? Smooth, grey pavement leads me up to the old Victorian style house. Something shifts in my peripheral vision and I glance towards it, but nothing was there. When I turn back and keep walking, long, spider like cracks are embedded in the once new pavement. I frown, confusion taking over my thoughts. What was happening? I quicken my pace, drawing nearer to the front of the house. The house's grey shutters were closed, some of the paint flaking off in the brisk wind. The structure loomed above me, ominous and dark. Exhaling, I watch my breath cloud the air, noticing that the bushes had overgrown into the steps up to the door. Spiderwebs hung thick between them and I could spot the little arachnids crawling around slowly, the cold affecting them. I turn around to look down the cracked pavement and find that the iron gate has changed as well. Instead of the shiny new iron that had hung proudly in front of the house, one of the doors hung crooked and rusty while the other lay on the ground, covered in ivy and lichen. My brows furrow, dread flooding my system. What on earth was going on? I turn back to the house and step onto the first wooden step leading up to the front door. It groans with the weight of my body but I continue onward, placing my foot cautiously onto another step. This one holds better than the other, making no noise as I pull myself up with the iron handrail on either side of the stairs. I ring the doorbell, hoping that someone would come to the door and relieve me of my confusion and fear. I hear a slow shuffling behind the thick oak door and my heart begins to pound. I shake my head, not believing what was happening. The door swings open, its hinges surprisingly quiet. Behind the door stands an old man wrapped in a fuzzy grey blanket made out of a material that I couldn't recognize. He stands above me looking down, and I step up the last step to meet him. I open my mouth but no words seem to be able to come out. "H-Hello sir. Can I see Caroline?" I manage to stammer out, his dull grey eyes staring through me. He looks at me, a confused look on his face. I can make a solid guess about his age, using his white mustache and hair as clues. His face was slightly wrinkled, the skin leathery yet tan, as if he had been outside for a long time. He speaks, his voice hoarse. "Caroline died ten years ago." My mouth parts into a perfect O. I had seen her yesterday, walking down the newly paved road with her new German Shepherd which she had named Nelly. And she was very much alive. I hear a clang near my feet and realize that the cookies had slipped out of my hand, decorating the ground with delicious bats and skulls. How fitting. "I'm sorry, but what?" He nods his head, his mouth in a grim line. My hands shook, giving away how scared I was. "What year is it?" I ask, my eyes wide, dreading the answer. He squints at me, his white brows pinching together. He rocks back on his heels, an impressive task for a man of his age. "Why dear it's 2029. Where have you been?" He laughs. I let out a shaky breath and say," I'm sorry but I need to go." I whirl around and hop down from the stairs. Panic builds up in my chest, the pressure building and pushing to get out. I run down the cracked pavement and past the iron gates. Once outside the property, i begin to warm up, the brisk wind suddenly gone and the sun shining as it had been before I had started the walk down the drive. I slow down and look over my shoulder at the house. It looked like it did before I had begun this nightmare. What was happening. Was I crazy? So many thoughts run through my head, spinning around and around in circles, not allowing me to think a coherent thought to save my soul. Taking a closer look at Caroline's house I see that the pavement was new again and that the iron fences were in pristine shape. I hear a sharp honk and whirl around and find myself facing a copper colored car. Caroline's face appears behind the wheel, smiling but the curiosity clear on her face. I walk up to her window, motioning for her to roll it down. "What's wrong sis? Is the Halloween spirit too alive in you today?" She laughs, smiling at me. "I don't' know. Maybe. I just got spooked out I guess. When I went to drop off the cookies I made you your house changed and there was an old man living there. He said you were dead. Dead, Caroline. Do you know how scared I was?" I said, my voice shaking. One of her eyebrows shoots up as I tell the story,an expression of concern growing on her face. "Hey, hey. Why don't we get you inside and you can rest for a little bit. I'm sure that wore you out. I'll make you some tea and you can just relax. I know you've been under a lot of pressure lately at work and that's probably what caused you to see those things." I nod my head, allowing her to lead me into my house. I lay down on my new leather couch and she begins to make me hot chocolate in the kitchen. I can hear small clinks and clangs as I begin to drift off to sleep, under a big soft blanket. When I wake up the next day, I will remember none of it.


"Looks as though Dorsey out did himself this year." Kristy Waters said to her best friend Rorie as she pointed out the old car covered in red roses. "Dorsey always goes over bored with the roses you know I heard his wife loved them." Rorie replied as the two girls waved smiled at the old gentleman. The two girls walked arm and arm around the square of there small home town. The Spring Festival had always been something to look forward to in there small town of Lighten Wood. The Lighten Wood spring festival had been a tradition in the town since the girls could remember. It wasn't something had been past down like other small towns. The girls had been coming to festival since they were little so to them it had always been around. When ever the banner went up for the festival the girls always looked forward to it. Everyone in town seem love the festival with the flower show, bake sales, fashion shows and all the homes decorated for spring. This year the town was a bit sad. The mayor of the town Mr. Ross had passed away just a few days before the festival so instead of the festival starting at it's normal day the first day of spring. It had been pushed back to two weeks later. Giving the town a moment to grieve for it's beloved mayor. As Kristy and Rorie walked around the square they stopped at all the booths and looked at everything. They even ran into a few people who stop chat and say hello. After they'd been walking around for about an hour. They stop in at the Ice cream shop. The old shop looked like something out of a nineteen fifties movie. The two girls sat at a booth close to the middle so they talk but still be able to see outside. "You have to admit even though it's a late start it was worth the wait." Rorie said as she sipped on her chocolate and strawberry milk shake. "Yes it was. Only it would have been better if mayor Ross hadn't just passed away. It still sad to think of him as gone. I'm sure Mrs. Ross is having a hard time dealing with all this." "I know right. Bless her heart I hope she's doing okay." "Maybe we should go by and see if she has her booth up if she does we can always stop and say hello see how she's doing." "Not a bad idea." Kristy smiled and called over the waiter to ask for to go cups. After getting there shakes to go. The two friends headed to see if Mrs. Ross booth was in the same spot. They walked the booths filled with bake goods by Mrs. Rivers, the knit booth ran by Mrs. Martin and a bunch of booths filled with all kind of things. After a few shorts minutes of stopping and see everyone's booths. They finally came to Mrs. Ross's booth. It was beautifully decorated with Roses, Peony , lavender , Gardena's and etc.. Mrs. Ross always the girls favorite flowers. Rorie loved the smell of the white roses and the peony. While