Fairness and Freedom Trigger Warning: Contains acts of war. We both stand in the clearing, staring at each other. I'm struck motionless by the suddenness of seeing him in front of me. His fear-stricken eyes mirror my shock. We recognize each other immediately--not the person, but the uniform. Neither of us has our guns at the ready. I hold mine by the stock, pointing it to the ground. He grasps his, white-knuckled, pointing it to his left, his fingers nowhere near the trigger. The slightest movement by one would send the other swinging the gun to a shooting position. The lack of movement on both our parts allows me to listen, listening for any of his fellow soldiers that may be in the forest with him or for mine trying to save me. But I hear nothing. No rustling leaves from behind him and nothing from behind me. We are both alone, facing our enemy with no reinforcement. Time seems to stop, and sound becomes a foreign concept. Not even a fly buzzes, and the birds are silent. It's as if the world is waiting with bated breath for the outcome of this chance encounter. This moment feels staged, executed for the twisted pleasure of some higher power watching two struggling individuals to see who would survive. Everybody knows that life isn’t fair, but to which of us was it being unfair--him or me? * * * * * * * * * * * * I patiently lead my eight-man combat team around the ruins of a brick building at the edge of a small, seemingly deserted village surrounded by trees. We know it's not deserted; all our intel has told us this village serves as a command post, but not a single soldier or civilian is in sight. At this late stage in the war, though, anything is possible. The countries involved are hesitant to call it a win or a loss. There are too many casualties on both sides for any government to be happy with the outcome. That tension, coupled with the intense heat and nearly 100% humidity, makes this part of the war unpredictable. This ‘tame war’ that was predicted to last only months is now in its third year. Governments, civilians, and especially soldiers are far past war-weariness. They want an end regardless of the methods used and are willing to turn a blind eye just to be done with it. I'm already stressed and tortured from my first tour at the beginning of this war, but my government decided it needed me out from behind my comfortable desk and sent me back to the frontline only two weeks after my son was born. Two weeks. Apparently, fighting in the war is more important to them than bringing people into the world. I was given a guarantee that the end was near, only a few more weeks. When I complained about it not being fair, they assured me a three-month stint overseas was a reasonable request (it wasn’t a request), and I would be home to my wife and son soon. Plus, an officer with my experience from my first tour is exactly what they needed to quicken the end. Realizing I would never get my commander to budge, I saluted him. Sometimes a salute is a sign of respect, and other times it's a soldier’s way of politely flipping off a superior. I turned from him and faced my assignment: lead an eight-man team behind enemy lines and take out an enemy command post. We position ourselves in the shadows of the first vacant building we come to in this small hamlet tucked away in the woods. This town is the last of our assignment, and when we clear it, we can call the rest of our team to occupy it. The American involvement in this war was not originally supposed to be direct contact, but over time, we did what we had to do. For every command post we took out, it made it that much easier for the others to come in and fight their own war. As team leader, I'm on point, so I'm in front of my team. I inch along the wall where the entrance waits just around the corner. I’m to scout the side of the building facing the rest of the town and ensure there’s no enemies inside. Once inside the tall building, we can have an aerial view and strategize a plan to sweep all the buildings. Their uniforms mirror our own jungle-warfare gear. Brown, green, black, and grey are hard to spot in the lush green surroundings. The uniforms allow us to blend in slightly with the vegetation, but when death is on the line, slightly invisible is better than nothing. I reach the corner of the building and slowly pull a mirror out of my backpack with practiced motion. It's a one-by-two-inch mirror attached to the end of a telescoping metal rod that I painted green. I telescope the rod out and extend it so the mirror barely crosses the plane of the corner of the building. If somebody were looking this way, even if they knew I was here, they would have trouble seeing the small device I held. Looking through the mirror, I see the coast is clear and give the hand signal to my team to advance to my position. With a trained ear, I hear all seven of my men approach behind me as I replace the mirror back into my pack and raise my rifle once again. I hear my team stop, and I feel the hand of my second-in-command gently tap my shoulder. I give them the signal to wait while I advance. I quietly make my way around the corner--separated once again from my team. When I'm assured there is no movement nor sound from any enemy inside, I signal to the next two members of my team, who are now looking around the corner at me. A Sergeant First Class and a Private, whom I’ve just met a couple of months ago, serve as cover for me. With the two men on guard, silent and frozen like two gargoyles protecting a skyscraper, I edge my way to the door. I lower my weapon and remove the mirror again. This time, instead of sticking it around a corner, I cautiously place it under the door until I can see in the room beyond. There are no enemies in the room, and I adjust it to look at the inside of the door. I scan the edges and the handle of the door, looking for any type of wire that could trigger a bomb. Seeing nothing, I turn to the men behind me to signal them to bring the rest of the group up to me. As I lift my right hand to signal, a loud explosion comes from around the corner where my team is waiting. Chaos ensues as we hear gunfire and bullets racing through the air around us, all the while feeling the blast of heat and pressure that came from the explosion. Without any cover, we sprawl on the ground and return fire at the bursts of light we see coming from the ends of our enemies’ guns in the forest and from the buildings around us that we had not cleared. They must have known we were coming, waiting until they could be assured we were contained in one area. My second in command, to my right, lets out a sickly groan just after I hear the whiz of the bullet and the ‘thump’ of the bullet slamming into his forehead. He's dead immediately. I scramble over him to regroup with the Private as we turn the corner to assess the rest of the combat team. At my nod, we dart around the corner and see that there is now a hole in the side of the building, probably from a mortar deep in the woods. Chunks of brick and wood are smoldering and scattered all over the ground. Not a single one of the five men is moving. Two of the men had been blown away from the blast, and their mangled bodies lay twenty to thirty feet from their original location. The other three are buried under the rubble, their bodies bloody and unmoving. I stare at what remains of the five men and then to the fallen man behind us. I look from lifeless man to lifeless man. Their bodies now belong to the war. They are reduced to memories that will only be cherished by loved ones and to the statistics that historians will quote for years. I’ve failed these men. The Private, the only remaining man on my team, shouts at me to get down and find cover, but I don’t. Not for a few moments anyway. I continue staring. I continue staring at the death that I had sworn to keep at bay from my men. I did my tour once and had a comfortable desk job. Had we known I would have to come out here again to risk my life, then Genevieve and I would have waited to have our baby boy. My mind races with thoughts of unfairness. It’s unfair that our eight-man team has just been sliced down to two. It is unfair that a father is fighting for his life as his innocent and helpless child waits at home. I took too many lives on the first tour and tried to amend that by having my own children. My therapy team, which stretched over the last year, agreed that I was ready to get back to living, not traumatized and resigned anymore. At the military-ripened age of twenty-six, I started my family. My reverie is cut short as I hear a familiar sound coming from the woods amidst the flurry of bullets. It's a soft yet distinct ‘thwomp.’ A mortar shell is heading our way. Statistically, the first mortar shell rarely hits its mark, but the location would be noted, and different angles factored into the next shell. The next one would be considerably closer, if not completely on target. The shell explodes the door in front of the building where I had just been standing a few minutes before. There's no time for anything but to run. I shout to the Private to follow me to the woods. I look over my shoulder and see him running in the opposite direction. He must not have heard my directive and fled to what he thought was the best position. Before he even reaches the safety of the building, his head jerks backward as his arms fly outward into the air. His forward momentum carries his body another five feet, where he lands face-first. After his feet kick up behind him in an awkward see-saw motion, he finally comes to a rest. That’s it. I am finished trying to figure out fair and unfair. My entire combat team is gone, all dead within ten minutes. I am the lone survivor, and I need to get myself out of here. I hurdle toppled stone pieces of the building strewn all around. The combat radio is still strapped to one of the dead Privates behind me, so I cannot call for air support or even an extraction. I’m truly on my own, deep in enemy territory. I plunge into the woods behind the building as gunfire continues. I hold my rifle vertically across my face to block tree limbs as I race through the trees. As I put distance from my attackers, the barrage of gunfire stops, only shouting remains. They’re most likely following me. I run in erratic patterns instead of a straight line. My careless sprint through the trees is most likely lengthening the gap between us. I can’t hesitate even for a second. The trees get denser the further I get into them. After running for a few minutes, the trees thin out, and I quickly glance behind me. I don’t see or hear anyone, so I slow to a trot to scan for a brief hiding spot. I see a thick tree, almost two feet wide, and I duck behind it, listening. After a few minutes of listening, I continue, slower and more methodical this time. I alter my route from the line where I was running earlier to throw off their tracking. I hope they have pulled back and stopped searching, but they could still be pressing on. They could be on top of me at any moment. I’ll need to orient myself to head to familiar, friendly territory. After another fifteen minutes of running, I stop and take in my surroundings. I look to the sky and find the burning sun. I know a sliver of the moon in the east is visible in the late afternoon during this time of year, but I can’t see it through the trees. I see two large, half-sunken boulders a few yards off. There is moss on one side of them, and I can generally assume that direction is north. Calculating approximately how far I’ve traveled, I quickly orientate where I am in this seemingly never-ending forest. I adjust my course and head north to where I will eventually find my unit. I must travel quickly but quietly. The trees get dense again, which slows me down, not a full-on run like before. Some rocks crop up in a denser part of the woods, and I carefully place my feet so not to twist an ankle. Alone and broken out here in the deep woods would be deadly. I slow to a walk and guide my feet warily between the rocks. As I come out on the other side, I see the trees open into a clearing. As I step into the clearing, I notice movement, and that is when I see him. He sees me. His eyes are full of fear, he is shaking. I see a young man and if he’s over eighteen, it’s not by much. After what seems like an eternity, I decide that something must be done. The first person who moves may be the first person shot, but I’ve got to do something. He may have other soldiers behind him. I lift my right foot, and his hands quickly raise his gun as a wet spot spreads over his crotch. My heart breaks for him. “No, no, no,” I say in a soft voice. I drop my weapon to hang in front of me, and slowly lift my hands. After a couple more moments of staring at each other, he also lets his rifle go limp. In broken words, he whispers, “I gir-freen home. I wan’ no die.” I reply, “I have a wife and baby at home. I don’t wanna die, either.” After a few more awkward moments, I continue, “My home is that way.” I point behind him. “I go there,” he says, pointing over my shoulder. I still have my hands in front of me, and he mirrors me. I slowly lift my foot again and sidestep to my right as he does the same. We continue like that until we’ve circled and reversed our positions. We look at each other, both seeing something different than when we first saw each other. I no longer see an enemy. I see another human. A human being with a life and loved ones. I look at his face. I can tell he is trying to grow a beard to look grown-up, but barely any hair grows. I imagine him returning to his once beautiful house that now has chunks missing from the cement casing, exposing the brick. I envision his girlfriend running to him when he returns and wrapping her arms around him as she sobs from the fear of bombs being dropped randomly around their village. I see that he is me, and I am him. Whatever our differences, we are the same. I remember the peaceful look of my son’s sleeping face when I left. He didn’t have a care in the world because he didn’t know yet what he’d been born into. Is our meaning to be peaceful like the sleeping baby or barbaric and ferocious like the wars we like to incite? Just as we have the power to bring people into this world, we also can allow others to live. We can save another’s life as easily as we can save our own. The meek shall inherit the earth. Isn’t this what meekness is? Having strength and not using it. Having the ability to take a life and consciously deciding not to. There would be fewer wars and fewer killings if everyone understood this. Why do people automatically think meek means weak? I slowly turn around and walk away. Before I start running again, I wait until I am a safe distance from him. I get a few feet, and I hear a loud ‘crack’ coming from behind me. The familiarity of the sound sends me to the ground as I cover my head. After a few moments, I get up on my hands and knees as I check my body for blood. I hear movement behind me, and I pivot on one knee and slowly turn around. I see movement, and I’m sure that I’ve been caught by the rest of his men. They have tracked me after all, but then I notice the movement is coming from men in my own uniform. And then I see three more soldiers emerge from their concealment. My team found me. The first man I saw walks to a lump on the ground, his rifle still smoking. He reaches down and grabs a handful of black hair, lifting the head of the ‘enemy’ slightly off the ground as the others give a too-loud hoot. The man I just let live is now dead. Fuck them all. Fuck fair. I'm going home.


