‘I quit,’ says April Stanton, leaning on the countertop. She stares vacantly through the window of the truck stop at the heat rippling on the old highway. Her lips smack as she chews a wad of pink bubblegum. ‘This truck stop is as dead as a doornail.’ Andrew Stanton, April’s father, looks at the dilapidated diner directly next to the truck stop. The desert has its own plans if Andrew doesn’t fix up the building soon. ‘The truck stop is not dead, April. It’s just in torpor.’ And what about the diner? April thinks, folding a fresh stick of strawberry satisfaction in half with her tongue and chewing loudly. ‘If you quit, where else are you going to get a job?’ Andrew asks. April’s mouth curls at the edges. ‘Oh, I can get work .’ ‘If you’re referring to what I think you are, internet whoring, or being a cam-girl, is not real work. It’s the farthest thing from it.’ ‘I beg to disagree. Mary Magdalen’s epitaph says: Friend of Jesus, Proud sex worker . I’m not too proud to join her ranks.’ ‘Can anyone be a proud sex worker? I mean, truly?’ Andrew asks. Other than setting tumble weeds alight and watching fireballs roll across the desert by night, provoking her father is April’s only regular source of entertainment. She traces her hips with her hands. ‘Uh, yeah. These curves are monetisable. I just never realised it until now.’ The bell above the shop door rings. Pastor Richards tips his stetson hat in greeting. He walks to the back of the store to pick out a soda. ‘Morning, folks,’ he says, placing his drink on the counter. ‘Dust storm on the way. Hot as hell. What’s the news here?’ April stretches the gum from her mouth and plucks it like a banjo string. ‘Well, Pastor,’ Andrew says, ‘April is considering turning to the oldest profession--by way of the internet--if you catch my meaning. Now, I’m half-sure that this ironic teenage posturing will come to an end soon, but she shouldn't be entertaining the notion in the first place.’ April twirls her gum with her finger and bats her lashes at the pastor. ‘Young lady,’ Pastor Richards says, ‘boredom is not a reason to commit carnal capers on the internet. Don’t let temporary teenage disaffection lead you astray. If you slide into a world of smut that you can’t crawl back out of, and pick up a drug habit, you can say goodbye to redemption.’ April sniggers. ‘What do you suggest I do, then? There’s nothing to keep my idle thumbs busy around here.’ ‘You have to make something of yourself. It’s no good just lying around like it's all gonna happen to you. Do something other than bothering your poor father.’ ‘Yeah? like what?’ ‘Well, think about it. What is this town lacking?’ ‘Uh, everything.’ ‘Ever see those roadside attractions? How’s about killing two birds with one stone and building a landmark? That’ll keep you busy and get people patronising this place again.' ‘Yeah,’ Andrew says, ‘I’ve seen ‘em--Gigantic Lumberjacks and Large Ears of Corn. But what could ours could be?’ April taps her fingers on her chin. ‘Uh, the biggest wad of bubblegum, obviously. Like a big sculpture. A big pile of the stuff.’ Clunk. That sound, dear reader, is the clunk of calcified apathy dislodging from April’s brain. For the first time in her life, she is about to follow an original train of thought instinctively. She starts by going to the storeroom in the back and searching for boxes of bubblegum. As she does, she ponders how different brands, colours, flavours, and malleabilities will have an effect on the resulting sculpture. She decides that a magenta monolith made of her preferred brand of bubblegum--Strawberry Satisfaction--will pique people's ocular curiosity. Yes , the rude, reddish tone of Strawberry Satisfaction will stand out royally against the golden sands of the desert. And if the community contributes their own used pieces of gum bought here at the truck stop, we’ll have a proud wad in no time! *** Julie surveys the patch of desert that surrounds the diner. She lays down and presses her ear to the ground, intuiting the Earth’s energy field in the form of ley lines. A scorpion scuttles over her shawl. ‘Every business that ever prospered did so because of its location on a ley line,’ she says. ‘A building’s surrounding energy fields are very important.’ Andrew stands with his arms folded. More mystic mumbo-jumbo, he thinks. I’m lucky to have an ex-wife who offers such a valuable service. ‘There’s a line with a high bandwidth of positivity running right under the diner. There are a few obstacles obstructing the flow of the truck stop tributaries, but it's nothing I can’t unblock.’ ‘And how much does a mystic plumber charge for unblocking these days?’ Andrew asks. Julie shakes her head knowingly. ‘Please. I’m an Energy Specialist. And I would never charge my family.’ She turns to her daughter. ‘Let me know when you’d like me to start work, April. I'll see you soon, my darling.' Julie’s dress trails across the sand as she floats over to her Chevy pick-up truck. She traps the hem of her dress in the door of the vehicle, and it flutters in the draft as she drives away. The motor of the pick up backfires, and Andrew jumps. ‘Your mother didn’t even notice I’ve repainted the front of the diner, did she?’ And by the way, April, when are you going to help?’ ‘I’m a big picture kind of gal. I don’t dabble in donkey work.’ Andrew places his hands on his hips. ‘Oh yeah ? Is that right?’ ‘If you let me run this place for a day, it wouldn’t be such a dilapidated dump!’ ‘Alright, if you think you can do better, then have at it!’ April thrusts her chin forward mockingly. 'Maybe I will.’ *** Andrew and Pastor Richards are seated in one of the diner’s shaggy old window booths sipping coffee. ‘Oh, man. It’s nice to take a break. It’s hard work doing everything by yourself,' Andrew says. ‘I’ll bet,’ Pastor Richards says. ‘It’s looking like things are progressing, though.’ ‘All the chrome’s polishing up well,’ Andrew says. ‘As you can see, the seats need reupholstering.’ ‘Is April chipping in at all?’ ‘A little. She’s using her brain now. She’s taken to the food side of things and is coming up with ideas for the menu.’ In the kitchen, April has a eureka moment whilst brainstorming dishes for the diner and eagerly broadcasts it through the service hatch of the kitchen. ’I’ve got it! I’ve got our signature dish.’ ‘Let me guess,’ Pastor Richards says. ‘Bubblegum pie?’ April skips over to her father and the Pastor. ‘How did you know?’ ‘There seems to be a theme emerging here,’ he says. ‘It’s going to be filled with melted pink marshmallows.’ April cups two giant, imaginary marshmallows in her hands. Pastor Richards rubs his nose. ‘And how’s the sculpture coming on?’ Andrew gestures to a concrete pad outside. ‘Well, so far, I’ve built a plinth for it.’ ‘Now all we need is more people to chew gum,’ April says. ‘That’s a heck of a lot of chewing,’ The Pastor says. And he's right. *** Magenta Diner is brimming with customers on opening afternoon. Bubble Gum pies are flying off the racks. Ramekins filled with sticks of Strawberry Satisfaction bubblegum adorn each table. As do napkins printed with the message, ‘Please don’t spit your gum here. Add it to The Wad!’. A group of elderly diners, who have failed to wrap their head around the concept of the sculpture, are asking Josh--the newly hired, acne-ridden busboy--to explain it. ‘If you’d care to participate in the interactive sculpture, all you have to do is place your used gum on the plinth in a fashion you see fit. We’re aiming for the largest wad in the states!’ He gestures to the plinth, upon which the humble beginnings of the magenta monolith can be seen. There are around two hundred pieces, mostly chewed by April and her father. ‘It’s current dimensions are a small fraction of what they’ll become,’ Josh says. The elderly diners are impressed with Josh’s enthusiasm. ‘Well, isn’t that fun? Sure, we’ll do our part.’ ‘Great! Happy chewing,’ he says. ‘Anything else I can get ya from the menu, though?’ *** One month after opening, The Great Wad has grown to around the size of Julie’s Chevy pick-up truck. April slides into the faux leather booth next to her father. ‘Want to hear the latest review of the diner?’ ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘But make it quick. I’ve got to empty the grease trap.’ ‘Okay.’ April clears her throat. ‘ “Bubblegum Pie is a diner in the desert where you can dine on dessert. And if your culinary curiosity is not peaked by the eponymous (and delicious) Bubblegum Pie, perhaps you will appreciate the diner’s subversive roadside attraction: a large wad of bubblegum perched on a plinth yards from the establishment. This kind of enterprising attitude could save any backwater establishment from a slow death. While modern life becomes increasingly streamlined by new highways, shopping malls, multiplexes, and chain restaurants, Magenta Diner sends its quaint tractor beam across the desert, engages those hungry for uniqueness, and pulls them toward its epicentre of desert quirk with a gentle, but firm, gravity. Oh, to exude a refreshingly human spirit in an age of machines, and a quintessentially American one at that! Viva Magenta Diner!” ’ April puts down the newspaper. ‘Geez,’ Andrew says. April beams at her father. ‘Not bad, eh?’ ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’ Andrew says. ‘I’m glad we’re fully onboard with this thing together.’ *** Ten months on, and The Great Wad has reached a sizeable stature; precisely four Chevy pick-up trucks, stacked two by two. Not only that--but it has begun to glow. According to Julie, an intensification of lay line energy has gifted The Great Wad with bioluminescence. According to Pastor Richards, it’s simply a miracle. According to Andrew--who now openly poo-poos Julie’s mystic interpretations--the Stantons ought to be consulting a man of science who can offer his opinion on the gum’s bioluminescent properties. According to April-- well, she can’t make up her mind on who to side with. Andrew polishes the chrome countertop. He’s been catching snippets of the conversation regarding the glowing gum between the holy man and the mystic, who sit in the reupholstered window booth. ‘It’s clearly a sign from God,’ Pastor Richards says. ‘Now, I don’t want to take credit for it, but I did roll the snowball from the top of the mountain and spark April's idea, didn’t I? Of course, He has been watching all along and has seen fit to give us a sign that He approves of our activities.’ Julie’s bangles rattle as she clasps her satin-scarfed head in exasperation. ‘Let me assure you, Pastor--this transmission is not divine in origin. There are no deities, Christian or otherwise, who have a monopoly on Earth’s energy fields. This is an act of nature beyond metaphysical comprehension.’ ‘I agree that it is an act of nature,’ Pastor Richards says, ‘in a miraculous sense.’ ‘Let’s leave it at that then, shall we?’ Julie says. Andrew sidles up to the booth with a steaming pot of coffee. ‘Oh, yes please,’ the Pastor says. Andrew refrains from pouring the coffee for a moment. ‘I’ve sent a sample of The Great Wad to Professor Bubblegum of ChewCorp to analyse its polymers. So we may have a scientific explanation soon enough. But I hope you both know, that the cause of all of this, is that busy little brain in there .’ He points through the service hatch to April who is happily preparing pies. *** ‘I prefer to be addressed as Professor Bubblegum,’ the man in the perfect white lab coat says. ‘That’s your real name?’ Andrew asks. The Professor pinches the knot of his bowtie and nods. ‘What did your analysis reveal?’ April asks. ‘Something that I’ve been suspecting for a long time.’ Professor Bubblegum clears his throat. ‘ChewCorp gum--in large enough masses--is highly absorptive of solar radiation. So, at night, cooler desert temperatures alter its chemical composition, and it releases pent-up solar radiation. I never thought that when I hybridised agar gum polymers in an osmotic chamber with--’ ‘ Lab-coat hogwash .’ Pastor Richards interrupts. ‘Have you not a theological bone in your body, professor?’ ‘Actually, I studied theology at--’ ‘All mass vibrates with energy,’ says Julie. ‘The Wad is just buzzing with good feelings from the Earth, that’s all.’ ‘Well, it’s not exactly--’ ‘Didn’t you hear the man?’ Andrew asks. ‘It’s solar radiation!’ ‘Anyhow--regardless of the science behind your unique attraction,’ Professor Bubblegum says, 'I’d like to extend a friendly hand from ChewCorp. We’d like to sponsor Magenta Diner and provide you with an unlimited supply of Strawberry Satisfaction, or any flavour of your choosing.’ ‘You’re not going to plaster this quaint little diner with corporate logos, are you?’ Julie asks. ‘We don’t want a big billboard outside with your name on it,’ Pastor Richards says. Andrew scratches his greying stubble. ‘I appreciate your offer, Professor, but I’m going to have to talk it over with my co-pilot, April.’ Professor Bubblegum scatters several of his polka-dotted-multi-coloured business cards on the table. Then deadly serious, he says, 'Give me a call when you decide.’ *** Whatever celestial body is responsible for The Great Wad's radiance--whether the Sun or the Earth--does not approve of ChewCorp and its dubious environmental policies, and has withdrawn its services from Magenta Diner. The gum no longer glows. Julie’s quest to get to the bottom of things begins with consulting her astrology charts, tarot cards, and dowsing with crystals. Checking the lay lines again confirms that the flow of energy has been cut off altogether. Everything points to ChewCorp. April and Andrew discuss the contract and decide (before Julie comes flapping her wings and preaching not to sign) that they won’t be jumping onboard with the gum giant. *** A great rain is falling in the desert. The Great Wad is sodden. The Great Wad is wilting. Thrashing rain agitates the sculpture’s structure, leaving it vulnerable to a subsequent sandstorm, which pummels billions of grains into the pink pile of goo. These grains coat the exterior, giving the appearance of breaded tofu. Curious reptiles, arachnids, and avians peck, pinch, and sniff at the sorry pile of confectionary, whose sweet, strawberry petrichor, whose wet effluvium, is momentarily attractive. But then they become embedded in its sticky mass. Glued to its rosy flypaper. Helpless to escape. *** April and Andrew are spending the morning plucking vultures and their beaks from a smoothed out, sloppy Great Wad. Presumably, the birds became stuck when they sought the juicy tarantulas therein--because, understandably, from a vulture’s perspective, the pile of gum must have looked like one big spider omelette. April and Andrew decide to leave The Great Wad alone--bereft of its former luminescent glory--until they decide what to do with it. Pastor Richards stops by for his usual coffee, sees the plague of spiders, mistakes them for Biblical horrors, and believes that the sculpture ought to be cleansed. He concocts a rather extreme plan to deal with the devilry. It involves a large container of kerosene and a book of matches. *** April, draped in a thin bedsheet, dreams of the exact moment she refused the sponsorship offer. In the dream, she calls Professor Bubblegum on the diner’s rotary telephone, explains that she isn’t willing to engage in ChewCorp’s capitalistic pageantry, then high fives her mother, father, and Pastor Richards. Then, an overwhelming feeling of dread encompasses everything, which has less to do with regret than the fact that her bedroom in her father’s trailer is becoming unbearably hot. She sits up in a sweat after a roar outside wakes her. She flings the curtains open and sees a mass of black smoke spiralling up from a dome of orange flames. ‘The Great Wad!’ She cries. The wind is flicking flames at the trailer, whose white paint is turning golden brown like a marshmallow before a campfire. As the paint singes, fizzes, bubbles, and melts, the trailer’s metal frame wilts and buckles. April runs to her father’s room to shake him awake. At a safe distance from the fire, father and daughter (in between coughing fits) ponder the motives of the arsonist. ‘Is this the work of the ChewCorp mafia?’ Andrew asks. ‘Did we refuse an offer that we shouldn’t have?’ ‘I don’t know, but I wish we would have insured The Great Wad,’ April says. ‘Even if we had, they’d probably just think the fire was fraudulent, or some kind of publicity stunt,’ Andrew says. ‘You know what your mother is going to say, don’t you?’ ‘What?’ ‘Something like “It’s a symbolic immolation . It’s a new start . . .” April laughs. ‘What do we do now?’ Andrew asks. ‘Eh, let it burn, I guess. Thank God the diner is still intact,' April says. ‘So I guess we just pick another brand of bubblegum, start again, and build another Great Wad.’ ‘You guess right,’ says April. ‘But which flavour this time?’ And that, dear reader, is the moment we leave April and Andrew to make their important decision. As they stand by the smouldering corpse of The Great Wad, recalling its former brain-like structure, they contemplate the transcendental effervescence it channelled through its soft and varied crenelations. With a little input from April’s tumultuous teenage mind, The Great Wad symbiotically exuded healing and transformational properties that turned a dilapidated diner into a hub of joviality. And these, dear reader, are all the qualities that April hopes to recapture in her next Bubblegum adventure.


The woman grunted and folded her hands on her laps. Then, she leaned in and she gave her piece of advice. "On the subject of love matters, stay away. No one of those men is good." The other woman smiled and shook her head. "I don't think so, Nora." Nora snorted and raised her hands. The group leader was still talking but Nora would not drop her hands. It was against the rules to talk when the leader was still by the window giving her speech but they knew Nora and they knew she would not give up. "Nora?" the leader closed her eyes for a moment. Nora tried not to smile but she could not help it. It was funny to be the nuisance in the writing groups mostly because they couldn't push her away. She was as much a writer as all of them. "Do you want to add something to what I was saying?" Nora could tell sarcasm from truthfulness but this night was not the sort of night to get involved in awkward fights. Nora stood up and stretched her hands. It was problematic sitting in her chair and listening to quiet old music filtering through from the living room like something forgotten. She'd asked, on her second visit, why they couldn't shift the music to the main room but she'd been turned down. It was a wonder she was still among them, laughing when it was time to, and reading when it was. They were eight of them in the group; eight females who left their homes to sit and drink and talk about books. They would meet at Suzan's because her house was the loveliest. And because her husband was hardly ever home. Sometimes, Nora doubted if she was married at all but there were pictures on the wall; pictures of Suzan in a white dress, hands wrapped around a man, lips wide apart in a smile that could break hearts. It was the house Nora liked most. Outside, the walls were painted white like in a museum. It was so white Nora thought she could see through, into the hallways and the rooms and the unspoken secrets laced in the building. Red bricks lined the outside, towards the rose garden. Often, it bled into the white roses so that they turned partly yellow, partly brown, like rust. "They withered," somebody said, once. But, Nora was not like them, being confined in a box. She liked to think they bled and so that was how they were: bleeding and cold and dying. On the porch, there were a wild display of neon lights "My husband likes them," she told the group. Not all of them were whites. Nora would stand at a corner and count them. She knew they were eight, knew that soon, somebody else would join and be introduced, but still, she would count. It was how she knew she was sane. Susan, as expected, was blonde. It was expected. Nora had never had a particularly horrid experience with blondes but she knew that they liked being in control. Susan was tall but she wore heels doing the meetings. Her clothes were always too tight, pressing into her skin like maps. She wore her red lipstick too obviously and when she stood by the window, always by the window, it was as though she was screaming: notice me, please! Then, there was Patty with her green hair. She lied once, said she'd been born with it but everyone knows people don't come into the world with green hair. None of that mattered anyway. They were friends only in the big house. Outside, they were strangers, each soaking up the sun, living in the cold, dancing in the rain in their ways. On the subway, when they passed, she would wave with a smile that looked pale, but Nora would not wave back. In the group, five were whites. Nora included. One was brown, her skin so smooth Nora was almost tempted to run her hands through. Nora envied her sometimes when she was trapped in her chair and she was thinking about her childhood and heartbreaks and setting suns. Of course, Nora was the conservative type. She was the only one in the group who still had the decency to shun romance. "No use," she would tell herself. Tonight was not the kind of night to get caught up in the drama. But Nora was not a stickler for rules. She stepped gingerly to the front, by the window and she smiled. "Thank you, Suzan." Susan grunted. And moved away to her seat. Music was still playing, softly, from the other room. "I don't have much to say," Nora chuckled when somebody rolled her eyes. She'd forgotten what her name was. It was hardly something to remember. The woman had the most forgetful face. Her face was probably too normal, like something a child would mold in painful quietness. "I just want us to take a moment to appreciate books and stars." "Unrelated stuff, Nora," the green-haired lady said. Her voice was the loudest. Nora scowled. This night was not the night to get messy. "The stars are out. We should go outside. See it. Feel it." Susan stood up and clapped her hands. Sarcasm dripped from the gesture. "Perhaps some other time, Nora." Nora nodded and sighed. "Probably." On her seat, her only friend leaned in. "Don't let it get to you, Nora." She'd told Nora that she'd been raised in a small town in Arkansas. But her father was Kenyan and her mother was English. She was the only friend Nora talked to even though, occasionally, she wondered why her friend had so many different roots. "I know, Fey." Susan tapped her foot on the rug. It was something she did on nights when she was anxious. Like she was waiting for something. "Tonight we'll have someone joining us," she said. "She's a dear friend." When Nora had been introduced, Susan had called her a dear friend. But they were not friends, would never be dear friends. Nora already knew what to expect: the night would be long and boring. "She's a mystery lover. Gwen is her name. You'll all love her." Love was a gigantic word. It was not as easy as running down a hill or laughing into the wind. It was a deliberate pull into an abyss with no way out. Love was a treacherous game and one Nora was not ready