I used to stare out of my window, when the nurse would draw the curtains on pleasant afternoons. The only sunshine I’d ever get was what escaped the delicate wisps shielding my room from the prying eyes of the outside world. I never minded that people could see me from the street. I watched them all the time, why shouldn’t they watch me? Everyday, like clockwork, people would march back and forth on the pavement, casual strolls, hustling, bursting steps, cars. When the nurse drew the curtains, I could see everything. My piece of the world was minuscule in comparison to what the ones I watched could see, but I was happy. Until I saw the Red Umbrella. It was a sunny July afternoon, the same faces crossing my sight as always, plastered expressions uniform. Men in suits and women in sundresses with little children paced through my strip of paradise, and I watched them. I watched them just like I did everyday from the sour gentleness of my sheets. They chose a cream color for me, but as the days went by it began to look like rubbing alcohol. Then, while I slept, they’d take away the bleached cloth and I would wake up in a jarring mesh of yellow. The cycle would repeat. Again, it was a sunny July afternoon, after they replaced my bedding, I found myself watching the same faces as always. I paid no mind to the uniformity of the scene; compared to the untextured, colorlessness of my walls, anything was beautiful. Then I saw the Red Umbrella. It was an unexpected streak of vibrancy in my strip of reality, drastic in comparison to the sunflower yellows, deep greens, and subdued grays that I so often saw from my window. Just as abruptly as it arrived, the Candy Apple disappeared from my vision. I found myself craning my neck to catch an extra millisecond of the Sweet Taste, but my fragile limbs shook from the effort. I sank back into the stifling cotton my head was fated to rest upon, weighed down by my imperfections. It wasn’t raining that day. My eyes held open by midnight ponderings gripped the Red Umbrella. Who carried It? I would give anything to walk in the warmth of the sun, feeling its raw touch, unobscured by curtains or glass. Who would cover themselves from its affectionate embrace? I didn’t understand. The Red Umbrella wasn’t there the next morning, or the one after, or even the following Monday. But I couldn’t get Its image out of my mind. It stayed there, burned behind my eyelids, appearing on the bedspread, haunting me whenever I blinked. I asked the nurse to keep the curtains open, just in case It came some other time of day. She gave me a quizzical look, but obliged, figuring an expanded horizon would do me good. It was the same. Night time yielded no different presence. The bustle was hushed, the still activities of the dark creeping through the street, unnoticed by the uninterested moonlight. I sighed, but out of the corner of my eye, I could’ve sworn I saw a Dash of Scarlet against the shadows. I turned stiffly, black dots dappling my vision. A hand was illuminated in the somber shine of the moon. An matte-white glove wrapped around the burgundy handle of the Red Umbrella. I could see It from my window, only a few feet away from the glass, fog creeping in from the edges. A moment, then It disappeared behind the translucent wall that separated me from life. And again, I waited. I woke up one morning to the sound of my door being shut. I was disoriented at first, but it only took a blink to be washed over by the numbing scent of fresh paint. It was like carbonation behind my eyes, bubbles bursting in my mind. I choked on the thick air, able to taste the sourness of the atmosphere. To combat the stinging, I shrunk into my bedding, it suddenly becoming my only solace. I laid there for hours, covered by my blanket. The empty white was grey from underneath, a soothing change from what usually crossed my sight. It was peaceful, and I found myself sinking into a gently rocking state of sleep. I dreamed of nothing. Months went by without another appearance from the Red Umbrella. My days blurred together, sometimes I would see a different colored car drive by, or a woman wearing a new dress, but that was the only spice I tasted. Slowly, my limbs grew stiffer, I found myself stuck, dependent on the mercy of room around me. The only exits being the door and the window. I began to resent the window. When the nurse left it open for a breeze to sweep through, I turned my face away. I turned away from everything. My gaze was fixated on the wall, what used to be a colorless canvas was now tinted an unflattering pale. When I asked the nurse why they had painted over the walls she only mentioned that there were chips in multiple places, and they had to add another layer of white to fix it. To stifle any sense of texture more like. She closed the window and left me to wander the cathedral of my mind. That night, I forgave the window. The crescent moon swung back and forth on its axis, like a pendulum counting the seconds till midnight. I heard footsteps, echoing the way water does when it drops onto puddles in caves. I blinked and there It was. The Red Umbrella hovered just outside, and I could see the figure holding It. Delicate white gloves, olive skin, a flowing black dress that shone in the moonlight. She held an empty hand out to me, face shielded by the shadow of the Red Umbrella. I opened my mouth to speak to her, but before I could utter a word, she drew her invitation back and transgressed my view. The nurse didn’t come the next morning. I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, a flat surface with a single hanging light. I could feel warmth radiating from the window, but I didn’t have the energy to look over. I heard the door open, gentle breathing followed and dripping footsteps. It was the woman with the Red Umbrella. My frozen body was pressed into the sheets, white glue trapping my limbs. I felt afraid. I had wanted for months to touch the Red Umbrella, but now that It was here, I was terrified. I had too many thoughts, unsteady breaths, holding me back from the Reverie I had so eagerly yearned for. “You’ve been waiting for me,” the woman’s voice was silk, a gentle breeze on a pleasant Tuesday, the soothing kiss of the ocean after burning sand rips away one’s soul. She closed the Red Umbrella, revealing her face. She didn’t have definitive features. I could see a thousand colors in her eyes, a hundred different faces, all of which I remembered but couldn’t quite place. She was familiar, like a childhood memory, lost for years, revisited by my consciousness. I stared at her, or more accurately, I stared at the Red Umbrella. It was pointing at my chest within arm’s reach, more vibrant than ever. “We’re ready for you.” My numb body began to sting, like needles pricking my arms and legs, shaking. I extended my hand and grabbed hold of the Scarlet Rod. The woman and I walked through the street together, she had handed me my own umbrella, an excited yellow, a smile hovering above me, keeping me sheltered from the rain. We walked past houses and gardens and schools, until we came across a weary building. I noticed an open window, curtains ruffled in the wind like butterfly wings. In the shadows of the room, I could just make out two figures, one fixated on the ceiling, cascaded by snowy sheets, the other knelt beside the bed, gripping the resting figure’s limp hand. “What’s happened?” I asked the woman as we continued along the path together. She was silent. Buildings became trees, thick forests of emerald with dancing birds calling out from their hiding places. The rain had stopped, and the woman turned to me, finally with an answer to my greatest question. “You’ve finally gone to sleep.


"It's like a ringing, maybe a pitch, no, a melody, yeah, there are words," Bob explained. "I don't know what to tell you, Bob; there's nothing wrong with you," the doctor said as he shone a light into his ear. "What do you mean nothing is wrong with me? I came in last week; every time I raised my right hand, I experienced a sensation in my thumb; it was like pulsating pleasure; yeah, I felt pleasure in my thumb," Bob said as he rubbed his thumb. "I'm sorry to say this because we've been friends for almost 20 years, but maybe an ENT isn't what you need; maybe a psychologist." "You're calling me crazy! Is that what you're saying? There it is again; Earth will end in thirty days," Bob said, gesturing to his ear. The doctor turned off his light and shook his head. "Look, Bob, you came in last month and said you had leprosy." "Can you blame me? Quasimodo sneezes on me in the subway, and I begin to develop spots." "You were wearing a spotted shirt!" "I don't have to take this; I'll get a second opinion; my cousin is a hair doctor in White Plains; I'll go see him." "Alright. Do what you want." "What did you say?" the doctor asked as Bob opened the door. "I didn't say anything." "Is this some kind of trick?" the doctor scratched his ear. "Are you all right? You look like I did when I thought I had trichinosis." The doctor had a seat and rubbed his head, "Yeah, I remember; your neighbor was cooking tofurky, and it smelled bad. There it is again." "What is?" "I hear it... Earth will end in thirty days." Bob taps his ear, "See, I told ya, the Earth's gonna end in 30 days; my luck, I just paid my cable bill for the whole year." It went viral, and out of the blue, everyone on Earth heard a voice in their head saying, "Earth will end in 30 days." Religious service attendance tripled, businesses were looted, and human society swiftly deteriorated into chaos. Government services ceased, and the President walked off the job. After one week, the White House's front lawn resembled a burning man, someone drew a penis on the Liberty Bell, and the constitution was found on the back of a toilet next to a People magazine from last June. But there was one group that remained hopeful. A group of scientists gazed up at the sky. "It just flipped to 22 days; that last one was 22." "Yeah, mine just flipped as well." At night, scientists worldwide looked for asteroids, alien spaceships, and, who knows, a guy with a beard and robe. But nothing. They looked into climate change, EMP from the sun, the state of all supervolcanoes, nuclear weapons, and what Charlie Sheen was up to. There was even talk of building a bunker. A well-respected panel was formed to choose 5,000 people for the bunker, and 2,500 people between the ages of 10 and 20 were chosen at random. Skyler Smith of Santa Clara was the lucky winner of a Mountain Dew cap sweepstakes. The panel personally chose 1,500 people between the ages of 21 and 40 with specified skill sets based on what would be required in a new society. Taylor Swift was included because it was decided that the Billboard Hot 100 must go on. Finally, 1,000 people aged 41 to 60 were chosen for their contributions to human society up to this point in history. When Elon Musk was left off the list, he pouted before he boarded his rocket and flew to his secret Mars colony. The countdown had reached ten days, and they began to bring food, water-making equipment, and other supplies into the bunker. However, on the day of the move-in, they discovered that they had locked the keys inside the bunker, and the project was canceled. Wars broke out all across the world as borders became meaningless, credit cards were maxed out, and people stopped paying their car insurance bills. On this day, a scientist in Switzerland believed he had spotted an asteroid, but it was later determined that he had been eating cheese near his lens, and the discovery was a false alarm. This false hope caused many people to stop fighting because they had to consider living next door to someone they had just tried to murder. They used to merely argue over how long the hedges were; now, there's that awkward moment when you remember your neighbor had a machine gun to your head. It was only one day to the end of the world; it was eerily quiet everywhere. Pedro Valente of Santa Fe, New Mexico, won Powerball and took the lump sum. Sara Nickerson of Sarasota, Florida, intended to try cocaine for the first time but accidentally spilled it into white flour, so she just made brownies instead, and when Tegan Richards of Denver, Colorado, awoke from a ten-year coma, relatives and friends raced to his bedside and broke the news that the world was going to end today. Humans from all around the world looked around at the death and destruction that had taken place in the previous 30 days. The Earth had already been destroyed; they had done it on their own and no longer needed the countdown. Tick, tick, tick, everyone waited for the fateful time with family and loved ones, and the moment had come. "Update complete. Restarting..." Bob sat up and paid close attention. "Welcome to Earth 2.0, now with Wordle." "Ohhh, it wasn't the Earth will end in 30 days, but the Earth update will end in 30 days. Oh well, that's on me, everyone," Bob said as he rubbed his thumb.


