“This party is lame.” Jacques says this statement to no one in particular, his eyes remaining focused on the clock above the Rembrandt painting hung upon the wall, musing over the elegance of the print, which is without a doubt an authentic original, and the fact it had been hung so haphazardly upon the wall without so much as a single protective layering seemed an atrocious affront to the art itself, which resonated a certain sort of dread inside him. He turns from the painting then, catching the eyes of two nameless guests of the party. The two men both avert their eyes so as to avoid contact with his. There was no denying it; he stuck out like a sore thumb in this crowd. Maybe it was his all-black-outfit consisting of jeans, a black t-shirt, a black goatee, and a shaved head... or maybe it was his general demeanour. Where does one begin and the other end? A person’s perception of themselves versus the way they present themselves? Was one a product of the other? It was hard to say. The only definitive thing Jacques could say had already been said; the party was a lame one. He was only here because his sister had insisted he come. She was married to a politician, and most of the people here were at least a decade older than Jacques. But that was all well and good, considering Jacques had drank the last of his vodka late last night as he went about his nightly ritual of battling sleep (and the dreams which accompanied it), and he was already late on his rent for that month so, the fact he could get drunk for free here had been a deciding factor in his presence. *“Ahem!”* Everyone’s head swirls at the sound of a cough from somewhere within the lavish living room overlooking the lake. “Don’t worry,” a woman’s voice calls out, “he’s just a smoker!” Speckled spots of laughter ripple through the crowd, the lingering trauma of the pandemic clearly still fresh upon the tip of their cerebellums. Jacques is accosted then by a short blond girl who introduces herself as Beatrice, her outstretched hand looking much like a broken twig to him. “What brings *you* here?” she asks, her eyebrows emphasizing the fact that the ‘you’ is italicized. “The unfortunate condition of life,” he says, sighing and sipping from his drink. “What’s this?” Beatrice asks, leaning to get a closer look at the block of text tattooed on the inside of Jacques collarbone, which reads ***GODISNOWHERE.*** “God is now here?” she reads the words out loud, musing over them with a quizzical look on her face. “That’s... a nice thought.” “Is it?” Jacques says, sighing. He didn’t have to the strength or conviction left in him to bother pointing out that the tattoo could also be read ‘God is nowhere.’ It was all too much for him; the way their eyes hung on lingering a little too long, and how they leaned in close to whisper in each other’s ears, talking of life’s tiny trivialities from safe on high in their golden nests. Suddenly, it was hard for him to take in breath, his lungs rejecting the savage air with utter disdain. *This place is toxic*. He felt as if his skin was been scorched, the temperature rising from within. He proceeds to shuffle towards the kitchen where countless liquor bottles line the counter beside the sink. He pours himself a stiff rye and coke. As he takes his first sip from the drink, brushing his bangs from his eyes, a couple enters the kitchen and makes their way for the makeshift bar beside the sink. They were closer to Jacques in age, both of them dressed up in expensive designer clothes for which Jacques had no reference. Words like *Armani*, *Calvin Klein*, and *Gucci* flitter through his head like the wings of a fly; a mere nuisance. "What kind of sauce do you think would go best if you had to eat a person?" "BBQ sauce for sure," the woman says, her dark hair shimmering in the kitchen light. Her lips were painted a dark shade of red; all crimson in the dim light. "Not apple sauce?" the fellow says, his eyes narrowing intently. "No, of *course* not!” she scoffs. “Too sweet. It would have to be a spicy BBQ sauce, and you'd want to cook it crispy, you know, since humans have a lot of fat - generally, at least around here!” The two share a laugh while Jacques can’t help but overhear. "I would never eat a person," he interjects, taking a long pull from his drink while the two unknown faces stare at him in momentary disbelief. "They're fucking disgusting." "Chill out man," the guy says, giving him the once over, his eyes trailing over him. "Yeah, it was just like... a totally hypothetical conversation," the brunette woman with drawn-on eyebrows adds. "Well, I still wouldn't eat a human,” Jacques shrugs, “too much toxicity." The couple move uneasily past him, the woman shaking her head. Jacques rolls his eyes and moves the other way towards the multi-leveled deck overlooking the lake. "There you are!" his sister cries out, appearing in the hallway of the kitchen before he can make his escape. She comes at him in a barrage of curled hair and silk-smooth arms, wrapping herself around him in a drippy hug. "Isn't this just the best?" She is wearing a silver dress which shimmers in the light. "It's pretty great," he says, looking past her at the clock hung from the wall. "What are we celebrating again?" "Oh Jacques," Marissa laughs, slapping him on the chest. "You have such a *wicked* sense of humour." "I honestly have no idea what this party is for," he says again, disinterested. "You're a riot, little brother. A real rebel without a cause." He goes to move past her then, sighing as she reaches out and grabs him by the arm. *Where are you going?* she asks. *Out for a smoke,* he says. He makes his way past the throngs of people in the living room, some of them wearing little pointed party hats, all of them laughing far too loudly than Jacques assumed was warranted; there was nothing particularly humorous about anything occurring at this particular moment, in his particular opinion. *Just another circle-jerk*. An evening of laughter and self-grandeur hidden beneath the guise of whatever trivial banality they were pretending to give a shit about. Jacques pushes past a group of people and out into the vast expanse of the five-hundred foot second-story deck which had been built during the quarantine, the stain finish fresh and glistening. Outside, the air hits him like a slap in the face - that sour heat of the city melting away across the Muskoka Lake. Lamps carve a path through the darkness down to the water’s edge. It was still strange seeing all these people clustered together without masks on, at least to Jacques. Everyone else at the party seemed relatively nonplussed by the fact that there were clearly over one hundred people present at his sister's little get-together. Jacques spots his sister's husband, Reginald, entertaining a group of important looking people; mostly older men in expensive suits with customized cufflinks and gold watches. *Prostituting himself for votes no doubt*, Jacques thinks to himself as he moves in the opposite direction, pulling a battered cigarette pack from out of his pocket and lighting up one of the smokes in an effortless gesture. The smoke hits his lungs and, and for a moment, he feels calm. "Hey! You're Marissa's brother, right?" Jacques turns to see a couple approaching him. Both are dressed extravagantly in designer clothing purchased from niche boutiques in Paris, or at least that's what Jacques presumed. The tall man is dressed in a navy blue pin-striped, single-breasted-suit and his assumed wife (or mistress) wore a blood-red dress with a scandalous slit revealing most of her left leg, looking milky white in the silver moonlight. “How are you tonight?” the woman in the red dress asks, smiling at him. “It’s Jacques, right?” “It’s nice to be out of the city, I guess.” “So nice,” she agrees, turning to the tall man. “I was just telling Bertrand that. Isn’t that right sweetie?” “That’s right, she was,” he nods. “Fascinating,” Jacques says, only half listening to the words coming out of his own mouth. “Sometimes I feel so suffocated in the city, too many people. Did you know that rats carried the plague back in the dark days, and now, I guess you could say that humans are the rats...” The sharply dressed man shares a look with his partner. “Don’t you think you’re being a little... over-dramatic?” “Funny you say that,” Jacques says to the woman in the red dress, chuckling as he pulls from his cigarette. “I find that most people don’t get dramatic enough.” “And what is it that you *do*, Jacques?” Bertrand asks, sipping from his cognac glass and smirking into the silver moonlight. “I’m a programmer,” he says, disinterested. In that moment, their eyes are all drawn to the full-moon suspended in the velvet black sky, a hollow wind blowing through the trees and causing their leaves to rustle like the sounds of a thousand whispers. “And what do you program mostly?” “Computers.” “Oh.” “Yeah,” Jacques says, shrugging and gulping from his now empty tumbler. “Hey,” he says, after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Do either of you know what this party’s for?” “This party?” the man asks, gesturing with his arms in two big circles. “Yeah, like... what are we all doing here?” “Well, I thought that was obvious,” the lady in the red dress says, incredulously. Jacques looks on, his face wet with anticipation. “We’re partying,” she says, pausing before giggling to herself, drinking her wine. The red from her lips leaving a stain upon the tip of the crystal-stemmed wine glass. “Whatever,” Jacques sighs, shaking his head and turning away from them, the sounds of their laughter following him as he moves to the edge of the deck, his eyes drifting past the trees and out into the water below. His mind drifts along with his eyes, thoughts of Dylan flittering through his consciousness like a snake beneath the water’s surface. There’s a part of him that missed him very much, the way his dirty blond hair seemed to glow in the morning sun... and he wished very much that they could be together. But there was another part of him, perhaps a much greater part, which cursed Dylan for leaving him behind in this world. Often times he would catch himself pontificating on how he wished things had happened in reverse; that *he* would have been the one to get sick, and Dylan would have had to watch *him* die a slow and irrelevant death, his lungs gradually filling with liquid that the virus caused, leaving his last breathes sounding like the engine of an old lawnmower. A glass shatters somewhere behind him upon the deck, startling Jacques from his lovesick trance. *“Opa!”* Someone from inside the house yells, the sounds of laughter swelling briefly before the gentle hum of a dozen conversations resumes. “There he is!” his sister croons, walking over towards Jacques with a handful of guests in tow; a barrage of Armani suits and diamond jewelry. “Leave me alone,” he sighs. “Oh, why are you always such a party pooper?” she whines, smacking his arm. A few of the people behind her are whispering behind cuffed hands. “Aren’t you happy to be here?” “No one even knows what this party’s for.” “You’re missing the point,” his sister says, rolling her eyes. “Have you been down to the water yet? You really ought to go down. It’s *so* beautiful down there.” “Maybe I will,” Jacques says, surveying the illuminated path. “There’s a significantly less presence of humans down there.” “My brother,” his sister smiles, “the constant cynic.” He rolls his eyes at her before turning and descending the stairs. The sound of his footfalls easily drowned out by the party, and he flicks his cigarette butt into the gravel pathway. He approaches the water’s edge with his hands in his pockets, casually kicking at orphan stones as he walks. He thinks then of all that happened in the last year, all that he had lost, and part of it still left a sour feeling in his stomach, yet his apathy had effectively muted the initial rage and betrayal he felt... but that was the problem. He didn’t know who exactly had betrayed him... Unbeknownst to Jacques, a large chunk of earth had been removed earlier that week when Reginald had had the dock replaced, and when Jacques’ foot came down expecting to find earth, it instead found two feet of air, sending him tumbling head-first into the dark-deep water, the sound of his splash barely audible over the sound of the music playing from the deck above. Jacques’ sister turns to one of the guests then, clinking glasses with him. "I love champagne," she says. "I hear you made out like a bandit on Pfizer,” the man replies. "We did well," she nods. "Thus, the champagne." *Help, please, someone help me! I can't swim!* Jacques’ sister turns to face the crowd then, clinking the side of her glass with a caviar spoon. She waits patiently until everyone at the party has quieted, all of their eyes transfixed upon her and her dazzling silver dress. "We are gathered here tonight to celebrate life itself...” *Please, please! I can't swim... the water is too deep!* Sounds of soft applause ripple through the crowd. "...because life, as we learned over the past year, is something we all take for granted. It’s not until we’re staring death in the face, or finding death in the face of our loved ones, that we realize just how lucky we truly are...” *Can anyone hear me, please? Help me! I can’t swim!* "...which is why we should party hard tonight!" "Yeah!" the crowd cheers in unison, raising their glasses to one another. "Help!" Jacques cries, reaching towards the sky with his hands, his head partly submerged in the black water. "So let us toast our amazing fortunes and impeccable taste in company," she pauses then to allow for the speckled laughter to fade, "and on a more serious note... let us remember all those who died last year in the wake of such an awful virus. Truly, the world has changed so much since it all began..." *Pl-weeeuhhh-ggrrrrr-ease!* "Hurrah!" *Hel-argagagargagragr-llllllllppppppp...* And as Jacques’ head slowly disappears into the lake, his last thoughts revolving around his mother as the water fills his lungs, most of the partiers move back inside where there was warmth and food, his sister poking her head out briefly and looking around before returning inside as well, closing the sliding glass door with a hollow thud that travels over the rippling water which was now a grave for the forgotten. Some of the guests linger on the deck a while longer, smoking cigars and sipping their flutes of champagne, talking casually of relevant recent events; another dictator overthrown in some middle-eastern country, another president elected in the U.S., more riots in the streets in the Southern States, a celebrity died and rumors are swirling he overdosed - while more sinister speculations suggest he was actually murdered... another conspiracy cover-up job... THE END.