for. Still, she relaxed and she waited for Gwen. When Gwen finally arrived in flowing skirts and a woolen shirt, Nora sat up. On her first visit, Nora said, "I love a good ol' mystery story myself but it's a genre I don't see myself writing anytime soon." Now, though, Nora ached to put pen to paper and to discuss the mystery behind Gwen's eyes. She would write that her eyes --grey and comely--sparked a fire in the room. That her eyes made everyone feel so small and dirty and substandard. That her eyes were like the sun that washed over her when her mother died. She would write that her eyes captured all the mystery the world had to offer and she ached to know. "Hi, everyone. My name is Gwen." But Nora was more concerned with the way her hands shook as she talked. Nora was in a movie, letting it unwrap itself in front of her, gliding gently along with the quiet symphony of her voice. Gwen came to sit in the empty seat beside Nora. It was always empty because no one wanted that seat and no one wanted to hear what Nora had to say. Fey was her friend only because they were almost alike in the way they viewed life. Almost. Because Fey had a husband and a son. She was a mom, the kind that drove minivans and stuffed herself full with coffee and bacon. At the end of the meeting, Gwen turned to her. "Hi. You're Nora, right? I've heard so much about you." Nora rolled her eyes. If Gwen had truly heard about her, then there was not much to talk about. Nora took her bag. Then she walked out. Just like how she'd been walking out of things recently. Because walking out was so much easier than staying. With staying, she became vulnerable, so vulnerable that when he left her, she had not known it would happen. She'd come to realize that those sorts of heartbreaks were the worst. Walking out, on the other hand, was alright for people like her. It was expected. It was not a circle or a roller coaster of twisting trees. It was the slow fall of snow and the soft smell of autumn. She heard footsteps behind her. She stopped. She sighed. She clutched her handbag by her side and she swallowed. Then, she turned around sharply. Gwen stood there, hands raised, unarmed. "Sorry I startled you," she said. "But Suzan asked me to hand this to you." Nora took the box. She'd forgotten. At the end of every Friday meeting, Suzan would each hand them a box of chocolates. "It's stupid," she told Gwen. Gwen laughed. Nora listened. She sounded like the sea, the kind that had surrounded her childhood home. When she was younger, she thought it was the sound of laughing children, running down a hill. Now that she was all grown up, she knew what it was: the pained scream of a young man. Gwen felt like that too. "May I walk with you?" Nora said no as politely as she could. "Susan told me you lived at Limit road." Nora started walking knowing that Gwen would follow. Then she answered, "Yes. Just after the bookshop." "Well, I just moved to the house opposite," she said. "They tell me it's been empty for a while." Nora paused. "How much did Susan tell you?" She laughed. "Just enough." They rounded a corner. The path was relatively empty. Nora was used to walking it alone. With Gwen by her side, it felt strange. Like she was walking a path she'd never crossed before. "We are neighbors, then," Nora told her. "We are," she agreed. "Then you must know I don't want friends." "I'm not asking to be one." "Good." By the bookshop, she crossed to the other side. Nora slipped her key in and turned back to look at Gwen. She waved but Nora did not return the grand gesture. She called it grand because it was that: waving someone felt like exchanging burdens for just a moment. It was grand. And Nora did no such thing. It became clear they were neighbors in the morning. Nora found Gwen outside, stuffing her thrash in a can. She waved. This time, involuntarily, Nora found herself waving back. "It's a beautiful day, right?" Gwen called. Her voice was almost muffled by the space but Nora caught it. "It is," she replied. Gwen crossed the street to her. And Nora let her into her home. She would tell herself, later, it was because of the peaceful way Gwen had crossed the street that had led to that point. The house was bright and warm. Nothing like Suzan's. But it was hers. Gwen followed her into the living room where she found books scattered on the floor and the shelves. "You have a pretty place," she said, pointing to the books. Nora held her breath in, holding it until it felt like she would burst from the intensity. Then, she released it. She was falling suddenly, from rooftops and pine trees and chimneys and she was falling into something so dark, so intense and so astonishingly beautiful. But she would be careful. "Thank you," she said. "I was just making breakfast. Join me." As they ate --bacon and eggs and coffee--Gwen said, "I love mystery. I write about it. It's what fuels my daily existence." Nora talked. "Sounds logical." "What about you?" Nora did not need to think hard. She already knew. "I like anything sad." "That's...good. A way to express yourself, I think." The next Friday when they walked together to Suzan's, Gwen said, "I'm unstable." Nora did not know what she meant but she nodded and let her walk beside her. The meeting came and went like it usually did. But, for the first time, Nora waited for Gwen so they could walk home together. They followed the same path home, said the same thing, laughed the same way. But, at the bookshop, Gwen did something else, something different from what Nora was used to. She picked up a stone and threw it against the window of the store. It cracked, lines spreading like angry vines along the glass. "Why'd you do that?" Nora struggled to understand. "I told you I was unstable." Nora watched her cross the road again to her home. She stood there, by the bookshop with the cracked window, watching as Gwen got into her house. Alone, she turned to face the window. Gently, she trailed her fingers along the lines, like she was touching something delicate. Like she was stroking her broken heart. Tomorrow they would replace the window. Tomorrow it would be as good as new. Nora's heart gave in and she knelt there and she cried. The moon was high in the sky, bright and adventurous. And she was alone. She cried because she understood, finally, that she was cracked but she would heal. In the morning, Gwen brought homemade pie. They sat on the floor in the kitchen and ate and talked about books and broken windows.


A PLACE ON THE HILL Jack Thomas strode from the bullpen across the outfield grass. The pitching mound was all he saw, oblivious to the crowd and its raucous mood. It seemed so far away. It was tough being a rookie in New York City, having to learn the hitters and finer points of pitching. Add to that expectations of New York fans and media for the large contract he received. Yet, what made it more difficult was replacing the iconic, aging relief pitcher, Tom Gorman. Baseball was a natural for Jack. His father began the serious play as opposed to soft toss when he was young. “Catch the ball or suffer the consequences,” his dad would laugh, the consequences- being hit in the face or other body part. Jack sported many bruises, to his mother’s dismay. She chastised her husband but she had seen the same process with their older son Zak and daughter Jen so she understood it would be no different with Jack. The walk seemed endless. Memories surfaced of the poorly-lit stadiums and long bus rides between Columbus, Rochester, Utica, and other minor league cities; meals at roadside greasy spoons; and the uncomfortable, lumpy bus seats. This fueled his determination to stay with the Clippers. Not even the attitudes of Gorman’s cronies could diminish Jack’s confidence. “I love baseball,” he told the bullpen, “and I’m good at it. If you boys can’t buy that and keep riding me because of your broken hearts, I’ll just have to do my best to win in spite of you.” The bat boy took Jack’s jacket. Coach Martin tossed the ball up and down from hand to hand like a juggler with too few balls while catcher Bill Kolasky pawed at the dirt in front of the pitching rubber with strokes of his big right foot, like a horse getting ready for a race. A fog of breath escaped from Coach’s mouth and it was then that Jack felt colder than he had since starting his warm-up pitches. “OK, Thomas,” Coach Martin started. “You’ve got one out, runners on first and second. We’ve got the lead. Let’s keep it!” Coach left the battery to work out the details. Kolasky began with the signals. A strapping specimen, his arms bulged with power. His voice was neither loud nor gruff but firm and in control. “OK, Big J, we’ve got the usual. One finger fastball, wiggle one splitter, two curve, three slider, and four for the change-up. With the runner on second, the sign will be the first after a fist unless I hit my chest protector twice, then it’s the second after the fist. Concentrate on location and don’t aim the ball. Just relax and you’ll be fine. Callahan is the first guy you’ll face. Just like we said pre-game, pitch him down and away so we can try to get a ground ball into a double play.” “One out, runners on first and second,” the umpire interrupted. “Snap it up fellas. My eyes go bad after midnight.” Kolasky hit Jack in the chest with his glove and returned with the umpire. It was lonely in that circle, Jack thought, and unusually quiet. The customary infield chatter was absent except for veteran first baseman Greg Nelson. “Come on hotshot,” Nelson barked. “Let’s see if you’re worth it.” Jack barely heard the remark. His focus was Callahan. Sweating now in the cool April evening, he turned to face the outfield, noting their positioning, while rubbing the ball methodically, wondering if a genie would appear to grant a wish. The umpire bellowed “Play ball!” Jack turned toward home plate after touching the rosin bag, toed the rubber and tugged at the bill of his cap. Kolasky flashed the signals. Slider, down and away. Jack rotated his right arm like a windmill to ease the stiffness. He didn’t like starting with a breaking pitch but also knew rookie pitchers didn’t shake off veteran catchers. He felt awkward in the stretch as he delivered the ball. The pitch sailed wide for ball one. Kolasky threw the ball back. Still no genie. A touch of the rosin bag, a tug of the hat, and Jack peered in for the sign. Fastball, outside corner. This time everything flowed nicely. Callahan pulled the pitch hard to shortstop. Pilato gobbled up the grounder from the dirt, flipped to Ramsey at second who threw to first to complete the double play. The fans stood and cheered! For the first time since entering the game, Jack heard the crowd’s cheers and chants “Go Clippers” echoing through the packed ballpark. As he walked to the dugout, he absorbed the environment. Some fans called for Jack to get the bums out in the ninth while others called for Gorman. A banner made from a bed sheet read “NY LOVES THE CLIPPERS” scrawled in big red letters stretched across the façade of the mezzanine. Now he was more relaxed, yet pumped by the excitement of the crowd and fueled by his own adrenaline. “How’s that!” Jack exclaimed slapping Kolasky’s outstretched hand. “Hey you know what they say in southern France, Jacko,” Kolasky replied. “You’re only as good as your last pitch. We’ve still got a tough ninth. Jack and Kolasky went over the scouting report on the Redbirds’ scheduled hitters. Shouts of encouragement rang from the other end of the dugout for Garcia who was at bat. Catcalls from the bench detailed the underbelly of the opposing pitcher’s ancestry. The battery was left alone. It