Four years ago, I had longed for a revolution in France. Every day my hungry belly and aching bones had cried out for freedom alongside my fellow countrymen and every night I had fallen asleep to dreams of a new, free world, a world which I had longed for with every drop of my bitter sweat. When we’d stormed their fortresses, leveled their walls, cut of their heads and reveled in our victory it had seemed, for a brief and flickering instant, as though we would finally breathe free, and standing in front of the bodies of our enemies I never once felt the slightest doubt about our cause. But as the years had passed, the new regime had begun to seem little better than what had come before. The fledgling Republic was just as poor as the old Monarchy, and war was looming hungrily on the horizon. Not so very long ago these things would have been bearable in our new world, we could afford to pay such a cost for our freedom. And yet, today, I would finally see how great this cost had been. Yesterday evening, cheered by a hearty dinner, I had almost been as hopeful as I had been during the revolution. The ride into town had been pleasant. Peering out over the dusky townscape, I had watched the town roll past in slow urban waves and pictured the wealth our future Republic might provide. Scruffy thatched roofs and worn-down wooden walls opened up around me as I rode past before making their way back into the distant townscape behind, each one seeming like little more than a dusty painting of an old, dead world as I pictured what each building might look like in the near future, on some uncertain date when our Republic would be mature and strong. But as I looked down, now, at the pretty streets of Cholet, teeming with fresh blood, I could not but pause to think on what we’d become. Our battle had been fiercely won and Royalist corpses were strewn across the cobbled road, their broken cannons and empty guns lying feebly by their blood-soaked bodies. They were the revolutionaries against the revolution, forever loyal to the king even after his death. More than brave, they had been cunning: starting smoky fires in the street to foil our artillery and fleeing when the battle had become too costly to them, the mass of their army had fled across the river. Those at my feet were the unlucky, and after gazing so long at these poor souls I began to wonder. Had we become that which we had beheld? Had we so quickly filled that void of evil and transformed into very thing which we had so deeply despised? These questions plagued my mind as I gazed at these fallen revolutionaries. Looking away from the corpses of my countrymen and gazing instead at the horizon, I tried to remind myself of what we were fighting for: our struggle to free ourselves from the oppression of aristocracy. But how easily that specter of doubt came back to haunt me. What right had we, if freedom was our goal, to take the freedom of life from these brave men and to drown their convictions in warm blood? Closing my eyes, I let the streets fill up once again in my mind as I tried to picture how the world would have been a few years before. The residents of Cholet now lying before me, and of the surrounding region, had never hated their masters as bitterly as we had. From what I knew, the nobility here had been relatively kind. I pictured the Lords and Ladies walking, perhaps, even alongside their subjects through the streets, an entourage of adoring subjects by their sides. Faces smiling. What had we done? How vain it was of us to think that we could rid the world of all its sorrow. Power had now corrupted us, the low-born, with its cruelty just as it had tainted the high-born long before. Surely the first kings were elected by their peers, just as we elect our politicians now, their subjects consenting to their rule. Perhaps even now some charismatic leader of the revolution was preparing to seize the power of the state for himself, a man seeking to recapture the power of our recently vanquished king. How long would it be until his tyranny would require a revolution of its own? As if responding to my inner musings, a half-slouched body to my left started to re-animate: “Good Sir, have mercy.” The corpse was murmuring “I am only wounded, please help me”. With sadness in my voice I replied: “No Sir, I will not help you. You are already dead.” After a brief pause, I heard him mumble a final prayer: “God, have mercy on us.” As the man murmured his agony to his imaginary creator, soon to be embraced by the cold dead earth around him, I realized that my doubts didn’t matter. Our fate had already been forged in the flames of the revolution, there was nothing I could do now. No longer condemned to the rule of Gods or Kings, each man and woman was now free to define and redefine their lives for themselves, forever rehearsing our great revolution internally whilst struggling to maintain the freedom they’d gained. They would have to fight, over and over, for the right to breathe free, for the right to define their own lives. Rulers and royalty, oppressors and suffocators, none of them had been truly vanquished, none of them had really gone while still new despots and dictators could rise through our new ranks. Now they were coming back, through us. We are them. The oppressed becoming the oppressor. The monarchy had never been the sole cause of our suffering, and no revolution could ever free us of the root of our ills. There would forever be the oppressors and the oppressed, so long as living beings drew breath. And so I must stand in bloody battlefield dirt, on the other side of that crooked mirror, the very oppressor I had once vowed my soul to defeat. I am destined to quell without mercy every spark of the counter revolution, just as our enemies had once sought to quell us. Up above a flight of larks were carried through the wind, dipping and soaring up again through the air before veering downward once more. We must march like this forever, through the pages of history, forever fighting in the dimness of the past.


It was a Thursday evening. On any other Thursday, I would have been in a meeting or a call or in the middle of something important at work. One day to go before the weekend, Thursdays are busy days. Come to think of it every day is a busy day. Weekdays, weekends, holidays, everything gets merged into one big time warp. The days are indistinguishable. >And you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it’s sinking, Racing around to come up behind you again, The sun is the same in a relative way, but you’re older, Shorter of breath and one day closer to death. -- Time, Pink Floyd 22 years had gone by in a blur. Hard work, success, love, marriage, baby, start-up and it goes on. No one tells you that the most precious thing you lose is yourself. One day at a time, you erode like the rocks being hit by the waves on the beach. Some days you don’t recognize yourself anymore. Every pursuit changes you permanently. I am now a changed man, a different one actually. After all these years, things started to look better again. I finally donated a huge chunk of my wealth. My wife started her quest to love me again and my daughter had begun her own quest for meaning in a family. The time was right. >*Don’t look for me because I am gone. The one you loved is gone, the one you married is gone, the one who stood by you and told you to do the same is gone. The me you wanted was never me, the person I became for everyone to be happy was never me. The person I became to achieve my success was never me. The lies I told myself were the truths I lived by. Now what remains of my life must be in the pursuit of finding my soul. I have to let go of everything I love and everything that has held me in place. I have to find where life takes me. I know you may never forgive me but I urge you to find compassion in your heart to do so. Cherish my memory and move on. I leave you all the material comfort to enable to find your own calling. I wish you nothing but the best and I hope over time you will forget our bad times and always remember the good times.* I folded the letter, placed it in the envelope and placed it on her bedside. I always felt looked her best when she was asleep, at peace with herself and everything around. I locked the door, threw the keys in through the window and walked around the block to the car. One hour later, I was at the airport. I checked in and while I waited for the boarding to start, I threw my smartphone in a bin. I felt a pang of anxiety. The plane taxied on the runway and lifted off. I saw the city I had lived and loved all my life grow small. I have flown a thousand times, it still fills me with awe. Planes are special, they represent our triumph over the greatest forces. I looked at the clouds beneath me in awe. We replicated nature & out did it. I always wondered if planes would have existed if not for birds. >Ever think about sleeping without any worry about when you need to get up? I woke up 6 hours later, swollen feet, burning eyes and disoriented. After a few minutes of wriggling my toes, I stood up and stretched. The reality of what I was doing hit me. My wife would have seen the letter by now, my daughter must be with her. I tried to picture the scene. Anger, disbelief and perhaps amusement. My daughter would have excused herself to the study. Brows wrinkled, she would be writing down everything she knows. I could almost see her with 3 map printouts- road, rail & air, with 3 circles on where I could be in 6 hours. I will always be proud of what she is. The toughest part was getting the fake passport. The rest was easy after that. It is only when I met the guy who procured the passport for me, I realised what I was about to do was real. I was trying to leave everything I had fought for behind. Two hours later, I walked to the immigration counter & handed over my passport. I hoped I didn’t look as nervous I felt. Getting caught would not only be embarrassing but an international crime. I could go to jail. “Look at the camera please”, said the lady behind the counter. She stamped the passport and said, “Thank you, sir, enjoy your stay.” I did it. The first few days were hard. I had the compulsive need to make a to-do list. I craved for comforts. I had preconceived notions about the places & experiences that I wanted to have. Experiences aren’t supposed to be planned, they are meant to happen. I went back to the basics, food, clothing & shelter. Everything else was fluff. My body began to adjust to foreign food, to exercise & to sitting lesser than 2 hours each day. The only upsetting part was when I saw a father & daughter or a husband and wife in conversation. I missed my family. For the first time in years: I saw the sun rising & setting every day. My back wasn’t stiff. My eyes didn’t burn when I woke up. I was in touch with myself. The noise in my head was unbearable for the first few days. Then it slowed down, it stopped chattering & it stopped wandering. I was present and alive. I bought my first guitar when I was 23, always dreamed that I could play to hypnotise myself and others around me. The guitar sat there in the corner like a dream that wouldn’t go away, the years passed and I never played it. Some days I would stare at it, it was a representation of my broken dreams that I had left on the side to pursue my career. >Everybody builds a museum of unfulfilled dreams at their homes. It is usually in the loft or the basement. Skateboards, tents, cameras, biking helmets, guitars, unfinished books, dairies & paintings. The dreams are “shelved” to make way for suits & shirts so that someday we could make time for the dreams again. After 22 years, I bought myself an acoustic guitar again and took lessons from the old man across the street. Finally, I started getting somewhere with it. >*It shouldn’t take 22 years before you begin introspection. To love anyone else, you also need to love yourself & your dreams. To have the energy to pursue things that make others happy, you must pursue a few things that make you happy.* I finished playing the last song for the night, an overwhelming sense of pride filled me when I heard the claps. I thanked the crowd & took a bow. Someone tapped my shoulder as I was packing my guitar. “Can I get an autograph and some dinner?”, said the pretty girl with a large smile. My daughter found her dad for the first time in years.


