It was 4:44 on a swampy midsummer Tuesday morning, and a cruel storm had been assaulting the grounds of the Obsidian Springs Correctional Facility throughout the entire night. The sun hadn’t even begun to show its head from behind the horizon, but Daniel Jordan was wide awake. He sat on his twin sized bet with his knees tucked up to his chest and stared out the window of his cell, watching the rain and wind ravage the courtyard that sat 50 yards in front of him. A courtyard that, for the entirety of the 9 years he had been locked away, he never had the chance to visit. “It just had to be a Tuesday, didn’t it?” Daniel mumbled to himself. Tuesday’s had always played a significant role throughout Daniel’s family history. His grandparents met while vacationing in Rome on a Tuesday. His parents got married on a Tuesday. In fact, Daniel was born on a Tuesday. And now, on this typical, ordinary, stormy Tuesday, just as he was brought into the world, Daniel was scheduled to be taken out of it. He continued to stare out the window and tried to picture himself sitting out on one of the old, rusty courtyard benches. He tried his best to block the storm from his mind and imagined he was basking in a warm, cloudless day, with a full sun beaming down on his face and a light wind blowing to keep him cool. Inmates would surround him, calling out to him and asking if he wanted to join in on their game of pick up basketball, or wall ball, or chess. But Daniel would decline each offer that came his way. All he wanted to do was sit and enjoy the sunlight. Something he hadn’t done in almost a decade - and something he would never get to do again. A crack of thunder sounded off and caused Daniel to jump out of the daydream he had found himself immersed in. He let out a depressive sigh and turned his head towards the digital clock that hung directly above the door to his cell, which now read 4:45 AM. “Any minute now.” He whispered to himself, as he stood up and made his way over to a small plastic dresser on the opposite side of the room. He opened the middle drawer of the flimsily piece of furniture, pulled out a pair of extremely tattered and broken-in dark blue cargo pants, and put them on over the thigh gripping boxers he had been wearing for the past 48 hours. Another crack of thunder erupted above him as he knelt down to cuff each of his pant legs, and he felt the frigid tile floor of his cell rumble beneath his feet. The thunder was followed by an aggressive triple pounding on his cell room door, which flung open immediately after the pounding had stopped. “Jordan, you got a visitor.” Announced one of the prison’s many overly assertive security guards as he walked into the cell. Daniel stood up tall and placed his hands in his pockets, trying his best to look as calm and collected as he possibly could. A woman followed the guard into Daniel’s cell and stopped a few feet in front of him. She was a tall, pale woman, who wore a long medical robe that covered her entire body, and a pair of bulky, ocean blue glasses were placed firmly on her nose. Her hair sat modestly on her shoulders, sporting an onyx tone that challenged the likes of the deepest crater on the farthest point of the darkest side of the moon. Daniel’s pupils dilated at the sight of her, and his knees buckled in an embarrassingly quick fashion. It was impossible for him to hide the fact that he was infatuated with her. “Remember me, Daniel?” She asked. Of course he remembered her, and he knew exactly why she was there. “Doctor Bridgewell, of course. Good morning.” “Good morning, Daniel. How are you feeling today?” “Good, I think. Tired, but good.” “Well that’s good to hear. I know how stressful it can be for somebody in your situation, but we really don’t have much time to sit and chat like we usually do. Have you thought more about what we discussed the last time I was here?” “Yes ma’am.” Daniel said nervously. The back of his throat began to feel dry and scratchy, and he could feel his cheeks turning red. “And?” She said blankly. Daniel took a moment to turn his attention back towards his cell window. He hoped to finally get a glimpse of the sun rising, but all he could see was the rain continuing to flood the courtyard. “Daniel.” The doctor snapped. “Oh, sorry. Right. I, Uh.. Well I guess I’ve decided to do it your way.” “You guess?” “Sorry - I want to do it your way. Definitely.” “And you’re sure about that? There’s no going back once the procedure is complete.” “Yeah, well, it’s better than the chair, so..” Daniel took his right hand out of his pocket and extended it out towards the doctor, who in turn grabbed it and shook it confidently. The pair stood still for a moment and exchanged smiles, which eased Daniel’s worries. “Alrighty then, put your shoes on and follow me.” Instructed Doctor Bridgewell. The two of them walked out of the cell and turned right down a long, barren hallway. Armed guards stood about 20 feet apart on each side of the hallway, and they all shot menacing glances at Daniel as he walked past them. Although he couldn’t help but catch a glimpse of each guard's face as he walked by, Daniel tried his best to keep his eyes focused on the door they seemed to be walking towards. The door stood at the far end of the hallway, and a small sign reading “OPERATION LABORATORY” in big black bold letters was plastered next to it. Daniel’s breath’s grew stronger with each step he took, and his heart began to race uncontrollably. “Nervous?” Asked Doctor Bridgewell. “No way. Why would I be nervous? Like I said, it’s better than the-” “You’re breathing pretty hard. I can hear you.” “Well it’s a pretty long walk.” Joked Daniel. Doctor Bridgewell chuckled and placed her hand on his shoulder and kept it there for the remainder of their walk. Once they reached the laboratory door, the guard standing in front of it turned around and pounded on it 3 times - a sound that had grown to become all too familiar for Daniel. A dreary buzz sounded off from the inside of the door, and it opened swiftly. The laboratory was just as depressing and unsettling as Daniels cell. Dozens of people in lab coats were scattered throughout the all white four-walled room, and each of them held a clipboard and wore medical masks to hide their faces. Daniel expected to be greeted by big, beeping, blinking, buzzing machines, but there was nothing of the sort to be found. Instead, the only piece of equipment that was present in the room was the one thing he had been trying to avoid. A chair. Daniel’s muscles tensed and his eyes began to squint with anger. “Whoa, whoa, what’s the deal with-” “Relax, Daniel.” Doctor Bridgewell interrupted. “You didn’t think the procedure would take place with you standing upright, did you?” “No, but I-” “Daniel, It’s fine. I promise. Now please, have a seat.” Daniel stood motionlessly and clenched his fists together. He trusted Doctor Bridgewell, but that didn’t change the fact that sitting down in the chair would be the last thing he ever did. He stared at the chair and tried his best to hold back the tears that were trying to push themselves out from the corners of his eyes. It took a slight nudge on the back from one of the guards to finally convince him to make his way over to the chair. “So, how does this work exactly?” Daniel said as he hovered over the chair. “Well, first things first, you have to sit.” Replied Doctor Bridgewell. “Right, but I-” “Sit down now, or I’ll personally escort you to the other chair.” The back-bumping guard demanded. “Jerkoff..” Daniel said under his breath as he sat down in the chair. He glanced around the room and took notice of how many people were examining him. To his surprise, the thought of a dozen brains and eyes looming over his existence calmed him. “Well, it’s now or never, Doc. Let’s do this.” He exclaimed. “Ah, anxious now, are we?” Doctor Bridgewell shot back, with a smirk on her face. “I’ve waited forever for now. Let’s do this.” “You’re a convict, Daniel. And my patient, at that. We aren’t-” “Friends. I know. But maybe we could be? I mean, after all this.” “I don’t befriend patients.” “You don’t have to be Daniel Jordan’s last friend. You can be Jordan Daniel’s first.” Daniel smiled at Doctor Bridgewell and allowed the tears hiding in the corner of his eyes to fall. She smiled back at him and walked up to his chair. “It’s simpler than it seems..” She said, trying her best to change the emotional tone of the conversation into a professional one. “First, you take this.” “A red pill? Are you serious? Ha! You can’t be serious. My name’s Daniel, not Ne-“ “This isn’t a joke, Daniel. This is real. And there’s no blue pill in this reality. Sure, ironically enough the other chair is blue, but that-” “Alright, alright, I get it. I’ll take the pill.” Daniel said as he grabbed the red pill from her hand and swallowed it. “Now what?” “You put that on.” Doctor Bridgewell said as she pointed towards a metallic helmet sitting on the head of the chair. Multi Colored wires were wrapped around the base of the helmet, which made it look almost too silly to be real. “You can’t be serious.” Daniel said bluntly. “Daniel, if you aren’t going to take this seriously then maybe we should just-” “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I’ll put it on.” He said as he grabbed the helmet from the chair. He placed it on his head and could hear a soft humming sound coming from the very top of it. It was cold, like it had been sitting in a freezer for hours beforehand, and a line of chills ran down his arms as it touched the tips of his ears. Doctor Bridgewell walked over to him calmly and sat next to him on the chair. “Last time I’m gonna ask you: Are you sure you want to do this?” “Yes.” “You won’t remember anything. And when I say that, I mean it literally. You won’t remember anything at all.” “I know.” “You won’t be Daniel Jordan anymore.” Daniel paused for a moment and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes and envisioned himself sitting on the courtyard bench again, but this time the sun wasn’t shining, and there were no other inmates to invite him into their games. Grey clouds covered the skies completely, and there was no breeze to cool him off. He sat there alone, waiting for the sun to come out. A sun that would never come. “I don’t want to be.” He whispered as he opened his eyes. Doctor Bridgewell stood up from the chair and walked to the far side of the room, where a group of masked lab workers were standing. One of the workers handed her a small, black remote control, and then walked to the other side of the room to join a different group of workers. “Alright Daniel, this is how this is going to work.” Doctor Bridgewell said firmly. “You’re going to lean back in the chair, and when I tell you to, you’re going to close your eyes. Once you’re comfortable, I’ll activate the helmet by pushing this button on this device I’m holding. From there, I’ll begin to count backwards from twenty. While I’m counting, I’ll be turning this main dial here on my device. As the seconds go on, you’ll begin to feel pressure building on the top of your head. It is extremely crucial that you do not remove the helmet once the activation process has begun. Once I reach one, I’ll push the activation button one more time. You may feel a quick shocking sensation in your arms and legs, but after that, you’ll fall asleep. And from then on... Well, you won’t wake up. But Jordan Daniel will.” “That’s it?” “For the most part. Now remember: Not only will you wake up and forget your current life, but you will know an entirely new one. This technology doesn’t just erase memories - it forges new ones. You’ll remember a life you’ve never had. A family you never had. Birthday parties you never had. You’ll go home to a house that’s been provided for you, and tomorrow morning you’ll wake up and go to a job that’s been provided for you. The path to the rest of your life has been paved. All you’ll have to do is walk it.” Daniel sat still and stared intently at Doctor Bridgewell. He wasn’t sure what to say to her, or if there was really anything that needed to be said at all. He took another deep breath and swung his legs up onto the extended end up of the chair. “Alright. Let’s do this.” He said calmly. “Is there anything you’d like to say before we begin?” Daniel paused for a moment to think. He tried to come up with something to say, but the only thing sitting at the front of his mind was a still image of the sun shining brightly in a cloudless sky. He turned his head to face Doctor Bridgewell and smiled. “Thanks for getting me out of the storm.” He said. Daniel turned his head back to face forward and closed his eyes. He stuck his thumb up in Doctor Bridgewell’s direction and held it there until he heard a tiny beep, which indicated she had just pressed the activation button. The pressure around his head began to rise, as the seconds Doctor Bridgewell had been announcing continued to descend. 20 seconds turned to 15. 15 turned to 10. 10 turned to 5. No matter how painful the pressure was, the image of the sun never left Daniel’s mind. “5.. 4.. 3.. 2..” Daniel felt a lonesome teardrop run down his cheek the moment before his time expired. The corners of his lips rose subtly, and his chest felt warm. He listened intently for Doctor Bridgewell’s final proclamation. “1.” A jolt of electricity shot through Daniel's body in an instant. Although it only lasted for just one single millisecond, Daniel felt his entire life evacuate from his mind and body. All of the memories he had created, the good, the bad, and the awful, had vanished. All of the years of imprisonment completely disappeared. Every single thing that made him ‘Daniel Jordan” was completely gone. And then - Silence. And darkness. And loneliness. And then - Light. Fuzzy, blurry, unfocused light. And mumbles. “Jordan? Jordan, can you hear me?” A woman said calmly. Jordan Daniel sat up in his chair and looked around the room. It was completely white, and completely empty. A black haired woman in a long white coat sat next to him. “Come on, Jordan. Your massage is over. You fell asleep halfway through, but I didn’t want to wake you. You snore pretty loud!” The woman said as she giggled innocently. “Oh, right.” Jordan groaned, as he stood up from the chair. “I’ll show you out.” Said the woman, who was motioning him towards a green door at the far end of the room. They walked together to the door, which the woman opened. They walked through the door and entered a dimly lit lobby that seemed to be the waiting room of the massage parlor. There were dozens of windows lined up along the perimeter of the building, and the sun was shining brightly through all of them. “Ah, lucky you, you slept right through the storm. Not a cloud in the sky now!” “Oh, perfect!” Jordan said with a smile. “Well I’d better be off now. See you next time.” “Have a great day, Jordan.” The woman said as she returned a smile. Jordan waved his hand goodbye to the woman and turned around. He smiled brightly as he stared out the windows and made his way towards the door of the building. He finally reached the door, and without any hesitation, walked out into the sunlight.