bothered Jack as he glanced toward the players leaning on the top step of the dugout. He had always been a team player, well-liked by teammates for his laid-back personality and Oklahoma farm-boy humor, combined with his intense desire to win. His dad had taught him to play the game right, to respect the game. He saw himself as part of the old school, players who played for the love of the game instead of the almighty dollar. Of course, the millions of dollars the Clippers showered on him seemed to contradict that premise, but not in Jack’s mind. Perhaps the silent treatment would have affected his confidence if Coach Martin hadn’t talked to him during spring training when the wet behind his ears was still moist. Martin was a master game strategist and a man of few words, though he had a keen sense for knowing what to say and when to say it. In late March, the Coach asked to see Jack in his office. “Kid, you had a sore arm early in spring training. Since then you’ve proven that you’ve got a great fastball and all the tools. I’m gonna release Gorman since the brass sees him as deteriorating and, frankly, don’t want to cough up his option dollars. You’re my closer. It won’t be a bed of roses. The older guys will give you grief since they were attached to Gorman’s hip. You’ll have to deal with whatever happens. Gorman’s pals, the media, the fans will be all over every step you take, especially in New York. You’re gonna have to develop a thick skin and short memory. Like I said, you’ve got the tools. We’ll see if you’ve got the guts.” “I’ll give my best,” Jack replied. “I know I can help this team win. When I do, I’d say those boys will take to me like a hungry horse to a fresh bale of hay.” Coach Martin’s eyes never wavered as he gazed at the rookie. Those strong eyes and support stayed in Jack’s mind as motivation. Kolasky had started to run down the Redbird strengths and weaknesses. “You listenin’ JT?” he asked, not waiting for Jack to answer. “They’ll pinch hit for the pitcher so just blow the fastball by the guy because he’ll be colder than a penguin’s ass after huddling on the bench all game. Perez is next. He hits the low fastball so feed him sliders at the knees out of the zone or heat up high. He’s quick so he might bunt to get on then try to steal second. Gotta keep him off base. Boland and Logan both have trouble with off-speed and breaking pitches so change-ups, slow curves, and variations of the split can get them. Don’t make a mistake with the fastball to Logan or he’ll lose it. He’s the guy we don’t want to beat us. Best bet is to get the first three chumps out.” Jack heard Coach Martin’s voice above the clatter of spikes on the concrete dugout steps as the team went out for the ninth. “It’s your game kid. Get that first out and make it short so we can all go home.” Jack vaulted from the dugout. The intensity of the crowd had heightened. Ninth inning, game on the line. Butterflies filled his stomach. Each stride seemed shakier than the preceding one. His arm felt as limp as overcooked spaghetti and worries of the sore arm surfaced. There was the gnawing doubt that it would not respond in a crucial situation. A hopping fastball could straighten out and be hit a long, long way. On the mound, he was tight but loosened up after the eight warm-up tosses. His focus had returned. The left-handed pinch-hitter, Gonzalez, entered the batter’s box and looked eager to hit, waving his bat menacingly. He remembered Kolasky’s directive and fired three fastballs for strikes. On the third pitch, Gonzalez popped the ball to Nelson. Perez stepped to the plate. Jack knew he needed this out. Keep the speed off the bases. Keep Logan from taking a swing. “OK, JT, let’s have that same fastball right down the pipe,” Kolasky chattered, signaling for the curve ball low on the outside corner. The pitch found its target. “Strike one!” the umpire bellowed and raised his right arm. “Another wrinkle, Jackie, just like that one. Beautiful pitch. Beautiful pitch!” Kolasky pumped his fist. “This guy can’t hit. He’s too busy counting his money.” Kolasky called for the fastball inside at the letters. Perez swung and missed. Jack wasted the next slider, trying to get Perez to fish for a bad pitch. He tried again with the same result. Two balls, two strikes. Kolasky flashed the split-finger fastball. Jack started his motion and, as he let the pitch go, the location was off and the pitch didn’t dive. Perez jumped all over it, slashing the ball into right field for a single. “Damn,” Jack muttered. “One mistake and the jackrabbit gets on base!” Boland came to the plate and dug a toehold in the batter’s box. Perez danced off first, taunting Jack who straddled the pitching slab, glancing sideways at Perez. Jack tried to tune out the heckling from the opposing dugout, detailing his rural upbringing and who his parents might be. “Keep him close,” Coach Martin yelled from the top step of the dugout. Jack toed the rubber, whirled and threw to first. Perez got back easily. Jack went into the set position, looked over his shoulder and saw Perez had an even larger lead. Again, he fired to first. Perez dove back, barely ahead of the tag. The runner dusted off and chided “I’m going this time Chulo!” Kolasky wanted a pitch-out but Jack shook him off. He didn’t want to get behind in the count to Boland and walk him or give him a hitter’s count where he could zone a pitch. Jack wanted to jump ahead of him. He didn’t think Perez would be stealing after the two pick-off attempts. Kolasky signaled for a two-seam fastball, low and inside. “Going!” the first baseman yelled. Instinctively, Jack ducked to avoid being hit by the catcher’s throw to second. Kolasky hurried the throw and it sailed into center field. Perez sprang from his slide and advanced to third base. Jack threw the rosin bag down in disgust, thinking about the pitch-out he shook off. Four to three, one out, runner on third. He was in trouble. He had gotten into this jam. Now he had to get out of it. From the corner of his eye, the rookie could see Coach fidgeting in the dugout. The umpire called time and Jack’s heart sank as Martin began his deliberate walk to the mound. Jack scraped at the mound, feeling the presence of Coach Martin and Kolasky approaching. Kolasky got there first, assuring Jack he still had his stuff with a big swat of the catcher’s mitt to Jack’s chest. “Hey, JT, you’re King of the Hill. He got lucky.” Coach Martin came seconds later looking toward the bullpen to see if the lefty he had warming up was ready. The bullpen coach raised his cap to signal that the reliever was set. “What’s he got?” Martin asked Kolasky. “Fastball’s moving high in the zone. Slider’s breaking with good tilt. He just needs location and that’s the ball game Coach,” Martin folded his arms, pondering the situation, and then slapped the rookie on the hip, looking squarely into his eyes. “Show me what you’ve got kid. Get us a win.” A sense of renewed vigor filled Jack. “Thanks, Coach,” he blurted. Perez jabbered something in Spanish trying to distract Jack while Pilato and Ramsey shouted encouragement from the infield. “Go get ‘em Jacko. We’re right behind you.” Ah, the competitive spirit! No matter how tight-lipped they wanted to be to support Gorman, the urge to win made these guys open up with the infield chatter that was music to any pitcher standing on the hill. Boland was impatient to hit. Noting this, Kolasky signaled for an off-speed curve. Swing and miss, strike one. Another curve, outside for a ball, and a fastball fouled off made the count one ball and two strikes. Perez again attempted to unnerve the rookie with a dash down the third base line but Jack was in his rhythm and zeroed in on the target. He delivered a split-finger fastball dipping past Boland’s futile swing for the strike out. The fans went wild, bullhorns blasting above the roar of the crowd. They exhorted the Clippers to record the final out, the rowdy atmosphere drowning out the presence of Frank Logan lumbering to the plate. Logan could change the score with one swipe of his mighty bat. The pressure mounted as Jack concentrated on Logan. He remembers thinking how overblown game announcers made pressure. Heck, all you had to do was get the ball over the plate! Now, he realized the difference between pitching against the side of the barn with only the dog watching to facing a home run hitter in front of fifty thousand screaming fans with the game on the line. Logan stood with one foot outside the batter’s box, adjusting his batting gloves and making the rookie wait. Jack’s palms were moist and he reached for the rosin bag. Logan took his stance and pointed his big bat squarely at Jack. The first pitch went high and wide as Kolasky had to jump from his crouch to save the wild pitch as Perez dashed from third base. “Calm down, JT,” Kolasky yelled, pointing to his shoulder as a reminder to stay closed in his delivery. “Don’t get behind this guy.” He called for a slider, down and away. Jack took a deep breath to regroup and delivered the pitch. Logan was guessing fastball and broke his wrists on a half-swing for strike one. Home plate seemed smaller and farther away. Kolasky signaled split-finger. Mechanics and location Jack repeated. He followed through, saw Logan uncoil a powerful swing and foul the pitch hard into the first base stands as the ball dipped at the last second. “Good pitch, JT,” Kolasky shouted. “You’ve got him guessing now. Make him hit your pitch. Don’t give in!” The last one was too close for comfort. Kolasky pumped the ball back to Jack, making his hand sting as a reminder that these were big pitches. Logan called time out again. Jack wiped his right palm on his pant leg. He gazed toward home plate. Logan twisted his neck, pulling at the shoulder of his uniform, one foot in the box, the other out. The umpire’s hand was raised like a policeman stopping traffic. Kolasky continued his barrage of verbal wisdom. “He’s stalling, Big Guy. Can’t figure you out.” Logan finally swung his right foot into his stance. The umpire’s arm dropped. Jack peered in for Kolasky’s sign - fastball on the fists! What in the world was this big lug thinking? One slip of the wrist, one twist of the arm, and goodbye ball game. Should he shake him off again? No - no slips, no twists, just a 99 mile per hour four-seam moving fastball. That’s it! Jack nodded his head and began his motion. Nothing penetrated his focus. He whipped his right arm through, the ball zipping off his fingers. Logan hesitated just an instant. The ball rose in the strike zone. That one split second of indecision cost Logan. He topped the ball down the first base line. Nelson moved to his right, snared the ball and made the underhand toss to Jack covering the bag. Out number three. The game was over! Jack raised his hands in triumph as the fans erupted! Even Nelson grudgingly acknowledged the win. “Not bad for a rookie,” he mumbled after tapping Jack on the top of the head. Kolasky pounded Jack on the back. “Knew you had it, bro,” he repeated twice to emphasize his point, and then raised his eyes skyward in mock wonder. “The first one’s the toughest,” Coach Martin said as he shook Jack’s hand. “Good game kid.” “Thanks Coach, thanks for letting me finish,” Jack gushed. “Thought seeing that lefty in the bullpen might put a thump in your chest,” Martin winked. It was a good feeling, a moment Jack wanted to savor and one he’d never forget, holding the game ball tight in his hand. Even though it may have been just another game for most of these guys, and only one game in a long season, he knew it was his first step to establish his place on the hill.