My sister, the prostitute. I know because she comes home every night and tells me about the men she’s slept with that day. She returns in the witching hours, just before morning breaks, and whispers things like “you won’t believe the strange man who hired me tonight. He was the most handsome person I think I’ve ever met, right down to his hands. When he opened his mouth I knew why he was paying for sex, his breath was disgusting!” She strides across the room, talking. Glowing in the moonlight that escapes the paisley-patterned sheets pretending to be curtains. Clothes slowly roll off her body leaving only perfumed evidence of their existence on her skin. “Remember how it smelled on the right summer day when we lived in that old apartment above the god-awful fish market? It was like that plus ten-degrees.” Once her hair is down and face is unmasked she continues her stories. Wrapped up snug under our Little Mermaid comforter, a reminder of a childhood cut short. Now our only remaining security. My skin is still soft, muted, like uncut fleece. Hers is the kind of soft from ritually melting lotions and creams into it, all of them tainted with some romantic aroma. Lavender and vanilla butt heads against musk and a sour note of patchouli on too warm of a night. Peppermint from that time she only had soothing foot lotion to rub herself down with. A smell so pervasive our landlady still knocks on our door once a week, “I brought a humidifier for you! Works much better than peppermint or Vicks to loosen up a cough, I’ll just leave it at the door.” In a strange way, her gravelly voice feels motherly. But my favorite is Amber, the kind that comes in a small wooden container, a delicately carved top that unscrews to reveal the magical substance -- like moist brown sugar. Sometimes when we lay together her voice is so faint you only know she is there is from the perfume dancing next to you. This is how we lay at night. This is how I know my sister. These are the lessons I’m learning about navigating life. Wide-eyed as usual, I wait for the first kernel to fall from her lips as though I’m starving. “Salt and pepper, business-dress. He talks casually like an uncle would instead of the head of an international company. Short for a man, one sock grey and the other pale pink. Commando,” she starts. “Was he kind?” I ask. “Don’t mistake shame or pity for kindness; they are *not* the same thing.” I push back the hair from my face and turn towards her hoping to catch some light on her face as she’s story-telling. “What did he want?” I ask, not willing to wait but unsure I want the answer. “Anna, there are things in life that you won’t want to do but you do them anyway because making money is more important than being proud of yourself... Tonight was one of those times,” she says without emotion. The light finally shows on her face, only the shape of her left cheek and the corner of her mouth. Neither turned up or down, but sitting straight as the hair on my head falls, and it remains silent before she turns herself away from me. She lays still as nature on a breezeless day, her feet locked tightly around one another refusing to play with mine. I wrap myself around this mannequin until I know she’s asleep. Her shallow, slow breaths pretend they know happiness in sleep. 4:00 AM blazes neon from across the room. I count the seconds as I relax my hold and steadily move towards the edge of the bed. Sitting up, carefully replacing the covers to hide the loss of my warm body next to hers. 4:07 AM now on the clock face. My toes naturally curl around the purple fingerlike shag. I shuffle across the floor towards her purse, passing our closet in its constant explosion of mess. A mirror of our lives. She claimed a regular bought the purse for her. The security tag still attached when she brought it home proved otherwise. Gold and purple and everything Gucci, inside and out, the purse could hold everything from a change of clothes to a 15lb terrier and even as many as eight hot DVD players, at one time. Pockets inside, but none in use. Everything is just thrown into the middle, a great meat pie. Sometimes when a tube of lip gloss gets lost, uncapped, and I pull something out covered in goo I imagine it’s Slime from an old Nickelodeon show. Key cards to hotels, too many to count. Most of them from places like the Holiday Inn and Marriott, once in a while an upscale boutique -- The Blake, W., Crimson. Those key cards she always keeps; stacks them nice and neat in a wooden keepsake box under the dresser. Next to memories of our mother, next to the last small container of Amber. I also find books of matches. She gave up smoking but her clients always ask for a light so she steaks them by the dozen from a sleazy downtown lounge, The Trifecta. She says she hates everything Trifecta and the matches remind her to never smoke again. Pills of every color, stowed in mismatched prescription bottles. They keep her cocaine company, baggie hidden in its own fluorescent orange tube labeled “Amoxicillin”. Her wallet, not currently covered in bubblegum pink goo, keeps track of three twenties, a few pennies, and one lonely blackened quarter. Her license pictures a girl about 25-turning-33 with loose brown curls hanging around a politely oval face. Enough light crawls into the room and I spot a single bit of paper tucked in the side pocket that I originally missed. I pull it out to see my name scribbled and a phone number I don’t recognize below it. “Anna,” I hear her say. That perfumed body floating along the sound waves to reach my ears and nose simultaneously. This time it is the sour Patchouli followed by sweet Amber that hits me. “What’s this?” I point to the piece of paper that now seems to light up the room. The perfume pauses a moment. “I meant to talk to you earlier, I just had such a terrible night that I wanted to wait. Harold has lined up a job, for you... He thinks it’s time you got your feet wet.” “Kate...” is the only word I manage to let escape. Her words change from Amber to peppermint. “You’re gonna do fine, don’t think about what I said tonight because it’s really not that bad.” “I’m scared.” A few tears test gravity while her words course through me, burning my nostrils through and through. “I ask a lot of questions but I’m not ready.” My nostrils flare wildly. The rats start chewing at my stomach. She reaches down to my hand, tugging at it to pull me back into bed. “Let’s get some sleep, it’s late,” her hand squeezing mine with every vowel. Her body encompasses mine *under the sea* while her vanilla voice says, “you already know everything. Doing it is the easy part.” Her lips trace the nape of my neck until I feel her nose pressed against my hairline. The musk of her fingertips searches this body to coerce acceptance of fate.


He sat on the pearlescent ground below him, one knee propped while his arm rested atop. He was contemplating - glaring through his furrowed brow at the two paths that lied ahead of him. For which each path had its balance of consequences that were unbeknownst to man. The scowl plaguing over the dark-haired heir's marble face was rightfully placed, he hadn't known why or how he had ended up in this predicament. 'Two doors,' he thought to himself, " What are the consequences that will greet me...' His black eyes closed swiftly, exhaling before standing to his feet. The man bit at the inside of his cheek nervously walking to the black door that rested to the left. Vasilis's mouth became dry as he gulped down nervously extending his long and shaking fingers outward to grab the silver doorknob. He exhaled loudly pushing the door open with unease. To what lay behind the door was nothing he had expected, it was even a comforting sight... for his home- no, his kingdom of Atlantis laid within the threshold of the ominous doorway. A smile was strewed across his cocky and confident face as he stepped foot through the unknown entity. Vasilis entered into his homeland- he had been spit out within the gardens that had been designed and constructed by his great grandfather father to honor the alliance between man and god. Stories had said the structure was built to be a beacon meant to connect the two lands... the Human realm, and Olympus itself. I walked throughout the giant crystal forged dome, small rainbows raining down over the mass vegetation that thrived within. the centerpiece to the botanical haven had been a golden orb that rested in the hands of a marble sculpted statue of Zeus. I took a deep breath in, breathing in the warm greenhouse air, a mixture of a sweet and soothing aroma entered through my nose. "I made the correct choice," He stated outward as he smiled at the sky, Vasilis's broad shoulders relaxing from their previous tense state, "Nothing feels different..." His smile quickly transformed into a glare. No matter the choice he made, there had to be a form of deleterious effects. There had been only one mortal he had worried for; A man who went by the name Philios. He ruled over the Greek Isles and had been Vasilis's first love interest. "If there will be adverse effects, they will surely come for the one who is closest to me..." I spoke aloud trying to rid my mind of the awful thoughts. "Vasilis." A woman's voice had cast over his body, causing him to jumped from the unexpected presence. "I am faster than the others..." She sat on the concrete bench that sat fixed to a small koi pond. "Who," He shook his head quickly, "Goddess Demeter..." The young prince was scared to look the Greek Goddess in her face, "I wanted to see you before the men got to you." She spoke with a smooth voice, her eyes never leaving him. Vasilis mustered the courage to look at her, his dark eyes widened in shock as the image he was met with was a beautiful woman. "You," his eyes fluttered open and closed as he tried to get a clearer look, her doe eyes were large, and blue, her skin an olive complexion, while her long flowing hair shinned a much brighter golden colour. His weary eyes traced aside from her, "Very few beings look away from the sight of me. You are one of the first I've encountered." Her voice spoke as if it were honey being poured into warm tea. "Your son was made in your image..." He gulped loudly, as he muttered the phrase aloud. "Yes, and for that reason, Philios is my most beautiful creation. Due to your poor choice, I had to be a witness of his demise..." Her sweet voice changed over into a calloused and rough tone. "Perhaps you should look to your brother Posideon for true blame." Vasilis finally gained the courage to glare upwards at the woman. "Oh, my brother has yet to receive his punishment, which entails yours as well." She snuffed me. "You must know- today will be your last day on this Earthly realm." She glared down at me. "Why..." the prince spit out while standing to his feet from the warm ground. The man stood a foot over the Goddess his brow furrowing again, "What did you do to him?" He had almost growled aloud as Vasilis's body began to shake from the fear of his choice. Perhaps he had walked through the wrong door, made the wrong choice... "Prince Vasilis, you and your lover will be reunited in death." Her once deep blue eyes began to change into black, the crystal dome above us cracked down the middle. The change in pressure began directly atop of the two. the Goddesses' long fingers grabbed his face nails digging into his prominent jawline. Her face moved closer to the man. Demeter's skin was hot, the heat bellowing off her marble completion could be felt from a foot away. Fear had coursed throughout the body of Vasilis, rendering his limbs useless, but he wouldn't allow himself to crack, not now with all the questions that remained... ' Move your arm... move your damn arm...' Vasilis screamed at himself internally, ' I will not die here.. .' He slowly lifted his left arm from his side, clinging his fingers tightly to the Goddesses bare neck. Vasilis's teeth ground together in fear as he looked