DO NOT DRIVE INTO SMOKE. The yellowed road sign was already a dwindling speck in his side mirror, hardly worth devoting any extra energy on, but Bryan couldn’t shake the nasty thought that a sign like that was just the sort of unimpeachable non-action that authorities like to take in a crisis. Notably, he didn’t put much thought into the actual substance of the warning. Wispy gray clouds of smoke rolled somewhere ahead, their exact distance impossible to judge against the resolutely flat landscape. Besides, driving into the smoke didn’t seem like such a bad idea today. Once Bryan hit the turnpike, he clicked on cruise control and dialed up the radio, content to watch the world with unseeing eyes as it hurtled past him for a while. He was an awkward, praying mantis of a young man and he hunched over the steering wheel in a nervy tangle of spindly limbs. Driving home was always like this, but this trip was worse. He hummed tunelessly, his insectoid mouth drawn tight and pale. Bryan tapped at the controls, coaxing an extra ounce of speed out of his tired blue sedan. Kansas, of course, was burning. He couldn’t be sure exactly where the wildfire started, stewing on what he would tell his parents and what he could avoid rather than taking in the scenery. Dimly at first, sleepily, like reaching for a step that was never there, he began to register the vast expanse of charred grass that stretched in all directions. Huge sweeps had burned down to their roots and multiple steady streams of smoke on the horizon promised more to come. The damage was haphazard and illogical, as if the fire had been particularly fickle, tearing down the plain in one direction before peeling off in another, leaving heavy marks in the earth like a brand on the hide of a giant cow. He rarely drove past the flames themselves, but when he did, he found that they were surprisingly small. What the blaze lacked in stage presence, it made up for in persistence, meticulously carving away the countryside. Bryan too, was persistent. Bryan drove several more minutes without passing another car, let alone someone trying to stem the wildfires’ advance. He passed a small town and then a dribbling creek, both ugly. Squat rope fences staking out property lines were the only evidence that someone cared about the fire’s spread. Cattle gathered on the riverbank and brayed in disapproval. Once distant smoke plumes now flanked either side of the highway. The air was gritty with debris that stuck to Bryan’s windshield and the sun refracted harsh and red through the muck. He bumped up his cruising speed again, vaguely hoping to outrun the disaster. His car shuddered with effort, its loyalty having never been tested like this. Visibility continued to deteriorate. The world outside his car was dark and hazy; Bryan leaned forward staring hard at the glass, willing it to clarity. The murkiness was so complete that he startled whenever he passed close enough to an object to actually make it out, a sudden, indistinct lump jutting out of the smog. Mania soon gave way to panic and he stabbed at the controls as if he was a jockey reining in a headstrong steed. Bryan jerked the wheel back and forth, not always sure if he was avoiding obstacles or seeking them out. There were no signs advising what to do in the event you had already driven into the smoke, or at least none that he could make out. A flickering light meandered through the smoky dark. After another chaotic mile, Bryan could see it was a scraggly tree that had caught fire, an ominous lighthouse. If the blazing tree was his lighthouse, then the old barn some two hundred yards behind it was his anchor, and he wheeled toward it, hardly slowing. The barn was old-fashioned, wooden with red peeling paint and broad doors flung wide. It seemed to have been converted into a chapel later in life, with a quaint silver bell hanging from its peak. Someone had dug a narrow ditch around the barn and piled mounds of dirt in a meager defensive perimeter. The unstable light of the burning tree mixed with a fluorescent glow from inside the chapel in an eerie mixed message. Altogether, the spot was a perfect venue for an outdoor wedding that you hope no one will attend. For Bryan, exhausted and wavering, it would have to be good enough. Outside the chapel, he finally made use of the brakes, leaving his car wherever it happened to stop. The rustic building only had a few patches of unburnt grass by way of a parking lot and the hellish sky suggested courtesy had lost some of its importance anyway. Smoke hung heavy in the air, choking and sweet. Bryan followed the lights and entered the barn. The interior consisted of a single, large room, sparsely furnished with a handful of wooden pews and a long-faded rug that trailed its way from the entrance to the altar. A weathered stone man with a full beard and a distressed countenance stood off to the side, as if having just finished his sermon. Long mirrors were propped slantwise against the walls, brightening the room but also making it appear small and cluttered. An out of place rocking chair creaked rhythmically, propelled by the only other living soul present that night. The woman was composed, serene even, wearing a prim, church-going dress and a white Sunday hat. She wielded two arms-length knitting needles, which she used to add to the coarse blanket covering her lap with expert speed. When she spoke, she did not look up from her work, though Bryan had the impression that she could have done such a thing if she wanted. “Private residence.” Her needles clacked together with each upswing, keeping time while Bryan hesitated. Smack. He took a couple steps onto the carpet and answered too loudly, trying for confidence but overshooting into defiance. Smack. “The fire’s out of control. I can’t drive in all that smoke.” She didn’t miss a beat with her needles. “Lots of places to stop driving.” “Less than you might think.” The woman looked up from her work, though her hands never broke rhythm. Her green eyes were hard and she pursed her lips, not afraid to let Bryan know she was sizing him up. “Well, where are you trying to go? And don’t lie to me, I’ll know.” Bryan licked his lips. This wasn’t like getting pulled over by some small-town cruiser, he couldn’t just swat the question away with some banality about driving home for the holiday. Her knitting needles beat on. “Just trying to get someplace else,” he said. She laughed and there was no doubt it was at his expense. “Well, you can get there from most anywhere. But it’s easier here, so maybe you were right to stop. I’ll warn you though, coming back isn’t so easy if you don’t like what you find.” She explained the process to him with dispassionate precision. Close the broad chapel doors and walk around the alter three times, touching the stone saint each time. Turn and walk down the aisle. Walk, don’t run. Open the doors and arrive, someplace else. Simple really. Bryan listened and nodded, all the while walking closer to the altar. He knew he should do something, rev up his car and never look back, at least ask a question. He looked to the statue, as if it might take on the responsibility for him, but the stone man did not speak. A tiny, unnamable worry tugged at the edges of his mind. After a moment he realized the problem. The loathsome thwacking had stopped. He spun away from the altar to confirm what he already knew. The woman was gone, the chapel doors shut. Like a sleepwalker, Bryan started his slow march around the altar. Each circuit was more deliberate than the last, automatic lest he make the mistake of thinking about this any longer. He pressed three fingers to the statue’s brow and focused on the cool, unyielding surface. On the third round he felt for a moment that he could hear the woman’s needles churning and his heart rose, certain that upon seeing his resolve, she must have returned to talk him out of it. But the woman was not there and the only sound was his own footsteps and the moment passed. Bryan walked down the aisle, remembering that he should not run. He wondered if he would falter when the moment came, if he would pause at the broad chapel doors and reconsider. Would his hands shake? But a door is just a door, even when it goes someplace else, and Bryan had already flung them open by the time he realized it was time to make a choice. The Kansas fires burned for three more days. Muted and delayed, an official response did eventually arrive, though in retrospect it probably made only a modest difference. Lengthy passages of scorched grassland alongside the turnpike bore witness to what had happened. Cattle wandered through devastated pastures, nosing at green remnants poking out from the soot. The converted barn was smoke-streaked but no worse for wear, perhaps due to its improvised fortifications, though the tree had long since burned away. Soft music tumbled out the open doors of the chapel, welcoming visitors that never arrived. A blue sedan was parked on what was left of the front lawn, an improbable oasis.