You go into a bar, you order a drink, some people not part of your group are there with their groups, also ordering drinks. But you wonder why. Because all around you, through the mistiness of this bar with loud music of a genre you don’t listen to, there are a bunch of people crowded around wooden bar stools and a laminated counter top fetching drink after drink from an incognito punk-hipster with black-rimmed glasses, slicked back hair with shaved sides, a beard, gauges, and reeks of pot, then swimming away into the sea of randos. Smoke fills the air, the music gets louder, you get your fifth drink, because though you can’t find your friends in the sea of people milling about and you think that they’re going hard too. You call over the blaring music that you want a budlight, but the bartender gives you miller lite. Realizing it’s not the right drink, you call back to get a budlight instead, and in that moment, the friend of a friend tugs you on your shirt to say “Hey man! Music is great, right?”. You barely know this guy, but you nod your head in approval and say “Dude, it is!”, laughing hysterically for no apparent reason, other than to fill the void that your conversation with a guy you barely know was pretty pointless, you turn back to the bar. But where the hell is your drink? You could’ve swore you put it on the counter. Where the hell is it? You turn back to see if that friend is still there, he’s not. You walk away from the bar just for a second, peering into the smokey room, and then back to the counter. But God Damnit, there’s someone in front of you and now you have to wait in line. Some ass hat in a Jets jersey has cut you and HE has a miller lite! He must have stole it from you, what a dick. Just your night! You don’t even like the Jets, this guy is talking about Vince Papali, he was an Eagle and you hate Mark Wahlberg. What a douche. But you do like the colors white and green. The blend between the two in the dark musty room with booming music, now entrances you to think about Adidas, as the green turns into black and the white stripes remind you of your old pair of Sambas which still sit in the cellar of your parent's house that they have yet to sell at a garage sale. Man, those were sweet sneakers. “Hey...Hey...buddy...can I help you?” The bartender calls over the Jets man as he walks away from the bar with two more beers. You turn around. “Oh, shit, my bad man, here you go”, the bartender says handing you your budlight at last. Your eyes water with joy, hugging the budlight, you tip a fake-hat to hipster-punk-mcgee and carryon in your journey for ‘enjoying the night’. Suddenly, the music stops, a man comes over the intercom, “The bar will close in 1 hour, this is the last call”. Having just got a drink, you think ahead, what about your friends? Maybe they want drinks! You already have a drink and you feel charitable! Jets man cuts in front of you again, God damn you Jets Man! You shimmy through your pockets to find your wallet and one lone-5 dollar bill, and you know that can only afford one beer. Sorry, hipster no tip tonight! You wait in the line, turning back, seeing a man whose about 20 years older than you are - unaccompanied by anyone wearing a dirty hat that looks like he worked at chipotle with a crystal necklace; this guy means business. Smoking a cigarette obnoxiously close to you and wishing this guy would just go away, he leans in “Hey, do you know Sandra?” ... Sandra ... Sandra... the name echos through one ear and out the next, hoping that would be the end of that guy, suddenly Jets man turns around with a beer in his hands and says “I know a Sandra!” and BOOM, he spills the beer all over you. God DAMN YOU JETS MAN! You are super pissed, your budlight has been miller-lighted, and you HATE miller lite. Drenched in fury, you walk up to the bartender, asking for napkins but you stumble over your words and say “hapkins!”, the hipster bartender puts his hand to his ear as if he is trying to qualm you to say whatever you said again , you say “HAPKINS!”, he still doesn’t know what you mean. Then he sees you are drenched in beer. Your shirt is all wet, Jets guy is talking to dirty chipotle hat man, and they’re both smoking cigarettes, and your friends are no where to be found. Hipster-punk-mcgee pants returns with some napkins “Here you go man!”, so thoughtful, you finally approve of his glasses. You dry yourself off and over the intercom, you hear “LAST CALL, EVERYBODY LAST CALL!”, you run up to the bar in a hurry, drenched in beer praying that hipster-mcgee will spare you one last attempt at that beer. And surely, he comes through, thinking only of the best-case scenario, you think of your best friend with you at the moment. You know it’s not Alex, it’s not Dmitri, it’s not Sarah - ohhhp, you know, you’ll get a beer for Claire! You haven’t seen her in so long, it would mean the world! You order up a tall-one, the hipster leans in “What kind?”, you say “Surprise me”, he says “I gotchu”. Turning back to a smoke filled dance floor full of melodically confused drunk people slow dancing to EDM, and back to Jets man and dirty chipotle hat guy speaking now about the big game, and back to your friend who grabbed you earlier now drunkenly talking about his work as a database administrator to a homeless guy who looks like he just stabbed someone, you turn back to the bar. Hipster mcgee comes through again! “Here you are man!” And THEN, you just had to say it: “Hey, look man, you...you know? You know....you are just fucking phenomenal at your job! You are killing it right now. MVP right here” Making the hipster’s night, you plunge your way through the crowd of zombified drunk people getting down to an ll-cool J and Skrillex remix and the time is 1:00am, peace-signing your hands in the distance towards the bartender, he throws a towel over his shoulder shaking his head - another night. Moving past the randos - now fellow companions - raging through the night, you understand the culture. The artifacts of empty beer cans and spilled vodka drinks, wallets, and watches, trash, all over the ground it all makes sense to you; this is night life and all are one. These are your origins, a sort of native re-call hits you and you feel as though there’s something missing. Oh yeah, you’re trying to find your friend, Sadie? Charlie? Andrew? No, CLAIRE! Yes, yes, yes, it is Claire! And You have her beer! Aw, she will be so pleased, if only you could find them. Smoke fills the room, you try to make your way back into a room where you think the table is, and it is! And there she is, Claire, the glorious. The memorable. The legend. “Hey Claire, I got you something!” You put the drink down. Looking at her and your friends, half-of which are face down on the table totally shit faced, you can finally have a real conversation. Over the intercom, “Alright everyone! Time is up, the bar will be closing in 10 minutes!”. You hurry, “Come on Claire, you gotta drink your beer, I got it for you!” but quickly Ashley backs her best friend up - because no one tells her best friend what to do - “Joe, she doesn’t want to okay. She’s had a really bad night, I think she’s done”. Now looking like the asshole, realizing no one gives a fuck about your presents. And to think, this whole time Santa Claus was an image of good to you, a one true spirit to look up to for being jolly and so giving and now, this, this!?!? This is what you get for all that you have been through! All this nothingness and disrespect you can’t stand it and yet, you permit “alright”. You contemplate, will I have to drink this myself? Ewe, it’s a triple IPA. This will be hard for you. You should’ve known, god damn hipsters. He said ‘I gotchu’ and you trusted him like a brother. Of course, it’s a triple ipa. Well, bottoms up, but in that moment your friend’s friend runs over to you and your table. “Joe! Dude Joe! Man, dude that was crazy! Cool music, huh?” the friend's friend says. Contemplating on drinking that last beer before your last five bucks goes to waste, you pause to answer his question, placing the beer on a nearby table. “Yeah man, that last song was like something I heard in a movie once I think”, continuing the conversation because at the very least this friend of a friend seems to give a shit about you; good ole whatever his name is. Turning back toward your table, you see the beer you placed has gone missing again. Dirty chipotle hat man and Jets jersey have relocated near your table and are sitting with some girls and of course, fucking Jets guy has a triple IPA now. You walk over to him and finally stand up for yourself, “Hey man, what the fuck is your problem?” And the intercom interrupts, “Alright, it’s 2:00am the bar is closed. Everybody out” The night ends.


