August The foyer of St. Mary’s orphanage smells likes lye soap and freshly baked bread. “Professor Gray, bless you for coming.” The click of heels echoes through the hallway before I see her face--stoic and smooth, much like her black, unwrinkled dress. “Are you Sister Marie?” “Yes, that’s me.” She smiles and extends her hand. “I came as soon as I received your letter.” “And I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you’ve agreed to take this on, Professor.” She exhales in a huff. “Your letter--I read it three times as I could hardly believe the details.” I lower my voice, lest little ears lurk nearby. “How has the boy been adjusting?” “Well, Professor, it has not been easy.” She matches my volume. “He possesses a very turbulent nature.” “And has he spoken? Anything at all?” “Nothing intelligible, sir. We’ve tried putting him in classes with the youngest children, but we are simply understaffed and not trained to meet his... unique set of needs.” Her eyes grow misty. “So, you can see why you are a godsend.” “Well, I’m not sure about that. I’ve only heard tales of situations like this, and I must confess, perhaps it is my professional curiosity more than my charitability that has urged me to take the boy on.” “I applaud your honesty, sir, but I am certain if anyone can help the boy, it’s you.” She places a hand on my elbow and begins down the main hall. “I will show you to your classroom then.” The building is dimly lit, and the floors creak as we walk, like nervous squeals imitating the anticipation I feel within. “Sister Marie,” I rush to keep up with her long stride. “You said the hunters who found the boy brought him back to the nearest villages, but tell me, have all attempts been made to locate his family? Is no one looking for a missing child?” She shakes her head. “If anyone had been looking for a lost child, it appears they gave up many years ago, as we believe he must have been missing for quite some time.” She continues down the hall, speaking in hushed tones. “No one from the village knew anything about him--though some did try to care for him--at first.” We walk by a classroom full of children silently scratching pencils to paper. Every head turns as we pass. Sister Marie lowers her voice to a whisper. “There was a kind family who took him in--farmers who thought he might take to the work--but the boy was too wild, too unpredictable. He attacked them in the middle of the night and one of their daughters nearly lost an eye.” “Good heavens.” “After that, none of the villagers wanted anything to do with him.” A round-faced woman greets us in the hall and Sister Marie stops her. “Sister Margaret, will you please prepare Matthan for his lesson with Professor Gray? In the blue classroom.” “Yes, Sister,” and she walks away. “Matthan?” I ask. “It means “ hope, ” as we are hopeful that he will learn our ways and thrive here.” “That’s good of you, Sister Marie. But I am curious, how did the boy end up here then?” “Oh, it was quite providential.” She smiles over her shoulder. “Apparently, the hunters spoke of him all through town when they had gone to trade, and one of our benefactors was there on business. He heard the story--heard about the disaster with the farmers--and said he’d take the boy back with him and establish him here at St. Mary’s.” “Incredible.” She takes us deeper through the building, pointing out the dining hall and the kitchen, then steps inside a cramped staff room. She eases herself into a chair and gestures for me to sit in the one across from her. “Professor, we are grateful the boy has been rescued and brought into our care,” she steeples her fingers, “but he must learn to assimilate--to learn basic communication skills and exhibit civilized behavior--or our directors have informed us that he will not be allowed to remain here.” “What would happen to him then?” She looks at her hands. “He would be taken to an asylum--a fate I do not wish upon any of our children.” “No, of course not. I can’t imagine how isolated the boy--Matthan--must be feeling. To communicate is human, and to be--how old did you say he was?” “We believe he’s between 8-10 years old, but it’s... difficult to say.” “Interesting...it’s been theorized that a first language is impossible to acquire beyond the early developmental years, but perhaps, with rigorous training and extended exposure to--” “You’ll have until the new year, Professor Gray.” “What? But that’s hardly six months!” “I’m sorry sir.” She chews her lip. “I know that’s not what you wanted to hear, but this wasn’t up to me. If you can prove by the end of the year that Matthan is at least capable of learning, then we will reevaluate his position at St. Mary’s.” “Well.” I catch myself rubbing my mustache--a mindless habit. “So be it. I guess theories exist to be tested.” I clap my knees. “Then we shall have to get to work.” She smiles. “This is why I wrote to you , as I could think of no one better qualified to help him than an expert in linguistics and communication.” She rises from the chair. “Come. I’ll show you to your classroom.” We walk down the hall and stop at the last door. “Oh, I nearly forgot.” She reaches into a pocket, pulls out a silver hand bell, and folds it into my hand. The metal is cool and serious against my skin. Her hazel eyes meet mine. “If there’s any trouble, just ring this and one of the sisters or I will come to you.” I stare at the bell in my hands until Sister Marie touches my arm. “Don’t worry Professor, everything will be fine; the tonic keeps him somewhat tranquil, just be sure to give him a wide berth.” She opens the door to a sparsely furnished classroom with peeling blue paint on the walls. “Matthan, this is Professor Gilbert Gray. He’s come to talk to you.” In the corner, a dark-haired child sits hunched over with his head crooked to one side, chewing at his fingernails. I clear my throat, nod my thanks to Sister Marie, and step inside. When the door clicks shut behind me, the boy whips his head around and stares at me with a set of wild, frantic eyes. “Hello.” I say, offering a slight wave. “It’s nice to meet you, Matthan.” The boy backs away, growling, and I can see a row of yellowed, jagged teeth in his mouth. And then he barks. September “Let’s go over these again, Matthan. One at a time.” Late morning sun trickles through the room’s single window, and dust dances in its rays. The boy stares, his shoulders hunching inward as I continue. “Say it with me, A, as in apple .” I hold up a card with a bright red apple drawn on it. Silence. “That’s alright. Let’s try the next one. B, as in boy . Like you--boy.” A gurgling sound claws its way out of Matthan’s throat--a sound that resembles nothing like “b”. “Alright. What about this one: C, as in cat .” The card shows an orange striped tabby with a long tail. Matthan shifts in his seat and growls, drool sliding down one corner of his mouth. “ C , C. Just try.” But Matthan only grows more agitated and begins rocking back and forth. “It’s alright. We’ll move on.” The next card displays a large capital D drawn above a picture of a scruffy gray dog. “Can you say, D ? As in dog ?” Matthan