Molly looked and saw that the field was emptier than it had been. She shrugged and dipped back to the grass. It wasn’t her concern. There were others who were monitoring such things, surely. Molly bit off a clump of grass and chewed at it idly. Her field was wide and verdant, bathed in near-perpetual sunshine. All was well. That there had been a dwindling of cows in recent weeks need not be a concern to her, for Molly had likely miscounted. There was ample space to roam and perhaps the others were not missing, but simply feeding on the grass of the other side of their hill. But there had been the wolf. That was an unclean thought. Belinda, the elder mother of their herd, had dismissed the sightings of a wolf as nothing more than rumor. “There is no wolf,” she said before heading back into her barn, and that was all there was to know of the subject. But Molly had seen it, stalking in the night. Hadn’t she? No, of course she hadn’t. There was no wolf, Belinda had confirmed that. And even if there were, the wolf was not a concern. And even if it were a concern, Belinda would handle it. Molly chewed more grass. The sun marched steady across the sky until, eventually, it tipped and rolled behind the horizon. Night dropped sudden onto the field and Molly’s head began to loll. Sleep took her away to a dreamless darkness. A howling woke her from it. The night was moonless and the field was sunk in deep shadow, but Molly could make out the outlines of the other cows, still and sleeping. Beyond them was the dark line of the fence. Something moved near it. A large shape, but ducked low, shoulders rounded as it wriggled beneath the fence. A wolf. It padded across the grass on silent paws. Molly clamped her eyes shut. There was no wolf, she must be mistaken. And, if there were a wolf, Belinda would handle it. There was a scream. Prolonged, full of pain, it pierced her ears, but Molly kept her eyes shut against it. She did not open them again that night, wishing she could close her ears in the same way. Morning came hours later, casting golden light once more upon their field. Molly saw that it was now even emptier than it had been before. She was not alone. There were murmurs. Belinda gathered them shortly after sunrise. “Friends,” she said to them, her voice a deft balance between friendly candor and unfaltering authority, “there is rumbling amongst you of an intruder on our field. I have gathered you here to assure you, once more, in no uncertain terms, of a simple truth: There is no wolf.” Most sighed a breath of relief. If there were a current of consternation which still remained, none gathered there gave it voice. Belinda spoke on, unopposed: “Rumors are dangerous and it is important that they not be allowed to spread lest they grow into wild conspiracies. I will say again, there is no wolf. Any who speak of such things do so only to sow distrust. If you care for others, you will report these dangerous conspirators to me directly. There is no wolf.” The cows all nodded, even Molly. Though she had seen what she had seen and heard what she had heard, Belinda knew better than she did. They were safe. There was no wolf. Molly spent the rest of the day grazing, filling her stomachs with grass and basking in the warmth of the afternoon sun. She ate more than her fill. There were less bare patches, less crowded swaths of tall, swaying lawn. When night fell, Molly was content and satisfied and sleep came easily. Until the howling came again. It sounded very much as it had the night before, but now a second wolfvoice joined it. Molly opened her eyes and saw that she was not the only cow stirring in the field. Others had heard. They shifted away from the fence as, wreathed in darkness, two shadows shifted there. They slipped under the fence, one after the other, to slide noiselessly across the field. As Molly grouped with her fellow cows, one stepped forward, even as the wolves moved closer. Rosie, a young heifer. She tilted her head and bleated. The wolves froze and exchanged glances. Molly stood in a line with the rest of the herd, looking on in wide-eyed amazement as Rosie stood alone before them, facing down the wolves. The fur about their shoulders bristled. One snapped off an angry bark and they began their advance once more, but Rosie stood her ground. She lifted her snout to the sky and let out a low, rumbling bugle that rattled the very air. The wolves sank low to the grass, whining against the sound, but Rosie’s call carried on. None of the herd stepped forward to join her, but neither did they retreat. They only looked on passively, Molly among them. One of the wolves took a tentative step forward, but Rosie pitched up her voice, an angry, obstinate sound, and stamped her hooves hard against the grass. The wolf whined and turned, beating a path back under the fence from which it had entered their field. The other followed, but not before chancing a look back at the cows. Molly saw a flash in its yellow eyes before the night swallowed its form and the field fell once more into still quiet. “We must speak to Belinda,” Rosie said urgently as she turned back to the herd. “They may return with more of their pack. We can drive them back if we all move together.” The rest of the cows shifted on uneasy hooves. Belinda had told them there were no wolves. She had warned them of the danger of speaking of such things. Yet, they had all seen them. She would not be happy to hear of this, particularly if they were to wake her in the night. Perhaps it was better to just ignore it, thought Molly. The wolves were gone now. They were safe. There was no reason to cause more commotion. “Come on,” urged Rosie, pushing through the line and making a path across the field toward Belinda’s barn. “She must know as soon as possible.” The herd did not move. Rosie looked down on them, puzzled. “Won’t you come with me?” she asked. Molly turned her head. None of the herd spoke. “We must tell her,” Rosie said again, her tone more urgent now than before. “Belinda said there were no wolves,” Molly heard from one of the cows. The words were spoken timidly, hardly above a whisper. “We saw them,” answered Rosie. “We all did. They stood right there and meant to take one, or maybe even more, of us away.” “It was dark,” answered another cow. “I don’t know what we saw.” A rumbling spread through the herd, agreement and the sound of heads nodding. Molly looked from side to side, as if for encouragement, and then found herself nodding along as well. Disbelief washed over Rosie’s face only to be replaced with a harder emotion shortly thereafter. She squared her shoulders resolutely. “Well, I know what I saw,” she told them and then plodded away toward the barn. Molly watched Rosie go. None of the herd followed her. They stood together for a while longer and then dispersed. The night remained quiet. Molly eyed the fence once more before sleep stole her away again. Morning brought Belinda down from her barn. Rosie came along in tow. The herd assembled before them, eager to put the events of the previous night behind them and lap up the assurance of order that Belinda no doubt would provide them. “Friends,” she addressed them, “I understand there was a disturbance last night. I want to assure all of you -- and I stress this -- there is nothing to fear. None of you are in danger.” Molly sighed, thankful for Belinda’s words and the peace of mind they provided. The rest of the herd shared in her relief. All except Rosie, whose face remained stern and unflinching as she stood silent beside the elder cow. “The safety of this herd is my paramount concern,” Belinda continued. “Above all else we must place order for that safety to be preserved. Make no mistake, you are not in danger, but that does not mean that we cannot be threatened. Paranoia, speculation, conspiracy -- these are the true threats that we risk arising. Do not let them take hold of you. Listen to me, for I love and will protect you all: there is no wolf.” Rosie snorted. “We *saw* the wolf!” Murmurs rippled through the herd. Belinda quieted them. “This,” she said in her firmest tone, “this is the threat I speak of! This, friends, cannot be allowed. Wild conspiracies will drive us into panic. It is only by good fortune that these baseless claims did not provoke a stampede last night! I will not allow such dangerous rhetoric to divide us!” The murmurs turned to grumblings. Molly saw the anger springing to the faces of the herd. She followed along in kind. Rosie approached them, her eyes wide and pleading. “You all saw them! We drove them off. They will come again and if we do not stand together, they will pick us off one by one until there are not enough to defend those who remain. There *are* wolves!” “There are no wolves!” Belinda roared and now the herd took up the same cry. They stamped and snorted, driving up a cloud of dust. Molly did not hope to be seen as a dissident herself and so joined in, though, in the far corner of her mind, a voice reminded her that she had indeed seen the wolves. “We cannot allow such conspiracies to spread within our herd,” Belinda said, raising her voice above the rabble. She turned to Rosie, chin held high as she looked down on the younger cow. “Though it pains me greatly, I am afraid you must be banished from our field. You pose too great a threat to our herd.” Rosie looked at her as though all sanity had left the world. “You promised me you would help us. You told me you had dealt with wolves before!” A gasp surged over the herd, but Belinda hopped atop its rising wave. “She twists the truth even further to her ends! Indeed I have dealt with wolves before, which is how I know we are safe from them now. You cannot stay here. We do not want you.” The herd exchanged glances. Molly did not move, uncertain of what was appropriate. Belinda huffed and took a pointed step toward Rosie, blowing steam from her nose in a torrent gust. She stamped a hoof and took another step. Now, other cows joined in, following. Soon, they were moving as if with one mind, one purpose. Molly moved with them. Rosie tried once more to reason with them, but her voice was drowned out by the stamping and huffing of the herd. Tearfully, she turned and fled from them as they drove her out and over the fence and into whatever the wild frontiers beyond their field held in waiting. “Friends,” Belinda said to them when it was done, “this was no easy thing that we have done, but it was the right thing. You are all safe. I will protect you. There is, and never was, any wolf. Let us not speak of them again and leave this unpleasantness far behind us.” She smiled at them. “Come, let us graze and be happy in the warmth of the sun!” And so they did and so they were. Molly’s days passed as they had before, lazily and with a mouth everfull of grass. Though her mind often drifted back to the memory of that night and the look in Rosie’s eyes as they drove her over the fence, Molly refused to dwell on it, stifling the thought whenever it reappeared. Sunny days gave way to cool nights and, before too long, the howling returned. Molly ignored that, too. She always awoke to a warm day and grass to eat, though the field continued to grow emptier and emptier. Slowly, the herd had moved farther from the edge of the fence. They were few now. They never mentioned it. Belinda rarely left her barn, never at night. Whispers of wolves more and more filled the ears of the herd. Molly didn’t want to think of it. She chewed more grass. When the moon was once again filled, a round glowing rock in the night sky, the howling was tremendous. She could not shut her ears to it. Molly awoke, afraid to open her eyes. The field was awash in the pale light of the moon. A half dozen shapes moved across it, dipping under the fence and stalking through the grass. They fanned out and Molly saw that she was nearly alone in the field. Her herd was thin, spread far and wide and nowhere near her now. She backed away toward the barn. A pair of yellow eyes followed her. A head followed and soon she could make out the whole shape, clearly illuminated by the moonlight. A wolf. Across the field, she heard a mournful scream. “Why are you doing this?” Molly asked as the wolf pulled up before her. “Why are you acting so cruelly?” The wolf looked at her quizzically. “We are not cruel,” it said, “only hungry. We cannot live on grass alone, as do you, so our food is not as plentiful. We must hunt for it. That is how we are made. We are only doing what wolves do.” The wolf padded closer. Molly backed away. Her behind bumped up against the side of the barn, firm and impenetrable. The wolf moved closer. “If only we had listened to Rosie!” Molly cried. “We could have driven you off. There were so many of us and so few of you!” “Hush,” said the wolf. “There’s no need for remorse. Your lives were full and happy. You spent your days grazing on an endless field, never knowing the worry of an empty stomach. A life of safety and comfort. Only now do you taste the fear that lingers on the tongues of most creatures for all their lives.” A flash of brilliant white split the wolf’s face as moonlight caught its teeth. “You were only doing what cows do,” it said, springing forward. Molly called out, but the field was now empty.