Kristy though the gardenia's , pink roses and lavender smells wonderful. "Good afternoon girls how are you doing this afternoon?" Mrs. Ross asked the two girls once she was done helping someone. "We're doing great Mrs. Ross." Kristy answered. "How are you doing Mrs. Ross we were so sorry to hear about the mayor." Rorie said. "Thank you girls. I'm doing as best I can. I've been looking forward to this for weeks. Helps to keep my mind off Rich and plus you know I've always loved the spring festival." Mrs. Ross answered. "Well if you never need help please let us know." Kristy said to the older woman. "Thank you my dears. Now you all go and in joy the Festival. I've got sale some flowers." Kristy and Rorie both bid Mrs. Ross goodbye and headed over to one of the other booths. Stopping to say hi to a few other people they know from town. After walking around for a few more hours the girls decided to stop by the local bakery. Rorie's mom Rosie owned the bakery and spring was her favorite time of the year. The whole bakery smelled of lemon, oranges and all kinds of things. "Mom!" Rorie called out to her mother as the two girls went behind the counter to the kitchen. "Hey girls, how was the festival?" Rosie asked the two girls as she popped a fresh tray of lemon squares in the oven. "Lemon squares fresh in the oven Auntie Rosie?" Kristy asked as she popped a chocolate strawberry in her mouth. "Kristina! how many times do I have to tell you not to eat the chocolate strawberries before dinner?" Rosie scolded at her niece. "Sorry Auntie Rosie but they smell amazing." Kristy laughed as she slapped the back of Rorie's hand to stop her from grabbing one herself. The two girls went back and forth telling Rosie about everything that went on at the festival. Looking out the bakery window as they sat at their usual table. The sun was starting to set and soon all the lights around the square would be coming on. The small little solar lights that were placed around the court yard of the court house were so pretty at sunset. "So ends yet another year of Lighten Wood spring festival." Rorie said as they watched the solar lights come on as the last of the sun set. "Yep another end to other wise very pretty day don't you think." Kristy asked her best friend and cousin. "Yep. "What do you think it'll look like next year?" Rorie asked. "Not sure really but I'm sure Dorsey will win the title of best roses I'm sure." Kristy said. "I still can not believe he won best roses yet again. I mean how many years does that make again?" "Ten. Ten years in a row. I really though Mrs. Ross would win this year her roses were so pretty this year. Dorsey always has red roses. An Mrs. Ross had those very pretty white , pink and purple roses." "Yeah I know right." The girls were talking about the whole roses thing when suddenly Rorie noticed that the solar lights across the street at the court house had come on. Which meant that Spring Festival was over for another year. Kristy and Rorie both went and stood by the window of the bakery. "Another year has come to end." "What do you think will happen next year at the Spring Festival?" "I don't know but I hope next year will be just as pretty as this year." The two cousins smiled and gathered they're things to head home. Another Lighten wood spring fest had come to an end. It really was one of they're favorite days of the year and they really hoped that next year would be as amazing as this years festival had been.


[Something I was writing goes here] *This is why you type outside Reddit.* *This is why YOU type outside Reddit.* *Stop forcing yourself to write. Go play a game.* *I can't fucking stop writing! This is terrible, but I have to do it. I won't want to do it later.* *You don't want to do it NOW.* *Write me a novel about it.* *Isn't that what YOU'RE trying to do?* *Hush.* *What's the matter?* *There isn't anything to write about!* *Oh, of course there is.* *Shut the hell up. No, there isn't. Maybe It's another disorder of mine. I could use another for the shelf.* *Just because you have OCD and talk-* *More like think, really.* *-to yourself doesn't mean you're crazy.* *That wasn't what I said. And for the record, being able to see something that isn't - might not - be there qualifies me.* *It's probably just a symptom.* *Of what, puberty?* *Yes.* *Doubt it. I could always see it, you should know that, seeing as how we're the same fucking person.* *Does that count? We're just you thinking, as far as I can tell.* *What he said. And you know you couldn't always see it. There was a time...* *I don't remember that far back, okay?* *What DO you remember?* *When you didn't exist.* *I think we always have...right...?* *(Murmuring)* *What are you ACTUALLY thinking when you're typing this thing, by the way?* *What I'm typing, come to think of it.* *So...is this something we would actually think.* *See for yourself.* *.....Yeah, that's pretty accurate.* *What were you saying about writing?* *You know damn well what! There isn't anything I can write. I wrote a two page apocalypse novel, once.* *It was 3/4s of a page. In 78 point font.* *Yeah, that.* *What was it called?* *Never came up with a name.* *Mr. "I can't be cheesy or stereotypical in any way whatsoever" over here is bland and unimaginative, then?* *That's very, very accurate.* *I just thought of something.* *What? That this is surprisingly easy to write and flows pretty well?* *Well, it flows pretty well for US. For them, though, they, uh...* *Yeah.* *Look, no, I meant that...fuck. I forgot.* *That's because you were revising that bit up there and you have horrible memory.* *Both valid points.* *Are we allowed to revise and edit what would in any other situation be our normal thoughts? Can we do that?* *The better question is whether these WOULD be our normal thoughts.* *I'm pretty damn confident they would be.* *That's your opinion, then.* *Everything's an opinion.* *Including that.* *Think people'll agree with us on that? We might get some death threats.* *Quiet. I'm writing.* *HOW LONG DOES THIS DAMN THING NEED TO BE?!* *I could type like this forever, you know that.* *I know a lot of things.* *You make a lot of valid points, there.* *And you say "there" after things a lot.* *You also make a valid point.* *Are we all the same person.* *I can't tell. You?* *You got me.* *No clue.* *How many of us are there?* *Don't answer that. Are we just asking those questions so whoever is reading this won't be confused?* *They're reading, I hope, a post about someone's train of thought. It's most likely already confusing.* *Maybe they can figure it out. Reddit isn't the Youtube comments section or Yahoo Answers. People are intelligent here.* *Here?* *We're on the site, aren't we?* *Anon1: I would say so.* *Anon2: Stop pretending this is 4chan.* *Anon1: It isn't? Sure looks like it.* *Just because....good, no Anon thingy. Just because it's a long string of text with each individual thought having it's own line doesn't mean it's 4chan.* *Anon4: Besides, you barely know what 4chan IS.* *Anon5: Dammit, they're back.* *Anon6: Yes, but I did look it up on Wikipedia during Journalism earlier today.* *Anon7: We know, we were there. Oh, hold on.* *Anon7: > ...because it's a long string of text with each individual thought having it's own line confirms my belief that it's 4chan. FIFY* *Anon1: Damn you.* *Anon8: I'm hungry.* *Anon7: Right on time! Pizza Guy is here!* *Anon6: Does that have to be capitalized?* *Anon4: Yes. 7, what kind is it?* *Anon7: Pepperoni.* *Anon2: Don't they have anything else?* *Anon4: Nah. It's not a chain restaurant.* *Anon6: Follow me, 4channers! Let's eat!* *Anon2: Please don't call us that.* - If you can understand this, consider it funny, or read it at all you must have the patience of a saint. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm hungry.


