A short story about an uncomfortable situation you may encounter as a mind reader. Enjoy. I was just peacefully sitting on my chair in class when it started. I had grown to control my inhumane abilities but it caught me really off guard, so I couldn’t do anything major about it. I was in the middle of an important chemistry exam when I heard a sudden burst of screams bolt through my mind like lightning. It scared the living hell out of me and I almost dropped my pen because of it. My movements were so hectic, that my teacher threw a warning glance my way, which made me smile nervously and curse under my breath. I slowly lowered my head and gained back composure, as the uncomfortably loud screaming continued in my head, slowly draining me of my needed concentration. Whoever that person was, I really hated them right now. I tried focusing back on the piece of paper in front of me, emphasis on ‚tried‘. Spoiler alert, it didn’t really work. At all. The remaining thirty minutes were terrible. The human who thought screaming internally out of pure panic would give them answers to their fucking chem test kept going, reminding me of some nerve-nagging siren, alarming everybody around them of their, oh, so unlucky misfortune. When the bell rang, I heard the person thinking ‚Thank my mom that this is over‘ and I looked around with a snarl adorning my face, an almost permanent migraine now numbing my brain. The students were slowly leaving the classroom, but I was only starting to put my stuff in the backpack I brought. After I heard the persons laughable thought, I scoffed lightly. "I don’t think your mom has anything to do with this“, unintentionally slipped out of my mouth before I could properly process the idea of saying that sentence out loud. I saw somebody stop dead in their tracks out of my peripheral vision. Oh shit, I didn’t mean to do that. “W-what?”, the person stuttered and I stood up from my chair with an exhausted sigh. “You heard me, buddy”, I replied slyly, looking down at the shorter boy with bright red locks who, what I knew of, sat two rows behind me. Huh, apparently he was the screaming, panicking source I had heard. I didn’t bother to look before, I was trying to keep my sanity from leaving my body. “But... I didn’t say anything?”. His sentence sounded more like a question than a statement, as I combed my hand through my hair in a stressed manner while rolling my eyes with minor annoyance. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but to hold back a singular laugh. “ ‘Say’ is a very interesting way to put it.” My response was petty and unnecessary, but I just couldn’t help it. I was done with everything. Suddenly, I heard another thought. ‘I’ve never seen this hair color before, it’s gorgeous’. Well, I didn’t expect that. This time I couldn’t hold back and let a few coughing laughters escape my throat, as I watched the boys face change from irritated to embarrassed to interested. How entertaining. “Thank you, it’s natural.” I said over-dramatically, flipping my hair and adding a sloppy wink, just to be a bit more extra. The boys eyes went wide after his mind has seemed to realize the words I had just said. “You can- hear- what- how...?”. He sounded so confused and I swear to you that it was the most amusing shit in that moment. “You got it, chief. Listen, the next time you panic, could you maybe reconsider screaming like a dying mammal for half an hour straight? You would do me AND my head a big favor. Thanks!”. Those were my last words, before I quickly stuffed all of my belongings in my bag and scurried out of the room with a last hectic, wannabe polite, wave. The last thing I heard was him yelling “What the fuck?” in a tone I will never forget. I laughed uncontrollably, temporarily forgetting the regret I sensed as an end result of this interaction.


The light was too much to handle, it had a certain heat that made him itch all over, as if he were allergic to heat. He scratched over and over again, hearing his nails scrape against his skin. The man sat on the chair trying with emphatic intent to understand the unworldly things he was hoping to recite back on a piece of paper. The dictionary lay open; a sea of knowledge he could never tap into. Although, that is not what bothered him. He threw the pen at the sink, the water clogged in it splashing with unbearable intensity. The pen against the metal sink made a clang which sounded like a child reading the alphabet. It was strange. He heard himself say A, then B, then C, then D, then T, then P, then CAT, an animal he thought was so misunderstood for just living how it was born. He empathized with it. He tried to say more words, like FAITH and GOD, like PEN and PAPER. All he could do was say and never write. The letters of the English Alphabet always seemed like a nuisance, having never had the time to learn it himself. How ironic was it that his very own job was to deliver letters to people? Letters written in the language he hated. His neighbors, his children, and everywhere else he went, he was always known as **"The Postman."** His title was not a great one, he always thought to himself. It didn't matter until the letters he brought would bring the smiles in people he never knew. The letters he brought would make people thank a person like him, while he stood there frozen with a ghostly smile trying to formulate how you would write those words in paper. It was strange, how he could always tell what words meant but never write them down. What was so different? His frustrations wouldn't allow his mind to think clearly. There was nothing special about being a postman, when the happiness he brought to people was clouded by his own jealousy, his own stupidity and his own worthlessness. How could they love the language so much that it brought smiles to their faces? How could they not see his plight? How dare they love the language he hated, dare smile in front of him, THANK him. That's why the happiness from letters of love and bonds that brought people together was nothing special. In fact, through the years of being a mailman, he had only know pain and slander. It felt like he was entitled to being lower than everyone else. His friends were the ones who always slandered him most mordantly about his illiteracy. His children thought of him as a disappointing father who could not provide amicable finances. His wife, the only person who loved out of pity, tried to keep their family from crumbling. He held 3 paychecks, all from her different part time jobs, and tore them to pieces. He could read numbers, his face felt hot from the lack of them in there. Pain and Sorrow was as integral to his life as breathing; sometimes it felt like they were the same. He coughed as flaky ashes flew away from a nearby ashtray. The mailman hated his job but it also seemed like his job hated him. It haunted him for days on end, ever since he had picked up that ragged uniform that was now torn up on the hanger in a shadowy corner of his home. The uniform was a hand down from the man who had last been "The Postman." He wondered how that man felt about his job, he always had a smile. Well, obviously, he could read. Meanwhile, the current mailman was getting sick of his job. The melancholy of being "just a postman" without sufficient means to feed his family tore him up from the inside. He let out a reluctant sigh as the bulb on top of him went out, leaving the room in darkness that crawled its cold fingers around him. The heat had dissipated, his itching had turned to cold shivers that made him want to claw rather than scratch. It was weird, he could not tell what which was worse, the cold or the heat. Maybe if he'd been able to write just one word, things would feel lukewarm. Bearable. He was always used as an example. Not of great things, but of being a burden, a failure being used to incite fear into young children. When he thought of it like that, something felt so sincerely wrong. Mothers would often scoff at him while walking past with their children, twisting their mouth in distaste and teaching their children the value of "education" so they could never be like him. It wasn't like he wished the same fate as him on the innocent children, but the sadness that came from these remarks still tore him up from the inside and broke his heart. There was something so inherently wrong with teaching children to fear and disgust the poor and miserable. He always taught his sons to grow up and be better, be at a place where they could help the misguided like himself, not tarnish and berate their misery. Maybe that way of thinking was wrong, maybe it wasn't normal and those as unfortunate as him didn't deserve saving, grace or hope. It was their anathema for being so useless. If it wasn't wrong, then his wife and children would never leave him. Behind him, a car sped past, its headlights rearing its heat into his house through the windows for a fraction of a second. **That second was lukewarm.** It had only been two days since his wife had left with the children. He did not recall how he had survived this far. Tears that felt like ice poured down his cheeks as he realized that he was not capable of writing. The letter that sat on the chair was now wet from his tears and blank from his failures. He would not be able to send his last words in a letter to his family. Why had he never learned to read and write? The pen in the sink splashed, taunting him of his failures while repeatedly clanging against the metal sink, singing a chorus of ABC's. Nothing mattered anymore. He wasn't sane it seems because there was no other way to describe the vertigo in his mind. His eyes blurred as he put the rope around his neck and tied it to the ceiling fan. He blinked but no tears poured. He jumped from the chair and struggled against the thread of fiber slowly shredding through the skin at his neck while the weight of his body crushed into itself. Another car sped past his house, its headlights looking into his house like a curious visitor for another fraction of a second. It saw him, body and mind, in absolute silence. This time, it was lukewarm even after one second.