Winter and Summer were born from the same bang, raised by the same Sun, abandoned by the same Moon, and moved onto the same Earth at about the same time. There was a Spring and an Autumn once, too, but as the temperature rose like the tensions between the first two, Spring and Autumn shrunk to the background. At about the time Winter discovered how to employ ice, Summer decided that drastic action ought to be taken. “She’s killing everybody.” In the throngs of January when ice was at its thickest, Summer rounded up the other seasons for an impromptu intervention. “All the people and all the plants. The entire Eastern hemisphere is starving!” “Doesn’t this happen every year?” Autumn questioned. “It’s much worse this time around, now that she’s gotten ice. But it’s been getting worse every year, worse and worse and we can’t do anything about it.” Summer crossed her golden arms. “This is unacceptable.” Spring shrunk in the corner, saying nothing. “Why don’t we just ask her to stop?” Autumn added. Summer shook her head. “She has nice. She’s too temperamental to listen.” After Winter danced around, tossing ice across the globe, Summer crept slowly behind, warming the world with the soft touch of her hands. People and plants rejoiced alike, basking in the newfound light, the warm temperatures, and the flowering sprouts. They kept on this way for a few weeks, until Winter, clever and quickly bored, taught herself to harness the wind. The frozen blasts nearly crushed the flowering sprouts, but Summer wrapped them in her glowing grasp and protected them from the worst of Winter’s blasts. “You really could just tell her to stop,” Autumn suggested. “That would save all of us some time.” “If you’re so confident, do it yourself,” Summer commented, distracted with her baby plants. Autumn joined Spring in the corner. Then Winter coined a new term: precipitation. She pelleted the Earth with hail crystals like the organisms were her own personal targets and wrapped the whole thing in an impenetrable blanket of sleet. Summer sighed. Winter was being irrational and disgusting. Did she not understand what the seasons were meant to do? The job of a season was to cycle out so that specific crops could grow and specific species could flourish, in rotation, allowing for the perfect balance of an ecosystem--why was she sucking all the life out of them? Freezing and icing was not the answer, Summer figured, and as the one closest to the Sun, Summer figured it was her job to undo Winter’s errors. Summer has just finished warming up a city in Mexico, brightening it up for Christmas, when Winter rudely barged in and coated the whole thing in a jarring mess of snow. “Did you have to?” Summer gasped. “You and your ugly snow?” “A blizzard,” Winter corrected, as if that made the situation any better. “A full blizzard, aren’t you pleased?” Summer didn’t answer. Could Winter not see that the corn was squished, the roofs leaking, and the people unprepared for such a tragedy? This was unreasonable. Summer was not granted enough time for this. Summer held an emergency meeting of the seasons--excluding Winter, of course; Summer couldn’t bear to see the bare coldness of her empty eyes--and paced in front of them, explaining why they had to kick Winter out. “You can’t get rid of a season,” Autumn stated, rubbing her sharp, analytic fingers through her crackling maroon hair. “That’s not how it works.” “We’ll decrease her power,” Summer compromised. “Like you’ve done with me?” It was the first phrase Spring has spoken for a long while, making a permanent home for herself in the corner, ringed with flowers. Summer nodded slowly. “Yes.” Then she corrected herself. “But I have full intentions of giving your power back. Winter’s will be taken away forever.” Autumn scrunched over. “And who gave you this authority?” Summer sighed again. What did give her this power? Probably her supreme competence, and the fact that she had been the only one helping the people so far. But she had on reason that trumped the first two. “I’m closest to the Sun.” Autumn and Spring didn’t respond, because they knew, just as Summer did, that the Sun was the center of their world and the unquestioned decision-maker. If the Sun favored Summer, then the seasons ought to as well. Summer commanded her two subordinates like a general of troops. Spring had a surprising knowledge of nature’s balance and padded the Earth with a blanket of clouds and carbon, while Autumn...Autumn had not skills other than tossing leaves about, but it was better than a flurry of ice particles. As the new year rose, the global temperatures did as well. Winter’s slot was over, and Spring’s fell away, and Summer was left with a population of people rejoicing the pleasant lives they had been given. The pleasant lives given to them by herself, Summer reminded her subordinates. Herself with their assistance, but really, she was the one in charge. Summer felt herself growing and glowing like the Sun as the Earth swelled with increases: increases in people, increases in plants, and increases in happiness. “You’re killing everybody.” Winter barged in and stomped next to Summer, her very presence darkening the area by a few degrees. “Actually, I caused a net population boom-” Summer corrected, but Winter cut her off. “You’ve caused a pandemic. Great job, Summer,” Winter mocked. “And now the Earth is burning, too. You really want to burn our home?” “Well at least I’m not freezing it!” Summer argued. “Excellent.” Winter’s voice had barely risen. “You shouldn’t be freezing anything because that’s my job.” Winter poked Summer in the chest, a cloud of snow spattering the ground. “I freeze.” She removed her finger. “And you re-heat.” Summer poked Winter right back. “Correction: you kill, and I revive. Except I’m not interested in reviving. Why revive when you could just keep alive in the first place?” “But you’re not!” Winter sounded exasperated. “The world has been taken over by pesticides! If you don’t give me a chance to get rid of them naturally, they’ll grow rampant! They’ll plague the population--there is a plague in the population!” Summer sighed. “The only plague here is you. You and your harsh storms.” “I can tone it down,” Winter defended, holding up her hand and releasing a soft cascade of snow, the crystals brushing against the ground like feathers of a fallen bird. “See how beautiful that was?” Summer shook her head. “That wasn’t beautiful.” Winter clasped her hands. “I’m not asking you to agree; I’m asking you to compromise. This is not sustainable. Couldn’t you at least do away with the extra carbon?” Summer shook her head again. “So it’s a power-trip?” Winter accused. “No; you don’t actually care about the people. You just want to look like the best.” Winter almost looked like she was going to melt. “You don’t even really care about my blizzard. It was a good one, too-“ “You are being ridiculous. Thoroughly ridiculous. Right?” Autumn and Spring nodded loyally to Summer’s proclamation. “Your blizzards are ridiculous as well--you can’t be trusted.” Summer tossed her hands in the air and the clouds parted to reveal a bright ray of the Sun. “I need to do everything because nobody else here is competent. I’d rather an entire continent burn in oil than let one of you be in charge!” Winter closed her eyes and stepped back to some Northern, grey country that lived in perpetual precipitation. “No wonder the Sun likes you the best.”