Do you remember what it’s like to be that short, wide-eyed boy and all that you wanted was to win that giant boat from the arcade? The one that hung up on the top of the ceiling, dangling in front of you, luring your quarters into the adjacent claw machine. Do you remember the scent? It was like popcorn and an old spilled soda. Direct the prongs to grab onto the prized white box, specifically the one that says one thousand tickets, so you can buy that boat! It must be impossible, but you try anyway because it’s fun to imagine. What a memory, something close to the heart that warms you like watching the snowfall by a fire...  Now you’re a little older, more interested in those early morning fishing trips with your dad than the rafts in the arcade. There’s something innate about fishing, it’s like a great connection to a simpler time. Being here reminds you of a simple life, and that there is hope for one. The only worry in the world is that eventually, you’ll have to go home.  Scrolling on your phone a few years later, reminiscing of those happy times, makes it feel like it was just yesterday. Don’t you wish you could be there again?  Take her by the hand, and buy her a ticket to the Lac Du Saint Sacrement, the biggest boat in town. Don’t get nervous, it's just the third date. You just met last week, and you’ll be gone by tomorrow. Her hair has these soft-colored highlights, blue pink, and blonde, and it reminds you of the way holiday lights shine in December. This is your summer fling. She smiles at your jokes, which is a first because no one thinks you’re funny. You share stories of growing up, about how you’ve been coming here since you were a kid. The smell of cheap funnel cakes and greasy burgers mix with the cool summer breeze. You take in a deep breath and feel the endorphins sprinting through your body, which makes it feel like the last day of school. This reminds you of what you crave in life: Love, affection, peace, and a drop of sun.  Aboard the Lac Du, an artist plays his guitar strings to the sound of Jimmy Buffet, but he sings about Lake Georgeville instead. It’s more comedic than anything but you clap for him anyway. Take a trip up to the top floor, and if it’s too cold, you can promise to keep her warm.  The last golden gleams of sunshine hit the water and the sun looks at itself in the mirror, like that picture in your bathroom. You scoff, laughing, remembering what it’s like to be back home, with that stupid photo in the stall. Now the stars have a chance to see themselves in the reflection as the sun goes away. From here, there are a thousand stellar lights visible. Darkness--Wait--Oh no. This is the last night you have here before you have to leave heaven. What a strange but wonderful place, how all of these people, alone in the woods, can be connected. It’s like a summer camp but without the need to be woken up for breakfast. Red, green, blue, orange, white lights fill up the evergreen mountains with a sound that can shake rib bones. Fireworks, one last hurrah. You hug her, lay your cheek on hers. A perfect night for a first kiss, or maybe some time away from school, or maybe a blissful night to get away from work. Then it hits you. Your stomach tenses. This is the last night here, after this, you’ll be going back home...  Trash blows across cracks of concrete and sirens roar a loud squeal and reverberate off of skyscrapers that cast a cold shade onto the streets. Your nose runs but you don’t have the hands to blow it, or even a tissue, to ease the mess that’s now leaking into your mouth. It’s quite disgusting, and you’re quite disgusted. At night the only quiet soul in town is the thick layer of smog that hovers above the buildings like something out of Independence Day. This is not living, and there is no love here, so you decide to start scrolling on your phone again. Soft pink lips, streaks of strawberry highlights dazzled between strands of straight blonde hair. You miss her. You miss it.  Smile child. It’ll be summer again. The Lake will still be there, the mountains will still be there, and the fireworks will roar once again. You’ve saved up enough, it’s time to book your plans. It’s what every person should have the opportunity to experience...the place where the boy became a man.


Harold sat there in the corner of the room envying the rest of the furniture, remembering the days he had first came home before the newer furniture came. He was showed off to the whole family and distant relatives, everyone wanted to sit in him. The woman of the house was so excited to show him off, “look at the new chair!” she’d say with such pride. Now, he was nothing. He stared at the new love seat and couch all day every day. He watched as they became the settings for new memories. He hated them but he couldn’t help but admire them. Flawless navy blue with tan trim and accent pillows to match his biggest rival, the accent chair. The chair he hated. He watched day after day as new seating arraignment slowly took over. He was once glorious, now he sat in the far corner of the room, from his angle you couldn’t even see the television! How insulting. *Why am I even here,* he asked himself? *Oh that’s right, the dog.* Harold was there for the dog. When he first came home the dog wasn’t even allowed to sit on him, now they let him sit, sleep, and claw his fabric to shreds. First thing he does every morning after the man leaves for work is jump on Harold with his dirty paws and start digging. Harold thought to himself *if my parents could see me now...* Harold’s parents were a beautiful loveseat and couch. They were such a beautiful family, dark green with matching pillows and pull away cushions for easy cleaning. Financed to the man and woman of the house for two years till they were finally paid off. The plastic over their fabric lasted nearly as long. But that was years ago, his parents had long been gone. Not even a picture from the good old days hung in the living room, they were a distant memory to him. Now he sat in the far corner, an adopted part of the living room family. On this particular day the man of the house came home from work and walked right to Harold. “well old buddy” he began, “we’ve shared some good times but it’s time for you to go to someone else.” Harold was amazed, he knew the day would come where he would be taken out but could this be, could he be a hand me down? Maybe he’ll go to a thrift store he thought, or maybe some friends of the family that took his parents will also take him! He overflowed with excitement. The man of the house squatted down and grabbed Harold with both hands and hoisted him up with a grunt. Harold and the man of the house had to maneuver just to fit through the front door. They went down the stairs and Harold soaked up the afternoon sun, it was a beautiful day outside and Harold enjoyed the day much from this view rather than looking out the small window he recently sat next to. They only got a few steps to the end of the driveway before the man of the house sat Harold down with a sigh. “wow, forgot how heavy you are” the man exclaimed. “well just one more thing” the man said before walking away. Harold heard something coming up from behind him, being dragged in the gravel. *Must be the push cart* he thought. Moments later the man walked past Harold dragging two garbage cans, He put a handwritten sign that said “free” in Harold’s lap and headed back into the house.


. Dead. How? He couldn’t be. He could barely muster the strength to read the report again. This could not have happened. For 5 years now he had been the key to keeping the tide of war in their favour, keeping them in control. Every single plan devised by the scheming sons of bitches on the opposing side had been fed into his hands, and every time he had all the time in the world to counter their moves, force back their troops. They had been in control, and it was all thanks to him. The war hero. The brave agent working craftily under the eyes of the enemy, daringly stealing secrets crucial to the war effort. He had been the motivation that kept the entire force working. How could he possibly be dead? How could he be gone? He was no fool of course, he knew men were ultimately expendable and died often, but not him. He was too talented to be caught. Surely this must be a joke. But no, he couldn’t afford to be a fool. He was dead and there was no way round this. There is still a war to fight and he of all people could not be seen breaking down. He was the leader of the whole cause, his people could not see him collapse. No, the effort must continue. A military funeral must be arranged, of course. Of the highest honours, he of all people deserved it. New spies must be recruited, new methods developed. This war did not rest entirely on the shoulders of one man and now he must go out to prove that fact. The show must go on. Adieu, Cpl Rier. *Cpt Forest shouted in jubilation*. He was dead! Finally the traitorous bastard had been caught! For so long his plans had gone missing, stolen from beneath his nose. Every manoeuvre cut off, every secretive operation exposed. His hands had been tied for so long and it was showing. Retreats and evacuations, battalions flanked and eliminated, tens of thousands of men left to be massacred in blood-stained fields. And all because of this one, tiny, insignificant, rat. Well the rat had been caught. As one of his own secretaries no less. That would not do wonders for his personal status. But now was not the time to be worrying, it was a time of celebration. For the nights of worrying were over! The mole had been found and the mole had been shot. No more information would be leaked, no more documents stolen. The suffering had gone on far too long, but now the war could swing back in their favour. And he was very happy to take revenge on every man who stood in his way and had benefited from this piece of shit uncovering all of his tactics. He had been made to look like a fool, but now it was over. No longer would his men suffer. It was their turn to bleed. Cpt Forest spat in the trash can at his feet which now held the name badge of the once mysterious spy. Rot in hell, Cpl Rier.