Joe was a man of few words, but the ones he spoke were more valuable than anyone else’s. His speech was in bold, swaying in italics, in constant capitalization and always underlined. To me, at least. It was hard to even hear him sometimes. I was used to leaning in, getting closer to his dark, ever-changing hair and the juniper smell he stole from the woods. The extra effort was worth it time and time again. In groups, sometimes he would duck his head to mine and mutter something only meant for me, and I would laugh, drawing attention to us that made his hands plunge into his pockets. He smiled nonchalantly until everyone looked away, then he’d always cast a look at me. Really? My lack of subtlety was always cause for admonishment. Joe and I have always been that way. He’s quiet, I’m too loud, and that doesn’t seem to bother him. Our friendship has lasted years; different towns, a different state once, and far through the boyfriends I’ve had. His eyes have even stayed the same--brown, intense, and like a pair of hands that hold everything they can until it hurts. They make me forget what I’m about to say next, more times than I could count. He’s tall, a bit nerdy, built himself a little cabin in the woods and is cleverer than I’ll ever be. I just wonder if he looks at everyone like that, if he speaks to everyone the same. My friends tell me I have him in the bag. “He clearly likes you!” “Guys don’t [have inside jokes, give you those looks, put up with rambling] unless they like you.” I can hardly let myself believe them. And yet, I do. The way he watches me in a room brimming with friends or even in a subway full of strangers--I don’t think it’s platonic. He’s never seemed to notice the parts of me men gravitate to, instead I catch him looking at my hair, my lips, my neck, my hands. Always with the grasping, absorbing look I’ve only ever seen in him. I’m meeting him today for dinner, at his cabin. It’s small, but clean and remarkably well-decorated for a man that rotates through the same five flannels and two pairs of jeans. He works from his computer, designing bridges and gates on a program that makes my head hurt to look at. Joe’s never hidden his view on my job. Ethics and Compliance at a major retailer, talking on the phone for most of my work day. He physically recoils when I bring it up, grinning when he asks how I still manage to speak as much as I do. I counter by asking how he isn’t miserably lonely, living in a remote area without anything but virtual bridges to look at. He’d shrug, pursing his lips. I decided to dress casually, opting for warmth over style like Joe did. I brought a bottle of wine and a deck of cards, hoping he would be up for some sort of game though I didn’t know any myself. I liked being there after the sun went down, when his cabin got even cozier and where I hoped his hand might linger on my shoulder or close over mine. The drive was long, but always worth it. I walked on his carved pathway in the snow, the gusting Maine wind making me nearly sprint to his door. I let myself in, stamping the snow off my shoes. A golden warmth greeted me, and it didn’t just come from the fire. “Joe!” I called, not seeing him perched by the fireplace as usual. “What?” he barked back from the loft. “I’m here!” I smiled, heading for the fireplace. His footsteps bounded down the wooden stairs, and I inhaled the familiar piney scent of his cabin. “Amy, what a surprise. Help yourself to the fire, I guess,” he glanced away, grinning. I watched his back as he peered into his oven. “I brought wine. What’re you making?” “Lasagna?” he was bent into a crouch, palms on the oven glass. The concern on his face made me laugh. He turned around, confused. “What?” “Nothing. How’re your bridges?” I smiled, sitting on the lip of the stone hearth. Joe sighed and sat next to me, glancing back at the oven before speaking. “Not structurally sound,” he said, turning to me, “but that’s a problem for tomorrow.” He grinned, making his cheeks dimple. My heart crumpled and every word I’d ever known was momentarily erased from my memory. I smiled. “How’re your...assault cases?” he asked, grimacing. His eyes held mine, curious, genuine and possessing a focus my brain could never compete with. I felt my cheeks warm. “Good!” I immediately blushed, faltering. “Not good , but I mean I’m getting them sorted. Talking to managers and CEO’s, all day, on the phone, getting tough cases sorted out, it’s very rewarding--” I paused when his lips twitch into a suppressed smile. “Lots of talking, every day,” I continued, making him groan. “And then I leave and go out, with more people, who talk a lot, and we have fun, and then I wake up and go to work--” Joe cowered away, throwing his hands out to protect himself. “Stop! I will faint,” he lurched from the hearth, circling back to his oven. I giggled menacingly, the fire warm and comforting at my back. This was what I wanted. Here, with Joe, just us and the woods. He turned and gave me another grin, making my heart implode again. I wanted it so desperately. Him, today, tomorrow and every single day after that until death do us part. I saw it all with him almost two years ago. No one really believed me, so I stopped bringing it up. My friends tease, but they don’t really know the truth. Quiet, strong, wholesome Joe was very far from what anyone expected of me. They assume fire goes with fire, and that I’ll forever want someone to explode with. I may burn bright, but Joe is like coals, silently smoldering with a ferocity I can’t explain. He crouched by the oven again, worry crossing his face. His hair was getting long and brushing at the nape of his neck in coffee-colored waves. “Amy,” he said, his back to me, “come look at the lasagna.” I did as I was told, forcing down giggles at his expense. Only taxes made me that nervous. I crouched next to him, our socked feet nearly touching. My shoulder was pressed to his, and I wondered if he noticed. Did he smell my perfume? “I think it looks okay,” I said, not sure what to look for. I saw a pan full of something with cheese on it, cheese that was nearing a burnt shade of brown. “Maybe take it out? Don’t want the cheese burning.” “Amen to that,” Joe stood, pulling oven mitts out of a drawer. He opened the oven with a flourish, making me laugh again. He managed to keep the lasagna un-burnt and I was surprised at his first attempt turning out so well. I told him so, and his eyes skittered away from mine when he smiled. He sucked at taking compliments. We broke out the wine and sat by his fireplace, cross-legged on the carpet. He gave me one of his blankets to wrap around my shoulders, and I was elated to see that the sun had long since sank under the horizon. The urge to scoot closer to him was getting stronger with every minute. I set my wine glass to the side, not wanting to make a fool of myself if I paired the urge with an alcohol-induced lack of impulse control. I grabbed the cards from my purse instead, brandishing the deck in my hand. “Cards?” Joe said, his wine glass balancing precariously on his knee. He had just finished a story involving a rowdy group of civil engineers and breaking his rare streak of talking was something I didn’t do often. “Yeah, you know any games?” Joe shrugged, taking them from me. “Not really,” he said slowly, “I might know Uno.” “Too bad those aren’t Uno cards,” I said, my idea of a fun, potentially flirty evening fading. Joe nodded, scowling sarcastically. “Why didn’t you just bring bocce ball?” I rolled my eyes, tucking the cards back into my purse. “I know a game we could play. A game that takes nothing but our brains.” Joe raised his brows, taking a sip from his glass before setting it on the hearth. He gazed at me, and I nearly stumbled over what I was going to say. “Truth or Dare,” I smiled coyly, laughing when he groaned. “Amy, we’re twenty-six,” he laughed, but threw his hands up. “Whatever. Let’s go. You first.” I was surprised he agreed. Surprised and encouraged. He knew what this game could entail and he agreed anyway; maybe I was right. I felt another strong urge to squeeze him, sit closer to him, or just touch his hair. “Okay. Truth or Dare,” I grinned, pulling the blanket around my head. “Dare,” he said immediately. I was caught off guard. I blew air out of my cheeks, looking around at his tiny cabin. There weren’t many dare-able activities to conjure up. I dare you to go sit at your desk and spin in the chair. Not very threatening. Joe watched me think, seeming to enjoy the time it was taking me. Before I could start blushing I thought of something. “I dare you to go get me a scoop of snow.” “No,” he said, scoffing. “No?” “Absolutely not, it’s too cold,” he gave me a dimpled grin, but I was disappointed. That’s not how the game worked. “Okay...truth, then?” I laughed, pulling at the tassels of the blanket. Joe groaned. “Fine.” “Hmm,” I put my hands over my eyes, feigning deep concentration though the question was on the tip of my tongue. “Why don’t you have a girlfriend?” He looked surprised. “I dunno. I just don’t,” he reached for his glass, casually shrugging before taking a sip. “Truth or Dare.” “Joe. That was an awful explanation.” “I just...” he started, looking progressively more uncomfortable. “I guess I’m unlikable?” I laughed. “You’re very likeable. And I pick Truth, too.” Joe looked away, clearing his throat. I loved how easy it was to make him turn pink and become uncomfortable. He was so bad at hiding it. “Okay, um...” he looked up at the ceiling, squinting. He had a nice side profile. A strong jaw, cute nose and a short beard that always melded perfectly with his features. I looked away into the fire before he could catch me looking. “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” I gave him a look. He wasn’t being very original. “Come on. Haven’t you had, like, five in the past two years? Not that that’s a bad thing,” he rushed, seeing my face warm. “I just mean, someone like you, it’s gotta be easy to get who you want, right? So why no boy?” “Someone like me?” I repeated, putting my hand to my chest. He froze, and I could see his face go another shade paler. “Amy, seriously, I meant that in a good way, it came out bad but I didn’t--” “It’s okay,” I laughed, watching confusion spread over his face. “Joe. I know what you meant.” His whole body relaxed. “Thank God. Okay, so then why?” It was my turn to shrug. Those guys weren’t you. No one is. “They aren’t...” I started, my eyes staring off into nothing. “Rich enough? Hot enough?” Joe deadpanned, finishing off his glass. He poured himself another one while I scoffed. I loved when he let this side of himself show. No one realized how funny he could be. You, they aren’t you. I wanted to say it, and if I hadn’t stopped myself earlier the wine may have pulled the answer off my tongue. “Not up to my standards,” I finished, sniffing prissily. He laughed. “Your turn.” “That wasn’t a very good answer--” he started, but stopped after I gave him a look. “Alright, fine. Truth.” He perched his chin on his knee, watching me. The fire flickered in his eyes in amber sparks, and his cheeks had a warm, wine-induced glow. I wanted to sit here with him forever. He was safety, joy, and he was home. The very cabin we sat in he built from nothing, never saying a word about it to anyone. Every guy I knew would be eagerly spouting that story for years. Joe wasn’t like that. He built cabins, held open doors, tipped generously and never made me feel like anything less than a person with value. And I loved him for it. I couldn’t take not knowing anymore. In one impulsive moment, I blurted it out. “Do you love me?” His eyes creased as his smile dimpled. He laughed, and I smiled, not sure what he was thinking. I felt like my heartbeat was audible, banging in my chest as panic swept through me. I shouldn’t have said it. I had a very strong urge to vomit. “Amy,” he started, before breaking into laughter again. I kept grinning, waiting. Wanting to throw up. “Do I love you? Sure, yeah. We’ve been friends for a long time. And I appreciate that,” he grinned again, taking another sip from his glass. “Why’d you word it so dramatically?” he laughed, getting to his knees to stack another log on the fire. I felt the vomit rise in my throat. I swallowed it down, focusing on the shattering waves in my chest and the bleary confusion in my head. So this was heartbreak. I didn’t know if I could conceal it. I knew I should laugh, continue with the game, make it nonchalant, but I couldn’t speak. Luckily he was focused on his fire, attentively prodding the logs with a poker and sending showers of sparks up the chimney. Could I come back from this? Would Joe ever feel the same, with the possibility of the feelings ever being returned dashed into irreparable pieces? I knew things wouldn’t go back. They couldn’t, not