Its quiet here today. It’s a gloomy Monday and most people are out working. But here I am, pretending sitting at a coffee shop means I’m actually studying for my college courses. I see him sitting at the other end of the room. Really just a couple round tables away, it’s a small place. The crisp air of fall coming through the door as people walk in, thrusting and whirling my free hairs around in the wind. I have my work in front of me and I’m ready to reply to emails. But am I? I’m distracted by his perfectly sculpted hair that also looks as though he didn’t even try. The beautiful smile in his eye as he laughs with his friends around the table. I wonder what he finds funny. Would he think I was funny? I have to get back to work.. but maybe just a few more minutes of him. I saw him again today. First Monday and now Wednesday, what a week. This time he was alone. Focusing sternly on whatever was on the screen in front of him. He wore glasses today and looked divine. He has a bit of stubble this time too. He must be busy. I wonder what he does throughout his days. I wonder why I’m so curious about this random man at a coffee shop. I don’t pay attention to anyone else around. In fact I purposely avoid eye contact but with him.. with him.. I want to make eye contact. Maybe he’ll feel what I feel when I notice he’s here. I can feel my heart starting to beating faster as I let my curiosity lead my mind. Its gotten colder throughout the week and now I’m bundled in a scarf and a pair of my warmest pajamas, even inside and yes, even inside a local place where most people wear actual day clothes. I occasionally put my hands on my warm tea to heat up a bit. Sometimes its too hot without the cover but I’d rather slightly burn my fingertips than be cold for one more second. As I hold my warm drink in my cold, stiff hands, I wonder what he likes to drink here. I don’t think I want to actually meet him. He’s probably nothing like what I can just make up in my head. Pretend a good man exists until I actually find one. Someone paid it forward to that man today. They bought his drink. Never have I been so jealous of someone. That woman spoke to him. Stealing him away from the spare seconds he has from that blue screen to possibly look over my way. He sits back down, alone again. More stressed than usual. I suppose it’s been a hard week considering its Friday now. I stare at him unwillingly, my eyes begging him to tell me what’s wrong and how I can help. For once, he looks back. I stare, frozen. What do I do? Do I look down? Do I maintain eye contact? Before I can decide he places his few things on the table and chair beside him and walks over to me. He sits down in front of me and in his heavenly voice says “Everything’s going to be alright.” Well, “ok,” I thought. “How are you feeling?” he says, probably because I look like a ghost at the moment. Still stunned by his elegance. “I..I’m..I’m ok.” I manage to mutter. My voice is rougher than I recall. It sounded like I was sick. “Would you like some more tea? I think your out - considering you haven’t touched yours in a while” He claims. I look at my cup on the table in front of me wondering how long it’s been since I touched it. “How do you know I haven’t touched it recently?” I say as I question his motives behind noticing my drink. His response, “Well, I only sit a few feet away every day. I’m bound to notice some details, right?”, was as good as one could hope. He noticed me. In all my glory that is messy hair and pants with splatters of who knows what on them. Probably due to my awkward silence of not knowing how to respond, he says “I’m gonna get on back to my emails here, but I’ll be around” as he leaves my table with a smile and floats across the floor as if he’s a real angel. As he leaves my presence I start to notice the cold chill again. I look out the window to my left to see the rain on the leaves dripping to the already wet concrete and drift off into a blank mind of bliss. I can focus some other time. Today starts the weekend, I got to the shop extra early this morning. Good, he isn’t here yet. I wanted to beat him here. See how he acts when he’s just getting started in the day. He finally comes in and sits down. This time, next to me. “Early riser today, huh?” he says, jokingly, while setting his things to the side of the table suggesting I’m his main focus today. “it’s good to see you. How are you feeling today?” he asks as the barista hands him the drink he never even had to order. “Here you are Mr. Shevrin” she says before she walks away to go back behind the counter. After a slightly awkward pause, “I’m much better nowadays. I seem to have found a friend” I say looking at him directly so he knows I’m referring to him and his kind gesture of sitting with me. He smiles at me. It has got to be the most beautiful thing on this planet. “You know, I think that girl likes you. Free coffee.” I wink at him and nod to the barista. He laughs an angelic laugh and claims “Well then I don’t think she’ll like I’m talking to you much, now will she?” He smiles big, as do I. He follows up my unending smile with a question, “What do they put in your drink that makes you so happy? I need some of that myself.” I chuckle and try to be witty in response. “Oh, just some of that herbal nonsense. But it does the trick.” I say. “Well, I am very happy to hear that. Now get some rest.” Then he plants a kiss on my forehead and walks away. As he’s walking, I’m bewildered. Why did this man just kiss me? Why is he telling me to get rest? “Excuse me!” I shout as he is halfway across the room. “Why did you just do that?” I ask, feeling a rise of anger. He stops and looks back. He slowly starts to walk back over, “What do you mean, honey? What did I do?” Honey? What is he saying? Am I dreaming? “You kissed me on the damn forehead and walked away. Like that’s a normal thing to do!” I reply, with much intended attitude. His response is one that gave me chills. I froze over again like the first time all over. “You mean to tell me, I can’t kiss my wife on the forehead before she goes to bed?” he asks. Wife? I’m not his wife? Who’s his wife? “Well I’m not your wife. You’ve got the wrooooong lady, Mr.” I say annoyed that he would pretend to make such a mistake. “No ma’am. I don’t believe I do.” He says as he pulls up a chair. “Why, I’ve been kissing my wife’s forehead for 62 years and I gotta tell ya, it’s that forehead you got right there” as he points to my forehead and then gently caresses my loose hair behind my ear. “62 years? Why I... I’m 22.” I say, confused by his actions and made up stories. “Now listen. I know you’ve gone through a lot recently. But I will draw the line at you not being my wife anymore. We are sticking it until the end, you hear me?” he says with a slight of confidence but mostly concern. “What’s going on?” I say as the lights get a little brighter and I start getting cold again, the door has just opened letting the cold air flow through the room. “ok, Mrs. Shevrin, it’s time for tea.” My so called ‘husband’ reacts to the woman by standing up and pulling her aside. Quite rude if you ask me. “Did she call me Mrs.?” I whisper to myself. I look down at the table. Noticing a food tray like from a cafeteria as a kid. I don’t remember eating here today. I look back up at the man and woman, trying to hear what they’re saying. “she’s not remembering.” I hear him say quietly. The nurses even less subtle whisper responded “she’ll get her check up in a few hours. I’ll let the doctor know. For now, don’t worry. If you’re stressed, so is she.” Then she proceeds to walk over to me and place my drink on the table. “This is for you when you’re ready. Just make sure you’re drinking it all within the hour, ok?” “ok,” I say, “Why do I need to do that? It’s just my tea. You got expired tea or something?” I half-jokingly ask. She smiles gently, “No, Mrs. Shevrin, it has the medicine in it that helps you not feel so groggy.” “Helps me..? What’s going on? What kind of place is this? Groggy?” I start trying to get up but can’t seem to move very well. I start getting dizzy and fall back into a soft but firm piece of furniture. I wake up. Lights dim, its dark outside. I rub my eyes and look around the room. My bed sheets are cold on my legs but it kind of feels good, like I’ve been sweating in my sleep. I see my husband across the way and smile. He looks just like he used to in our favorite coffee shop. We met there, just 64 short years ago. I can see he’s working on something from the computer screen reflecting on his glasses. The nurse comes in and hands him his daily coffee. She’s always been so kind, if I didn’t know any better id think she has a crush on him. “Charlie, can you grab me my drink? I can’t quite reach it.” I ask with my raspy, old voice. How did I get so old? I see him set the computer in the chair next to him, put his hands on either side of his seat and lift himself up. “Sure thing, honey” he says as he makes his way across the chilled vinyl flooring with his slippers. “How did you sleep?” he asks. “Well, you know, I don’t quite remember going to sleep. Did you go home and get some rest?” I respond with concern. How long has he been here? “Oh sweetie,” he kisses me on the forehead, “Yes, I did go get some rest. But you’re my home and you know I don’t like to be away from home too long.” He says raising one eyebrow in an almost flirtatious manner. I blush, feeling as cherished as I always have in his life.


Glasses. When I was six years old, I defined my dad by his glasses. It’s humorous now to think about the way I pictured him. He was a giant pair of oversized spectacles with a vague person living behind them. I saw him this way because his glasses were the most obvious feature on his face, and I lived in a world defined by the obvious. My father on the other hand, concerned himself more with the finer details of life, and in doing so, he seemed to overcomplicate every simple idea. When I grew up I was going to be superhero. Why? Because I wanted to. Where my father would have studied the logistics of it--calculated his every step, made sure the numbers added up-- I didn’t worry. I was the type of kid who would come home from kindergarten and, like any other type of kid, play endlessly with my toys. In fact, the word “play” does not properly convey how I was able to interact with such simple pieces of shaped plastic. I would become my toys. I lived inside my childhood afternoons as countless superheroes, dinosaurs and soldiers. Each one I became was just as unique as I was. They each had their own memories, fears and dreams. I lived as these other people late into the night, and just as my arms were exhausted from climbing “Mt. Bookcase” and my legs were rubber from running down the “Fifty Million Mile Hallway,” my father would get home from work. In this sense, my father and I were similar. He would also come home and play with toys, but his toys did not seem nearly as fun. At the kitchen table stood a chair whose legs warped painfully outward from years of use. It was in this chair that my father would sit and type on his calculator-- pushing in its loose, ink faded buttons for an eternity. The eyes behind his glasses did not reflect happiness, but they did reflect a determination both strong, yet quiet. Some nights, I would curiously study my father as he calculated. Sometimes I even asked him the occasional question. He would happily answer, ever enthusiastic to share the various snippets of knowledge he had accumulated throughout his life. The ratios and inequalities he attempted to explain were difficult enough concepts for my young mind to grasp, but what baffled me the most was why he would choose to be this “engineer” that he spoke of-- a superhero’s life seemed much more appealing. Some nights though, he did not come home and play with his calculator. Instead, he would go into his bedroom and pick up his guitar. Within seconds, his music would begin to echo throughout the house. As if in a trance, I would instinctively follow the sound to its origin and sit as close as possible to my dad. I could physically feel the music as it brought every single air molecule in contact with my skin screaming to life. He brought this music into existence out of nothing, just as he had done with me, and I felt as powerful as each and every note he strummed. Maybe my father really was a superhero. The strong, yet quiet determination that shot out of my father with force as he entered numbers into his calculator also came out as he played guitar, but in an almost unrecognizable form. Here, it gently flowed out of him, its harshness diluted with something else-- pure happiness. His eyes overflowed with a silent poetry that sang out louder than the music itself. In these moments, I would forget he even wore glasses-- the emotions in his eyes were the most obvious feature on his face. Then much too soon, the ringing out of the final notes would end and I would instantly become overwhelmed by sleep. As my dad slowly walked me to bed, I would always have one final question, such as what the difference was between the “big” guitar and the “little” guitar. “The big guitar is an acoustic guitar,” he answered. My first reaction was that “acoustic” is a strange word and that I had never heard one like it before. Recognizing this in my face, my father told me how Acoustics is the study of sound using numbers, but I still could not understand. After much thought, he finally explained it in the perfect way, “When a sound is created, it runs along until it hits something, but it doesn’t stop there. It bounces off and continues in a different direction-- it’s more tired and not as strong, but it keeps going and never disappears completely. That’s what an echo is,” he explained slowly. After pausing to make sure I understood, he continued, “and this acoustic guitar was created to make echoes as loud as possible.” Then he disappears. I find myself alone in my room, playing an acoustic guitar of my own. Although memories of my father have faded throughout the years, sometimes, when I play a certain note a certain way, I remember him as if I am six years old again. Only now, when I picture his face in my mind, I see a big, complicated person behind a tiny, vague pair of glasses. As I aged, the wrinkles and imperfections of his eyes became the most obvious features on his face, and even later still, it became the pain and sadness that lay hidden behind them. I focus on every one of these flawed, beautiful details that I was never able to see beyond his glasses, and I feel him in the room with me. My father created music. My father created me. Even though he is gone, when I strum my guitar and create music of my own, he will never disappear completely. Finally, I fully understand what an echo is, and how an acoustic guitar makes them as loud as possible.