over the woman with wide eyes. He didn't want to miss a moment as he watched the being's face turn red as the oxygen was deprived of her lungs. Her hand still affixed to the prince's face. The dome ahead cracked once again as energy increased above the two, "I'll make sure you suffer for what you have done to the one I loved..." I yelled out, Demeter's hands grabbed the muscular forearm trying to break the grip. Vasilis's right hand met violently with her neck as he squeezed her soft neck. A loud crack pulsed from within the women's body as her spine snapped. The dark-haired man laughed helplessly aloud as he watched the once goddess of Harvest thud to the ground. The sky above cracked loudly with anger. He stood frozen in place once again as tears streamed down his cheeks, the heavy rain poured from the dark sky above leaking down into the garden. The marble statue behind Vasilis cracked loudly, the golden orb that once rested in the Vasilis's body was weak as he fell to his knees, a man towered over him as an unknown voice spoke deeply over me, "You really shouldn't have killed her." the light-skinned man shook his head looking to the dead Goddess than to Vasilis, "Your city will now crumble, nothing will be left after we're done. This is the penalty for your wrong choices." He glared through me, his broad arms shot out, Vasilis had come from royalty, but had only ever heard stories of the mighty Zeus- the stories were true as he witnessed the Gods eye flush to white. ' What extreme pressure he carries with him...' Vasilis examined his broad chest, white beard, tied up hair, and white cloak wrapped around the Gods body. His eyes widened in utter terror as screams from outside the crystal dome shouted around them, "I allowed both Posiden and Prmotheus too much freedom..." Zeus's muscles flexed before me as the ground shook, Vasilis's eyes were wide as his beautiful city began to crack and pop with fire. The high rises that towered over the sea had begun to collapse, and crash into the vast ocean around them. "Stop!" The prince screamed out, this couldn't be real life, all the hard work he and his ancestors had completed, would be reduced to nothing. "If you had chosen the door to the right, I would have spared you, and your metropolis..." the voice boomed as if it were thunder over the naive man. The God looked behind the heir extending his hand out, the golden orb that had rolled onto the concrete began to bubble and change form completely. It was as if the orb had some kind of magnetic properties to it as it flew to theGods hand, it slowly changed from a ball to a long staff. Vasilis closed his eyes tightly as the ground rumbled and quaked below him. Zeus stood directly over the dark-haired heir, "You will be no more." His staff struck Vasilis across the neck, blood squirting out as the ruler fell to the ground aside from the Goddess who was once known as Demeter. Posiden closed his eyes as he breathed outward loudly. "Forgive me, Demeter." The man's arms lifted the woman from the blood-covered ground.


A couple of people asked me to post this on an askreddit thread when I mentioned it, so I thought I'd post it here, it seemed like it fitted. Michael stood with his back to the body of his dead wife, and took a long, weary drag on his cigarette. A lonely pearl of sorrow rolled down his pale cheek, and fell to the ground below. He was told it would help to cry. He was told it would give him ‘closure’. But all it did was remind him how much he missed her. He breathed out, allowing a suited arm to fall to his side and watched, detached, as the smoke drifted away on the breeze, carefree and untroubled by the worries of men. The cigarette was nearing its end. A second tear cruised down his cheek. He sighed. "Dadda” That one word carried for him more emotion than anything he had heard in his miserable life, a stark contrast to the innocence with which it was muttered. Michael turned with a heavy heart to see the short, stunted steps of his beautiful son. His cigarette was almost entirely finished now. Another tear crawled towards his chin. Felix’s messy, blonde hair matched his fathers, but he had his mother’s eyes, pools of wisdom, fascinating and vivid. But they only served to remind Michael of his guilt. Her eyes had been the last thing Michael saw that day. She had died of asphyxiation, from the smoke of the fire. The emergency services were already there when he returned from the shop with Felix. The stove had been left on; Michael had been the one to cook that night. The cigarette was gone now, lost in the jungle of grass. Michael shed one final tear, before wiping the sadness from his face and pulling his son into a tight embrace. Michael took a deep breath, and they turned to face her together. He resolved there and then to do everything to protect Felix, all he had left in the whole world, and to never let him go. Michael was at war. He slashed left and right through the enemy, dragging them to their knees. But all too soon it was over, and Michael stood, resolute among the bodies of the fallen, his vindication shining through the destruction surrounding him. He knew it had been necessary, to protect his son. His young, vulnerable son. He found relief, not pleasure in his actions, seeking only to shield Felix from the world. Only then was the billhook allowed to fall to the ground, replaced by a can of petrol. Michael spent a minute catching his breath, before dousing the ground in petrol. He reached into the recesses of his pocket, withdrew a box of matches, and lit one; it twirled through the air on to the bed of nettles. He looked on grimly as they slowly began to wither and curl in the flames, painfully aware that he could not prevent their return. Michael lit a cigarette. Michael sat in the empty, desolate shell of his house, on a dark September morning gripped in the throes of an autumnal battle, and watched the son he had spent 19 years nurturing and protecting leave his life. He was not a happy man. He had spent the years since his wife’s death keeping his son away from the world, and now he had failed. His son was leaving for a university on the other side of the country, where Michael could not protect him. Where Michael could not ensure he went to bed at the right time, or ate well, or went to the doctor for every tiny ache and pain. So he wept. He allowed the cascade of emotion to erupt from his very soul, and welcomed the feel of pain in his chest, comforting him with its familiarity, until no more tears came. Then he lit a cigarette. But it did not hold the same appeal now, the arid smoke slowly choking him like ash filling up his battered lungs. So he cast it aside, and once again began to weep. Michael stood with his back to the body of his dead son, and stared out across the rolling green ocean stretching out in front of him, punctuated by regular markers of death. There were no tears now; he had none left to give. He knew now it would not help to cry. He knew he would never get ‘closure’. He turned, this time alone, to face the graves of his family. He remarked on their passing to himself. A fire and a car accident. His son had been drunk. It was the last in a chain of mad stunts. Michael blamed his constant restraint and protection. To him, his grave was here now too. This time, there was no cigarette.


Every night at midnight, the purple clouds appeared in the blushing sky. With their arrival, pink flower petals fell from their depths for a solid hour each night. With the rain came a knowledge of things beyond the average person’s ken, but such was not the case with Aoife. Even though she was sixty-four, she awaited the rain each night for she knew it held mystery and power able to change her life. This evening was no different. From the bedroom window, Aoife could hear the chirping of crickets and the see the pink petals floating across dew-filled air, heralding the midnight hour. In anticipation, she froze. The flimsy curtain billowed in the breeze, floating about her and mimicking the clouds. Bong.... Aoife heard the chime of the grandfather clock. Two more strokes and it was midnight. Aoife held her breath and peered at the sky, a fervent prayer on her lips. Despite her plea, only the crickets responded, seeming to mock her long-awaited desire for more. Disappointed, Aoife sighed. She was about to seek the solace of her bed when from the grounds below, a movement caught her eye in the darkness. She squinted, attempting to identify who or what it was, but any further movement eluded her. She closed the window, sure it had been an animal. The sound of a knock broke the silence. Startled, Aoife quickly pulled on her shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders. Who the devil was here at such a late hour? She made her way down the rickety staircase. A light rap on the heavy paneled doors came again. Pausing in front of the door and attempting to sound brave, Aoife asked, “Who goes there?” “Seamus. I’ve come a long way to see you.” A man’s voice, thick with Celtic brogue, responded. Aoife took three steps backward. Who the devil was Seamus and what could he want with her? Surely he did not expect a woman, all alone, to answer the door for a stranger. At an attempt at bravado, Aoife barked, “I don’t care who you are - be on your way, I’ve no need of you this night.” Quiet ensued for long minutes before the man spoke again, his voice oddly laced with humor. “Are you quite certain, Aoife? I’ve hear you’re longing for something new. I’m prepared this eventide to help you with such an endeavor.” At the continued silence, he added, “I assure you, another opportunity will not come beyond the light of dawn.” Surprise flickered across Aoife’s face. A million questions surfaced in her mind. How did this stranger know her? What could he know about what she longed for? Enlightenment suddenly struck. The wondrous pink flower petals had surely sent this man, whomever he might be. Without further contemplation, she swung the door wide. Her face alight, Aoife studied the man standing before her. His hair was thick, a vibrant red, and his emerald eyes twinkled in the moonlight as he returned the look she gave him. He was tall, lean, and dressed immaculately in dark clothing and knee-high boots. He held a riding crop though there was no horse in sight. Aoife’s mind raced. Was Seamus here to harm her or to help her? There was only one way to know. “Well, come inside if you must,” Aoife said, moving aside so he could enter. “I’ll put the kettle on for tea.” “Oh, sweet Aoife, do you not have something a wee bit stronger? It’s been a tumultuous journey,” the stranger said, doffing his hat and laying it upon the table. Aoife eyed the man, but then nodded and pointed for him to take a seat at the table. If indeed the pink petals had sent him, she had no time to waste and would gift him with what his heart desired. From the cupboard, she pulled a bottle of amber-colored liquid and two glasses. She’d likely need a strong drink of whiskey, too. Placing the drink before him, she noticed the man still held the riding crop across his lap as if his life depended on it. S he took a seat across from him and drank from her glass of whiskey, hoping it would steady her nerves and allay her fears. “Oh, but you’re a good woman, Aoife,” Seamus said with delight, following suit and drinking of the whiskey. Aoife studied him. While somewhat odd in appearance, he was attractive, and certainly charming, too. She cleared her throat. “About the pink petals, Mister Seamus....” “I insist you call me Seamus." He smiled, an engaging one full of mirth. "Indeed, Aoife, your time has come. The pink flower petals have favored you, and I am at your service.” “I’m not sure I understand. Whatever could you possibly do?” Aoife asked, perplexed. “Do you not know, Aoife?” Seamus said with a wink. “I am a goblin and ready to bring your desires to life.” He grew serious. “Ah, but I’m guessing you’ve not met a goblin before