ever. Joe would have to just be Joe, not my Joe, the one I created in my head, the one that loved me back but was too shy to say it. I felt shamefully stupid, thinking he would ever like me back. Love me back. I wasn’t good enough for him, or maybe not smart enough, not kind enough, not pretty enough. Something about me wasn’t good enough for him. I forced a laugh before the silence became too awkward. “You know me, always gotta be unreasonably dramatic.” Joe turned from the fire, settling comfortably in his own blanket. “Yeah you are.” He grinned, like my heart hadn’t just shattered. Like he hadn’t just proven every doubt I’d ever had about myself. I tried to return the smile, tried to think of another joke to keep things casual. I couldn’t. I felt tears prick my eyes, and I quickly turned to fiddle with my purse. “Your turn again. Truth or Dare,” Joe said. I could hear him swishing the wine around in his cup. I turned around, pulling out my phone with me. “Oh shoot. I didn’t realize the time, I have to get to work an hour early to go over something with a client.” Joe’s expression remained nearly the same. He looked a little sad, but probably equally as happy to have the cabin to himself again. He wouldn’t miss me anymore than any other friend of his. “Really? That sucks,” he stood with me, taking the blanket from my shoulder. His hand brushed over my collar bone and I fought back a shiver. I felt the tears threaten again. “Well, thanks for coming. Drive safe.” Joe handed me my purse and ducked to peer out of his kitchen window. “Looks like more snow.” I nodded, gathering myself one last time. “Thanks for dinner. Bye, Joe.” I hurried to his door, a huge part of me still wanting to linger and force time to move slower. The lasagna pan clattered in the sink and Joe started to whistle something off tune. “Bye!” he turned as I opened the door, giving me a wave and a smile. I returned it, struggling to make my body comply. I started to sob the moment I closed his door. I hurried to my car, sharp flakes of snow whizzing across my face and bare hands. The drive home was a dark, tearful blur, and the ache steadily got worse. I tried to be angry, even offended, but the hurt didn’t want to be replaced. I could only be angry at myself, and that wasn’t enough. A month went by. Then two, then three. I saw Joe off and on, but it never felt the same. I knew it never could. I think he sensed something was off--there was a new confused look in his eyes that I had to ignore, even when his gaze lingered. I even tried to replace him, but like I’d always known, there was no other Joe. No one could compare to that. Surrounded by pain and embarrassment, I got a job in a different city. I left Joe and his cabin and all I ever felt for him back in the woods. With the distance it became easier, and the ache started to dull. I thought about him every night, but not for as long. I wondered if he ever thought about me, if he would ever come to realize, regret, or ache for me like I did for him. I doubted it. But I like to wonder.


The drumming of the rain against the sails increased its rhythm with each passing minute. The growing sea undulated under the boat and the thunder grew louder as we tried to beat the storm. I squinted my eyes, trying to see through the water dripping from my brow. To the North, I could see Alessia’s boat battling against the swell. She had already left an hour earlier, deciding the ocean would be too violent to risk towing an empty ship. The islanders of Deer Drum would have to face this one without an experienced guide. After two weeks of sailing, the boat was now truly theirs. I watched Xander as he walked down the steps from the raised quarterdeck treading the length of the ship. I followed him down, sensing an urgency in his walk. “Sirad,” he shouted out. Sirad turned and noticed him. “Get the kids and anyone not on duty beneath deck. This gets worse before it gets better.” “Good idea,” Sirad said before turning. “Lachlann, be ready on that front sail.” Lachlann nodded in return. There was another crack of thunder, the sea briefly illuminated by a lick of lightning “What do you need me to do?” I asked. Xander stopped and laughed. “I thought you're supposed to be the knowledgeable one.” “Not anymore,” I called back, shaking my face as clumps of rain fell to the floor. Xander looked off to our starboard side. “What do you think of those waves?” “They’re going to keep getting worse.” He nodded. “We can’t go around the storm. If we don’t turn we’re gonna get smacked on the sides till we capsize.” “I’d agree.” “Tell Eir to turn into the waves,” he said. I ran back up the boat, climbed the steps and relayed the message to the helmswoman. “I was just thinking the same thing,” Eir said. She took a deep breath in and shouted at the top of her lungs. “Heads up. Beam coming round.” She steered the boat to the right, heading towards the eye of the storm. As the angle of the wind changed, the two giant gaff sails began swinging round. I ducked as the rear sail flew across at head height and out to the port side. We crashed into a wave at a three-quarter angle, spray flying up into the night sky, touching the top of the mast. The water landed on the deck, creating a wash across the surface of the boat; ropes, fabric, anything not nailed down was dragged a few metres before the water poured out the other side. “Everyone okay?” Xander called out. There were a few murmurs of agreement or a raised thumb in response. Eir leaned forward, peering into the darkness ahead. It was pitch black; the line between sea and sky indistinguishable. The lightless void was broken by another crack from the sky. A white fork rode down from the sky and in a brief moment lit up the sea in front. Eir gasped. I tried to follow her line of sight. Out in front of us was a wall; a rolling surge of water across the horizon almost the height of the ship. “We’re not getting past that at this pace.” Eir’s eyes flicked around the ship, checking the sails in front of us. “The foresail,” she said through gritted teeth. With the wind mostly behind us, the square sail at the front of the ship helped propel us forward. But now we had turned, the angle of the wind shifted, and the sheet was acting as a brake. “Lachlann,” Eir called out, “Loosen the foresail, it’s slowing us down.” “What?” came the reply. I shook my head. “I’ll go tell him.” I ran down the steps once more, my feet slipping against the wet wooden planks. I charged to the front of the ship. “Loosen the foresail. The wind’s pushing against it. We need more speed. Now.” Lachlann’s eyes widened as he understood the instruction. He bent down and began turning a large winch as fast as he could. The sail loosened, going from taut to a loose flapping, until the beam across the top began lowering down the mast. Almost as soon as the sail had lowered enough to no longer be catch the wind, we hit the foot of the rogue wave. The boat dipped as we reached the through, before lurching sharply upwards into the climb. I could see the lanterns flickering on Alessia’s ship alongside us. She was dwarfed by the giant swell, the boat reduced to looking like a man climbing a hill. But I watched as she reached the summit, the boat levelling at the top. I turned my eyes forward just as our boat reached the crest. The boat creaked forward, clinging to the tip of the rise, before charging down the other side, punching against the water at the bottom. A huge plume shot up from either side of the vessel, another projectile of sea foam added to our already waterlogged skin. But we had passed the threat. While the storm refused to ease, that one moment seemed to send a communal calmness through the crew. They had survived a moment that may have killed an amateur sailor. And they had done it with relative ease. As morning broke, the storm had gone and we were left with a flat blue sea that gave no sign of its former wrath. We dropped anchor. The islanders from Deer Drum were soaked, but otherwise fine. Alessia sailed over and rejoined us. “That looked like some pretty good sailing last night,” she said as she climbed up the ship and hoisted herself over onto the deck. “Pretty much perfect,” Xander said proudly, a grin on his face. “Ah, you should’ve beaten me through it by a good hour. But you’ll get used to the speed.” “What?” Xander asked. “Bigger boat. Bigger sails. This thing when it wants to go can tear through the water twice the pace of my boat. Perfect sail and I shouldn’t have been able to see you after the first half hour.” Xander dropped his arms by his side. Alessia chuckled. “You did good. All of you. You’ve come a hell of a long way in the past couple of weeks. You won’t need us anymore.” She looked off the front of the ship. “Besides, we’ve got a visit to make.” I raised an eyebrow. She waved for us to follow her to the thin aft of the ship, and pointed out ahead to the south. “You see that thin bit of land on the horizon?” I squinted hard. In the low morning light, the sun shone brightly off the water’s surface, and it was hard to be certain of what I was seeing. But as I watched for the movement of the water, I could see it, the bit of still land that didn’t move with the sea. “Tima Voreef,” she said. “We’ll sail a bit closer to land, but they won’t want us mooring a boat this big just to say hello. Best if we take mine and go as just the two of us.” She pointed between herself and me. “What about us?” Xander asked. “Right now, just stay and rest. You decided where you want to head yet?” “Not yet. We at least want to know who attacked us before we head anywhere,” said Kurbani. Alessia nodded. “I hope not to be here long. So with any luck, you’ll get your answers soon. So, stay, have a discussion and choose where you want to head. You’ll have decide sooner than you think.” We sailed side-by-side for an hour or two, until leaving the Deer Drum refugees behind and headed towards Tima Voreef. Even a couple of kilometers away, it already looked like the largest settlement I’d seen. Buildings some four or five storeys tall hugged the wide bay. Where there were gaps between the structures, I could see similar homes and offices stretching back into the island. “How’d they do last night? Really?” Alessia said, looking back at the ship. “Really well,” I said with a wide smile. “Better than I expected.” “They’re smart,” Alessia smiled. “We’ve done what we can for them. We’ll get these answers for them, and then they should be fine to sail on to wherever they want.” “Agreed,” I said, taking a couple of paces to the side to get a clearer view of the island. “What do you know of Tima Voreef?” “I’ve done one or two trade runs there. Long way out though. They hate the next island over, a place called Ruthogrey Landfall. They’ve been waiting for war with each other since before anyone can remember. All anyone here cares about is preparing for Ruthgrey to attack. But they make more than any war could ever need. And anything they don’t use, they sell.” “But they’ve never gone to war?” Alessia shook her head. “They’re both just staring across the strait, sitting on mountains of gunpowder, wondering who’s gonna light the match first.” “And Ruthogrey Landfall.” “From what I know, but I’ve never traded with them. Tima Voreef is pretty much a barrier between them and everywhere else. Who knows who they’re trading with. Maybe even people to the south of the Archipelago.” “South of the Archipelago?” I furrowed my brow. “I’ve heard there’s some small islands down that way. Not as populous as the Archipelago. But something.” “Never been?” Alessia twitched her nose. “Nah.” While I had always known that the Archipelago didn’t cover the entire globe, it seemed strange to think there were lands beyond what I had heard. My map of the Archipelago was never complete, but now I was learning just how small and pitiful my attempt to map the new world really was. “Why have you never been?” I asked. “Because I’m a trader. Not gonna risk actual business to go explore places no one knows anything about.” Alessia turned the wheel gently in her hand, her eyes fixed on the port. “You could have found new goods to trade though...” “Nothing good comes from long-shot ocean voyages. Trust me,” Alessia interrupted. Her face didn’t move, but her eyes briefly lost their focus, staring off into an unknown place. She shook her head. “Anyway, we’ve got this place to deal with.” We were close enough now to make out the details of the island - the throngs of people moving about on the wall, the carts loaded with goods being pulled to waiting ships, the wide glass windows, and the electricity wires strung from building to building. While previous harbours I had seen were made of wood or brick, Tima Voreef’s was made of smooth concrete that cut like a knife into the sea. The sheer grey