My mind was at peace as I was about to begin another day in paradise. It looks to be another glorious day in November. I felt better than usual. Good weather does that for me. The air was fresh, filling my lungs with energy. I breathe in yet again as I gaze at my Weather Bug app, a glowing temperature of 58 degrees with a soft southeast breeze. Nothing could go wrong today, or so I thought. Little did I know, an anomaly awaits me. It’s about a 23-minute drive to work and back, 46-minutes for me to ponder the events of the day. Lincoln Elementary is a public school in Yellow Waters, Kansas. An urban setting with 503 beautiful students and 38 dedicated educators who cultivate and nurture minds. I am their proud principal, Mr. Douglas Wells, of 29 years. There are good days and bad days. More experience means nothing; there is no such thing as a routine day. Got a love it! I do! Driving up to my school is always a mirific experience. The school building is all brick, built-in 1902. It’s been updated three times. The community has grown--the need to build on last year gave us additional needed classrooms. I usually arrive 2-hours early. I like to use that time to focus on the details of the day. Although, I was convinced that things would go smoothly. After all, Mother Nature was on my side. As I enter the building, I notice our most critical individual-the building engineer cleaning the main hall floor. I like shiny floors. “Hello, Dave,” I say, passing by on my way to my office. “Hey,” Mr. Wells, how was your evening?” “Pretty good! Isn’t it a wonderful day, Dave?” “Sure is boss.” “Oh, Mr. Wells, When you have time today, I need to ask you about the musical setup you want.” “Ok, Dave, I will send you an email when we can meet.” Looking over my schedule, I see that I have a meeting at 7:30 am with my Vice Principal, Mrs. Tiffany Cortelle. Mrs. Cortelle has been an educator at Lincoln Elementary School for 14 years. Two years ago, I saw leadership skills that impressed me to promote her to Vice Principal. She has become an outstanding leader, very knowledgeable about the curriculum and instructional implementation. Teachers respect her. Mrs. Cortelle arrives early with two Grande Mochas, one in each hand. My favorite! Our focus is always to plan out our day. Working as a team delivering the same message is imperative to staff--less confusion. happy people. “Hello, Tiffany, come on in, I urged. “Hello, Mr. Wells, I brought coffee,” Tiffany smiles. “Beautiful day, yes?” I ask. “Gorgeous!” She responds. “Yay, you brought coffee and my favorite! How was your weekend?” I ask. “It was fine. My daughter is about to drive me crazy!” “What’s wrong?” “She told me this morning she hates me.” “Really?” “Yes, really!” “She threw a fit because I wouldn’t spend $600.00 for a dress to wear, maybe one time, to her high school prom. In a sincere mien, I suggested she get a job and help pay for it. That suggestion didn’t go over too well, at all!” “Oh my goodness,” hoping that Tiffany would tell me more. “So, how did it turn out?” “Well, I m here; She’s there at school, and both of us are a little pissed off; it’s going to be a grand day, right, Mr. Wells!” “The weather sure has indicated a good day, hoping to keep the positive vibes rolling. I guess the saga goes on. I will be excited to find out how it ends.” “Shall we get started?” I queried. “I think we need to spend some time with grades 3-5 today. They seem to be struggling with their Marzano Instructional Strategies,” “I think that is a good idea,” Tiffany echoed. “I will be in a lot of meetings today; therefore, I will take 4 th grade. If you could, please assess grades 3rd and 5th?” “That works for me,” Tiffany agreed. As Mrs. Cortelle rose to leave to her office, I proposed, “Let’s meet a few minutes after school and debrief our assessment scores from the observations.” “Got it!” The morning continued with little to no problems. Kids are doing well, the staff seems to be chipper, and why not? It was an amazing day; at least the morning was terrific. And then, the day started to slip into a darker place like a universal spirit had begun to run rampantly with the ghastly intent of ruining my “GOOD DAY”! It became creepy. I thought surely the walls started to shake down the halls straight into my office like dominos falling sequentially. Suddenly, my door shot open, slamming into the adjacent wall. I could see Mrs. Cortelle’s hand on the doorknob as it flew open. Shock permeated up and down my back as she burst through my office door, unannounced...tears cascading copiously down her rosy cheeks. She was blubbering in a foreign language I wasn’t privy to; It sounded like jibberish or pig Latin. “What in the world is wrong, Tiffany?” Flummoxed. “Is there a food fight in the cafeteria? Did Juan kick someone again, maybe you?” I joked, which was not a good move. “IIINEETOOOOLEVEMYHUSSSBANISSSSINJAL,” and spit erupted from her lips. It sounded like busted morse code. “Calm down, Tiffany; I can’t understand a word your saying.” “My husband has been arrested,” “Oh, My God! What!?” I wailed like a rooster. “I just received a call from my husband. The police came and took him to jail,” Tiffany shrieked out with emotion! “For what!?” I am now wondering what the hell happened to my lovely day. “I received a call from Detective Dumass; he is accusing him of lewd and lascivious acts with his student. “I need to leave!” she stammered. About that time, Dave walked in. I guess he thought it was an excellent idea to discuss where to put the rafters. “Not now, Dave, remember, I will email you.” “Sorry, Mr. Wells, he said apologetically and immediately bolted from the room. “Ok, close the door. Let’s slow down a bit here,” I proposed in a calming voice. “Explain to me what has happened. You are obviously upset, and rightly so. But, leaving school in your emotional state will not help; you need a plan.” I suggested. Tiffany’s weeping was still out of control, but there was some evidence that she was about to slow down her breathing so we could talk in English sentences. “Ok, I received a call about 15 minutes ago from my husband. He is in the Fairfield jail. Apparently, a female student of his has accused him of making sexual offers of sex to her. Detective Dumass arrived at Washington High School with a warrant for his arrest. I don’t know much more than that right now. I need to leave! Tiffany whimpered. “Have you contacted an attorney? “You do know that one is provided for you through the union.” “No, I haven’t called one, but I do know one is provided,” “I would suggest you take a few minutes and call the union rep. Then contact an attorney. You will need one, anyway, to get him out of jail. “Ok, I will go to my office and call people.” I flopped down in my chair. I was numb and dumbfounded. What just happened? I whispered. Before I could gather my faculties, another teacher, Ms. Bracket, stopped to inform me that there was a fight on the playground. While she told me their names, Mrs. Cortelle returned to announce, “I need to go see the attorney!” “Sure, go!” Off like a flash. Faster than a roadrunner, she dashed away. Walking to the playground, I reflected, What was I going to say, no? My next thoughts were: did he...did Mr. John Cortelle really do this? I mulled these horrible accusations over and over for hours. My head was pounding like a pinball bouncing around it. I had enough trouble keeping my dendrites healthy without this happening. Before morning, the local media latched on to the story. It was reported on the 5:00 pm news, “Mr. John Cortelle, a Special Needs Teacher at Washington High School, was arrested and jailed for soliciting sexual favors from a Washington High Student. Detective Dunass appeared on the TV screen, “I have tapes, and witnesses of the amorous incident-justice will be served.” It appeared from the newscast that Mr. Cortelle was guilty. According to the detective, there was plenty of evidence to prove he did commit this heinous crime. People will believe the worst. Guilty or not, his career was over. What about Mrs. Cortelle? Two months later, Tiffany came to visit. I was glad to see her; but, It wouldn’t be a pleasant visit. I knew something was eating at her. I started off the conversation, “Bring me up to speed, Tiffany?” “Well,” Tiffany started, eyes looking at the floor. “I went to a Washington Girls Basketball game to watch my daughter play.” “You remember that she played for her father, right?” “I do.” “There were very few places for my son and me to sit, but I spotted a place by my friend Sally.” “You remember, her kids went to school here during your first year as principal.” “Yes, I remember.” “You know, Sally was my best friend, so I thought.” “I thought, sitting by her would be a safe spot.” “But, while my son and I were perched in front of her, she made comments about John that were loud enough so I and others could hear it.” Tiffany continued, eyes still facing the floor. She touted loud enough for everyone to hear her, “Did you hear that John Cortelle was arrested and charged with a malicious crime against a Washington High student? What I understand, he did the most unspeakable thing. He sexually assaulted a female student, can you believe it?” “I was devastated; my son was humiliated! You could hear a pin drop in a crowded basketball arena. It was awful!” as tears came down, dropping on the desktop and floor. “Oh, My God! Why would she do that? What did you do?” I cajoled. “Nothing, I got up, turned around...stared at her...and left.” And she is your friend?” I said. “Not anymore,” Tiffany assured. “She’s toast!” Then I asked, “What is your attorney doing to help John?” “The attorney’s name is Ms. Peterson, who was assigned to John’s case, by our outstanding and so reliable union rep,” she said sarcastically. “Guess what? She specializes in corporate law. That worthless bitch knows nothing about criminal law.” Curious, I asked, “What did she say or do?” “Ms. Peterson said she was going to go to the Madison County Jail and speak to him...she didn’t show up...Ms. Peckerhead Peterson said she would go to the arraignment...you guessed it, she didn’t show up, and she sent her office aide. What really pisses me off, she has canceled every damn one on one meeting she scheduled with us. And only will talk to us on the phone and has no answers yet on how to clear my husband from these ridiculous charges.” By the way, “We may be going to trial in two weeks.” I glanced up, “Has she contacted any of the witnesses?” “Fuck, no! That bitch hasn’t even called the Washington High Principal!” Tiffany glowered “Don’t you think you need to seek a different attorney?” I challenged. “I don’t know if the district will pay for it if we were to get an outside attorney; plus, we just don’t have that kind of money!” “Well, at this point, what is more important, saving John and his reputation from being castigated for the rest of his life for something he didn’t do or spending the money to get him cleared of these ridiculous charges?” I blasted. “Common Tiffany, think! You have to do something soon. “I know an attorney who is fair, honest, and damn good at defending innocent people. His name is Anderson. I’ll jot down his phone number on a posted note for you,” “Go see him, at least call him!” “Ok, thank you for listening; you are a good boss and friend.” “Thanks, but go call him now!” Six months passed. No trial. Mr. Anderson was hired on the spot; Ms. Peterson was out. As the months followed, Mr. Anderson’s firm discovered evidence to prove John’s innocents. Ironically, it was the same evidence being used to find him guilty. It told a different story. Some semblance of his innocence started to prevail. After months of delays, Mr. Anderson, John, and Tiffany Cortelle’s were ready to meet with the prosecuting attorney, Mr. Sharpnuts, Mrs. Shithead, and the Howard School District’s attorney, Mr. Nohart. “Time to fess up,” Mr. Anderson charged. He began the meeting by reading the rules of evidence. He started the discussion by insulting their intelligence with a recital of the law, “Prosecutors and defendants in criminal proceedings may present evidence in support of their cases. The state has the burden of proving guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, while the defendant may present evidence to challenge the state’s case. Each side should have the opportunity to review the other side’s evidence before trial and object to introducing certain evidence before or during the trial. In criminal cases, defendants may move the court to exclude evidence that the state obtained.” “Gentlemen, it appears to me that much of the evidence has either been intentionally left out, or some of you need to return to law school; allow me to explain. I am questioning the evidence you have against my client, Mr. John Cortelle.” “First, can you tell me the whereabouts of the video recordings that Detective Dumass obtained?” “I do believe that evidence is at the police department, said Mr. Sharpnuts. “Agreed,” said Mr. Nohart. “According to the Chief of Police, the video is still in the hands of the Haward School District,” Mr. Anderson rebutted. “That’s not true!” Mrs. Shithead corrected. “Detective Dumass took it on the day of the complaint.” “It seems then we have a quagmire situation, don’t you agree, Mrs. Shithead?” A quiet pause. Mr. Anderson continued on with his second point, “During my deposition with Mr. Adams, the counselor reported to Mrs. Shithead, during her investigation, and I quote, ‘He only heard Mr. John Cortelle talking to the complainant about skipping school. I was in the classroom during all but 2-minutes of the meeting.’ “I must say that wasn’t in Detective Dumass’s report or Mrs. Shithed. You could hear a pin drop...no rebuttal was offered. “I must say, the video is evidence that the alleged conversation took place. It shows the complainant for approximately 7-minutes per video recording time, which we don’t have available. It also showed that Mr. Adams, who shared the room with Mr. Cortelle, also enters the room 2-minutes after the complainant entered, again no video to prove it. I’m perplexed gentlemen, “where is the video? Who changed the original report?” Mr. Anderson presents his final empirical reasoning, “Gentlemen, I hold up to you, not the incident reports that Mr. Dumass, the school principal, or Mrs. Shithead submitted initially. Someone has deleted the originals and replaced them with the ones in my hands.” “How do I know this? Mrs. Cortelle made sure to get a copy of the original reports from the school principal and police department.” “Let me refresh your memory. The police report reads, “The principal, Mr. Newman, calls Human Resources and speaks to Mrs. Shithead to explain the alleged sexual misconduct. She advises the principal to secure the video, contact the police department, and file an incident report, to which he does.” “He gives a copy of the written report to Mrs. Cortelle. He then surrenders the videos and the incident reports to Detective Dumass. The district union then sends Mrs. Cortelle to an appointed attorney Ms. Peterson, who practices corporate law.” “It appears the police report has been changed from the original. Based on the evidence’s change and the district testimony, Detective Dumass had possession of the evidence.” “Is it possible that the only people inside the police department would have access to police reports? I am still curious, “Where are the video and the original police reports?” “If there is no video available or the original police reports, do you really want this to go to trial?” “Could it be that Mr. Cortelle was assumed guilty?” Ten long months later, with many twists and turns, the charges were dropped. A civil lawsuit followed. The case never went to court. It was mediated by a judge who ordered the Haward School District to pay the defendant, Mr. John Cortelle, $250,000.00 in damages. Mr. Cortelle never returned to education. The ordeal had damaged his reputation. No school district would take the chance to hire him, even though the charges were dropped. Mrs. Cortelle returned to work at Lincoln Elementary with Mr. Wells. She is now a successful principal at an elementary school in the same district. The human resources manager, Mrs. Shithead, left the district for health reasons. Detective Charles Dumass is no longer employed by the police department.


‘Quickly! Quickly! Come on! We’re going to miss it! Oh my God hurry up!’ ‘Shut up! I’m going as fast as I can!’ ‘SHHH!!! Why are you being so loud? You’ll scare them off!’ ‘You’re the one shouting. I’m just trying to-‘ ‘Sh! We’re here. Come, look. Ouch! Stop shoving me. These bushes are prickly!’ ‘I swear, if I could be here with anyone else-’ ‘-you’d pick me every time, I know. ‘Cause I’m your most favourite person ever.’ ‘Urgh. Let’s just watch the flowers. It should be starting any time now. Andy said if you look slightly above everything, you can see when they’re waking up. Apparently, they start glowing as soon as they wake up.’ ‘You know Andy tells lies. He’s never even *seen* it. How would he know what to do? I’m just going to look everywhere until I see something.’ ‘Well, you do what you want, and I’ll do what I want, and we’ll see who sees them first.’ ‘You’re so competitive.’ ‘I’m not competitive! I just don’t want to miss anything important.’ ‘I promise you, you’re not going to miss anything. It’s a big moment. I’m kind of surprised there aren’t more people here.’ ‘Well, I read that it happens a lot throughout the year. Plus, I think we’re the only ones stupid enough to be here at 2 in the morning! I don’t know how you talked me into this. It’s so cold and I just want to sleep. We could be here for hours.’ ‘Stop whining. You’re here now and you’re going to thank me when we see the whole thing.’ ‘What makes you so sure tha-’ ‘Shh! I think I see something! Look! Look!’ ‘Where? I can’t see! Where?’ ‘Over there by the tree! Look it’s a light! Oh my God it’s starting! They’re waking up.’ ‘Wheeerree?! I can’t see!’ ‘You see that tree? Good. Now look near the bottom, where the grass is. See the faint glow? It's reeaaally faint.’ ‘I can’t see anything. You’re imagining it. Probably becoming delusional from the cold.’ ‘It’s not *that* cold and there’s a light over there. Just 'cause you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there.’ ‘Yeah, yeah. Whatever.’ ‘Anyone ever tell you you’re the most annoying person ever?’ ‘Your mama.’ ‘Ooh sick burn... on yourself!’ ‘Whatever!’ ‘I hate to say it, but I think you were right about that glow; I can’t see it anymore.’ ‘See? I told you you were imagining it.’ ‘I just really want to see this. I might never get this chance again’ ‘Don’t say that! We can come back in a couple months and do this craziness all over again.’ ‘That would be nice...’ ‘Hey, do you think that flower over there’s a bit... shiny or something?’ ‘Where?’ ‘Just over there. By the fence.’ ‘I -I can’t... tell... it might be!’ ‘I saw that by looking slightly above the fence. Ow! What’d you do that for?’ ‘Cause you're being annoying again.’ ‘It works and you know it.’ ‘Ok loser.’ ... ‘What if it doesn’t happen today?’ ‘Then you owe me.’ ‘How? I’ve already given you the pleasure of my company.’ ‘That’s not going to give me back my sleep.’ ‘What’s sleep compared to a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity like this?’ ‘Again, they said this happens a lot through the year.’ ‘Sure, sure but nothing can ever compare to that rush you get when you do something for the first time.’ ‘I don’t know. Doesn’t matter how many times I get under the covers, it’s always the best feeling ever. Mmmmm... OW! Stop hitting me!’ ‘Stop being annoying.’ ‘... I don’t know why you have to keep hitting me...’ ‘I mean it; this is the first time we’re seeing this. And it could be the last time I do.’ ‘I don’t know why you keep saying that. We’ll see them again and again until we’re sick of it.’ ‘Hmmm... How come you’ve never seen it before?’ ‘My parents are all about letting things be. Don’t bother them and they won’t bother you.’ ‘Bother them? We’re just watching.’ ‘Some people take pictures and stuff and my parents think that because they light up, the camera flash messes with them, somehow. I’m not sure. But they always come out blurry in pictures I’ve seen. Even professionals can’t get them!’ ‘Maybe your parents are right. People just need to leave things alone where they are and nothing bad will happen. Things’ll just carry on like they’re supposed to.’ ‘Are you ok?’ ‘Hell yeah. I just have something in my eye, that’s all. Pesky allergies.’ ‘But I thought you didn’t have any allergies. Jesus! Stop hitting me!’ ‘You know you deserve it.’ ... ‘Are you still awake?’ ‘Barely. Anything happen?’ ‘Nope. I thought I saw something but it was nothing.’ ‘You think maybe we should go home? We’ve been out here for hours and the sun’ll be up soon.’ ‘...’ ‘Hello?’ ‘What?’ ‘Are you crying?’ ‘No! I told you, allergies!’ ‘Allergies don’t make you a crybaby.’ ‘I just - I just really wanted to see them today. I don’t know when I’ll be able to come out again.’ ‘Just ask nicely and maybe your parents will let you.’ ‘You don’t get it. I won’t be able to move on my own soon and we’ll have to move.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I don’t really know how to explain it but by Christmas, I won’t be able to walk. Whatever I’ve got, it works fast and there’s no way to stop it. There’s a place in Europe that says they can help. But we have to move again soon.’ ‘I’m sorr-’ ‘I don’t want to hear another “sorry”. I’m sick of it. I just want to see the sky light up with a million billion little lights. I just want to have a moment where I’m like everyone else and do something normal! I don’t want anyone to be sorry!’ ‘...’ ‘I’m sorry for getting angry.’ ‘It’s ok. I think we should stay, though. There’s still time before the sun comes up.’ ‘No, you’re right. Let’s go back. This was stupid.’ ‘I want to stay.’ ‘Why? It’s not going to happen.’ ‘It might. It might be the best one ever!’ ‘You think?’ ‘Yup! I can feel it in my toes. This is going to be amazing!’ ‘You don’t feel in your toes!’ ‘I do. And I’m never wrong!’ ‘Except when Andy tells you lies.’ ‘Andy *might* have been telling stories about this one.’ ‘Andy’s always lying. He once told me his Dad invented sticky notes. Everyone knows it was Arthur Fry.’ ‘Who?’ ‘Arthur Fry.’ ‘Who’s that?’ ‘The guy who invented sticky notes, dummy!’ ‘How do you even know that?’ ‘Everybody knows that!’ ‘Not everybody.’ ‘You must live under a rock.’ ‘No I don’t! Just 'cause I didn’t know some weird random fact. How do I know you’re not telling stories like An-’ ‘Sh! Look!’ ‘I bet there’s nothing there.’ ‘For love of everything decent, just shut up and look!’ ‘Wha- What’s that?’ ‘I don’t know. But it’s glowing.’ ‘This is a trick. It must be.’ ‘It’s not! You can see it too. The tree is glowing! And it’s getting brighter!’ ‘Th-they’re waking up!’ ‘Not so loud!’ ‘They’re waking up!’ ‘I know! This is so exciting! I told you I saw something by the tree.’ ‘I don’t know what to say; you were right.’ ‘What do you think they’re doing?’ ‘I don’t know - stuff?’ ‘Thanks Einstein.’ ‘You don’t know either!’ ‘Not the point. Oh my God look. They’re coming out! They’re coming out! You think they’ll come over here?’ ‘I hope not. I heard they crawl into your ear and turn your brain to mush! Don’t look at me like that! I don’t want a mushy brain.’ ‘Did Andy tell you that?’ ‘No. I heard it from some adults who’ve seen it before.’ ‘Mmmhm. You’ll believe anything.’ ‘No I won’t!’ ‘Look at them. How cool is this? There’s so many of them. Look at how they’re flying together. Like *whooshing* around.’ ‘More like-’ ‘Look how bright they are. Who needs lights? They’re so- They're so- what's the word?’ ‘Radiant.’ ‘Radiant! They’re so radiant! Do you know how awesome, how unbelievably *lucky* we are to see this? Some people never see this their whole lives! To see the sky lit up like a Christmas tree.’ ‘It’s pretty wonderful.’ ‘Wonderful is not the word to describe this! This is the best moment of my life. I wish I could touch one. Just once. If I just... stretched my arm out...’ ‘What are you doing?! Put your arm back!’ ‘Trust me. How can something so small and pretty hurt me?’ ‘I’d rather not find out.’ ‘They’re getting closer. Look!’ ‘I don’t like this. Bring your arm back and let’s go home.’ ‘Wait. Wait just one... more... moment...’ ‘Oh my God it’s- it’s- it’s- it’s-’ ‘It’s in my hand! It’s in my hand! I’m touching one - it's in my hand!’ ‘It’s in your hand!’ ‘I know! You can even tell Andy about it!’ ‘Andy’ll probably say he’s touched a lot but he’s a liar.’ ‘Finally! You agree. I wonder what kind of animal it is...’ ‘It’s just... kind of, I don’t know, standing in your hand. Maybe it’s like a bee?’ ‘It’s... a person?’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Look at it. It looks like a little person. I’m... juuust going to bring it closer.’ ‘I- I- I don’t think anyone has ever seen one this close.’ ‘It’s ok. It’s ok little one. I’m not going to hurt you. It’s ok. Hi. Hello. I’m friendly.’ ‘It probably can’t understand you.’ ‘*She* does. She knows I won’t hurt her otherwise she would have flown away. Isn't that right, little thing? You know I won’t hurt you. I just want to see what you are. I’ll call you Fey.’ ‘You can’t name her.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘She’s not a pet.’ ‘So what?’ ‘OH MY GOD you’re petting her. She’s not a dog! ‘She doesn’t have to be. She’s holding my finger and snuggling against my finger. Aren’t you? Just cuddling my finger. She looks so happy.' ‘She probably has a family waiting for her. Looks like they’re all going now.’ 'No please, don’t go!’ ‘I think she has to. It’s part of their life cycle.’ ‘Goodbye little Fey. I’ll miss you.’ ‘Look at them. Just over the trees like that. It’s so cool.’ ‘I miss her already.’ ‘You’re so lucky! You got to touch one. I don’t think anyone in the history of ever has done that!’ ‘I know! I’ll never forget this!’ ‘Me neither! I kind of wished this never ended.’ ‘Yeah but we can’t see them anymore. Let’s start heading back.’ ‘You know? I’m so glad we got to see this together.’ ‘Me too. And you were right.’ ‘About what?’ ‘This was the best one ever.


The Suicide Police S. A. Tawks ~~~~~~~~~~~ “What made you join the force?” he asks. “My brother killed himself,” she replies. “Ah,” he says as he gently places his hands around the mug in front of him. “The usual reason.” “You?” She hooks a finger around the handle of her mug and waits for his response before bringing the drink to her mouth. “Previous wife. Almost ten years since I found her.” He stares into his drink like the memory is just below its surface. “Did you find your brother?” “I did,” she shares after taking a sip and swallows the caffeine. “Do you mind talking about it?” She shakes her head. “I don’t think I would’ve been able to join the force if I did mind. Not that it’s a rule. I just-- Well, you know--” “I know.” And in the look they share an understanding that does not need to be verbalised. “It’s a confronting line of work,” she says after the moment she uses to take another sip. “If just talking about it was hard for you, well, you’re probably in the wrong profession.” “Suicide,” he says bluntly. “You’re talking with a fellow officer. You don’t have to skirt around its name.” “Right.” In the silence she places her hand on the heated side of the mug. “In what state did you find your brother? If you don’t mind,” he adds, offering her an exit from the conversation. “Dead. Three days at the least. He had a place up in the mountains. Shut himself in the garage and ran his motor.” “Before or after vehicles were fitted with detectors to prevent such a method?” “After.” She shakes her head slowly and the movement runs down her arms and makes the surface of her drink ripple. “He found a way around it.” He lets out a soft sigh before, “Death finds a way.” This produces a weak nod from her and she inches her hand away from her drink. “Don’t take that the wrong way,” he says a bit louder than the volume they’ve been talking in. Her hand freezes and she looks up from her drink. Their eyes lock; hers slightly startled and his almost sleepy. “It is your task, and mine, to keep premature death at bay. Our duty is to protect and preserve life, remember?” he reminds, paraphrasing the force’s motto. “I know. But it’s a confronting line of work,” she repeats. Then adds, “A tough line of work,” as her hand finds the warmth of her mug again. He deflates slightly when her hand is back on the mug and his eyes return to a drowsy state. “Can you think of a reason why you’re beginning to question your work? Surely you can identify the good you’ve done. Imagine if an officer had been able to provide prevention for your brother. Would he not be in your life now? Would both your lives not be better off thanks to the preservation?” “I have been considering him lately,” she admits. “Is he the main reason you began doubting your job? Was it his birthday recently? Did you find some of his belongings?” She shakes her head. “I think I know what began the thoughts.” “Good,” he says encouragingly. “Being able to identify triggers are good, as you very well know. Do you want to talk about it?” “I was called--” she begins but stops when she hears a noise across the space. Her eyes shift in the direction of the sound and her hand leaves the mug again. “It’s just the refrigerators kicking in,” he assures her. He doesn’t even glance at her hand. Instead, he keeps his drowsy eyes locked on her face and tells her to continue with her recount. “I was called to the scene of a homicide. This man had murdered his wife and was threatening self-harm.” He shakes his head and issues a tut-tut sound. “Sorry. Continue. Please.” “Neighbours called the police when they heard her scream and they arrived just in time to stop him from escaping. So he was in his car, a cruiser was blocking him from getting out of his driveway, and he had a gun. The responding officers drew their weapons and this created a kind-of standoff. But he had his gun pointed at his head. One of the officers called it in and that’s when I got called out.” “How long have you been with the force?” he asks as he raises his mug. “Three months.” This makes his drowsy eyes come to life a little more and his eyebrows rise. “How long ago was this incident?” he asks after taking a generous, refreshing sip. “One month.” “That’s tough. Very tough. I’d been an officer for almost a year before I was called to an incident with a perp who has already given legitimacy to their violent threats. It’s a very hard situation.” “I shouldn’t have been assigned to it. There should be a certain kind of callout that greenhorns are excluded from. They should have called someone like you.” He takes a guess at what she’s trying to say with, “Someone with experience?” “Yes!” “The academy is designed to prepare cadets for every situation and instill the sanctity of life in all recruits. Some situations are going to be tougher than others but the aim of every job is the same. Protect and preserve life.” “But he was manipulating the system! He knew I had to make the shot if I sensed he was in danger. Now he’s in a psychiatric hospital rather than a prison!” “Have you considered that maybe he was attempting suicide by police? You are aware that prison reform and psychiatric reform have made jails seem like resorts in comparison to asylums. So if he was looking for the easy way out, he screwed that one up.” “But the amount of time he’ll have--” “Is one perp’s questionable behaviour the reason for your thoughts or are you trying to hide something?” His sleepiness has vanished and his voice has grown rougher. These changes have startled her and her hand moves the farthest from the mug since they’ve begun their talk. “Don’t!” his voice echoes around the quiet space before he continues in a gentler manner, “forfeit your control.” Her hand freezes and she lowers her palm onto the table instead of returning her fingers to the warmth of the mug. “Please. Share your feelings and thoughts. That’s the only way I can fully comprehend your situation and attempt to help you. Was it what he made you do or was it the established life he so carelessly and thoughtlessly threw away?” he tries, utilising his experience. This produces shock from her, like he’s said something personal about her that he has no way of knowing unless he has been spying on her. She places her head in her hands and gives in to the crushing weight of the world and the things in it she doesn’t understand. “Why would he do it?” she asks as the heaviness of reality squeezes tears from her eyes. “He was young, rich, successful, had two daughters and was completely healthy. Why? How? How does?” “You’re forgetting your training. It is not your role to question why some people are triggered by some things and why some people can carry heavier burdens than others. Your job is to protect and preserve life. Our success is gauged by quantity not quality. One beating heart saved from the jaws of suicide is one more job well done. And every time a saved heart beats one more beat, that’s your success as an officer growing. Let the staff of the asylums worry about the quality issue.” Her face rises from her hands and her features display the emotions he’s been hoping for the opposite of. Her complexion is a contortion of distress and hopelessness. It’s a tough gig. Sometimes an officer says what the perp wants to hear, sometimes an officer says what they think the perp needs to hear and sometimes, rarely because training usually prevents such an occurrence, an officer will be evoked by a perp, situation, setting, feeling or something else to stray from procedure. She forfeited her control more than once but he gave her more than one chance because she’s part of the force. In his book, that counts for something. She moves her hand for the revolver on the table. The revolver he talked her into setting down earlier. Her fingers touch the weapon and this is enough for her to forfeit control. No more chances. No more talking. His service weapon has been trained on her foot throughout the talk and he squeezes the trigger. The bullet burrows into the centre of her foot and the pain makes her forget about her intention with the gun. The officer gets to his feet and snatches the revolver away from the perp as he rises. “In accordance with The Suicide Prevention Act, you’re under arrest for expressing suicidal ideation in a public setting,” the officer says, gesturing to the evacuated diner. He holds her revolver up and adds, “With violent intent.” Glancing through the window beside them he beckons for the EMTs watching in the car park. As they rush inside to provide their expertise, the officer recites the words he has countless times before. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to a psychiatrist. If you cannot afford a psychiatrist, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?” “I don’t want asylum,” she says like a scared child, the prospect making her forget the pain he has inflicted on her. “M’am, I hope you use that fear as motivation to shape a better life for yourself.” He turns away from the table as the paramedics begin their aid and exits out into the car park. Sitting in his patrol car, the officer starts the lengthy paperwork required for every incident as he waits for the next callout. His shift ends as the sun rises to begin a new day and he makes it home in time to share breakfast with his wife before she goes to work. “How was your shift?” she asks over the food in her mouth. He’s thought about his fellow officer on and off throughout shift and almost replies with, ‘I had a real tough one tonight. With all the training she had and everything she knew, it makes you wonder why she would act in such a way.’ He catches himself before speaking, thinks over his response for a moment longer and decides the thoughts are folly before he stoically replies with, “Had a tough incident. Training helped me achieve the aim. Like always.