You always think about how you want to get better. But maybe it's just a lie you keep telling yourself to feel better. To keep the darkness away. I thought so, too. That if I got rid of the darkness, I would get rid of the struggle. But it also used to scare me a little. Losing it. Because it ́s there, living inside of you for so many years, and the thought of not having it anymore - the darkness - well, it kind of scared me, honestly. It ́s inside of me. Part of me. You can ́t just rip some of your part out and move on. I learned to love the darkness that clouded my head and my soul. I ́ve loved it since elementary school. And I was afraid the pills would make it go away. How would I exist? You know, the problem is, I want to get better, but I am afraid of it. I ́m afraid it ́ll change me into a person I will not like. But I ́m also petrified of the darkness taking full control. It ́s like being constantly on the edge. Trying to find the balance. And when I say people wouldn ́t understand, I don ́t mean it as some nowadays attention-seeking bullshit. I mean the thoughts ARE different. And I like them, but sometimes they can also get weird, confusing, twisted, dangerous, abnormal. Sometimes, that scares me too, and sometimes it makes me laugh. But I can ́t tell. No, no, I cannot. They might make me get rid of my darkness. But I like it here, only sometimes, it can get too much. I'm the disease. It's me. Maybe the darkness wins over the people. Conquers them. So, the only way to stop the disease is to stop yourself. I don ́t have any motivation. It ́s just my stubborn personality that won't let me give up on anything. Maybe people decide to end it because there is only one physical death but so many mental ones. Every time you start to feel a little joy, a little bit alive, it ends eventually. It dies. And because it's part of you, you die with it. Over and over and over again. So, why die one hundred times when you can narrow it to one? My train of thought was disturbed by the phone ringing. Timothy. “Hey, Tim.” “Hey, I'm just checking if the cinema is still on.” “Yeah, of course. I would let you know if something changed.” “Okay, love, I pick you up at eight. Bye.” “Bye.” I took the wine from the kitchen counter and sat on the sofa. My thoughts wouldn't stop now. I had to give them the space they so horribly needed. I didn't even want to go to the cinema, but I promised myself, and I like to think of myself as a person who keeps her promises. When you are ill, your thinking changes into something so different. When I look at the wine, I can only see the pills that I drink down with the wine. Or the glass that could make a nice deep cut. I want to see the blood. I should just make a deep, deep cut. Deep, bloody cut. But I have the cinema in two hours. I can't. Just not yet. I'm always thinking about getting hurt. Not by my doing. But like in a car accident, being tortured by some mafia men, driving Formula I or just driving an average formula and some driver crashes into me, breaking my arm, cutting myself while doing something... Usually, after the car accident, I end up wearing glasses due to some leak of fumes, which makes no sense, but I needed a reason. The doctor can't tell if it's temporary or not. I'm still on antidepressants. Well, to be honest, it hasn't been that long. For these types of pills, I mean. I was thinking about stuffing a handful of pills down my throat the other day. Changed my mind, though. No, lack of braveness would be more correct. I don't know what is true anymore. If life is too short or too long. I thought I would be better. Doing big things. Maybe ending this whole misery might be the bravest thing I would have ever done. We are all hiding behind the big, loud laughs, anyway. I got used to the world in my mind so much that my conditions for reality were too strict. And that's not good. It's awful, honestly. I took a big gulp from my wine and cherished the bitter taste. I never even liked wine, but today I wanted to be a lady. I leaned back and closed my eyes. And it was one terrible idea, for the thoughts started rushing through my mind like they were never supposed to stop. The thoughts are always there, but feelings, it ́s harder with them. I've been feeling nothing recently. Nothing really truly brings me joy. Not art. Not music. Not movies. Books are becoming harder to pick up and read. The world is faceless once again. The feelings. The nice feelings. They vanished. All I feel is shame and disgust. Oh, I am so dead. But nobody can see. Even if their eyes are open. I feel like these pushed feelings and emotions are going to cause something someday. And it's not going to be pretty. So much pressure. Sometimes, I even wish for a mental breakdown. I don't know if I mean it seriously or if it's only a momentary slip. But wouldn't it be easier? No more drama. No more shame. Or a lot of shame. Hundreds and hundreds of tons of shame. Oh, how will I ever get out of this labyrinth of thoughts? I desire an escape from this dreadful reality. That is why I spent so much time inside my head. Living the life, I will never have. Imagining the whole new world with a whole new people. Funny how can insanity keep you sane. Perhaps I should tell Tim. At least a tiny, little part. But at the same time, I don't want him to know. I don't want his view of me to change. Or do I? What is his view now, anyway? I need someone by my side. I thought I didn't, but let's face it, everybody needs the presence of someone. Maybe not constantly, but for some period of time. Because then, life gets lonely. It is breaking your heart. It shatters into a million pieces. And it's almost impossible to clean that mess and return everything to its original state. But what if even Tim decides that is too much to handle and leaves? He doesn't know because I always laugh it off, treating it like it is only a harmless, black humor. And I don't mind most of the time. Because if he knew, if he understood those awful feelings, it would mean he felt them too, and you don't want to see your family or friends suffering. What dress am I going to wear? Am I even going to wear a dress? Maybe some pants would be better. Or I could just stay in. No, come on, think positively. People do it all the time. No more bad thoughts. Just clothes and other shallow considerations. It's quite cold outside, so I should wear something warm. Possibly some scarf, too. So, I can suffocate myself with it. So much for the positive thinking. I don't believe those visits and sessions with my psychiatrist are helpful. And neither are those pills. The only thing that is keeping me, still barely, sane are those little escapes into my mind. It really is a whole new world up here. And it's delightful. I'm slowly losing it. And one day, there will be a definite defeat. I'm sure about it. I am missing out on everything. I'm losing the best years of my life. And the worst thing is me realizing it but being too powerless to make a step. It's such a helpless feeling. I want to get rid of it. I want to get rid of everything. I want to enjoy life. Someone should write a manual on how to actually do it. Pathetic. Oh, this activity is not helpful at all. It gives me a stomachache. And stomachache is even worse than soul ache, sometimes. You see, when you are depressed, yeah you feel sadness, and pain and sorrow and all that shit, but sometimes, you just become numb. And yeah, that fucking sucks but waking up every fucking day and the moment you open your eyes is the exact moment you feel stressed and nervous... I mean already? And why? What is the reason? Exactly! Not a fucking thing! So yeah, I choose my depression over my anxiety. And how fucked up do you really have to be, when during the process of comparison of depression and anxiety you find depression quite comforting? But still, depression is not poetic. It's fucking devastating. I thought I had learned how to tame the darkness inside of me. I even fell in love with it, but now, I can feel it taking over. All over me. And it makes me so sad. So desperate. I am so lonely. I feel so lonely around people. And so unwanted. I'm just so sad. And so sadly lonely. I...just...what if a car ran over me? I don't want this anymore. I am so alone. So, so lonely. And even sadder. The tears started running down my cheeks, and I could feel the loud sob trying to escape my throat. I am so stupid. I just want this to end. But I don't have the courage to end this. Someone has to do it for me. Only now do I fully understand the term “walking dead.” Funerals are useless and pointless if you were dead a long time ago. I could drown in my tears. It would feel like a salt lake. And I would be finally calm, knowing that the darkness would haunt me only one more time, and then there would be nothing. Nothing at all. Just the sweetest death. I would lay my head under the tears, lakes, and lakes of tears until the sweet suffocation would come for me. And I would never hurt myself again. The thoughts would win. Committing a suicide for me. And I would be forever in their debt. I wish I could love myself as much as I love the darkness. And I wish I could hate the darkness as much as I hate myself. Giving up on everything is the saddest thing a human can experience. Never mind, I'm going to take a bath. If I was strong enough, I would just finally drown myself. I want to ruin myself. Like totally. Forever. But I can't today. I made a promise that needs to be kept.


Make no mistake about Bethelda, though she’s five years old. If anyone dares to misjudge or overlook creatures like her, God help them then. Go ahead. Look at her. The curling brown hair, the scrutinizing eyes. The make-believe ballet executed with authority. The rumba, punctuated here and there by her fierce roar. That night at dinner you could see her stiff lips when they told her to shut up. “I could kill,” she muttered under her five-year-old’s breath. She wanted to discuss the artfully seasoned string beans. It wasn’t case law, but Bethelda was wise enough to love her moments with string beans. If our dinner companions had let her speak, they would have heard Bethelda’s operetta, a passionate and powerful string bean description including the mystery of how string beans become flesh. "What are you talking about?” they said. “What is she trying to say?" Bethelda couldn't catch her breath to explain. I knew if they just listened, they’d be charmed this time. But she began to stutter under the mean air, and they mimicked her. You could see it as clear as the fine crystal. You could taste it along with the tapenade. It was Bethelda getting through dinner. You could see her trying to work out the humiliation in her child’s mind. Her eyebrows narrowed together into one knotted focus, like arms trying hard to hang on to a lost declaration of love. You could see how the shock drugged her and how her eyes got slow. It occurred to me she might never return. I tried to get her attention to flash her the biggest grin I could, but her eyes were as far away as fish at the market that have been dead for hours. I may have been a little scared. About this time at these family reunion dinners my habit has been to devise the world’s greatest swashbuckled kidnapping. We would steal foreign identities, live in Paris, create a secret code, wear black eye patches and rescue all the rebels who wander this world damned. I needed to believe the plan that night. I struggled to remember where I put the 800 number for United Airlines. Ha! As if an earlier flight out could have saved either one of us. As if by some miracle they’d leave us alone. I wondered how I could crawl under the table unnoticed and stay there so I could avoid making chit chat over the slumped figure of a dead child. My foot explored, measuring the space under the table. I was about to drop my napkin and claim to search for it when the hostess, my sister-in-law, announced we should all move to the family room for after-dinner drinks. Bethelda took a deep breath, walked herself to the upstairs bathroom, and bathed large tears in warm basin water. She did this alone, she’d tell me later, all by herself like a big girl. She braced her small head in front of the mirror and watched the tears in her eyes. The best photograph of Ralph, my handsome, irreverent, deceased husband, lives in their family room. It says, “Hey there, kiddo!” whenever I've passed it once a year for ten years now. About this time at these family reunion dinners, I cry. This evening is no exception, and Ralph’s ghost photo intructs me to rally. “Baby, I’m here,” it says. “Don’t let reality fool you.” He’s laughing in the frame. He’d know how to rescue Bethelda. He’d love the wound out of her and make her giggle. He had a knack for that. “I think it wouldn’t be worthy of Bethelda to