"Settle down everyone" Professor Dugalan's voice preceded him before he swooped into the high-ceiling lecture hall through one of the top-windows and perched neatly on a raised bar near the podium. He took a moment to straighten out a few feathers that were sticking out here and there, then turned to look at his pupils through his pensive eyes. I adjusted my chair slightly at the front of the class so that I'm partially facing him and the class. Dugalan looked like an enormous owl; 7-feet tall and covered in feathers. Here, on planet X2345-D35, native name 'Entrya', his species of Denisarians- an avian species much like the birds on Earth- is the major intelligent lifeform. Students who were circling the ceiling came down, and those who were on the ground hopped up and settled onto their perches. Non-Denisarians like myself occupied their respective furniture that fit their anatomy. I recognized a Vilueth woman in a bathtub which kept her skin wet, being the aquatic species that she is. She was in my Xenosemantics class and we were in the same project team. I nodded when she looked my way and she flickered her whiskers back in recognition. A sudden image of cafeteria and smell and taste of coffee sprang into my mind. Vilueths are telepaths. She wanted to get coffee together and catch up. I smiled and nodded again. She imitated my smile, showing pointy teeth. Vilueth don't smile, they just shake their whiskers. I think she likes me. "Okay everyone. Open your copy of the reference guide to section 3" Dugalan proclaimed in a deep, booming voice. "Today we will take a look at planet X2200-K2, native name: 'Earth'. It is the home-planet of Humans. As you can see, we have a human here in attendance to help us understand the subject better. This is Jacob, and he was in my class last year. He works in the IT department now and has agreed to come and answer any questions we may have about his species and their home" I nodded and gave the class a quick wave. Some students waved back with their wings, causing a small breeze inside the classroom. "Before we get into the details, are there any questions for Jacob now?" - he asked, hopping a bit on his perch and looking around the room. A student in the front row stuck his head up a foot or two into the air, very much like how a human might have raised a hand. He had deep dark feathers, slick and shiny. The feathers on his head stood up in a circle on top, like a crown. The Denisarian had human-like eyes, with distinct sclera, iris, and pupils. The overall appearance reminded me strongly of the ancient legend of 'Batman' which my grandpa had told me many stories about in my childhood. With a smile on my lips at this thought, I answered with a "Yes?" The student spoke in a high-pitched but recognizably male voice: "You seriously named your planet 'dirt'"? A round of laughter went around the room. This is not the first time I've heard this question, and I had the answer ready. "No, we started calling dirt 'earth' because it came from the planet. We like to keep things simple, but our language have enough sophistication to determine if we're talking about the planet or about dirt from contextual clues". Personal Note Devices blinked tiny lights as the students either paraphrased my reply to notes, or just straight up recorded what I said as is. Another student raised their head, this one straight up looked like a peacock. The feathers were multi-colored in shades of blue and green, with a wild and luscious tail that was several feet long, tied gracefully together with a silky black shawl. There were several ornate bangles around their legs which is common among Denisarian females. And confirming my line of thinking, she spoke in a high-pitched musical voice: "Why do humans use land-vehicles so much? why not just jump to places like you normally do?" I was impressed that she knew about cars and our fascination with them even after several centuries since their invention. My ancestors used steam to power them at first. Then burning fuels, then electricity, then micro reactors and now finally, in the past 50 years or so, antimatter cells. Our love for the land-speeders never went away. I myself have several posters of exotic cars and famous rally drivers hanging in my office. However, the second part of her question was more amusing to me. "Umm, we can't jump on Earth like we can here" -I answered. "Our planet's gravity is too strong for us to jump higher than a few feet" But she wasn't done yet. "You have avian animals on your planet, no? How are they flying then?" She challenged. "Oh, with flimsy bodies and hollow bones!" I exclaimed. "Ask professor Dugalan here, he'd visited my planet a few times." "That is true" Professor owl quipped. "The planet's gravity is crushing. I stayed in orbit most of the time and used a remote-controlled synth-body to go about my business on the surface. I was attending some conferences and a synth-body is more than enough to do those." In the few years I've known Dugalan, I'd figured him for an introvert who didn't enjoy socialization very much. Hiding in his room in a hotel in the orbit and using remote-presence equipment for surface-bound business sounded exactly like something he'd do. "I didn't see anyone jumping around when I was there" Dugalan continued. "Even my synth-body couldn't jump more than a few feet, like Jacob said." "So, if I go to Earth, I won't be able to fly?" The student asked , an expression of horror and concern evident on her face. "For short distances, yes" Dugalan answered before I could. "Professor Valengack had joined me in my last trip to Human's Earth. You know how...um.. eccentric... he is. He actually went down to the surface, unlike me. An adventurous soul, that one! He says you can fly a little bit, but it's risky cause you might break bones if you tire and fall." He said he jumped off a cliff and glided down and that was much more pleasant than taking off upward like one would normally do" "So, Jacob, you don't jump when you're on Earth?" Another student from the back row asked. "That's right" I said. "My physiology have given me very strong bones and muscles. Here, I can easily go from one corner of the campus to the other in a single leap, and about triple the distance if I really try. But this physiology evolved on Earth with its strong gravity. We can walk on it, but jumping long distance is out of the question. That's why we invented land-vehicles and unlike many other species, still use them even after flight-machines became available." "What do you mean 'walk'?" The first student with black feathers asked, sounding a bit confused. "oh, this is called walking", I said, and demonstrated by getting off my chair and strolling back and forth in front of the class. "What??" Said one student out loud. A general ruckus went around the room. They were confused and puzzled. "Quiet" Dugalan said loudly, and the room went silent. "That's right, this is one of the many things we will discuss in Xenomorphology 101" he continued as he pulled up the schematics of human anatomy on the hologram display at the front of the class. "Humans use their legs differently on their home planet. While they jump across the land here on Entrya, as they lack natural means of flight, they simply put one foot in front of the other to move from place to place on planet Earth, remaining on the ground without taking to the air the entire time. It is slow and tedious, but that's how things are on Earth" "Yes" I added ".. we are a slow and tedious species". Everyone burst out in laughter. Dugalan gave me an approving node for my assistance, and turned back to the class to expound in greater detail on how walking had influenced Human anatomy's evolution. I nodded and smiled back. Rest of the class was fairly uneventful except for a few students who tried to imitate walking and fell over, to Dugalan's annoyance and the general amusement of everyone else. At the end I took my leave, jumping out the nearby window to go check in with my boss before I go get some coffee with the Vilueth lady.