Sometimes it’s a dream so good that, as reality pulls at you, you dig desperate claws into it. *The feeling is so nice here. There’s no reason really to leave. Let me stay here a little while longer.* Sometimes it's a nightmare that wakes you in frenzied fear; then the wash of relief. *Of course I’m not drowning in fire. There’s no pain. I’m safe in my bed and I think I’ll have pancakes for breakfast.* But what if your brain can't tell which is real? Is it the pain or is it the pancakes? Do nightmares split open and bleed? My fucked up brain can't tell sometimes. Sometimes it sees things that aren't there. Sometimes it hears dead animals. It brings my nightmares to life, my busted brain, so demons have always been very real to me. Of course, no one gives fuck all what’s real to me. And why would they? My brain can't be trusted so neither can I. Everyone’s been telling me as much for most of my life. But you guys understand, right? We're the same. The sick ones. The dark ones. We live on the fringes and we don’t need sleep. That’s why I come here. To feel understood. I guess that’s what I’m supposed to get from therapy. "No judgement zone." That's the idea, right? I’ll bet you guys have therapists too. Is yours useless? I hate mine. I keep telling her about the new things I’m seeing -- how they’re different. She won’t listen because it’s all in my head and I can't be trusted. She changes my meds to chase it away. But see, this shit won’t *be* chased away like the rest. This is something new. That’s my problem right now, guys. I know what I am -- I'm used to being what I am and seeing what I see -- but I’m telling you, this is different. Like now. Erica is no demon. Erica is beautiful. I once saw her swallow the sun. Erica is kind to me -- her warm hand is on my shoulder. She’s always smiling at me. I would never hurt Erica. I know I wouldn't because I know I couldn't. *I know that.* I know it like I know what's happening here isn't happening. I know the dead, spider-like duchess isn't bathing in my blood again; isn't spinning her acidic web and tempting me to join her. I know the hanged men aren't gasping and kicking in their burned, black trees; aren't hissing "*Swing Low, Sweet Chariot"* through sewn-up lips, aren't choking on swollen tongues. I know the bloated, blue, balloon men aren't crawling on my ceiling; aren't blowing big, blue smoke rings with small, blue mouths and spitting yellow teeth at me. I've got them figured out, I'm pretty sure -- you know, the new things I’ve been seeing -- my brain can't tell the pancakes from the pain. It's only a new nightmare. A nightmare that split open and bled. I can’t wait to get home, to get back to her -- to Erica. She’ll be there waiting for me with a smile. I nearly lost her once, but I found a way to keep her. Erica isn't covered in blood and she's isn't in pieces. Erica’s right here and she's whole. She can't be this cold because she swallowed the sun. I can feel her warmth -- her hand is always on my shoulder. Look, she's still smiling! See how she shines? Erica isn’t dead. I didn’t swim in her. I wouldn’t. She swallowed the sun and it's smiling at me.


Dear ------ It’s been a while now since we’ve last seen each other. You often cross my mind and I can’t help but wonder if you cross mine too. Do you remember me the same way I remember you? Because I remember your eyes. Your eyes were so bright. They were brown pools of warmth and comfort. Every time we locked eyes it was like I was staring into my comfort place. I didn’t even know you and yet, I knew I could take solace in you. In your presence. The kindness and genuity that radiated off of you enveloped me. I was entranced. I think your eyes may have been my favorite thing about you. Did you feel the same way every time you looked into my eyes? I wish I could hear your answer, but you’re gone. And it’s been so long. You know what I also wish? I wish I could hug you one last time. Your hugs were as warm as a campfire, as comforting as a cup of tea. The smell of you engulfed me. It would transport me to a place where time stands still and the sun never stops shining. When your arms tightened around my body, it felt as though you were my anchor and I was no longer a ship floating aimlessly in the sea. We would be in sync; your heart drumming along to the beat of mine. Our mixed breath would carry the tune. Oh the things I would give up, just to hug you. Do you want to hug me too? I hope you do. Remember when you first kissed me? I was terrified. It was my first kiss and I didn’t know what to do. Even looking into your eyes couldn’t calm my nerves. But before I could react your lips were on mine. So soft. So smooth. The taste of you was mesmerizing. I had never tasted something as sweet as nectar but as rich as butter before then. I was addicted and I wanted more. So I kissed you back. Drinking you in and savoring every last drop. I was hooked on you and you led me to believe that you were hooked on me too. So why then? Why did you leave? Every touch, every glance, every experience, every laugh, every kiss. How could you just throw it away? How could you throw me away? And why is it so hard for me to do the same? Instead, I’m caught in the rapids of my mind. Being pushed and pulled by every thought of you. Wondering when my raft will flip over and I’ll finally be able to drown. Hoping someone could save me before then, but realizing it’s up to me to save myself. It’s my responsibility. Why am I the one being held responsible for something I never caused? You caused it, so you should be held responsible. Do you remember me the same way I remember you? Because I hate that I still love you. Yours Truly.


I rolled in bed, tucking my blanket under my chin silently. No matter how hard I tried, sleep refused to claim me. My brain attempted to focus on the slight whisper of wind through my partially open window, but it proved to only disturb me. I stood. Awkwardly, as if afraid, I quietly walked towards the small shaft of moonlight to peer out into my wide, tree-lined yard that was barely lit. I watched for several moments, observing the swaying trees and the howl of a particularly strong gust of wind. Somewhere, a barn owl who'd and trilled. I was almost settled on going back to sleep, my imagination hopefully slumbered, but I found that a light caught my eye right as I was turning away. My whole body jerked back to the window, nearly knocking my beloved plants over that resided on the windowsill. Way out on the opposite side of the yard, our small shed light had flashed on, pale as the moon. It was a motion sensor-activated light. My eyes scoured the land before it, scrutinizing every bush and plant and tree. My eyes even swept up to the treetops to see if any bobcats might've scampered past and up to safety. I had no such luck, and after a few moments, the light blinked off and the yard was once more a shadow. Sometimes the trees set it off, I reasoned. Or a pinecone had fallen and the sensor had caught the movement. With one last sweep, I returned to my bed, wrapping the blanket firmly around my shoulders. The owl cried out again. Apprehension crawled around my shoulders and back. Though I'd seen nothing outside of the window, my mind still wandered in its semi-sleepy state. What could've been out there? What set off the sensor? Why am I still awake? I rolled, and, glancing at my phone, found it to be almost one in the morning. A silent groan rolled through me, and I almost missed it. From the slight crack in my window, a rasp reached for my ears and clapped a hand over my heart. My covers were thrown back in seconds without even thinking, my legs awkward with adrenaline as a spike of fear shot through me. Following the rasping noise was that of a quack; my ducks, outside in their pens, were sounding the alarm. Something was outside. The owl trilled before going silent, but a glance out my window revealed an empty yard. The one look wasn't enough, however - from my room, you could see the whole front yard, but the ducks and chickens were stationed to the right of my view. Continuing with painstaking quiet, I shifted out of my room and into the adjacent office. A scant glance to the hallway leading to the rest of the house revealed a room bathed in soft light from a monitor, the blinking light of a coffee machine, and the faint glare of numbers from other appliances that told the time. The house was asleep, and so should I be. I was wasting time. Safely ensconced in the next room, I tip-toed to the window nearest my animals and crouched, peering out with squinting eyes. It was far too dark, the faint smudges of color from my ducks only informing me that they lay crouched in their small pool. I hadn't realized I'd hid myself behind the wall like a barrier before I realized I was waddling away in a crouch that I only stood up from when I thought I couldn't be seen through the window. No part of me could know what was out the window, but my gut was clearly telling me that I didn't think it was good. I winced as my feet stuck to wooden flooring, creating a slight sound as my fear-warmed feet separated from the ground only to press down again. I was creeping out into the living room. The entire house was eerily silent and empty, nothing like during the day when even the lonely living room still seemed lively and welcoming. Now everything was awash in shadows and darkness, a faint peek of moonlight coming from the wide windows of the living room. I was looking for my father's flashlight - his favorite one that could shine all the way across our acreage of yard even on the darkest of night. Problem was that it was safely trapped in the pocket of his jacket, and to get to the jacket, one had to cross only the creakiest of floorboards in the entire house. The warped wood in front of the fireplace. I bit the inside of my cheek, but found that the danger outside was more important than getting caught. Still, my feet were hesitant and testing as I stalked across the floor and towards my father's coat. I shifted the fabric to and fro in the dark, hands searching silently while my ears opened to the noises of the house. My fridge made a slight whirring, the coffee machine trickled some water, a clock clicked the passing seconds. My hand wrapped around the flashlight. I sighed with relief, turning to go quickly. My foot clamped down on the loudest floorboard, the sound of it groaning slipping through the house with quiet warning. My stomach dropped out. Nothing so much as moved. Continuing with much more caution, I found my way back to the office with little difficulty. But still, I found myself crouching before approaching the window, allowing only the barest slip of my face to peer out. In the dark, my eyes still could not pertain anything. Silently, my arm reached up and aimed the flashlight before clicking it on. I had to shield the reflection on the window to be able to see anything as the pens were gathered with light. My eyes scanned hastily, noting the craned necks of my ducks that glanced at the strange light, the reflection of water from the troughs, and the chicken coops devoid of chickens since they slept in their roosts. There was nothing. With the bright light, I could see more than hear that the ducks were still quacking and rasping. I frowned. "The ducks who cried coyote," I muttered, switching the light off with a dull beat of my heart. The adrenaline still rode through me as I returned the flashlight and crept into bed. Once more, I pulled the blankets high, this time cottoning my ears to the faux warning cries of my ducks. At some point before I fell asleep, I noted that the motion-sensor flickered on through my window again. But I was too tired to check this time. *** The next morning, I woke to a massacre. It started with a yawning stretch, my feet swinging off my bed and onto the carpet of my room. I glanced tiredly out my window before beginning to clamber away and get dressed. I paused. Had I...? Turning around, I glanced more closely at my yard. Indeed, I had seen correctly. Beautiful white feathers and down were strewn across the green lawn, a clear path from somewhere to the right of my vision all the way to the shed and the forest beyond. My eyes traced the path in disbelief. Halfway across the yard, the density of the feathers lessened considerably as if the animal had started to weaken. Around that point, a good chunk of blood-washed wing lay clumped in the grass. My heart stuttered - my mind reeled; I wasn't sure I was breathing. Utter disbelief clung to me like a fog as I dashed to the office and looked out the window I had last night. This time I did not crouch; for there was no danger any longer. It had already passed. There, along the chicken-wire nearest to the pond, was a gaping hole clogged with red feathers that should've been white. Two other ducks - the last surviving ones, Donald and Daisy - lay around their water trough and food, sleeping lazily as if nothing had happened. Chickens milled and clucked around their own food. All was normal except for the one missing duck who seemed torn apart across the yard. The motion-sensor. I'd seen it go off. Felt something odd. Even the ducks had warned me of their impending danger; and I'd ignored it all. No, that wasn't true. I had looked out and seen nothing. But had I really looked? Had I glanced around the area surrounding the coup? Had I flashed the light at the smaller upper field to check for the flash of watching animalistic eyes? Had I checked the treetops for a feline figure awaiting its pray? No. I hadn't. And I hadn't even thought to try and wake someone to actually check. It seemed my window of opportunity last night had shut firmly close, and I had to tell my parents of my failure to latch on to it.