# 4. The Rise and Fall of Crooked Larry All Maggie wanted to do was ask Adam about the possession, but a bet was a bet. From word one, it was clear that Larry wasn’t going to last. When Maggie floated down from the top of the tree toward his position near the ground, he recoiled in shock and tried to kick his way backward. Of course, this had no effect other than making him look slightly ridiculous as he flailed midair, but Maggie understood the impulse. “Begone, demon!” Larry shouted. “God does not suffer evildoers like you!” “Christ, Adam, you killed a zealot.” Those with faith never lasted long in Maggie’s experience. There was something particularly demoralizing about being confronted with the absolute fact that, if there was a god, they had a blind spot. “I am on my way to eternal rest!” “Yeah, if that’s true, then you’ve taken a bit of a detour.” It wasn’t the most tactful way to go about it, but Maggie didn’t suffer religion much. As far as she was concerned, the word of God was used to persecute and commit heinous acts while still being able to sleep at night. There were of course religions around the world that preached tolerance, but not in the west. In the west, there was good ol’ bible-thumping, and anything else saw you swinging from the end of a rope or taking a bullet in a back alley. “This c-can’t be,” the man stammered, running his hands through one another, no doubt fascinated by the complete lack of feeling in anything. “Those men, this has to be some kind of a mistake.” For once, Maggie agreed with him. “What’s your name?” “Larry. Pastor at the Church of Our Mighty God.” “How is it that you came to be in such mixed company, Larry ̧ Pastor at the Church of Our Mighty God?” Maggie let the sarcasm drip with every word of the man’s title. “I--” he faltered as Adam appeared over the curve of the hill, still steaming from his run-in with the barrier. “That’s the demon I saw just moments before the end!” Larry tried to tilt his head to get a better look, but found it stuck at an extreme angle. Like Adam, he also sported a neat hole in his forehead, making them look as though they might have belonged to the same sect of some obscure cult. Maggie chuckled at the notion and immediately regretted it. “Is something funny about this?” Larry found his way to a semi-upright float, swelling up with righteous indignation. He tried to adjust his neck again, but frustrated, settled for hovering at an angle to make the world look straight. Otis floated down to join the conversation. “I see Maggie’s giving you the warm welcome you deserve.” “Oh yes, Larry here was telling me all about how this is some kind of mistake.” Otis sighed. “Yeah, well he’s not wrong about that.” Adam approached with excitement and no sense of caution. “Did you see that? I was in that man’s body!” “I saw you get shot out the other side like an imbecile.” Maggie was impressed, but she didn’t want to inflate Adam’s head any larger than it already was. “Maybe next time you might save a life instead of taking one.” “YOU, DEMON!” shouted Larry. “I’m not a demon.” Adam backed away slightly. “But, look, sorry about that whole mess back there. You were about to be hung...” Otis nodded in agreement. “Kid’s got a point, and I don’t say that often.” “Why, God?!” Larry tried to look up, but couldn’t quite manage it without floating sideways. “Look, I’m sorry about that, but I think I might have a way to get us out of here.” Adam’s eyes were beaming, filled with newfound excitement. Maggie also felt a twinge of hope but did her best not to show it. “That seems like a far leap from one quick possession.” “Well, it’s a step in the right direction!” “Possession is the work of The Devil!” shouted Larry. “Oh please, there’s no Devil and no God here, just the four of us.” “Blasphemer!” Adam grew frustrated and ignored Larry. “Don’t you see? If we can get back to the physical world, even for a moment, then we have a chance of destroying the barrier penning us in .” Maggie thought it over. “You might be right, but the incantations keeping us here were made by the Shoshoni, and I don’t know how you’re going to break them.” “I’m through with this demon speak!” Otis floated in front of Larry, partially obscuring the other two spirits. “Why don’t you and I go have a talk, Larry? We can discuss the religious implications of our predicament, while these two heathens keep on with whatever it is they’re blabbering about.” He gave Larry a big smile and motioned toward the tree. Larry eyed Otis suspiciously, eventually consenting. “Whatever gets me away from him.” He jabbed a finger in Adam’s direction. “I said I was sorry!” “Let it go, kid.” She mouthed ‘thank you’ as Otis shepherded Larry away. Otis gave her a curt nod. “I’m definitely going to owe him for that one. Listen, if Otis is having ‘the talk’ with him, Larry will be gone by nightfall.” Over the years, Otis had honed the skill of talking people into the ground. As it turned out, not everyone who was hung was pleasant, and the peaceful repose the two of them had cultivated could be easily undone. Maggie would have felt bad about it, but all the spirits stayed underground of their own volition. Unlike the circle around the hill, no one was forcefully keeping them there. She waited to be sure Otis and Larry were out of earshot before continuing. “Alright, kid, how did you do it?” Excitement flashed back into Adam’s eyes. “I’m not sure. I got angry, like really angry, and the next thing I knew I was running. It felt like passing through a spiderweb or something, and then I was back in the land of the living. I actually felt the breeze on my skin.” Maggie savored the sensation that ran through her at the idea of feeling the wind. She was comfortable in her afterlife, but there were things she missed. “I could try to teach you.” Maggie reserved her excitement, knowing that if they failed, Adam would be insufferable again. “Teach me how to get angry and run at someone?” Adam rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m not sure how it works but you speak Shawshanee.” “Shoshoni,” she corrected him. “Right, but you speak it, so you could possess one of the hangmen and get us out of here.” “I haven’t had the opportunity to practice in almost fifteen years. Best I could manage is basic conversation. But, assuming I could figure out a way, how do we know I’ll even be able to stay in long enough to break the barrier?” “Well, there’s only one way to find out.” Maggie looked around at the desert. The last thing she wanted to do was have Adam teach her anything. The kid was arrogant, privileged, and too damned unstable, but it was hard to ignore what he had done. “Fine, but I’m not going to call you sir or show you any deference.” Adam whooped with joy; the sound more haunting than he had expected. “Let’s check on Otis.” As they turned around, Maggie caught sight of Larry’s head passing through the dirt, an expression of righteousness on his face. Otis was standing above him, muttering some words that sounded vaguely like a prayer. When Larry had fully submerged, Maggie and Adam floated over. “Didn’t know you were religious, Otis.” Otis made a shushing sound with his finger and motioned for them to float away. When they were a safe distance away from Larry’s ‘rest’, he spoke. “I went to church a few times in town, before it became clear I wasn’t welcome, but I’ve got a dang good memory. I just pieced together a few prayers and sermons that fit my goal, and next thing you know, Larry’s convinced he’s waiting for God underneath that soil.” Adam looked disgusted, but also impressed. “Damn, old timer.” “Who you calling old timer? Besides, I was saving your ass from months of religious repentance at his hand.” “Don’t worry, Otis, you’ll forgive the kid if what we’re talking about works. We’ve got a plan.


An old scab was ripped from my heart when I read an email which began, “They say blood is thicker than water - but is it always?” I laid in bed that evening unable to sleep, recalling that disastrous time three years ago. It all began when Darla and I decided to drive from the east coast to Iowa to celebrate our granddaughter’s second birthday. It had been four months since the last time we visited, and we were excited to see the entire family, but when we arrived, our excitement began to erode. When we pulled in the driveway, we found our son, Mark waiting for us. “Hey, Mom and Dad. How was your trip?” “You know the deal. Long and tiring, but we’re glad to be here.” I looked around, finding no one else present. “So, where’s the birthday girl?” “Sarah’s in the house with Sharon. I think they’re working on a birthday cake.” Mark waved us in. “Come on. Let see what’s cooking.” We went inside and marched to the kitchen. there, we found Sharon working on a mixing bowl. “Hi,” was all she said. Then, Sarah popped her head from behind the counter. A smile gleamed across her face and she walked up to us with her hands in the air. As soon as I picked her up, I realized she hadn’t gained any weight since the last time we visited. Thinking it was my imagination playing tricks on me, I brushed it off. I stroked her chin and made her giggle. “Hi Sarah. Happy birthday.” “Hi,” she replied. I put Sarah back down to let her continue in her play and turned my attention to Sharon. “Need any help with that?” “Nothing to do here. I’m just about to put it in the oven. Go sit down