“If I may say, these chains are a tad too tight.” he grumbled, shifting uncomfortably. “Would any of you be so kind as to loosen them for me a bit?” As he expected no one moved, their glares piercing through him. So, there he was, Loki the god of mischief (though some disrespectfully add mayhem), before his fellow Norse gods and goddesses in the halls of Valhalla. More specifically, he was here for trial, bound by similar chains to what restrained his child Fernir, before the All-Father himself Odin. Odin’s stare was bored, tired, irritated, his head resting on his hand propped on the arm of the throne. Loki glanced around at the other gods present. Freya and her Freyr. The war god Tyr, Frigg’s favorite and most beautiful child Baldur, and Asgard’s mightiest and most popular Thor. Though in Loki’s opinion he deserved the title of Asgard’s most popular. He was Loki, the god of mischief, wedded to the beautiful goddess Sigyn, father of the goddess of death Hel, the wolf Fenrir and the world snake Jӧrungandr and the one who birthed the eight-legged steed of Odin, Sleipnir (though he was partially embarrassed by that last one). And yet his name was remembered with detest and wariness. It was not his fault that he was always up to some fun or that half his offsprings were destined to oppose Asgard on Ragnarök. Loki turned to his brother Thor. “Brother dearest, would you do me the utmost favor of lending me a hand here? I may not look it but I am in a great deal of discomfort.” Thor grumbled angrily; his fist clenched tightly around his war hammer Mjolnir. Loki noticed a slight bruising along Thor’s hand, an unhealthy purple hue scaling up his arm. Loki smirked. “Dear me brother Thor,” he quipped nodding at Thor’s bruised arm, “do get that checked. Asgard would be in a great deal of peril if something bad were to happen to your battle prowess.” “You bastard!” Thor cursed, stepping forward towards Loki, most likely to pound at the mischief god’s head with his hammer. Then someone behind him grabbed at his hand, tugging him back with a soft plea spoken more from the heart than it was by action. Thor turned to face this person, and his face softened. Then he stepped back reluctantly. Curious, Loki peaked behind him to see who it was. “Ah Lady Sif I must say you look ravishing today,” then with a grimace, added, “though without the headdress your appearance leaves something to be desired.” Sif blushed shamefully, sulking behind Thor to conceal her bald head, covered only by small tufts of golden hair. Thor on the other hand exploded, lightning sparks flying everywhere. Yanking his arm away from his wife Sif he stormed toward Loki swinging his war hammer. “You villainous fiend, you dare say that to my wife!” He towered over Loki, his war hammer raised high above the god of mischief’s head, a whirlwind of lightning and storm clouds spiraling from the sky down around the weapon. It was then that Odin’s voice boomed through the roofless hall, shaking everyone present to the core. “Quiet!” Thor froze where his stood, the thunder storm around Mjolnir fading away. He glanced from Odin to Loki, unsure as whether to continue his punishment or listen to his father. Then Odin added, “Back away from him, son.” Thor grumbled, then lowered his arm and backed away to his wife’s side. Loki smirked. “Thanks father.” “Don’t ‘father’ me, Loki,” Odin leaned forward in his throne. “You know damn well why you’re here, don’t you?” “No, I’m afraid I don’t.” Odin scowled, leaning back in his throne. “You’re been charged with trickery and thievery from both the Aesir and Vanir, specifically the ones present here.” Loki glanced around again, taking in the unsmiling faces of the gods glaring at him. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about father.” “The hell you don’t!” Tyr roared. “You drew us away from our homes to steal from us.” “Tyr buddy!” Loki cheered, “How’s the hand? You know, the one my son bit off.” “Son of a -” Tyr cursed as he reached for his sword. “Both of you be quiet!” Odin bellowed once more. “Especially you Loki; another provocative word from you and I will banish you to Niflheim for centuries.” Loki sighed. “Yes father. But I truly know nothing of this theft against my fellow gods. I was too busy preparing a celebration of sorts just for them.” “‘Of sorts’,” Freya snorted, her brother scowling beside her. Loki rolled his eyes. Odin sighed wistfully. “Okay then, tell us of this celebration you were planning for your ‘fellow’ gods.” Loki smirked. “Well, it started like this...” *********************************************************** “Thirty minutes, Loki; nothing more. And any hint of your two-faced trickery and I will blast you to Niflheim.” “Dear brother, do you really think so little of me?” Thor snorted and went back to scrubbing the dirty fur of his goat in the pen in the back of his home. “What do you want, brother?” “I’m holding a celebration on Midgard, and I’d love for you to attend with me.” “Meddling with mortals now? Father will be furious if any harm comes to them.” “And no harm will come to them.” Loki assured. “Sure, they would be present to serve and stuff but this is mainly for the gods.” Thor dropped the scrubbing brush and stood up, towering over Loki. “If this is another trick I swear -” “I promise it is not. If it is, you have my permission to do to me as I did to your lovely wife.” Loki never saw it coming; one minute he was standing under Thor’s thundery gaze, the next second he was in excruciating pain, flying across the room with a fiery ache in his chest. He let out a cry as his back crashed against the log wall of the pen. Thunder clouds rolled in as Thor stormed to where Loki laid in a fit of anger, the house itself rumbling lightly yet terrifyingly as Mjolnir trembled, desperate to be summoned. “You bastard!” Thor roared. “Utter those words again and I shall rip out your tongue and feed them to the worms.” It was then the door to the main household swung open, and a very worried Sif stepped out in a rush. “Thor!” she cried. “What’s wrong? What is the meaning of this?” Then turning to the wall she saw Loki, wincing in pain, smiling through a grimace as if nothing was wrong, and her worried look twisted to one of detest. “You,” she spat. “Good to see you too sister-in-law,” “Go back inside, love.” Thor insisted of his wife. “I’ll throw this fiend out myself,” “Please do.” Sif replied, giving Loki the coldest look before returning indoors. “Lovely,” Loki mused. Then to his brother, “You didn’t really mean that, did you?” Thor smirked. The very next moment Loki was pulling himself out from a rose bush on the front lawn of Thor’s home, wincing as he carefully plucked the harsh prickles from all over his body and clothes. Thor let out a hearty laugh, one that boomed through Loki’s ears like a thunderclap. “I actually enjoyed doing that!” the god of thunder roared. “I’m sure you did.” Loki yelped as he pulled a persistent thorn from his cheek, and another from his behind. “I take it you would attend?” “Most certainly not you fiend! I will not become another victim of your hellish schemes and games.” “I promise you, no tricks. And there would be great deal of mead available.” Loki watched his brother’s face twist from determination to indecision. Thor’s drinking habit was one infamously know across the realms, and Loki knew how well a good dozen mugs of mead could sway the warrior god from almost anything. Except his wife that is. “Where exactly is this celebration being held?” Thor asked, suddenly intrigued by the idea of good mead. “In Cambridge, in the Midgardian kingdom they call the United Kingdom. Specifically, England. I’ve seen the place for myself and I must say it is lovely. I reckon Sif would enjoy the place as well.” Thor thought for a moment, then said, “I will think about it, but I make no promise that I would be there.” “Fair enough.” “And hurry up and leave already, before Sif gives you a beating for messing up her rose garden.” And with that he returned indoors, slamming the door behind before he could hear Loki remind him of who threw him into the garden in the first place. Loki plucked the last thorn from his body and let out a sigh of content. “One down, four to go.” ************************************************************ “...and then I went on to the other gods and gave them my invitations.” Loki finished his account. “And what happened to this celebration you were holding for them?” Odin inquired. “Well,” Loki fidgeted uncomfortably in his constraints. “Some complications came up and it was terribly delayed. To top it up I was not informed of them in time and soon after I was, I was taken forcibly from my home by your Valkyries, tied up in this surprisingly effective rip-off of Gleipnir, and presented before you as I am now with the false charges of theft and trickery.” Odin stared long and hard at the god of mischief before him, then at the gods present. His daughter-in-law Sif still cowered behind her husband, who stood remained tense and enraged. Tyr stood in a similar position to Thor, with his only hand resting warily on the hilt of his sheathed sword. Baldur stood beside Tyr, quiet but clearly disturbed. The sibling Freya and Freyr wore irritated looks on their faces, a rare sight as they were usually the brightest of the gods of both Asgard and Vanaheim. Returning his gaze back to Loki, Odin began to speak, this time in out of annoyance rather than boredom. “Are you familiar with the Hildskjalf, Loki?” He watched as Loki paled considerably in silence, then continued, “Just in case you don’t remember, it is a tool that enables me to see into all the realms, to know what goes on where and when. And almost nothing escapes it.” He let the words sink in before resuming his speech. “Through the Hildskjalf I saw you use the Midgardian custom of naming different cities and towns across the world identical to the original to your advantage, scattering the gods across Midgard under the ruse of a non-existent celebration.” “What?” Baldur interrupted rudely. “But how is that possible?” “Simple. He told Thor to go to the city Cambridge in the country of England, then told Tyr to go to Cambridge of Massachusetts in the Americas for the same celebration. He told you to go to Naples in Italy, while Freya and Freyr were sent to a place called Florida. And while you sent Freyr to Memphis in Egypt, risking the wrath of the gods of those lands! All of this giving you as much time as you needed to rob the gods of their possessions” Loki stared at the All-Father in disbelief, as if the very idea of such an accusation struck him dumb. “Dear father, I promise you I did no such thing. If this is as true as you believe it be, then where are these possessions? Surely you searched my home, and I am sure you found nothing, which only proves my inncocence!” Loki was smiling manically, glancing round at every god present. He was right, even though they exposed his prank of scattering them across Midgard, they had no proof he was responsible for the theft of their possessions. Suddenly, there was a loud bang as the gates of Valhalla swung open. Everyone stared at the beautiful goddess who made her way to where Loki knelt chained up, passing respectful nods to each god she passed, an honorary nod to the All-Father while keeping the scariest glare for Loki. Swung across her back was a huge heavy sack. “I apologize for my intrusion,” she apologized. “I have some urgent to discuss with my husband.” Loki stared nervously as the newcomer. “Sigyn, darling,” he attempted to sooth. “You didn’t need to come down her; it’s all just a simple misunderstanding.” “The hell it is!” Sigyn lifted the sack off her shoulder and over Loki’s head and proceeded to dump over his head. And everyone gasps as the contents of the bag crashed down on the mischief god’s head. Golden framed mirrors belonging to Baldur, the falcon plumes of Freya and Freyr, Tyr’s special blade Tyrfing. The iron gauntlets Jarngreipr for safely wielding Mjolnir, of course belonging to Thor and the golden headdress of Sif. All were there, around a now unconscious Loki who’d been knocked out when the gauntlets struck his head. Odin smirked at the sight of all this. “Well, I guess that’s all the proof we need.” The other gods nodded in agreement. Baldur however spoke up against Sigyn. “Where did you find them?” he asked suspiciously. “In my home, buried in the back.” “But how did you find them? We searched everywhere for them.” “It is my home. No one, not even Loki knows there better than the one who makes it.” “True.” Sif nodded in agreement. Then returning his attention to the unconscious god, Baldur asked, “So, what would we do with him?” “If I may,” Sigyn proposed, bowing courteously to the All-Father. “I’d like to issue out the first part of his punishment myself, and leave the second part to you.” “First part?” Odin stared at Sigyn with astonishment, then broke into an amused laugh. “I didn’t even consider punishing him in parts!” “Why not? He certainly deserves it; hopefully it’d deter him from future mischief.” “I strongly doubt it,” Thor interjected. “But it would be satisfying all the same.” “Are there any objections to this?” Odin asked the other gods, who shook their heads in response. “Then it is settles then. Just be sure to return him as soon as you are finished with him.” “Of course, Lord Odin.” Then Sigyn grabbed her husband by his long red hair and dragged him out of Valhalla, a sight that amused all the gods present as much as it amused him. Once she was gone, Tyr turned to the All-Father. “How did he manage to steal from us without being seen through the Hildskjalf? Or even get into our homes without seeming suspicious?” Odin thought for a while before answering. “Loki is quite skilled in shapeshifting magic; he could have changed his shape to resemble all of you to slip into your homes like he owned the place.” Upon hearing this Thor erupted once more, thunder clouds gathering in the sky as lightning sparked all around him. Behind him Sif paled at the realization of something horrifying. “So that bastard disguised himself as me, went into my home and....” He trailed off, fuming in outrage. Then, in the blink of an eye he stormed out of Valhalla after Sigyn and Loki. Odin watched all this with a great deal of worry, wondering what Thor would do to Loki as retribution or even worse, just how far Loki would go in his next ‘little’ prank. Because Thor was right; no punishment they could possibly give him would ever deter him, not even if they punished his children for his sins.