There they sat; the three of them. The feeling began at the ends of their toes and slowly crept like electricity up their bones and through their skinny legs. The drops of the healing waters remained on their skin and immediately they felt the magic of the place pulsate through them. “Do you feel anything?” Beatrice was always the more headstrong of the trio. “It’s gonna take more than a few minutes! Be patient!” Margot retorted at her friend as she looked over at the third member of the group, Jessica, and rolled her eyes. The three friends sat waiting on the banks of the Spring. That’s what they called it, the Spring. Any other body of water on the whole of the Island needed its proper name, but not this place. It all started a few years ago when it seemed like everyone everyone knew was coming down with polio. The sufferers would dip their legs in the cool water, play with the ripples, toss in stones, hope and wish, and inevitably be healed within moments, though some weak in faith required a few more treatments. Father Walsh reluctantly raised funds to bring the ill of the Village to the Spring, douse them in the water, see them heal, and praise the Divine and thank Him for giving the people of the Village these miraculous waters. New and would-be mothers spent hours at the Spring, then, would move on to the local parish to praise the Divine and give thanks for the healing waters they had been given. Father Walsh had a telescope that he would let the children of the Village look through after Mass every Sunday. First, the Sacrament, then the Heavens. He kept papers by his bedside and would scribble notes on them as he was inspired by the majesty of the universe and the wondrous majesty of the Divine he witnessed when gazing through the lens most nights. His flock knew him and his eccentricities well and in the Sanctuary, they would laugh and giggle at the homilies he would deliver about the wonders of the world the Creator had provided. It was a revolutionary time, and the doctors and professors on the Mainland were steadily making intellectual progress. Father Walsh desired to see the fusion of higher thought with that of the pondering of the Highest of them all. Father Walsh would begin his recent homilies in a similar fashion: “We are all here this Blessed Sabbath to come and partake of the Sacrifice of Our Creator. We also know that there are many temptations amongst us: false idols, natural wonders that draw us further from the Divine... waters that claim to heal without the Touch of the Almighty. I must surrender the fact that many have claimed to be healed by the Spring and its appealing waters. However, we as men and women of the Faith must guard against the denial of the Divine’s Touch on these waters. In fact, there are learned men, scientists and naturalists that reliably claim that the Spring is in fact just that: a spring. A naturally occurring spring of naturally occurring water rising from the earth. While I fault no one for dipping their extremities in the waters, be aware of the fact the Divine above is the cause of these supposed ‘healings,’ not the Spring itself. ” The congregants scoffed. How could this backcountry priest know anything about polio? About the toll it took on the families. Their children - their next-in-line - knew that there would be no more if not for these waters. It truly *was* as if the Divine had dipped His own toes in the Spring and blessed it Himself. One could feel the pulsations up the back, through the neck, and around the skull. Headaches were no more; pain did not exist. Afternoons-out became commonplace in the Village and nearly everyone went to the Spring after Sunday Mass. Father Walsh would become reluctant, but bless the Spring nonetheless each Sabbath, hoping to indirectly demonstrate to the villagers that the Divine had touched these waters and that that is why they were miraculous; the Spring was not simply a supernatural phenomenon, but proof of Heaven’s Grace. He noticed that many began drinking the liquid and claimed the healing of fevers, melancholy, and dipsomania. Wives would dry-out their husbands on Saturday night, see them fit to attend Mass on Sunday morning, catch them drinking Sunday afternoon, then promptly bring them to the Spring before dusk that evening. “Divine above. What am I to do? My parishioners, my congregants, my flock, they are turning their eyes toward the less-than-sacred. Toward waters that I do not feel in my deepest of soul are holy - not sent from You above. Great Creator, Grand Architect of All, what am I to do?” Father Walsh prayed, asked, and pleaded with the Divine more each evening than he had the one before. “Let us look at your wonders, shall we, and reinvigorate in me the faith that has sustained this Island for ages.” Peering at the sky above, the priest saw the familiar constellations, planets, and the Majesty he was accustomed to. “Well, that *is* odd, is it not, Father above?” The Moon had seemingly shrunk *again*, not drastically, but noticeably once more. It should never have been this diminished in the Heavens this time of year. “What, oh Divine, is becoming of this Heavenly body? Why does it seem to continue to diminish?” Father Walsh was perplexed. \ “It *does* appear small.” Bishop O’Malley knew little of astronomy but gazed at the Moon often as he pondered the Mysteries. “What, Reverend Walsh, makes *you* feel as though the Moon is getting smaller?” “I have been watching the Heavens nightly for several years now - since coming to serve the congregants of this Island - and I know well these bodies in the sky. There is something amiss; something quite off about all of this.” Father Walsh peered once more through his diminutive telescope. “I can see that the Moon above has diminished. There is no manner in which it should be *this small*. Something is just not right, Brother. I’ve noticed, in fact, that something has been ‘different’ about the skies in the recent weeks, but I can now place it: the Moon itself is small; smaller than it should be.” “This all seems like guff to me, Brother. I’m sorry to say, but this all does not seem possible. While the Moon does seem out of place and small, who are we to judge the Divine? What would make the whole of the Moon succumb to the mass of the Heavens above? There is just no manner in which this could happen.” “I know, I know. But, you must believe me, Bishop O’Malley: something *is* amiss.” Father Walsh tried to convince the wary bishop of his theory: that the Moon itself had begun to shrink progressively since the discovery of the healing powers of the Spring: “Brother, I tell you, I tell you, I do: the Heavens above have not been the same since my flock have been dipping their toes in and drinking the waters of the Spring. Stars have ever so slightly shifted, entire constellations are being altered! Orion’s Belt doesn’t even fit anymore! But, most tragically of all, the Moon is shrinking, day by day.” “Why is this so troubling to you, Reverend Walsh? What are you getting at?” “Bishop, you must understand, the Moon, as odd as it seems, controls the waters of the earth! The Moon dictates to our earth how and when the tides shall rise and fall. Without this heavenly body, fish will no longer know where to swim. Fishermen will not know where to fish! Villages near the sea, like ours, will perish! Even the Spring, as inland as it might be compared to our small Village, will be overpowered by the sea! These methods, these tides, these *reliable* methods keep all life in check.” Father Walsh could hardly compose himself and he was blushing in the presence of the Bishop. “Bah!” “No, my lord. I do tell you: this is troublesome.” “Well, what are we to do?” The Bishop knew the consequences of Father Walsh’s theory. \ “Before we depart, I do have a message to give all of the Village. The Spring is hereby off limits to all.” An audible gasp lifted to the vaulted ceiling of the old cathedral. “I know many of you rely on these waters, but they are not Holy! They are in fact destroying your fellow man. You must have faith in what I say: these waters will destroy us all.” The parishioners had heard this nonsense before - that all use of the Spring was unholy and that they must give the Divine their thanks before, during, after, and always. “I mean this! It will be folly to continue to use these waters!” The congregation began to leave the cathedral and directed themselves to the Spring. Children were hobbling on crutches; elders were barely walking down the stairs leading away from the Sanctuary. The Spring was their only hope and their last resort. Father Walsh and the Divine had failed them habitually. \ “Please, I beg of you! Stop! This Spring is not the answer!” Father Walsh implored his congregants. “Then what in the Hell is the answer, Father? Don’t tell us anymore of that nonsense you preach in your rambling homilies.” A bold member of his Flock spoke up and the rest followed suit. They shouted and threw stones and branches at him. Some spat. “Alright, alright. But... you must listen! All of you!” Father Walsh was able to still the crowd. “The Moon! The Moon is diminishing. It’s becoming smaller due to the use of these Waters... due to the use of this Spring! We cannot use it anymore! You, Beatrice! You, Margot! You, Jessica! It might save your legs... it might have already! It might! But, it will inevitably destroy us all!” The crowd scoffed. “To Hell with him!” “No! No! I beg of you to *not* use these waters ever again! The Moon controls the tides. It dictates to the waters around our Island as to what they shall do. I swear it. Oh, please, I swear it!” “Run him out of the Village!” Some shouted. “Send him back to the Mainland!” Shouted others. “Kill him; hang him!” Shouted some. \ All were eventually healed. There was no pain, no headaches, no trembling, no weakness, no polio. When the waters rose they deconstructed the Cathedral and brought its remnants inland for firewood. As the sea encroached and even more livestock died and crops failed, the Spring became their only respite. Eventually, the waters of the sea overtook the Spring and the parishioners waited for finality on the rocks above. They all surely perished, and the Spring let out a hollow creak as its waters succumbed to those of the cold, dark Sea.