leans toward the card, a strange whine working at the back of his throat. He raises one hand and scratches the dog’s face with a dirty, curling fingernail. He begins to scrape and claw at the card, then throws his head back and howls--a mournful, disturbing wail. “Matthan! It’s alright!” He jumps down from the seat and tears at his rumpled shirt. A button breaks away from the fabric and clatters against the floor. “It’s okay, we’ll stop!” Matthan thrashes and scratches his own face. I reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder, desperate to calm his hysterics, but when I do, the boy snarls and lunges at me, sinking sharp teeth into my ink-stained fingers. Drops of blood dribble down his lip and along my hand. My screams must have alerted the sisters, for as I fumble for the silver bell in my coat, round-faced Sister Margaret appears in the doorway with brown bottle and a spoon. “Help me hold his arms, Professor.” She speaks in a calm, monotone voice, belying no sense of unease at the boy’s outburst. I do as instructed, looking away as she wrestles the concoction down his throat. When the boy finally calms, I hear the breathlessness in my voice when I speak. “I need a moment.” I race from the building and onto the front steps. Noise from the bustling streets seems muffled and faraway as I fumble for my pipe and tin. I light the tobacco and watch as it glows. Inhale. Exhale. How could so much ferocity, so much savagery be trapped inside such a small child? October The room holds a chill that seems to wrap itself around my vocal cords. “Repeat after me, Matthan. A .” His lips part ever so slightly. “Yeee.” “No,” I shake my head and lean closer. “ Aaay .” “Yuuuuh.” “Open your mouth wider.” I make a motion with my fingers like a flower opening. “ Aayy . Now you try.” “Eeeyuh.” “You’re getting closer. Let’s move on. B .” Matthan grunts. “ B . B . Look, Matthan, see my lips.” I point to my mouth and smack my lips together. He touches his own lips. “Yes, those are your lips . Can you bring them together like this? Now say bee .” He leans in. “Buuu.” “Yes! That’s it! You’re getting it!” We move through the alphabet, with Matthan showing decreasing aptitude and attention as we progress, and I start to wonder if any success we’ve had has been coincidental. Matthan struggles at the letter “J,” and grows frustrated. He leaps down from his chair and retreats to a corner. I rest my head in my hands and try not to think about how fast the end of the year is approaching. Someone raps on the door. One of the sisters pokes her head in. “It’s time for the children to go outdoors now, Professor.” Then she directs her voice to the corner. “Matthan, we’re going outside.” The boy turns his head at the word and begins to half run, half crawl to the door. The woman holds a pair of shoes out to him, but he refuses them. “Professor, you’re welcome to join us.” I stretch my sore muscles and rise from the desk. “I think it would be good to observe Matthan beyond the classroom.” We step through a backdoor and into the play yard where Matthan immediately shuffles over to a patch of grass and crouches, watching the children play. A few girls jump rope on one side, a group of boys huddles along the fence, likely plotting a coup against the sisters, and others gather around the swings. I make my way near Matthan. “Why don’t you play with the others? Look, they have a ball over there.” He doesn’t follow my finger when I point or acknowledge my presence at all, but neither does he flinch or run away. Soon, a sister returns to collect the children, but Matthan pays her no mind. She tries to guide him back inside, but he bares his teeth and rages at the woman. “It’s okay. I’ll stay out here with him for a few more minutes--if that’s alright.” She nods and leaves us alone. I lower myself to the ground beside Matthan and pull my pipe from my jacket. “You’ve got the whole place to yourself now.” Matthan says nothing, but watches me as I light the pipe and pull air through its slender tip. His eyes follow the wisps of smoke rising into the sky. “This is a pipe. Pipe .” He crawls closer and plucks the whole thing from my mouth. “Hey now!” He puts the narrow end in his own mouth, breathes in, then sputters and coughs, smoke spewing from his lips. I reach for the pipe, but he backs away, taking another pull before I can snatch it away from him. I can’t help but laugh. “Now don’t you tell the sisters you had a smoke. They’ll have a holy fit.” Smoke rises from the endless chimneys jutting all around us, billowing into one all-encompassing cloud of smog above the city. I picture families tucked inside their homes, gathered around the fireplace telling stories--communicating as easily as breathing. We sit in silence a while longer, then Matthan turns to me, his head cocked to one side. “Sssmoke.” November “Moon. Can you say moon?” Matthan sits at the desk with his legs pulled to his chest, bare toes splayed across the wooden seat. He never wears shoes. He stares at the card, then rasps out the word. “ Mooon .” “Yes! Wonderful, Matthan! What about this one? Can you say sun ?” I wait, my pocket watch ticking in the silence. “Sssun,” he finally utters. We move through the stack of cards, eventually coming to images of animals, which always pique Matthan’s interest. “I think you know this one. Come on.” His mouth works. “Berr. Berr.” “Yes, you’re almost there.” “Berrrduh.” “Yes! Bird ! Very good, Matthan!” I feel myself smiling. “Alright, what about this one?” I hold up an image of a green snake coiled in a pile. Matthan growls, baring his teeth at the card. “It’s alright, Matthan. It’s only a picture. It can’t hurt you.” He jumps down from his chair, keeping his distance from the card, and begins to pace around the room. “Please, talk to me, Matthan. What’s wrong?” But he moves to the corner and turns his back to me, shutting me out of his world. I stack the cards in a neat pile and let the hour run out in silence. December I have never been to an orphanage Christmas party before. The festivities are humble, but the spirit is wonderfully infectious. Someone has wheeled the piano into the dining hall, and a sister plays Christmas hymns. Children sing and spin about the rooms, laughing and wiping remnants of figgy pudding from their mouths. Sister Marie walks around with a heaping basket of parcels wrapped in brown paper and distributes one to each child. She lingers at my table where Matthan sits beside me, licking the crumbs off his plate. “I see someone enjoyed his meal.” She raises an eyebrow. I can feel him stiffen when she leans in, see him recoil when she extends a package to him. “Matthan, it’s alright.” I offer. “It’s a gift--for you.” He accepts the package, sniffs it, then rips the paper away and removes a blue knitted scarf. I help him drape it loosely over his shoulders. “There Matthan, you look very nice.” He returns to the food on his plate, and I leave him to it. “Sister Marie,” I rise and follow her as she continues dispersing gifts. “I wanted to ask, well, if it’s been decided whether or not to extend my training with Matthan.” I lower my voice. “If