Ben shivered as the spider crept dangerously close to his nose. He could see its spindly legs pluck at each filament as it made its way across the web. Ben's mother always told him he shouldn't be afraid of spiders; that they were more afraid of him than he was of them. But this spider didn't seem afraid of him at all. He hated to admit it, but considering how frightened Ben was, and how not frightened the spider seemed, he could only assume his mother had been wrong. And if she was wrong about the spiders, what else might she be wrong about? Ben filed the question away for consideration at a later time when his brain wasn't so distracted by more pressing thoughts. His brain had plenty to do right now as it was. He was supposed to be thinking about what he'd done, which as far as he was concerned was impossible. He hadn't done anything, so how could he think about it? It's what his father would call a real head-scratcher, which didn't make much sense to Ben since his head wasn't itchy at all. Now that he thought about it, though, his nose was starting to itch. Did that make it a nose-scratcher? He added it to his mental list of things to ponder later so he could get back to thinking about what it was he hadn't done. It was no use telling the truth. He had tried that right off, but his father said he mustn’t make up lies. That’s when he sent Ben to stand in this corner, which he probably hadn’t realized was already occupied by the spider, to face the wall and think about what he’d done. Or hadn’t done. Of course, now he could add lying to the list of things he hadn’t done but was being ordered to think about. It was all very confusing - or would have been for someone with a lesser mind. Ben considered himself a pretty advanced thinker for a boy of six. Maybe even for a boy of nine or ten. He liked to think about things; he liked to know things. He spent a great deal of time reasoning out the how and the what and the why of things, and he usually arrived at an answer that made sense. But thinking about something he hadn’t done didn’t make any sense, in Ben’s opinion. His list of things to think about was getting longer by the minute, and here he was, dillydallying. If only he could think of the right words to appease his father. Telling the truth wasn’t an option, since that had failed once, and he certainly wasn’t about to lie. Lying was wrong - especially lying to your mom or dad. The spider hadn’t moved in a very long time, and Ben wondered what it was waiting for. Why had it built its web here in the first place? It didn’t seem like a very good place to catch bugs. Maybe this spider was intent on catching wrongfully accused little boys who were sent to stand in the corner. If that was the case, it was going to need a much bigger web. All spiders were stupid, of course, but this one seemed especially dim-witted. It was also very distracting, and Ben wished it would go away. He tried closing his eyes but immediately snapped them back open. Had the spider moved? Was that it’s game? Wait for Ben to close his eyes or look away, and then pounce? Then what? Did it plan to bite him? It wasn’t a very big spider, so Ben didn’t see how a bite from it would hurt that bad. What was it that spiders did that made them so frightening? Was this a poisonous kind of spider? Ben didn’t see any fangs dripping with venom. He realized what he knew about spiders was shamefully inadequate, and he added it to the list. After a moment’s consideration, he moved it up to the top of the list. If he was going to be frightened of something, he should at least know why. It was important to know the why of things, Ben believed. In fact, most of the things on his list started with why. Why did birds have feathers instead of fur? Why did he have to go to bed so much earlier than his parents (and what did they do after he went to bed?)? Why did sticks float but rocks sink? Why did the air feel cold when he was wet? Ben was of the opinion that, with enough thought, he could reason out the why of just about anything. But not Peter. Peter was his older brother, but even at nine years old, Peter wasn’t quite the thinker Ben was. No, Peter needed to see things - to touch things - in order to figure them out. Ben supposed there wasn’t anything wrong with that, exactly, except that it was sometimes messy. And sometimes it landed Ben in a heap of trouble. And sometimes - like today - it was both. It all started when their dad brought home a kitten. It was a tiny thing - with gray stripes, a white face, and a little pink nose. They had agreed to name it Socks because of its white feet that looked like, well, socks. One day Peter decided he wanted to know why kittens purred. Ben thought that if he just had some time to think about it, he could come up with a suitable answer to his brother’s question. But Peter, as always, was impatient. He just had to find out for himself. He just had to see . Unfortunately, by the time Peter had finished with the kitten, they were no closer to knowing why kittens purred. Ben was no more a tattletale than he was a liar, and he didn’t want to get Peter in trouble, but even Peter agreed it was important to always tell the truth. And besides, Peter had a way of getting out just before they got caught, so he was never around to take the blame. Their mother had been beside herself when she found Ben with what was left of the cat. From the blood on his hands, he couldn’t blame her for jumping to the conclusion that it was his fault. He tried explaining that he had been trying to stop Peter, and that’s how he got the cat’s blood on his hands. But of course, Peter was nowhere to be found. *** “The psyche is a fragile thing, Mrs. Lawson. When a person suffers a trauma, as your son did, the mind can fracture. Each piece takes on an identity of its own - in your son’s case, the identities of the loved ones he lost in the accident. Your son feels responsible for their deaths, and to deal with the guilt, his mind has recreated his wife and sons from the fractured pieces of his psyche.” “Doctor, what are you saying? Th--that my son has split personalities?” Dr. Norris nodded. “Though today we call it dissociative identity disorder.” “S-so what he did to the cat -” “I believe from talking to them that it was Peter who was responsible for the cat.” “No, Peter would never hurt a fly, let alone...d-do something like that.” “Remember, Mrs. Lawson, it wasn’t actually your grandson. Peter and Ben and Diane are gone. Though these identities James has created manifest as his family, they are a coping mechanism for a trauma his mind can’t face. James is actually quite distraught by what the Peter identity did. He’s even asked me to help Peter, which is a very good sign. Why don’t you go home and get some rest, Mrs. Lawson? You’ve been through an ordeal yourself, and this is a lot to process. Your son is in good hands, here. We’ll do everything we can for him. With time and the right treatment, I’m optimistic we can manage your son’s condition. But I must warn you that he may never fully recover.” *** “Why is it just sitting there?” Peter asked. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure--” Ben started, but his older brother cut him off. “Why do spiders need eight legs, anyway? Why can’t they be satisfied with four legs, like a cat? Or just two legs, like a person? Let’s see if it can climb that web with just two legs...”


(WP) So Easy to Forget I haven’t seen my father since I was eight years old. He’d kissed my mother on the cheek, saying that he was heading out to get a carton of milk and a few other things, and he never came back. My mother’s eyes flicked to the door that day, but he didn’t return. To this day, no one knows where he went; it was as if he’d vanished. But he shows up at the door, all these years later, milk in hand, his clothing still pristine, looking as though he hasn’t aged a day. When my mother opens the door, she screams, a sudden burst of sound that shocks me even more than my father appearing out of nowhere. “Nathaniel? What happened to you? Where have you been all this time?!” My mother’s voice is choked, tight with unshed tears. “We thought you were dead!” He looks almost exactly the same, only his hair is longer now, and shot through with blond streaks, as if he’s spent all this time away from us in the sun. “I got lost, but I came back. I found my way back.” My father says, wrapping his arms around my mother. He looks whole and unharmed to my eyes, but his eyes are different, haunted. The piece of our family that was missing is suddenly found, but I can’t stop the unease and dread from filling my chest. I don’t know what, exactly, but something is not right. My mother, on the other hand, is overjoyed. She insists on going to the store to pick up all of my dad’s favorite things to make him a special meal. The thought of being alone with my father, a man who’s been gone for a decade, sets my skin crawling. But I decide the moment the door closes, I’m going to ask where he’s been. We deserve an explanation. I’ve hated him for a long time, since he walked away from our family. My mother seats him at the kitchen table with a beer, and as soon as she leaves, I pounce. “Did you leave us to start a new life somewhere else? Did you cheat on Mom with another woman? Do you have another family you’re not telling us about?” My father stares at me for one long, breathless moment, then takes a swig of his beer. “I was kidnapped, Gabby. I don’t expect you to believe me, but it’s the truth.” I stare at him, nonplussed. Of all things I expect him to say, it’s not that. “I swear to God, Dad, if this is a lie to get out of leaving us for years--” “It’s not a lie, Gabs.” His voice goes quiet, and his eyes darken. “Who, then, Dad? Who did it?” “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” “Try me!” \*\* *The man out of time looks at his daughter, this young woman who was as high as his knee on the faithful day he’d been snatched from the human world. She looked the same, yet different: Her brown hair was the same as his, only straight like her mother’s, put up in a bun struck through with a pencil. She was a stranger to him, as foreign to him as the fairy world he’d been thrown into so many years ago.* *He’d just gone to the store for some milk. The last thing he’d expected was to be snatched off of the street and taken to a completely different world. It had been like something out of a dream: a pastel, candy-striped sky, awash with every color he could imagine, and the woman who had captured him was just as beautiful. Her skin was the rich brown of tree bark, and there were vine tattoos all over her that moved, undulating under her skin. She smiled at him, and her teeth were sharp and pointed.* *“Welcome to the land of the fairies. I’ve been watching you; you know. I can feel your longing, your desperation to be someone great. I can give you what you want. But faeries don’t give boons out for nothing, you know.” Her grin widened, and he had to stop himself from staring at her.* *She was beautiful, but she wasn’t his wife.* \*\* He’d found his way back, stumbling into the forest on the outskirts of the castle keep. Perhaps it was his brokenness that had opened the portal and sent him back to the human world. He didn’t know how long he’d been gone, but it must have been years, since his daughter was practically grown now. “I’m sorry,” He whispers now, knowing that the facts didn’t sound true. It sounded like something out of a fairy tale, but it had been real. “I know I can’t make it up to you now, but I am so sorry. I thought of you and your mother every second, every hour, every passing day. But in that world... It can be so easy to forget.