“Look at that couple,” she said, motioning with her head, both hands clutching my arm. “Look at the flowers he gave her. That’s so cute.” “You’re cute,” I said. She blushed. “You know that’s my favorite gift?” she asked. “Flowers?” “Yeah.” “Okay.” “You never give me flowers.” “I will someday. When I feel like it. I’ll surprise you.” She nodded and pulled my arm tighter, content with my answer, confident that I was speaking the truth. I never did. I walked down the sidewalk sheltered by the awnings of angled building fronts. The sun cascaded in golden ropes through the slats of benches, spilling across my shoes. I felt good. I whistled to the music playing in my ears. I had my whole life ahead of me, a life I could live on my own schedule from now on. I’d just skewered the last of my social obligations and was on my way home to my new life of I don’t know what. Books, movies, games, contented loneliness. My thoughts drifted abstractly to the girl in the apartment I just left, crying out on the bed that she was still in love with me, but I shrugged it away, sliding my hand into my pocket and fingering the playing card I’d taken from her night stand moments earlier. I’d been using as it as a bookmark for as long as I could remember, and had forgotten it the last time I spent the night with her. She was crying into her hands when I stealthily snuck over and retrieved it. For whatever reason it was important to me. She deserved better. That’s why I left. I drew a draft of brisk October air into my body and reminisced about our last break up six months ago, and how that one didn’t stick for more than a couple of weeks. We’d been fighting for a while, nothing major, but consistent enough to be an ongoing issue. We were just incompatible as romantic partners, it seemed. We were both too absorbed in our own worlds to make any concessions for each other’s, and our worlds were far too different to begin with. She lived in a state of constant social stimulation. She always needed to be doing something. She was so busy all the time, and when she wasn’t she made herself so. Last Christmas I gave her a bracelet. Nothing fancy, just a band of twinkling silver that I thought would look mighty pretty hanging from her wrist. It came giftwrapped and bundled, so I didn’t see it again until the day we exchanged gifts. I smiled as she opened it, and I saw her smile. We smiled together for a while, but when she tried to put it on we noticed the tiny little clasp that came with it was broken. I was right though; it looked mighty pretty hanging from her wrist. She set it aside, promising to get the clasp fixed as soon as she could, and we enjoyed the rest of our evening. Apple cider doughnuts and peppermint tea. A gingerbread house kit we never built. A few months passed and she still hadn’t gotten it fixed. I brought it up every time we were together. We fought about it. She said she was too busy, besides she didn’t even know where you were supposed to go to get a bracelet fixed. The fucking jewelry store, I said, they’re all over the place in the city. Eventually, I got tired of waiting, so I went myself and purchased a pair of silver clasps. They were twelve bucks. It took less than five minutes. There’s no way she could’ve done it herself. Not a chance in the world. Not five minutes to spare in three months time. We broke up before I gave them to her. I ended up handing them over a week or so later when I went crawling back. She eventually relented and another week or so later we were back together and happy. We slept together and it felt comfortable and right. I was twenty-four years old. That was six months ago. Feels longer. I’m twenty-five now. I looked up at the awnings, at the birds nests stuffed behind light fixtures. They looked comfortable. I was fine. I wasn’t thinking about the bracelet anymore. I wasn’t thinking about all the things I could’ve or should’ve done. Then something caught my eye, a bouquet of colors lighting up a grocery store window, colors you could smell, flowers. I’d walked by that grocery every time I visited her for the last year, but this was the first I’d ever seen them selling flowers. I stopped cold, shivering, overcome by sadness and failure. My throat closed; I coughed pathetically, rejecting some pill. In front of me, flowers, of all shapes and colors, strewn seductively, beckoned me toward mild memories of the last two years. Days and weeks and months flashed by. She graduated school, she received job offers, we celebrated birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, her father passed away. Gifts were exchanged, support was given, love was made. And yet, somehow, throughout our entire time together I’d never given her flowers. Not even once. My own negligence dawned on me like a sunrise, slow and peaceful, standing outside the grocery store window, falling apart. Opening night. The show was a success. Months of hard work and planning came together. The reviews were sure to be good. We had a few awkward drinks with her crew. They told me how great she was to work with. I nodded and said I knew. I wanted to leave. I felt stupid, out of place. I couldn’t be in her world for even a single night without wanting out. I was light-headed. I’d forgotten something important, but what was it. Something I’d meant to do. Something I’d meant to bring her. To show her I cared. That I was proud of her. I guess I didn’t. I guess I wasn’t. Buying flowers downtown was so expensive anyway. I walked to the train, my eyes peeled for a flower shop. There were none around, so I didn’t get any. Didn’t even check my phone. I didn’t want to go out of my way. She slept next to me, snoring. On her desk a single flower stood in a glass jar full of brown water. Not from me. From someone she worked with. To show her they cared. I came back together and entered the store. I pulled instead of pushed, went red as a rose with embarrassment. I walked over to the display that housed the flower selection and perused them delicately. The distant, chalky smell of their petals hitting me like the first breath of air surfacing from the deep end of the swimming pool. Artificial shades of red, pink, yellow, cream wrapped in cheap plastic bundles, twiggy stems held hostage by wire twist ties. They were the most beautiful flowers I’d ever seen. I picked up a large bundle of white chrysanthemums and let their vapors consume me. Barely conscious of what I was doing, I bought the flowers and exited the store. A wire attached to the underside of my belly yanked me back in the direction of the apartment where a girl sat, still crying over me, trying not to hate me for putting her through this again. I entered the building and rode the elevator to the tenth floor. My heart raced. I prayed that she would still be hidden away in her apartment, that she would not be standing out in the hallway to see me approaching her with those flowers in my hand. The elevator doors opened and I rushed to her door, laid the flowers at the base, and ran for the nearest stairwell. My footsteps no sooner echoed against the metal slats of the stairs than tears began to sting my eyes. I felt no sense of redemption or comfort with what I’d done. I wanted it to be some grand sign of finality, a tying up of a loose end, but it didn’t feel that way at all. It just made me impossibly, pathetically sad. Later, when I tried to tell my friend about it, I burst into tears all over again. I regretted never buying her flowers while we were still together, and now I’m trying not to regret buying her flowers after ending it. Weeks ago, months ago, it would’ve been a simple act that brought a simple smile to her face. Now, it felt complicated, insensitive. What was I thinking? Why did I wait so long? She deserved them so many times. I want to be here for her still. I hope that she knows that. I hope the flowers can represent that to her. I hope she didn’t throw them in the trash already. I hope they’re sitting by her bed right this moment, comforting her in the same way I always wanted to but couldn’t. Mostly, I hope that while we were together I was able to give her something more important to her than flowers. Something that won’t whither and die in a couple of weeks, even if properly nourished and taken care of. Some sort of seed inside her heart that will continue to grow and blossom, immune to the passage of time, that will see her through the challenges of the future and comfort her when she feels the most alone and maybe, just maybe, one day direct her back into my arms where another, different type of seed can be sown.