he is staying, that is.” She pauses, resting the basket on her hip. “I cannot say, as I truly do not know what will be decided. But I’ve certainly seen much improvement in the boy.” “As have I. I am hopeful that, with just a bit more time, he will begin to--” My words die under the ear-piercing rattle of a child’s shriek. I instinctually turn to the table where Matthan had been sitting, and my heart sinks when I see he isn’t there. Sister Marie abandons the basket, and we both race toward the sound. A small girl, maybe three or four, runs between the tables, clutching Matthan’s blue scarf in her hands. He bounds behind her in a crouching shuffle--growling. “Matthan! Stop!” Panic rises in my voice. The girl dashes under a table, between the stocking clad legs of other orphans, and Matthan pursues her, toppling chairs and children to squeeze himself into the space with her. Her screams turn my blood to ice. “Move everyone! Out of the way!” Two women rush to one side of the table, Sister Marie and I to the other. We fling chairs aside and I crawl under to see a tangle of limbs and hair and clothes as Matthan pins the girl underneath him. I grab him by the ankles and rip him away from her, my stomach heaving at the trail of blood his body smears along the floor. Someone behind me wails. Children whimper. Sister Marie clamps a hand over her mouth. The girl remains still, unmoving in a heap under the table, a row of jagged teeth marks in her neck. “Matthan.” I whisper. “What have you done.” *** I pack up my books and cards and stacks of notes and click my case shut. Sister Marie meets me in the foyer. “Professor Gray, I--” “I thank you for this opportunity, Sister Marie.” I reach for her hand and fold the silver bell into her palm. “I can assert with some confidence now that if language is not acquired in one’s developmental years, it is too late.” I pull my pipe from my jacket and step through the open door. “Matthan never had a chance.”


I came back to my hometown to meet my parents. It's been years since I've seen them. I did not want to come back after what happened. I've made my own little world in there - new friends, new life. Everything is new, which really helped me to move on a little. I never really know whether I was able to move on from him completely. But that's okay. Life goes on. I've accepted it and I promised myself I will keep moving forward and let things take control of their own. I was wanted to stop thinking about it. My mind had become a pool of thoughts that used to dip me in every night and I used to come out drenched into my own emotional baggage I was carrying. Moving out of this town made it a little easier for me to forget about that. Two years passed by, I have learned how to deal with my emotions. Maybe not completely. But little by little each day, I kept moving forward. I pressed them, I suppressed them and fought with them. Every single day has been a battle me against my emotions. Every night I had been face to face to my emotions and had been fighting to save myself till the morning. Every day had been a struggle. I had no choice but to fight back. Gradually, I learned to control them. Everything was good, until one day. That day I saw him in the coffee shop near my house. I went to meet my school friend. We were eating, chatting and laughing. I took a sip from my coffee latte and my eyes caught a man standing at the counter in blue denim, a white T-shirt, and a black leather jacket. He was talking to the man at the counter explaining to him something and the other guy was nodding his head in agreement. It was him. Yes, it was him standing in front of me after two years. He then took out his wallet from his pocket and handed a card to the guy. He waited, and turned his head in my direction. I couldn’t take my eyes off. I was frozen in there. I was frozen with my feelings grabbing in my heart. Everything seemed to pile up in my head all over again. All these efforts of tackling my emotions made day and night seemed a complete failure. I felt like a loser. A teardrop started welling up in my eyes. I couldn’t think of anything looking at him standing ten feet away from me. My friend looked at me and got scared. She grabbed my arm and shook me like anything. My tears started rolling down from my eyes. I looked at her. “what happened? Are you okay? she asked. I wiped my tears with a tissue kept on the center of the table. “ He is here,” I said. “ she looked in the direction of my gaze and saw him. “ what is he doing here in your neighborhood?” I couldn’t utter a word. I was thinking years of fighting all went into vain in a minute. Sometimes, you can never understand your own emotions. You are scared of your own emotions. You never know what they will make you do. He had his wallet in his hand. He gave out the card from his wallet to the guy at the counter and looked in my direction. His eyes met mine. He stood there looking at each other from far away. He kept looking at me without even blinking. The other guy called his name several times. He didn’t respond. He tapped on his shoulder. He then looked at him, took his card back, kept in his pocket. I know he loved me. But I couldn’t stay a single moment with him after that day. When I asked him so many questions and he couldn’t answer a single one. He could have easily stopped me, but he didn’t. He did nothing to make me stay. I was the only one doing everything. I was tired of saving our relationship for so long. And couldn’t see any efforts from his side. I was tired of feeling worthless. I was tired of making myself ignore all the signs. “I’m not gonna come back, ever,” I said and went away from him. He was there standing. He did nothing. I waited for his calls for days, for months. I kept waiting but no response from his side. I used to cry myself to sleep. I was so tired of everything. I was fighting all alone. But I was tired of thinking about what’s going on in his head. To forget him. I moved out of this town, started a new life, met new people, made new friends. But never got involved with any man. I became so afraid of getting hurt again that I kept my distance from all the men and all these kinds of feelings. It damaged me completely. It broke my heart and shattered into millions of pieces. I’ve begged enough. Now it's about my self-respect. I’m not going to bend down anymore. He went out of the coffee shop. “ he is as stubborn as you.” My friend said. “ we all knew that” she added. “ Let him go.” I said. I took another sip from my glass took a deep breath and controlled all my thoughts. I’ve already fought so many battles. I knew someday this will happen. And I’ve already imagined this in my head several times. I’ve cried enough. I’ve hurt myself enough. Not this time. Not ever again. He wants to talk he will come. I'm not going to go to him. I’m done. My self-respect comes above all. I put myself above all. I’m only going to take care of myself. My emotions, my feelings, my surrounding, my family. I’m don’t begging in front of people. I love myself and that’s enough. We continued chatting and eating. " It's okay" i said to myself.