in the living room.” Darla and I looked at each other and left Sharon to herself. We sat on the couch and flipped on the TV and started watching a game show. As we were about to settle down, Mark came in. “I need to go to work for a bit. If you need anything, give me a buzz.” After he left, dark clouds began to gather overhead. As we sat in front of the television, Sarah became fidgety and went to the kitchen to see her mother. Through the din of the TV, we heard Sarah say, “Food.” A moment later, she returned to the living room sporting a small juice pack. She sat down in front of the TV and began to sip on it. Darla and I looked at each other wondering what’s going on. This wasn’t how we fed our children when they were little. Though we communicated with our eyes, we remained silent. Not long later, Mark returned, and we sat down to dinner. I can’t remember what we had, but I’ll never forget seeing the slice of bologna on Sarah’s plate. Mark must have seen the look on my face, for he tried to answer my unspoken question. “Sarah is very picky about what she eats. We usually give her this since she likes it and she does get her protein this way.” I glanced at Darla and recognized the fire burning in the back of her eyes. Somehow, she kept her temper in check and dinner resumed and was concluded by serving birthday cake. We retired that evening and as we laid in bed, Darla vented. “Did you see Sarah eat anything today? Does she ever eat anything good for her?” “It’s hard to imagine Mark would let this go by,” I replied. “Did you get a look in the kitchen? The trash can was overflowing and dirty dishes all over the place. Mark told me they cleaned up before we arrived, but I can’t see any sign of that. And did you hear Sarah talking? The last time we were here, she was a chatter box. Now, she can hardly put two words together. Something’s wrong here and I don’t like it.” “I know what you mean. Let me talk to Mark in the morning and see what he has to say about it.” We finally fell asleep, but it wasn’t for long. Sarah’s voice broke the silence and awoken us. We laid there, listening to her babbling. “Why is she awake in the middle of the night?” I asked. Darla answered, “She’s hungry.” “Should we ger her something to eat?” “Let’s wait,” Darla whispered. “Maybe Mark or Sharon will feed her.” So, we waited and listened to Sarah’s babbling. No one came to her rescue. She continued to babble for an hour, wen she finally fell asleep again. Darla didn’t say a word, but I knew a storm was coming. The next morning, we went downstairs for breakfast and found everyone present. I watched Darla look at Mark and her eyes went down to his feet. On them, were a pair of socks. One black and one white.” Mama Grizzly was awake and got out of the wrong side of the bed. She pointed at Mark’s feet. “Are you planning on going to work like that?” He looked down at his feet. “Like what?” “Are you blind? Can’t you see your socks aren’t matching? It looks stupid.” It was then I saw a side of Mark, I’ve never seen before. He glared at her. “What are you worried about? It’s not that big of a deal.” “Is that how you want people to see you? You want them to ask themselves, “How can someone who doesn’t care if his socks match can care about his work?”” “You know what, Mom? I tired with the way you treat me. You always try to control everything in my life and everything that I do.” “Mark, I’m your mother. I care about what happens to you and if I see something that’s wrong, I’m going to point it out.” As they went back and forth with each other, Sharon swopped in. “I’m getting sick of your crap, Darla. Get out of this house, now, before I call the police.” Darla and I were stunned to silence, then she continued. “I don’t ever want to see you again and for you, John, if you ever divorce Darla, you can come back.” At that moment, I felt the claws of responsibility release me. I clasped Darla’s hand and spoke calmly to her. “Let’s get our stuff and go.” I guided her to our room, and we packed our bags to go. Without saying another word, we walked out to our car and drove away. As we headed out the driveway, Darla turned to me. “What are we going to do?” All I could do was shake my head. “There’s nothing we can do about Sharon or Mark. But as for Sarah, there is one more thing we can do.” Before we left town, we decided to make one more stop. We pulled up to an old brick building and enter the front door. A policewoman standing behind the counter called us forward. “How may I help you?” “We would like to talk to someone in Child Protection Services.” After we told them our story, we began our drive home. Halfway through Illinois, Mark tried to call me on my cell phone. I let it ring two times, then I rejected the call. Through this whole calamity, we learned to accept the fact not all people are good, even if they were brought up properly, and parents aren’t always to blame in how their children act as adults.


05/06/20 *Finally caved and bought Elsie a fish. Haven’t had a chance to write here for a while (getting sorted for the governors meeting, then all the stuff with Mum) so there’s no mention of fish but seriously, she’s been on about it for months-- ever since we went to the chippy of all things! Pestering non-stop, “Can we get a fish? Can we, can we, mummy? Daddy says it’s okay”. I’ve a good mind to give Daddy a good talking to, kick his lazy arse into gear for once. She’s six for goodness sake, and he thinks she’ll be a responsible pet owner? Well I'm not sure, I think that muggins is gonna get stuck looking after it. Fingers crossed, Jane. Anyway, she was still enthusiastic after her amazing parents’ evening this year (even Miserable Mr. Muston was all smiles), so I decided to take her to pick one out as a reward.* *The tank wasn’t cheap, despite it being a low-range one. Just a round, plastic thing about* *~~40 cm~~* *50 cm tall, and maybe half of that across. It’s got a good two-in-one filter and light thingy on top that was a pain to fix on. Took ages and I missed Elsie pulling out her first tooth! I'm sure it wasn’t a pleasant sight, Daryl made her twist it round and round and round till it came right out apparently. Still sad I missed my little girl’s first tooth. That reminds me, must get a cute little box to keep them all in for when she grows up, just like Mum did for us.* *I also bought gravel (bright pink obviously) and some planty things for the fish to hide in when Els bangs her sticky fingers on the perspex. It’s called a ‘neon tetra’ according to the woman at the shop, though she said it’s not quite like one she’s ever seen before. Marketing ploy no doubt. Although, I say that, they’re named for their neony glow, but the one I pointed out to Els doesn’t just stick to one colour. It kinda shimmers, brilliant blues and pinks* *~~and~~* *like big bubbles of washing up liquid do. It’s gorgeous.*  12/06/20 *As predicted, Elsie wasn’t the most devoted fish owner. One week. One bloody week and she’s forgotten that it’s not just a house plant-- though even house plants need watering every now and then. We fed it together before bed for three nights before the novelty wore off and she returned to the classic bed time routine: avoiding the bath by trying to climb out the window. Do parents really wish their littluns wouldn’t grow up? Mine’s a little gremlin.* *I tried to persuade Daryl to show her how to clean it out yesterday to get her interested again, but no. That was too much effort for Mr. Plays X-Box All Day. “It wasn’t my decision to buy the fish, I ain’t looking after it.” Isn’t he the best? Well I had no idea how to do it, but a quick YouTube tutorial and nip to the shops for buckets, sponges, a tiny net etc., and I was all set. I’m a resourceful woman, thank you very much. Just not a very compelling teacher, apparently. Els ran off to practise her lines after two minutes of me showing her how I was siphoning the old water. I admit it’s not the most thrilling job and I know how excited she is to play an ugly step-sister, but I thought it might be a fun activity to do together. Mother-daughter bonding, or something. I know Daryl’s never going to do it. But I suppose I can’t complain, I saw it coming and really should’ve stuck to my guns on the* *~~fish issue~~* *fishue.*  16/06/20 *I know I'm writing about nothing but the fish (though I could quite easily vent again about the neighbour’s cats yowling all hours of the night), but it’s really taking over my bloody life. I’ve had to clean it out* *twice* *since I last updated this. Should be roughly once a week according to the web, so something’s definitely up. Maybe the filter’s broken. At least it wasn’t too expensive. Anyway, the stuff that I’ve had to scrape off the sides of the tank hasn’t been quite like anything Google images has shown me. It’s really pretty honestly, quite a shame to have to clean it. But it cakes the whole inside so quickly that we struggle to see Sushi. That’s its name apparently. Stupid. He deserves better. Anyway, I paid two of my own hard-earned pounds for him so I'm gonna get my money’s worth out of it as a nice feature piece in the living room. The (I don’t know what to call it) algae or whatever glows like the fish does and looks lovely when we turn the lights right down in the evenings and when they’re off completely at night. I may just leave it, I’ve read that overcleaning can be bad for the fish and I couldn’t hurt him.