dearie.” Aoife shook her head. She had, of course, heard many a story about goblins, but nary one had ever made an appearance at her door before tonight. It was about damn time. Aoife drained her whiskey. “Well, I’m ready and have been for a very long time,” she said. “I like your spirit, Aoife,” Seamus said and drained his whiskey. He held his empty glass out, and Aoife served him ample more. Aoife’s heart lifted. Here was her chance. In sixty-four years, she’d lived mostly alone. Despite the fact she’d married at sixteen, she’d had to bury her husband ten years later. In ten years, he’d never proven to be more than a friend. She’d given birth to and raised three sons, but now they seldom spared time to visit. Her life had been lonely. She had only been comforted by the memory of a long lost love. How different things would have been had she married Paddy. Foolishly, she’d thought her husband could offer more. Finally, she’d been gifted the opportunity to recapture lost love. Aoife’s heart swelled with joy. She could be young again, with Paddy. She stood and smiled at Seamus. “Let’s get this thing done. I told you, I’m ready,” she urged. “Are you sure, Aoife? You will not be able to travel between the two worlds. Your children will no longer be able to see you. Your life will be completely different,” Seamus cautioned. Aoife’s smile turned to a scowl. “My sons aren’t around now! I’ve got my life to live, and I told you, I’m ready.” She could scarcely wait to be with Paddy again. Seamus stood and carefully lifted the riding crop. “All right, Aoife. If you’re absolutely, positively sure, I’ll give you your heart’s desire and make you young again. You’ll be wife to Paddy, your lost love.” His eyes grew more serious with the words. “May you be happy, Aoife.” With a wave of the riding crop, time changed in a pink-tinted flash. **** Aoife awoke to the crowing of roosters. The sun was breaking through the dingy curtains as she opened her eyes. Confused for only a moment, Aoife bolted upright in the bed. She remembered full and well where she was supposed to be. Looking down, she saw long strands of brown hair instead of gray ones. Joy filled her for she was young again. Still, this was not what she’d expected; she was all alone. Suddenly, Paddy burst through the door, his hair disheveled, his clothes rumpled and dirty. He was unshaven even though it was past dawn. It was obvious to any observer he’d likely slept in his clothes. “Aoife, the kids are hungry,” he barked, apparently irritated by her still being in bed. “Why aren’t you up?” “Paddy,” she stuttered. “I’m so happy to see you.” A smile lit Aoife’s face. Paddy spun about, glaring in disbelief. “Happy to see me, are you? Well, how about being happy to see your six hungry youngins in the next room! They’ve been awake and ready for breakfast since sunup!” He made no effort to disguise his irritation. “Of course, Paddy. I’ll see to it immediately.” Aoife smoothed her hair into a bun and threw the covers wide, growing suddenly self-conscious as she emerged from the bedsheets. Six children? How in the world had that happened? She blushed a bright red. She knew precisely how it had happened, but still, six children?! Obviously, they were still very much in love, so Paddy’s impatience must have stemmed from hunger. Aoife opened the door to find six bright-eyed, red-faced children between the ages of one and twelve. Small fingers tugged at her apron as she tied it around her waist. Tears streaked the faces of at least two children begging to be held. Not taking the time to address their individual needs, Aoife quickly lit the stove. It wouldn’t do to upset Paddy further. Despite the chaos, she smiled. She and Paddy would have this evening to reacquaint themselves. Aoife spent the day performing a variety of chores: cleaning, cooking, gardening, tending kids, and washing clothes. In addition, Paddy expected her help in the fields. Aoife assumed he’d decided to farm instead of helping with his father’s mercantile business. While it didn’t make much sense, Aoife reminded herself money wasn’t everything. The love she remembered with Paddy had been spectacular and would carry them through anything. Still, she couldn’t wait to sit down after supper and find out more about this life she found herself in. It was all somewhat unexpected. Later that evening, Aoife felt as though she had a moment to herself. The children had been fed, washed, and were now abed. She glanced at Paddy, who sat slowly rocking before the hearth, smoking his pipe and reading a book. He seemed oblivious to her presence. Aoife pushed stray hairs back from her face. She was sure she looked a fright. She was hot and tired after the busy day. She hurried outside where the air was cooler to gather her thoughts. Pulling the kerchief from her head, she dipped it in the water pail, using it to freshen up. She’d change for bed and then ask Paddy to sit down for a long, much anticipated conversation. Butterflies of anticipation filled her stomach at the thought. So as not to interrupt Paddy while reading, Aoife quietly reentered the house and moved to the bedroom. She changed into bed clothes and brushed her hair, deciding to leave it down. Paddy had always loved her long hair and stroked it affectionately. She couldn’t wait for him to show such affection and whisper sweet words of love again. Entering the room, she thought Paddy still read from his book, but on closer inspection, Aoife learned his head hung down as he snored softly. Paddy had fallen asleep, and Aoife's heart warmed at the sight. It had been an exhausting day. Still, there was much she needed to say to the man, so she must wake him. Aoife knelt before the rocking chair. “Paddy. Wake up. Please wake up, dear Paddy,” she said, lightly touching his knee. Paddy jumped, opened his eyes, and sputtered. “What’s wrong? Why’d you wake me?” He stood upright, dislodging Aoife’s hand from his knee. “Damn! How many times do I have to tell you not to wake me, woman?” he barked, clearly exasperated with her. Surprised by his anger, Aoife stood and studied him. This was not someone she remembered so fondly from youth. No, this was not the Paddy who had lingered in her memories for so long. What kind of man had he become? “Paddy, I just want to talk,” Aoife said, lightly touching his arm in reassurance. “ Talk? When you know how tired I am, Aoife?” He pried her fingers from his arm. “What is it now? What could you possibly want to talk about? This better be good, Aoife, because I’m tired of your nonsense.” Aoife stepped back, staring at Paddy in disbelief. Despite giving birth to six children, she knew she still made a pretty picture. She had believed their reunion would be more pleasant, especially in view of the six sleeping children they’d created together, but it seemed that time had not been a friend to them. Never had she been spoken to or disrespected in such a way. Aoife squinted at Paddy and poked his chest hard with her finger. “Who the devil do you think you’re talking to, Paddy McLeod? How dare you speak to me like that?! I’m your wife and the mother of your children - six children, that is! And while we’re talking, please explain why we’re working so hard on this farm instead of you helping with the mercantile business?” Paddy was clearly confused. “ Are you daft, woman? We lost the store after Pa died five years ago. This farm is our only means of putting food on the table and a roof over our heads. You’re talking nonsense! ” Still shaking his head, he headed to the bedroom. “I’m tired and going to bed. I’ll hear no more from you tonight, Aoife McLeod.” Shaken, Aoife sat in the rocking chair, staring into the fire. It blazed a pink hue, taunting and reminding her of the pink petals. She had truly believed the petals would bring her a new destiny. She’d been so hopeful but that hope was gone now. She didn’t know how long she sat there, but a dawning awareness filled her. Love was much more than butterflies in the stomach, affectionate strokes of the hair, and whispered, sweet words. She remembered the gravity she’d seen in Seamus’ eyes as he’d lifted the riding crop. He’d known full well she would learn her lesson too late. Deciding she needed something for courage to face tomorrow, Aoife went in search of whiskey. She found it hidden high in a cabinet and poured herself a generous measure. She wondered if one bottle would be enough. Sitting at the table, she downed a glass and poured another. The amber liquid burnt as it traveled through her body. Hopefully, it would warm the chill that had invaded her body. Curse the bloody pink petals. Never had she been in need of drink so badly before. **** Dawn was breaking and light streaming through the draperies when Aoife awoke, still groggy from the amount of alcohol she’d imbibed the previous night. The table was hard beneath her arms and head. She must have fallen asleep there instead of in the bedroom. Well, that was all well and good since she’d no desire to lay next to Paddy after their conversation - if one could call it that. Rubbing her eyes, Aoife wondered why the sound of roosters and crying children did not yet fill her ears. Looking about, she stared wide-eyed at her surroundings. Quickly loosening her bun, she found gray-streaked hair. Relief filled her. She was no longer at the farmhouse, no longer Paddy’s wife, and no longer young and mother of six. She was back at her home where she belonged. It must have all been a dream! Relieved, Aoife sank down in the chair. She could not wait to see her sons! Never would she have thought she’d be so happy to be sixty-four, living a mundane existence in an all-too familiar home while looking forward to seeing her children, but she was. Thank the heavens above it had been a dream - albeit a horrible dream, but still just a dream. Tears filled Aoife’s eyes. She had been so foolish. She would never make another wish and she would never give Paddy McLeod another thought as long as she lived. Her husband, God rest his soul, had always treated her with the care and affection, his respect all too obvious in all he said or did. She wanted to weep, so intense was the breath and scope of regret. Her husband must have loved her even though he didn’t stroke her hair or whisper sweet nothings in her ear. More to the point, she now realized she had loved him, too. The irony of the situation did not escape her. She’d learned her lesson and wouldn’t forget it. Life and love were much more than trivial, small things; they were the depth and dimension of years well-lived while shared with a comfortable friend. Love was respect and devotion, loyalty and friendship. Aoife sat at the table a long while. Perhaps she ought never to pick up the bottle again, she thought, stifling a laugh. She stood, and as she reached to put away the bottle of whiskey, she stopped abruptly. Before her, on the table, was not only her empty glass but another one, and beside it lay a man’s black hat. Aoife reached to lift the hat from the table and held it closer. She found bright, red strands of hair stuck to the dark material. Seamus, the goblin was real. Did that mean what she’d experienced had been real, too, and not a dream? Maybe she shouldn’t have been so quick to damn the pink petals. If the magic petals had truly brought Seamus to her world and given her an opportunity to revisit a lost youth, at least they’d seen fit to restore her life when she’d realized her mistake. She’d never look at those pink petals that rained from the sky every night at midnight in the same wistful way again. They were far more powerful - and wiser - than she’d ever been. A loud knock sounded, and Aoife could hear laughter coming from the other side of the heavy doors. Cautiously, she made her way to the door and opened it. To her surprise, six men and women entered, laughing while each hugging and kissing Aoife in greeting. “Morning, Mum. What’s for breakfast?” they all shouted in unison. “We’re starving.”