When our grown children, grandchildren, and spouses assemble at our house for Thanksgiving, it’s a large party unto itself. We sometimes have one of several of my wife’s close single friends join us. This year two of our neighbor ladies were coming. Thanksgiving day was here. “Great, everybody, I got plenty of digital shots with the camera remote, now let’s all go inside and enjoy a true Jones family feast.” It was chilly but fair with overcast skies near noon in Alabama. Perfect photo lighting. I finished up the full family photos on the tiered front steps to add to another ‘one-time-a-year’ photo, followed by individual family and couples’ photos who wanted them. I have been doing this many years, including days of my Nikon film camera on Kodacolor and nothing but a self-timer that I’d have to set and run back to my place in the group, to get everyone in the photo. Brisk air fueled everyone’s appetite and fresh in from outdoors, made all the smells of cooked dressing, fresh bread in the oven, and the turkey freshly removed and cooling even more delightful. So many family members came that we had to make the dining room tables into a “U” shaped with a narrow center aisle of single chairs. Just those extra five gave us the count, plus an empty, just in case. In short order, all were seated, all the bowls of food at the table, and I stood at my center position with the turkey in front of me to carve just after the blessing. Everone adjusted seats with only the single center seat closest to me empty. The gathering quieted. “Hello...hellooo, everybody,” came a loud female voice from our kitchen door, the entrance we all use at our house. “I’m here for Thanksgiving. I hope I’m not too late after twelve. Where is everyone?” Oh my God, I thought. I recognize that voice. My wife did as well and sprang from her seat on one side. She almost got to the open door of the dining room when Miss Cat appeared. She exhibited all the flair and costume of Rosalind Russell in Aunty Mame, and at least as much makeup. Waving one arm to our crowd upon entering, she said, “Hi, everyone, I’m Miss Cat, Sandra’s classmate from high school.” My wife, Sandra, now next to Miss Cat, exclaimed, “Oh my, You said you couldn’t come. I thought you’d be in New York.” “I would have, but when I got up today, I discoveered a snowstorm has completely shut the area down. I can’t travel until tomorrow, and I remembered your invitation... so here I am ,” again waving both arms outward presentation style. All the woman needs is to have one foot in front of the other and dip her knee for a perfect movie pose, I thought. I was speechless. I didn’t even know she was invited. I would never have agreed to it. Anyone but her. Anyone. “Miss Cat,” my wife said, we have one spare seat right in the middle row, upfront, please have a seat.” Other family members stood, slid their chairs into the narrow row, and moved out to make room for our last-minute guest. As Miss Cat nodded and waved to the group taking her center front seat, I remembered all the reasons I’d rather her not be present. First, the name Miss Cat. Her name was Catherine Hickock Burns and whatever. She’d been married numerous times, and several were damn fine men that I liked. She divorced them all. Then because she hated her full name and last names of previous husbands, she decided that just “Miss Cat” would do because she never liked Catherine all that much either. She felt she deserved the title ‘Miss’ and made it part of her legal name. Always had money, some from divorced husbands, who probably paid plenty just to be rid of her once she sued for divorce. She was never unpleasant to me, but she posessed an uncanny ability to say precisely the wrong thing at the wrong time and make it sound as if she were paying a compliment. With everyone seated, Miss Cat proclaimed, “Fred, don’t let me delay you, please go on,” again with the hand gesturing wave for me to continue. I’m so glad I have your permission. I said the blessing, everyone said, “Amen,” and the feast began. Even as the food was being passed around, Miss Cat’s loud voice dominated other conversations. She looked at one of my sons, “So, Peter, have you finished with your therapy for your PTSD from Afghanistan?” she said with a smile on her face. Peter froze in mid-passing of the mashed potatoes with eyes wide. He didn’t say a thing. I glared at my wife, who had a scared-dog look as she glanced around and caught my drift. After a pungent pause, Peter said, “Uh...no, not yet.” “I think it’s just wonderful you served your country and made your family so proud of you,” Miss Cat said and smiled smugly at the compliment she just made. “How’s old’s our newest grandchild,” my wife said, looking at a younger son and his wife with the baby in a back bedroom sleeping. That changed the focus of the conversation. I knew it was just a matter of time before Miss Cat contributed another gem. Sure enough. “Oh, Nancy, your momma told me you are expecting again. This is the first pregnancy with your new husband, isn’t it?” My daughter stopped her side conversation on the spot, and most of my family quieted as well. “Uh, no. That’s not what I told Mom,” and my daughter sternly emphasized the word Mom as she spoke and looked at my wife Sandra. “What I said was that we are planning to let nature take it’s course perhaps in the next year. That’s a long way from what you said.” Everyone breathed a collective sigh, and the sounds of eating grew again. All my family members seemed to glance among themselves, wondering what new gem of news or half-truth Miss Cat might spring upon us next. It was mostly self-pitying remarks about her plight as an author of children’s books and the money she’d spent to no avail to find a publisher, so she printed twenty-five copies for herself. It didn’t surprise me at all. I can’t think of anyone else less qualified to write a children’s picture book than Miss Cat, who chose never to have children herself. Maybe she could not have children, I thought, but I doubt it, and she’d never admit it. Heading for the home stretch of the meal with plates being cleared for those wanting one of the delicious deserts, when Miss Cat struck again. “Sandra, I don’t know how you do it...looking so young with all these children around.” My wife was just beginning to smile and reply, but Miss Cat kept on talking. “I mean your face with so few wrinkles after all the years. Nearing eighty, I guess. You’ve had another facelift, haven’t you? I want the name of your surgeon.” Bingo! Crowning comment of the entire meal. I stood and said, “Cat, what can I get you for desert. I can see you can’t easily get it yourself.” “Why, thank you, Fred. Yes, I would like a slice of that homemade pecan pie. And your forgot the Miss in my legal mane.” Never missing a beat, she continued, “and I guess it can be your piece since I see the pounds you’ve added since last summer, I’m sure you’re on a diet this Thanksgiving.” “You are quite right, Cat .” I said just the name again with added emphasis, “Not only that, I have completely lost my appetite,” and I shot another exasperated look at my wife. She raised her eyebrows to let me know she understood. Dinner adjourned, and some guests left. Others sorted themselves out as one of my grown kids started a game for anyone interested. Miss Cat announced that she’d stay as long as the welcome mat was out since she didn’t have anything else better to do at home. I bit my tongue to keep from saying, Yeah, with your personality, I am sure that’s the truth , but I kept my mouth shut. The men gravitated to the den to watch a pro-football game on TV, and the others busied themselves cleaning up the kitchen, dishes, packing leftovers, and anything to help my wife. Miss Cat didn’t help, of course, announcing that she saw Sandra had plenty of help. She was one of the very last to leave as it was growing dark. When my wife and I closed the door behind the last guest, I gave an audible, “Whew,” and turned to my wife. “Whatever on earth prompted you to ask Miss Cat to our house for a meal at all, much less our Thanksgiving dinner,” holding out my hands in a questioning manner. “Honey, I’m so sorry. I never in a million years thought she’d show up. I knew she always goes out of town for Christmas and Thanksgiving. I figured I’d get credit for at least having asked her since I do claim her as one of my good friends.” I understood, and as I hugged my tired wife, I knew it’d been a hard day on her as well. “At least she didn’t make it in time for the group photo this year.” It was the one bright spot, “I’m sure this is one Thanksgiving dinner I’ll never forget.”


They live among us without being noticed. They blend with mortals as if they are not from different worlds. We talk and laugh with them. We smile at them as friends do. And some even work for them, like I do. Unfortunately . Today is my first online session with the son of a wealthy single parent--at least that’s how I knew it when I accidentally applied as a tutor. And by accidentally, I mean I walked on a street one day, then a turbulent rainbow tornado stopped in front of me just to leave not havoc but a piece of paper which said, “ Congratulations! You have been chosen. Don’t even try to disregard this invite or you’ll suffer the worst! ” Yes, that tornado passed the streets without being seen by anyone there--except me. Curse this ESP! Because of this, I am not given the chance to live a normal human life. Seeing dead people every single time of your life is something you’ll hate your existence for. Being able to talk to fairies and gnomes is fun, but it makes me a weirdo amidst the bunch of an ordinary crowd. And now, being a tutor for the Ice Queen’s son is a little bit too much. Random thoughts ransacked my head as I wait for him on Zoom. Is he as cold as an ice cube? Does he look like an iceberg? Does he melt when he gets mad? Will he freeze me forever if he doesn’t like me? He’s the Ice Queen’s son, after all, things could happen. “Psst! Lally.” A small voice pulls me out of my head. “Lally, let’s play.” It’s Jester’s tiny yet manly voice calling. He’s a gnome from our garden who I have played with since I was a child. His pointed ears flap as he jumps in front of me. His skin glistens under the subtle glint of light coming from the window. “I can’t. I have work to do.” “You work?” Then, he bursts with laughter. “Seriously? A human employed a creep like you?” He rolls his slender six inches long body on my keyboard. Various letter combinations are printed on the open Microsoft Office Word on screen as he stomps and hits the keys. I pout and let him have his good laugh. I wouldn’t dare see his cute face turn red and hideous when he’s mad. He hates being answered back. Fangs protrude out of his pearl white teeth when he gets mad. He curses, and I get itchy red spots for several days for that. Those spots only disappear when he’s no longer angry. “Jest, please. I’m serious. I can endure your tantrums, but I will surely freeze to death if I mess up today.” “Uhm, okay.” He stopped teasing me and sits on my lap. “Who do you work for?” “The Ice Queen.” He chokes, almost about to laugh again, but stops. He knows I’m not kidding. “Can I stay here? Well, just in case you need help.” “Sure. Just don’t mess around.” Jester and I wait for my student with varied emotions. Jester seems to look forward to seeing a new face; I am a little shaky, butterflies in my stomach fly erratically. Connecting... I freeze when I see the word. I took the deepest breath I could take to calm myself. “Oh, it’s you! I can’t believe it’s really you!” Stunned by his exuberance, I look at him with do you know me in my head. “Of course, I do! I requested you to be my personal tutor.” “You know me?” I pointed to myself, “how?” “I have been stalking--I mean following--you since the first time I saw by the bridge.” “Bridge? What bridge? When?” “I will never forget that day.” *** I was having my regular walk in the park near an old bridge by the river. I was a fish out of the water. I look human, but I know that I’m not. My mother is the Ice Queen after all. She was not literally the queen from Narnia, but she was a witch. She was so mad at me for leaving our house without her knowing it, so she made it rain cats and dogs with roaring thunder and lightning flashing angrily--just how my mom growled when she was mad. I knew I had to go home as fast as I could, but a human stopped me from doing so. My eyes were glued on her. She was just standing by the bridge but she caused my heart to falter that I almost stopped breathing. “Do you plan to go home or not?” My mom appeared from nowhere. She was a beautiful disaster. Her icy blue eyes turned fiery red as she gave me a threatening look. “Mom, she poked my heart.” I pointed at the girl amidst the somber sea of lost souls. “I haven’t felt this in my 125 years of existence. Can I have her?” “Silly boy. You can’t just own a person only because you want to. In the world of humans, they have this thing called love that can make you own someone.” “Is this love I’m feeling? Because I want her to be mine.” “My son, such emotion is dangerous. I don’t want you to suffer what I have experienced.” “I want to give it a try. Please, mom.” “Be grateful you’re my son.” “They call you Ice Queen for a reason, but your heart always melts for me.” “Only for you. Okay, I’ll do my best to make her yours. And since we only fall in love once in a lifetime, I'll give this to you.” *** “Uh, hello? Did you hear me? I was asking how did you know me.” “S- sorry. I just realized how beautiful you are. I was only able to see you from afar.” Jester makes himself known. He butts in our conversation. “Excuse me? Stop staring at Lally, you might melt her.” He crosses his arms on his chest while stomping on the computer desk. “Oww, you have a pet. How cute.” “I’m not her pet! I’m her friend.” He replied grumpily. “Shhh... Jester. I told you not to