TW: suicide, attempted suicide This a story about a boy and a girl becoming friends to strangers. They firstly met at their schools. They were classmates but still strangers for each others. They were unaware that they will become so close to each others that when they have to separate both eyes will be filled with tears. One day their class teacher introduces themselves to each other. Boy never seemed interested in her because he don’t like to making friends. She thought he is arrogant, rude and cold hearted person. When they met for first time he simply ignored her. One day she asked him why did he behaved like this? He ignored her again and but this time she said with anger, don’t you see I asked you something. He replied, I know and I don’t like talking to strangers. She was quiet disappointed or you can say hurt from his words. He said, don’t mind my words but I’m kind a socially awkward person. So, I don’t like talking but gradually I will. She understood what he want to say and forgave him. After sometime they start talking and they were good friends. Time passed and they pass out from school. They went to different colleges and they didn’t knew they will meet again or not. On last day of school, she asked him that, will you miss me? He was silent and after a sometimes he answered, I don’t know but I guess I will. She said, the same to him. Months passed there were no communication between them. They were so busy with their lives. Still they tried to contact each other but they couldn’t. There is saying that, “ Don’t matter how busy you are with your life but if you want to talk to someone you will spare time for them.” After struggling a while, they were able to talk with each other. Both were happy but he felt that, for him she is more than friend. He was not sure that he really feels for her or not. One day, she didn’t texted him and he was worried that is she ok or not? After a week she texted him, that she had a fight with her parents and she is feeling depressed. She is having suicidal thoughts after hearing this he was shocked and stressed. He tried his best to lift her mood. She was fine and finally felt that suicide is not the option. For her, he started feeling and he could easily say that he really loves her a lot. He tried to confess her but he thought she is already having problems and he don’t want to make her sad. He didn’t confessed and he waited for a right moment. After two years, he confessed her but... every time things don’t went as expected. She said, she never felt for him more than a friend. He replied, its ok. We can love someone but we can’t say them to love us back. He respected her opinion from that day he never discussed about that again. Again she start having same problems but this time it was serious because she tried to suicide by having a extrados of medicine. She slept for two days. He was angry on her, she scolded her that, don’t you think what will your parents will do after you will suicide?, what will I do ? he said with tears in his eyes, you don’t know how much I love you and you think dying is easy. Until I’m alive you can't die and promise me you will not do this again. On that day she got to know how much he feels for her and she promised him. Both were reason of each other's happiness. They were attached to each other, they were best friends. They shared every small thing to big secrets to each others. Whether they talk for two hours or two minutes both were satisfied with it. Many people understand are feelings but there are few ones who can understand our silence too. When we love someone their problems are our problems, their happiness are our happiness. They were friends for 3 years and now they aren't. The reason of separation was broken trust. Whether it’s a relationship or a friendship trust plays an important role in every relation. We can think about a relationship without love but without trust no relation exists. Same happened with them, late night she called him and was crying. Before he ask her, she started telling every thing. He listened her quietly and he didn’t said a word. When after a she stops and asked her why are you crying? You shouldn’t, don’t worry I’m here only. She told him, that her boyfriend accused her. He was surprised and couldn’t accept it. He wasn’t surprised that she had boyfriend but he was surprised that she didn’t told him about her relationship. He felt betrayed and trust broken. He simply asked her, you would have told me about him and without asking a question I would have accepted it. But now situation is different, I can forgive you but I will not able to forgave myself. I trusted you blindly, I loved you unconditionally and in return you taught me that you shouldn’t trust and love someone. I thought we will best friends forever but now... we are nothing. This relation never existed and I hate you. I hate that I loved without thinking of outcomes but you did this to me. I hope you will have a better life without me... I know its difficult to forget you but I will... She was crying and begging him that stay don’t leave him. He smiled and said, never beg someone to stay in your life. If they want to go let them go. Moral: God gifted us an unique that we can love someone and we can express our love. People says that love hurts but it hurts more when you love a wrong person. If you want to live a happy life, tie it to a goals not to people or things.


I awoke this morning with the words “thank you” on my lips. This occurrence has been going on for at least the last fifty years. I’ve experienced joys and sorrows like most humans I know. With all of these experiences, there have been lessons taught and learned; sometimes repeated. Yes, I have found it is possible to learn from sorrows, as well as joys. I have come to believe that such learning is why I am living my life here on planet Earth. Here and now is where the potential to gain greater understanding is rife in every human experience we have. Understanding of our experiences helps us to expand our consciousness of what it means to be a human being, and apply that understanding to the choices we make using our God-given free will all along the way. When I look back, I can see choices I made at junctures along the way that brought me to where I am today. Most importantly, I am grateful for the roads I’ve chosen to travel that have made all the difference with respect to learning and growing as a member of the human species. I wish to share some of lessons I’ve learned for which I am eternally grateful. First and foremost, I have learned about the power of unconditional love. I am grateful for my parents who were role models for me, because their love was never based on conditions they could’ve, but didn’t, place on me. They practiced unconditional love all their lives. I am grateful for the tools and freedom they gave me to explore and learn. These tools were encouraging curiosity, perseverance, patience, courage, forgiveness, mercy, understanding, and love, always love, both as a noun and a verb. They instilled in me one simple rule to guide my behavioral choices toward others: “Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.” In each chapter of my life, I have used these tools and still do in my striving to grow and learn. So, I greet each morning with gratitude for their unconditional love and wisdom. My parents fell in love in the midst of WWII. I am grateful they met before Pearl Harbor, and weathered the war with their love sustaining them. How they met was a consequence of a choice that seemed ordained by fate. Here’s how that meeting happened. My mother was attending a small co-ed college in Conway, Arkansas. My father was in-between jobs. He had finished a flight training school because he dreamed of flying airplanes since he was a young boy. He and a