Most people have at least one talent that they really excel at. Some special people have never met anyone who could outclass them at their talent. Fortunately for Arnold York, he was one of them. His special talent was duelling with pistols. As a member of high society, the opportunity to duel his rival noblemen presented itself rather frequently. It was customary in this place and time for gentlemen to settle their disagreements in combat, and pistols were currently the most popular weapon. As he gained his reputation as an 'unbeatable' duelist, he was provided target practice in the form of a few fools who fancied themselves a good shot. York accepted every challenge he received, and won them too. His skill made him essentially untouchable for most. Any man who had a qualm with him would back down rather than face death. As you might expect, this safety made him a troublemaker. An avid womaniser, he did not fear the anger of fathers. Yes, he had plenty of enemies, but he stayed on the good side of the right powerful people, protecting himself from assassination. He took care to make enemies only with the weak. His flamboyant character kept him in the good graces of the public. York always used the same strategy in a duel; once the start had been called, rather than turning to fire immediately, he would duck or throw himself to the ground. His opponent would then miss his shot, and York would take his time aiming properly, shooting the other man dead every time. Any commander worth his salt knows it is foolish to use the same strategy so frequently, but it worked for York. His opponents knew what he would do, but they still could never hit him. The secret to York's victory was simple: he was a cheat. Were he born two hundred years earlier, he would be a court Jester. Two hundred years later, a stage magician. He was a master of showmanship and sleight of hand. Everywhere he went, he would carry with him a duelling pistol with a blank shot. He would put on a show before the duel, captivating the attention of all who were watching, then diverting it elsewhere for a brief moment, during which he switched one pistol for the one loaded with a blank. Alternatively, he would have his servant replace it beforehand. If he was being challenged, he would provide his own set, and then use body language and subtle suggestion to coax his unaware opponent into choosing the sabotaged pistol. The reason he always let the other man fire first was so that the blank shot would not be discovered afterward. York's latest duel was with a stranger named Harrow. York had not wronged Harrow, but Harrow had challenged him nevertheless. Harrow claimed merely to be seeking a challenge, but York suspected he was hired by a certain local landowner whose daughter York had recently slept with. He was not bothered by the deception; he would win the duel regardless of Harrow's motive and leave for the next town. Since Harrow had challenged York, York provided the weapons and Harrow would choose first. This meant that York did not have to switch the pistols in the presence of witnesses, but he did have to force Harrow to choose the sabotaged pistol. This always proved trickier, but it was a skill he practiced extensively on his servants. The pistols were always prepared such that the steel components on the sabotaged one were slightly more polished, mostly to make a more attractive choice to the unsuspecting victim, but also to tell York which was which. As York's servant opened the pistol case, York checked that the shinier one was on the left as always. York took care to always stand on the right, as the challenger would be more likely to choose the pistol closest to himself. Noticing that the sabotaged pistol had sunken deeper into the velvet than its sibling (making it less prominent), he flourished his hand towards a nearby tree, making idle conversation about Autumn's early colours. It is natural for humans to follow a moving object with their eyes. If the object moves in a straight line, the natural response is to snap back to where the object started. But if the object moves in an arc, people's eyes will remain fixed on it when it stops. This effect is what York was taking advantage of. He moved his hand in a large arc towards the tree, diverting everyone's eyes from the pistol case as he lifted the sabotaged one into a more attractive spot. When everyone finally returned their gaze to York, they were none the wiser to his little adjustment. Suddenly, Harrow slapped York's hat off his head. The hat fell behind him and York stumbled in surprise. After York had regained his hat and balance, Harrow explained that there had been a wasp on the hat and he was simply saving him from a sting. This unconvincing story put York in a foul mood. "I'll be glad to shoot this impudent bastard!" he thought. "Enough talk, choose your weapon." he said disdainfully. He smiled as Harrow picked up the pistol on the left and walked to his position. York took the other pistol and did the same. They turned their backs and waited for the signal. As it came, York ducked down immediately and spun around. But strangely, Harrow had not fired. He was just standing there, watching York. He wasn't even aiming his pistol. "What is he playing at? Is he just trying to do something differently from the others? I ought to shoot him anyway. I'll fire the other pistol into the air later to get rid of the blank." he thought. He stood up, aimed his pistol at Harrow, and pulled the trigger. A blast came from the barrel, but as the smoke cleared, Harrow was unharmed. Harrow grinned sardonically as he raised his pistol to level with York's chest, the flintlock glinting in the sunlight.


When I touch people they turn into bears. My mom told me to keep it a secret. She said that’s why she doesn’t say “I love you” out loud. I could accidentally slip up and give her a hug, and then who would cook me dinner? Who would drive me to school in the morning? I just got curious I guess. It had been so long since it actually happened. Last time I was six and my uncle had just died from cancer. I touched him on the arm on his bed. Everyone sort of gasped when he transformed. When I tiptoed up to the coffin at the funeral I saw a teddy bear with a pale face and closed eyes, dressed in a little black suit. Again that was so long ago, I can barely remember. I’m used to not touching anyone nowadays, really. But when I see a fluffy beard or afro, or the smile of my friend when I am sad and not having such a good day, I sort of want to reach forward and touch them with the tip of my pinky. Today was just another day in English. He was sitting in front of me as he always did, green hoody, his elbow slouched on his desk. My crush with the sideswept Korean drama playboy bangs that I’d watched from afar for a year. I’d thought for so many times that if I reached forward, no one would notice. And today was perfect. Mr. Krueger had given us ten minutes to meditate at our desks. It was dark. Everyone was asleep. No one would see me. His hoody would protect him from bearification. So I put my pinky on the outermost crease of his hoody, where it was so baggy it definitely was far from his body. But as soon as I touched him he jerked awake and his elbow came into contact with my pinky. Pop! There was a teddy bear in front of me where my dream boy had been sitting. The lights went on and people started murmuring. I didn’t wait to look around and see what was going on. I made straight for the exit, slammed the doors of the hallway open, and ran the whole fifteen minutes home, slamming the front door closed behind me and barricading it with a chair. I ran into my room and stuffed my backpack with a water bottle, my mp3 player, and random stuff. No one was home. Soon I heard some rustling and men yelling outside. There was a big cracking sound, like wood breaking, being smashed in. “Halt!” said a voice behind me. I turned. A man wearing a helmet aimed a gun at me. “You, the Teddy Bear Toucher. Freeze!” “I just wanted one touch, I swear!” He rushed towards me and I dodged, bumping against him as I escaped. Pop! He was a teddy bear, lying on the floor, his helmet knocked to the side. I sprinted out of the house. For what seemed like hours I dodged this way and that, until I was deep into the wilderness behind my house. I knew where I’d be safe. I crept into the urine-stained tunnel under the old bridge, by which I could escape to the other side of town. Pigeons cooed from dark overhead corners. My heart was still slamming against my ribcage like mad. I just wanted a little touch, I thought. I didn’t want to hurt anyone. But you know how it is. No one wants to be turned into teddy bears. I took out my mp3 player and plugged in my music. Something comforting, like The Coloring Book album from Chance the Rapper. His music feels like how I imagine a hug could be. Warm and inviting, soul-surrounding. I feel like the soul of that human is being sung to me so I can be warm inside. I took Snuggles out of my backpack. He was an OG teddy bear that had come with a pack of laundry detergent my mom had bought once. I could hug him all I wanted and he wouldn’t turn into anything else but himself. He was worn and fuzzy from all the hugs I had given him over the years. I hugged Snuggles tight and imagined he was a real live bear hugging me back and telling me everything was going to be okay. He hugged me back as tight as he could with his little arms. Our hugs filled my soul and expanded my mind, filling me with soft cotton plush warmth. When the men with helmets and guns walked by, we were just two stuffed animals under a bridge.