I only went to mass twice a year. Christmas and Easter. I admit, some years I’ve even skipped Christmas (how could you not, when there’s so much else to do?). Despite this, I wiped my hands on a towel to get all the french fry grease off them so I could prepare to pray without getting my pristine white dress dirty. I pushed aside the McDonald’s bag that I had made Christy go out and grab from down the street in the midst of my first mental breakdown, rested my hands on the table and kneeled down in front of it. It was only a matter of time until she came back with the ice cream I had told her I needed, too. She was the perfect maid of honor, so she would probably be pushing over other customers to get it to me quick. I had to do this fast. I put my head down, coming face to face with an invitation plastered our bible quote, Romans 12:10. “Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves.” I pushed it aside. “Dear God,” I started. I could hear how stupid I sounded. How cheesy. I wouldn’t talk to my friends like that. And right now, more than ever, I wanted God to be my friend. He was like Emily, that girl that I dropped and then she suddenly married, like a millionaire and threw these awesome parties so I had to make my way back into her life. Had I remembered to invite her? I shook my head. “Scratch that. God, I really need you right now. I know I am wearing white for my wedding when I shouldn’t be, and I don’t know if that’s like, illegal or not, but I’m sorry. I’m also sorry for going to mass still a little bit drunk last Christmas. Those red and green Christmas Eve jello shots were so festive, and I was celebrating your birthday.” I remembered that party that I went with my girlfriends. Brooks and I had recently gotten engaged, and I was so excited to announce it to everyone that I had gone a little bit wild. I bit my lip and shook my head. Not something to be thinking about in the middle of a prayer, Jesus Christ, Julia. I mean, not Jesus Christ, don’t say that. He must have gotten the worst impression of me during this intro. When I said amen, does it send, or are there like no take backs when praying? “Anyways, to the point, I don’t want to waste your time because you have to be back here in-” I checked the clock on the wall. Thirty minutes. Tears surprised my eyes and blurred my dressing room. “An half an hour. To bless my marriage. Geez, okay. Here it is. I sent Gavin an invitation.” Saying it out loud made the tears slip out of my eye. I quickly dabbed it away for fear that my makeup that had been beat to perfection would be ruined for all the pictures. How embarrassing was that? Sending your ex from high school that knows you’re still in love with him an invitation to your wedding? Get a grip, Julia. “And I know you took your extra time making Brooks. Like, that face! Great job on that one. His eyes are so bright, which mixed with dark hair is my weakness, so you must have been paying attention. And super thank you for making him into me. Everyone was surprised about that part. Plot twist, I love it. Cornell grad, good accounting job. You probably thought that this was the best thing to ever happen to me, or something. And it was, for a little. I just need your advice.” I took a deep breath before saying the next part. Sucking in made my dress fit a little bit better. Which was for the best, after all, it cost half my dad’s salary for the year, and I tried about 5 stores and 34 dresses before I fell in love with the lacey details on this one. The champagne glasses swirled around the grand room as I gulped down the french fries that were threatening to shoot back up my throat. My heart felt like someone had grabbed it with both hands and squeezed it repeatedly to speed it up too fast. I had never said it out loud before, but God, if he was real, seemed like the best person to spill to. “I’m still in love with him. And I told him!” I let a high pitched giggle slip. It was a sound I had never heard come out of my mouth. It bounced off the wooden walls of the old room and came back to slap me in the face because of what I had just admitted to. “Through e-mail. I told him if he felt the same way, he should come and meet me here before the wedding. Or I’ll go through with it with Brooks. I found him on LinkedIn. I mean, you know this, since you know everything, but I just thought I’d include it in this... message... thing. So you know I’m not leaving anything out.” “Julia!” It was Christy. She must have come back with the ice cream. I had spent enough time inspecting this church to make sure it was the perfect one for my special day to know that her voice was coming from the grand front door, and it would take her about two minutes to burst into my dressing room. “I’m asking you now to have Gavin not come. I have the potential to have the perfect life with Brooks! And if Gavin comes, I am going to mess up everything. My mom’s going to be so embarrassed, my dad’s going to waste all this money. All my friends are jealous of me, it’ll be so humiliating if I leave with my ex boyfriend! But you know me, I have, like, 0 self control. And I can’t take back what I did, but you can prevent it from blowing up in my face. I can be happy with Brooks, and I promise I’ll go to mass, like, once a month. And-” My quick rambling was cut off by Christy’s heels clicking into the room. “Julia. Here.” I turned around, and she had a small cup with vanilla ice cream in her outstretched hand. “Just take it. I had to practically bodyslam six people to get it here in enough time that you could digest it and still not be bloated for the pictures. Or else, it means a trip to the bathroom.” She mimicked sticking her fingers into her mouth and gave me a death stare. I winced. Brutally honest, but that’s why I chose her as my maid of honor. “Are there a lot of people here?” My question was prompted by the thought that maybe she would have seen Gavin, and she would go on and on about how funny it was how much he had the same blonde, curly hair that always got in his eyes when we were high schoolers and ran around the city with our friends dining and dashing. Instead, she just waved a hand. “Yeah, they’re all mingling in the lobby, or whatever.” She was too distracted to think about those details. “Honey, what happened to your makeup? Did you rub your eyes?” I nodded as she frantically fixed my under eye makeup. My mind wandered. 15 minutes left for him to show up and absolutely ruin my life as I know it. I imagined what it would have been like if Christy was fixing my makeup for Gavin to see it on that altar. Maybe we would have still broken up like we did that first year of college, because “distance” or “exploring other options”, but I realized sooner that I really did need him and I flew from San Diego State to NYU to surprise him. I would have told him that I didn’t care about the distance and I could have lived out my college years drunk texting my love to him instead of having meaningless hookups with random guys who I had to ghost the next day. And then we would be here, and I could see the tears being shed out of those puppy dog brown eyes when he gets that first glimpse of me in this dress. Just like he had always described on our way to 5th period math class. “Brooks is probably going to cry like a baby when he sees you.” Christy’s minty breath in my face as she finished the last touch of blending snapped me out of my daydream. It was like she was reading my mind and setting me straight. I turned to look at myself in the long mirror suspended on the brick wall. It was true, I looked absolutely breathtaking. I would for sure be using these pictures as my new profile pictures, taken that Gavin doesn’t show up. 7 minutes. The impending feeling of doom as the seconds ticked away reminded me of the last night in the city Gavin and I had spent together. We both were silent, not in the mood to stir up trouble like we usually did on summer nights. I could still feel his hand loosely grip mine as we dodged people on the sidewalk. After two years together, even we knew that 3,000 miles was too much distance to keep us together. I bit my lip to keep from crying the whole time, even when Gavin found a ten dollar bill on the ground and used it to buy us cheap alcohol with his fake ID. There was no use wasting our college years on a silly high school relationship that I would forget about within a few months, so I knew that the heart-wrenching conversation was coming at the end of that night. “Are you sure you’re good, Jules?” Christy gave me a soft massage on my exposed shoulders. “You look white as a ghost, and to think, I got you a tanning membership before this. That was expensive, are you sure you went?” I shrugged her hands off, turned around, and plastered a fake smile on my face. “Remember when we met Brooks?” “Yeah, at that fancy bar after we got our first paycheck?” She rolled her eyes. “God, I wish someone else had been there so you don’t only have to reminisce with me. Or, I need to go back there and find my own rich businessman so I can actually enjoy this conversation.” Christy and I had been fresh friends at our new job right out of college, and we decided to splurge on a strict girls’ night at the nicest bar in the city, where Christy pointed out how to die for hot a group of men were. When none of them hit on us all night, I had to take matters into my own hands. They must have known what they were doing, because guys who ignore girls completely are so much more attractive than the ones who want us. Of course Brooks stood out to me, he had a deep voice and he was tall. He wasn’t into the shenanigans at first, so things were a little rocky until I learned to not make so many dark humored jokes in front of his millionaire family and friends. “Three minutes, Juju. I’m so excited.” Christy inspected me one last time to make sure every inch of me was perfect. I kept glancing at the door, expecting someone, anyone to burst through. If it wasn’t him, it would be one of my bridesmaids, freaking out that she saw him and expecting me to ask to get him out of there. If it was him, he would shout, “Julia, I’ve been waiting for you.” After all, his Instagram and Facebook proved that he hasn’t had a serious girlfriend in years. He must have been waiting for me. He was going to show up. I knew it. But time was up, and he wasn’t waiting for me. He never came, and I waited to meet Brooks behind big, golden, closed doors to the altar, with my closest friends in matching blue dresses in front of me and men in tuxes on their arms. They were the kind of doors that every little girl dreams of standing behind to meet this kind of man. The kind that slapped me in the face on how just truly lucky I was in that moment, and how stupid I was to even reconsider this blessing. “You alright, princess?” My dad patted my tanned arm. “Nerves? Get rid of ‘em. You look great. Go out there and go get ‘em.” I swallowed my doubts and looked to the ceiling. I had to pray in my head this time, or else my dad would take me for a psychopath. God. I’m sorry for having my doubts about Brooks. Not that I doubted him, because he truly is the perfect man, and I love him. But I am sorry for acting like a bitch and thinking for one second that I should be with someone else. Especially someone who doesn’t want me back. Thank you for giving him to me. I am going to go to mass every weekend now. And I’ll never be rude to him. And I won’t do jello shots on Christmas Eve. Amen. I thought the prayer would take up enough time for the music to start, but the silence lingered on. My dad held my arm a tiny bit tighter, and I turned to him and smiled. “I’m really excited. Thank you for all this.” I rested my head on his shoulder while we waited for the organ to start playing the notes I had practically memorized when choosing the music for this ceremony. The anticipation was like waiting for the lights to come on during a blackout. My heart was suspended in my chest with excitement. I was ready to see him. Someone opened the door. Brooks’ best man, Cole, looking just as handsome as he did when we met them in the bar that night years ago. Finally. Cole whispered something to Christy. My palms were sweaty with excitement, and my heart leaped in my chest. Christy looked back at me, and I expected a smile or a nod. But her eyebrows were scrunched up, and her bright red lips were parted open slightly. She slowly but gracefully walked to me and grabbed my hand. “Sweetie.” She intertwined our perfectly manicured fingers, and led me back toward my dressing room, closing the door behind me. I was greeted by the smell of greasy french fries. I felt like I was going backwards in time. My mind swirled around in confusion. “But the music, we have to wait for the cue-” She handed me the handkerchief gifted to me by Aunt Beth, and looked into my eyes with her own. “It’s not your fault.” Her cold fingers trickled down my spine as she started to unzip my dress. Chills followed her nails. “Hm?” I felt her finish unzipping. I could breathe again. “It’s Brooks. He left.”