* *It was originally in Elsie’s room but she complained that the trickling was ‘driving her mad’ (such a drama queen), but I can see where she’s coming from. Even through the wall, I could hear it from our bed. Daryl says he couldn’t, but that’s cus he’s got wax in his ears to stop him hearing what I'm saying. We moved it downstairs into the living room, but even now, very late at night, I can hear the sound of the filter hoovering up water and spewing it out of the top. Trickling like an old man having a wee-- but non-stop.*  21/06/20 *I told Els about the tooth fairy today. Just out of the blue. I don’t know what came over me. We were having spag bol (I'm writing just before bed, trying to ignore the snoring slab of Daryl) when Elsie, so excited bless her, showed me that her other wobbly had come out. She gave me this huge grin, showed me the gap where her two front teeth had been, and said, “the tooth fairy will come tonight!”. And then* *~~I was~~* *~~this feeling of~~* \*before I knew what I was doing, I just said “she’s not real, darling, but I’ll give you 50p”.\**~~if you care that much”.~~* *God, I'm the worst mother on Earth. Her face, how could I do something like that? She barricaded herself in her room and wouldn’t let me in. What can I do? Daryl was no use, he just laughed. Laughed for* *~~fuck~~* *God sake, after his daughter had run out crying. And then he just carried right on eating.* *I nearly took my frustration out on the filter, wanted to knock something loose and stop it working. I seem to hear the trickling everywhere in the house now. Even in the spare room, it’s constant, like hearing cars when you live on a motorway. Except the sound of traffic doesn’t make me need to wee every five minutes.*  24/06/20 *Anne came round. Terrible dye-job her hairdresser’s done. Told me about Lis hoping for an offer from Leeds, but I couldn’t concentrate. All morning as I prepared the house (hoovering and making sure we had cake) the bloody noise was in my ear like Elsie when she won’t shut up about something. Constant “mummy, mummy, mummy” except it’s ‘trickletrickletrickle’. I turned the filter off before Anne arrived, thinking it would manage for an hour or two without it but it’s the strangest and most infuriating thing. I could still hear the trickling. It’s like it’s been carved into my brain the way rivers carve lines in rocks. It’s eroding my peace of mind.* *But I'm use to that, Daryl’s been chipping away for years. He got home from work today and cracked open a beer before he’d even said hello to his daughter. Well I gave him a piece of* *my* *mind (very clever, Jane) and I'm proud I did. Always keeping it bottled, only writing in here whenever he does something that’s not right, but I don’t know what happened. I just stood in front of the telly and told the ignorant prick not to take this family for granted-- he should appreciate both me and Elsie more, I say. And then miracle, he put the beer down and went to play shopkeepers for twenty whole minutes. Proof he can be changed, just needs a bit of grunt work.*  27/06/20 *Fish update (because that’s apparently what this is for now): the whole tank usually glows with a kind of whiteish blue light, but since I turned the filter off and back on a few days ago, the algae or whatever it is on the inside has turned* *~~reddish~~* *~~purpley~~* *~~kind of~~* *~~black~~* *no colour that I’ve ever seen before. I know that’s ridiculous, but I can’t describe it. And it’s scaring me a little. I don’t like to go near it when I have to feed the fish. But of course I do feed Him. Sadly, I haven’t actually seen him much lately, there’s so much algae in the tank and he blends in with the new colours. I can’t clean it fast enough so I’ve given up altogether. I might have to find him a new home.*  *Also today: I made a Co-op employee cry because she was getting lippy with me and I told her off. She was sarcastic and disrespectful so I told her to “wipe off all the shitty orange stuff that’s caked on your face and have some respect”. I don’t know how to feel, part of me was really guilty, I just sort of ran off embarrassed, but then part of me knows the cow deserved it. Oh I need a holiday I think, just some time away from everyone. And the fucking trickling.*  01/07/20 *Maddie came over after school to run lines with Els today. She’s the other ugly step-sister and* *~~more ‘appropriately’ cast I’d say~~* *just as excited. I left them to it, made a cuppa and heard them out in the garden. Should’ve twigged they’d get muddy feet, Elsie becomes such a filth monster when Maddie’s around, and guess what... they tracked a ton of dirt into my pristine kitchen. Well I told them I'm no Cinderella and that I wouldn’t be cleaning up the mess. Maybe I shouldn’t have yelled at them quite as hard as I did, two little girls in tears wasn’t the best thing for Maddie’s mum to walk in on,* *~~but~~*. No, I shouldn’t have shouted. I said sorry at dinner but I think Elsie was still a little upset. But she’s six for fuck sake, when will she grow up.  03/07/20 *I started this diary to make myself laugh and vent about* *~~Daryl~~* *things. But the way I've been writing recently really quite upsets me as I read it back. It’s especially bad in the places I can see through where I’ve crossed words out, and I read them like I'm reading somebody else’s writing. I don’t remember writing that, but I do remember doing a lot of scribbling. I hate how irritable I am. But I also hate how everyone always pisses me off, Elsie especially at the minute. The latest fucking phase is gymnastics and she’s already broken one vase. Will put my foot down hard if she does one more cartwheel indoors.*  07/07/20 *It’s making me go mad.* *~~I’m~~* *~~It’s~~* *I say things out loud which I wouldn’t’ve dreamed of saying before. Like earlier in the week I really upset Mrs. Gardener about the cats,* *~~Christ the fucking cats, I wish I could~~* *I just snapped at her. We got home from picking Els up and she was leaning on the fence as I got out the car, just wanting to say hi I'm sure. She said something about the sky,* *~~stupid old crone,~~* *and I interrupted her by almost shouting “get your cats in at night, they drive me insane”. When I realised what I’d said, I mentioned something about Elsie not being able to sleep to make it sound better, but using my daughter as an excuse? And not even a truthful one?? God that’s awful. Although maybe it’s not a lie, I don’t know how she can sleep with the fucking* ***filter*** *going all night. She hasn’t mentioned it since we moved the tank out of her room, but I hear it. All the time I hear it. It’s started to play in my head even when I'm not in the fucking house, like a song that’s stuck. But no melody, just water. And not splashing or flowing or babbling or gurgling. Fucking Trickling. Trickling.*  11/07/20 *I forgot to cook dinner tonight.* *~~You’d think Daryl might think about doing it one night out of the fucking week, even just offer to, but no.~~* *I got distracted in the living room. The TV was on I think but I was just looking for the fish amongst the plants. The sound of the filter isn’t so bad once you’re up close, in fact it’s kind of relaxing, and I was sat in the small chair, my face so near the tank. And then I felt a hand touch my shoulder. It was Daryl. He asked if I was okay. His shake was so tentative, like he was afraid to touch me* *~~as he fucking should be, how he had the audacity~~* *and his voice was also soft. He asked if I’d made food. I looked at the clock and saw that three hours had passed, three hours and he hadn’t noticed where I'd been or what I'd been doing. And I couldn’t tell him. Well no, I was looking at the fish. He’s so beautiful.*  13/07/20 *~~I~~* *~~Wh~~* *~~I’m~~* *~~The th~~* *~~I~~* *I killed a cat. I killed one of Mrs. Gardeners cats with my car and* *~~I knew what I was doing, but I kind of didn’t think about it I just saw it and this rage flashed through me like nothing I've felt before, I reversed when I saw it in the wing mirror. I’m so sorry, oh god I'm so sorry, I picked the poor thing up, ran to the garage and dropped it in an old box under a tarpaulin. It’s there, I don’t know what to do I don’t know what to do~~* *it felt so fucking good.*  15/07/20 *Fuck Cinderella. Dropped Elsie at school at half five, said I'd be in the audience and left. I’m writing this in the living room; my nice empty house. Told Daryl to get to the play or else I’d neuter him with my teeth-- would be the first time in a while my mouth’s ventured down there. need a real man,* *~~need to~~* *No, I just need to be here. Just me and Him. how I* ever *thought of rehoming Him I’ll never understand or stop being sorry for. I’m sorry. He is all I need. All I need to feel like a real person, like the powerful woman I’ve always been. I understand now how the trickling is beautiful. It’s blissful, sat here in its glow. Thank You. I’m glad we took the tank out of the little bitch’s room, she doesn’t deserve it all to herself. No one does, no one but me. Forever-- it should be like this forever. When the little cunt gets home with her pig father I’ll make sure it stays like this, make sure my house stays nice and empty. Just me, and Him, and the trickling.*  \ Thank you for reading my first short story posted to Reddit, would love honest and constructive feedback.