buddy were adventuring, hitchhiking north to visit the Great Lakes because they had never seen them. Just outside Conway, Arkansas, one ride dropped them off. They discussed whether to stick their thumbs out for another ride or go into town to get something to eat. The decision was made with the toss of a coin. Heads continue to hitchhike and tails go into town. Tails it was. A local pharmacist directed them to the student union on campus because that was where young people gathered. At the student union, my handsome smiling father noticed three young women sitting at a table in the midst of a card game of bridge, which his older sister had taught him to play, so he walked up to them and asked if they needed a fourth. They said they did and asked him to join the game. He thanked them and sat down across from the woman who became my mother. He always said, he fell in love at that very moment. Mother always said it took her a little longer for her, but it happened. Then came Pearl Harbor, and my father volunteered immediately. Because he already knew how to fly planes, he became part of the Army Air Corps, which eventually became the US Air Force. In 1943, they married. The war ended. He continued to serve in the Air Force. I was born after the war ended. We moved around a bit the first seven years of my life. When I was seven, Mother and Daddy settled down in a little town north of San Francisco. They shared an abiding love of God although they did not share a similar religious background. They searched for a church among the town’s many churches that worked for them both. They settled on a little white church of no particular denomination that they found peaceful, uplifting, and provided them with new friends. That is where I went to Sunday School and later, as I grew older, I attended services after Sunday School. I loved the services because they were heavy on hymn singing and light on preaching. I loved the hymn singing most of all. To this day, I have my favorites like “There Is A Balm in Gilead,” “I’ll fly Away,” and “Amazing Grace.” Then, when I was approaching my twelfth birthday, I was suddenly presented with a conundrum. My parents told me that when I was thirteen, I would have to go through a ceremony to formally become a member of our church. I was stunned since I thought I was already a member. They patiently explained it all to me. Now, they had taught me to be as informed as I could be whenever I found myself confronted with a problem involving a choice. The first step in finding a solution was to talk to God in the language of my heart and see what answer came. So, after their explanation about the upcoming church membership question, I said, “I will talk to God about this.” They nodded. That night in my bed, before sleep, I talked to God. I asked Him what to do. I fell asleep and dreamed vividly. I was shown a path. In the dream, I saw myself visiting other churches that existed in our little town. When I awoke, the message imprinted in my mind was like a telegram from God: “Seek and ye shall find.” At breakfast, I told my parents my dream. They looked at one another and spoke in unison, “What do you want to do?” I told them, “I want to spend the whole year I’m twelve going to any church here in town as I wish, as well as any town I may visit. I want to explore and experience other churches.” I paused and continued, “I don’t know enough to make a choice. I want to seek.” My parents took this all in, looked at each other, and agreed to my proposal, as long as I went to church somewhere every Sunday and kept a notebook of my thoughts and feelings related to my experiences. I loved writing, and so that was easy for me to agree to do that. I had one question, “Will you drive me if I need a ride?” “Of course,” Daddy said, as Mother nodded her agreement. Thus, began my year of seeking. My search was limited by the fact that in my hometown there were only various denominations of Christian churches at that time. I did not have the opportunity to explore religions other than Christianity. Nevertheless, it was amazing to me how much variety there was among those denominations. Later in my life as a young adult, I would explore more. However, that year I was twelve sanctioned by my parents’ trust in God’s message to me in my dream and their commitment to the value of exploratory gathering of data to make an informed choice, I did so seek. I realize now that seeking was key to my development in becoming the person I am today. At the end of my twelfth year, I reviewed my notebooks and realized that the little white nondenominational church of my parents suited me best at the time. My chief reason was simple and true. At the little white church, the congregation sang more during their services than any of the other churches. For me, music was a direct connection to God. Also, that church echoed and emphasized the Golden Rule imprinted on my heart of “doing unto others as I would have others do unto me.” So, I joined the church when I turned thirteen and sang with gusto. Later that year I even sang with the choir and learned Handel’s Messiah, singing the Hallelujah Chorus with all my heart and strength. I am also grateful to my parents for bringing the love of reading and telling stories into my life. As Strickland Gillilan says in his poem The Reading Mother : “You may have tangible wealth untold; Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold. Richer than I you can never be - I had a Mother who read to me.” I also had my father who enchanted and entertained me with stories of his boyhood and beyond; thus, building my love for storytelling. After I left home and began seeking beyond Christianity, I found my way through books to the teachings of Eastern spiritual traditions of Buddhism, Hinduism, and Taoism. These opened my mind and heart ever wider until one day after again talking to God seeking His guidance on learning how to meditate, I happened upon the book Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda. I read it avidly, hooked from page 1. I wrote away for the lessons and studied them. I knew I had found a guide to meditation and the most inclusive path to God I had ever encountered. I’d found what I had started seeking as a twelve- year-old. My parents respected my choice of this spiritual path completely. My father did ask one question: “Is God in your yogi book the same one I know?” “Oh yes, Daddy,” I replied continuing, “as I understand it, there is only one.” He beamed his love with a wide grin from ear to ear. Completely at ease, he never asked another question. Mother never asked a single question. As always, she trusted and supported my choice unquestioningly, unconditionally. In 2005, my parents died three weeks apart. Though I miss them still, I carry their unconditional love inside me always. That gift only fueled our love to grow stronger with the passing years, and I was given the opportunity to give unconditional love back to them freely until they both left this Earth. Mother died first and Daddy followed after her since being on Earth without her was untenable for him. I saw her a day before she died and held her hand singing her favorite hymn, “I’ll Fly Away,” to her. I was by Daddy’s side when he died. He had been dozing, and suddenly woke up looking at the blinds over his hospital window. I knew how much he always loved to fly in the clear blue sky, so I asked if he wanted to see the sky. He nodded. I raised the blinds and the brilliant blue sky greeted our eyes. I held his hand. Within an hour without any struggle, he took his last breath literally flying away. Being a loving witness to their final days was a gift. Without a doubt, the unconditional love given to me by my parents throughout our shared time on Earth is something for which I remain deeply, truly grateful.