\ A pink-haired girl covered head-to-toe in unusual jewelry pitter-pattered into an apothecary in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, and certainly turned some heads. Onlookers stared disconcertedly as she mumbled to herself nervously, pacing back and forth. An employee walked up to her and asked, “Can I help you, miss?” Suddenly, the pink-haired girl looked up at the employee tearfully and replied anxiously, “Excuse me! Where can I find some horseradish root, thistle, and elderflowers? My friend is very sick and I need to make some medicine quickly!” “Uhh.. You know we have actual medicine for that, right?” “No! No! This has to be made with these specific herbs!” The pink-haired girl shook her head and clasped her hands together fearfully. “Okay, okay. I’ll go see if I can find some out back,” the employee gave a sigh and put his hands up, gesturing for the girl to wait where she was. He pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and began digging for the herbs the girl asked for. Then, his female coworker came up from behind him and as she helped him she whispered, “What a psycho. She’s probably another one of those occult-obsessed freaks...” “Maybe, maybe not. But psycho or not, she is a customer. This’ll probably make for an interesting bar story,” the male employee chuckled. When the male employee returned to give the herbs to the pink-haired girl, she immediately cheered up. “Thank you so much! You have no idea how much this will help!” she chirped as she walked over to the cash register with her bag of strange herbs. “You’re welcome, Miss. Have a nice day, and.... hope your friend feels better.” \ “I’m back!” The pink-haired girl rushed into the apartment living room with her bag of herbs, where an older woman with long black hair sat, tending to an injured man, bleeding from his stomach. “I've got the herbs you asked for!” she panted heavily. The older black-haired woman chuckled, “That’s a good little apprentice. Now hand them to me and go get the black cauldron.” “Right away, Ma'am!” the pink-haired girl saluted happily. “Go!” the black-haired woman scolded, sending her apprentice sprinting to the kitchen in fright. The injured man began to mumble in his feeble state, but the words were incoherent. “Ssshh... Take it easy. It would be best if you didn’t move for a while. Or talk... By sunrise, you’ll be good as new.” The black-haired woman began to trace a magic circle onto the man’s stomach with the man’s own blood, and then it began to glow red. The glowing red began to disperse all over the man’s body. The pink-haired apprentice stared mouth agape, at the spectacle from behind the kitchen wall. She brought over the black cauldron and the now cut-up herbs inside. “Perfect. Now we just need to let it brew.” When the healing potion was ready, the woman loosened the man’s lips so he could drink it. He started to mumble and groan. The potion was working its magic. The blood from his wound started sewing into itself until it disappeared completely. Soon enough, the injured man slipped into a much more peaceful sleep. “Wow... he’s really out like a light,” said the pink-haired girl. “See, *that’s* healing magic. Some day, I’ll teach you more. My apprentice.


I lie there in silence. It slowly starts to come back to me. I know I should be dreaming but I am truly awake. I feel an enormous weight on my heart. I know all the good, all the bad. I am aware that I am a small part of something much greater. Next to me is my friends and family. Quiet, breathing softly. Drifting away in another world, soft asleep. I am the first one to wake up. I have ‘that feeling’ that this has happened before. I remember much, but not everything. There is still much that I do not know or understand. I lie there thinking about this, blinking my eyes lazily, while looking up at the star covered night. I tell myself that I am not going to wake anyone this time. I tell myself that I am just going to lay there in peace, or just go back to sleep. No need to get up and leave. No need to wake anyone else up. I feel a tad fidgety and take in a deep breath. It is nice, the night sky, the air, calm. It is nice. I feel my upper body rises up, with the curve of the oncoming wave. The sudden upsurge reveals a smile on my face. My legs rise up as my chest sinks back down. I can always sit up and look at the waves that are going to come but it is more fun to be surprised. Another wave is coming, I can feel it. I slowly look over to the corner of my eye, to get a look at my sister’s face. She smiles while the wave takes her up, then becomes sad as the wave brings her back down. I understand what is happening, but it is hard to explain. I think back to the terms and lingo I used in my last dream. I want to simplify it. I want to describe it in a similar way. I think to myself, “It is like being on a waterbed. A really big one. We are all laying down on it together. Something in the center creates big waves on the waterbed by jumping up and down or something. These waves move over the whole thing. Over to all that are laying on it. They feel the waves together.” That is part of the reason I do not want to get up, I don’t want to make any ripples. It is not as simple as that. It is a lot more complex and elegant. Much like explaining to a bee why and how art theory makes a flower beautiful. The bee cannot understand, nor would it care. The bee is only interested in the flower for nectar for the hive. The bee doesn’t care about if or why the flower is beautiful. But in the end it is all the same Beauty, nectar, fuel, resources, it is all the same. Thinking about all of this really makes me question it’s validity. This kind of reasoning makes little sense in my last dream. How do I know that I am not dreaming right now? A subtle nervousness builds inside of me. Perhaps, this is just a lucid dream. Or perhaps, this is the reality. Maybe if I sit up I can see the oncoming ways. Maybe I can check to see if there are any major ones or any big surprises. Then I can go back to the dream and warn everyone.. Maybe, maybe. Perhaps, perhaps. I let out a deep sigh. I want to look around. I want to see if I can recognise any other faces around me. I want to know if any trouble is coming our way. I want to sit up, but I can’t. I feel almost immobilized. I know I can sit up if I really want to, but I do not want to create any ripples. I do not want to create a disturbance for anyone around me. I do not want to wake anyone else up. I want to remember. I want to fully understand everything. But I can’t for the life of me. I know I should just close my eyes and go back to sleep. Ride the waves and enjoy the highs and lows of