Everything was dark. There were no words to describe the feeling. The utmost horror realizing that part of your life had been stolen from you. The once lively world plunged into an abyss of nothingness. This morning's events played through his head on a loop, Prometheus doubted he would ever forget them. Even now he could feel the slithering cold along his spine as he clutched the letter demanding his presence at Olympus. ‘Masking his fear with a confident stride Prometheus entered the Olympus courtyard, the gods' usual meeting place. Several seats were occupied, but Prometheus’ eyes drew directly to Athena. Refined and elegant as ever, seated with a tight expression on her face and to her left, the renowned king of the gods, Zeus. You didn't even have to look at the gold, engraved throne he was perched on to know that he ordered this room. Waves of authority flowed right off his muscled, bronze frame. “Come forth, Prometheus.” Zeus commanded, in that imposing tone he took when he talked to those beneath him. Which to him, was everybody. Prometheus paced forward until he was at the center of the impressive room. It was the only empty spot on the floor, the rest were covered with mosaics. Depicting the birth of the gods, to creatures only found roaming the deepest parts of the Underworld. “Now, I’ve heard that you and my daughter have taken on a project. A new specimen to worship us.” Zeus thundered. Prometheus nodded. Athena and him had taken to studying and experimenting together, finding that their minds weren’t all too different. “But do you believe they are to worship us Prometheus? If you had, perhaps you wouldn’t have done what my daughter here says you have.” Zeus paused for a moment, searching for a reaction. But Prometheus would refuse to give one. He refused to even glance her way. Athena had been his partner since the war had ended. Yet the betrayal wasn’t an unexpected one. All these gods were the same. Power and glory, no matter who was destroyed in the fray. He would refuse to let this hurt him, they didn’t deserve the satisfaction. “The ‘humans’ were ordered to be simple beings of worship. Care to explain, why are they being taught trades and survival?” Zeus continued in anger, as Prometheus carefully kept his expressionless mask in place. “You are stirring the pot for a revolution Prometheus. You may have sided with us during the war, but that means nothing to defying us.” Zeus threatened. Seeing that Prometheus still proudly kept his head up, Zeus continued infuriatedly. “You care too much Prometheus, for beings that are not to be cared for. You forget your place, you are blinded by what they are to you. Do you show remorse for your actions Prometheus?” Prometheus could recognize stepping over the line, but he also knew that the gods did it themselves often. Yet they received no repercussions, and he was beyond tired of it. So despite the air radiating the aura of a bad idea, Prometheus held Zeus’ gaze and shook his head. Zeus’ stormy gray eyes darkened. “You refuse to see what this could lead to Prometheus. Thus, that will be your punishment. Your vision will only hold the darkest of nights, for if you are blinded in your heart, so will be it for your eyes. You want to provide humans resources, so they could overpower us?” Slowly, a sadistic smile forms on Zeus’ face. “Then your job will be to sustain our resources instead. Betrayal to yourself isn’t it? Your task will be to sustain the Flame Of The Gods.” The few gods in neighboring thrones grinned, and clashed their wine goblets together, proud of their ‘cleverness’. “I-” Prometheus stopped himself, taking all his willpower to hold his tongue, not give them what they wanted. But the effect had already been done, they had gotten to see the amusement they could have with their power and control. Always granted to the wrong people. “Take him away.” Zeus ordered with finality. Every word he had said was imprinted in Prometheus’ brain. “You refuse to see what this could lead to Prometheus. And so that will be your punishment. Your vision will only hold the darkest of nights, for if you are blinded in your heart, so will be it for your eyes. You want to provide humans resources, so they could overpower us? Then your job will be to sustain our resources instead. Betrayal to yourself isn’t it? Your task will be to sustain the Flame Of The Gods.” It echoed around his head, reminding him of what had landed him here. Not his creation, Prometheus would never feel regret for scientific evolution. It had been the gods that had gotten them here. The dictators playing with power, were threatened by him. Prometheus would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy that, he longed to teach them a lesson. Put them in their place, when they tried to force Prometheus into what they said was his place. Prometheus was determined not to let his newfound blindness deter him. He resolved to adapt, to find his vengeance even in a world now shrouded in perpetual night. The feeling of hands tightly gripping the underside of his arms startled him. Unaccustomed to the loss of one of his senses, he let the arms guide him, hauling him to the ancient temple, a sacred place that housed the Flame of the Gods. Rumors spoke of a divine fire that had burned for centuries, a beacon of hope and light for the people. It was said to be an artful work of magic, and so it was fed with magic as well. Ichor, the substance found in immortals, was the best source for the flame, and now that Prometheus was connected, his ichor would be tethered to it. And while he would have enjoyed defying the gods by doing his best to ruin the flame, he had another plan in store. While his vision was stolen, the black abyss he was condemned to seeing allowed his other senses to be heightened. Focusing on what he could feel and hear, guided only by the echoes of his surroundings and the whispers of the wind, he mentally stored away the pathway to the temple. The journey was treacherous, filled with uneven paths and hidden obstacles, he could feel the guards clutching him grunt and pant. It was impossibly more difficult for Prometheus, forced to use his other senses to make his way up, being forced to let go of what he had relied on for as long as time. Each passing moment injected a bitter feeling into his chest, as the darkness that he could practically feel was a reminder of what was taken from him. However, while Prometheus’ world may have been devoid of light, his heart burned with an unyielding determination to disobey them, turn around their rule and show their faults to the world. They were comparable to toddlers given all they could've ever asked for, misuse is assured. At this point, Prometheus could feel the guards hauling him up the flight of stairs. ‘ Exactly thirty. ’ Prometheus counted, storing away the information for later. He felt the guards use their bodies to push open the door, it opened slowly, he speculated that it was heavy, marble likely. They took him further into the room before dropping him to the floor, presumably in front of the fire as he could feel licks of heat nipping at his skin. ‘Should we lock the door?’ One guard asked the other. “It’s not likely he could find it, lets just head back,” The other guard snickered. How foolish they were. Underestimating him would be their befall. Feeling around in front of him, Prometheus came in contact with a deeply engraved wall with a deep oval groove carved into it, where the heat was radiating from. Lowering his hands into it, he rested his hands on top of the flame. He felt the flames flicker and dance on his calloused hands. He had heard myths that the flame was of odd colors and moved unusually. Something that he wouldn’t get to see, another bitter reminder, but also another reminder of his plan for vengeance. The flame rose in temperature on his palm, he felt a slight tremor rock through his body and he knew that it had just consumed energy from his ichor. This process continued as the days turned into weeks and months. Prometheus found himself often bored, and missing the pleasures of the outside world. He found himself reminiscing about his days in the workshop, listening to the clatter of metals and the rustle of map paper. Soon however, Prometheus noticed he was building a connection with the Flame of the Gods. It became a project to him, as everything did. He wanted to figure out the extent of what he could do. His days passed quickly as his experiments continued, he could manipulate its shape to adhere with his thoughts, feel its warmth even when he was not near, sense its flickering dance in the air, and even discern its moods. The longer he had gone without his once important sense, the more he was able ‘to see’ with his other senses. He was building his strengths that the gods thought they had taken. And soon enough, what he had hoped for happened. His plan was falling into place. Every week the guards bring Prometheus ambrosia and nectar. Consistently, they had been taking his previous dish, and bringing him a new one, often sternly reminding him of the consequences if he pulled a stunt with the stone platter and copper bottle he always received. But they had begun to let their guard down. It was an alarmingly stormy night, as thunder roared and rain battered against the ivory temple walls, Prometheus knew this was the work of an angered Zeus. his theory was confirmed as the guards entered frantically. "Hurry brother we must leave quickly, Zeus is full of wrath today. Hera has learned of Io's birth, happening in a fortnight.” One guard urged his brother, a frightened tone in his voice. Prometheus slowly smiled with his back to them, he had found the day he could sneak away, and truly defy the gods. It was the night before that fateful day when the guards arrived to collect the platter that Prometheus spoke to them for the first time. “Kind sirs, do you mind leaving the flask, this flame is sapping my energy. I would prefer a container if the sickness worsens.” Prometheus groaned, lying through his teeth. He felt the vibration as one of the guards startled at his voice. He could hear loud and clear as they muttered, asking each other the best decision. And even through the force of two minds, they still did not choose the right one. ‘You are permitted, but we will retrieve it next time’ The startled guard told him in a no-nonsense voice, as if Prometheus hadn’t just heard his anxious whisperings. By next time Prometheus wouldn't be here, he could laugh at the sheer thought of it. Prometheus nodded his thanks and as they left he heard one laugh about how the ‘blind fool’ would miss the flask completely. It was ironic who was laughing now, for soon their ignorance would cost them. They would remember their stupidity in this moment and regret it. And how Prometheus would love to witness it. Prometheus stayed up that entire night, in wait of what would come the next day. He finally felt the warmth of the sun's rays glaze his skin through the small window upwards of the fire. Dawn had arrived, and so had the day. His plan might earn him death but it would also earn him remembrance, recognition, reverence perhaps. Blind or not. Guided solely by the rhythmic heartbeat of the flame, Prometheus gathered his flask and eased the flame into it, he tucked it inside his worn sheep skin vest. He could not lose it, the flame was the most crucial part. Prometheus paced the temple with anticipation, he thought over every miniscule detail on how he would execute this. He had to. This was no longer about the vision they had wrongfully stolen from him, now it was about their misuse of dominance for years. Their narcissistic beliefs, how they were always right, and any who challenged their ego simply had to be punished. And today, Prometheus would challenge their ego to its extent. As midday crept, hints of a storm began to form, Prometheus could hear the patters of water as they bounced along the temple walls. It was a clear sign that Zeus had left to deal with the complications of his affair and Hera. Zeus unknowingly was contributing to a plot against him. As the rain began to fall heavier, and a clap of thunder reverberated somewhere far away, Prometheus began to leave. As he stood, he drew a long breath. He silently acknowledged that as soon as he exited the temple, a likely torturous fate would befall him. But regret wasn't something that came easy to Prometheus. Arms stretched in front of him, he used the steps he would hear the guards take as a reference. Feeling with his fingertips Prometheus rans his hands along the walls until he came to the one with a crevice down the middle, the temple door. The door that would lead him to an uncertain fate. Turning to his side, he pushed open the massive door with his shoulder, and stepped out into the damp earth. Prometheus could've fallen to his knees right then and there. He had almost forgotten what the mud and grass felt like under his feet, what the fresh rain smelt like, he could imagine it so visually he felt like his blindness was cured. He allowed himself another moment to revel in the simple beauty before continuing on his journey. Thankfully, the path there was completely memorized, for the countless times he had been to his human's village before. Pausing to make sure he couldn't hear any footsteps, Prometheus patted the lump in his vest, steeled his nerves, and started down the path. He had everything he needed and there was no one here to stop him. This was his victory, although he would remain blind, forever bound to the darkness that had become his world, he would become a symbol of resilience. Prometheus, condemned to the shadows, would show he was not going to be prey for the gods. He would show how not even their punishments could deter him, he would defy the gods and their dictatorship whether it be the last thing he does. He would give the Flame Of The Gods to the humans.