August 18, 2020 It’s official. I have decided to set off to Xi’an by train, boat, car, whatever mode of transportation there is available to go on an archeology trip with Professor Langley to discover the secret behind the tomb of the Jade Empress. It’s funny how a month ago how I was still contemplating about the whole situation when I sat down with the good ol’ prof to talk about relics from Xi’an. The next thing I knew the professor had gone from talking about ancient relics and artifacts to telling me about the great discovery of the infamous Jade Empress’s tomb. “It’s just astonishing, and perhaps one of the greatest discoveries in archeology! You must come on this trip this time; it is a sight that you, my friend are not going to want to miss.” Gushed the professor, excitement evident in his eyes. I winced, knowing the last time I agreed to going on one of the professor’s archeology trips, how it turned from a peaceful trip at first to battling creatures like Candle Snakes, Vampire Beetles, and Human Faced Birds to survive. Thanks to my previous experiences as a grave robber and my wits, me and the prof were able to survive. Others of our party weren’t so lucky. Either smashed, eaten, or torn to pieces, the members of our party dropped like flies, leaving only me and the prof as the only survivors. If this trip down to the Jade Empress’s tomb was going to be anything like our last one, I absolutely was not going to go. “Prof, if this trip down to the Jade Empress’s tomb is going to anything like the last time-” “Of course not, I guarantee you it’s not going to be anything like Xuquetala’s Temple; I did my research.” “It better be. We almost lost our lives down there in that tomb. I still haven’t recovered from the amount of physical activity we had to do to keep our heads on. After what we went through, I’m not sure if I’m ready to go down another tomb this soon.” “My dear old friend, I assure you, there will not be any traps or mechanisms.” “You said that the last time when we went down that temple.” “If I am wrong, I will allow you to take some artifacts that you can sell in your shop.” “Deal.” And just like that, I found myself sitting on a train sharing a bunk bed with the prof, who is currently taking a nap. The prof had explained to me that we would first take the train to New York City before taking a plane to Beijing, China and then taking a bus to Zhejiang and then we are meeting our designated guide and going via car to Xi’an where we would meet up with the rest of the archeology team. The prof said the archeology expedition into the Jade Empress’s tomb would be more than a month in total and that our trip down to the Empress's tomb would be smooth as downing sake. I couldn’t help but think that this trip is too coincidental. Several days ago, my good buddy Chatterbox had gone off to China to earn some “big money” from a job he accepted. I pestered him for several hours trying to squeeze some information about his employers, but it was like trying to squeeze blood from a turnip. Even more strange, my Uncle Rosalind had gone off to China to take care of some “family business”, which left me, the heiress of the family, nothing to do except mind my antique shop and find something to do. Despite my family’s wishes for me to stay out of the family business and settle down and have children to carry on the family lineage, I was determined to prove to them that a woman could make her own way of the world and be just as good as a male relative of the family; particularly my Uncle Rosalind, who was infamous for his grave robbing skills. Uncle Rosalind did not agree to take me under his tutelage at first, but after months and months of trying to prove myself to him, he finally relented under the condition that I keep the fact that he was training me in the ways of grave robbing a secret from the elders of the family. So, at the age of twelve, every day after school, I underwent several hours of training for the next six years, until on the day of my eighteenth birthday, I secretly decided I was old enough and had enough experience to go and explore a tomb by myself. My uncle was furious when he found out and punished me with extra training for a week saying that I was not ready to go down a tomb and that he will decide when I am ready. That day eventually did come two years later, when my uncle brought me along to explore the tomb of a Qin Dynasty noble, which was anything but an ordinary tomb as we avoided traps, mechanisms, and mutated creatures beyond our imagination. We managed to come out alive, but that was the last time I would go down a tomb until four years later, when my uncle contacted me again. By that time, my shop was in a comfortable position as I had earned quite a bit of profit. And so, my adventures with Uncle Rosalind resumed, up until I met Chatterbox and Ace. My uncle had also decided that I did not need his tutelage anymore as I proved to be “a grave robber as good as himself, perhaps even better.” The three of us had explored many tombs together and encountered many weird and strange things. We never spoke a word of it to anyone and vowed to keep what we saw to ourselves. I ended up writing my experiences in a journal which turned into at least several notebooks that were kept in a hidden safe in my shop. Chatterbox thought I was an idiot to do that, but I didn’t care. “We might need them someday, if an emergency comes.” I said in a hopefully convincing tone. “The only emergency that you’re going to get is a knock side up the head for such a stupid idea.” Grumbled Chatterbox. I had to admit, he was right. But it’s better to leave some information behind for others to find instead of none at all. I can hear the prof snoring below me in great volumes. I better plug in my earplugs if I want to sleep soundly tonight. The prof snores like a volcano getting ready to erupt, which is why most of the time I always end up trying to sleep first. This is Reese Hurrikane, signing off. August 22, 2020 This cannot get any worse than today out of all days as I am sitting in a room with a big, buffoon of a goon of Lina Matejovsky, the one person I did not expect to see here, although actually now that I think about it, why wouldn’t she since her company is all over the country, thanks to her boss, the ever so cunning Hendry Maddox, aka the long time enemy of my Uncle Rosalind. We would be on our merry way to Zhejiang by now, but clearly Lina’s boss had other ideas for me and the prof. So now, in addition to being camera monitored in our own hotel rooms, we are not allowed to leave our until we agree to go back from where we came from and forget about Xi’an. Something tells me that Maddox has some sort of development project up his sleeve with the tomb, or he just wants to exploit the tomb and its treasures. I can imagine the professor is just sweating it right now and trying not to lose his sanity as he knows I’ll be the one to rescue him and get us out of any situation. Later One thing I would like to say before I start where I left off, WHAT IN THE ACTUAL HELL JUST HAPPENED. To sum it up, little miss lady agent decided to bust me and the prof out, with the help of Ace, who managed to cause a brief distraction for about five minutes to make sure we gave the goons the slip before they made haste with the chase. With Ace’s help, we managed to get away and hide out in a shop. Afterwards, we ended up staying at another hotel, where I angrily questioned Ace about how in the name of god he knew where I was and how he ended up working with Lina to bust me out. Ace being the moody person he is, answered my questions with succinct answers before he bugged off, while the prof was just grateful to Ace. As for me and Lina, well Lina and I have a complicated relationship. Despite the fact that we’re on opposite sides, she’s shown me kindness and mercy to me at least several times in the past when we crossed paths. But then again, there were times where she was selfish when it comes to survival and tried to protect herself first. She almost never smiles and for some reason doesn’t know how to take a joke much less seem to have a sense of humor. She’s just as cunning as that boss of hers and just as shrewd when making deals to collaborate. I never quite understood Lina and her motives, as her character was like a chameleon, changing its color to fit its surroundings. I still remember the first time we met, and how she elbowed me in the face and knocked me out with a hit to the neck deliberately. Good ol’ times. I never said this in front of her face, but she’s grown softer and slightly merciful as time passed, and once I managed to get just a glimpse of her vulnerable side that she kept so hard to hide away. I just hope she doesn’t hear that from me, or else she’s probably going to have to kick me in my reproduction parts for calling her soft hearted. Speaking of Lina, after dropping me, the prof, and Ace at another hotel, she told us this was the only time (and last time probably, knowing Lina) that she was doing us a favor and left. Typical Lina. Always once in a blue moon she ends up helping us out whenever we get into a sticky situation. In my opinion, she should do that more often, but she’ll probably never want to help us again if I say that. Ace is still moody as ever, just sulking in a corner near the window, looking at the cityscape that’s dotted with lights, illuminating the shape and design of the buildings down below. Despite the fact that we were safe for now, I knew we couldn’t stay here another day longer, without arousing the suspicions of Maddox. I declared to the both of them that we would rest here tonight and depart for Zhejiang tomorrow morning immediately. Ace nodded in approval at my words before he slipped back into gazing out the window. The prof had busied himself with relaying to the archeology team at Xi’an of our situation, and his face couldn’t look anymore irritated than ever. He couldn’t help but mutter unintelligible curses under his breath as his fingers typed furiously on his laptop at a fast speed, something about “darn plans being dragged out” and “that ape of a goon”. I couldn't help but softly chuckle at the prof, hunched over at his screen, his eyes moving back and forth across the bright screen. Clearly, it must’ve been his first time encountering Lina's men. Those big goons of hers don’t know the meaning of gentle. The amount of times that I’ve fought with them, is enough to make sure my fighting skills are on par and make sure I kept up my exercise. “It’s for you.” said Ace tapping my shoulder, handing me his phone. “Hello?” I answered casually. “Oi, Hurrikane. I heard you got yourself in trouble with Lina.” I shook my head smiling. I knew that British accented voice anywhere. Good old Chatterbox. “Hello to you too. So, you’ve heard?” “It figures since I caught wind of one of Lina’s men while I was on business.” “Business? I thought you were making big money?” “I was, until some bloke botched the expedition and left the whole team hanging. Now the expedition is supposed to take 3 more days before reaching our destination.” “Are you still in Beijing?” “Does that concern you?” “Never mind. How did you know Ace was here with me and the prof?” “I have my sources. What are you and the old geezer are up to this time?” I paused, trying to figure out if I wanted to tell Chatterbox about the Empress’s tomb, but he beat me right to it by saying, “You wouldn’t happen to be going after the bloody Empress’s tomb would ya mate?” My eyes widened in surprise as I quickly regained seriousness and hissed out “How do you know about that? Nobody knows except for me and the prof!” “It doesn’t matter how I know. Listen, I heard that tomb is going to be a real piece of work. You’re going to need all the help you can get to survive down there.” “Chatterbox, I’m sure I’ll be fine-” “What do you mean you’ll be fine; you bloody won’t be. You’re a nitwit if you think you’re going down that tomb with just Ace and the old geezer. Blimey, I’ll be damned if you come out of the tomb in one piece.” “Chatterbox-” “Don’t Chatterbox me, I’ll meet you blokes at Xi’an as soon as possible. Now quit yakking and get some sleep. You’ll need all the rest you can get. Toodles mate.” The line went dead before I could say anything else to refute. I sighed. Looks like things are going to get shaken up pretty quick. As Chatterbox used to say "Something is cooking, and it ain't stew." This is Reese Hurrikane, signing off.