an unexpected journey. I want to remain calm, but curiosity continues to burn inside of me. I want to sit up. I want to walk around. I want to see where the waves are coming from. I want to run away. I want to explore, but I know that I would be lonely. I also know that I would loose my spot if I left. I know I should just lie here and ride the wave. Go back to sleep, enjoy it, and ride the wave. I try to calm myself by repeating that phrase, ride the wave. Just ride the wave. I cannot take it any longer. I have to at least sit up. I look around, making sure that everyone is still asleep. I slowly and carefully sit up. I sit there quiet and think to myself, “See, that wasn’t so bad” I slowly start to turn my head, to look behind me, when I feel a gentle touch on my shoulder. It is my friend. He softly says, “Don’t look, it only makes it worse” I lie back down and close my eyes, as if I am going back to sleep. I didn’t really need to look. I did not really need to see what was the cause of the waves. I wanted to fall asleep. I wanted to go back to the dream. I probably would have if I had not already seen ‘it’ from the corner of my eye, moments before my friend tried to stop me. What I had seen, just, ruined me. I feel a torrent of fear and anger, twisting and billowing inside of me. I am mortified at the monstrosity my eyes had behold. I am livid at myself for breaking my own rule, a rule I had forgotten. Never gaze at the man behind the curtain. My moment of frustration was overtaken by a new onset panic. What if it saw me. What if it knew I looked. That horrible abominable creature, what fate should befall me and my loved ones if it knew I looked. I made a big mistake. A mistake that knew I would surely be paid for, when I go back into the dream. I have surely brought a terrible fate upon myself and those I love. Oh God, please forgive me for looking upon your glory. It is impossible to know if ‘it’ knew I had looked or not. It is impossible to fall asleep now knowing what I know. I just have to somehow relax and go back to sleep, ride the wave. The cosmic deity I have sinned against, by gazing upon, what horrors will it inflict on my as payment for my sins? That terrible malformed monster. A mere glance of it drives my mind to madness and back. I am sickened by the idea of its very existence, let alone it’s purpose. That thing, is the culmination of every person’s fear, hope, desire, passion, love, and hate. All of those raw feelings, mashed together in bastardised brown mush of horror. It is the physical manifestation of what everyone has and will ever feel. It feeds off our dreams. It sustains like a parasite of emotions that the people feel. In return, it creates their dreams and keeps them guessing. It creates a reality that we all share. That thing, is God as well as Satan. It gives us heaven, as well as hell. That repugnant thing is all there is. There is nothing I can do. They want it this way. If they rely and trust it, they are rewarded with good dreams. They are all willful puppets. We are all prisoners to fate in the cosmic dance. There is nothing that can done. I am but a flea on the back of a boar. I cannot stop it, I cannot help it. I can only ride the wave. A tear runs down the side of my face while I try to force out, of my mind, all that I had just discovered. I have to forget. I have to go back to sleep. I have to escape anyway I can. I murmur a phrase to myself. Something to focus my mind on, something to distract myself with. “Ride the wave, just ride the wave.” The wave is unpredictable, and can surprise you if you let it. Just go with the flow. Just ride the wave. That’s all I can do. That is all that anyone can do. Just ride the wave. Brain idea I lie on the rippling water bed. Timothy jumps up and down. I close my eyes and embrace the wildness of the wave. My torso rises up with the oncoming wave. My rump begins to rise as my chest sinks back down. I smile. “Oh my gosh, it is like floating in the ocean. I love it!” Timothy smiles and jumped again, sending another wave my way.


Dave moves the boxes from our shipment this morning in his usual burly silence. His brows are hard-set and he keeps his head down, blocking out everything else but the task at hand. I wonder, for the hundredth time, how someone like him could stand working at a florist, where everything is sweet-smelling and full of color. From the first moment we began working together about three years ago, I could see that everything about him was in stark contrast to our surroundings: always dressing in dark colors, always a stony expression, seldom bothering to utter a word. At least I try to be professional. “It’s good that these bulbs came early,” I say, “But how are we going to get a truck on short notice? We’ll need more than our van to get them to the branch in Loterville, and there’s not enough room to just keep them here.” “Already got one, Adeline,” Dave mutters, almost sounding bored. “A truck? When?” “When we ordered the bulbs.” “How could you reserve one so far in advance?” “I know a guy.” “The same guy we usually talk to?” “Hmph.” I can’t tell if that’s a yes or no. As stoic as he is, it seems to be worse when I’m around. Like he just can’t be bothered. I’ve always wondered what it is about me that he doesn’t seem to care for, but then he’s not exactly what they call a ‘people person’. He minds his own business and expects everyone else to mind theirs. But today he seems on edge, and once again it’s up to me to keep things bearable. “Well, in any case they’ll be really happy to get these. The blooms are best I’ve seen in a while. I like them over the white ones. What do you think?” “They’re flowers. They’re all nice.” “Yeah but which do you really like ?” “I like them all.” It’s hopeless. He might as well be saying he doesn’t like any of them. I bet if there was a gray-colored flower he’d like it. It would match his soul. “We need to recount these,” he says, straightening up to survey the boxes, “There’s an uneven number. We might be missing a few.” “I’ll get the list.” I jump up, slightly relieved to get a few moments away from the curmudgeon. I dip into my office by the back rooms and get the clipboard with our list of orders on my desk. On my way out, a flash of color catches my eye. The door to the next room is slightly ajar, and I can see what looks like a bouquet of bright-colored flowers sitting on the desk beyond. Curious, I deftly push open the door and walk up to the flowers to inspect. It’s a lovely bouquet. Yellow mums, marigolds, red roses and lots of pink lilies, tastefully punctuated with baby’s breath. All held in a pretty crystal vase. There’s a card sticking up at the top: Adeline, Happy