The lights turned off, leaving the entire seventeenth floor of the office complex in darkness, except for the computers with their screensavers showing exotic locations. Swearing loudly, Maggie staggered out of her chair, it’s wheels squeaking on the scratched lino, and flicked on one of the desk lamps. It’s yellow light shone over her desk, illuminating the pile of papers she’d neatly placed after completion, and casting shadows across the surrounding cubicles. Shivering, Maggie wrapped her coat around more tightly. “Why the hell is it so cold in here?” she muttered to herself, as she gently blew on her fingertips. “ They must turn the heating off, or something.” Casually, she checked her mobile. No missed calls. No texts. Full signal. Had no one even noticed she hadn’t gone home? Maybe they were all stranded as well? Yes, that’d be the answer, she thought. She glanced at the time. Midnight. “Well, time for a snack,” she said loudly, making herself jump. Sadly, she looked around at all the empty desks. It felt weird to be the only person there. The rest of them must have made it home, she thought. Thick snow fell past the window in clumps, the glass frosted. Sighing, Maggie looked down at the street, far below. She couldn’t see any lights from the traffic. The office buildings around her were all dark. “I could be the last person alive,” she whispered to herself. A shiver travelled down her spine. The thought was too creepy. The vending machine was still fully stocked with calorie laden sweet treats. She spent some time deciding between two chocolate bars before choosing both. “How often am I stuck in a blizzard?” she said aloud, as she moved back to her desk, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, and propped both feet up on her desk. Munching on one bar, a trickle of melted chocolate running unnoticed down her chin, she didn’t notice at first, the far door click open until a beam of light shone brightly onto the nearest cubicle. “Hello?” Maggie called out, sitting up hastily and wiping her hand across her face. “Is there anybody there?” Throwing the empty wrappers into a bin, Maggie slowly walked towards the door, weaving her way between the scattered desks, as she sipped the last of her drink. “Hello?” she asked again as she reached the door. Mr Daniels. Vice President, was etched in fine writing across the front. “Mr Daniels?” Maggie whispered as she gently pushed the door open further and poked her head around. There was nobody there. The office was empty, ready for the next day’s work with a file placed in the center of the desk, the far wall lined with an old fashioned bookcase crammed with dusty books. Maggie shook her head, “I must be going mad.” Reaching out to switch off the lamp, her gaze wandered to the title sprawled across the file. Top secret. Her fingers hesitated for a second. What if some one came in and saw her? She could be fired, or killed, if it really was top secret! Don’t be stupid, she reminded herself, you’re the only one here. Quickly, she flicked it open, her eyes horrified at what she read. “Oh no, this can’t be for real,” she whispered. This is why no one is allowed in here, she thought, so no one can find out. The main lights in the offices flickered on. Maggie froze as she heard a man talking and laughing. Mr Daniels. What was he doing here? Closing the file, she looked round for a hiding spot, her empty cup left on the desk. That was the problem with a neat and tidy office, there was nowhere to hide. Mr Daniels was moving closer, his mobile clutched to his ear. Maggie could feel the sweat beading on her forehead. She raced to the book shelves. Maybe he’d believe she was just tidying? she thought. She pulled out a random book. The wall behind the shelving clicked and groaned, before part of it slid to one side revealing a wooden door. Maggie felt her lower jaw drop. “What is this place?” she whispered. Mr Daniels reached the door to his office, she could see his shadow on the floor. She had no choice. Throwing herself into the space behind the shelves, the door slammed behind her. Maggie held her breath in the darkness, her eyes scrunched tight as she imagined Mr Daniels looking around his office with his eyes narrowed into slits, and his hands on his hips. The wooden door groaned and clicked and slid to one side. Maggie blinked in the light as she stared at Mr Daniels. “Maggie?” he asked in surprise. “What are you doing in here?” “Would you believe me if I said I was tidying?” He frowned as he shook his head, “Well, I’ll admit, this could have been worse. Thought you were a spy.” He moved towards his desk, giving Maggie space to move away from behind the shelving. “You aren’t a spy, I take it?” he asked. “Me? As if!” “And what have you seen?” “Nothing.” The answer was too quick, even Maggie realized it as she said it. Mr Daniels glanced down at his desk where her cup still sat, her lipstick against the rim, next to the top secret file. ‘Really? You’ve seen nothing?” His voice was soft and quiet. Maggie felt the shiver run down her spine again. Slowly, Mr Daniels strolled around his desk and shut the door. “You know, there’s a camera in here, don’t you?” he asked, quietly. Maggie felt her stomach drop. Of course there would be a camera. “Oh alright, I had a quick look through the file,” she said, holding her hands against her thighs to stop them shaking. “And I found your secret hiding spot. But that’s it, I swear.” Mr Daniels shrugged,” It’s enough.” “What are you going to do? Fire me?” Mr Daniels shook his head. “You’re not going to kill me, are you?” Maggie whispered, nervously licking her lips. “Well actually, I was looking for an assistant,” Mr Daniels said, smiling.


When I was brought into the world, novice and all, it was assigned to me a family of five turned six when chogo (lastborn) was born five years later after I. Life was big when I was small: our small kibanda (hut) near the never not smelly river seemed a mansion. The large population from non-stop procreation in the area allowed me to have as many alter egos; not being aware of what they called such places - rookeries, even worse, jhuggi. All houses, though we rambled on and on about living in the big city, were made of matope (mud). The only exception was the church, which was made of corrugated mabati. That was enough to make the pastor toot his own horn and throw around pieces of sardonic humor every now and then. Which one would you prefer, a house of mud or one of iron sheets and God’s presence? The pews in the center column of that ‘extravagant’ house of God were the first to always get filled; especially during the summer. The ones near the ‘walls’ were never rather seldom got filled. None was ready to sacrifice themselves for the other and be burnt by the blazing mabati during the sermon, which often taught about loving others more than we. Nobody prayed for rain, not even the pigs. However, the clouds can’t hold in pee forever, they also need to ease themselves. During my entire childhood, I have had three of “This is my worst day” days and on all of them, it was raining. When it rained, the lavatories would be washed, the drainage system, if any, would overflow, the nobody washes me market would be sparkling, and all that would be pushed into the river by the rain. If you can remember, we live on the river - in the river - just centimeters away from the river. With all this chaos, my parents could still afford to entertain guests. On every New Year’s Eve, my grandmama from my dad’s side would visit. It’s not like my dad was an only child or something; she had her own schemes. Apparently, my dad and mum’s mutwaano (marriage) was not a fruitful one according to grandmama. We are four girls and no boy- child. If you know anything about archaic cultures which are still alive and kicking somewhere in the world, you would remember that boys were what we call children, the fruit of the wombs. Girls, well women, were considered as wealth... {a for apple, boy is child, girl is a joke and women are wealth} ... But this is not about that. At least, she brought us sukari ngutu (jaggery) which she claimed had a lot of health benefits listing them as: improving digestion, building immunity, cleansing the body, weight loss (as she looked at me furtively and I in likewise manner) - FYI I was a very chubby toddler; and maybe help someone conceive a male child? The amounts she would make my mum eat; I pitied her. New Year’s Eve is always fun, sorely filled with glee; that's if it didn’t rain. We enjoyed mouthwatering delicacies prepared by chef mum. Afterwards we would entertain ourselves with our 2-years to live TV, and just before the countdown, we would pray for the future which is beyond each one’s ken. My sisters and I would then join the entire neighborhood in counting, “3, 2, 1... yea... yea... Happy New Year.” I would then dash outside our abode to see the sky on the other side aglow. Just next to our neighborhood, there was another neighborhood. They were different from us though all are human. Later on, my mum would accompany my grandmama to where she would go to bye-byes. She would always spend the night in our next-door neighbor’s house. Mama Awuori and her had formed a good relationship over the years. I once heard her frivolously saying to Mama Awuori, who was a single mum of one daughter and two sons, that she would like it very much if dad would take her as a second wife - “you seem to have good genes.” I always thought it weird that apart from grandmama, all the other guest we had always squeezed and fitted in our kibanda for the night. When I asked the couple concerning their guest, my mum said, “It’s a bad omen for her to sleep in her sons house.” Why exactly? She didn’t know? “It’s tradition! It has been a custom from time immemorial.” Since grandmama was the one with the most tradition, I took it upon me to ask her when she came the next year. As we were feasting during this story-filled New Year’s Eve, I placed my color-matching plastic plate, which contained a huge piece of fleshy fried fish on one side; some kales (greens are good for ya) and a gigantic slice of ugali - just in case a fish bone would decide to stick in my throat, on the ground next to where I was sitting as I prepared myself to speak. “Grandmama, why don’t you sleep in our house every time you visit us?” I asked gingerly. “I-s i-t bec-aus-e Mama Awuori has good genes?” Her eyes dilated, her lips fell and she almost chocked on her food. “It’s tradition... didn’t I already explain this to you?” Mum said. “No!” back at her “Our house is too small for her and she doesn’t like mum”, my sister born just 5-years before me conspiratorially whispered in my right ear, generously smearing fishy oil on me. “Long ago when I was slightly older than you, the teachers of the law of the community taught us this. They did not give us any reasons for it. We were just expected to follow or face the music from the gods. No one cracks jokes with the gods.” Dad finished as he shuddered. “But the gods are dead and know we believe in God alone; we are taught that in Sabbath school. Why do we still follow this immemorial customs?” ........... (Silence) .......... (Silence)....... “Nyara, chiko it (My child, get ready to listen)”, she said, bobbing her hand every now and then to ease her itchy scalp. She went on to confirm that what my parents had said was correct; it was tradition. She explained that before God, was the gods, who ruled the land with an iron fist. The gods imposed heavy taxes and created a lot of rules. “We are lucky God has only 10,” she paused, strenuous swallowing the pool of saliva that had collected in her mouth. She explained that, to enable a married couple enjoy their marriage - especially at night, and procreate without any disturbance, they had to sleep in a different house from their parents. If both the couple and the parents rejected this rule: the gods would not bless the marriage and the parent(s) might die, depending on the moods of the gods that day. “The gods, as your father said, are not people; no one could crack a joke with them, not even the priests they appointed forcefully. We are glad God overthrew them. But the fear they instilled is still present.”