Priyanka came to know that her friend’s husband was admitted into Yashodha hospital for dialysis. Since the hospital was near her home at a walkable distance, she thought of visiting her. She bought some fruits and went to see her. At the hospital at every point she had to enquire and go further. She had to enquire and find out the floor number, room number, visitors’ timings, any do’s and don’ts’... She had to enquire where was the lift and get there. She came out of lift and looked for the room where her friend’s husband was admitted. There was no room number. Nor the patient’s name on the door. She learnt that not all patients require room for whole day. For routine quarterly check-up a few hours of stay as in-patient was sufficient. Any vacant room would be given to the patient. Priyanka’s friend’s husband had come for Peritoneal Dialysis. He was doing it himself routinely at home. Occasionally, he needed to have check up at the hospital. A nurse was passing by. Priyanka asked for the specific room where she was required to go. The nurse simply waved her hand towards a door. Priyanka went in as directed. No that was not the room. Neither her friend nor her husband was seen there. Some total strangers, ---- may be a mother and her daughter --were there. Daughter was the patient and mother, a care-giving attendant. Priyanka realized that she came into a wrong room. When she was about to go back, the elderly lady called her and told rather warned her that a dialysis patient should not be given any fruit. Priyanka was aware of that. She politely replied the old lady that the fruits were meant for person taking care of the patient and not for the patient. Fruits were meant for her friend. “The dialysis patient is anyway being taken care of by the hospital, whereas, the attending caregiver is left to fend for oneself.” Of course, a food court and a canteen were available in the hospital. She came out and found her friend walking towards the room. She hurriedly went and caught up with her. After an update of ‘what is what’ and ‘how do you do’ a little more time on exchange of pleasantries, Priyanka thought it better to leave. Hospital was not a coffee shop where anybody would like to sit and chat for longer duration. Moreover, her friend also had to wind up and leave. Priyanka chose to visit her friend at the hospital for two reasons ... to enquire about her husband’s present health condition and another reason was that it was easy for her to see them here rather than at their residence, which was quite far from her place. Priyanka took leave from them and left. When she came out, she accidentally turned towards the wrong door into which she entered first Elderly woman on seeing her, called her in. Then she said, she had one more patient in the same hospital, but in another wing. He was not related to her. He was their neighbour. Presently he was undergoing treatment and the response was poor. He needed blood transfusion. Stock of bottle of his blood group was not available in the hospital readily. They had already placed an indent to local blood bank and supply thereof was awaited. She said, “It is painful to see him groaning in pain. Reason for calling you is ... if you know anybody who can donate blood, it will be very nice. He and his mother will be ever thankful to that kind soul.” Priyanka said, “Why anybody aunty? Even I can donate blood. I belong to the universal category of blood, which normally is acceptable to any one in need of. Moreover, blood donation is a very noble act. I will be happy if I can be of any use to your neighbour. Let the doctor decide if my blood is suitable to the patient. First let us go and see the patient. I hope your daughter is comfortable now. How long has she to be here?” The two ladies were talking and walking towards the ‘blood-thirsty’ patient. The patient was asleep with his face towards the wall. In a low hush-hush voice aunty was telling Priyanka about his sickness, his parents’ agony, costly treatment, his self-pity and so on. Every now and then he would say, ‘what sin did I commit? Whose curse is on me?’ Aunty sympathised him, “More than his sickness, his self-pity and depression were worst killers. No medicine can cure such patients. I wish and pray that he is able to overcome his depression. Sooner the better.” Even though aunty was talking a in low voice, in decibels not more than a whisper, it was enough for the patient, Shukla to turn around in the bed. Priyanka missed a beat for a second. ‘This man! The Least I expected to see him in the hospital’. Aunty introduced Priyanka as a prospective blood donor, thinking that it would cheer him up and boost his confidence. Priyanka nudged aunty, “Let us go. He may be tired.” When they came out of his room, aunty made wry faces at Priyanka and said sarcastically, “Earlier you were making tall sermons on blood donation and was offering to give blood. You were posing as though you were a goody-goody soul. When time for action came, you simply backed out as if nothing happened. You funked. Funny people!” She continued and was murmuring to herself ‘cheap stunts for popularity’ and something more like that. Priyanka bade good bye and left in whiz. Next day, Priyanka bought a few varieties of fruits and came to Yashodha hospital. She straight went to see Shukla and spoke to him soothingly. She came out along with the nurse and had latest updates on his health condition. Later, she told the nurse that she was keen on donating blood even if did not suit this patient. It could be useful for some other needy patient. Nurse was looking at Priyanka, as though something unusual happened. It was a common practice among nurses to offer blood to patients in times of emergency but not any normal human being coming forward to do so. She took Priyanka to the Blood bank unit in the same hospital and came back. Priyanka finished giving blood. She then came to see aunty. When she gave the bag of fruits to aunty, she taunted. “Why? You think that fruits are better than blood in helping the patient to have a speedy recovery? And you don’t have to be afraid of pricking your skin. Is it not?” Priyanka was cool. “Aunty fruits are not for Shukla. The hospital takes care of its patients. I brought them for you. By the way, I am coming from Blood bank counter only after donating one unit of blood. Yesterday, I did not want to give blood for a different reason. I was in bad mood. If the body does not cooperate, it is difficult to get the proper vein.” Aunty saw that there was a small plaster in her elbow joint. Still not believing her, aunty asked, “Yesterday you were in good spirits when you were talking with me here in this room. But later when I took you to see Shukla, you turned pale and you funked. Mood change! Why bad mood then?” “It is a long story, aunty. If you are not getting bored, I can tell you. This Shukla is your neighbour now. For me, he was a long-last friend. For him, I am a long-lost foe. Many years ago, we were living in Pune in the same colony and we both went to same school. He was very jealous of his classmate Sudheer. Sudheer would come first in the class and Shukla’s parents used to get angry for Shukla not taking interest in studies. Sudheer was studious and Shukla was not. His parents always compared him with Sudheer and criticised him. So, Shukla thought of a crooked plan to steal some of Sudheer’s note-books just before exams and in the absence of important notes, he would not be able to study and who knows! Might fail also. Instead of keeping the stolen books with him, Shukla asked me to help him by keeping them with me. Even if anybody suspected Shukla, they could get nothing from him and he would escape punishment. Up to this his plan was okay.” Priyanka kept telling further. In my younger days I was a timid girl. I never ventured to do any mischief nor play any adventure. When I declined to cooperate, he got angry and beat me. I became his enemy. He was afraid that his hideous scheme would be exposed now to all. He gave me two more blows for that. In that scuffle I fell down and broke my leg. I could not write exams. My parents were quite upset. They warned me, no-no threatened me. They strictly told me not to have any contact with him. I got well but one year of schooling gone. Later we got drifted apart and we never met again until yesterday.” “When I saw him yesterday, though I was reminded of that bad incident, I felt very sorry for this fellow and was full of sympathy. I went home and offered sincere prayers. I was worried that he should not believe that it was my curses which are the reasons for his sickness. He was already in self-pity and because of me it will shoot up. That was why I was in a hurry to go. Today I went to see him just to assure him that I was not here for any revenge or retaliation. I wanted him to understand that I was not his foe. Whether I am his friend or not, he may decide. Certainly, I am not his foe.” “One good news aunty. In the Blood bank-counter they said they are getting his requirement and may be by now they received also.” Aunty said convincingly, “Now I understand why he was in tears and was repeatedly telling, ‘I was so stupid. I shouldn’t have been so rude.’ I am happy Priyanka that he is getting his unit of blood. He will get well soon. I am happier still that his mental sickness also will be cured. When he will be discharged, he will be a fresh and a new guy.” Aunty was sure, very soon he would be fit physically and mentally. Certainly.


Note: A Talking to Strangers - In Search of Human Connection Series He sits alone at the end of the bench overlooking the San Clemente pier. I ask if I can join him. He seems pleased. He has a gray beard and glasses, a cap with a name I don’t recognize. He’s maybe early 70s. His hands are in his lap, tan with age spots. They shake a little.  He looks down at the beach to a group of guys at a picnic table, says that was him a long time ago. Military. He was in ‘Nam in 68. Came back and spent time at Camp Pendleton. Met his wife and married, but it didn’t work out. He had issues. He wasn’t right. He didn’t blame her. It was his fault.  Says he later met Rose and remarried. Now he has grandchildren. A wide smile. He took them to Hawaii, where he was once stationed, and to San Clemente, where he and Rose visit three months every winter. He surprised the grandkids with plane tickets so they could join them - they were thrilled.  This summer they’re renting a beach house at Cape Henlopen in Delaware, where his granddaughter did an internship in park services. He worked in the same field after the military.  One day his granddaughter met Biden when he was out for a bike ride with his security detail. They chatted. No...a photo wasn’t allowed. Biden later crashed on the bike...did I remember? Vaguely.  He tells me Rose and her friend are down by the beach. They like to walk, but he can’t...his body is just...but that’s okay. In a couple hours, they’re having dinner at Fisherman’s Wharf. What will he order, I ask? Oh, he knew exactly. Shrimp and a beer, Modelo. He can already taste it.  His cell buzzes. Rose. He puts the phone to his ear. I can tell Rose is in charge. Issuing instructions about next steps. He says yes, okay...well, whenever...he’s fine.  He asks me about my life...education, where I’m from, if I was still working. I share my story about moving from the east coast to CA. Tell him I will retire in 24 months. First time I’ve said those words out loud to a stranger. It feels good.  A few minutes later, Rose arrives with her friend. Rose’s face is a little deformed...a large, swollen jaw. I tell Rose her husband has good stories. She grumbles, like, don’t get me started. She’s heard them all before.  He tells Rose I’m retiring in 24 months...music hearing him say that. I tell them when they return to San Clemente in a couple of years, I’ll be sitting on this bench, but on a Wednesday. We chuckle and say goodbye. Never exchanging names. I wish we had.  I wait a few minutes and start my trek back up the hill. I come face to face with them as they head down toward Fisherman’s Wharf. Maybe an earlier dinner is in order. I wave bye to him again. He smiles and waves back.  It was a human connection I enjoyed. A reminder that I really must talk to more strangers.