The pastor took a deep breath. Here in the office, waiting to give her sermon, Vida felt confident. She knew that that confidence would fade step by step as she walked towards the podium. Today was February 14th. It was St Valentine's day. The original St Valentine was a priest and a doctor circa 270 ad. Under Emperor Claudius Gothicas II he became a martyr, suffering persecution along with all the other Christians the Romans could lay their hands on. There were varying rumors of what he was known for. Some sources claim that St Valentine sent a letter to his jailer's daughter (whom he had cured of her blindness), and signed it from your Valentine. Other sources claim he defied the emperor's orders to unite couples in marriage to save them from being sent to war. Either way, it didn’t matter. What had started as a holy day to venerate a Christian martyr who died in the service of the Lord Jesus Christ had turned into an abomination. As usual, humanity had turned a sacred event into a commercial occasion. The real St Valentine had become obscured in history. He had been replaced by cheap chocolates and fading flowers, this by men who wanted to open a woman's legs, with or without the sacrament of marriage. The women, of course, seemed more than happy to accept their trinkets and oblige the men by allowing themselves to be used and debased. Not only did the masses debase themselves, but they also spit on God’s holy people, his saints, and his sacrosanct word. Vida had had enough of people's disrespectful ways. Half the alleged Christian congregation was fornicating with the other half. None of these people were married to each. Some were even married to others. It was disgraceful and shameful. 1 couple had walked into the church holding hands with each other, making no secret of where they had spent the night. The male member of the couple had only separated from his wife of 15 years the month prior. This was not the kind of church that was smiled upon by God in the Bible. In fact, the Bible was very clear, especially in the book of Revelations about where these people sat in God’s plan. The other pastors seemed content to let people ‘go with the flow'. They encouraged people to do what felt right. They said as long as they repented every week, that sin was ok. The pastors didn’t say it in so many words, but it was the implied message. As long as people donated their money and the numbers of churchgoers stayed above a certain limit, the other pastors didn’t seem to care as to guiding the souls along the right path, from sin to righteousness in God’s sight. They only brought up the passages from the Bible that encouraged or threatened people to part with their money and attend church. Never did any of the verses that could convict that pastors themselves, of what she felt to be their shoddy shepherding, were used. Vida’s hard line on sin didn’t come from a spot-free past. Her hardline on sin came from a jaded past. Vida had suffered firsthand because she had committed sin after sin. It didn’t matter that the original motivation for the sin had not come from her. Master manipulators had forced her into sin and she had lost blessing after blessing. By the time she had been forced into deep contemplation, she had lost everything and her most pressing question had been: why? Over the last several years of her life, she had spent much time with God, not only acknowledging her sin, where she was responsible, and where she wasn’t but making the appropriate adjustments in her behavior so that she did not continue to sin. It hadn’t been easy, being in so much isolation, but it had been necessary. It was the only way Jesus and God had been able to shift the direction of her life from where physical failings were taking her and make her into the spiritual success that God and Jesus wanted for her and themselves. It was a bigger picture that God was looking at. It was simple to see how her personal testimony of God’s intervention could save others from the same mistakes she had made. It is one thing when you are unconscious of the sin, but another thing when you are aware of the sin. Then you make the decision to either refrain from sin or continue to sin. As long as one sin, she knew from experience, she would never receive God’s blessings. What Vida needed in her life was an abundance of miracles and blessings, considering the heavy spiritual attack she was always under from Satan and his ‘chattel’. This was to be her first real St Valentine's day ever. Not one of the men that had used and abused her, for their sexual gratification or as something to hit when they couldn’t control themselves, had she ever received a Valentine's day gift. To be able to preach to the congregation about the authentic St Valentine, what the real meaning of Valentine's day is, and about her experience with sexual sin blocking her from the blessings of God, was the Lord’s gift of love unto her. Though Vida was a new pastor, she understood the eternal soul very well. Vida took the responsibility of helping others onto the right path very serious. It was important to her to steer others away from the snares and traps of the Devil. Today was her day to prove to the other pastors, the congregation and whoever else in the world was watching where she stood on certain subjects. God, silent, but not absent, always watching, already knew of the miraculous transformation from a sinner that had taken place within her own soul. Today, through her personal testimony, if it was God’s will, perhaps another soul would turn from their wicked ways, unto seeking Jesus with their own soul, rather than with lip service. Either way, it didn’t matter. The outer room was silent now and Vida heard herself being introduced through the speakers. It was time to set matters straight and souls on the right path.


Sonia woke with a start, heart racing, bed sheets damp with sweat and clinging to her skin. Her body was frozen in a state of sleep paralysis, but she was able to wriggle her fingers. Little by little, she worked feeling back into her limbs until she could roll onto her side. The harsh red light from the alarm clock on her nightstand temporarily blinded her, and she blinked to clear her vision. 3:47 a.m. Another restless night. She rolled back over with a sigh and stared up at the ceiling. This time, the nightmare had started in the middle. She was already strapped to the cold metal table, the leather restraints digging into her wrists and ankles. She’d started frantically thrashing about and screaming for help, but she knew it was no use. No matter how hard she pulled or how loud she yelled, Sonia couldn’t break free and no one was coming. Except this time, someone did come. Her eyes had been darting around the room in a desperate game of I Spy, trying to find something, anything, to help her out of this situation. The room was hardly bigger than a broom closet, so it didn’t take long to take inventory: cupboard, chair, table, trash can, wall clock. Nothing even remotely useful, and all too far out of reach to do any good anyway. Just as she’d started to lift her head to try and see into the trash can, the doorknob began to turn. She froze mid-motion, holding her breath in anticipation. Could this be her salvation? But as the mysterious visitor opened the door and came into view, that tiny shred of hope was immediately crushed, and the panic that had been bubbling inside her burst forth. “No, get away from me! Please, somebody help! HELP!” She threw every shred of energy she had into jerking her arms and legs as much as she could. It wasn’t getting her anywhere and she knew that, but her body was in full fight-or-flight reaction mode. There was nothing in her mind except for the desperate and overwhelming urge to escape. In a few short steps, the stranger had reached her side. Towering over her and taking up most of the free space in the room was . . . her math professor, Mr. Hendricks. Although he was intimidatingly large in stature and usually looked grumpy most of the time, Mr. Hendricks didn’t usually instill this animalistic fear in her. Reflecting on it now in the comfort of her own bed, Sonia couldn’t help but chuckle at the ridiculousness of it. But in the claustrophobic setting of the nightmare, she had felt nothing but sheer terror all the way to her core. The rest of the nightmare was a bit of a blur, whether because she couldn’t remember or was too afraid to try. Flashes of fragmented scenes flew through her mind as she tried to make sense of them. Clammy, sausage-like fingers gripping her arms. The song “Livin’ La Vida Loca” by Ricky Martin playing in the next room. Mr. Hendricks laughing. Metal scraping against metal. The overpowering aroma of cleaning solution. Mr. Hendricks laughing. “Please God no. Why are you doing this to me?” The cold and indifferent glare of the ceiling light shining down upon her. Mr. Hendricks laughing. A captivating splash of red in the otherwise colorless room. And always, Mr. Hendricks laughing. She could still hear that gut-wrenching sound ringing in her ears even now. A shudder coursed through her, and Sonia quickly sat up. She’d had enough of reliving that hell. It was much earlier than she needed to be up, but there was no way she was going back to sleep now. Sidling out to the kitchen, she turned on the coffee pot and started thinking about the day ahead. The smell of the coffee grounds was already working wonders on her mental state. She took a deep breath in as she rubbed gently at her wrists, trying to ease some unknown soreness that was starting to bother her. ____________________________________ The first place Sonia found herself for the day was the grocery store. She normally reserved grocery shopping for the weekend, but she had a special occasion to get ready for. The strange thing was she couldn’t seem to remember what it was. She just knew that something was supposed to happen, and she didn’t want to be caught unprepared. She was always forgetting plans so this was nothing new. In this particular instance, Sonia was in luck. She had a grocery list to work with so she wasn’t totally clueless. She’d remember what was coming eventually. In the meantime, she grabbed a cart and pulled out her list to see what was needed. Salad, noodles, sauce, fruit, plates, cups, garbage bags, cupboard, chair, table - “Wait, what?” Realizing she’d uttered that aloud, Sonia looked around to make sure no one was staring before glancing back at her list. In her own handwriting, were the words ‘cupboard, chair, table, trash can, wall clock’. When had she even written this? It must have been while she was waiting for the coffee to brew this morning. The nightmare had still been lingering in her mind. She must have absentmindedly scribbled down some of the words she was thinking at the time. Weird. At least now the list wasn’t as long as it looked. Sonia shrugged it off and headed for the produce section to grab the salad ingredients. She was thinking house salad was the way to go. Twenty minutes later, she had managed to find everything she needed. A pint of ice cream may have also found its way into her cart, but she wasn’t about to go put it back. Standing in the checkout line, she looked around for