There is a tall oak tree in our local park which is situated near the area where for at least a 100 years the local county cricket team has played. The oak is at least 125 years old. I have seen photos of the area with the tree still standing where there was no car park nearby or dentist surgery. Generations of families have taken picnics near this tree. Dogs have used it as a urinal. This park is host to the local town fete once a year. There is a fun fair with familiar rides such as helter skelter and waltzers. People have stalls too selling locally made products. I always like this aspect of local community as it seems less manufactured and real as in the way buying from amazon does not. The tree has colourful bunting put on its branches during the fete. All of these traditions and kids growing to adults who bring their own children to the park and also sit under the sturdy oak for shelter from the rain or sun. Trees are than mere objects or things to be cut down. Trees are there through our lives. One of the most moving stories i have heard is of two kids who carved their names into a tree near their homes in pre-war 2,poland. One boy who was Jewish was taken to a concentration camp with his family and didnt come back all were gassed to death in Nazi occupied poland. I still even as an adult cannot comprehend the degenerate evil of the holocaust. Its not something can be defined even over countless books written on the subject. The other boy emigrated to the United States. Fifty years later he went back to Poland and found this tree still there with the crude carved initials still in the trunk. Trees tell a story of lives and deserve our respect. I know nature the wilderness will outlive us and maybe thats a good thing. Its been a long time since I lived in my home city. I remember the trees in our garden. We were lucky to have bought a house where the previous owner had planted a wonderful variety of Fruit trees. I recall a pear tree and a plum tree which gave delicious Victoria plums in summer. I used to climb this tree as a boy, grabbing the ripe plums and washing them. My mum made a mean plum jam from them. I miss that garden now as an adult. The area now is priced too high for most people. I moved to another country on the edges of Europe. I managed to buy a house with a garden for a fraction of the cost in England. I know im lucky to have my own trees and plants growing in the garden now. How many people live in cramped apartments for frankly daft rental prices. Now i have children of my own. They play in the garden where we have several trees. Trees are to me an anchor in an unsettled turbulent world. They go through the cylcle of seasons. Some end up being felled by man or disease. However on the scale of things, trees are doing a good job holding up in spite of what we as humans are doing to destroy their and our own habitats. I know people link their own lives to plants and animals. It in some ways goes deeper in our psyche than what school or job you hold or held. In a world that is driven by greed and status, the act of breathing in deeply and enjoying the natural world is something that we as a civilisation should not lose. Now in the current world of pandemia and cultural and economic mega hardships people try to make sense of themselves and the increasingly fragmented world around us. Trees and the natural world once again offer us a safe haven from confusion and help us to heal our tired minds. Its no coincidence of mental health problems have skyrocked in numbers as people stay in sometimes cramped living spaced. I feel for kids the most as being able to play outside was an important part of my childhood. I used to have a bike which i cycled everywhere with. I still remember the pain and sadness 35 years later after it was stolen outside a local shop where i had gone to buy something. Looking back i think the area where i lived actually had pockets of social decay and poverty which as a child you dont take in or understand. I really think the growth of urban sprawl and the disconnect from the natural world has made people more anti social and selfish. I am guilty of using my phone or laptop too much. I try and make time for my kids 2 girls who i know are growing in a world of sexism and racial bias. I do my best and dont expect the world to change but i do my best anyhow. I would happily live off grid and try to be self sufficient in food growing. I grow some vegetables already and herbs. Its not much but its rewarding to have them on the dinner plate. I have met and spoken to people who take enormous pride in their gardens and some even do garden designing as a career. Amazingly technology can help us in this respect as we can design garden spaces on digital apps. Tree houses for the wealthy can be made now but come with a distinctly ridiculous price tag. One of the things i liked about living in England was the local parks that offer a space for people to use and give a source of nature. I really hope governments in their short sightedness do not cut funding for these places as this can only negatively impact the poorest people in society. Nature should be equal to all of us regardless of our social or financial status. Ive seen kids from different social backgrounds play together in local parks and sports. This is what makes us all more equal and less isloated from each other. Now lets put that bloody phone away and climb some trees!


It was about dark outside, around that magic hour. Everything that moved seemed like it was a silhouette being blotted out by the purple sky. The sunsets in Arizona are simply stunning. I was standing at the back gate where the wall meets the narrow alley where the dump trucks come down to pick up the trash. It's hard to believe the trucks could fit through that alley. Even where I'm standing just outside my gate, I would probably be crushed under those tires. I had two bags of trash in my hand. One was for the recycling and one was for the regular trash. I had been standing there in a daze, looking at that sunset for so long I forgot which bag was for what. I snapped out of it and took the fifty-fifty chance putting them in their respective bins. I mean who really puts everything in the recycle? they were likely mixed anyway. With all due respect to the environment. I always wonder how they separate all that stuff on the back-end. I can't even imagine. Sum it up to job security for the waste management industry. As for the environment is concerned, that ship has sailed, and sank. I'm standing in the middle of the alley and I can hear the sound of something far behind me moving through the gravel coming closer. I'm still looking at the sky while I can, after all, it will only last twenty minutes or so, and I'm in no rush. Im taking deep breaths enjoying the beautiful sky and the beautiful fall weather. I turn and walk back towards our gate in the alley when I see an older man stopped in front of me on his four-wheeled electric scooter and the old man looks up and gives me a cheek to cheek grin, missing teeth and all. It looked like he was on oxygen because he had those tubes in his nose. I suddenly hear the screech and rumbling of a diesel engine turning the blind corner a bit too fast into the alley. That old man was a goner. I didn't even try to save him, I took a dive like superman through my gateway. I landed in the grass in my yard starring back as the truck did it's business and moved on diligently through the alley. I jumped off my feet and ran out to the alley and saw no traces of the old man. Prepared for the worst, I looked for what I might expect to be the flattened and bloody remains of the old man who gave me that grin. It was like he was never there. That smile though, it was just his smile I remember amongst his degrading state. It felt like I was on drugs after that. It was like I couldn't feel pain. I felt energized and aware like this was a dream, but apparently, I was not aware enough to realize I was seeing some ghost. It's a miracle I even got out of the way of that truck, all I could think about was that old man. All I could think about was that old man and his electric scooter on the brink of death, but almost literally smiling in the face of death. I will never forget that grin, real or not. For all this time I was under the impression that my eyes were wide open. It was as if suddenly I was shot into the sun and forever I would go, my eyes blinded by its light. A world came to focus around me, slowly but surely. I was in a bed with some bandages on my body and head. There were tubes coming from my arms. A bit of pain began to focus my reality. seems the drugs were wearing off. I could not figure out how I got to the hospital or what had happened. I looked down, and at my bedside there he was, the old man in his electric scooter. He told me that I pushed him through the gate without second thought and saved his life. I'd been In a coma for 2 weeks and he's been praying by my side since the day it happened. He told me I was a hero. He gave me that same exact grin, and told me that it was the stupidest thing he had ever seen someone do for another person." you should've let me die." he said. I smiled back, and told him, "everybody get's a second chance, even if it's your last.