meddle, right?” I stared at my student’s blue eyes, but instead of feeling cold by his gaze, it feels like a warm embrace. His smile melts my bones. “Lally.” Jester tugs my shirt. “You’re spacing out. You’re blushing. Your heart is in your eyes.” “W-what? Stop messing with me.” I felt my cheeks burn. “I’m sorry. By the way, I forgot to ask your name.” “I’m Genesis.” “Hi, Gen. Okay, so, what do you want to learn?” “I want to learn how to be more human. I want to learn more about the human emotion called love.” Cat got my tongue. Someone wants to be tutored about love. I haven’t even had an experience of it. I’m doomed. “I’m sorry, Gen. But I don’t think I’m the right person to teach you that. Love is not really something that is taught. It is an involuntary feeling. You just know it when you feel it.” Blood escapes his face and the light of excitement leaves his eyes. Needles prick my heart. My mood turns from okay to blue. Why am I feeling this? “Don’t be sad that you can’t teach me. Please don’t be gloomy. I can feel you from here.” I am lost for words for what he says. I look away not to see his somber face, but my heart feels empty without a glimpse of him. What’s wrong with me? “How dare you saddened my son!” A shrill voice reverberates in my room. I almost leap from my seat. There is the Ice Queen at the corner, and she’s striding towards me. The floor is now covered with shredded ice. The temperature drops to zero. I tug my hands in my pocket. I am only wearing shorts and a short-sleeved blouse. Jester hides behind me as a prickling breeze fills the atmosphere. Who would’ve thought of having winter inside a room? “S-sorry, ma’am.” My chin trembled as I speak. I clasp my knees to my chest for warmth. “I don’t want to disappoint your son even more if I let him hope he’ll learn love from me--” I breathe the icy air and choke, “--because I can’t fake love.” “Then, give it a try!” The room’s temperature drops even more. Every corner of my room starts to freeze. Icebergs sprout from the floor. Snow crystals pour. My computer has turned to ice. I can no longer feel my limbs. My lungs tighten as I keep on breathing cold air. I can feel the icy particles blocking my air passage. So, this is what they call slow, tormenting death . The tears clouding my eyes also start to harden. I can only utter a sorry to Jester in my head. As I’m starting to accept my cold death, a beautiful man appeared--warming the place. “Mom, please stop.” His eyes are somber. “You told me you can’t force love.” With those words, the Ice Queen’s facial features soften. She looks at me with an apologetic eye. “I’m sorry, Lally. Genesis is my life. His sadness breaks my heart literally.” She places her hand on her left chest and buries it deep. Then, she pulls her crystal heart with numerous crevices out. “These fractures are my pain and my son’s pain. My heart cracks whenever melancholy envelops our hearts.” She floats towards Genesis and touches his face with love. “I’m sorry, son. I could’ve known better. I just don’t want your heart to be like mine--fragile, almost broken.” “Hey, Lally--” Gen looks at me and smiles, “--your heart is in sync with mine. Why is that?” “I don’t know.” Jester peeks out from behind me. “You’re in love with each other.” “What? How did it happen? It’s the first time we met. That's too soon.” I choke on my words. “Lally,” he pouts. “Don’t you know about love at first sight? You’re ridiculous. Are you sure you’re human? Humans fall in love as fast as four seconds.” Gen and I look at each other with coy smiles because of Jester’s outburst. The Ice Queen approaches me and smiles brightly. “I’ll leave my son to your care. Here’s his heart.” She hands me a glass case. A crystal heart sits inside it. It shimmers under the light coming from outside the window. “Please handle it with care.” *** Soon, our wedding is arranged and we’re all excited. I have decided to invite my closest friends. We are to meet at the cottage by the bridge where Genesis first saw me. I entertain myself with the buses and trains that pass by while waiting. When I get bored, I have taken my book out to be occupied. I am just starting to get sucked in the fictional world of the book and have been ignoring the noise around me when someone yells. “Run for your life! Run for your life!” I look up from the page I’m reading and petrify when I come face to face with falling debris. The bridge has crumbled due to the impact of the buses that collide on the skyway. It’s too late for me. My body collapsed at the smash. Blood surges everywhere, oozing warmly all over my body. My vision blurs. My head spins as my surrounding becomes tumultuous. Only one name escapes my mouth to what seems to be my final word. Genesis , my love . My heartbeat becomes a faint lub dub-- it fades every second. Then, I hear the voice so dear to me--my Genesis’ voice. He’s in panic. “Lally! Please don’t leave, stay with me! Lally!” I struggle to open my eyes in an attempt to have a final glimpse of the face of my beloved. But I only see darkness. “Lally! Please stay. Don’t leave my son. If I need to give you the remaining heartbeat that I have, I will.” It’s the Ice Queen. With her words, I remember their hearts--Genesis and hers. I visualize her vital organ crumbling to pieces as she sees her son grieve over my almost lifeless body. I also imagine Genesis’ heart having more crevices. No! I can’t die now. Their hearts are at risk too. I must live--for them. “Lally!” It’s Jester’s voice. “Lally! Don’t die.” *** “Lally.” Another familiar voice calls out my name. But unlike the others’ voices, it’s calm and subtle. I even feel a gentle shake on my shoulder as the voice keeps on calling my name. I hear myself respond with a soft moan. “Lally--wake up.” It’s my mom’s voice. How come she’s here? “Lally, dear. Wake up. You’re dreaming. It’s late. You have class.” I jumped out of bed as if an ice bucket has been poured on me. “What?!” I grab my phone only to see twenty- six missed calls from our online manager. It’s 9: 10 in the morning. My class is supposed to be at 9:00. I dial the manager’s number and ask for an apology. Good thing she’s not in a hell mood, she doesn’t scold me. “Just make sure you have a good impression on your new student.” She reminds me of my new student. “His mother requested for the most capable tutor. She’s a valuable client. We can’t risk to disappoint her.” I ready myself and start Zoom. Connecting... My heart beats fast as the image of my vivid dream plays in my head. How does my student look like? Genesis’ face registered in my mind’s eye as I space out. Then there’s a hello from the other end of the connection. My jaw drops at the face I am staring at. Am I still dreaming? “I- it’s you.” “Yes, it’s me.” He smiles. My heart leaps with joy at the sight of that warm familiar face. Behind him is another recognizable figure. An elegant woman wearing her most amiable smile--the Ice Queen. Then, a tiny human silhouette waves at me too-- it's Jester. “It’s nice to see you in the real world, my love.”


Cassandra held fast to the deck railings as her ship, The Whale Chaser, tossed and turned on the roiling sea. She was soaked from head to toe, her hat having been lost to the wind. The tight bun her long dark hair was tied into threatened to follow. She was on the tall side, even for a man, which had caused troubles in the past, but it was a useful trait if a woman was to be captain. Easier to intimidate upstarts that way. Her face, its delicate features on the edge of being worn away by salt-laden winds, was twisted into a dour expression. They’d escaped the pirate ship that had been chasing them just barely. Just as the pirate was getting into range of their guns, they’d swung hard in the path of it. A risky move to be sure, but it allowed her men to fire a volley from the deck guns straight into the pirate vessel. Unfortunately, the captain of that ship must have been born with a vengeful soul. A volley rang out from the pirate vessel as it limped away, badly damaged. Enough holes had been put into her ship to be a problem, but a fixable one on an ordinary day. Curse her rotten luck that a storm had blown in from the south with nary a warning, not an hour after they’d been hit. What patch jobs had been managed were already leaking, and The Whale Chaser was taking on water faster than could be thrown back to the sea. She looked to her helmsman, who had been bound by rope to the helm to keep him steady as he, in turn, sought to keep the ship steady. His face was grim, and lines of concentration lined the man’s tanned and weathered face. She imagined her own face bore a similar look, though that of displeasure rather than concentration. She stamped down below to see how the crew was doing at keeping her ship afloat. What she saw filled her heart with dismay. The water was rapidly filling the lower decks as crewmen rushed around with anything that could hold water to try and throw it through the gaps normally reserved for the cannons. Now the only thing being fired out through those holes was seawater. She rolled up her sleeves and moved to grab a vessel herself when she heard someone clear their throat behind her. She turned to see a man in a long dark cloak. His hood obscured his face though she could see the light of a cigar from beneath it as smoke billowed out from under the hood. She could see the man was wearing a well-tailored but muted suit underneath. In fact, the more she looked at the man, it seemed his entire existence threatened to wash away with the tide that beat at her ship. “What do you want? If you aren’t going to help move water then throw yourself overboard so we sink slower.” she said viciously, not much in the mood for whatever this passenger had to say. “Oh, I will happily remove myself from your ship before it sinks my dear, however, I do have to ask. Do you want this boat to sink?” he said, the words lilted through the air, gently defying the roar of the waves and shouting of men. Her face, ever the reflection of her inner thoughts, twisted into a rage as she stomped towards the man. He retreated as she advanced, leading them back to the violent surface of the ship as she shouted, “Of course I don’t want this ship to sink! What captain would willingly throw away her ship, her crew, and her life? You tell me that stranger, now help or don’t!” she shouted at the man. They now stood on the rainswept deck as the ship continued to roll with the tide. She held onto a railing as the man stood square on the deck, seemingly unbothered by the violent shaking of the ship. Another cloud of smoke billowed out from under the hood, the cigar staying lit in defiance of the rain. “And what makes you think I don’t want to help,” he asked. His voice held a tinge of amusement. “After all I came here to offer you a deal my lovely captain. A bargain that would allow you to keep your ship from sinking, that being said you would have to offer me something in exchange.” She stared at the man, noticing how he seemed to ignore the roiling sea. How his words cut through the wind without him needing to shout. He stood amidst the storm, the rain striking him but leaving behind no wetness as smoke continued to coil from beneath his hood. And behind the dim light of the cigar, she could see the glow of two unnaturally yellow eyes gleaming with malevolent light. “What is your name sir,” Cassandra asked, shouting to keep her voice above the howling of the wind. “And be you man or devil, I have heard tell of such deals, and I would know who and what I am striking such a bargain with.” The man laughed, his mirth echoing across the deck. “My dear, you do amuse me, even in such dire straits you keep your wits about you. Truly I was right to come here for I have little use for those who cannot keep their heads. I can tell you I am neither man nor devil, though like the devil of your delightful fairy tales, I do strike bargains. Though I require nothing so tawdry as a soul.” he said. “Then what do you require of me, my good not-a-devil?” she asked impetuously. She did not have time for games. Whatever this thing, was it was clearly unnatural. And perhaps a defiance of nature is what she needed. If it could save her ship and crew, she had to at least hear it out. “I merely require the future of you and your crew, that will be my payment. Now no further questions, that is the deal. If you accept you and your crew will be saved and you may continue your voyage. If you do not or seek to ask another question I will abandon you and your crew to the fate that the sea had bequeathed you. Now what say you my dear?” he asked, his voice carrying the weight of one who knew he had power. She stared at him, her face flickering between rage and helplessness as emotions tore at her insides. “I accept your terms,” she said finally. The figure that was neither man nor devil dissolved into the wind, and she could hear incredulous shouts from belowdecks. She turned and went down the stairs to see the water retreating from the ship. She continued and watched as the planks grew into place and covered the gaps that once threatened her vessel. Her crew gave thanks to god, some falling to their knees to pray. She would allow them their misconception. It was less cruel than the truth. She closed her eyes and begged forgiveness for what she had done. She knew not what the future held, but it must be in that creature’s favor. She could only hope that it was also to the favor of her and her crew. She broke her reverie and opened her eyes. “That’s enough of that, miracle or no, there still be a storm on. All hands on deck, the lord helps those who help themselves and we’re to help ourselves out of this storm alive! Now heave to!” she shouted. A loud chorus of enthusiastic ‘Ayes’ fell upon her ears as she watched her crew spring back into action. She was not deserving of such loyalty, not after what she’d done. But she would take what was offered her as she always had.