something with which to distract herself. Looking at the person next to her, she opted for small talk. “Don’t you just hate the music they play in grocery stores? It’s always the same old songs played on repeat.” Instead of responding, the man gave her a strange look and turned away. Apparently, she’d offended the one Ricky Martin fan in the store. She went back to glancing through the magazine racks while she waited, humming to herself the chorus of “Livin’ La Vida Loca”. ___________________________________________ Some hours later, Sonia was sitting in the school library surrounded by a stack of books. She’d lost track of time and could feel a headache coming on. This lack of sleep was really starting to get to her. Maybe she should research sleep disorders while she was here. There might be something that could help, and, if nothing else, it would be a lot more interesting than her current reading material. She stacked together her pile of books and brought them to the front. The librarian behind the desk didn’t bother looking up from his novel as Sonia approached. Whatever he was reading, it seemed to have all his attention. She cleared her throat to make her presence known. The man still didn’t budge. Well that was rude. There was a bell sitting on the counter and Sonia decided to use it. Nothing. Not even a flinch. She didn’t know why, but the librarian’s ignorance was starting to make her panic. Why couldn’t anyone hear her? Her breaths started coming out in short bursts and she could feel herself starting to hyperventilate. “Please, I need help!” Her plea had come out louder than she’d meant it to, and her cheeks flushed in embarrassment, but at least it had done the trick. In addition to stares from some of her fellow students, Sonia had managed to attract the librarian’s menacing glare as he slowly pulled himself away from his book. There was something familiar about that look, about the way that it sucked you in, pulling you deeper and deeper into darkness, until you hardly knew who you were anymore. As she held his stare, she found herself drowning in a memory. “Can I help you with something?” Sonia blinked and the haunting look on his face was gone. Now he just looked bored. “Yes, I’m sorry. I’m looking for books on sleep disorders.” The librarian smirked to himself as if to say that, if anyone needed sleep around here, it was definitely her. He made a few quick clicks on his keyboard, wrote a number down on a scrap of paper, and then handed it over to her. “Section 610.” His response clearly served as both an answer and a dismissal, so she thanked him and went on her way. Once she got to the right row of shelves, she started tracing her fingers along the spines, looking for any that had to do with sleep. Squatting onto her knees, she found what she needed on the bottom row. There were actually a surprising number of them. Books on sleep studies, insomnia, interpretation of dreams, even the history of sleep. She read through the titles to see if any looked useful. “Sleep No More” . . . “What are Your Dreams Telling You?” . . . “Is this Real Life?” . . . “How Sleep Studies Work” . . . “It’s Only a Dream” . . . “Open Your Eyes” . . . “WAKE UP SONIA!” She jerked her fingers back from the last title as if it had bit her. There was no way she had read that right. Either that or someone was messing with her. But no one could have known she would be looking at these particular books. Hesitantly, she reached out her hand and pulled the title from the shelf, afraid to confirm what she’d just seen. Blazed across the cover in bright green letters were the words “WAKE UP SOONER!” What a relief. As she placed the book back on the shelf, her phone buzzed. It was Jackie wondering where she was. Looks like her search would have to wait for another time. Meanwhile, the pain in her wrists seemed to be growing. Maybe she was getting carpal tunnel. She added that to her list of things to research later. ___________________________________________ “Earth to Sonia, hello?” The sound of her friend’s voice brought Sonia back to the present moment where they were sitting in the university cafeteria grabbing a bite to eat. “Sorry, I must’ve spaced out for a minute. What were you saying?” Jackie just rolled her eyes and kept going. “I was asking about the English exam. How do you think you did?” “Oh. I’m pretty sure I passed. I did the assigned reading so it wasn’t a big deal.” Actually, Sonia had already forgotten which book the test had been on, but she didn’t want Jackie to give her another strange look. She really was spacing out today. “Well, that makes one of us.” “That’s because you were binge-watching The Bachelorette instead of studying.” “Yeah, yeah. You can remind me of that before the next exam.” Sonia silently made a mental note to do just that. “So,” Jackie began again. With that one word, she knew her friend had something on her mind that she’d been wanting to bring up. “Have you still been having those nightmares?” Leave it to Jackie to spend no more than an hour with her and know exactly what was going on. She couldn’t hide anything from her. That’s what made them best friends. Sonia sighed. “Is it that obvious?” “Well, you haven’t heard half of what I’ve said, and you’ve been nervously picking at your fingernails this whole time. Plus, you’ve spent the last ten minutes trying to drink through your straw with the wrapper still on. So you’re either majorly sleep-deprived or on some kind of drug that you’re not sharing with me.” Sonia looked down at her cup and realized Jackie was right. No wonder she was so thirsty. “I just wish I knew how to make them stop. I can’t even remember how they started in the first place.” She rubbed at her neck in frustration as she said this and let her head hang low. It was maddening! “Well, maybe that’s your problem.” “What do you mean?” Sonia glanced back up at her friend. “Maybe you need to know how they started in order to make them stop.” “But didn’t you just hear me? I can’t remember. Trust me, I’ve tried.” “Exactly!” Sonia gave Jackie a deadpan stare. Now they were just talking in circles. This was definitely not helping. Putting her hands up in a defensive gesture, Jackie said, “Just hear me out. Haven’t you ever woken up from a dream that you wanted to remember? But the more you try to remember it, the more you forget it. You’re just trying too hard!” Okay, that part made sense. “So what should I do instead?” “Just stop. Stop trying to remember so hard and let it come to you when your mind is ready.” “Alright then Yoda. You may have solved part of my problem, but until my ‘mind is ready’, what do I do the next time I have a nightmare?” “That’s the easy part.” Jackie showed off a devilish grin as she said this and leaned in close, looking Sonia square in the eyes. Sonia leaned in as well, eager to hear what Jackie was going to say. “The next time you’re strapped to that table and that bastard gets near, I don’t care if you’ve got nothing but your own teeth and fingernails to use. You give him hell. You hear me Sonia? Give him hell.” _________________________________________ She was still thinking about Jackie’s words when she walked through the door of her apartment that evening. That girl could be real nasty when she wanted to. One thing was for sure, she would not want to get on her bad side. She was just starting to ask herself who would win in a fight, Jackie or a grizzly bear, when Sonia realized that someone was in her apartment. She stopped in the middle of hanging up her jacket and took a better look around. Distracted from earlier, she’d missed the signs when she first walked in, but the evidence was clear. Unknown jacket hanging on the peg, extra pair of shoes by the door, light left on in the bedroom, and was that the radio playing? What kind of burglar played music when breaking into someone’s home? Just as she was starting to question her sanity for the millionth time today, her mystery guest walked out of the kitchen. “Mom!” She ran up and gave her the biggest hug she could manage. It had only been a week since she’d last seen her, but for some reason it felt important to hold on to her as long as she could. “You didn’t forget I was coming did you?” Silence. “Well,” she replied knowingly, untangling herself from her daughter’s tight embrace, “luckily you didn’t forget the groceries for tonight.” She gave Sonia a forgiving grin as she walked back into the kitchen. Of course! That was the big event she had been trying to remember, her mother’s retirement dinner. Her brother was supposed to join them after hockey practice and they were going to toast to her successful 35-year reign in the nursing field. It really was quite the accomplishment. She couldn’t help grinning with pride as she turned to walk toward the source of the mouthwatering scent coming from the next room. Scraaaaaaaape. She stopped moving. That sound. She knew that sound. Scraaaaaaaape. How did she know that sound? Where was it coming from? Scraaaaaaaape. It sounded like it was all around her. Every surface seemed to echo that sound, the echoes bouncing off one another, until they converged into one razor-thin blade of noise pointed right at her heart. That’s when her mother walked out of the kitchen. She’d come back out to see why Sonia hadn’t come to help. She was holding a knife in one hand and a sharpening rod in the other, and her apron was already covered in big red spaghetti stains. Only it wasn’t her mother. And those weren’t spaghetti stains. Sonia felt the bottom drop out from under her as everything came rushing back in a flood. It all made sense, how she’d been feeling all day, skipping around from one scene to the next, unable to remember how she’d gotten there, why she kept seeing things that didn’t make sense, even the time on her broken watch. That night, this night, she was supposed to come home for her mother’s dinner, but she’d left her notes at school. She’d turned around to go get them, was in the parking garage, and Mr. Hendricks, he - “No no no! This is real! It’s not a dream!” She was waving her arms in front of her as if trying to physically ward off the memories, when she noticed large red blister marks on both her wrists that weren’t there before. And down on her shirt, a bloodstain was starting to form. Cupboard, chair, table, trash can, wall clock. The volume on the radio got louder and louder as Ricky Martin rocked out about going insane. Sonia screamed, shutting her eyes and blocking her ears with her palms, doing her best to shut everything out. “I’m awake! I’m awake!” All at once, she felt someone firmly grasp her shoulder and something cold splashed her face. The world smelled like bleach. She sputtered and opened her eyes. Cold metal table. Leather restraints. Clock stuck at 3:47. And there above her, boring into her with his dark, soulless eyes, Mr. Hendricks. And that god-awful laugh. Suddenly, it wasn’t fear that she felt, but white-hot burning rage. Tugging against her restraints, she realized that her right wrist was loose. She must’ve been pulling at it even in her sleep. It may have just been a dream, but Jackie’s words still rang true and they floated up to find her now. Teeth? Check. Nails? Check. Now it was time to give him hell.