let her crumble under pressure or teach her how to fit in.” I blurted that sentiment to the hostess, my sister-in-law, as she measured shots into glasses. “What?” “I said, I wonder if Bethelda is okay.” “She can take care of herself. You know she gets too excited.” “Kids need to get excited. Bethelda does anyway.” “From the woman who never had kids! How would you know what Bethelda needs? She needs to control herself, that’s what she needs.” While cocktails were handed out I imagined a neatly placed bomb in the family room’s armoire and found my digestion improved. Kidnappings and bombs. What a unique would-be mom. “I’d like to take that trip with her,” I said, rallying per Ralph with extra confidence, nonchalantly leaning on the armoire right about where I’d put the plastic detonator. “She wanted to go to Hollywood, remember? You and Carl could spend some time alone.” They couldn’t be right. What tiny kid should learn to control herself? Hollywood was the place for us. Not a full blown crime, just a week’s worth of kid stealing. Often when I acted like I didn’t care, I’d get my way with Sis Karen, the hostess, and her husband Carl, the host. Also, if I came on like a confident commercial or channeled a narcissistic corporate tycoon they’d trust me. Sis Karen, the hostess, picked up a ritz cracker crowned with trout paste and shook it at me. “She’s always talking about going away with you, but she has to learn she can’t get everything she wants.” “Could I stay a couple extra days? You’ve got so much room. I won’t bother a soul. It'd be fun! ” I was wrong to say it so soon. Maybe I was a little desperate. My sister-in-law sensed I was planning a Mission Rescue Bethelda. “Don’t be weird. Leave it alone.” I hate tragedies. I get very angry when I smell them. So I’ll ask you not to believe in them, please. And, please, make no mistake about this. Meanwhile, the imaginary bomb helped me feign interest in the family’s heartless after-dinner debate. It’s explosion ripped them all apart the way they ripped each other apart. It liberated the oppressed. All would be right with the world. If they knew they’d be annoyed, but the truth is something graced Bethelda that night. She told me all about it once we found a far away room to play in. (I made a search in that huge house for love one day and came up dry. Luckily, in lieu of love there were many far away rooms where you could conjure up happiness under the family radar.) In the distance, Bethelda had heard a bird outside the bathroom window. She thought it was probably a miracle “because birds don’t sing at night after dinner.” Indeed, the song made her look into the eyes in the bathroom mirror and love what was there. Let’s not underestimate that split second though it may get continually lost and regained over the long and agonizing years of a lifetime. Bethelda owns the deep brown of a sprite eye. A potent color. Make no mistake. Bethelda promised never to think badly of herself again. It’s really something a Parisian woman in her mid-30s might do, nevertheless, she reasoned, why shouldn’t a five year old have such grace as well. Why not try on the Parisienne’s clothes, lipstick and the Parisienne’s attitude to boot. Bethelda liked “to actress.” That’s Bethelda, bouncing down the stairs from the bathroom, tying the ribbon of a story around her fingers, weaving a story of magic and abandonment around the room. The puffs of air that are her whispers! Puffing out her Milk Dud breath through caramel lips. Puffing out her story while sitting on my lap. In our far away room she could be as loud as she wanted. Far enough away even for us to sing imaginary opera or pretend our baseball game. She told me about a trip a person can make to the stars. “Any time they want!” She talked about that night bird outside the bathroom window. “I tell ya,” she said to me, “I couldn’t get much lower than I was.” But the bird wouldn’t buy it. The bird wrapped its beak around a strand of her hair and lifted her to heaven. “We landed on another planet!” Her shout resounded tough and clear. I wondered how she could seem so happy after the torment at the dinner table, but she came through, the self-preserving kid. “They made me eight inches tall. They asked me to cook my most delectable pie. That would be my sweet potato pie that has the secret ingredients. Cardamom and lemon peel. It’s ‘exquisite.’ Do you know that word?” The cardamom lemon peel delighted her heartily, and she sighed while she searched for her place in the story. “In return for my cooking they allowed me to sit in the throne of a real honest-to-god mystery .” Bethelda’s favorite word, uniquely formed as she pulled a string of chewed Milk Dud from her mouth. There were friends on Vextar, friends who were only inches high. And though they couldn’t wrap their arms around her, they soothed her with kind words and loved to rumba too. They shrunk her to their size, sat her down in a tiny space age wisdom chair, and she felt like her old self again. “You have to be as tiny as they are to understand them. Otherwise communication is extremely compromised.” She took a serious pause to read my face for scientific comprehension. There was a beacon on the tiny neato space age wisdom chair that glowed apple green light throughout the galaxy. It was a healing throne. “An honest-to-god, god damn mystery I swear to GOD!” It blasted wild music, “like surfing music", and the light moved too fast to even see. Swirling coils in the chair made deep vibrating tones and her body started shaking and there is a wonderful strength that comes from all the fun the chair is having. There is a wonderful strength, she told me, and it is this: The chair gives you the strength to be hopeful. The Vextarians knew! They knew exactly what she needed! Allow me to get carried away, without scrutiny, without judgment. We're all just fighting to find some way to live anyway, right? Bethelda acted out the Vextarian national anthem. She fashioned her microphone from the air as she’d often do when portraying punk legends. She ran in circles while her feet, confused by deep hip gyrations, grabbed the floor whenever they could. She shouted “hope” several times, dropped to her knees, then posed for perfect final seconds. She jumped into my lap, made like a buddha, and fell asleep in minutes. So I carried her upstairs and placed her in her bed. She’s made herself a stage up there and a chemistry set and a very large red book on which are scrawled the words “Notes About My Life.” As I thanked the fates for Bethelda's imagination and reached to turn out her little lamp, my hand caught on a small object. It fell on the soft shag rug by her bed. I couldn't make it out at first, but as it came into focus I stopped breathing. My eyes didn't want to see it. Her bedroom shadows overtook it, but I knew what it was. The tiny hope chair. The honest-to-god mystery. I felt sick and reached for her wastebasket. I mumbled something about getting my shit together. Of course, we of the sane and secure know there is no such place as Vextar. There are no kind people to soothe us in just the right way. Vextar is a lie we tell ourselves to stop from dying right here on the spot. If you're small enough and alone enough, you teach yourself how to make a little chair. Everthing suddenly smelled as rotten as month-old flowers. Bethelda's room got close to me, snuggled up to me. My needy happy drunk, it breathed all over me. And while the shadows got longer and more intimate in there, I remembered Ralph telling me he was afraid of suffocation. I remembered the sound of his breathing as his lungs filled up with water in the hospital. The dark in Bethelda's room could have picked up one of her stuffed frilly pillows and finished me off real quick and clean. My old cold sweaty hands started shaking. I stopped trying to pick the honest-to-god-mystery up from the floor. Every time I tried a wave of nausea started. Just leave it alone, I said to myself. The blood will rush to my head if I reach for it, and I’d be gone. What good would this passed-out faux mom be to Bethelda then? But I’ll be gone anyway, I thought. It’ll be weeks before I can come back. Damage weeks. Weeks alone in her imaginary world. There is no outside help. I reminded myself that I was an adult. I reminded myself I had a plane ticket. You’re a grown-up, I thought. You can get away. Bethelda the tantalizer. Bethelda the nuisance. Bethelda herself could be some child I invented, clawing me up with her “hope chair.” Her stupid uppity brilliance. They'd never let me have her, but she'd land on her feet. She's self-taught. Then I caught a glimpse of her small sleeping lips, her eyelashes, and the skin on her face glowed in the moonlight. Lucky brilliant sleeping girl, glowing without lifting a finger. Bethelda will never die. She's much luckier than I will ever be. I hated her. Yes, the smell of tragedy had entered her little girl room. It laughed. It asked me why I chose to ignore fundamental facts. I always have ignored them, but it asked me in a way that made me feel doomed. I lifted my head from the floor and managed to lean over her Disney quilts. Bethelda’s stuffed animals watched me from the corner of her bed. The fact they weren’t real made me tear up, and I hated myself for not being smart and careful and numb. Strange, I thought, how my desire to live or die depended on proving the existence of life on other planets. I went over the facts: I wasn't nearly what I should have been. Not enough of anything to be able to save anyone from anything, just a heap of crumpled feeling without legs or speech or courage. Logically speaking, it was time to get up off the god damn floor, walk to the door and shut it behind me. How had I let this happen? It was time to stop being an idiot. It was time to be productive on this earthly plain. In a shaft of moonbeam which lighted my shaking hands, I started the resolve. I didn't have to slam the door, I could sneak out quietly. I didn't have to make a big production, I would simply never contact my sister-in-law, the hostess, ever again. I would never return a phone call, never write. I would make excuses, become busy with many passionate pursuits and simply, graciously, never have enough time to visit. The resolve quieted me, and I felt a calm numbness novocain over the panic in my chest. I was finally able to breath, dry my face on my sleeve, lift myself up. I walked to the door and grabbed its cold brass knob, like all its impressive coldness would save me. But I was mistaken. Big deal fates wouldn't allow me luxury. The Vextarians had their wacky hold over my universe. I threw up. I had no rights to Bethelda, but I couldn’t leave. I gripped my hands together to stop shaking and knelt before the exit door, trapped in between worlds. I would have gnawed my leg off, but I was weak and sick. Losing one more thing made me want to die, and this mistake's heart pounded loud. This mistake stopped breathing. Not breathing is one way to escape any trap, though it doesn't pan out the way you'd expect. It can fool you, finality can clear things up, then living takes over. Death's the healer, Ralph used to say that. Strange that a child could mean so much. It was just ridicule at the dinner table. No one really died. Strange that she would keep on going, and I would too. Maybe I was just a type. A type that took things too much to heart. The sound of her tears. The feel of her tiny fingers in my pockets, searching for magic dust pellets. The exuberant dance that seemed like overkill, that no one else understood, but that I was crazy about. The foolishness, the over-excited breathy pontifications about life and love that frustrated others to distraction, but that I loved. I couldn't leave her. I thought better and watched Bethelda. I thought better and saw Bethelda had never stirred. Those fates had presented her a lonely prize at dinner, put her creative engine in overdrive. Her coping response had exhausted her. I thought better as I cleaned my mess and made everything fresh and good for her. I thought better and watched her. I carefully watched the sweetness in her lonely face which washed away all creeps by sleeping soundly with a smile even. It took some little while, and then I thought something even better out loud in a whisper. I had to say it out loud because I wanted to make it stick: "It’s a better miracle that my Bethelda could make herself a world and a chair and some hope." My plane was going to leave too soon for me to say goodbye or brush her morning hair or give her something more, I don’t know what. I said it again, small and quiet so that all the small and quiet Vextarians could hear it. After all, I knew Bethelda wasn’t really alone. If no one else loved Bethelda, I knew I did. I’d love Bethelda all my life.