The grass. It took my friends. It took my family. It took my life from me. What else is there for it to take..? \ *...no...No...NO* *A shadow loomed over the man in the front yard of my house that we were hiding in.* He stared at me with begging eyes. “It's too late. Save yourself... PLEASE-” He vomits as the grass burrows into his heart, taking control of every vein. “**Run.**” He gasps, and his eyes roll back into his head. The man stops moving. He lies still on the once kept yard, now overgrown with the grass. I.. I can’t move.. I’m frozen.. I see the man’s finger suddenly twitch. ...I know what’s coming but I can't..move... The spikes of grass are getting closer. Come on.. Pull it together.. I strain and somehow manage to break the spell. Trembling in shock, I take off. After a while, I quickly sprint left into a dark road. I notice how cold it is.. Shivers go down my spine... I feel a sting. I look down at my foot and see a single... weed. My heart sinks. It’s grabbing my foot now- I don’t know what to do. I’m filled with fear and panic but manage to tear it free. *Gasp-* It hurt. I look down. The thorns on the plant are still embedded in my ankle. Using all the energy I can muster, I frenziedly stagger down the road, leaving a trail of blood behind me. My vision turns blurry.. cracks in the road begin to form- it’s coming. I let out a blood curdling scream and pump my legs to run faster.... It is of no use. It is inescapable. My bloody nails claw at the ground as it pulls me in.. It’s slithering up my back. I can feel the life being sucked out of me already... Everything goes numb... A kind enticing voice reverberates inside my head*: “Give up. It is over. Embrace it."* It’s not true. This is a trap. I scream and struggle even harder, desperate to prove the voice wrong. But my energy is fading... It seems so much easier to succumb.. The grass is only getting stronger. ..The grass..? Where am I? All I know is that i'm very tired... Why am I screaming again? I remember a man...I think the grass was helping him... Right? Yes.. the grass is the only thing I need. I go limp, my body no longer mine. I suddenly gasp and seize up, retching. Sour smelling sap oozes out of my mouth and eyes, yellow and thick. I hear a voice..? Where is it coming from? I look down, shocked. I can barely see anything with the sap coating my eyes, but I can see it. It’s coming from my mouth. Something is using my mouth, but it’s not my voice. It isn’t me. ...Who am I? “*I am safe,”* I say, but it isn’t really me. Or is it? My mind is cloudy. “*You are safe now.”* “Who are you?” My voice this time, hoarse from screaming. *“I am the grass.”* The grass..? *“I am protecting you from them.”* “Them..? Who is them-” I wince. The grass tenses at the thought of *them.* “*They want to hurt me. They want to hurt you. Without me you cannot survive.”* I can’t? The voice sounds so tiny.. So meek... So vulnerable. I must... I must protect it. *“Thank you.”* My eyelids droop. I’m struggling to keep my eyes open. The warmth of the grass comforts me. It holds me like a mother. “Long live the grass.” I whisper. Everything goes dark.


Alice remembered the night she left her hometown. The sky was a marble of grey and indigo, and the crescent moon peeked through a cirrus cloud. A cool breeze went by whispering by the soft murmurs of the highway in the distance. Otherwise, the whole street of Bellflower Drive was silent. A moment passed, and one by one, the streetlights began to flicker on for the incoming night. They casted a dim light on the sidewalks and edges of the asphalt road. It was so peaceful. It was so normal. Alice sighed tightened her grip on her duffel bag and violin case. She looked back, and found her house looming over her. The windows glistened in the weak moonlight and stared at her, as if it was expected for her to come back inside. Alice shuddered at the thought. Before a stray thought could stop her, she ran towards her car. With fumbling hands and a fumbling heart, Alice fished out her keys and turned on the engine. “Goodbye,” she mumbled to herself. And with that, Alice Henderberry, seventeen years old, ran away from home in the early summer night. Fifteen years later. “We’re here!” Alice cried out loud. Amazement filled her cheeks with a soft pink. The house she had lived in for the first half of her life was still the same as if it was the night she left. The windows glistened in the sun and sparkled mischievously, as if it was saying I told you so. I knew you would come back. Alice frowned. Her heart was squirming and butterflies fluttered around her stomach. “ This is the place we’re staying?” A whining voice popped up. On the other side of the car was a girl with hair the color of dark chocolate and eyes the color of amber. She was the spitting image of her mother. In her hands was her mother’s violin. Alice nodded. “You’ll love it, Melody. Trust me.” Her daughter rolled her eyes. “I’ll trust you then.” Melody sighed and began to trudge towards the front door of the house. “At least help me unload!” Alice called back. Melody didn’t respond. Alice bit her lip. The only thing Melody cared about was the violin. It was nice to see her love something so much, but her obsession over mastering the violin was beginning to become an annoyance. However, Alice could not bring herself to stop Melody’s passion. Alice could not bring herself to act like her own mother, who tried to stop her from attending music school. BANG! The sound of fireworks erupted down the street. Alice whirled around in shock at the sudden blast of noise. Fireworks were banned years ago. From a distance she could hear the faint cries of delight and childlike laughter. Before the laughter faded away, another fireworks blast exploded from the park behind Alice’s house. Someone had also turned on their stereo to max volume and a song began to play. Country Road~ Take Me Home~ “Alice?” A voice interrupted Alice’s thoughts. A lady with a large bonnet and a pastel plaited sundress approached her. Her eyes were a deep black, and her hair was as light as corn silk. “June?” Alice widened her eyes. “You’re finally home.” June hugged Alice. “It took what, fifteen years? Everyone was getting tired of wondering when you would come back.” June was Alice’s friend from preschool until high school graduation. The two both lived on Bellflower Drive, Alice at the bottom of the street and June at the top hill. Alice was glad to see someone she knew. There was that nostalgic twinkle in June's dark eyes that she missed. “There’s a neighborhood barbeque party on Labor Day,” June continued, “Everyone would be glad to meet you.” Alice grinned. “Is it at your place?” “Of course. My mansion is made for partying.” June winked. “Do you still play the violin? You can perform there, like the good old times.” Alice’s gaze fell. “Maybe another time,” she whispered softly, “I’m kind of taking a break from it.” BANG! Another loud bang cut in their shot chat. Both of them flinched. “I need to get back to the kids. They’re way too hyper on the last day of summer break,” she mumbled and then a bit louder, “Alice, I’ll you at the party then?” “You can count on it.” Alice waved June goodbye as June jogged away in her tall sandals. If June was still back, then maybe Marcus would be too. Perhaps Roy and Cherry would also still live in the same houses on Bellflower Drive too. Her heart jumped in joy. With a slight bounce in her step, Alice entered her old house. Within the house, she heard a faint whistle of the wind. She instantly knew it was from the third bedroom upstairs. The window always let the wind whistle. Melody must have opened that window. She wondered if Melody liked the place. Upon arriving at the bedroom door, Alice asked, “So, how do you like the house?” Melody was facing towards the open window. The transparent white curtains fluttered in the wind wildly, the same way Melody’s hair did. “I don’t really like it,” she admitted, “There’s too much dust. It’s making my head spin and hallucinate.” “Well, with a little cleaning, we should be okay then.” Alice sighed to herself in relief. She thought Melody would hate the place. Despite the relief, her stomach thought otherwise. There was still a flutter inside. It was a calm, but intense fluttering, as if anxious for the future. A day later Alice decided to visit Marcus’ house. He was a close classmate of hers who often became her teammate in group projects. He was smart, witty, and overall, a kind person. She would often go to his house to study and work on school projects. It was two houses down hers, with red roof tiles and a small metal balcony. Alice rang the doorbell with a basket of butter cookies in another hand. The door opened to an unfamiliar face. “Who are you?” The unknown person inquired with a tinge of suspicion to his voice. “Ah...” Alice’s grin vanished. “I’m looking for Marcus. Is he here?” “There isn’t a Marcus here,” the person replied politely. He asked again. “Who are you?” “Oh, I’m the new neighbor that moved in yesterday, just two houses up.” Alice fumbled around before handing the basket of cookies to her neighbor. “I’m Alice Henderberry.” “The new resident! I’ve heard about you from June!” The person took the basket and grinned in recognition. Alice laughed nervously. “You did?” “Yes!” He held his hand out for Alice to shake. “I’m Harvey. Nice to meet you.” Alice shook hands with him. “Nice to meet you too,” she returned with an awkward grin. The flutter in her stomach started up again. “Did you meet any of your old friends?” Melody set down her violin and raised her eyebrows at Alice. Alice threw her cardigan to the nearest couch and slumped down. “They’re all gone,” she answered back with a defeated sigh, “Marcus, Roy, Cherry, Birdie... I’ve tried all of their houses and each one had a stranger inside.” “Maybe they’ll be at the party tonight.” “Maybe.” Alice sat straight up and turned to Melody. “By the way, how’s orchestra at school? I know it’s strange to play with others rather than by yourself. Are you getting along with others?” Melody squinted her eyes and hesitated. “It’s... tolerable,” she forced out with an acrimonious tone, “But what about you? Do you think this place is okay?” “Why are you asking me that?” “Well, we didn’t move out of New York for no reason right? For my whole life until now, you’ve never mentioned anything about your hometown. And now, all of a sudden you decided to come here.” “I just wanted to relax a bit. I’ve retired from playing violin after all.” “Yeah right.” Melody waved a finger at Alice. “The reason you retired from playing violin was because your mother died and you couldn’t bring yourself to pick up the violin anymore.” “Melody!” Alice shot up. “You think coming back here will give you something. Something that’ll let you pick up the violin again. But it’s too late. She’s dead, Mom. Everyone you know is gone. There’s nothing here that will give you anything.” “Melody Henderberry, one more word and I’ll burn the violin,” Alice seethed. Melody clamped her mouth shut and hugged her violin tightly. Alice glared at her daughter for a full minute before realizing that it was no use. She walked away from the living room and headed upstairs. “Dress up for the party,” she called back flatly. She had no more spirit to go, but she had promised June she would attend. One by one, each