face curved around the bay in a large semi-circle big enough to house a good sixty or seventy boats. On top of the quay’s edge, I could see a wide promenade filled with people hurriedly making their way along the waterfront, intersecting streams of citizens and traders marching to their destinations. My eye traced the promenade, taking in the buildings and people, until my view was blocked. A giant ship blotted out the landscape. The boat that housed the refugees was a good five times the size of Alessia’s. This ship was at least five times as big as that. Perhaps just as surprising though; the ship was made from metal, not wood. Smooth sheets of steel glistened from the hull that bulged from the water, rising higher than the walkway beside it. Four rows of portholes stretched the length of the ship. On deck, five tall masts rose to the sky with more than a dozen sails tied to them. “You ever seen a boat that big?” I scoffed, pointing. Alessia shrugged her shoulders. “Once or twice. Don’t know what you’d do with it anyway.” “Jealous?” I chuckled. “I’ll have you know my little boat’s just fine.” She patted and stroked the wheel with a tender smile. “That will be made by Tima Voreef. They’ve probably more on the other side of the island pointing guns across the strait. That one’ll be for sale though if you got another couple of bags of artefacts hidden away somewhere.” I frowned at her. “Let’s just moor up, get our answers and get out of here.” Alessia loosened the sails, and we drifted towards the quay. We found a small slip by the large concrete wall, tied up the boat, and climbed up a ladder to the street above. Straight ahead of me, there was a posted painted onto the wall. We’re working to prevent this. The words stood above a large image of a ruined town. I looked around. The town on the poster matched where I stood. Turning left, I could see another image on the next building. A dark figure of a man stood, leaning over, looking down on the reader. In Ruthogrey Landfall, someone is doing the same job as you. BEAT HIM! The tall ships, the tall buildings, the tall harbour - all of it was a sign of success and grandeur. But I began to realize the entire island was like a scared animal stretching out its muscles or rearing to its hind legs. It was all to appear as big as possible. To scare off the predator wondering if it could take you. Tima Voreef was the grandest island I had seen, but it all existed in the hopes of staving further away from the precipice of war. Part two published 12th August.


Angelique grabbed the bar mop and wiped up the excess latte she’d spilled making up her last order. Hands on hips, she sighed loudly. It had been a stressful morning already, and it was only 8:30. The front door banged shut again, and she looked up in time to see five college girls blow in, all giggles, long blonde hair, and sunglasses. They’ll be wanting some fancy foo-foo drink no one ever heard of, and they’ll change their minds a dozen times between them, then someone will have forgotten their wallet. Wait and see. Angelique knew their type. A cough sounded close in front of her, and Angelique jumped. She looked down. Johnny Draw. “Hey, Johnny, sorry, I didn’t see you there. You want your usual?” Johnny nodded and muttered something unintelligible as his big dirty hand pulled a sealed, crumpled envelope from his army-green canvas jacket. On the front was written, “$4.92 for Johnny’s large coffee with cream.” Angelique knew there would be exactly $4.92 in the envelope. Johnny came into Perk-Up every day at exactly 8:30, and every day someone had taken the time to write on and fill a small white envelope with $4.92. She carefully grasped the envelope between her forefinger and her thumb, bubbling effervescently to Johnny to fill the time while he sat in his wheelchair in front of her. “Did you see the sunrise today, Johnny? I’ve been awake since 4:00 a.m., so it’s already been a long morning, but the sunrise made it almost worth it. I’m not a huge fan of Daylight Savings Time, really, but I do love when the days get long like this. Cool in the morning, hot in the afternoon. That’s just one of the reasons I love Indiana.” If she filled every second with chatter, he wouldn’t have time to talk, and she wouldn’t have to feel awkward asking him, “Excuse me? What was that? Can you please repeat that, Johnny?” The problem, though, was that the line behind Johnny was getting long, and the college blondes were giggling at ear-splitting decibels. Angelique could feel the anxiety rising as she attempted to wind things down with Johnny. She’d been running short-staffed for the last two months. It seemed no one wanted to work for their paycheck these days. Regardless, she had several interviews set up over the next three days. She pushed a receipt across the counter to Johnny, avoiding direct eye contact, still chattering like a magpie, but to no avail. Johnny spoke, his words tumbling out sloppy and indistinct, “I need napkins please,” and spittle drooled out the corner of his mouth as if from the sheer effort of pushing his words out of his lips. Out of options now, and without excuse, Angelique looked Johnny in the eye and said, “Did you say you needed another napkin, Johnny?” Johnny nodded vehemently and smiled the smile of a much younger man. Every time Angelique looked at him, she was surprised. His cornflower blue eyes twinkled and crinkled around the edges and reminded her of a red-haired neighbor boy she’d known in the fourth grade. Poor Albert, with his freckled arms and face and legs. All he’d ever asked for in life was for his classmates to call him Al...and for Angelique to wear the bracelet he’d made or found or bought or stolen for her. Every time she looked at Johnny Draw, she remembered Albert and her cheeks flushed. Why couldn’t she have done just that much for him? They’d moved away the next year before she got to tell Al she’d worn his bracelet once. But, as Al always used to tell her, “Things have a way of working out.” In retrospect, as an adult looking back, she thought that seemed an awfully grown-up thing for a fourth grader to say. But she’d found it to be true time and again. Things have a way of working out. That, they did. Angelique tried hard to ignore Johnny’s spittle, and, looking at him directly in his Albert-blue eyes now, smiled her very best, most convincing smile. For Al, she thought, placing three additional napkins directly into Johnny’s grimy hand. Her fingers touched his for a moment, and she willed her hand to stay put, not to pull away. She wanted to tell Johnny he had nice eyes, but she couldn’t. Instead, she said, “You go ahead, Johnny. I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.” She looked away but heard his guttural voice piecing together a sentence, “Thanks. You’s an angel.” Involuntarily, her head jerked around toward Johnny again. He was still smiling. The remainder of the rush cleared out quickly, and the college girls only changed drink orders three times, so the timing was good when Johnny’s coffee came up. Angelique stirred in creamer, and carried the coffee out to him, along with three extra-extra napkins. That big blue-eyed smile engulfed him again, as he said once more, “Thanks, Angel.” No one had called her Angel since fourth grade. That last year at Monte Bravard Elementary, her friends had called her Angel. Al called her that too, but the thing was, he called her that because he was of the honest opinion that Angelique was, indeed, truly and actually an angel. Angelique chuckled dryly. If only he knew how far from the truth that was. Angelique had no idea where Johnny lived or how he got to and from Perk-Up every day, and, until today, she’d never thought to wonder. But today she wondered. Each time she was ready to ask him, another customer came in or her attention was diverted. But when Johnny had been there almost an hour, the most remarkable thing happened. A very young woman carrying a toddler on one hip strode through the front door and approached the counter with the decisive air of one chained to a hurried schedule. Angelique could tell the young woman intended to look business-like, but the little fellow clinging tight to her wasn’t having any of it. The young woman’s top was coming untucked from her slacks, and wrinkles were imprinting themselves into her cotton suit faster than she could smooth them out. The buttons on her top ascended at a precarious angle until Angelique wondered if they were evenly buttoned. The young woman, Yvette, gave her name to the barista in a stilted, hurried, French accent. Angelique had thought this young woman might be her next interview, but the name didn’t sound familiar. Her small black coffee order underway and paid for, Yvette plopped right down at Johnny’s table and began a visible summation of the patrons in the coffee shop, as if looking for someone. Apparently not finding them, she grabbed her phone out of her purse and texted. She wasn’t sharing the table with Johnny as much as she was pirating it. She wasn’t minimizing Johnny as much as she was simply unaware he was there. But the toddler was immediately smitten, smiling and reaching for Johnny. It only took seconds for Peter to land squarely and smoothly in Johnny’s lap. It was clear for everyone to see that a love affair was beginning. Some seconds into this love affair, Yvette looked up to see her little boy reaching, and her eyes met Johnny’s, ever so briefly. Unable to meet his gaze, she looked away, but her eyes kept returning to Johnny’s face, the drool slipping from the corner of his lips, his grayish curly hair and sideburns, his hands, and his army-green canvas jacket and pants. “Peter,” she whispered to the little tyke, “leave this man alone.” Peter’s blue eyes were merry, and he giggled and turned back to reach again for something shiny on Johnny’s lapel. “Peter,” his mother spoke more firmly this time, but still the little boy paid no attention. Johnny looked at Peter’s mother, and spoke quietly, “Sorry. I can leave now.” He reached down to Peter, still on his lap, and gave him a quick squeeze before attempting to boost him back up on the table. He whispered in Peter’s ear, “Youse got to git up now.” But Peter clung to Johnny, and when Johnny pried himself away, Peter’s tears started in earnest. Johnny leaned close to Peter’s face and whispered, “Ole Johnny be back tomorry. See Peter then,” and to Peter’s great delight, and Yvette’s great chagrin, Johnny kissed the top of Peter’s curly red head. If Johnny drooled on Peter, neither of them noticed or cared. “Bye-bye, Johnny, bye-bye,” Peter was waving furiously with one hand, the other tightly grasping something tiny. The door banged after Johnny when he left. “Peter, what is it? What’s in your hand?” Yvette asked, prying open the little fist. “No, Mommy. Mine,” Peter whimpered, to no avail, “mine, Mommy! No, mine!” Yvette pulled the object from her son’s tiny hand and looked closely at it. It was a medal. A Gulf War Desert Storm medal, about an inch in diameter, in which an eagle, wings fully extended, was set against an American flag shield, and backed in a mother-of-pearl material. “Oh, Peter! We must give this back to Johnny right away!” “Johnny...” Peter repeated, “Johnny.” “I’ll be right back,” Yvette told the barista, scooping up Peter, and running to the door Johnny had just exited. She stood and looked, but Johnny was nowhere to be found. Yvette stepped back into the coffee shop, looking as if the weight of all the world were laid at her doorstep for her to carry. She reached out to give Angelique the pin but something inside Angelique restrained her from accepting the pin for safekeeping. She looked at Peter’s blue eyes and red hair and thought she might well have been looking at Albert reincarnated. How many people in this world could have eyes like those eyes? Eyes that crinkled and twinkled and smiled? Eyes that summed you up and encouraged you to feel successful and empowered and appreciated? “He’ll be back here tomorrow at this time. He comes here every day. Why don’t you just meet him here tomorrow and give it to him yourself?” Angelique said. Then more softly, “What’s your name, dear?” Yvette was rocking Peter, who was holding Johnny’s medal tightly to his chest. “I’m Yvette.” “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but you looked like you were headed somewhere important. I hope we didn’t hold you up?” Angelique said. “No. It was nothing.” That beautiful French accent. “Now, I’ve been around long enough to know when something is nothing or when it is something. This something was something, I’m pretty sure.” Angelique normally wasn’t this pushy but something compelled her to speak, to keep Yvette engaged. “Yes, the bank, they were having open interviews today, and my friend was supposed to