We were the last city left. It started many years ago. I was a distant cousin of the Emperor. As such, I had little experience of the court before I was sent to a minor school in one of the outlying provinces. They were a little odd there, and actually taught me - things. Things like how to think, how to plan, how to build and create and administer. My peers at the court would laugh at me when I visited; I had no idea of fashion, or courtly manners, or of the precise rituals of dance, or dining, or discourse. I hated it all, this disconnection from reality, this frivolousness disguised as sophistication. I cared as little for them as they for me, but I was of the Blooded so I was sent away, hidden in a mountainous corner where I could be forgotten. And so I came to Alaro. It was a small city then, peopled by artisans and miners. Forgotten in this supposedly crude backwater, I would send routine reports expressing my disillusionment. My actions were otherwise. My greatest advantages were all around me. Alaro was long a dumping ground for the ne’er-do-wells and odd thinkers who wanted to be away from the stifling centre of an over-traditional behemoth where their minds could wander down strange paths. It meant I could listen to artisans who had been expelled from guilds for original thinking, and judges who disliked corruption and had fallen afoul of some highborn who disliked their questions. We had priests who believed in piety rather than indulgences, and captains who believed in competency rather than connections and considered troublemakers, and philosophers who questioned the entire system but had entered internal exile in preference to a cup of traitorsbane or a silk rope. I spoke to them, and paid attention, and used them all to make my city clean and fair and strong. That was when the messengers came. The invaders had been with us for generations, a mess of warring tribes who raided us regularly, and had occasionally been united under a stronger chief than usual, before finding their reach exceeded their grasp and being scattered again. This new messiah-warlord seemed like all the rest, to be turned back like all the rest. But this time, he wasn’t, and we couldn’t. Years of complacency had allowed our defenses to weaken. We had always won, and so we always would. We were favoured by the Gods, and our priests had become corrupt and venal. Our walls were impenetrable, so they had been allowed to crumble. Our generals brilliant, our soldiers doughty, except they played politics in court, or dice in the barracks. And so, when he rose, we were worse than unprepared; we were overconfident. The first great battle was the worst military disaster the Empire had ever faced. The horde caught the cream of our troops in camp and carved them apart. The few survivors spoke of the enemy’s mercilessness. We were unworried. We retreated behind our walls where we would be safe to wait until the horde disintegrated. The walls weren’t enough. He had enlisted the talents of an exile, a genius who had railed against our complacency and been cast out for questioning our preparedness. The exile built engines we had never seen before, capable of smashing through our walls, allowing the horde in to rape and pillage. And so it was with the first city, Trevis, but it was small, and poor, and weak, so no matter. The others would stand. But then came the second, shining Barga, with its University, and the third, Halmore Tren, ancient towers burning like torches in the night. Other messengers came to Alaro, speaking of the fate of more each month as the horde ground onwards. Then came the Imperial Courier, and he spoke of the capital. Hammar, Great Hammar, city and fortress, teeming masses defended by six walls, some of the mightiest structures ever created by the Empire. The exile brought forth his engines, and each wall took but a day to fall. The courier spoke of incendiaries thrown immense distances, setting a firestorm that obliterated the first ring. She told us how the second was simply shattered, the horde hurtling through the breach to massacre the people who found their walls were not protection but a trap. The third was scaled, the fourth somehow undermined. The fifth fell to traitors who opened the gates. That left the sixth, the heart of Great Hammar, the Citadel of Temple and Throne. The exile used his greatest creation, a weapon of incomprehensible power, and destroyed the gatehouse with a single blow. The horde overran it all, the corpses uncountable, and at the heart of the wreck of the ruined Citadel, the heads of the Emperor and his court, lifted on long spikes so as to rule their realm of the dead. The horde continued. Surrenders were offered, and cities abandoned. Their peoples were subsumed into the horde, to follow as the lowest peons and keep up or die as their fate dictated - but not before being forced to raze their former homes to the ground. And so it was. Cities fought or gave in; all fell to the horde and to ruin. Our Gods abandoned us, our armies failed us, our former lords and masters supplanted by new fealties - starvation, desolation, desperation, and death. Finally, the horde came to us, Alaro of the Mountains. We had the last of the soldiers and citizens, the survivors, and the desperate. In that desperation, we found our rage. When they came for us, it was from behind a scattering of survivors, broken like shards of glass and struggling through the passes to reach us, terrified of what pursued them. The horde advanced without pretence. The dust could be seen for weeks, and the columns of smoke from burning farms and townships showed their inexorable progress. We had prepared. As they advanced, hidden pits opened beneath them. Raids drew off their cavalry and led them to fields of iron spikes. Ambushes from our bravest took a tithe of them, and rock falls and avalanches crushed and delayed them, buying us time, but never enough. And then they were here, before our walls, numberless, bestial, howling and stinking in the day and night, their camp fires a crude and smoking echo of the stars above. The exile started to prepare his engines, but we had our own great minds, and had prepared our own. Projectiles from our highest towers fell among the crews, slaughtering them. Swift sallies pushed back the attackers with brutal casualties on both sides, letting us burn and wreck before the same fate could befall us. Alas, for all our bravery and ingenuity, we could not get them all. The greatest of the exile’s weapons was made ready, and surrounded by the personal guard of the warlord. Its protection was impenetrable, and it was far out of range. We had still prepared, even for this. Our walls were anchored by mountains and we strove to repair and reinforce to resist as best we could. We held for days, back-filling rubble and bracing the cracks with beams and bars, but our towers fell, one by one, taking our engines with them. The wall was breached and ruined, reduced to rubble, and our fate was sealed. That was when he came forward. Survivors had told us of this, how the messiah-warlord would address the soon-to-be-dead, and now it was our turn. Surrounded by his inner circle of guards and priests and clan chiefs, he began to speak. He detailed his victories. He spoke at length of the fate of the rest of the empire, their death or submission. He informed us of our own fate with gruesome precision. He stated that he was destined to win, and we were doomed to oblivion. We clutched our weapons with sweating limbs, and knew it was all true. He finished as he always did, with the same words he always used. “I am the chosen, chosen to rule and destroy. My destiny is victory, and yours is death. May the gods strike me down if it is not so!” And then it came. From out of a clear sky came a blinding white light, furnace heat, and a sound so loud it was more than noise. We were cast from our feet, and all was dust and darkness. As it settled, we saw what remained. A crater, a massive pit, fully five hundred spans across, now yawned where the warlord-messiah and his guards and his priests and his khans had stood. The great engines were shattered, and so, it seemed, was the world. Behind our rubble barriers, we had somehow been spared; not so the horde. A great crack yawned where their east wing had once stood. An entire mountainside had fallen across those to the west. At the centre, though... Those furthest from the blast had merely been thrown down, but those closer were far worse. Some were burned beyond recognition, or rent apart, or broken, or smashed by stones, or simply lay without a mark, but still and dead. But we were not dead, and we still had our rage. We charged - sheer madness, it is true, but that didn’t matter at the time. We were still outnumbered beyond belief, but the horde’s belief was gone along with their messiah. They fled, and they never stopped. In their flight came our salvation. The camp followers, our former brethren, had been spared from the disaster and we took them in. Our mines had been stocked with supplies for a siege we never thought we would survive, and our wells and cisterns were brimming full and ready. We broke them open, and saved all who we could. From there, we spread outward and rebuilt, the Second Empire clawing its way up from the wrack and ruin of the first. We put the people at its heart, and we rose greater and fairer and better than before. I gained the name ‘Builder’, or ‘Blessed’, and eventually ‘Great’. Now Alaro of the Mountains is the greatest city of the second Empire, and at its heart stands the New Citadel, and at the centre, the Throne. The Throne is not comfortable, for it is made from a relic, the greatest relic of them all. Hauled from that great pit while still white-hot, it has been set into stone and placed at the centre of all we have built. It reminds us of our past, and how we almost failed. It speaks of how truly unpredictable the universe is, and how death may come from the wilderness or from a clear sky, and we must make ready and be strong. It carries strange symbols, some scorched and invisible, the remainder incomprehensible but distinct, and we will always wonder at their meaning.