Darkness engulfed the men in front of me to the point that all I heard were silhouettes chattering, only pausing to take quick breaths, and get back to the greatest issue at hand. The smartest men I knew were chattering away. Three problem solvers in front of me and yet, they felt no need to deal with our lack of light, now that the sun was making its exit. Of course, they wouldn't because it was always Sarah who remembered to put on the porch lights. She would always add twinkle lights with colors that matched the season for some extra warmth. She made sure citronella candles were lit to chase away the bugs. Sarah made the tastiest snacks magically appear too. Conversation would surround me and then there would be a bowl of nachos with extra salsa, or some banana bread, and always bowls of fancy nuts. There was never a need to ask. Sarah loved taking care of her guests. Today though, Sarah didn’t welcome guests. A glance to the bedroom window showed that she still remembered the light. Her hunched shadow cocooned in a marshmallow shaped blanket and a cigarette in her hand told me that I was better off staying in the backyard with the chatterboxes. I couldn’t see her face. I wished I could see her eyes and know how she was feeling. Would she be okay? But the way she walked said a lot. She dragged herself back and forth, like us being this near was disturbing her. She didn’t want us there. Her husband was reliving the nightmare from two nights ago while her brother, who was also my boyfriend, and their best friend from high school tried to be supportive with their own diagnosis. Each one of them had their own little comments. Each one of them talking about how that night had such an impact on her husband and how on earth were they going to fix it. So many words were flying around in the darkness. The events of that evening became so clear, I could see it. I felt like I was there, witnessing a sweet woman falling apart. The evening started with dinner at the local bistro and another couple they hang out with sometimes. Everyone was dressed up and cheerful. They all indulged in drinks, but Sarah always had a drink in her hand. When her husband counted off the drinks he remembered her ordering, he had gotten to his seventh finger before his memory failed. It was like a sad countdown to oblivion. She seemed good. She seemed happy. She wanted to ride with their friends since they hadn’t seen them for a while. No one protested. It was a good night. During the drive, she changed. She became a stranger and got angry. The friends reported that they didn’t understand what Sarah was talking about and she yelled and grabbed the wheel. The driver struggled to keep control of the car. He begged Sarah to stop. He didn’t know how he managed to avoid the other cars, how he avoided crashing. When he came to a stop, Sarah jumped out and ran. The couple called Sarah’s husband and soon, all of them were out looking for her. They followed honking and the sound of a fender bender. People were yelling. When they finally got sight of Sarah, she was walking in traffic like she was the only one on the road. They tried to catch up, but with cars strewn all over the road in chaos, there was no way that they could run and catch up to her. She disappeared again. They tried to follow the honking again. Her husband got a call from a strange number. Sarah ran into someone’s yard and told the first person she saw that the bad people were trying to get her. "The bad people?" I interjected. All three men jumped at my question. Did they forget I was there? Did I leave? For a moment, I thought I was staring at headlights, so maybe I did leave. Her husband answered, "Uh, yeah, when she ran into a stranger’s backyard. She met a woman and asked her to call me. She said, 'Her husband would protect her from the bad people.'" "So, Sarah doesn't see you as one of the bad people." He frowned like I was insulting him. “I was noting that Sarah still felt safe with you,” I explained, but it didn’t seem to help. He avoided looking at me, not that he could see me. How could the evening get any darker? Her episode sounded familiar, but they kept on throwing around words like drinking problem and addict. It seemed like more. It sounded like Sarah did not know what reality was anymore. Sarah saw bad people. Sarah walked around moving cars with no regard for her safety. Did she even see the cars as cars? Yes, the amount of alcohol probably exacerbated the situation, but it was worse than being drunk. Where did Sarah think she was? They continued, "Drinking problem." "Get help." "I don't know what to do." "Get help," I spoke up. They stared at me again. "You said, ‘What are you supposed to do?’ Get help," I emphasized. Her husband's voice wavered, "But what if she doesn't...I might need to get a...I mean..." "A divorce?" I challenged. His head tipped forward in a slight nod. A divorce does not fix anything. Maybe it frees him from guilt or the work of helping Sarah get better. A divorce leaves Sarah alone to fight whatever beast she was fighting two nights ago. I’m usually fine being in the background. I’m a quiet person who feels comfortable observing. I like to listen, but that does not mean I never have something to say. I needed my words to cut through the darkness and wake him up, "If you do nothing, you don't have to worry about a divorce. If Sarah doesn't get the help she needs, she's going to end up dead."


"Tell us another story!" Cindy and Lewis asked their grandfather, once again. It was a night like any other night, the moon bright and the stars glowing against the dark sky. They sat up in Cindy's bedroom, the children on the pink-sheeted bed and Grandfather in the comfy hanging chair. Every night they would sit down and listen to his adventures. "I think I've run out of happy stories. All that I still remember that I haven't told you yet are sad. Some of my stories are not quite ready for you to hear yet." Every night he told his tales of living before the Europeans came to Canada. Before the whites took over. He lived peacefully with the others of his tribe, uninterrupted and happy. But that was before. And all the stories left were of after. "Please, Grandpa!" The children's begging eyes were too hard to resist. "All right. But be warned, it's much different from the others." Were his grandchildren ready? Oh well, too late to disappoint them. He began telling them his story, the way he always did. I remember... "I remember the day like it was yesterday. It was the middle of the winter, the sun was warm for once and the wind whistled in my ears. My parents had 3 children, me and my two younger sisters, Dyani and Catori." "Those are nice names." Said Lewis. Do they have meanings, like yours? "Yes, my name - Animkii - means thunder. Dyani means deer and Catori means spirit. Very nice names, we were all quite proud of them." "Lewis," Cindy spoke sternly, "Don't interrupt again. Grandfather needs to tell his story." "Yes. Well, that day, we were all playing outside together when someone from the government came to our camp. They asked to see our parents and they had a lengthy discussion before our parents spoke to me and my sisters. "They said, 'Animkii, you and your sisters are going to school.'" "What's so sad about going to school?" Lewis asked. "Hush, Lewis," Cindy told him. "Grandfather's not done his story yet." "They took us to the school and made us change into scratchy, uncomfortable clothes very different from the ones we were used to. They caused us to lose our language and religion, and now I can only speak English. Me, Dyani, and Catori were separated. We only saw each other during church, where we were punished if we talked.Then one day, Dyani didn't show up to church, and only Catori was there. She had died from this torturous place. We came back home and things were different. Me and Catori could only communicate well with each other, because we'd lost our native language. We'd grown accustomed to the new things we'd been taught and forgotten our traditions. Yet worst of all, we knew everyone thought it should've been us instead of Catori. I still suffer greatly from the loss and the terrible flashbacks of things that happened at the school." He looked over at the children. Lewis was asleep, Cindy was crying. He wanted to comfort her but didn't know how. He couldn't say, 'It's okay.' Because it wasn't. He couldn't say that he was fine now, because he wasn't. That school had ruined hundreds of lives, including his. It had completely destroyed him, and he would never, ever be the same again.