Birthday! Enjoy the flowers <3 That’s so sweet! This must have come from our boss - she sends me a bouquet every year on my birthday. She always uses the choicest blooms. But this year she’s a day early. I stoop down to smell one of the lilies when I hear steps in the hall behind me. “You weren’t supposed to see that!” I whirl around to find Dave standing in the doorway, his frame nearly taking up the whole space. His shoulders are tense and he’s running his palms down his sides. “Not yet, anyway...” he adds under his breath. “I just -” I gesture vaguely to the vase of flowers, taken off guard by his sudden change in demeanor. Dave sighs. “Well, happy birthday,” he says, sounding defeated and gesturing vaguely as I did toward the bouquet. “Thanks,” I reply uncertainly, “They’re really nice. But they’re early.” “Yeah, they...came in this morning.” Dave’s being weird about me seeing them. I can’t imagine why - though it’s a surprise to have them today, it happens every year. Why would he be bothered? He’s never bothered. “I’ll get the truck,” he says, “We can start loading the bulbs and make the shipment this afternoon.” “But we haven’t recounted the boxes yet,” I say, waving my clipboard in the air. “I found the other ones; we forgot to bring them in,” he says over his shoulder as he walks away. * We make it to Loterville by 2 pm and the delivery goes without a hitch. Just when we’re wrapping things up with the shop owner, our boss Susan DeGellinger sweeps in through the front door, tinkling the shop bell hanging above it. “Hey all!” she says with a bright smile. Her blonde hair is up in an elegant bun and she’s dressed in business casual, Starbucks in hand. “I was just thinking I might run into you guys here - I heard you got the bulbs in.” “Yeah,” I say, “Just finished with the delivery.” “Great.” “Oh, and thank you so much for the flowers.” “Flowers?” Susan walks up to the front counter and sets down her coffee and bag. “Yeah, the bouquet for my birthday.” “Oh,” She leans sideways on the counter with a frown, “I was going to get you an edible arrangement - spoilers! But maybe Anna ordered them?” she turns to the shop owner who had just returned behind the counter. “No, wasn’t me,” Anna replies. “Oh...” I glance up at Dave standing beside me. His hands are shoved in his pockets and there’s a glimmer of sweat near his hairline. What is with him? And why did he lie about the flowers? “Maybe they’re from a secret admirer,” says Susan, waggling her eyebrows. “Yeah right," I laugh, "Especially since almost every guy I know is either taken or unavailable.” “You never know,” she shrugs. Dave clears his throat. “I’m going to close up the truck so we can head back.” He shoves a thumb over his shoulder and stalks off toward the back of the shop. “Is he alright? He didn’t look so good,” says Susan. “Yeah he’s been acting a little weird today. Maybe just one of his moods.” “If he gets worse tell him to go home. The man’s going to work himself to death one of these days.” “Will do.” * When we get back to the shop, Dave is completely silent. We go about our separate tasks - he’s messing around with the cash register and I pick up a broom to sweep. We’re closed today, so we’re just doing some housekeeping before wrapping up. I grip the broom handle as I sweep with slow, deliberate strokes. I want to confront him about the bouquet, but hesitant to break the ice. I keep predicting he will deny the whole thing, but he clearly knew about it, and obviously wanted to keep it from me till my actual birthday tomorrow. So what is he not telling me? I risk a glance at him. He’s frowning at receipts from yesterday. How do I go about this? Do I just... Oh, to hell with it. He’s going to be disagreeable anyway. “Why did you lie about the flowers?” He freezes. His frown deepens and he doesn’t move for almost a full minute. Then he slowly gathers the receipts to clip together. “I didn’t lie,” he mumbles, keeping his eyes fixed on the countertop. “But you knew I thought they came from Susan, except she didn’t get me any this year and you didn’t tell me who they were actually from.” “Does it matter?” “Yes, it does.” “You got flowers for your birthday. It’s a nice thing. Who cares if it’s from Susan or not?” “I care, because you’re being really weird about it and I want to know why.” Dave heaves a sigh. “Look, just tell me--” “It doesn’t matter!” he blurts. “Who cares? I don’t care -” “Yeah because you don’t care about anything!” His tone sets me off. I shove the broom into a corner and cross my arms. “You don’t have to tell me you don’t care. I know that! And I know you don’t care about me and that’s fine, I just want to know where they came from. That’s it! Is that so hard?” He finally looks up at me. His gaze is intense, with something like regret etched between his brows. I stare right back, waiting for his response. When it doesn’t come, I scoff. “Whatever. I’ll just take them and go home.” I stomp toward the back rooms. As I pass behind the counter, he leaps a couple steps forward to grab my arm. “Wait,” he says. I look up at him about to protest, but his expression stops me in my tracks. He looks...sad? “I’m sorry,” he whispers. I blink at him. He loosens his grip on my arm and shoves his hands into his pockets like he did earlier at the other shop. “I’m sorry. For always - well, I know I’m not a joy to work with.” He shrugs. “It’s just that...I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he rubs the back of his neck and avoids my incredulous stare. It takes him a few moments to seemingly gather himself before taking a deep breath. “The flowers are mine - er, they came from me.” I blink again. “You?” “Yeah. They...always have.” “What do you mean?” “Susan never sent you flowers for your birthday. But I always signed them with her name.” “What?” Dave takes another breath, still looking anywhere but directly at me. His face is rose red. “Why would you do that?” I ask. “Because...I wanted...I thought if I...” he sighs, “I know we’re not usually on the friendliest of terms. I thought it might be weird if I just gave them to you.” “Well, what’s wrong with that? I’ve always liked them, and it’s my birthday anyway. What would be so weird about that?” He sucks in a breath, shaking his head slightly. He looks at me with a strange mix of uncertainty and eagerness, like he’s asking a question or... Oh. Wow. Okay, this is so far out of left field - no, it’s so far out of the stadium, the city, the continent. How? This is the guy who shrugs everything off and ignores me and even sometimes avoids me and...it’s all backwards. I don’t know what to say and we stand there awkwardly for what feels like ages. I look up and see Dave - flushed and sweating buckets - and it’s like seeing a whole new person. Where has he been all this time? I consider for a second. Maybe the real Dave is completely different from the one I know. Maybe he never meant to be so standoffish. Maybe he just couldn’t... I step forward and tilt my head to catch his eye. At last he seems able to meet mine, and now his dark brown gaze is so steady it doesn’t break. “You could have just given me the flowers.” He takes a shaky breath. “Yeah well...” “And if you didn’t hate me all this time, you didn’t have to always act like you did.” “You think I hate you?” he looks genuinely pained. I gesture vaguely with a look that says well, duh. Another sigh and a shrug. “I guess it’s just my way to cope.” “Still doesn’t give you a pass.” “I know. Sorry.” More awkward silence. This whole thing has taken such a wild turn. Part of me wants to dig further in, to talk more about why he’s always so closed off and whether things will change from now on. But in the moment, it feels like there’s nothing more to be said. There will be more time for digging later. Maybe. I hope. “You are good at arrangements, though,” I offer tentatively. He looks up and breaks a half-smile. I’ve never seen him do that, and I’m almost surprised his face doesn’t crack. But I have to admit it’s a really nice smile. “Thanks,” he says. “So...I’m going to take that one home now.” I point over my shoulder toward the back room where my bouquet is waiting. “Yeah, go ahead.” I’m about to turn away - then pause. “Dave?” “Yeah?” “...It’s kind of nice to know that you don’t hate me.” He looks right at me with another half-smile and says, “Not even a little.” Suddenly I feel my own face grow hot. What is happening?! Before he can notice I whirl around and disappear into the back hallway.


Here in the desert, far from the city lights, the Heavens show off their brilliance. The stars above look like silver glitter strewn across a dark canvas, no space is left untouched. This is the canopy that covers the stranded family. Earlier that day: They had come to visit the waterfall and creek that ran by the ancient homestead. The father had stumbled across it during one of his hunting trips. It was beautiful, quiet and secluded. The remains of a stone house, sat between two fingers of the mountain. It had rained a lot this summer, so the waterfall splashed down into a pool that ran off into a small creek that flowed next to the home. The home is only rock walls and a floor, the roof, doors and windows are gone, buffeted and torn away by the winds of time. In its heyday the homestead was a gorgeous haven. The mountain snuggled the area on three sides and there was a huge boulder across the stream, it was covered in Indian pictograms. Enormous Mesquite trees filled the area; shading the house, the boulder and the stream. The family came here often; it was their own hidden paradise. Today they had come, to escape the heat, allowing the children to play in the stream and lower waterfall. High up in the bow of the mountain sat a pool fed by an underground spring. It was the source of the stream the kids played in, the water traveled down three separate falls before flowing past the old homestead. Mesquite trees shaded the top and several more large boulders sat across the area. Two of the boulders were covered in more pictograms, but one was flat with a shallow depression in the center. The stone was a smooth bowl, most likely used for grinding corn when Indians still roamed the land. “Daddy! Look we found some arrowheads.” Madison excitedly exclaimed. The boys showed their parents their treasures too. “Those are wonderful.” Bethany exclaimed as she admired her children’s treasures. “Time to go kids.” Their father called, they all climbed out of the stream and their mom had them climb out of their sandy clothes. She rinsed them off and wrapped them in towels. At the truck she put on their clean clothes. Then she helped them climb into the truck. Their father turned the key and nothing happened, he tried again and still nothing, he popped the hood and tried to get the truck to start but it was dead. The children bounced around excitedly waiting to return home, they didn’t notice their parents concern. “What are we going to do Adam? It’s at least 25 miles to anything!” Bethany softly cried. “I know, and we can’t wait for someone to find us, our water and food won’t last long, and nobody knows where we are at. Hell nobody even knows of this place!” He wraps his arms around his wife as they come to terms with the dangerous situation they were in. “We are going to have to walk out.” “Adam! The kids will never be able to walk that far! I don’t think I can walk that far, especially in this heat!” “I’ll make a travois out of the sleeping bags and a couple sturdy poles; I have an ax in my tool chest. We’ll also wait until the sun goes down. Don’t worry we’ll be fine” They stood together, embracing as they prayed to God to be with their family. “But still 25 miles, that could take days!” “We should be able to make it to Valencia rd. by morning, that’s about 10 miles from here, then we’ll set up shade and wait for nightfall to continue. Another 6 or 7 miles should be getting us to Happy Trails rd it’s more traveled. Hopefully then we’ll be able to catch a ride into town from there.” Adam assured her. “We’ll have to ration the water and snacks, the kids won’t be happy.” Bethany sighed looking over at her children playing in the truck. “Kids get out of the truck.” “Aren’t we going home?” Madison who was six asked. “We’re going to have an adventure; the truck doesn’t want to start, so we’re going to walk through the desert tonight, how does that sound?” Adam asked his children. Benjamin, four and Robbie three, squealed in excitement. Madison frowned however, remembering how far it was. Their mother got blankets out of the truck and laid them out under the big mesquite tree. “We’re going to take a little nap now so we’ll be rested for our walk.” Their mother told them. “I’m hungry!” Robbie whined. Bethany pulled a small bag of crackers out of her knapsack and handed it to the kids, “Mine!” Robbie cried out. “No Robbie, you need to share those.” The kids ate them and drank from the bottled water their Mom gave them. “Time for our nap.” “I’m still hungry Mommy!” Benjamin said. “I’m sorry honey that’s all. Now lie down and take a nap,” “But it’s still daytime.” Benjamin complained. “We have a big adventure ahead of us tonight and if you don’t take a nap you won’t be able to stay awake.” Adam told his son. “Now do as your mother said and take a nap. Bethany honey, you should try to sleep too.” “What about you? I could help get things ready.” “I’ll