Hello all, my sister is super timid about her writing, but she always seems to impress me. Criticism is welcome, but please be kind. She e-mailed me this, so it's a rough draft. “Alright, man, it’s been a long day. Time for me to make my exit!” Wyatt downed the last of his beer and decidedly plopped the pint glass down on the bar. He gestured for a bro-handshake toward the bartender. “See ya, man,” said Greg, the bartender, and reciprocated the bro-man-shake. Jason waved casually and called out a brief salutation to a couple at the end of the bar who were engaged in a giggle-rich conversation. Jason knew the bartender from back in his community college days, before he was even a bartender there. He knew most of the regulars too. The cozy neighborhood bar: a perfect place to chill with a drink after a long day. It was a good night. A trip was in the works with Greg to visit the guy’s brother in Texas. And he got the number of a pretty sweet piece of ass, good personality too. Jason stepped out into the cool, damp night and began the three-block strut home. Some quick movement caught his peripheral, but he paid no serious mind. It was probably some animal raiding the garages from the restaurants. The ones where people wasted half of their food because they were too rich to care about economics and wastefulness, and their appearances took precedence. Hmph, “high society,” to Wyatt, was simply a lack of common sense where narcissism took the place of thought processes. He passed a good-looking couple that looked healthy, clean, well off. Not a care in the world they had for a passerby. A counter point to the young couple was the man who passed by him next - a man that wasn’t quite yet middle aged, a little scruffy, a gate that adjusted to the clear burdens he carried throughout life, a gaze that seemed to look right through you, to see your true nature. Another brief movement caught his eye, a swift shadow that disappeared around the corner. Wyatt took a little more notice this time, but remained unconcerned. He swung right into his apartment building and gated up the stairs. It didn’t take him long to eject the shoes, shirt, and pants from his body. Surrendering the day to the night, he tumbled into bed and hastily threw his blanket over himself, already on the brink of snores. Right before his consciousness left him, he heard a barely audible voice... “Are you ready, Wyatt?” He yawned and slapped both hands over his face and stretched his way out of bed. Time to get up and weld some shit. He didn’t like showering before work, since he was always getting sweaty. So he slathered on some deo, brushed his teeth, and put on some shitty, worn out clothes. He took notice of the nice sunny clear sky and retorted with a grin. Today seemed like a breakfast burrito and coffee day. He moseyed his way out the door. Wyatt then stopped short. Even his breath stopped. Everything around him was the same - same shops, same clear blue sky, same cars and streets. But the people... The peoples’ faces were all glowing. They all glowed in different colors and different intensities. But they ALL glowed. He just then realized in his half-asleep construction of the day, he never looked in the mirror. Wyatt whipped around and inspected his own reflection in the glass. Sure enough, his own face was glowing an intense yellow. His first thought went to the possibility of a hallucinogen. He felt fine before he went to sleep. And this theory wasn’t really viable, because everything else was completely normal, unlike the total world-altering effects of a hallucinogen. Was he going crazy? No family history of schizophrenia that he knew of. He stood panicking, staring around at all the colored, glowing faces that stared back in confusion, wondering why this man was in the middle of a crisis on such a normal day. This ws something he needed to figure out. Wyatt ran back upstairs to phone into work. He made up a lie about some stomach flu then sat on the edge of the bed - just sat for a moment, questioning the validity of his reality. He stood up slowly as if laboring to move through a pit of tar. That’s what this was, a tar pit of confusion and doubt. Taking leave of the heavy pit, his feet traveled hungrily and curiously toward the window for further investigation and confirmation. “Yep, still certifiably amok,” said his brain to his senses as he gazed out the glass. Was there some meaning to this? Had he somehow crossed over into another dimension? Wyatt decided that hell, if it was going to be this way, he needed to get IN it, see what this is all about. If this WAS some sort of other dimension, maybe he would have a really amazing job, and maybe the beer was better and the women were looser. Probably not, but there was no harm in hope. He descended the stairs to step back into the day to face the faces. They all glowed, as expected, and all in a wide variety of colors - some putrid in hue with a heavy glow, and others vivid and lively. He saw groups lunching outside and took note that many of the groups shared similar styles of light and intensity of color. Not all of them however, as there were groups of people that made up the colors of the rainbow. These people seemed to smile more often; their intensities took turns flickering brightest from one color or the next. That was another peculiar thing, the groups that WERE all the same color didn’t share intensities, just one person seemed to drain the others of their light, and all of them smiling less, the jovial nature decreasing as the glowing distributed itself to the one or two in the group. It was as if they didn’t want to give the light, and the person didn’t wish to receive it. Like being sapped for energy, then the energy becomes poison for the receiver. Jason decided that if this was going to happen, he wanted to explore as much as he could, discovering patterns and possibly uncovering a reason for why this was happening now. But first, he wanted to visit his father. His father drove truck, and 14 months prior had been in a bad semi accident, rendering him comatose. Jason liked to go visit his dad and imagined he could hear what Jason was saying, and tried to imagine him responding in some sort of telekinesis style of communication. It felt like it kept his heart strong to imagine his father, even while lying comatose, participating in some sort of active communication. He hopped onto the downtown bus that circled around downtown and ended at the second largest hospital in the city. He entered the rotating doors and immediately noted that the patients in their rooms, and the ones carted around on wheelchairs emanated a different type of light. Instead of beaming in sharp clouds of color, the seemed to drip slowly like waves of different, less brightly colored jellies. The elderly and the more apparently sick peoples’ glows were comparably slower than the children’s and the less severely injured patients’. It felt slightly comforting for him to find a pattern among the madness of the situation. Jason took notice of all the lights and flows and colors, on the way back up to his father’s room, a path he had come to know very well, from every nick in the wall to stain on the carpet and even some of the faces of the orderlies and staff that would frequent this particular path. On this particular day, however, he could see everyone in a little bit of a different light. The lights that emanated from the staff seemed to have a consistent glow, but it wasn’t exactly bright. It was duller, and faint. The visitors all varied in color and intensity, while in each of the rooms the lights from their faces took on varying colors but were all immensely faded, the most sickly patients seemed to barely glow at all. He stood outside of his father’s room a moment, almost frightened to see what condition of faded his father’s light could be. No matter what it was, it couldn’t be changed now. There was nothing he could do but observe. He took a deep breath and stood in the doorway staring at the floor. His eyes slowly reached his father’s bed. His tensed shoulders dropped. His father’s light seemed to be not quite perfect, but not as faded as he had feared. It was deep and purple, but bright enough not give Jason concern. He pulled his usual chair up to the side of the bed. “Hi dad, it’s your son. I know I’m a little early, but I just really needed to talk to you.” His father’s light seemed to brighten a little at his words. ‘I woke up today, and everything was a little different. I don’t know if I’m going mad, or there’s something seriously wrong with me, or if it’s just something wrong with the rest of the world. Hell, it might even not be anything wrong with me or the world, maybe it’s just... changed... But dad, I can see everyone. Like, really SEE them. It’s not that I can see their insides, it’s more like, their insides are reaching out to me. Like their souls or whatever that even means. They’re all different colors, intensities, it seems like I can really see how they are, if they’re ok or not, if they’re good, or bad, predatory, good. I have to admit I was scared to come in here, dad, I was scared to see you. I was scared you’d be... faded. I know it, though, in my heart that you’re still here.” His father’s lights grew even brighter. ‘I love you, dad. I don’t know what this all means, but I feel like I’ve been shown something really valuable today. I’m not sure what I’m gonna have to do, or why it’s me, if I’m the only one. But I feel like I need to use this. I’m just glad you’re here to talk to.” Jason sat for a moment of reflection and relief that his father really was still there, and that he could see, with evidence, that he could also hear. Then began to go on about sports, his trip with Greg, and a few women - the normal things he would go in with. Then he leaned over and kissed his father’s head and gave his goodbyes before he ventured back out into the new world. He decided to go about his day as normal, and that entailed visiting his friend Greg. Everyone seemed to be getting off work. These people all remained a slight glow that was reminiscent of the sick. They all seemed tired and overworked, in their facial expression as well as their glow. It was clearly unhealthy, as unhealthy for the soul as sickness must have been for the body. He walked down to the bar, and was happy to see that his friend was indeed working. Something concerned him, however. His friend also had a glow, and the glow was a sickly, dull, yellow color, much the same as patients on the oncology floor at the hotel. He wondered if his friend felt this. Even if he did, he wouldn’t say anything. He wasn’t the type of man to worry about it. Still, Jason felt a deep pain in his heart. It may not be cancer, but his friend was still sick. He sat and drank a beer and chatted with his friend. He just wanted to laugh and bond with him as much as he could. He started feeling a small bit of acceptance underneath the pain, and decided it was time to find his own solace and reflection. He headed to the park for some serenity. He noticed some couples picnicking in the grass, some people with binoculars watching for birds and other animals, some people playing with their dogs, and some children simply playing in nature. They all had something in common, their glowing auras were all very strong and colorful. Their smiles at one another even intensified their glory. When the people first came into the park, they had similar differences as the folks that meandered around the streets. However, as they allowed themselves to bond more and more with nature, they began to change into stronger, brighter souls - that couldn’t help but to shine in the way they were intended. He decided that maybe this was the way it was going to be forever, or maybe this would pass, but that it was happening, and there was really nothing he could do about it. He did know, however, that he felt exhaustion. He began his route home, taking notice of all the different glows of the people, and what that meant for their inner state. Some were at peace, some were drained, sick, overworked, joyful, and everything in between. It gave him a fine insight, and an opportunity to help people become their true light, if he decided to use it in that way, which was really only right, as his father would tell him. The father that he now knew could feel him there even in his deep sleep. He turned the corner and passed down an alley, taking a small notice of something moving in the distance. It was similar to the movements he previously ignored the night before this oddity happened to him. This time he faced it. He walked down into the alleyway and approached the area behind a dumpster that concealed the movement. As he approached, however, there grew a great and white glow. It was a glow with such intensity that actually produced a sound. He felt it warning him to stay away from it. It didn’t seem to want to be approached, but instead wanted to be the one to come to him. The source was so unknown, and if it didn’t want to be bothered, there was no telling what would occur. So he turned back away from the alley and went home. It was unnatural to disturb whatever lurked behind that dumpster. He walked along his way home and went back to bed. As he slowly fell asleep he thought he heard a voice in the distance. “You see, son, it’s always been this way, you’ve just been so blind. Now you can see, and now you must do.” And he fell asleep until the morrow.