Brody drew a sharp breath, held it, and slowly exhaled. Remember, he thought, act like you belong. Act like you’re supposed to be here. His mission, while simple in the details, was risky, and required the utmost discretion. He had waited until nightfall, surmising that he might successfully avoid prying eyes under the cloak of darkness. But now? No such luck. Brody stood before the great glass vestibule of the very institution he was sent to infiltrate, exposed by a glowing sea of florescent bulbs and security cameras. Two agents stood at a counter to his left, each armed with some sort of scanning device. A queue of people waited to have their personal effects examined before swiping a card and being cleared to vacate the facility. Brody tugged at the visor of his baseball cap, pulling it as far down as he could. He had already popped the collar of his jacket to conceal most of his face. It would be impossible for him to not leave behind video evidence of his actions tonight. He could only hope his effort to mask himself would be ultimately successful. While the cameras were of great concern to him, he was faced with a more immediate threat. Guards. Brody knew this particular facility was typically patrolled by a single unarmed guard, but a witness is a witness. Slipping around a corner, Brody nearly shit himself when he just about face planted into the chest of Sizemore, a hulking man, nearly seven feet tall, with a booming voice that carried for miles. Sizemore gave Brody the once over, and then the once more over. The twice over. Brody froze for a fraction of a second. Instinct told him to flee, but Brody repeated his mantra once again. Act like you belong. Act like you’re supposed to be here. “Evening,” Brody muttered as he side-stepped the imposing figure and awkwardly backed away. Sizemore’s eyes narrowed, as he shot Brody a quizzical look, before relenting with a nod. Relieved, Brody spirited away. He could do this. Two minutes, in and out. Brody stuck to the perimeter, darting from one obstruction to the next like a rat scrounging for scraps. He deftly spun and weaved his way through the glowing maze undetected. He was a true champion of stealth. Within seconds, he reached his destination. And then his heart sank. His instructions were simple. Infiltrate the facility, take the package, and get the hell out of there. The package. Yeah, this was going to be a problem. “Just remember: 'Always Green',” Crystal had told him when asked to be specific on which package he should be retrieving. Somewhat specific enough, maybe. But what Brody saw before him was a daunting wall of mysterious packages, numbering in the hundreds. Maybe even thousands. Although they were all unique in their own way, Brody was overwhelmed by all the shapes and sizes. How would he ever find the package he was sent for in this mess? He had but one choice. Although it may take all night, he’d have to inspect each package until he discovered the right one. And so he did. One by one, Brody eliminated package after package, until nearly forty-five minutes had passed, and he had narrowed his uncountable choices down to two. He contemplated taking both, but assessed the risk was far too great. He’d never make it out of the building with two. Discreetly escaping with one was daunting enough. He’d have to take a chance and leave it to fate. He took the package he was at least 62% sure was the correct choice. Brody tucked the package under his arm, and hightailed it out of there. Forty-five damn minutes. He didn’t sign up for this kind of exposure. But at least now he was almost home free. He had but one more test to pass. Brody made his way back towards the great glass vestibule, and was dismayed to see three people ahead of him in the queue. Between them, the two counter agents, Sizemore, and six others meticulously inspecting various facets of the facility, Brody stood in plain sight of a dozen people. Too much exposure. Not good, Brody thought. Not good at all. Fueled by anxiety, Brody’s foot tapped furiously. The counter agents cleared one person, and then another, moving Brody to the front. Almost there. His mind is racing. Each passing second feels like an eternity. “Come the fuck on,” Brody mutters through clenched teeth. “I need to get the hell outta here.” And then it happened. Brody went ice cold in the massive, dark shadow of Sizemore, as a meaty hand grabbed him by the shoulder, and in a blur of events, spun Brody around and snatched the package from under his arm. “Oh-ho! What’s this?” Sizemore demanded, inspecting the package. “What do we have here? Always Ultra Thin Super Long Pads with wings? Ha ha! What’re you buying pads!? Pads for your vagina!? Ha ha ha!” Brody tried to respond, but could find no words. Several shoppers turned to face him, as grins slowly formed across their collective faces. “HEY, EVERYBODY!” Sizemore boomed as he snatched away Brody’s cap, “THIS GUY IS BUYING PADS! HE HAS A VAGINA! EVERYONE LOOK AT THE MAN WITH A VAGINA!” Some shoppers exploded into thunderous hysterics, while others assailed Brody with looks of arrant disgust. From behind a display of Pepperidge Farms cookies, a man in a well-worn suit and a fedora adorned with a “PRESS” badge rapidly fired off several snapshots with an antique shutter camera before exclaiming “Wow, what a scoop! This is going on page one!” Like a startled hare, Brody bolted for the door, tears of shame burning his cheeks. Even as Brody fled, staff and shoppers alike hurled insult after insult at him. “Don’t fall and hurt your vagina, Nancy!” “Get the hell outta hear, ya creep!” “We don’t serve your type here, you sick freak!” Others are less vicious, and more heartbroken over the twisted perversion of humanity they’ve just witnessed. “He’s obviously very sick. People like him need to get some help.” “Maybe he was just, you know... curious?” “He really should be locked up somewhere.” \*\*\*\* Across the road, Brody crouched inside a dumpster, barely noticing the foul-stentch that pervaded the air around him. He was shaking, panting, and his stomach was in knots. His eyes were raw from the onslaught of tears. Did anyone recognize him? Maybe the cameras didn’t capture his face in any definitive angle. Maybe if never showed his face in that store again? Maybe if he convinced Crystal to run away with him? He did do all of this for her. Would she go with him? Maybe. Maybe? Maybe he could one day put this all behind him. Peering out from his fetid fortress, Brody watched as his hopes were dashed. Three police cruisers arrived, delivering five officers total. The officers congregated around Sizemore, listened to his tale, had a good laugh, and soon found their way over to Brody’s car. It was official. He was now a criminal. Up there with the same scum found on To Catch a Predator. Brody slunk out of his dumpster, and began the two mile trudge home. \*\*\* It was well after midnight. Brody stood on his own doorstep and contemplated his next move. Breaking down again, he sobbed to himself, “Crystal, I am so sorry. I failed you.” He clenched the doorknob, and his despair was quickly replaced by sheer panic. The door was not only unlocked, but it was left slightly open. Bursting into the house, his worst fears were realized. Everything had been ransacked. “Crystal!? CRYSTAL!!!” he cried out. But his cries were met with silence. Brody fell to the floor in emotional agony. What horrible fate had befallen his dear Crystal? Unable to turn to the police, Brody curled up on the floor and passed out for several hours before finally awakening to the pulse of his cellphone. “Incoming call: Mom.” Mom. Perhaps a ray of hope in all of this. Mom will understand. “Hello? Mom? I... something horrible has happened. Last night I went out to buy some pads for Crystal, and...,” he stammered before being coldly cut off. “You need to stop projecting your own flaws onto that poor, innocent girl, God help her. She’s the real victim in all of this.” “Mom, I was just...,” again, Brody was cut off. “I don’t know what mistakes we made with you, but please, please, just get the help you so desperately need.” Brody didn’t have the chance to respond. She had hung up on him. In just under twelve hours, Brody had lost his status, his reputation, his girlfriend was missing, and now his own mother had disowned him. And he barely had time to mourn the loss when he received one final text message from Crystal. “I don’t date men with vaginas. Sorry, not sorry. Deuces.” \*\*\* Brody stood on the ocean’s shore, and took it all in. Although his past life was literally yesterday, it seemed so far away. Memories of what once was had already been forgotten, replaced only by horrible anguish and shame. Brody was no more. He was just... a monster. The man once known as Brody took a step, and another, and the salt water filled his shoes. The sensation made him shudder. Waves crashed against his legs, soaking his garbage soiled jeans up to his knees. Good. The water is cleansing. Cleansing away the stench and shame of Brody. Another step, then another. Waist deep, and then shoulder deep. Unblinking, he marches on, soulless eyes stung by briny ocean water. Another step, and another, until finally Brody loses his footing. The undertow does what no human being is willing to do. Claim Brody. Brody is never seen or heard from again. No one notices, except for once in 2027, when some random internet troll briefly wonders to himself, "whatever happened to that vagina guy...?" \*\*\* “Babe? Hello? Earth to Brody?” “Huh? Sorry, what?” Brody replies as Crystal’s words snap him back to reality. “I was asking if you’d go to the drug store and get some pads for me. Then you spaced out. I really need some, I’m on my last one.” “Pads? I don’t need people seeing me buying pads. No. No way,” Brody panicked. “What is such a big deal about a guy buying pads?” Crystal demanded. “You have no idea.” “You’re such an asshole,” Crystal spat as she snatched up her keys. “I’ll get them myself.” “Be safe honey. It’s dangerous out there.” “Oh, fuck you.” (Note: This story was inspired by . I'm only mentioning this at the end as to not spoil the "big reveal" in the middle of the story.


Those days, the ones I called the summer of reckoning, seeing things have become something of a chore. It was not a top priority, and there was not much to look at, to be honest. It’s not like our town is a hotbed of scantily-clad women by the poolside. We have beaches, alright, but you’ll be hardpressed to find them with women in various stages of undress. Nobody dared to skinny-dip even if the water was warm and inviting. Heck, nobody even dared to dress differently. We are a town of certain traditions and mores and whoever disobeyed will either be picketed by boisterous kids, or parroted by mothers who had an inkling for homebound gossips. It was a record-breaking summer that I can recall with certainty. Heat indexes spiked up so high that you wish you were born a cactus, so you can’t be bothered by water. Because I was always dead-tired by the usual endless periwinkle blue, I covered my eyes with darkly-tinted glasses and salvaged my weather-beaten Discman and listened to all my CDs: Mazzy Star, Wilson Philips, Tori Amos, Shawn Colvin. My musical taste is as eclectic as I wanted it to be. I listened to them as if I’m seeing them, and everything depended on it. How I’ve gone about my day, how I tried to soothe implacable wounds, and how I rearranged my mental furniture so it can sit a feeling. *** We were approaching midsummer when I saw her for the very first time. It was the first time that I ever cared about taking away my headphones to focus visually on someone. We wondered aloud every time we passed by her house, how dilapidated it looked from the outside, and the gardens about to turn into itself, degenerating, rotten, sick. I mean dude, those rickety stairs have the word ancient written all over them , my friend observed. I bet you that house is haunted. I just had the creeps looking at it , I surmised. I have known full well that the house was not haunted because I saw someone drew the curtains from inside, probably to ward off nosy neighbors. Oh, did you see that? 100% sure those were ghosts! I tried telling them that no spectral things were happening, but my friends would not want any of it. I stayed a little longer, hidden between trees as she descended from their stairs. It squawked and moaned and maybe even tried to give up, but it held on. Her weight must have been so familiar that it can only sigh in resignation. I had to bite my tongue to silent a hilarious scream. If the house, in all its ramshackle glory, could pass for Atlas Obscura, she, in hindsight, could sweep a pin-up girls popularity contest. Today, despite the heat that settled on air like heat bombs, she decided to do full-on 60’s: big, OA bows on her head, polka-dotted skirt -like New Year came late or early depends on how obsessed you are at resolutions-, and the dirtiest looking shoes with socks- white, dirty white- an exact reflection of her skin. And to complete the ensemble, she was holding a gondola basket and started picking the pathetic flowers that outlined their garden. She walked towards the woods, whistling Julie Andrews. The hills seemed alive and starving as it swallowed her whole. I could not believe what I just saw. She was unconventional and in this town where everyone should stick to the routines no matter how aboriginal they could be, everything about her screamed different and diffident. And as someone who saw her first, she should be under my initiation. I decided to go home and came up with a plan. I basked in the sun one morning in my usual spot near their turf when she, laughable, ludicrous her, appeared muttering to herself. Was she on crack? It was so hot. My brain was melting, and I was sweating like some pig about to be skewered, but I needed to proceed with the plan. Still hidden from view, I sat cross-legged on the grass, fanning vigorously, spilled Coke soaked my Philip Morris stash which I hid from the deepest recess of my Jansport and waited for her next move. She was a creature of habit. She looked around, probably afraid that her little ritual will be disrupted. When she made sure that nobody could be observing her, she repeated what she did the other day. But this time, she did it methodically: cutting the stems, arranging them neatly, placing the brightest blooms on top, deep in the basket. Her gondola boasted jasmines, gumamela, some Vietnam roses, and some varieties that I could not identify. If she would be planting flowers, why can she start in her front yard? There was something about her that teased, ‘ Come, pick me. Make fun of me. You are doing me a ginormous favor’. So I did, of course. I mean, she left me with no options, right? I was still in the carelessness of youth. I was half bad. Not that evil as some of my friends could be. But a little on the blindside. After all, I was doing her a huge favor. *** It was Monday, the heat in full swing, and the perfect time to carry out my plan. If this plan backfired, then I inexorably failed. But I left my friends out of this. So there was no way that they will know that I planned on doing this alone. I saw her again, as I intended to, this time jumper overalls that reeked of mothballs I could swear of sniffing the mile over, in pig-tailed hair, and looked seriously stupid. I was not hiding this time. She had a genuine shock when she saw me. She came into my direction where I intentionally stood up next to a garden where wildflowers sprouted blossoms, and tall grasses swayed with the zephyr. Today, honey, there will be no flowers for you. Before she could pick the bunch, I had uprooted all of those with a sweep, and all the petals- crushed, shredded petals- fell from my grip. The stalks were limply and unrecognized. I saw her knelt on the grass, inspecting the shrubbery. From all the strewn leaves and discarded blooms, she found a solitary flower in the plants left standing, a starkly sad display. She noticed me holding the best of the lots; I let it drop, all of the flowers that had suddenly lost their charm. She picked it with renewed enthusiasm as she tended the battered petals with caring hands. There is an underlying reason why ‘Don’t pick flowers’ sign existed. When you take away flowers from the place that nurtured them, they somehow lost their luster. And this strange girl can pick them to satisfy her whims and caprices! So I beat her out of it. In this town, these flowers belong to the rightful people. Those who don’t dress outlandishly. Those who abide by the rules. Those who do not forget the lore. She strutted away. She, on a mission to get away as soon as possible. I followed her. I, on a mission to carry out my plans. Along the route, together with the denied flowers, she would cut some grass and made a little, awful bouquet. Five minutes worth of walking, her journey ended. What looked about the place was an anthill of sorts- only low-lying and seeming a little out of place. There she laid the flowers gently. She stayed for at least fifty seconds. Then as fast as she came, she was gone. She took a different route this time. In my hideout, I witnessed it all. All of her intricate ceremonies, all of her lonely, careless surrender. Curious, I edged closer stealthily to the focal point and saw to my surprise, and still with this feeling I cannot place, a hastily made out epitaph written in spidery whorls and whirls: In here, in this bed of earth, lies the body of my mother. What lore, I forgot about them.