Late August 2023 Hello, I'm Nancy Boltz. My husband of 40 years Eric Boltz died in Musicland Nebraska medical center from cancer. He was 64 years old. The funeral was held at the Musicland Lutheran Church where both of us were life long members. Three children (two girls and one boy) and 10 grandchildren we had. The will had been read and everyone had basically gone back to their own lives. Although my kids and grandchildren lived in Nebraska, they didn't live in Musicland. All but 2 lived in Omaha. The other two lived in Lincoln. Enough of that, let me get to the point of my story. Eric had left a diary that he wrote during the period of 1981-1982. This was the period where we had broken up and had dated others. It started over some stupid argument that I don't remember. Eric probably would remember but he didn't mention the argument in the diaries. We broke up two weeks after he graduated from college in June of 1981. Eric worked in Lincoln that summer and I stayed in Musicland (which is about 30 miles from Lincoln) at a Music Camp for kids. While in Lincoln, Eric met a woman named Heidi Holden. She had broken up with Mark Month who was a football player for the Cornhuskers. Over the course of the summer, they fell in love with each other but in September Heidi went back to Mark. She continued to see Eric on the side. Thankfully for Eric, Mark never found out. In April of 1982, Heidi Holden was found deceased at the Lincoln State Park after being struck by a car. The person who did it was never arrested or charged.  April 9, 1982 - Late afternoon "I hid in the bushes and heard and heard the terrible argument. There was nothing that I could do as I saw Mark clip Heidi with his car and then drive off. I quickly ran to the pay phone and called for emergency. I told them who did this to Heidi. I then ran over to Heidi who was drifting in and out of consciousness. Before she died, she told me that she wasn't pregnant. I knew that she had died. I wept for about a minute. I then heard the sirens of the police and ambulance and decided I better get the heck out of there." April 12, 1982 - Funeral of Heidi Holden The funeral was held at the St. Peters Catholic Church in Lincoln. I didn't dare go to the funeral. I watched for a distance. I was careful that I wasn't seen or observed. I knew that police would probably would be looking for the second mystery man. Apparently Heidi was also involved with a man named Jim. I decided that I was going to get even and make the life of Mark Month miserable. And this I did. May 13, 1982 The night before the man named Jim and Mark Month got into a fight at a local bar in Lincoln. I had been watching both men and noticed during the fight that a gun Mark had fell out of his jacket. No one noticed as I took the gun. Mark was arrested and Jim went to the emergency room for treatment. I found out when Mark was released which was a couple of hours later. I went over to Jim apartment and vandalized his car and then shot out the window. I threw the gun away and then fled. Jim of course blamed Mark. Jim filled charges against Mark but it went nowhere. This really angered me. He ended up suing Mark and lost in court. So much for getting back at Mark Month. For the next several months Eric plotted revenge against mark who got arrested for things Eric did, mostly vandalism of vehicles. He found out when Mark and his girlfriends or ex-partners were fighting or had broken up. One ex-partner he actually called weeping and saying that he didn't want to harm her brother but Mark had ordered him to do so. Wasn't long where Mark couldn't get a girlfriend as no woman wanted to be near him. Eric made sure of it. Also Eric would make calls to places where Mark was saying "Why do you allow the murderer in your bar? " August, 1982 I finally got my revenge. I keyed Mark Month's vehicle and with a knife flatten all of his tires. I also spray painted murderer, murderer by his car. I then set the car on fire. Everyone was in the bar drunk and high on drugs. No one noticed as I left. Shortly after I left, rival football players came into the bar and they were blamed. Police were called before it got totally out of hand. Mark got arrested for assaulting a rival player. Again the charges went nowhere. Mark ended up with the Seattle Seahawks which was too far away for Eric to continue his revenge. I still can't believe that Eric sent a letter to the team. I have a copy of the letter dated September 1982. Dear NFL Team: Mark Month is a murderer and killer. He murdered Heidi Holden by hitting her with his car. She didn't die from being clipped by his car but died after heading her head on the pavement. I was there when she died and I called police. Every woman he has ever been involved with he has used, abused and he gets away with it. I still am grieving over her death. Heidi cheated on him because he accused her of doing so, so she did. Heidi deserved better, something that I would have given her. Too bad she met Mark. As for Jim, I found out that he was just a friend. She never cheated with him which I'm most grateful. Signed the second man and forever mystery man which will remain so. Shortly after Eric wrote this letter, our relationship was rekindled. We got married in June of 1983. Six months before Eric died, I was sitting in Bed with him. He was in remission and we were watching the New Unsolved Mystery Program. One of the segments was about Mystery Man who had made Mark Month's life miserable for over a year. Then it stopped. Eric made some comments about it but now when I think about it, it sounded like he knew a lot about the vandalism and letter writer. Eric told me that I could do whatever I wanted. If I reported it to the police, he wouldn't be angry with me. Well, I decided that to protect my kids, grandkids and my family, I didn't turn him into the police. I still was in shock days later that he had done these things. This was a man whom I rarely seen lose his temper much less get angry at someone. We rarely if ever argued. I thought I knew him totally but apparently not. I never believed that you could live with a person for decades and not totally know them. Well, that's true. I can't damage my family's reputation, so I will burn the diaries and the letter.


I lived in a house on the hill of my thoughts; a broken home with parents with halted hearts. My blood was young but my mind so old; my body tattered but never my soul. I met her in the valley of my dying dreams, radiant with romance running in her ravenous veins. Relating her prose to carnivorous crows; she was as disparate as me with as many internal foes. On the grass we kissed with an appetite, she tasted of salt water, but drowning never felt so right. I didn’t know how to swim, but for her I would dive. I had never met anyone who made me feel so alive. Soon by noon I went home, after we grew weary. I don’t know where she went, but I hope it was somewhere near me. Edit: Punctuation and an attempt to format it correctly.


I ran through the park, laughing with my friends. The summer would last forever, our innocence retained. How stupid we were. Darkness came. Street lights glowed. Villains rose. Parents came. They found my friend's bodies. They never found me. Morning bell rings and I force myself out of bed. My empty dreams fade away in the light of the rising sun. I start my morning routine: get dressed, knife throwing, breakfast, work-out, brush teeth, polishing gear. The second bell rings and hundreds of "recruits" like me file out of rooms identical to mine. We walk down the hall in straight lines. Eyes kept to the ground. Screams come from training rooms. I flinch, remembering the harsh words and pain. Alice works her way up next to me, breaking the lines. We quickly form them behind her. 'Kai,' she says, poking my forehead, 'Sir wants you to report to briefing before morning training today. Better hurry, I was supposed to give you this message an hour ago.' I widen my eyes at her, and peel away from my line at the next hallway. Now that I'm out of routine I can think clearly. Marsha, Henry, Tallie. Marsha, Henry, Tallie. I need to remember their names. October 14, 2008. We were ten. Now I'm 25. 'Hurry up!' Alice comes running down the hallway, 'I really don't want you to die! You're funny!' She pushed her face in front of mine and stared at me with her startling blue eyes. I nod at her, and try to hide a smile. If a higher up saw me now, I would surely be punished. Alice smiled at me more and I cracked. I laughed and hugged her tight. 'Alright, lets go before someone sees us!' Alice giggled, then grabbed my hand and led me down the hall. If anyone had looked at us, they might have mistaken us for a happy couple. No couples, rule no. 178. No smiling, rule no. 5. No running in the halls, rule no. 68. For a second nothing else mattered. Footsteps sounded in the hall and I fell into a steady face, shoving my emotions into a box. Alice kept trying to pull me along but gave up when trainer Tami turned the corner. I nod, and Alice smiles and waves. Tami nods back and continues walking. We turn the corner and stop in front of a door like the thousands of doors in hundreds of hallways. Alice opens it and leads me inside, 'Dad! He's here! Can I get shopping privilege now?' I smile on the inside, as I've taught myself to do. If Sir ever found out about us, he would kill me and take away Alice's privileges. She really loves shopping. She took me once, when she needed someone to help her hold packages. 'Bring him in. I'll give you a shopping trip when he comes back successful from his mission.' Alice pulls me past the hard waiting chairs and into Sir's office. He is sitting in his high backed velvet chair fit for a villain. 'I can never tell whet you find interesting about this one, he's hardly the strongest.' 'I've told you, Dad, he's funny!' Alice lets go of my hand and steps back, giving me a little smile. I stare at Sir and he looks to me for an answer. I simply shrug my shoulders, showing no more emotion than that. 'Alice, sweetie, you know you're not allowed in my room when there's a briefing.' 'I know... Just this once? I won't tell anyone? Please?' Alice gives her best angel eyes that I fell in love with. Sir sighs, but his mouth twitches. 'I don't see why not. You're old enough to go on missions yourself. Maybe you can accompany Forest on his mission today?' Alice squeals, 'This is way better than shopping!' Sir laughs, and I almost smile. 'Forest, your target today is Emily Holter. She owes us money, lots of it. She's being very difficult, and I've decided to send you to take care of it for me. You have until sundown.' He pauses to look pointedly at Alice. 'If anything happens to my daughter, her fault or not, you will be punished severely.' I nod, and Alice stays silent. We were going on a mission together. Alone. We would have the day to ourselves. I wait for three seconds, then turn to leave. Alice waves goodbye, then follows me. She chatters all the way to my room, talking about places she'd like to see, things she'd like to do. I just hope she doesn't become scared of me when the target is neutralised. I gather my gear, and hand Alice a Browning Hi-Power. 'For safety,' I say, and she stares at it, 'You do know how to use it right?' She shakes her head. I stare at her, she really is a spoilt girl, sheltered from most of the goings on in the facility. 'It's simple, just turn off safety and squeeze the trigger. It's already loaded. You probably won't need it, just in case.' Alice smiles cheekily, 'You'll protect me right?' I smile back, 'Of course, that's my job.' Outside it's still morning and orange leaves litter the ground. Alice and I are posing as a dreamy couple on an early morning date. People smile at us as we walk along the path, her hand in mine. Alice leans her head against my shoulder, and squeezes my hand. 'This is nice,' she sighs, 'Why can't we do this every day?' I squeeze her hand back. 'Because you're the daughter of a big time mafia boss, and I'm a lowly recruit.' She laughs, 'That sounds like the plot of a romance story.' I lean my head against hers, 'One where they get away and find true love... Or one where they both end up dead...' 'Don't be such a downer, we might have our happy ending. Just... stay positive, and we'll work something out. Why don't we fake our deaths and run away?' I look down at Alice, she gazes back at me. Maybe that's not such a bad idea. Maybe we could get away... In an instant I've decided. 'Alice.' 'Yeah?' 'That's a great idea.' 'Wait, really?' 'Yes!' I stop walking and pull her over to a bench. 'It's simple, we'll pretend like an enemy organisation found me and you got caught up in it too. It'll be easy.' Alice shakes her head, 'But how will we convince them we're dead?' I smile, 'Baggs.'