\_ A white Cape Town professor named David Lurie makes an ass of himself so thoroughly that his only recourse is to skip town and move way out to his daughter’s farm. One night, three black men rob the place, beat the self-exiled academic near to death, and rape the daughter. So goes *Disgrace*, the fictional novel by the South African writer J.M. Coetzee. I read it just before we left for South Africa. People love to tell you how dangerous a country this is. South Africans will say it with sorrow--what a shame things turned out this way. Then there are the tourists, who seem rather boastful about it, as if to say, Look what I survived. The country is mired in the spectre of violence, though the areas it occurs are concentrated and predictable. Violence happens where it always does: where people feel there is no other way forward. It just happens that more people feel this way in South Africa than in almost any other country. People are killed here in all manner of ways and places. Generally, a distinction is made between urban and rural murder. Inner-city killings make up the vast majority of the roughly 75 daily homicides. For the most part, they’re considered par for the course. Almost all of the victims are black. Disproportionate attention is given to what’s called ‘farm murders’, which claimed 47 lives last year. Since white farmers own nearly 70 percent of the country’s farms, some white activists see the attacks as evidence of a “white genocide” aimed at driving whites out of South Africa. As the New York Times notes, white beneficiaries of apartheid like to promote the distorted narrative around farm murders in order to solicit international sympathy. And so it was that this self-serving assertion of fact found its way into the simple brain of Donald Trump, who converted it into a race-baiting tweet. In mid-January, Eva and I started a one-month workaway on a farm much like the one described in *Disgrace,* “at the end of a winding dirt track some miles outside the town.” Like Professor Lurie, we stopped over in Oudtshoorn on the way. The landscape was flat hot dirt. Little else could be farmed here but ostriches. Against the odds, the owners of our farm had managed to sprout an oasis of fruit trees and vegetable beds. For a week we learned how to tend the property, which, on top of the sprawling garden, included two chicken coops, an olive grove, a natural pool, and a guest house. We were told who to call for power failures and who to call for snake bites. You’d tell the guy which type of snake and he’d either rush over anti-venom or order an airlift. Then the owners left for Morocco, gone for three weeks. On our first night alone on the farm, I got a zoomed-out sense of our place on a map--two dots in the middle of a big, blank space. The next day, guests arrived. They were two Norwegian girls in their early twenties who spoke a lot without saying much: “The water feels like a warm hug,” etc. I was happy they were happy. Our work was easier without added fuss from faux-spiritual European fairies. Eva made them a basket of fruits and vegetables and we cooked them a nice dinner. They told us all about the healing presence of nature. But it soon became clear that what they were referring to was nature in the abstract, for, after a day of being away from their carefully curated idea of it, the reality became intolerable. The heat, the insects, the gluten--it was all too much. And so they went for a drive. The following morning felt off from the start. For one, it was the first sky in a week with clouds. But also, the girls hadn’t come home. Their stuff was there but the driveway was empty. Then other odd things happened. The Wi-Fi went out, putting us out of contact with the outside world. An eerie silence fell over the farm and settled into everything around us. Slowly, and then suddenly, the sky filled with the sound of a laundering cement. “Is it one of those emergency helicopters?” Eva asked. Its orange and neon yellow gave it the appearance of a floating life jacket. The air thickened as the droning drew closer, heightening our sense of aimless urgency. Eventually, a message came through from a neighbour. “It seems to be theft,” he said of the Wi-Fi. Then I remembered what another neighbour told the owners a few nights before, about cops going around asking about a strange man in the area. From the hushed tone, I don’t think I was supposed to hear this. What solace is the police in this country? A few weeks earlier, Eva and I had checked into a surf house in Hermanus. It was the type of place that tried so hard to be chill that it was rather distressing. Even more unsettling was the man running it. He greeted us nervously and shirtless, then strutted around like a cock for some time. I thought he might piss on the leg of a stool in a show of territorial ownership. When he smiled, it was more of a wince, and when he talked, we wished he hadn’t. His every word and gesture sought to affirm his status as The Man. He looked like a left-handed sketch of Vin Diesel. That evening, Eva and I were sitting on a sofa in the main room of the house. She’d decided to take a deeper look at reviews of the place. There was one from a female guest who said she was sitting by the fire one night when the host and some buddy of his suddenly leaped from a bush, shouting, “The Russians are coming!” and laughing at her horror. Another review advised travellers to look up the guy’s name and see what the newspapers were saying. As Eva was doing her research, I happened to catch him slinking around the ajar front door pretending to hold a shotgun, one hand mimicking a trigger and the other clasping the barrel. Then he pumped it, aimed it at us, and curled the index finger of his trigger hand, followed by an upward jerk of his U-shaped barrel hand. Finally, he tilted his head back and yawned a silent, deranged laugh. Eva hadn’t noticed because she was face-deep in her laptop learning he’d been accused of at least five counts of rape. As for the police, they’d set his bail at $60--the price of one night’s stay at the sex pest surf house. Standing in the garden, I thought about parallel settings--ours and the one described in *Disgrace*. I thought about the book’s portrayal of the lawless vacuum of post-Apartheid South Africa, and how little had changed since the year it was written (1999). I thought about how, on our second day alone on the farm, someone had sabotaged our line of communication. I thought of the strange man in the area, and the dangerous one in Hermanus, and the lineage between strange and dangerous. I thought about the $60, and that everything has a price in this country. I thought about how to defend ourselves should it come to that and composed an inventory of lethal weapons: a spade, a steak knife, a compost heap machete. I thought about the helicopter, and about how the Norwegian girls had exactly the type of naïve and glittery disposition misfortune favours. And so it was that, as I stood there swelling with paranoia, all these thoughts coalesced into a horrible, plausible explanation for why the girls were unaccounted for on this eerie, ominous morning. The outcome of events was that the girls returned in the late afternoon--said they couldn’t sleep on the farm so they stayed at a hotel 40 kilometres away. Why didn’t that occur to me as the most plausible explanation? How did all these details, so disparate in hindsight, conspire to form such a profound impairment of sensibility? More simply: What’s to blame for my worst-case thinking? Am I reading too many gruesome books? Did I spend too much time on LiveLeak in my formative years? Have I taken too seriously my favourite journalism professor’s advice that a part of our responsibility is to get as vivid a picture as possible of the awful things people do to each other? A few coincidental occurrences shouldn’t inspire thoughts of how to kill a man with a garden tool. What I wanted to admit least of all was that I’d been influenced by the residual effect of a Trump tweet. When you’re in a country where so many conversations end with some variation of “stay safe,” you can’t help but suffer a gradual disquietude. Deep down, I always know everything is going to be fine. Sometimes I just forget.


Trigger warning: references to abuse Lucy was six when she first discovered the secret of the cupboard under the stairs She had been trying to hide from her father when it happened - Daddy always said he didn’t mean to get angry, but he still hit her anyway. She stumbled into the cupboard, hoping to squeeze herself behind the vacuum cleaner, and found herself in a world of rainbows and unicorns. Everything glittered and sparkled - including Lucy herself; and after a while, she realised that she could unfold the gauzy wings that grew on her back and join the other beautiful fairy creatures she saw as they swooped and dived in a game of chase around the lollipop trees and gingerbread buildings. She was having so much fun that she almost didn’t hear her mother’s voice calling her for tea. The memory of under-the-stairs kept her calm for almost a whole week afterwards, although she didn’t mention it to anyone: she just assumed everyone had a secret place in their understairs cupboard. The next time she visited, the candyfloss clouds and sparkly unicorns had been replaced with an equally idyllic setting with fields and a river and rabbits - lots of rabbits. She spent a peaceful and very happy afternoon playing with the cuddly creatures and felt much better when she left and went back to her own world. Every week, there was a fresh adventure to discover in the cupboard. No matter how horrid the real world was, the lands she discovered when she ran to hide under the stairs were always delightful. In true Disney fashion, birds sang and tweeted above her head as they dropped daisy chains around her neck, and squirrels scampered up to her bearing gifts of berries so sweet and juicy they were better than any ice cream or chocolate she’d tasted before. She sometimes wondered why no one else mentioned their own understairs cupboard at school - maybe she was the only one with a special place like this; and then she read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and felt a thrill of recognition when her namesake, the storybook Lucy, stumbled through the back of a wardrobe and found herself in Narnia. It must happen to lots of children, then, if people wrote about it in books. That gave her the confidence to talk to her friends at school about the secret land she visited every weekend, but they all stared at her as if she was mad. The teacher said she had a vivid imagination; and after that, Lucy resolved not to tell anyone else. She must have been visiting cupboard-land for several years when she realised that she was not alone. Often, when she was walking through a wooded park or paddling in the sea, she would feel an awareness of someone watching her. If she turned round quickly, she would glimpse something not quite there. Eventually, she was quick enough to catch sight of a boy her own age with dark curly hair. She waved to him and he waved back; and from that moment onwards, they were friends. Henry became her constant companion, exploring the mountains and lakes with her and pointing out birds and flowers as they walked through countryside that was always sunny. As the two of them grew older, she began to notice how handsome he was; and her heart fluttered every time he took her hand in his. It was a source of great sadness that he could not leave the cupboard and visit her in her own world. The land inside the cupboard changed as she grew older - sometimes it was reminiscent of Venice with canals and gondolas; and there was one particularly romantic evening when Henry played a small guitar and sang her a love song (in Italian, naturally) as they floated along on a moonlit boat ride. Another time, she found herself in a French chateau complete with bewigged servants and a breath-taking ballroom lined with hundreds of mirrors that reflected the waltzing couples over and over again in a kaleidoscope of decadence. The chateau was gorgeous, but when she and Henry explored further, they heard the screams of tortured prisoners in the dungeon and found the emaciated corpses of the ones who’d been too weak to withstand their maltreatment - that was when she realised that not all the lands under the stairs were nice. Sometimes the cupboard was downright scary: after reading ‘ Dracula ’ and ‘ Frankenstein ’, Lucy found that the landscape took on a Gothic quality and she constantly felt as if she was being followed as she roamed desolate heaths and dark forests, searching for Henry, with the sounds of wolves or maniacal laughter echoing in her ears. She tried not to stay for long if that was the land she found when she opened the door. After a while, Lucy began to wonder if she was somehow subconsciously influencing what she found inside the door - after all, the first land she’d visited had looked very much like the drawings in her My Little Pony picture book, and her mother had been reading her Watership Down at the time Lucy had discovered the fields of rabbits. She was currently studying Romeo and Juliet at school and could not help visualising herself and Henry in the titular roles. So far, he had not declared his love for her; but she had just finished the scene at the masked Capulet ball and her mind was already dreaming about Henry wooing her with word play and clandestine kisses. Sure enough, the world she entered when she slipped into the cupboard that Friday evening was definitely Elizabethan in nature. For one thing, her own clothing had changed as it so often did when she entered a different time or culture - she was in a full-length gown in dark green with a brocaded bodice and long, pointy sleeves; and Henry himself was dressed in doublet and hose, looking for all the world like the Romeo of her fantasies. For a moment, she simply stood and looked at him, her heart anticipating the moment when he would place his lips on hers and gently awaken her with a kiss. It was only as he began to berate her cruelly, accusing her of being a strumpet and then pushing her away, that it dawned on her that she had recently read Hamlet too and that Henry was channelling the Danish prince’s madness. Returning to the ‘real world’, feeling shaken and scared, she decided that Shakespeare was too risky - after all, the plays she knew were all tragedies. Perhaps the Victorian era was a safer place for her first kiss - at least there, the strict societal rules meant that gentlemen were courteous to their ladies; and although Mr Rochester had seemed surly at first, he had wooed Jane Eyre passionately and asked her to marry him. (She decided to ignore the fact that he had a secret wife stashed in his attic at the time of his proposal.) This time, as she entered the cupboard, she found herself wearing a long white nightdress, which puzzled her since the only heroine she could think of thus attired was Cathy at the start of Wuthering Heights - and the ghostly apparition had been desperately weeping for Mr Lockwood to open the window and let her inside. And then she found herself once more on the wild and rolling heath, as night closed in around her and the wind whipped her face and a hand reached for her and thrust her to the ground. Henry/Heathcliff loomed over her, his dark curls and gipsy eyes now taking on a menacing quality. As he held her struggling body down, she suddenly recognised her father’s features and remembered why she had entered the cupboard - but it was no longer a haven of safety but a place where he could continue to terrorise her. After he had left, she lay still for a while, her bruised and battered body trying to make sense of it all. There was now nowhere left to hide. The imaginary land she had retreated to ever since the abuse started was part of her nightmare; and as the key turned in the lock, she knew it had become her prison.