Marianna tosses and turns in her sleep as the dreams she experiences nightly cascade before her eyes. She sees the house she shared with Anthony from a distance as she drives up Maplehill Drive. Although, she doesn't live there anymore, something keeps drawing her back. Is she missing the house and her old life or is her subconscious not letting go of her past? Drenched in a cold sweat, Marianna wakes up once again and vaguely remembers what she experienced. Melatonin and sleeping pills won't give her a peaceful sleep, and she realizes she is running out of options. Dr. Preston, her Psychologist, told her if the sleeping pills didn't help, she may have to go under hypnosis to find the underlying cause of her nightmares. Marianna didn't consider her dreams nightmares. She would go back to the house and always find Anthony. He was young like they were when they moved into the house thirty years ago. His body was tight, and his muscles were rippled as they were when he was young. She couldn't see her face to know if she also reverted back to her youthful self. Dr. Preston didn't find it healthy for Marianna to spend all of her sleeping hours with a husband she no longer had. The doctor stressed to her that her husband was dead and she needed to move on. Marianna assured her she had. Anthony had died in the car crash over ten years ago. Her daily life didn't revolve around his memory, and she couldn't understand why her nights did. Another pill and she would retire for the night. Marianna hoped she would be exhausted enough to fall asleep and not dream at all. Eleven pm, she felt a hypnic jerk, the sensation of falling, and almost awakened. Her body started all over with sleep cycles, and it didn't take long before she was again in REM sleep, where she was driving up the hill to meet Anthony. The dreams were different every night; Before he passed away, they had moved out of the house, and it had new owners. Marianna knew when she was there with Anthony that they must have broken in because they no longer lived there. The family who purchased their old house returning home was a threat. She would awaken from her dreams realizing they weren’t supposed to be there. Other nights Anthony would lead her through the house and take her to rooms she never realized were there. One night he took her to the attic and showed her several pianos; some were in tact with others missing keys. There were staircases which lead to secret rooms and countless bedrooms with furniture that was not hers. Anthony would stroll through the house showing her all of the hidden features. Marianna would tell him they needed to leave because they didn't live there anymore. Anthony was not concerned about their trespassing, and would continue to explore as if it was still theirs. Marianna would wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat realizing that sometimes she missed her old life. She was happy now and had a beautiful home of her own, and the stress of the marriage she and Anthony experienced was gone. Marianna was a strong woman with a man in her life who made her happy. She couldn't understand the draw of Anthony and the Maplehill house. As soon as her REM sleep started, Marianna would dream of Anthony and the house on the hill. Most of her marriage took place there, some good, but a lot worse. Young Anthony was the one Marianna saw in her dreams. The man who she had loved dearly. The rest of their story was blurred as Anthony lead her through the house. Most of her dreams were pleasant with discovering new spaces until she noticed how Anthony hesitated and always looked behind. Someone or something was following them, and it wasn't the owners of the house. There was a dark silhouette that would appear behind doorways as they traveled into the new rooms. Marianna would try to speak to Anthony to ask what it was without any words coming out. The dreams were mainly visual without much interaction . Marianna would follow him until she realized her cell phone started to ring in her dream, and it was her boyfriend. That would bring her back to reality; Anthony and the house were not real. He was gone, and their home was also. Marianna would get up in the middle of the night exhausted, and pour herself a glass of water wondering if she would get a couple hours of sleep before her alarm went off. She desperately needed sleep. Her job was starting to suffer, and the bags under her eyes could no longer be hidden with concealer. The sleep deprivation also concerned Marianna as she was afraid of increasing her risk for heart attack, stroke, or having a careless accident. Functioning normally was getting more difficult. A year went by, and Marianna continued to have nightmares. She would often drive by the old house and park across the street trying to figure out why it had a hold on her. She was surprised one day when she climbed Maplehill Drive, and saw it was up for sale. Without delay or time to reconsider, she purchased her former home. Marianna knew it wouldn’t be deemed rational by her doctor, and her boyfriend would be offended she hadn’t discussed it with him. She considered their feelings, but decided it was her choice on how to deal with her dreams. Marianna put her house on the market, and was in her old bedroom within two months. The first night Marianna spent at the house was uneventful. It was the best night sleep she had had in three years. She woke up happy and energetic, and was confident she had solved her nightmare problem. Dr. Preston wouldn't believe how easy it was. Marianna continued to be proud of herself for figuring it out, and it took a while to notice Anthony. He was sitting in the bay window of the dining room as he often did when they were married. Marianna screamed and tried to figure out if she was asleep or awake. Anthony assured her she wasn't dreaming, and he was so happy she finally made it. Her face turned pale because she had seen a ghost, and told him he couldn’t be real he died in a car accident. Anthony told her she was right, he was dead, but needed to see and talk to her. Anthony told Marianna that he hadn't treated her with the respect she deserved. He knew that she loved him, and he had taken advantage of that love. Marianna was surprised with his confessions. Communication between them was a problem during their long marriage. Her dreams, Anthony told her, were to get her to come there. He wanted to reassure her that he had always loved her even though he didn't show it. He asked Marianna if she could find it in her heart to forgive him. Tears started to run down Marianna's face, and Anthony wiped them away. Marianna looked up at Anthony with red swollen eyes, and whispered......thank you. The dreams in Marianna’s life disappeared, as did Anthony. She sold the house and moved away into a condo with a warmer climate. She didn't know why Anthony waited ten years in the house to tell her he was sorry before he finished his journey, or if it may have determined its direction, but she was glad he did. Marianna believed she was handling his death without closure, but her sub-conscious knew otherwise.


After seeing that so many people in the world are suffering, Jesus decides to walk on earth again. The story is set in 1900s. He chooses a Sunday and a medium size town. He starts walking towards the church and noticed people staring at him , some smiling others frowning. He notices a sick beggar lying on the side of a road with eyes full of pain, he decides to heal him. He bends to touch his head and heals him. The beggar who was originally expecting some change lights up as his pain vanishes and he feels like a young teen full of energy. He stands up and starts thanking profusely and asks " Who are you? ". Jesus replies that he is Jesus, son of God and after seeing so many sufferings on earth he decided to walk again. A crowd was gathered there surrounding him and people who went for the Sunday church mass were also returning and joined the crowd. " Look another con godman " Someone said. People started criticising him and gave him threats that he will be beaten badly as he was trying to imitate Jesus with that attire and was mocking him. The beggar immediately jumped forward and started defending him. The crowd soon was divided into two , his supporters and haters. As things normally go, people started demanding proof that he is Jesus . Some asked him to turn water into wine and others asked him to go to swimming pool and walk on water. Jesus saddened by this asked them "If I don't show you any miracles , am I not Jesus? ". The answer was completely unexpected as even his supporters said that if he doesn't show any miracle it's hard to believe he is Jesus. After all how can a human who breathes and looks like us can be the son of ultimate creator? How can another human be superior to us? While all this was going on someone threw a rock at his face from the crowd. Soon he was captured and brought forward the supporters started shouting that they will kill him . Jesus asked everyone to calm down and asked him why did he throw the stone. The man replied that his family has stopped talking to him and he was harrased multiple times because he was gay and it was your fault. Jesus dumbfounded asked how it was his fault. This led to the man explaining all the core concepts and beliefs of Christianity. Jesus stayed silent for a moment and said that less than 50 percent of what he said was correct and all others were wrong. He then said that God loves all his creation and wouldn't care if you were Gay and following other religion or being an atheist wasn't wrong until you are a good human being. The crowd which was divided into two now United into one all wanting to beat him. They all tied Jesus and were going to throw him at the police station for causing disharmony. The beggar cried and pleaded and asked to take Jesus to the Father of the church as he is the one who is most qualified to decide. The crowd decided that it was not a bad idea and that the Father should decide. The father was a good old man and prayed to Jesus everyday of his life and has devoted his life to God. When Jesus was bought into church the father took one look into his eyes and said he was a conman. The crowd started muttering "we knew it " , the beggar crying. The father said that this issue must be handled by the church and what should will be done to him will be decided by the court tomorrow and till then he should be tied and kept at the attic of the church. Everyone agreed and what said was done. The father then asked everyone to leave and closed all the doors of the church. He ran towards to the attic crying and started cutting Jesus ropes while repeating "I am sorry". Jesus was confused and he was still in shock that what his followers did to him in a heavy voice he said " Do you know who I am? ". The father while crying gave a chuckle and said that" I have devoted all my life to you , how can I not recognise you? ". The father then started saying that he knew who he was after just having a glance at him but couldn't tell the crowd that. 'The society has a structure though some of its wrong it is stable, the religious books are more political and are changed by the authority as they want from time to time. If you were made free and you started shaking all there beliefs and rules soon they would have crucified you. I couldn't let that happen to you again. " Jesus with tears in his eyes understood what the father was saying he hugged the father who was lying on his feet and said that it was okay what he did and thanked him. He walked outside of the church from the backdoor. A lucky escape.