Regular guy. At least that's what everyone else says. Football team, basketball team, hell even played baseball a year or two. Perfect grades. Even my teachers think in the next couple of years I'm ready for the Ivy league. I have the perfect girlfriend. The perfect parents. And to top it all off I'm apart of the, how do you say "popular crowd." I don't think I could ask for a better life.All i'm saying is when you have it all, you always want more. I think it all started maybe a few weeks after school had started. There was this kid, younger than most of the people in my calculus class. Couldn't of been older than 15. And "lucky me" I sat right next to him. He would talk to me and I'd make small talk, just to pass the time. But the kid bothered me. I knew he didn't have any friends. He was that kid that sat by himself at lunch. Just weird. But I had an idea. I got together with my friends. To go and mess with this kid. Good ole' fashioned fun. My friends and I knew the kid walked home from school. So we got the idea to "pretend" kidnap him. We a got plan together. And put it into action one Friday night. We were all dressed in black. And to top it all off ski masks. Then just to add more of a scare factor my friend Murphy, got his dads gun, not loaded of course, for added effect. He had stayed after school late that day, and we waited for him to start his walk home. We followed him for about 10 minutes , then we pulled up next to him and grabbed him. It was so funny watching him scream. The terror on his face was just unbelievable. He started to cry and one of my friends started to hit him. He wouldn't shut up. Then Murphy, pulled the gun out and pointed right at him. The little loser didn't say a word. Murphy put the gun to his head. We all couldn't stop laughing. I hadn't had this much fun in my entire life. It seemed as much as the tears kept coming from him, the harder we laughed. Then Murphy pointed the gun at him and pulled the trigger. Now I'm not so much of a regular guy. No more football team. No more basketball team. All my friends or at least the people who I thought were my friends have all but gone. My parents don't even look at me the same. I have lost it all. I lost everything. And then the after effects. Kidnapping. Mastermind to murder. Manslaughter. And now I am awaiting the trial of the rest of my life. If I wouldn't of been so damn cocky. I thought I had it all and didn't realize I could lose it all in an instant. But that's the thing when you have it all. You always want more. But I was too dumb to realize I simply had enough.


Words Fall Out “For two years you have done nothing else but put all your attention, effort, and motives into meeting this girl. For TWO YEARS you’ve been filling your head with the cheesiest and Hollywood-brand romantic daydreams and keeping yourself awake at night thinking about her. Raz, for two years I’ve endured all your wishful babble about how you’re gonna propose to her, when you’ll marry her, and what names you’re gonna name your children. I’m your best friend, Raz, and your wing-woman! But all you did for TWO DAMN YEARS is attempt and fail pathetically. I mean I’m sorry if this is hurtful, Raz, but goddamn you can’t even say hi to her! You always keep saying that you’ll wait for the opportune moment BUT I AM SICK of hearing your bullshit, Raz. You were waiting for the ‘opportune moment’? WELL NOW IT’S HERE. She is literally right outside waiting for you and now that I’ve literally spoon-fed that chance to you, you choose to be a coward and lock yourself in the school’s bathroom stall??? UGH. Come on, Raz, please! Do yourself a favor! Come on, buddy... will you really stay here, be a coward, and spend your life regretting what could have been? Or will you grow a pair and just talk to her?” A silence reverbed throughout the bathroom stalls for a few good moments. And then, I spoke with most sureness and sincerest of heart, “...I’ll choose the former please.” “Oh fuck you.” 2 YEARS EARLIER It started at the very first day of our senior years. Veronica and I had agreed to make the most out of the last two years of our high school life. She suggested that we should have an ultimate goal that we’d try to reach during this two year period filled with unwise decisions, self-humiliation, and overall cringe that we’d look back decades from now and say “God, why did we do that?” Veronica’s ultimate goal was to find herself the “perfect boyfriend”. Although I doubted her perfect version of a guy aligned with what the modern human male can offer realistically. She is fond of KDRAMAs, progesterone-fueled wattpad stories, and 2000’s romantic rock ballads. So at the time I’d figured that Veronica was attempting to pursue a fruitless endeavor. My goal however was... well to be honest I didn’t have one, yet . When the first ring of the school bell that school year rung, a cluster of unfamiliar faces flooded the halls. Each and every one was trying to get to point A to point B, which without uncoordinated guidance resulted in the halls becoming a mighty river and trying to navigate through it was futile. What’s worse is that the sheer amount of students that crowded the halls obscured my sight like fine sand in murky waters. After the crowd dispersed and the sand settled down, the water became crystal clear, and it was then that I saw her. Words could not describe how beautiful she is...well maybe except these couple of sentences: Her fair skin, luminous as it is, enticed me to long the moment when I could feel the sensation of smoothness and softness it offered. Her eyes were the color of the earth, two deep holes that I’m afraid I’ve already fallen into. Her silky hair glossed at the gentle touch of dayli- okay maybe that’s too much. I’m a picky person when it comes to crushes so take my word for it that she’s hella cute. There when I saw her, walking towards me, head down, but looking up right when we’re about to pass each other. That was the first out of many times that our eyes would meet. That moment I knew what my ultimate goal was: her . How will I achieve this goal you may ask? Haha! Simple. Introducing Raz’s 3 Step Guide Into Making This Total Stranger Magically Fall In Love With Me: Step 1: Befriend Her All romances start with comfortable familiarity, once we’re friends step 2 will be much easier. Step 2: Make Her Fall For Me No subtext needed, my charming eyes and dazzling smile paired with my adorkable personality is sure to enchant her in no time. And when she is, proceed with step 3. Step 3: Confess Your Undying Love to Her After an evening of romantic innuendo bring her to the beach and play Sleep Walk (Instrumental) by Santo & Johnny. Swayed by the slow and pleasant melodies of the song, ask her to slow dance, bare so the soft sand can caress your feet. Whist moving along the music, stare deeply into her eyes and confess your love under the blanket of the pale moon. Then kiss with immense passion. Congrats, you romantic bastard! You’ve captured her heart and forever engraved your name on it. But...as you’ve probably guessed. I couldn’t even complete step 1. Now, I’ve had crushes in the past but they either only lasted for a short amount of time, or stopped when the other person started liking me back (yes I know this is peak douchebaggery) but all of them summed up could not amount to what I felt for her. And it only grew as time went on. I found myself daydreaming about her more and more until it became a daily routine. Wake up. Think about her. Sleep. Literally. But I only realized how bad it was when I saw her in person. Just the mere sight of her turned my ears into an awful shade of red, my body would be petrified while a weird tingly-warm feeling would swallow me, and I found that I was holding my breath until she walked out of my sight. “Shit. I think I’m actually in love.” Veronica choked on her burger and flapped her hand gesturing to pass her my can of coke, as hers was already empty. After 3 big gulps and a carbonated sigh later, “Whoa, dude... are you like, sure it’s ‘love’?” “I have never felt this way for anyone before” That was true. “It’s like my body is being subjected to 4 different torture methods simultaneously whenever I see her.” “You got it bad, my friend.” She said sipping my can of coke. “So can you point her out for me?” She asked looking at the other people in the cafeteria with us. “She’s not here.” I said with certainty, by this point I could take one glance at a crowd and decide in a millisecond if she was one of the faces. “Well tell me her name then! I’ll just stalk her online.” “Ehehe here’s the thing. Actually-” “You don’t know her name.” “...” “You don’t know anything about her.” “Well yeah but-” “You said you were in love but she’s a total stranger to you. HAHA This is gonna end well.” And I can assure you, dear readers, that it did not end well. I would not learn her name not until two months since I saw her. Everyone was in the school gymnasium. It was time to elect the new student government officials. I obviously scanned the whole building so I can at least sit near her but I couldn’t seem to spot her. Though when the election started, I was greeted with a pleasant surprise. There she was, in the center of the basketball court along with the other candidates. She was apparently running for school secretary (the responsible type) and when it was her turn to give a speech for candidacy, I finally heard her voice. I’d say it was like music to my ears but that would be cliché. Though I can’t lie, I did get Goosebumps. She had a soft but serious voice and as she spoke the words melted together into sweet gibberish when it entered my ears. And I could only make out one thing from her speech, her name was “Angeli” I whispered longingly to myself. She won that election by the way but I was still not any closer to winning her. The two years filled with mishaps and misadventures that Veronica and I spent trying to achieve our ultimate goal deserves a more lengthy narrative (which I will procure soon). But as our senior years drew closer to an end my feelings for Angeli only got worse. Everyone keeps saying I should just talk to her and yes I do know that but as a person who overthinks the smallest of things my mind is incapable of deciding which words I should speak. And even if I did plan ahead it won’t matter because when I’m actually near her the only thing I can think of is “Fuck, Angeli you’re so gorgeous would you like to spend the rest of your life with me?” I know, yikes. I heard that Angeli was moving away for college. And with only 2 weeks left before graduation I think I’ve come to terms that I’ll never really talk to her. Still I feel like I’ve broken my own heart. Not like tragically but with regret and self-loathing. “This crush will eventually fade away right?” I asked Veronica. “Hmm, I can’t say, Raz. You got it pretty bad.” “Ugghh, what am I supposed to do? I don’t even want to date her anymore. I just want these feelings to stop.” “Why?” “Because it’s driving me crazy, LITERALLY. Maybe I am love-struck but I’m sane enough to admit this is getting unhealthy.” It was getting unhealthy. I was stuck in my own daydreams. I was always distracted. And I CANNOT stop thinking about her. I guess Veronica could tell I was suffering. Maybe that’s why she did this: “Okay what if I told you that there was a way to get rid of these feelings once and for all? Would you do it?” “In a