meet me here to take Peter so I could go. But I’m afraid she is often forgetful, and she did not show up.” “You never know, things have a way of working out,” Angelique said. “Why don’t you come back tomorrow and see Johnny?” But Yvette seemed hesitant to go. Finally, she spoke again, “This man, Johnny. Do you know him?” she asked. “Not so much, I guess. He’s been coming here for years, and I always have just known him as Johnny Draw. I didn’t even know for sure he was in the service until this,” Angelique said, motioning toward the medal Peter still held. “He...Johnny’s eyes. They remind me of my husband’s,” Yvette said, “I’ll show you. My husband was an artist. That’s how he came to be in Paris, and how we met. This is my favorite picture of him, a self-portrait in pencil.” And Yvette pulled out a folded 9X13 page bearing the likeness of a young man. “You’re right - his eyes,” Angelique remarked, studying the sketch, “They are amazing. I can see why Johnny’s eyes reminded you of him. And little Peter looks like them both.” “Peter will never know his family. My husband and his father died in a crash last year. My husband’s grandfather served in the war and came home, but he never returned to his family.” Angelique stood and put her arms around Yvette quickly and said, “I’ll be right back.” Thirty seconds later, she returned from the employee lounge with $45. She tucked it into Yvette’s hand, and said simply, “Get yourself some dinner. You owe me nothing. Come back and see us tomorrow." Yvette nodded amid tears, packed up Peter and his precious medal, and paused to wave to Angelique from the door. Angelique opened Perk-Up at 6 a.m. the next day, the same as every other day, but today she had a spring in her step and a light in her eyes. Something good was going to happen today, she was sure of it. Things usually did have a way of working out. The big clock over the register showed 8:40 a.m., and Angelique felt a stab of worry. Was he going to show? Would this be the first time in years that he hadn’t shown up? And what about Yvette? Surely she would come back with Johnny’s medal. 9:00 a.m. came, bringing Yvette and Peter with it, Peter beaming ear to ear, and calling out, “Hey, Johnny! John-ny! Hey!” Angelique looked again at the clock, then at Yvette and Peter. The clock read 9:35, and Peter had settled quietly into his mother’s lap. For her part, Yvette had a sad and settled air about her, as she drank the last of her black coffee. The door opened just after she swallowed her last sip, and it was a good thing because she might have choked on it. Johnny Draw sat on his wheelchair, piloting it through the door frame and coming to a stop at Yvette’s table. Was it really Johnny? This man with the cleanly washed and trimmed hair, and the clean hands? This man with a cleanly shaven face and a crisp black shirt? This man with medals upon medals displayed on his shirt? “Johnny?” Yvette asked as Angelique watched in rapt attention. “Yez ma’am, at your service,” and Johnny gave a snappy salute and wiped the corner of his mouth with a clean handkerchief peeking from the corner of his breast pocket. “Johnny,” Yvette said again. Meantime, Peter had snuggled onto Johnny’s lap. “I got sumpin’ for the boy here,” Johnny said to Yvette. Turning his attention to Peter, he said, “youse go sit right there and hold real still for a while, and I got you a surprise. Cain’t you do that for me, young’un?” Peter nodded and sat where Johnny indicated he should. Johnny pulled a 9x13 sketch pad and a pencil from the pocket in the side of his wheelchair and began to sketch. “This gonna be you in a bit, boy. They didn’t call me Johnny Draw fer nothin’ now, did they?” “Things sure do have a way of working out,” Angelique thought once more.


# Matters of Solace ## Chapter 1: A Choice Sometimes we pay terrible prices for proving ourselves correct. But I must begin at the beginning, for fragments fail to get us anywhere. I must grasp back to before my apprenticeship, before I was discovered by the Fellowship. When I was very small, I had the habit of wandering off. I followed the blades of grass as they bent away from me in the gentle breeze of late lazy Summer. I did not seek for where the grassland gave way to forest, or broke upon the banks of the river. I thought to wander where the wind went. Perhaps, I thought, if I could approach the wind, find where it came to pause, I could find what drove its restlessness. My mother would find me puzzling over the wind's indecision half-way between our village and the next. Fearless, she proclaimed to others, even while I was offered chastisement or weeping. Five year olds are bound not to get too far. But far enough to alarm my mother and father. When I was older still, my father found me in the foothills of the mountains. I wondered who it might be that had sorrow so deep their tears caused the river to flow on and on. I recall my father's words to me still. "Jolan, you look on the world and see not the same world we live in. It is dangerous. You must come to see what we see. How else can you find your way? How else can you become a man?" I know now he asked that of me from love, from misery, from fright. It is where words go and where they begin. But I answered as a child of eight harvests would, merely at the surface. "I made my way here," I said. "When I'm a man it will be the same." My father reddened a bit. He seemed ready to scold me, yet he merely took a deep breath, looked away and let it out with a barked laugh. "Come along, son. We must stay at the inn tonight." I imagine he would have had many more questions if he had realized I had not set out in the morning as he had thought. He had been riding for the better part of the day. I had already been wandering in the foothills for much of that same day. I was but a youth on foot, but had traveled faster than he on horseback. I suppose I could have sought for home and found myself there but that did not occur to me. I was with my father, trying earnestly to absorb his lectures about duty, his explanations of responsibility, his frustrations over the meddling and prying of the villagers. I understood little of the things he spoke, and even less of his motivations for saying them. I desired to understand, but the world didn't seem to fit his words. The only thing that came clearly to me was it had begun to bother others in the village and in the towns up the road or down-river. They could not countenance that what I beheld of the world was not what they took from it. Their eyes and my eyes, cast upon the same grass, the same river, the same plate of food, perceived so vastly different a conception that our words failed to mean the same, though they rang identically in our ears. When the cries of the young lambs in the yard came to their ears, they could not see what attention would come to them; the feeding, the shearing, or the sacrifice and evening meal. In the smell of the fresh rain they could not see the birth of the cloud from the mists and foam of the sea, or from the steam of a cow's breath. I would catch glimpses of what the raindrop had been, and would be, as I tasted it on my tongue. My mother would find me swaying in the rain and call me back to myself. To my parents, I was damaged. They needed to find a way to fix me. They appealed to wise elders, they asked a letter be sent to the healers in the capitol beseeching them for some remedy to my condition. Tinctures and poultices were administered. Many did nothing. Many made me ill. My father beat away a priest who, going beyond the purview of his order, attempted to burn me as one ought those who are possessed. That was the worst, for the priest had nearly succeeded. After driving him away, my father yelled in anger at me to ask why I did not flee or resist. I remarked only of the tree the kindling had once been. It had, in better days, sheltered a family of finches now gone from our land. They were exquisite yellows and blues. I tried to explain how remarkable they had been, the cheer in their song, though no one now alive had ever seen or heard them. My father despaired that day that I was mad. A letter arrived from the capitol, though it was not from the healers there. It was, instead, addressed to me. It said simply, "Seek." My hand fell upon the letter and I saw the slender fingers that curled and swayed applying the script to page. I saw the ink and the wasp's gall that had been crushed to make it. Too far... wrong way... I returned to the slender hand turning the quill through each stroke. I saw where the hand had been and where it was going. I saw the fingers open and I reached out and grasped them. I fell to the ground at once, dazed, letting go of the hand of the stranger that had sent for me with that single word. She bent over me with mild curiosity. "You are younger than I expected," she said. "Seekers don't often come in to their abilities at so early an age." She reached down, her slim fingers, the same that had pulled me leagues from my family, my home, and extended her hand offering to help me to my feet. Instead of taking her hand I could only say, "You were not here." A lilting laugh followed, causing my face to redden. She smiled down and said, "Oh no, you have it quite backward. You were not here." This time I took her offered hand. I stood up, and swayed once more. For a moment, I knew her entirely, but I could not fit her into places that were mine to keep. "You are Lily," I said. "Pleased to meet you, and I can see we'll be getting you some gloves as soon as we have attended to some other matters." She turned away and bade me follow, and only then did I become aware of my surroundings. I was in the market quarter of the central square of the capitol. I had some knowledge that I was not as others were. Yet I assumed it merely to be a singular, intense delight at the wonders of the world around me. That, so distracted, I simply didn't realize how long my legs had been carrying me. For the first time I saw something that even I could not fail to recognize as out of the ordinary. I had taken Lily's hand and come to her from across the span of a week's travel by wagon. I was too full. Questions came all at once and struggled to burst from my mouth so that none could issue forth. I stopped following Lily, dumbfounded. She turned back to see me transfixed in front of an old woman's stall. The old woman was trying to sell me squashes but could not get my attention. Lily laughed again. "All your questions, and some you don't yet realize you have will be answered. Come." She turned and slowly began to walk again. I followed. So many of the questions I had then were of the same variety of those of any child that craves acceptance. They open themselves to the painful possibility they may not get that acceptance, even from those they most love. From the simple and superficial, like whether my impending failure as an adult was an inevitability as my parents feared, to questions of whether they would bear the sight of me once they had proof I was different. That last was the least worthy, or, of so little importance to need never be asked. In later years my thoughts would turn to that moment, and the only regrets I have now are my doubts, for a time, of their love for me. But that is not part of this tale, so I hope you'll forgive the digression. Lily had led me through the various parts of the city into the corridors of the citadel. We wound our way past dining halls, past large rooms filled with men and women gesturing wildly with their hands. Lily counseled me to touch nothing, lest I lose myself and undo her work of having recovered me. We passed rooms filled with scribes copying manuscripts, up stairs, past closed chambers and open studies. I scarcely noticed for I could feel myself becoming part of the pattern of the place. I had always been here. I smile now at Lily's thought that gloves would provide insulation. They cannot. They provide diversion, at will, but all things are connected. Lily was to be among my teachers, but she was not a Seeker, like me. We stopped in the study of a small robed man with curly brown hair and dark eyes. He was seated behind a desk littered with books and dusty objects of uncertain provenance. He was a Seeker. Of those who would become my teachers, he would be the one to provide me the most directly relevant insights, and the least patience with my lack thereof. His gaze turned to Lily, ignoring me for the moment, and asked, "How was the transition?" Rather than speak, Lily opened her hands. A small version of Lily hung in the air over the man's desk. She was walking through the market when her hand seem to become blurry. Her miniature first showed mild surprise. She flexed her blurring hand before her face. Then the confused look relaxed into a smile. As I