Waking up early in the morning, Sheila felt dull and drained from all the life changes that had happened over the past few years. As her mind wandered into thoughts of the past, family members, friends, her job, home, and even furniture were all gone, she reminded herself she was starting over from scratch! Stretching her long, skinny body while flipping off the covers, with a sigh, she got up and walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water. She leaned against the sink to support her tired body and saw a brilliant purple butterfly float by the window before her. The angle of early morning light made its wings shimmer with a glow. Bedazzled, she watched it flutter up, down, and sideways like it was performing a dance recital just for her. Overcoming a sense of hopelessness was challenging while losing everything she loved dearly. The hardest part was always the mental trips that felt so real, but they were only in her mind. Like a movie screen, she could see flashes of happiness, sorrow, pain, and pleasure from every life situation, moving at hyperspeed inside her head. She called them her spiritual journey, which always left her feeling worn out, as if she was physically running a fast-paced marathon through each life scenario. Seeing something joyful after being filled with anger for so long was refreshing. Standing in her pajamas, she stood there as her heart pounded with excitement and fear for what was to come--her beautiful long blonde hair cascaded down her back while turning to set her glass on the counter. Out of nowhere, she heard a soft voice say, "Sakura." With a tilt of her head, she closed her eyes to listen closer and heard it again "Sakura." A knocking sound came from outside the house. She walked into the middle of the room to listen closer and figure out what was making the sound. The new home was open and modest, just like the new job and pay; however, it met her needs with no overtime, affordability, and plenty of unfilled space. Minimizing everything so she could find her true soul purpose. The sound stopped. Shaking her head, she gracefully walked to her bed to get back to sleep when something moved slightly near her feet. Looking down, she saw a business card; on it was the name of a publisher. With a sigh, a feeling her dreams had been lost and shattered, she tossed it on the nightstand and crawled back into bed to spend her day off in a well-needed slumber. All of a sudden, she heard the pounding outside again. She sat up to listen closely to identify what it was, which sounded like a hammer pounding on a piece of wood. Knock, knock, knock! Each time she closed her eyes, it would begin; when she opened them, it would stop. Curiosity overtook her. Flipping her covers back, she exited the bed and walked to the front door. As she opened it, she saw an adorable bluebird fly by; its wings were flapping as it turned its head, with its peering eyes, and looked straight at her through the screen door. It stood on the tree's limb, and they both watched each other for several minutes until it quickly flew away. Sheila always believed in the mystical magic of spirituality and angels; therefore, these were signs of something kind to her. Seconds later, a tiny ladybug was crawling across the screen. Once again, she heard the knocking coming from the top of the tree directly in front of the home. With a chuckle she laughed when she realized it was a woodpecker. The morning aesthetics were captivating, and she knew something was different in the smell of the morning dew. Inhaling a deep breath of fragrant air three times, she rapidly searched with her eyes to find the unfamiliar change. Turning to the right side of the yard, an unnoticed tree seemed to blossom overnight. It was a cherry tree. The flowers were full of the most vibrant pink shed ever seen, covering the branches like pink cotton candy. She could smell the heavenly scent with each breath. Tears filled her green eyes as she stared at the beautiful flower tree--a sign that her hopes and wishes were coming true - blessings were on the way. A distant voice once again said, "Sakura," and instantly, she knew this was an angelic gift. In a flash, Sheila saw her future path. Everything was cleared from her life to allow free time to pursue her dreams, no longer overtaken by demands from others and life in general. A trickle of teardrops rolled down her cheeks as she became filled with inspiration to follow her dreams from her youth; be an inspiring artist and writer. Clearing out the negative people and old baggage, with her new lifestyle, she had plenty of time to do whatever she wanted. Breathing in the joyful scents flowing in from the cherry blossoms, she raised her hands and jumped for joy, yelling loudly, "I feel alive." Once again, she heard the voice say, "Sakura." the Japanese word for a flowering tree, a Cherry tree, representing hope and a time of renewal with positive blessings. No more sorrow, anger, or guilt was left inside for the first time in years. Miraculously, it was gone! She felt hydrated with love and rejuvenated with hope and faith in getting a second chance with a fresh start; she finally felt free. One of the flowers from the tree blew in front of her feet. Bending over, she picked it up and went inside the home to hang it to dry, naming it her Sakura Angel. A reminder that the life challenges gave her the openness to expand into something unique only to her but relatable to many. A symbolic piece to show her bravery and healing, which created a courageous and inspirational woman. Looking up at the ceiling, she wiped the joyful tears away and said thank you. I am meant to be happy and will never feel alone again.


I go into an immediate cold sweat when I see it. There, not more than 50 feet in front of me is a man holding the door open to the grocery store. His soft smile and kind eyes help this good-natured older gentleman give off the aura of a man who is just happy to help out other people in any which way he can, and right now, that help is coming in the form of holding the door open for me. Even at this distance, I can see him wink and nod his head in the safest and most inviting way possible. He's practically begging for me to walk through his open door. I gulp because I know at my normal walking speed, I'll be inconveniencing him. I hate disappointing people, especially a man like that who is glowing with kindness. I make some short lived eye contact and weakly wave, my hand not even reaching above shoulder level. He nods again with complete understanding and a sort of fatherly love. With those Skechers firmly rooted in the pavement and that vascular, strong forearm gripping the door with a strength and ease that makes me feel like a hug from him would be one of the most satisfying experiences in my life, he waits. I'm still an uncomfortable distance away, so I half heartedly jog. He waves me on, encouraging my effort. The parking lot seems to stretch on further than I realized, and I don't want to keep such a helpful gentleman waiting. I can't bear the burden of knowing that his time better spent shopping for groceries was wasted holding open a door, a door I am perfectly capable of opening myself, on such a pathetic loser like me. I jog harder, but my legs feel heavy and I just can't seem to make any forward progress. The beating sun is torturous as it burns and mocks my attempt at hurrying. The man waves on harder as if he were the third base coach and I, a kid on his little league team, was scared and confused as to what to do as I round the bases. The trust in his eyes pierces my very soul. I can't let him down. I'm running now, harder than I have in a long time, trying to reach that door, that open door leading to a world of cool air and satisfaction, but I can't. The expanse stretches on further and further like an unforgiving desert of asphalt. The other cars are gone, the lines for parking are gone, the buildings, the trees, everything but the grocery store and the kindly man are gone. The sky is infinite blue oblivion with the harsh, unforgiving sun domineering over all. I'm pushing my body as hard as I can now, not knowing what else I can do. I'm afraid if I look behind me, everything I've ever known will be gone. My legs strain and my feet ache. My lungs burn as they struggle to take in the oxygen my muscles and heart are screaming for. This grocery store is my sanctuary now and this man, this benevolent man, my savior. I'm running from the abyss, running from everything that has ever been, everything I ever was. Onward I stride, my hands cutting through the thick, hot air. My face and shoulders blister as the sun does its best to destroy me. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end as the eerie feeling of being chased consumes me. This sprinting is that of survival like the frightened gallop of a chased gazelle. The pumping of my stressed heart can be felt in my ears. I stumble and fall. The searing asphalt scrapes and burns my skin. I'm scared for my life now. Despite my best efforts, I'm still so far away. I shut my eyes tightly as this impending doom approaches from behind. My only option is to surrender to the abyss, lose my body and soul to whatever cosmic power has cursed me into this existence. Tears stream down my cheeks and evaporate on the parking lot pavement. Behind me in the searing oblivion are the screams of billions of souls from billions of worlds, formless, anguished, eternal suffering in an ephemeral state. Then the drone starts, a deep, sonorous hum. It looms over the atmosphere, drowning out the cosmic torment, until it becomes so oppressive that I feel it in my bones. They twist and turn, writhing in the hot agony of my melting flesh. I am just about to add my screams to the rest. Then I hear him. "C'mon, son! I've got the door open for ya!" His powerful voice rings out like church bells, a beacon for my panicked soul. There he is, through the blur of radiating heat, I see him. His golden arm still stalwart in holding open that door to safety. He's waving me in. He's smiling. He believes in me. I get back up, inspired now. The heat fades. My body cools. That terrible drone leaves my body. I have strength again. My legs carry me faster than any speed I have ever known. The wind rips my shirt apart like tissue paper as I glide across the lot. The expanse is closing now, however slightly, but it is closing. I'm doing it. I feel the man's confidence in me give me strength. My shoes fly off. There's no need for such earthly luxuries now. The raw human spirit coursing through me is all I need. I will make it. The gap between the abyss and the door is shrinking. My body is like a divine engine. Closer and closer. Harder and harder. Faster and faster. I am not a boy anymore. I've ascended to something far greater. So close now. The background is beginning to return, the cars, the trees, the people, the world. Finally, I reach the door, the kind man, the beautiful figure and savior who rescued my soul from oblivion. I hug him with tear filled eyes and thank him so much for everything he's done. He's made me a far better person. My fears and anxieties, my self doubt and self loathing, everything holding me back - they're gone, and he's to thank. Within my tight embrace, I tell him how much I appreciate him holding the door for me. He replies, "No problem.