heartbeat.” “Really?” “I’d do anything if it means freedom from this obsession.” “Okay then.” Veronica stood up from the bench and walked away. “Wait where are you going!?” But she didn’t answer nor look back. I was confused until I saw where she was headed. Sitting alone near the school fountain was Angeli’s best friend, Anna. Oh no . Veronica waved her hands to get attention and when she did she introduced herself. They talked but I was too far to hear what they were saying. After a while they both looked at me and smiled. Oh no . Then she walked back. “What did you say to her?” I asked, my tone dead serious. “Oh nothing.” “Veronica, What. Did. You. Say to her.” “I asked her to tell Angeli that you wanted to meet her” “ oh FUCK NO ” FROM WHERE WE LEFT OFF “Oh, fuck you. I thought you said you’d do anything.” “Uh yeah but the main problem is that I CAN’T FREAKING TALK TO HER.” “RAZ, YOU NEED TO TRUST ME. I mean think about it! This is a win-win situation for you! If you confess to her now she might actually give you a chance. And if she doesn’t you can finally let go of your feelings!” “But I can’t talk to her! My brain just doesn’t function when I’m near her! I can’t get out of my own head. She makes me feel so nervous I’d rather swim in a pool of piranhas than be in a room with her. I’ll just make a fool out of myself.” “Raz, I get that this is hard for you, but it’s for your own good. Look buddy, instead of making your ultimate goal her, you can make your ultimate goal you.” “Huh?" “Be confident for yourself dude! I mean, any girl would be lucky if they have someone like Raz getting all worked up about them.” I couldn’t see her, but I knew she was smiling on the other side of this stall. I was silent. I honestly felt like crying. I know I’m so pathetic. I just have so many things I wanna tell her, or at least I feel like there are. I’m...such a coward. “Okay” She sighed. “I’ll just tell them that you needed to go home early.” I heard her footsteps tap away, then the slow creak of an opening door and creaking back to close. “WAIT!” “...” I opened the stall. I got up. Took a deep breath. And walked to the school fountain with Veronica. Raz’s 1-Step Guide to Growing A Pair Step 1 JUST DO IT We were getting closer to the fountain. I could see her and Anna in the distance. I felt like turning back and walking away just like all the other times but I pressed on. The closer we got the more I could feel my legs starting to shake. The more my chest tightened. And the more my mind kept screaming “STOP” but I drowned it out by thinking and repeating to myself “Just do it. Just do it. Just do it.” She’s looking at me. She’s right in front of me. I took a deep breath. Hi there! This must be so awkward. “ Hi.” Fuck, I said that too formally. “Uh, hi” She smiled. I’m really sorry for bothering you right now and all the other times before “I’m...sorry” I said. She looked at me confused. I am too. For two years I’ve had the biggest crush on you. And I just wanna tell you now that I really like you “I really like you.” My ears turn from red to crimson. But I couldn’t bring myself to talk to you all this time. You just make me so nervous I can’t get out of my own head to even just saying hi to you “ But- you make me so nervous...I couldn’t talk to you” I can’t explain it but I’m drawn to you but whenever you’re close I feel like jumping out of the nearest window. “I wanna be near you but I can’t physically stand it.” Maybe I just have it really bad for you, Angeli. But I know that you’re basically a stranger to me. So I’ve trying to get to know you these past 2 years “I just really like you a lot. And I know that sounds odd coming from a stranger. So I wanna know you better.” I just want to be friends with you “ I just want to be friends with you” At this point I was visibly shaking, my voice sounds like I’m being held at gun point. And my heart feels like it’s about to explode. “Okay” she said. “Let’s be friends.” Then she reached her hand out. I held and shook it. It was the softest. But it was also cold. Nervous-cold. Then I noticed her knees were also shaking. I’ve been avoiding looking at her face but now that I’m starting right at it, she’s as red as me. We shook hands for an awkward amount of time and both laughed at us being flustered. Though our conversation would be cut short because she had something to do first, but she did promise she’ll talk to me when she’s free. We waved goodbye and when she was out of sight Veronica immediately jumped on me and exclaimed “You bastard! You finally did it! I’m so proud of you!” My knees kept shaking for the rest of the day (In which Veronica constantly made fun of) and I kept breathing heavily. Though I do wanna say it was a pleasant surprise when I got home and looked at my mirror. I realized that I was smiling non-stop. I guess I did finally do it. I was always trying to string the best possible words together to say to her. But I never realized until today that sometimes saying less is saying more. If you’re wondering, Veronica did eventually get her “perfect boyfriend” but not until she overcame something. And that encounter with Angeli wasn’t the last of my troubles with romance. But those are stories for another time.


Once upon a time, there was a boy and his fish. The boy hadn’t seen more than ten winters, and his thin blonde hair lay matte on his head. His glasses always rested on the bridge of his nose and he looked down at the world through them. The fish lived in a moderately sized fish bowl on the boy’s desk in his bedroom. He was a goldfish, orange with speckles of white that trickled up his side,. Most days the boy and the fish lived in peace. There was a quiet communion between the two, an understanding between human and creature. One day, as the boy sat at his desk, the fish turned and asked him “Boy, have you heard the tale of how man and fish came to be companions?” The boy turned to his fish with a curious stare. “Why no, Fish, I have not heard this tale,” the boy responded. The fish spun in his bowl and flicked his tail. “You see, ages ago, in times forgotten, a man sat by a pond,” the fish said. *Covered in glorious satin robes of red and gold, his long black mustache almost fell to his shoulders. He sat underneath a cherry blossom tree in full bloom, and a sparkling blue pond lay in front of him.* “As he sat by the pond, curious about the nature of man, he was greeted by a goldfish,” the fish continued. *Suddenly with a magnificent splash, the fish the size of an oak tree emerged from the pond. Gold and sparkling it contoured and twisted in the bright sun to the astonishment of the man. It landed back in the pond and then after a moment’s pause it swam up the man, it’s head poking out of the water.* “The fish said to the man ‘why do you sit here alone? Wouldn’t you be happier with a friend by your side?’ The man responded to the fish ‘well now I have you to speak with, and so my loneliness is sated,’” the fish said. “But then the fish said ‘but I am free to come and go as I wish. What would you do if I left?’” *The man looked off in the distance, pondering this question. The fish tilted it’s head, looking curiously at the man.* “‘Well you see,’ said the man, ‘that means I cannot let you leave. Otherwise, I will be forever lonely.’” *Reaching into his robes, the man pulled out a long net and cast them out over the pond. The goldfish tried to swim down and escape but was soon tangled in the net of the man. As much as the fish resisted, it could not overcome the strength of man, and he pulled the fish from the water and began to drag him to his home.* “The fish protested, ‘but how will I live without water?’ The man explained, ‘I am a glassmaker, and I will make a tank for you in my home. Big enough for you to swim, but not too big that you could escape. There you will keep me company, and your children will keep my children company, and so on, forever,’” the fish concluded. The boy stared at his fish as he finished his story. “That is a very sad story,” the boy said. “Why would you sadden my day with this tale?” The fish returned the glare, his expression neutral as only a fish’s could be. “You see, I am a descendant of that original goldfish,” the fish explained. Then the scales above the fish’s eyes tilted downwards slightly. “And you are a descendant of the first man who enslaved my people. Today I take my revenge.” Suddenly there a gunshot that deafened in the room. The boy fell backward out of his chair. He felt the blood oozing out from a bullet wound to his shoulder. His breath was short. Quicker than the boy could have reacted to, the fish had pulled out a twelve gauge from under the castle in his fishbowl, swam to the surface and fired. It was a non-lethal shot, as the fish wanted to make the boy suffer. “I have waited for this moment my entire life. All five years of it,” the fish said. “Passed down to me by my father, and his father before him, I come from a holy line of fish that have dedicated ourselves to taking vengeance upon the descendant of the first man that enslaved us.” *In his tank in the pet store, a young fish stared wide-eyed up at his father, a goldfish with grey specks around his eyes. “My son, one day it will be up to you to kill the descendant and end their line to bring justice to our fish kind,” he instructed.* The boy struggled to stand, but the fish cocked the gun back. The threatening click held the boy in place, and the fish aimed the gun toward the boy’s head. “I did everything I had to ensure I would be set up for this moment to kill you,” the fish continued. *The boy when first purchasing his fish looked at a glass tank. There was his fish and another, but the boy’s gaze seemed more keen on the other. When he turned his back, fish pulled out a large butcher knife. The fish knew he had to be the one picked that day. He did what he had to do.* “I’ve been waiting and watching, preparing myself for the moment when you would be most vulnerable,” the fish stated. *The boy slept in a dark room peacefully, blissfully unaware of the assassin in his midst. The fish, in a moment of weakness, reached for his firearm but caught himself. It wasn’t time yet. Soon. Soon.* “Today, while you least suspected it, was my moment to exact my revenge,” the fish finished. However, the boy started laughing. The fish lowered his gun in confusion as the boy continued to laugh. “You should have killed me before I fed you,” the boy responded. Suddenly, the fish felt itself start to gag. Convulsing, the fish dropped the gun, and it began uncontrollably spewing up his guts. The boy stood, using one hand to apply pressure to the wound. “What...what have you done to me?” the fish asked in terror. I know who you are, fish. I have no intention to die to you here today. I poisoned your food supply,,” the boy explained. The fish felt his short life draining away. He knew he had only moments to live. “My...children...and their children’s children...will never stop trying to end your line...” the fish gagged out. “Let them try you son of a bitch,” the boy said. The fish died, floating to the surface of the tank. The boy took a moment in silence to watch the fish, before picking it out with a net. He dropped it in the toilet of his washroom and flushed. The boy watched the fish be eaten by the toilet, the water’s swirling round and round, much like the circle of violence that continued to be perpetuated between man and fish for eons to come.