watched, I flexed my own fingers, knowing the echoes of what skills she was now employing. She was weaving a seeming from her memories, using her own expert abilities. I knew, for example, that she was not making a construct of light in front of us. Had anyone else come in the room, they would merely have seen Lily stretching out her hand and the two of us staring at a vague space above the man's desk. She made each of our minds perceive what she wanted us to perceive. I knew it was not a simple weaving, and I also knew, that it was not among my talents but of hers. Yet I understood it. The figure she projected continued to reach out. A small hand, my own from just a short while ago, reached out to hers. As the hands clasped I was suddenly there, whole, and falling to the ground. Some in market ran away, others stood shouting and pointing. Some clapped as though it was a stunt. I recalled none of this, but knew its truth. The figures faded and Lily closed her hands, taking a breath. "That's all? No additional energies? No other manifestations?" the man asked. Lily looked at me, and back to the robed figure. "It was as you saw. There was nothing else." The robed man gave her a look of consternation, but Lily merely returned his challenge with an expressionless face. The gleam in her eyes suggested she was enjoying his discomfiture. Not understanding, but as ever desperate to, I broke the momentary silences. "Should there have been something else?" The man blinked. "Ah. I'm forgetting myself. I am Renfro, Master Seeker. You may call me Master Renfro. I'll be your teacher here, at least in matters of our specific art. You are one of us now, Jolan." "Pleased to meet you Master Renfro," I said, responding as I had been taught. "One of who?" "Have you not heard of the Fellowship of Orianthus?" Master Renfro asked. As he spoke some of the fading recollections from my fleeting contact with Lily danced through my head, just beyond my conscious grasp. Realizing these glimpses to be hers I answered simply in the negative. Master Renfro's explanations and expoundings were those you may find in many of the common tales of the deeds of Orianthus all those centuries ago. How he organized practitioners of wide and varied arts to serve the crown and the people of the kingdom. Nothing of particular import in our tale here. At some point in his monologue, Lily had excused herself to attend to other duties. The discussion turned to practicalities of my living arrangements and the beginning of my studies. I would room with another apprentice in the citadel. Meals came at the third, fifth, and seventh bells, and were to be taken in company. In none of these instructions was there question of what I was to become. For Master Renfro, at least, the notion was settled. I was an apprentice of the Fellowship. My life was to take the shape of those who had walked these halls before me. "One final item, then, Jolan," Master Renfro intoned. "Use of your abilities, except as prescribed by your instructors is forbidden. You are not to leave these grounds except as is required of you, or in company of one of the Fellowship. Do you understand?" In all my life I had never gone or left. I had not ever thought of myself moving along the pattern. I simply was. That to which my musings turned was part of me, and me part of it. Even the language was strange to my ears. What Master Renfro was saying was that I was not to be me. "I don't know how. How do you not?" Master Renfro seemed surprised. His face held a brittle smile of one not expecting contradiction, and wanting nothing so much as to not be in the same room as me. I'd seen that look on the faces of other villagers, but this was different somehow. He strode the few paces from behind his desk, reached for my hand and gripped it tightly. The experience was very different from my grasping Lily's hand. I felt him walk through the threads of my life. I saw the point of connection, began to feel his doubts, but then the impression dissolved into so many embers blown upon the wind. He had stopped me from knowing him the way I had comprehended Lily. His eyes were wide, sweat breaking out on his brow. His effort continued. I could feel traces of the glimpses he was able to pull from my life, as wisps of silk running through my fingers before I could grasp them tight. He was struggling to see them. He could feel the wind on the grass, the river, the rain. When I peered too close to the connection I'd see the embers flee from my gaze into the dark of night, campfire sparks disappearing in heat eddies. Master Renfro gasped a bit with the effort and muttered, "What are you?" He released my hand and swayed twice before shaking his head. The gesture reminded me of the hound licking its nose to clear the scents it had taken in. I wanted to ask what he'd meant. It would have been another question he'd have been bound to ignore, but at the time I was too anxious at the thought I might shatter from hearing the answer. I let the question lie, and the moment for voicing it passed. For a few breaths he kept his eyes closed, muttering to himself the while. At the time I wondered if he were also able to wield words of command, that he was uttering an incantation of some kind. That is not what Seekers do, though I didn't realize it then. He blinked and said, "Ah yes. Ah... You... You will be given a..." He paused, sunk into his chair, and began rummaging through his desk. He drew out a spool of twine. Measuring off a length, he cut it with a dull stationery knife and handed it to me. "Keep that around your wrist, or your finger. When you feel your attention begin to focus, to carry you, touch that. It will bring you here, or better, remind you of the rule." I took the twine and turned it between my fingertips. I saw the work of pulling and twisting the fibers, of dyeing the cloth. I saw the harvest of the plants and the earth they grew in. Surely this was not meant to bring me only to the spool, only to this study, only to this Master. It was not the strength of the twine's connection to the spool that kept me in the chamber at that moment. It was not even the reminder of the rule the twine was intended to be. Rather, it was the absurdity of the idea that the associations this piece of twine held were as simple as those Master Renfro intended. It was the absurdity that his Master before him had cut him a length from the same spool, and that he carried it still. Ten year olds do not appreciate tradition. I laughed. I understand now I was likely slapping Master Renfro in the face, rejecting him, in a way, and all of his experiences, again without understanding the challenge I unintentionally offered his role with my laughter. Perhaps if I had been older, as Lily implied most students were, things would have started differently. The possibilities are too many to consider now. His eyes flashed briefly and he said, "Compliance is expected." He stared at a space just behind my eyes for a moment, then looked to his papers implying they were of far more significance than a small, vigorous fish plucked from a pond and flipped into the fisherman's basket. I began to ask a question, but a low bell tolled, followed by a bell several tones higher. "Tonic and dominant," said Master Refro, "midday meal." Without further word he moved past me into the hallway. I was left alone, in his study, the abrupt conclusion to a whirlwind of change. It had only been a few hours since I had left home. I imagined my parents searching frantically for me. What must they be thinking? How could I let them know? Would they understand? I also took in the fact that I could go to them now if I chose. My mother's hand on the threads in my shirt, homespun from the wool shorn by my father's hand would carry me right to them. I could hear the wheel spin, twisting the wool as my mother fed it into the spindle. I could see her foot rocking up and down on the pedal as she softly hummed to herself. The smell of the wool was as much a comfort as the smells of the cooking from the next room had been. As much as those impressions let me dwell in the past, savoring the warm happiness of those moments, they brought me to the here and now, reminding me how terribly hungry I was all of a sudden. If I was to fit somewhere, it must be in this place. I must understand these people, live this life. I could not go home. I swayed and it felt as if the ground beneath me had torn asunder and part of the world had fallen away. Fleetingly, I grasped at that world for a moment, but I had chosen, and I clasped at wisps of smoke. I curled and uncurled my fists and set out from Master Renfro's study into the hallway. This was my world. I had walked these paths... would walk these paths. I saw myself carrying messages to the other masters. I saw my shoes pound around many turns, as I jostled past other students. I saw the citadel unfold in many shapes, in the scents of autumn, the cool dampness of winter, lamp light playing through corridors at night, back to shafts of sunlight in midday. I came back to myself, back to now. I stumbled, staggering to the wall. What had just happened? Was it this place that had caused this? It must be me. I shook my head. This was my world now. I must walk to the dining hall. Simple. I knew the way. I shouldn't know the way, but I did. "You're going to miss the meal, and so am I. Come on!" An older boy turned away and began walking off. I followed. "You came looking for me?" I asked. "Yah. Master Renfro sent me. Said you might not be there. You Seekers are always popping off here and there. Good you didn't. Spares you the punishment." He kept walking, turning down a right fork at one of the intersections. "Punishment?" I kept pace. "You'd be washing dishes and peeling potatoes for a month. Cooks'd be happy." He spoke from first-hand knowledge, I learned later. "My name is Jolan." "Right," he said. "I'm Ander. I get to watch you for a bit, until you get assigned." I took this in and began to ask the obvious question, but we were approaching the dining hall. The sounds of chatter, the clatter of utensils on bowls, the shuffle of feet, and the smells of food stole our attention. We walked through the archway into the hall. Ander waved me to one side where bowls of porridge and various dishes of cooked vegetables had been laid out for the taking. Boys and girls, young men and women, and some of the masters looked up at the late arrivals. All of them were older than me. All of them were bigger than me. Master Renfro sat among other masters at one of the far tables. Lily was at the other end of that table. She looked up and smiled. Master Renfro looked also, blinked once, and turned his attention back to his meal. Ander shoved a bowl and plate into my hands. "Come on," he said. We sat at a table with other boys and girls. They were already nearly finished so conversation had become their focus. "What is he, then, Ander?" asked a stocky boy with a cracking voice. "That's not polite," said the slim girl to the boy's left. "You should introduce yourself, first. I am Delia, and the rude one is Ben." Ben looked to Delia to begin objection, but Ander spoke up instead. "Jolan here is a Seeker, seems like." Ben fixed his gaze back on me, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "So you can poof off to everywhere and *see* stuff?" he asked, still chewing his crust of bread. Delia answered before I could open my mouth. "Well of course he can't yet. He has to be trained. You couldn't do more than shake the dinner table until you were taught properly." I began to answer, but Ander cautioned me to eat while we could. Delia and Ben began to argue about what Seekers could and could not do. Ben claimed they could read minds. Delia lectured that they just knew where you were or where you'd been from something that had touched you. Others joined the discussion. I watched and chewed. Ben could move things, shape them, but was not a Seeker. Delia was Lily's student. Ander could direct creatures with his will. Still others could bring things into existence from nothing, it seemed. A tall, gangly boy with dark skin could send his voice to anywhere he chose it to be heard. But none were Seekers. Only Master Renfro. I ate, nodding at the assertions of some, shaking my head at others. A few asked where I was from, only to seem disappointed when it was not some exotic location they'd only read of in books. I wanted to tell them of the wind, to share with them the story of the finches, to explain the rain's journey, but the conversation bent away from those things. There were more questions but they were interrupted by the same low bell, followed by the higher-toned bell, followed by the low bell once again. Midday meal was over. "Come on," Ander said. "I have to see Master Beddick, then get you settled.