adult introduced themselves to Alice. Each face was unfamiliar, and each name was a blur to Alice. All of them smiled at her, but Alice felt nothing from each person. For some reason, she felt so far away from everyone. No one noticed however, and continued to chat with her as a whole group. “So you ran away from home and went to music school in New York?” One adult raised an eyebrow. Alice nodded. “It must’ve been difficult, being so far away from home.” Actually, it felt more like home over there than here. Alice nodded. “That’s right, my son is studying abroad in Japan,” another piped in, “He always misses us.” “Ah, Sean? He’s a bright boy isn’t he? And his sister Akagi.” “Yes, Akagi. Is she doing okay?” And just like that, the conversation tilted into another direction. Alice was ignored and out of the attention. The other adults began to discuss each of the children, and every time one brought up their child, others would nod in familiarity. Again, the space between Alice and everyone else began to widen. She was out of touch. She was fifteen years behind. Before anyone would notice her, Alice slipped out of the group and walked around to find Melody. Hopefully Melody was doing fine with the other children. Much to her disappointment, she couldn’t spot her with anyone. Maybe she went to the bathroom. Alice headed to the Nightshade manor. June was at the entrance holding a new basket of breadsticks. “Taking a break?” She asked. “Where’s Marcus? Cherry? Birdie? Roy?” Alice returned with another series of questions. “Where are they? These people--” Alice gestured to the party guests. “-- I don’t know them.” “Alice. It’s been fifteen years,” June said, “You’ve changed. Everything changed. All of the neighborhood kids moved out to attend college. New kids moved in.” Perhaps deep in her heart, Alice already knew. Perhaps it was the source of that anxious feeling she got when coming back here. Perhaps it was the source of anxiety she had fifteen years ago, when she left for New York. She was anxious that one day, when she came back, no one here would remember her. “Alice.” June tapped her arm, as if she had noticed Alice’s worries. “I’m still here. I never left this town.” When Alice didn’t reply, June grabbed Alice’s shoulder and led her down a hallway. “Come, I want to show you something.” June dragged Alice upstairs, through the thick mahogany paneled walls and past the line of family portraits. Alice remembered when she and June were young, and June would always talk about every family picture. The whole line-up series were several generations long. “We’ve seen so many people come and go,” June spoke wistfully, “It’s sad, but they aren’t gone forever. Most of them come back here for a while. Like you.” They arrived at a glass side door, and June opened it. Outside was a large patio that overlooked the whole town. Alice raised her eyebrows and remembered how spectacular the view always was at June’s place. The two looked at the distant sunset as it shined a warm orange light over the small city. The thick clouds, a dark cobalt blue in the shadows, slowly began to surround the bright sun. “You have a daughter?” June asked suddenly. “Yes. Melody,” Alice replied. “I have a son,” June brought up suddenly, “He plays the violin. He’s very passionate about it. But he won’t go anywhere with that passion. He can’t. It’s impossible.” June glanced at Alice. “I’m sorry if that offended you.” “It’s okay, I know how it is.” Alice frowned. “My parents were like you too. They didn’t let me pursue a career in music. I understood why. To them, a musician was nothing without talent. It wasn’t a stable job, and on average they wouldn’t earn as much money as other professions would.” Alice smiled at the last part. At one point of her career life, she had an annual salary that was higher than her mother’s. She remembered feeling proud of completing that feat and proving her mother wrong. “Yes, Amelie talked about that a while ago.” “Who?” “Oh, you probably haven’t met her yet. She’s short, black bun and eyes. She moved to Bellflower Drive two years ago.” Alice’s smile wavered. She averted her gaze away from June’s. “I don’t think I belong here anymore.” “Why not?” “Everything’s different. Everything’s new. I barely know anyone. I just feel like an outsider to everything, despite having lived here before for almost half my life.” The two stood by the sunset in silence again. “You’re right. Bellflower Drive isn’t the same as it was fifteen years ago,” June admitted, “but it’s still Bellflower Drive. They are all different people, but they are still Bellflower Drive neighbors. They might not share the same old memories but they sure are ready to share new ones with you.” June clasped Alice’s hands. “You need to stop clinging to the past Alice. Look around you.” Alice turned around. Behind her were all the party members. One of them stepped up. Judging by her black bun and eyes, Alice knew her as Amelie. “I thought we could hear you play the violin,” Amelie proposed, “I’m not a fan of music, but since June was so intent in telling us how good you were, I thought I’d give you a chance.” Alice’s expression softened. “I would be glad to,” she responded softly. Within the crowd she found Melody in the midst holding her violin case. Her eyes were wide in surprise. Alice smiled softly. “Melody, can you let my use the violin?” Melody hesitated before slowly walking up and handing it over to her. “I’m sorry about lashing out at you earlier,” Melody apologized quietly. “It’s okay.” Can you really play?” Melody whispered frantically, “Did someone finally give you the will to play? Alice shrugged. “We’ll find out.” If what June had said was true, then Alice had nothing to worry about. However, her stomach had other plans. The fluttering had started again. As she set the violin on her shoulder and rested the bow on the string, a familiar feeling overtook her. It was as if she was still in high school, performing in front of all her friends again. Eyes were stuck on her, and the atmosphere was tense with anticipation. And, as if almost by magic, the fluttering in her stomach faded away into nothingness. She began to play.


Across the river and through a windswept valley, lies a fork in the road. At the left path, one will find a forest- enchanted by mischievous spirits. Towards the right turn, a great mountain appears in view. At times we have no idea of which path to take. Yet, in the end, our hearts know where to go. Crossing the river is a tricky maneuver. After all, the water decides whether or not you can pass. With my raft held high over head, I trudge towards the rushing road. PLOP....SPLASH! The vessel lands in the river. With care, I unstrap the oars- one for each hand. Hopefully they are strong enough to handle the powerful current. I begin to find a rhythm in steering the craft. Slowly but surely, I will reach ashore. The water is cold and freezes my face on contact. Despite the discomfort, I must continue my trek. Rowing against the current is arduous. My arms grow tired. Alas, after another forty five minutes- I land ashore. There is no longer a need to keep the raft. So I drag the drenched craft towards a boulder. I then find another stone and place the rock onto the raft. The rope that I have on my person is more important for the remaining parts of my journey. I cannot forsake the brades by tying the raft to the boulder. With my vessel secure, I bid the river adieu. Should I return, I am unsure. However, I thank the current for allowing my safe passage. Walk five miles past the river, then you shall see a fork in the road. The left takes a traveler towards an enchanted forest. On the right, the wanderer will cross a more rugged terrain- boulders and stones adorn the path. After the rocky road stands a proud mountain. Surely a decision should be made easier if one knows what lays on each path- right? Well, even though one has an idea of what trials are ahead, they are still at a loss for how the path will converge. There are some who select a path that appears smooth; however, in reality, the trail is rugged and overwhelmed with hidden obstacles. Sometimes, it is better for others to stand firm in the decision that follows a path with clear challenges. After all, the fear of hardship is less when one knows that rough sailing lays ahead. For me, I take the path I feel more competent to complete. Though people may say: Go big or go home. I would rather be able to go home at the end of the day. When my journey is complete, I want to be able to see how far I have come and the accomplishments made. To choose a path smartly is to choose success. Of course, failure crosses many paths. One needs to be certain that their final act does not result in failure. That is the mark of regret- a burden which hangs heavy on broken hearts. Choose wisely.... The words ring through my ears like chimes dangling in the wind. The phrase stops me in my tracks. I look back and forth; left, right, left, right... Do I take the path with the forest or the trail through the mountain terrain? Either way, danger is inevitable. I have to decide which set of hardships will fare me better. To fail is not an option. Therefore, I must choose which path feels right. In my heart, I feel the blood pump through my veins. Listen: Thud.. thud....thud... Perhaps, listening to one's heart is a figure of speech. An answer cannot be found through the physical pulses. I give a wry smile that parts into a bout of laughter. Of course! Take the time to think but not damn myself by thinking too much. After all, being lost in thought is a dangerous thing- more dangerous than acting on impulse. Clear your mind.... That voice rings loud in my head. Again, it seems that I am not alone on this journey. All right, I confer. Inhale deep and exhale slowly- the process some refer to as meditation. As long as my mind is focused and calm, any actions that I take will be done with precision. The left path is mine. True, the great mountain is tempting. On the other hand, my heart knows where to go. With my spirit, I am able to find my way through this lifetime. I have to trust the idea that I am here with reason- my life is not in vain. Therefore, I am confident in my decision- combatting malicious spirits is a manageable task. The forest will be my home. Alas! Here I must take my leave. We meet many people in our lives- all along various points of intersection. For some chapters, we travel with the same companions that we have met before. On the other hand, there are sections in our lives in which our good old friends do not share a part in our journey. Yet, that does not mean we forsake our friends; rather, we learn through different interactions and experiences. We will remain friends as long as our hearts are true. When people create a bond, they share a spiritual link that cannot break. With that said, I pray you well friend on your journey. Shall we see each other again after I tarry through this forest? I am confident that the answer is: Yes. Until then, you must commit to your path. I must take my own. Let's stay true to ourselves and follow our hearts. For when we are lost, we will always have a compass. We just have to take a breath and pause. With a calm mind, the traveler can see the path that lays ahead. Despite the forks in the road, a wandering heart will know which way to go.