#What’s New This Week I have made significant changes to the ranking system, which will go into effect this week. See below for an exact breakdown.   *** #Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Reflection** **“Life is only a reflection of what we allow ourselves to see.” -Trudy Vesotsky** *Bonus constraint (worth extra pts.): A discovery is made.* This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘reflection’ in your story. It should appear in some way within the story. You can use the quote as additional inspiration. You may include the theme words if you wish, but it is not necessary. The bonus constraint is not required. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied I have made some significant changes in the ranking system. We’ll see how this works over the next few weeks and make changes where necessary. Here is a current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 5 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 30 pts for first, 20 pts for second, and 10 pts for third - **Bonus:** Up to 5 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints, making user nominations, etc.)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/jimiflan   - - Submitted by u/stickfist   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


J walked west. J loved his mother and respected his father. Everything he did, he did for the love of his mother. He learned many languages, his mother spoke many. He smoked the occasional tobacco leaf because he believed it delivered him a small sense of peace. His mother smoked. J came from a small town in a country riddled with crime and struggles of power, but that never affected his lifestyle. He grew up powerful. An excellent student with ultimate focus. He learned languages and skills growing up. Traveled to distant lands to learn about their cultures. He was on a quest west. His quest was in search for the truth. Not a truth about a crime, or a truth about anything in particular but rather, the only truth. He wished to find the truth of man. His quest was to give him answers to the unanswerable. Death. J knew his mother would not be with him his whole life and that is the only pain that he bore. He was not entertained by small temptations such as money or women. He traveled the world ate delicacies from different cultures, scaled mountains and floated rivers, learned different styles of combat and mastered foreign music. Though he was never satisfied. He didn’t value the material, he rarely even valued experience. He valued the truth. He clawed at every chance to find the most obscure of religions to find what is the purpose in hopes to tie it all together. He searched for prophets and scholars to find the purpose, but he never could find it. No matter who he talked to, he saw only the things he wanted to see. His mother. The farther west he went the less he could feel his mother’s love. He meditated and saw nothing but her and when he opened his eyes his pain came back. It was not a gruesome pain, fore no one else would ever notice it. But a pain that ate away at his soul as every second passed by that he was not with her. He knew his mother’s demise would come but he also knew she did not want him home. She wanted more for her boy, but that boy would never let go of the thought of her. Because he couldn’t have her the chase continued. He traveled more and more west circumnavigating the globe impressing beautiful women of all nations with his intelligence and poise. He traveled to another land and as his quest continued, he heard of a book. A book written by a blind man in a language only the blind man knew. This gave J an idea. He believed that because the blind man has never seen the world for as it really is, he must be seeing the truth of humanity. The blind man’s book was now the chase. J scoured even farther to find the blind man’s book, one not influenced by temptation. A book written about what the mind sees when no thoughts of women, money, greed, pain, and lust are there. J believed this book may find these seeds to his happiness, that is of course after his mother. J followed prophets and poets, philosophers and scientist to find something that didn’t exist. While this chase was occurring he received a letter from his father. His mother has gotten terribly ill and he needs to return to his home country as soon as possible. He traveled home. After only a few days J had traveled across nations to see his mother again. He saw her laying in bed with his father and family around her and he immediately shed tears. He felt powerless. He told his mother he came as soon as he could. His mother responded telling him that it is going to be ok. She tells him one last time she loves him. He watches her take her last breath. J watches as her eyes roll back as his body quivers and tears stream down his face while he stares at her. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Everything he has ever loved and lived for had disappeared. His father grabs his shoulder but he is quick to brush it off. He doesn’t want comfort from others. He doesn’t want a father. He wants his mom. J walks outside as his tears have stopped and stands on the front steps of his family’s home. He stares out at the country, but to him he sees nothing. Nothings has value to him anymore. The land that once fed him is now just space that take up his vision where his mother should be. The mountains disgust him as he wishes they could be his mother’s smile. He stops shaking. J gets an idea. His mother is now gone and he has lost the will for life. He tries to think of something that made him feel that life is worth living and he reminds himself of the book. The book written by the blind man in a language he can only understand. But J knows that book does not exist. He has seen every country and talked to every prophet and preacher. The book has never existed. If a blind man wrote it in a language that only he can understand, he has been searching for something that will give him no answers. He must write it. He realizes his mother’s death does not stop him from finding that truth. He can have it. He can write the book. His only plight is now sight. His realization and thirst for a purpose has now left him in a cold sweat. He shivers on the front steps. His father exits the building to see his son and ask him if he is ok. His son runs to the nearest town. J runs to the library sweating and inspired. He grabs empty pages and a pencil. The librarian asks what he is doing but he doesn’t respond. He climbs to the roof of the building with two pages and a pencil. Enough for him to paint what is in his mind. He looks at the paper and pencil and hesitates but thinks of his mom and realizes what he has to do. He picks up the pencil and stabs his own eye. He pulls out the pencil with it comes blood and puss from his left eye, he screams in pain. The librarian has notified the town and his father. But it is too late. He stands on top of the building by himself and gouges out his other eye. Hindering himself from any perceptions of the world. Temptation he sees it as. As blood drips from both sockets he then picks up the pencil. He begins writing on the pages. He doesn’t know what he is writing but he loves it. He smiles as he cries blood. He finishes his book. He realizes he has drawn and written all he knows as a blind man. He cries out in joy. His masterpiece is finished. He runs his hands across it to see what he has written but he realizes he cannot understand it. It is written in a language he cannot read without vision. He realizes what he has done. He has created what he had searched for because it is what he cannot have. His tears of blood have stopped. He stands there motionless, as if he was frozen in time. His want to see it is more painful than the lead that filled his eyes. It is more painful than watching his mother pass. The pain he feels is beyond comprehension. He jumps. Hours later his body is found with two destroyed eyes. The townspeople cry for him and still see him as the young boy who his mother saw him as. Later in the day city officials climbed to the roof to investigate and there they found something that was so terrible and beautiful at the same time. On the pages was the most real drawing they have ever seen. It was his mother. Not just a picture or sketch. But in detail. Every scar and wrinkle, every tooth and strand of hair all crafted by her blind son. Signed by him with tears of blood.