Log #3 Fear That's what I felt when the power cut off. Since there was no natural light, it was pitch black. I had seen backup lights in the halls. Why weren't they on? I turned my phone flashlight on and looked around. Some others did the same. I asked Fin why there weren't on. He said the backup generator had to be started. I said I'd go and Fin came with me. He showed me the generator room and told me to start the backup generator. It had a pull motor. I thought how long it would be until I was back up there, mowing the lawn. I tried to pull it and it made a thud. I looked at Fin and he shrugged. I tried a few more times with no luck. I thought of the worst and looked in the gas chamber, it was empty. I asked him where more gas was. He thought for a second then looked at me with dread in his eyes. I realized what that meant. They were up there. I then tried the backup and even the backup to the backup. No gas. I asked him where the gas would be up there. He looked at me, confused, then said his shed. I walked out of the generator room and looked at the latch. Then at him. Dammit, someone had to go up there. I told him I'd be right back, and started up the ladder. He yelled at me and told me I couldn't go. We then argued for a minute and he said the least I could do would be to wear a protective suit. I asked him where it was and he showed me to his room. In his closet there was a cheap, white suit. Kind of like a hazmat suit. I then put it on and went to the hatch again. I started up and he wished me luck. I thought about what I thought when I first came in here. I wonder when I'll see the sun again. I guess I'll see it now. As I put my hand on the hatch, I gulped. Do I really want to do this. Do I have to do this. I do. My hands turned the hatch. I put my hands on the hatch and pushed. It was bright at first, then it slowly got darker. It took me a minute to realize that the sky was completely covered by clouds. These weren't normal clouds though. They were ash clouds. I looked around and saw his shed. I wondered if the whole world was under a nuclear winter. I opened the shed and saw it was cluttered and full of stuff. I sorted around and, in the corner, there was two canisters. I smiled and grabbed them, and stopped. They were too light. They were empty. I tried to think about where the nearest gas station was and realized that we were in the middle of nowhere. I stepped out of the shed, and looked at my surroundings truly. All I could see was dark skies, craters, and fires. And if I want to live, I'm going to have to travel in this.


‘Ah, silence! Finally!’ she thought as she flipped through the pages of a Charles Dickens’ novel she had randomly picked up from the fiction section. It was late! Probably around two in the morning, and yet she wasn’t sleepy at all. She read for a while, disinterestedly, before going back to pick up another book. Then another! And then another again! Putting her nose to the book, she sniffed the first page. ‘Fresh as an oak!’ she thought; the strong scent momentarily transporting her to a different world altogether. A déjà vu perhaps! A few tables down the row a florescent tube light flickered; the buzzing sound prompting her back to the present. ‘Why was she even in the library at this odd hour?!’ she wondered. Ah, the silence! She explored some more sections - finding nothing even remotely interesting - before returning to the fiction section. She randomly picked up two more books, and attempted to read them side-by-side. After a while she got bored again! ‘No wonder she had been such a poor student’ she contemplated. She was born as the third child in a middleclass family of eleven, and lived in a two room house with them. Since the time immemorial, all she had heard was ‘noise’! Utterly disgusting constant noise! Parents arguing, doors banging, music blasting from the house next door, an old TV spewing news nonstop, her siblings laughing, strangers talking... to her and about her! There had been no respite! She had fared poorly in the school. So after turning 16, she had found a low-paying job in the ticketing department at the Railway Station; the wage barely enough to cover her daily lunches. Household ‘noises’ had been replaced by the whistling engines, clickety-clacky carriages and crowded platforms. Indeed, there had been no respite! It wasn’t long before she had forgotten all about quietness. Even when she tried to sleep at night, there was always a constant humming sound... that is, on nights when the strangers didn’t show up! And those nights were the most peaceful ones! Leaning forward onto the table, she rested her head on top of the open book. The utter quietness made her fall asleep instantly! “Wake up! Wake up!” someone whispered in her ear. She felt disoriented at first, not knowing where she was. Only after looking at the open book, all drenched in her drool, did she realize that she was at the library. Feeling groggy she looked up to find an old man, probably in his eighties, with a pointed nose and strangely rounded, gold-rimmed glasses looking at her. She was terrified! “Who... who are you?” she inquired. “I am the librarian!” he grinned. “You are in the library and you wish to spend your time sleeping instead of benefiting from all the knowledge around you?!” he continued disappointedly. She was speechless, and didn’t know how to respond. “What time is it?” she ventured, trying to fill the awkward silence. “Does it really matter what time is it?” the old man responded with a solemn face. Once again, she was left speechless. “What do you want from me?” she asked directly. “Oh! I don’t want anything from you!” he replied. “But look at all these books... they seem offended that you are sleeping your ass off in a library instead of taking this opportunity to learn about new things!” he continued. For a moment, she felt all books staring at her with angry little faces. She shivered! “But there are so many of them! I don’t know which one to read!” she responded, trying to justify her behavior. “Ah, the paradox of choice!” the old man smiled. “Err, the what... of what?!” she was totally lost. “The paradox of choice means that when you have a lot of options to choose from, you end up overcomplicating the process and unnecessarily delaying it” he explained excitedly. “Instead of encouraging you to take action, these many choices push you towards complete inaction” he continued. His eyes sparkling behind the gold rimmed glasses. She was baffled, but at the same time curious to know more! “So, you are saying having so many books around can make someone read fewer books?” she asked while scratching her head. “Indeed, it can!” he responded. “Then, what is the purpose of building a library?” she inquired innocently. “Ah, that is a smart question!” the old man sighed. Although he kept a straight face, she could tell he was quite happy inwardly with her question! “Perhaps the purpose of building a library is to allow curious souls to satisfy their lust for knowledge about specific topics” he attempted, trying to provide a convincing answer. “Anyone could walk in through that door knowing they could read all about... let’s say... ‘Trains’ in here!” he continued. “But what if someone wants to know about everything?” she asked curiously. “Then, they can spend their whole life visiting libraries around the world and getting their hands on as many books as possible” the old man responded with a smile. She was satisfied with the answer! ‘I want to learn about everything in the world’ she affirmed to herself. As if magically reading her thoughts, the old man said, “You can start from here, and read about as many things as you want”. *** It was around midday when a stern looking woman with grey hair woke her up from a deep slumber. She had pale cheeks and her hair was tied into a high bun “Get up, young lady!” the old woman barked loudly. “This isn’t a place for you to sleep at” she continued. “But who... who are you?” she asked reluctantly. “I am Ms. Shakila, the librarian here, and responsible for keeping the books safe” the old lady responded with a sneer while pointing to the messy pile of open books around them. ‘If she is the librarian, who was that old man last night’ she thought as she slowly rose up and walked towards the door. She had no recollection of what had happened after the old man had asked her to start from here. ‘Maybe he was one of the strangers!’ a chill went down her spine at the thought. She found her mother waiting at the library door, pacing worriedly. She was relieved upon seeing her daughter fine and safe. Turning around, she asked the librarian “How can I read books at the library, Ms Shakila?” “For that, you must purchase a subscription” the librarian replied nonchalantly. “Mom, I want a subscription for the library” she said turning back to her mother. “Sweetheart, let’s get back home and discuss it with your father” her mother replied while smiling sadly. Seeing a confused look on her daughter’s face, she explained “library subscription requires money you see!” “Surely, we can’t be that poor to not be able to afford a library subscription fee” she responded curtly. Her mother smiled as her face turned red in front of the librarian. “Not at all, sweetheart! Just that one cannot fund everything. You eldest sister wants to go to college, your brother wants to join the football academy, you want a library subscription, not to mention all the medical bills, and what the younger ones want!” the mother responded sadly, hoping that her daughter would understand and stop pestering her in front of the librarian. “So, which one is it going to be?” the girl asked plainly. “The sister going to college, the brother joining the academy, my medical bills or the library subscription, or what the younger ones want?” she continued. “Of course one cannot decide just like that with so many options!” her mother snapped, irritated at her daughter’s questions. “Ah, the paradox of choice” she smiled as her eyes sparkled. “The ‘what’...?” the librarian who had been standing quietly till now asked curiously. “Please forgive her, Ms Shakila” the mother responded feeling embarrassed. “My daughter has recently been diagnosed with Schizophrenia, and has little control over forming coherent thoughts and sentences” she whispered. The mother daughter duo walked out of the library, one feeling sad and defeated, meanwhile the other one feeling happy and triumphant. Of the two, who felt how, no one could tell!