INSIDE THE SQUARE CIRCLE Walking up front street past the Esso garage in North Shields, three miles past Newcastle upon Tyne the smoke from the coal fires rose up through chimney's on the houses of the notorious Ridges Estate climbed high into the sky. The houses had been built to house the fishermen and shipyard workers in the town in 1948 after the outbreak of Tuberculosis and other diseases caused by poor living conditions forced the council to build a new housing estate. The smell caught the back Terry’s throat as he crossed the road onto Scorer Street. His legs ached as he looked left and right as his mother had taught him. He coughed then took the strap from his haversack he was carrying and readjusted it. It had his plimsolls, vest, and a pair of football shorts that were way too big for him inside. Slinging it back over his shoulder, he hurried along towards the North Shields Boys Club on Scorer Street where he'd been a member for just over a year. passing the park he looked inside through the wooden railings to see if he could see anyone he knew. There was swings being used by some older boys who stood on the wooden seats and worked the swings higher and higher. There was a shuggy boat and a slide that no one was using because it was soaking wet from the rain that had came down in torrents that afternoon. The tennis courts at the back of the park had large puddles as well, no one could play when the ground was wet. However, it did not deter the boys playing football near the toilets at the bottom end of the park. Terry walked on he had to be at the boys club for six o'clock to meet Joe Myers his boxing coach. Joe Myers was a black ex-professional boxer had come over to England from Jamaica like a lot of Jamaicans and Africans on the Emperor Windrush during the early 1940's. Joe had fought on boxing shows in South Shields and Newcastle's St James Hall. It was a hard way to make a living but that’s what he did to feed his family. When he retired he took up various labouring jobs. Then someone approached him and asked if he would teach boxing at the Boys Club, Joe agreed and three times each week he would turn up in his free time to teach kids how to box. That all changed when Terry started. Joe then turned up every night for two years to train him. For over six months he sweated and strained to do exercises specially designed to strengthen his legs. Every night he did the same set of leg exercises until his thighs burned with the effort. Fifteen years Joe ended up coaching boys at the club, it had had passed by so quickly. Joe was now in his early fifties, he was was still enthusiastic and he had a fine boxing team. Terry remembered the very first time he met the man who was to change his life forever. Terry walked through the double doors leading into the North Shields boys club where he was met by a broad shouldered man wearing a brown tweed coat. His hair was neatly combed and he wore a walrus moustache. He ushered Terry into his office where he explained the rules of the club. Looking down at the young boy Harry Martin realised that this young boy was limited to what he could do. Going into a drawer on his large wooden desk he pulled out a set of darts and handed them to the boy. “Come with me son said the club leader and Terry followed. Harry led the boy through another door into an empty room. The first thing to hit Terry’s nose was the smell of stale sweat and lineament. It was the same stuff his father used on his bad leg. Harry showed him the dart board then walked away and left him to it. Terry stood awkwardly in his calliper boots trying to hit a dartboard that resembled the back of a camels arse. It was old and all the stuffing was coming out of it. The lime green coloured wall where the dartboard was fixed onto had many tiny dots on it where people thrown darts that had missed and hit the wall. There was also small pinholes on the red lino flooring that covered the floor where the darts had bounced out of the board. Four yellow painted doors surrounded the room. One led into another room where there hung several punching bags. the red painted floor had some hard rubber mats that they used for doing floor exercises. in the left hand corner of the room there was a speed ball and a platform that the boxers used to stand on to reach it. Further on there was an old bike on rollers. If sat on wrongly it would spring up and you would fall off. There was a long mirror on the opposite wall used for shadow boxing. Another door led to the changing rooms and a shower. This was something of a luxury to Terry who had never used a shower before because he only got bathed once a week in his house and that was on a Sunday. He usually went in with his younger brother to save on the hot water. The rest of the time he had to wash himself using the stone sink in the scullery. There was another door in the changing room that led to the upstairs gym where football, judo and gymnastics took place. A head popped around the door later that evening and the boy saw a large black man wearing a trilby hat, a white shirt, and jacket. His big brown eyes widened as he looked at the boy and said "Has you seen ma' boxers.' "No Sir, I'm the only one here Terry replied timidly.' He stood looking at the boy then said in a softly spoken voice "Do you wanna' be a boxer? "Me box? I cant, I have to wear this thing on my leg.' looking down the man saw that the boy was wearing a pair calliper Boots which had a metal brace strapped around the lower part of his knee. "How long you been wearing that thing on your leg sonny? "Since I was three I think, mam says I had to wear special shoes when I began to walk, but I kept on falling down so they operated on me then gave me these boots to wear.' "Well I can help to strengthen that leg of yours if you let me.’ "Will you, really? “Yes, come with me sonny.' The Terry’s boots reverberated off the lino flooring as he followed the big man. The man walked smoothly like a giant panther to the cupboard and reaching inside it he picked up what looked like a leather football. "Now see this here ball? I want you to lie on the mat there and place this ball between you legs and try and lift it. Can you do that for me?' "Yes sir, The boy got down onto the floor area onto one of the mat's. It was cold against the skin of his thighs because he was wearing short pants. He tried to hide the hole in the back that had been patched, it was coming away and there was a small hole that showed his bum. Forgetting that, he tried as hard as he could to lift the ball. He could only get it only a few inches off the floor. Joe began to set out the equipment but kept watching. "Now sonny,' you keep doing that until I come back. take a rest if you gets tired you hear.' "Yes, said the Terry panting.' Some five minutes had elapsed which had seemed like a lifetime when the man returned. "Okay you can rest now.' "Can you get up on your own?' Terry got up shakily then looked at the black man who was carrying a large pair of boxing gloves. They were brown in colour and made from leather and stuffed with horse hair. "Come here sonny, and put on these here gloves.' Walking nervously towards the man the boy stuck out a skinny little arm the man pulled on the glove that came right up to the elbow. Once the man had tied it Terry gave him his other arm. When he was done. the man asked" Is you Orthodox or southpaw? "None of those said Terry enthusiastically, I come from North Shields.' The man threw back his head and began to laugh. "What's so funny?' "Look,' if you had to fight someone how would you hold your hands?’ "I don't fight, cannot fight, I get bullied at school.’ "Well, once I teach you how to box those bullies are going to regret ever picking on you. Now show me how you hold your hands up.' Watching the dark skinned man said" you is orthodox, that means that you will lead with your left hand like this. The boy watched in amazement as the man threw jabs at lightning speed. "Now you try' The boy stuck out his left over and over. "Hey,’ you is good, you is going to make a good boxer. "Really?' "Yesum you is.' Now see this here hand? I want you to punch it.' Holding out the huge paw the boy then proceeded to punch it as hard as he could. "How many times did you hit that boy? "Three times.' "Good,' now I am going to move my hand and I want you to hit it again okay? "Yes sir,' Moving his hands quickly in all directions the boy tried to hit the target but failed. "See that, now if the hand was your head and you kept it still you would get hit every time but if it is moving you will hardly ever get hit and that is the art of boxing. You Hit the other guy without being hit back. Do you understand? "Yes,'I see.' "Now see this here, it’s called a spring ball, now after I adjust it I want you to use your jab, now its going to move so keep your eyes on it and then try to punch it. The boy holding his gloves up in the orthodox stance hit the ball as it moved. "Now erm, what's your name anyway?' "Terry.' Right then Terry, move around the ball like this and jab like me.' Copying the actions of the black man Terry moved around the ball sticking out the jab. "You is a natural born boxer.' Just then the door opened and in walked a young man with a neatly trimmed beard. he was wearing a flat cap on his head. "Is this your new student then Joe? "Yesum, this boy is going to be a champion.' "Him a boxer, he'll never make a boxer as long as he has a hole in his arse.’ "We will see.’ said Joe Confidently. This man here Terry is Eric Clarke, he is my second. Terry looked at the man and nodded then added “What’s your name then? “You can call me Joe.’ All that evening Joe showed Terry different punches on the heavy bag and Terry copied his every move. Terry, can you skip? "What like a girl? "No like a boxer, look Joe took off his jacket rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt and began to skip using some leather ropes. They whizzed around and his feet moved rhythmically as he danced over the rope. "Now you try.' Terry picked up the rope and tried over and over but could not get it to do what Joe had done. His left leg just couldn't get off the red lino on the floor. It hit his leg over and over and then stopped. "Okay Terry listen, I want you to come tomorrow at the same time bring some shorts a vest and some sand shoes if you have any.' I'm going to give you a set of exercises to do and you must do them every night. This will strengthen your legs okay "Yes,’I'll be here,' Terry said enthusiastically. Joe and Eric began pulling out ropes from the cupboard and Terry offered to help. The two men fixed what looked like block and tackle into the four corners of the room then fixed metal hooks into the eyes and began to tighten them up until it formed a boxing ring. Some young men who Terry figured were boxers came in from doing a run, they were sweating profusely. The sweat dripped onto the lino as they began to put on head guards and then stuck what looked like chewing gum into there mouths. "What's that thing that they have in their gob? the boy asked inquisitively? That is what's called a gumshield, stops you from getting your teeth knocked out said Eric Clarke with a wry grin, the man who had said earlier that he would never make a boxer. Terry thought to himself that he would prove him wrong. Eric Clarke had been one of Joe’s boxers, now retired he was now helping out in the gym. The ring made of rope was secured to the wall was now tightened up and Eric leaned back against it to test it out. Each of the other fighters leaned back on the ropes too test them as if it were some kind of ritual. When they were all gloved up sparring commenced. Terry watched as they moved as graceful as ballet dancers, shuffling and sliding, slipping punches the way Joe had shown him earlier. The sound that emitted from their mouths was like a hissing snake, then a grunt would sound when a punch connected. Joe was shouting instructions to both men from outside the ring as the other boxers who had been running looked on encouraging each boxer. "Time shouted Eric and both men then walked around the room sucking up air. After one minute they were at it again. On it went for six more gruelling rounds. Steam rose from the backs of each man as their gloves were untied and the next pair of gladiators got into the ring. Terry was fascinated, he so wanted to be like them. He was even more determined to prove Eric wrong. Later that evening Terry walked out of the door he had entered He walked slowly home with with the black ex-boxer, who got some strange looks off people as they passed. Terry didn’t understand about colour prejudice even though he lived amongst many black families on the Ridges estate. Terry began to ask Joe lots of questions about boxing. Joe calmly answered them all. I guess he'd answered those same questions to umpteen young boys who had come into his gym to learn the noble art over the years. Joe left Terry at the corner of Laburnum Avenue. That was the beginning of Terry's boxing career, a journey that would last some twenty two years.