On the day the snow started turning to rivers, Nicki barged into the house at sunset with her hands clamped together, and I knew there was going to be more trouble. I’d been just about to finish my multiplication homework; I was seated at the kitchen table with three problems left. Mother had just gone out the back door to check our basil plants or Nicki would have been seen. “Dina,” she gasped, stumbling toward me. Her hair was a wild, white-blonde cloud around her head, and her shins were soaked with melted snow. “You need to come upstairs with me, now!” I gestured to my homework. “I have three more problems. I’ll come up when I’m done.” “There’s no time for that.” She darted forward and clamped down on my arm with her elbow, pulling me awkwardly from my chair while keeping her hands together. “You need to see what I found!” “But I -” “No buts!” Nicki was unstoppable, so it wasn’t worth it to resist. I stumbled after her as she tracked mud through the house in her snow boots. Mother was going to shout at her later for that; she’d already warned us that April snowmelt meant more mud than usual. I shook my hand free of her elbow and followed her up the stairs toward our room. “I was playing outside when I saw it,” Nicki panted. “We’ve been alive for nine whole years now and we’ve never seen one before, and who knows when we’ll see one again -” “What are you talking about?” She dragged me into the room and slammed the door shut behind her. Her eyes glowed as she turned to face me. “It’s a fairy .” Between her fingers something buzzed. I saw rays of bluish-white light shining out from them, pulsing like a lit-up firefly. I heard indistinct squeaking, a sound almost like a tiny, muffled voice. “A fairy?” I whispered. “Are you serious?” Nicki nodded. “And you - you took it prisoner , or what?” “It was asleep underneath a snowbank. Right at the edge where the ice had started to melt away. It stayed asleep when I picked it up.” “Well, it’s awake now .” I eyed her hands. “What are you going to do with it?” “Who knows?” At last she kicked off her shoes and launched herself onto the bed, gesturing for me to join her. I weighed the advantages of hanging back. From all I’d ever heard about fairies - granted, it wasn’t much - they were volatile forces, and not particularly to be trusted. But this one couldn’t be much larger than a beetle, to fit between Nicki’s hands. I clambered onto the bed beside her. “This had better not be like the time you brought home that talking butterfly,” I said. “The one that knew all the swear words.” Nicki’s eyes grew dreamy. “If only.” When she opened her hands, for a moment all I could see was the pulsing, buzzing light, and I thought it might just be some sort of glowing orb. But then it took off toward the window, and - yes, it was a tiny, humanoid shape with wide dragonfly wings. It slammed into the glass of the window and then whirled around, alighting on miniscule feet. “Let me out!” came the squeaky voice again, sharp now that nothing was muffling it. Nicki and I leaned forward in unison to get a better look. The fairy was a girl with dark hair reaching down to her toes, clad in a robe that looked like it was made of snowflakes. Her wingspan was several inches wider than her height. Her arms were folded, and she looked furious. “Let me out now ,” she snapped, “or I’ll set winter on this whole room!” Nicki bounded off the bed and over to the window. “Please, please do!” The fairy squinted at her. I hung back, this time; I wasn’t ready to draw her ire onto me as well as Nicki. “I bet you could make it snow in here,” said Nicki. “I bet you could cover the whole room and it would be beautiful .” Her wings fluttered slightly. There was hesitation, before she spoke again. “It would be beautiful.” “You’re a winter fairy, aren’t you?” Nicki bounced on the balls of her feet. “I’ll bet you were hibernating under that snowbank all winter, weren’t you? Were you? I’ll bet you helped make all the prettiest snow.” The wings fluttered again, and I wondered if that was a sign of pleasure. “I’m an artist.” “Oh, you are , I’m sure of it.” The blue light that surrounded the fairy, which my eyes had only just adjusted to, began now to dim. The hostility was leaving her stance. “Do you really want me to show you some of my work?” Father had told us once to be wary of anyone who started a conversation that way, but Nicki was already nodding. She was already looking around the room in expectation as the fairy rose from the windowsill, wings buzzing and glowing again. She’s going to make it snow , Nicki mouthed at me, from where I sat still secure on the bed. I barely looked at her. I couldn’t take my eyes away from the fairy. Little arrows of blue light shot from her arms when she spread them wide like a conductor, and I watched them arc from the window to the wall. I felt a sudden chill as though the window had been flung open. Frost formed on the walls where the blue arrows touched down, and then the lights swirled together and rose to the ceiling, forming blank, fluffy clouds that hovered over our heads. I shivered. If Mother or Father came into the room right now, how were we going to explain ourselves? I could swear the fairy was smirking as the first fat snowflakes began to fall. Nicki squealed and scrambled up onto her nightstand to be higher off the ground, sticking her tongue out to catch the flakes. I stretched out my hands and watched them fall on my long sleeves. They were real, all right. “They’re pretty, aren’t they?” the fairy preened. “I’m one of the best fairies in the area, for making it snow.” Nicki had somehow filled her mouth with snowflakes, and her words were jumbled as she replied. “The betht . Abtholutely.” Snow was beginning to stick to the carpet. I didn’t move from my seat. But it cut off, abruptly, when the sun moved from behind a cloud outside and a ray beamed into our room. It hit the fairy, lighting her from behind for a moment, and she dropped back down to the sill with a gasp. “The sun!” she exclaimed, sounding disgusted. “That’s springtime sun!” “It’th thpring today,” Nicki confirmed, and swallowed her mouthful of snowflakes. “You’ll have to leave soon, won’t you - you and all the other winter fairies?” The fairy was beginning to glow brighter again. Anger returning to her demeanor. She turned to peer out the window onto the ground. “The snow’s all melted out there! My art, my landscapes - they’re all disappearing!” Nicki wasn’t even looking. The snow had stopped, and she was reaching up into the clouds now, trying to pull some away into her hands. I leaned forward instead to speak my first words to her. “Were you supposed to be gone by now?” I asked. She turned to me. Her whole face, I saw now, was growing red as a strawberry. “If spring’s here, that means the rest of them left without me!” “Why would they do that?” She scowled. “I sleep late. I’ll bet they thought it would be funny , leaving me here on my own.” Angry fairies were the most dangerous kind - except, possibly, the kind that started sentences with you want to see some of my work - but I found my fear was dissipating. She was upset, now, but not at us. I edged off the bed and approached her. “What’s your name?” I asked. She turned away to stare out the window again. “It’s Aspen.” “That’s pretty,” I offered. “They love doing this to me.” Her arms folded tighter over her chest. “Just because I’m the youngest sister. They ought to be ashamed of themselves. What if I couldn’t find my way back home without them? What if I got lost and had to stay here all summer? Wouldn’t they be sorry.” “I’m sure they would be.” I glanced at Nicki. “I’ll bet we could help you come up with a way to get back at them.” Aspen’s eyes widened. “Would you?” “Nicki,” I said loudly, “if I left you somewhere to get lost, what would you do to get back at me?” She didn’t even look around from her position, now on my nightstand instead of her own, her hands still buried in the clouds. “I’d find my way home and then I’d fill your pillowcase with ants.” I blinked. “Aren’t you worried about what would happen to the ants?” “They can take care of themselves.” That was true. I grinned. When I turned back to Aspen, she looked confused - and really, how many people could say they had a sister strange enough to confuse a fairy? Whatever Aspen’s siblings were like, they couldn’t hold a candle to mine. “Nicki’s friends with the ants who live in our garden,” I said. “There’s a big anthill right by the fence in the back. If you go down there, and tell them you’re a friend of Nicki’s, they’d probably be willing to do you a favor.” “I didn’t know humans made friends with ants,” Aspen said. “It’s a long story.” “I saved their queen,” Nicki called over her shoulder. “Another ant put a curse on her and I helped break it.” Well, yes, that was the story in a nutshell, but she’d neglected to mention how exactly we’d ended up being chased by a swarm of geese across the park, a situation I’d had to get us out of and come up with excuses for. But Aspen wasn’t waiting to get the full narrative. She was already pushing against the window glass again. “I’ll go see them!” she squeaked. “Open the window and I’ll go see them!” I cracked the window open a tiny bit and propped it with a pencil, and Aspen wriggled out, descending toward the garden. The moment she was gone, the clouds sagged, falling to the floor as suddenly-condensed rain and melting all the accumulated snow. Nicki’s hair and shoulders were thoroughly soaked. I giggled at the sight, which prompted a giggle from her in return - though the carpets and sheets were going to need a top-level excuse for Mother and Father. “She seemed nice,” Nicki remarked, descending from the bed. “Should we ask for a reward when she gets back?” “Let’s see what she does,” I said. “Maybe she’ll offer us one.” And sure enough, when she squeezed her way back into the room, beaming at us both, she seemed to be in an excellent mood for gift-giving. “I’m going to make my siblings wish they were never born,” she said gleefully. “I’ll fly a hundred of those ants up to where the winter-fairies sleep, and they’ll nest in the other fairies’ beds. They’ll hide and scare them when they try to go to sleep. Oh, it’s perfect!” Her eyes glowed. “The ants are excited - they say they’ve always wanted to see what it feels like to fly.” “That’s them, all right,” I said fondly. She looked from me to Nicki and back again. “You know, humans aren’t supposed to know what we look like. We’re supposed to hide our existence.” “We won’t tell anyone,” said Nicki quickly, which was a lie. She would tell this whole story - embellished as far as she could take it - to the other kids at lunch tomorrow. And when they turned to me for confirmation, well, I wouldn’t throw my own sister under the bus. “It’s dangerous information for humans to have,” Aspen said. Nicki puffed out her chest. “Danger is my middle name.” Aspen shrugged. Her arms lifted, once more as if conducting some invisible orchestra, and twin tiny teacups - larger than her head, but still tiny to us - appeared in her hands. They were thin and dainty and made of gold, and filled with a liquid the color of honey. “This is a thank-you gift,” she said. “It’s fairy tea. It tastes to humans like whatever food you like best.” Nicki and I exchanged glances, grinning. We took the teacups carefully between thumb and forefinger, and I gulped mine down in a single sip. My eyes closed. It tasted just like steaming-hot apple cider, like the kind Father made in autumn with real fresh-picked apples. For a moment I was transported. “ Mmmm ,” Nicki said. “It’s... it’s melted ice cream with strawberry syrup.” When I opened my eyes, the windowsill was empty. I frowned for a moment, examining it - completely clear, and the window shut tight. The new springtime sun was shining brighter than before into our room. I turned around at the same moment Nicki did. Our entire bedroom was soaked. It looked as though a rainstorm had whirled through here a moment ago, and I had the feeling I was supposed to know why, that I’d seen what had happened. But for the life of me I couldn’t think what it was. “How did it get so wet in here?” Nicki asked. I turned to her, confused. “Don’t... don’t we know?” She shook her head. Almost in unison, we looked down at our hands. There were little golden teacups in them, clean and sparkling and strangely cold to the touch. As though they were made of ice, though I could feel the hardness of the metal in my fingers. Where had these come from? And why couldn’t I remember? “Nicki,” I said slowly, “I have a feeling one of your schemes just went wrong again.” Nicki smiled. “It’s possible.” The light outside brightened again. I glanced out the window. It was really a beautiful afternoon. Almost all the snow outside had melted by now, and grass was beginning to show itself to the world again. Soon flowers would be blooming in yards and in trees, and summer would be full of color. Then there was a knock on our door. My heart dropped as I whipped around again. Mother was outside, or Father, about to walk in and see what we’d done - or what something had done - to our carpets. “Dina,” Nicki said, “do you have one of your excuses ready?” I was always the one with the excuses. I squeezed my eyes shut and racked my brains. “Yes. Yes, all right. I’m ready.”