Dr. Francis was waiting for his 9 o'clock patient. The doctor was sitting at his desk, scribbling down some notes with his illegible doctor calligraphy on a scrap piece of paper. He let his hand take total control, swiftly moving up and down across the white sheet of paper. His mind was somewhere else. He was thinking about something. He had been thinking about it all day. Since he opened his eyes. Since his brain had fully activated itself. While he was having breakfast. While he was drinking his daily glass of O.J. While he was reading the newspaper on his precious eReader. While he smoked a cigarette on his petite balcony, puffing away in the cold winter air. The entire morning, he had been thinking of the previous day. The previous dinner, to be specific. Which happened about 10 hours earlier. Dr. Francis heard a knock at his door. "Come in" he said, with a tone which was about to fall off the edge of politeness. A short little man with tiny squinty eyes entered the room. Armed with a gigantic smile and a blatantly recognizable toupee', he said "Hello, sir! What a pleasure to see you on this fine day!" "Yes..." replied Dr. Francis, trying to sound a tad less sad and gloomy than he actually was, "a fine day indeed". While the pig-man jabbered on about his tooth aches and his head aches and his back aches, Dr. Francis nodded seemingly apprehensively, while playing, pausing, rewinding what he had been playing, pausing, rewinding for the entire morning. He ate at Le Chateau Imperial. Last night of course. He didn't eat alone. He had company. Somebody very special. Not Darren, no. His one and only son, Darren, was far too busy to go out for dinner with his father, his biological father. He had serious business to take care of, which required most of his time, strength and energy. "So what should I do?" asked the pig-man, desperately trying to un-squint his eyes, as if the doctor's next words could only be seen and not heard. Silence ate up the room, for a a couple of terrible, terrible seconds. "Sir? Siiiir?" Dr. Francis snapped back to reality. He paused the Blu-ray he was playing in his head. He left it there, in his HD DVD/Blu-Ray player which he had bought only a few months ago. Which Claire had begged for. Which was now stacking up dust, under his majestic LCD Television set. "Yes, of course." said Dr. Francis, showing his patient that he had been paying attention, and that he was about to grant the pig-man with a delightful solution to his problems. He told him to sleep more, to go out for walks (in this cold winter weather? What were you thinking Dr. Francis?), to have decent meals, to avoid junk food, and to take painkillers if the pain didn't subside. "Thank you sir, I very much appreciate it." said the squinting pig-man, cupping his hands together, humbly expressing his gratitude, like a plebeian at the feet of his lord. Claire looked amazing last night. She wore a black dress, which Mr. Francis had carefully picked and bought for her previous birthday. It was sophisticated, yet it underlined Claire's natural curves, making her stand out in Le Chateau Imperial. She captured every male eye in the dining room, enveloping them in the black bliss which covered her voluptuous body. She gracefully walked towards Mr. Francis, her ex-husband, who immediately stood up as soon as she approached the table. The pig-man stood up as well, thanked the doctor again, and shook his strong firm hand. The rat-man walked out of the office, while jollily shouting: "See you next time sir, have a good one!" Dr. Francis was finally alone. Alone with his thoughts. Alone with his paused Blu-ray. He let it play one more time. He helped her sit down, like a true gentleman, fooling all the other men in the room into believing that she was his personal trophy-wife. Or trophy girlfriend. That he was the one that could pass his hands over her silky caramel skin. Only him. Nobody else. "Hey honey!" shouted Melissa. "Honeeeeey!" "What do you want?" shouted back Dr. Francis, slightly irritated by the abrupt interruption. "Do you want a coffee? Or maaaybe a cappuccinoooo?" shouted Melissa with her benign but rather fastidious high rising terminal. Dr. Francis pictured her sitting on her leather chair, behind the counter of the reception, slightly leaning towards his door. She was very young, much younger than him. She was in her early twenties, full of life and libido, full of the desire to live, do things, go places. "I'll have a coffee, thanks. Black!" shouted Dr. Francis, picturing Melissa's looong red hair, and her looong soft legs, sitting there, only a few meters away from him. Only a white glass door with a light brown border separated them. "Oookay sweetie!" happily answered the girl, probably smiling at him behind that door, with her big warm smile inhabited by a perfect set of candid precious jewels. Only a few meters and the door separated them now. Only a few centimeters of air separated them 5 weeks ago. Only a few centimeters. They were lying on her bed. Naked. Breathing softly. Both staring at the ceiling. Not really looking at it, but just letting their eyes rest in one spot. Melissa opened the door and walked into Dr. Francis' office. She handed the cup of coffee to the doctor and said "Here you go, Dr. Francis" winking while pronouncing the sibilant "s" of Francisss. He thanked her with a smile, and romantically shooed her away. "Damn, she's gorgeous" he thought, while his personal secretary walked out of his office, gently shaking her cunning caboose from side to side, the sexiest and most hypnotizing pendulum you'll ever see. The Blu-ray un-paused. It was a different scene. It wasn't in the restaurant. Not in Le Chateau Imperial. Oh no. It was in his office. On the patient's bed. The type of bed with a large roll of Scottex at the top of it, so that each patient gets a personal and exclusive strip of Scottex. So that they don't end up sitting or touching where some other filthy patient sat or placed his body parts upon. She was on the bed. The Scottex was all crunched up. Her soft derriere was on the dark blue leather of the bed. The leather was cold. Smooth, but cold. He was standing in front of her. Her legs were on his shoulders. He was holding them. Holding her thighs. Her marble thighs. His pants were down to his feet, clumsily resting on his polished Cesare Paciottis. His shirt was on the ground, lying there where he threw it, looking at him with a scrumpled look. She wasn't wearing much. Her black skirt was somewhere on the cold floor. Her white shirt was half open, stuck to her sweaty skin, revealing her black lace bra. It seems as if she was trying to hold up the wall behind her with her hands. It seems as if she was having quite some fun. Dr. Francis was too. She was moaning. Looking at the handsome doctor dead in the eyes. Biting her lower lip. His eyes were locked into hers. She lured them in, locked them in, and threw away the key. He didn't know what it was exactly, but he couldn't stop looking at her. He couldn't stop admiring her beauty. Her long hair. Her emerald eyes. Her... He was looking out the window for quite a while now. Not really looking at anything in particular. Just resting his eyes out there, in the concrete jungle. He glanced down at his agenda, the one Claire had bought him only a few a months ago. The one with his initials inscribed into it, on the back cover, in small, classy, golden letters. M.F. He scribbled down some notes, and checked when his next patient would arrive. He had some time before his next appointment, so he got up, walked to the sink, had a glass of fresh tap water, and sat back down at his desk. He moved mechanically, like a robot. As if someone had switched the autopilot lever inside his brain. His thoughts wandered off again, while his eyes were fixed outside, in the frozen gray jungle. He didn't know which Blu-ray to play anymore. It's as if the memories were fighting each other, trying to defeat one other, and take the highest spot on the doctor's mental podium. Last night, his mind was free. When he saw her, with her beautiful black dress, his only thought was: "Damn, I'm a fucking idiot." He wasn't sad. He was just happy to finally see her. Even though she would probably never come back into his life. Even though he wanted her to bits. Even though she had probably moved on, found some rich guy or a random douche bag, he was happy. She seemed happy. Or maybe it was because of all the make-up, covering up her underlying facial expressions. He didn't care too much. He was simply mesmerized by her presence. They said Hi to each other, had some small talk, you know, how are you? How have you been? How's your job? You got a promotion? Really? Wow that's amazing! Yeah I've been pretty good myself. Darren? Oh he's great... Are you gonna come pick him up on Friday? Okay, perfect. Just make sure he brushes his teeth. And does his homework. And doesn't eat cyanide. Or any type of poison. So yeah... Mark paused the memory. He left it hanging there, in mid air. A knock on the door. "Come in" said Mark, suddenly making himself look busy, quickly throwing the remote of the Blu-Ray player in the corner of the room. "Hey, uhmmm" said Melissa, holding a pen between her luscious lips. "Your next patient is here, should I let her in?" "Who is it? I'm sorry, I just looked at it but I can't remember." answered Mark, raising his hands outwards, palms down, as if trying justify his momentary amnesia with that simple gesture. "It's Mrs Sheerer." said Melissa, cutely frowning at her boss. Dr. Francis rubbed his hands and exclaimed "Mrs. Sheerer! Of course! Well send her in." He looked at his wristwatch. 10:30. "Jesus Christ" he thought. "Why does time have to go by so goddamn slowly?" "Why hellooo Mrs Sheerer!" shouted the doctor, "How are we feeling today?!?" A fragile little lady had walked into the room; she looked as if the wind could take her away, rise her up into the sky, and move her around like a crunchy brown leaf. "Excuse me, Dr. Francis, I didn't quite catch what you said." Humbly answered the shaky old lady. Her ears hadn't been working very well for the past 2 years. "What I said was, HOW ARE WE FEELING TODAY?" shouted the doctor, not mad, not irritated, but with the patience of an American suburb high school substitute. "Oooh I'm okay my dear." replied the golden girl, holding her dark red leather purse in her hands, scared a ghost would snatch it and vanish in thin air. "My hearing device hasn't been working very well lately..." "Could you give it a look please?" shakily said Mrs Sheerer. "Of coourse I can" answered the doctor, extending his hand so that his ancient patient could hand him her audio-enhancing device. "Let's see..." he said, observing, analyzing, detecting any flaws in the small miraculous apparatus. "So how are you my dear? How's Claire? Is she at home taking care of Darren?" Dr. Francis kept his gaze on the device and said "Claire isss uuhhh..." A brief pause followed, disguised as distraction. "She's fine. Darren's probably in school by now." "You know" said the doctor, lifting his gaze up from the device, placing it out of the window, where it always found a comfy place to rest. "Life is pretty strange sometimes.You share your life with a person, for years and years. You share amazing experiences, you bond, you start relying on each other, needing each other. You live together. You do everything together. Or almost everything. And then, something happens. Either you fuck up, or they fuck up. We're only human in the end right? But that one thing can shatter whatever you had built till that moment. Everything you lived for is gone. Finito. Caput. It's incredible isn't it?" Dr. Francis paused for a moment, pondering on what had just spilled out of his mouth. Like a dirty vicious secret, which is meant to stay deep inside us, lingering beneath the surface. "I mean sure, sometimes you keep in touch. You see each other every now and then, to catch up and what not. But sometimes you're just erased. For the other person, you don't really exist anymore. Not physically. Maybe mentally, as a distant memory. Waving at you, moving further and further away, while the volume of the sad melancholy music gradually rises." Mrs. Sheerer was fidgeting with her thumbs, looking at them like a wise ancient ape. She looked up at the doctor and said: "Sorry did you say something dear?" Dr. Francis snapped back to reality once again. He had let the Special Features play. You know, the version of the movie with the audio commentary? "NOTHING, MRS SHEERER, I WAS JUST THINKING OUT LOUD!" shouted the doctor, cupping his hands around his mouth to make sure the old lady would hear him. Not sad, not irritated, quite happy actually. The Golden Girl's precious smile, her glazy eyes filled with cataracts, which had seen who knows how many things and bewitched who knows how many laddies; they bewitched the doctor as well. He couldn't be mad at the poor old lady for not having heard of word of his heart-breaking rant. He handed the hearing device to her, waited for her to put it in its place and said with a smile: "They should work perfectly now, Mrs Sheerer." "Thank you darling." replied the ancient patient. "Oh and, the best of luck to you and Claire!" she added, with a warm wrinkly smile. The doctor chuckled like a teen hitting puberty and said: "Yeah... Thanks.