Once was Lost, Now is Found Since they had moved away from their old home, they didn’t go to London much anymore. Bella used to love visiting the big city with all it’s museums and theatres and activities. Her daughter loved to go for the shopping. They would usually make a deal that if they went shopping for a couple of hours then Bella would get an hour in a museum. She supposed she could just let her daughter go off on her own - Chelsea was 17 now but Bella didn’t quite trust the city. It might not be safe to let a teenage girl off on her own, even if it was only to roam Oxford Street. Bella knew she was over-protective but after what had had happened with Rory, she couldn’t help herself. The train was crowded but they had reserved seats in advance so they were able to sit down for the journey, although they had been forced to ask people to move out of their seats. The two women who had ignored the reserved sign gave Bella a dirty look. The younger one said that her mother had a bad knee. Bella retorted that she herself had arthritis. Well, it was true and if the older woman was disabled, why hadn’t she reserved a seat? Chelsea hunched her shoulders and slipped into the window seat, her earbuds in so that she could ignore Bella for the entire journey. Bella considered offering Chelsea’s seat to the older woman and then decided against it. She wanted to keep an eye on Chelsea. Opening up her kindle, Bella tried to get into the book she had been reading for several weeks. It had been highly recommended and well-reviewed but Bella found it boring. She would force herself to read it though as she knew it would be good for her. She couldn’t read trashy novels every day. She glanced over at Chelsea who was now resting her head against the window. She would get covered in germs. Bella would remind her to wash her hair tonight. She reached into her pocket and made sure that she had remembered her hand gel. London was so dirty. Woken by a jab in the ribs from Chelsea’s elbow, Bella heard the conductor announcing Victoria Station. She closed her kindle and put it deep into her backpack, checking that her wallet was zipped into an inside pouch of the pack. She reminded Chelsea to put her phone in her coat and not just leave it dangling out of her jeans for a pickpocket to grab. Chelsea sighed and did as she was told. Armed with their tickets to get through the exit barriers, they disembarked from the train. The crowds at the station pressed about them until they were siphoned through the gates into the shopping arcade. Chelsea wanted to go into a shop to buy a drink so they headed into WH Smith’s. While Chelsea scanned the snacks and beverages, Bella took a quick tour of the books. She noted that there was a new volume from Percy Jackson. Rory had loved those novels. Bella remembered one Christmas day when they had all curled up on the sofa and watched a film made from one of the novels. That must have been the last Christmas with Rory. Bella put down the book. There was no point in buying it. They took the underground to Bond Street and started trawling through the shops of Oxford Street, making their way towards Covent Garden. Chelsea had a job now and was able to spend her own money in the shops but Bella found herself frequently offering to pay for a second item when Chelsea couldn’t make up her mind. She knew she shouldn’t spoil Chelsea; you can’t buy love after all but it would make the journey home more pleasant if Chelsea was feeling grateful. She might even chat with Bella a bit. When the bags got too heavy, they stopped for a coffee. Bella was shocked at the exorbitant prices. How did anybody live in London? Everything was so expensive. Rory had always wanted to live in London. He had applied to a London university but Bella and her husband had discouraged him, telling him it would be more economical to study closer to home. They would tell Chelsea the same thing when she applied to university. London was fine for a visit, but you couldn’t actually live there. After they were revived with caffeine, it was Bella’s turn to indulge herself. There was an exhibition at the Hayward Gallery on the Southbank. Chelsea groaned at having to walk that far but Bella insisted it would be lovely to cross the river. It wasn’t even that far a walk but Chelsea was carrying several shopping bags. Bella offered to take a bag and Chelsea handed her a large package that had heavy shoes in it. They crossed over at Embankment and Bella paused on the bridge, letting the wind blow through her hair. She looked down at the boats and remembered taking Rory, when he was quite young on one of the London tourist cruises. “Did we ever take you on one of those boats Chelsea?” Her daughter shook her head. “I haven’t been on the London Eye either,” she accused.They had taken Rory on the Eye. He had been rambunctious and an elderly couple in their compartment had asked Bella to ‘control her son.’ Perhaps they had been frightened that the leaping and stomping of a five-year-old boy would cause the capsule to swing lose from its place and fall into the river. “We could go on the Eye if you really want to,” Bella felt she should take Chelsea if Rory had been. “But it’s very pricey. We might want to spend the money on a meal before we go home instead.” Chelsea shrugged, “Whatever.” Bella decided she didn’t want to go on the Eye. She would take Chelsea to the terrace café on the Southbank. They would both be hungry after the museum and then they could get the underground from Waterloo to Victoria with only one change. The exhibit was stunning. Bella spent ages drifting from one piece to another. Chelsea had abandoned her early on, settling on a bench in the middle of the gallery, her shopping arranged around her. Bella thought her daughter would be safe enough there, nothing untoward could happen in a gallery. Bella used to frequent art museums all the time; Rory had loved them and they had always seemed to be havens. Rory had been quite an artist himself and she thought he might have studied art at university, if he had gone. He used to sit on the floor in front of paintings he liked, forcing tourists to walk around the child parked in the middle of the National Gallery or the Tate. When he was older, he took a sketch pad so his presence had been more acceptable. Bella still has a few of those sketches. The meal was not good value for money but they needed to eat something before their journey home. Bella texted her husband giving them an estimated time of arrival. She hoped he wouldn’t mind picking them up that late but she didn’t want to get a bus with all of Chelsea’s purchases. After leaving a tip, they collected their bags, Bella tucking her wallet deep into her pack and pulled it around to rest on her chest. “That looks so stupid,” Chelsea noted. “I’m sure it does.” There was not point in arguing with a fashion conscious teenager, “but I can get to our tickets and money easier and no one can pull it off my back and steal it.” Chelsea rolled her eyes. “It’s getting dark and it’s a bit rough down here. Is your phone in your coat?” “Yes,” the tone was testy. They made their way towards Waterloo, having to go through a concrete underpass where several young people were sitting along the wall. Some were chatting, one was playing a guitar. A few just sat on the pavement, looking cold and hopeless. “Lady, can you help? You have some spare change?” Bella kept her head down, trying to pass through as quickly as possible. At the end of the tunnel, she saw a body sprawled on a sleeping bag. ‘Drugs’ she thought and as the young man was unconscious, she allowed her eyes to dart towards him. Then she froze. Chelsea bumped into her. “What?” Bella couldn’t speak. She stared at the person stretched out before her. He didn’t look that different. Thinner of course and dirty. Filthy actually. Bella noted the black dirt encrusted under the nails, the long thin fingers, one hand loosely draped over a tin of cider. Although his eyes were shut, she knew they were blue. His ash blond hair hung greasy strands, partly obscuring his face, but she knew. She dropped the shoes she was carrying for Chelsea and crouched down next to the youth. She wanted to reach out and brush the hair away but she didn’t want to startle him. “Rory,” she breathed and then did reach out, touching the hand resting on the cider tin. The man swatted at her, “Ger away,” he slurred without opening his eyes. “Rory,” she said again, this time taking the hand and holding it tightly. “Rory, it’s mum.” The eyes cracked open and attempted to focus. “It’s mum, sweetie, and Chelsea,” she motioned to her daughter who took a tentative step forward. Rory said nothing, staring at them. Bella wanted to take him in her arms and rush him home. Bathe him and wrap him in clean blankets. She wanted to feed him and buy him new clothes. She wanted to do everything for him, right now, at once. “Are you hungry sweetheart? Do you want us to get you something to eat?” Rory shook his head slowly, as if it hurt to do so. “Not hungry,” he muttered. “Can you give me some money?” Bella felt her heart sinking. “Sure. I don’t have any cash on me though. Why don’t you come with us to the station where there’s a cash point?” “Nah, I’ll lose my space.” Bella looked at where her son had camped out. There was the sleeping bag and a rucksack but it was undercover, out of the weather. She could see that it was a prime spot. “Why don’t you just come home?” Chelsea broke in. Rory looked at her as if he had never seen her before. In a way, he hadn’t. She had been 12 when he left. Now she was nearly grown. “I mean,” she went on, “this kind of sucks. You could at least come home and get some free food and stuff. Then you could leave again if you want but it would be, you know, a break.” Rory shifted his gaze to Bella who tried to smile at him. “That’s true Rory. You could just come home for a little break, if you would like to. We’d love to have you.” “What about Dad?” Bella let out the breath she had been holding. “Rory, we all love you. You will always be welcome in our home.” “Does Dad love me?” “Yes, of course. Fathers and sons argue but you still love each other. Chelsea,” she grabbed her daughter’s arm. “Mums and daughters argue. Don’t we Chelsea? But we love each other. I know Chelsea can’t wait to grow up and get away from us but she knows she can always come home, right Chelsea?” Chelsea nodded solemnly, then she crouched down next to her brother. “Come home Rory. We miss you. Mum still thinks about you everyday and cries. I need your help; she’s going to drown me.” He almost smiled, then pushed himself to a sitting position. “I don’t know. Maybe,” he pulled his rucksack into his lap and hugged it like a comfort toy. Bella reminded herself to keep breathing. Patience. She had to be patient and not push too hard. She reached out her hand to help her son to stand. “Let’s go get you a cup of coffee, then you can decide. If your place is gone and you don’t want to come home with us, I’ll get you a room for the night.” There was a long pause and then Rory placed his grubby hand in hers and they stood up together. He reached down and folded the sleeping bag under his arm, shifting the rucksack to his back. He leaned heavily on his mother, unsteady on his feet. Chelsea retrieved the package of shoes that her mother had dropped and moved to the other side of her brother. Cautiously they moved down the road towards Waterloo station, it’s bright lights gleaming in the London dusk.