It's 4am again and you still can't sleep. You can't get her out of your head. The car outside keeps backfiring and the couple across the hall keeps arguing and you can't get her out of your head. The air is still cold and the sky is still dark and your eyes are still open. Water is still dripping from the ceiling and the landlord keeps promising to fix it and still the water is dripping from the ceiling at 4 am while you remember her soft eyes and pretty smile because you still can't get her out of your head. The couple is fighting, but this time it's worse and a gunshot breaks the tension and soon the sirens are coming but you don't go to join the crowd watching because you can't get her out of your head. The air is still cold because it's morning, and she's still far away from here which is why you're still awake at 4 am, not the police activity or the shooting but because she's not with you, and you're crying, not because a woman was just murdered across the hall, not because she probably was being abused long before it happened, and not because the water dripping from the ceiling is eating through the floorboards, but because you can't get her out of your head. You don't know if you'll ever get to see her again, but you realize now, much too late, that you love her, and not even the shouts and protests of the abusive husband across the hall can change your mind that love is precious, even at 4 am when the water is dripping and the air is cold and the woman lies dying and you can’t get her out of your head. When you stand, the tears stand with you, dropping onto the floorboards and joining the water from the ceiling. The landlord, you see, keeps promising to fix it, but it’s been weeks and the water keeps coming, but he’s promised to fix it, but not at 4 am while you can’t sleep because you can’t get her out of your head. Your heartbreak is hiding among the water on the floorboards, and you think it's perfect because no one sees your sadness anyway, least of all the woman across the hall who lies dying, and it's really too bad because she was always so kind, and you hate yourself for not caring that she's dying but it's only because the water is still dripping and you're still crying and the air is so cold and you’re realizing at 4 am that every love story is a tragedy as your tears keep coming because you can't get her out of your head. And while the woman lies dying you think about the blood, because it too is drying even while people stand crying. And people will be crying because the woman lies dying, and your tears aren’t drying, “No use denying” he’s been sighing and replying over his wife’s body, lying and dying, yet here you are still trying even though you can’t get her out of your head.


“You can’t look at it directly. Well, I lie. You shouldn’t look at it directly.” The man was standing in front of a framed painting hanging in the back room of the dusty apartment. A clean sheet was artfully draped over it. “I have it covered as you see,” he continued, “it’s been inconsolable since Mrs. Shasta passed. We aren’t quite sure how to safely move it.” The movers frowned; this was not usual. But unusual was their specialty. “Is it screwed to the wall or something?” The taller one asked. “How fragile is it?” What the shorter one was actually asking was, how expensive would it be if it broke. Sidestepping both questions the man asked, “Are you sure you’re up for this? You do have experience with this sort of thing, correct?” “Of course, this is our specialty.” Said the tall one. Let’s call him Owen. But the shorter one looked worried. It was a big painting, and the staircase was very narrow. “Luke,” said Owen, for that was the short one’s name. “Get the tool kit, we’re making a crate for this one. Get the aluminum foil as well. As is the case with most paintings that have taken a turn for the sentient. They had a tendency to unexpectedly pun. Too much punning was never good. Aluminum foil was simply a cheap way to make sure that nothing shiny in the painting could reflect anything back, or onto, the viewer. Self-reflection was greatly discouraged. This particular painting had been hanging in the back room of Mrs. Shasta’s apartment for its entire career. It had become unexpectedly self-aware one late November evening on the occasion of Mrs. Shasta’s sixtieth surprise birthday party. A series of mishaps too numerous to recount here, had culminated in a very painful bite, given by Mrs. Shasta’s horrible Pomeranian to a distant niece. Said niece had stepped on the dog, hard. It was an accident, but she wasn’t sorry. That Pomeranian had it coming. The badly bittern niece duly started to bleed a copious amount of blood all over a crochet doily that Mrs. Shasta prized. In the ensuing chaos, somehow, this bloody doily was flung and hit the painting in the face. Sometimes that’s all it takes. “What does the painting do?” Luke blurted. He had read about the doily incident in the work order. The man looked affronted. “Do? It doesn’t do anything. It’s a painting.” While the credentials of the movers were solid, the man standing in front of the painting was not impressed with them so far. “It makes you do the doing.” He shrugged, nothing for it, these were the movers on hand. “I have another appointment. Please lock up on the way out.” Luke, not reading the room, asked one more question as the man turned to leave, “What happened to the dog?” The man paused but did not turn around, “Oh, the dog? It outlived Mrs. Shasta for sure. Do be careful on the stairs.” Alone with each other, and the painting of course, the movers got to work. Owen hadn’t wanted to take Luke on this job, but he was very good with aluminum foil and the owner's son, so there had been no real choice in the matter. The painting sat deep in its ornate gilded frame. The cream cotton sheet covered it completely as it hung sullenly on the wall. The cloth did not come close to touching its surface but billowed slowly, like shallow breathing. Luke could swear there was some kind of light ... “Are you looking at the painting?” said Owen sharply. “No.” Luke lied. “Help me get it off the wall.” It was as heavy as it looked, and larger than they thought. There wasn’t enough floor space to put it face down, so they laboriously put it back on the wall and moved the furniture to make more room. This revealed a few ancient and well chewed tennis balls, nested in puffs of dust. Once safely back on the wall, the cloth covering slyly started to slide off, revealing one ornate gilded acanthus leaf. They caught it just in time, before it revealed more than just the frame. “Let’s get the packing material down on the floor first. We’re going too fast. We have to be systematic.” Owen was starting to sweat. He thought the painting might be blue. He shouldn’t know that. “One, two, three - lift.” They placed the painting face down on the matted mauve carpet. “We forgot the packing material. We didn’t put it down.” Luke said in a whisper. He backed up to the cobweb encrusted wall where the painting had hung. “Happens. Calm down Luke. It’s still face down.” But Owen gave the painting a quick glance to make sure. “Get the stuff. I want to get this over with.” Owen wanted a beer and his recliner, the one he had to fight the cat for. They both left the back room to regroup. Luke took out the heavy-duty aluminum foil. No way was he going to use the cheap stuff from the dollar store. Not for this job. “Did you measure it?” asked Owen. “The aluminum foil?” “No Luke. The painting.” “Can we just go?” “No Luke. We can’t just go.” Not for the last time Owen wished the kid had stayed at the office. The painting disliked carpeting. It disliked the color mauve as well. While it was no easy task, while the two men were in the other room, it decided to face the other direction. But it coyly stayed draped in the cream fabric, no point in frightening the gentlemen. Luke gave a panicked shriek when he entered the back room with the packing materials. “What is it? What happened?” “I thought we placed it face down!” He dropped everything on the floor, disturbing the thick layer of dust on the carpet, then started to cough. Luke was not rising to the occasion. “Luke, why don’t you go downstairs and get us some sandwiches from that corner place?” Handing him a wad of crumpled bills he continued, “I’ll take a turkey on rye and a coffee. Two sugars.” Luke, grateful for the excuse to leave the building, grabbed the money and ran down the stairs. Upon reaching the street he decided that he wasn’t feeling well. With only a slight twinge of guilt, Luke texted his dad that he was going home for the day, he thought it was something he ate. He’d pay Owen back later. Owen’s demeanor changed after Luke left. He wasn’t expecting him to come back with sandwiches. The guy was not up to this job, no matter his foil skills. It was probably better this way; he’d talk to the boss tomorrow. Now it was time to get to business. The painting itself had enough. It did not want to leave its comfortable back room, no matter how much it disliked the carpeting. It did not want to be literally man-handled down a narrow staircase. It wanted to stay put. With only one gentleman left, it had to figure out how to get back on its wall. “You do know it’s nothing personal, right?” Owen addressed the painting, “I have a job to do, and that’s you. You have to go.” The painting looked so sad on the floor, so uncomfortable. The cloth was all bunched up in the center. He reached out to smooth it, to pull it out of the way... “You stop it. Stop it right now. I’ll get you down the stairs in pieces if you don’t cut it out.” Owen knew that was an empty threat and would most likely get him fired. Instead, he closed the blinds and turned the lights out through the apartment. He was going to do this by feel. That made all the difference. It took a while, all by himself and in total darkness, but he got the thing packed up, even if he did run out of aluminum foil halfway. It was a shame though, that he covered the back of the painting instead of the front. It was an honest mistake, but a mistake the painting had set up carefully. He only opened the blind tiny bit to check his work, but it was a bit too much. The sheet of fabric had long since fallen away, and was now too crumpled to use, never mind too far away to grab. There with perfect serenity was the portrait gently smiling at him from the floor. It was so beautiful. So very beautiful. The painting was not delivered to the warehouse. While the man was annoyed, he was not surprised. That’s the last time I use a service because I have a coupon , he thought to himself. An ancient Pomeranian snored beside him on the desk in a small pink bed. “There there my sweet poopsie, there there.” He stroked her fur as she slept, “there there.”