lie down after I make the travois, it’s a one man job, so try to get some sleep, it’s going to be a long night.” Adam kissed her forehead and walked away. Bethany softly sang to the kids, they fall asleep almost instantly; it didn’t take long for sleep to come because they had worn themselves out playing. Bethany soon followed the kids into slumber. Adam finished the travois, rigging the ice chest to the bottom, so the kids wouldn’t slide off the end. Then he set his watch for 8:00 pm and laid a flashlight and his pistol beside his head and tried to catch some sleep. He laid there looking at the sky praying, “God please be with us and give me the strength to get my family home safely.” ************************************************ Adam and Bethany woke at 8:00 pm; they got all the snacks together and made a meal out of what they had left from the picnic. Waking the children they fed them then got them situated on the travois. “I’ll walk Mommy, so Daddy doesn’t have to pull me too.” Madison said to her parents, even though they said nothing, she could tell they were worried. “You have to hold your mothers hand the whole time, it’s really dark and we don’t want to loose you.” Her father told her. “And, if you get tired at all, you can get up with the boys, I’m strong enough to pull you too, okay.” Madison promised and they all set out from the truck. “Who’s going to be with our Truck? What if it gets scared?” Benjamin asked worriedly. “The truck is fine, Honey. We locked her all up and she’ll sleep until we come back for her.” His mom assured him as they walked down the dry riverbed. The first hour the boys noisily chattered away, finally falling back to sleep. Her parents were mostly quiet as they walked through the dark desert. It was kind of scary, when they neared a huge water trough she heard lots of squeaks and what sound like paper being crumbled. “What’s that noise Daddy” “Those are bats honey, don’t worry they aren’t after you, they are after the bugs near the water.” Just as he finished telling her that something large swooped over head, the breeze from it fluttered her hair. Before she could cry out, “Just an owl, Sweetheart a really big owl.” He replied shakily. “How much farther is it to the dirt road?” Her mother asked about a half hour later. “It shouldn’t be much farther, but I’m not sure. I always look for the tracks that enter the riverbed, but I can’t see anything in this light. Why don’t you switch on the flashlight and scan the banks. The flashlight was dim, barely lighting the area. “Wonderful.” Her mom muttered, casting a nervous glance to her father. Madison didn’t want to think about the looks that were passing between her parents, so she looked into the sky, her mom kept a hold of her hand, guiding her in the dark. The sky was glittered with stars. “He counts the number of the stars; he gives names to them all. Great is our God.” Madison softly whispered a scripture she’d learned at Sunday school. “What did you say Honey?” Madison didn’t answer her Mother. She was trying to count the biggest brightest stars, but she kept loosing track. Then one bright star caught her eye, it seemed to be coming closer. “Mama, look that star is coming down.” “I don’t see it, did it already pass by?” “No Mom its right over our heads!” her mom looked into the sky. “I’m sorry honey I still don’t see it.” Madison looked at her mother in astonishment, how could she not see the bright light floating above them. It wasn’t a star, but it was very bright. *“Tell your father to stop the road he is looking for is right here.” The light shown on the tracks to the road they had just passed. “Daddy the road is there, under the bright light.” “Madison, stop playing pretend, we need to really find the road.” “But Daddy it’s right over here!” Madison jerked her hand away from her mother and ran to the road. “Madison! Get back here, you were told to not let go of my ha........, Adam! It’s the road! We almost passed it. How in the world did you see it, Madison?” “Just lucky, I guess.” Madison said watching the bright light. The walk became a little easier, since they were no longer trudging through the sand. The bright light stayed with them but only Madison saw it. “Adam, look in the distance, do you see that light?” “I do, I didn’t think there were any homes out here. We’ll go in that direction.” They took a road that branched off from where they had been going, that light held more promise than the road they were walking towards. *“He gives light to those in darkness, to guide their feet to the way of peace and safety.” The voice spoke out of the darkness. It comforted Madison. They’d been walking for close to 3 hours and Madison was stumbling with each step, the light was still with them, watching over them. “Adam stop, Madison needs to get on the travois.” “I’m amazed she has lasted this long.” Madison groggily smiled at her dad and crawled next to her sleeping brothers. Her mom walked up to her dad and grabbed one of the poles and they continue walking toward the light in the distance. It was farther than it had seemed but still closer than the other option. Madison had just started to close her eyes when the coyotes started howling close by. Her eyes jerked wide open as another howled then another and another. They were all around them. And it sounded like there were a lot of them. Adam handed his gun to Bethany and told her to follow behind the travois to keep the children safe and be watchful. “Coyotes are usually more afraid of people than we are of them.” Adam said reassuredly. Madison watched as three more bright lights joined the first, *“Even though you walk through the dark desert, fear not because your God watches over you.” A voice spoke from the bright light again. Obviously her parents didn’t hear it, because they said nothing and her mom looked terrified trembling with every howl.” Madison knew they wouldn’t believe her if she told them what the light said, they couldn’t even see the lights so she decided to sing instead. “I raise a hallelujah, with everything inside of me I raise a hallelujah, I will watch the darkness flee Her mom and dad joined in; “I raise a hallelujah, in the middle of the mystery I raise a Hallelujah, fear you lost your hold on me.” I raise a hallelujah, my weapon is a melody I raise a hallelujah, Heaven comes to fight for me. Madison heard the beings of light join their voices with hers, and she felt her heart swell, the coyotes were still howling but at a distance now. Her Mom picks another song and they continue singing. The scary feeling is gone; she can even tell her mom isn’t afraid anymore. As they walk they continue singing, it seems time stands still as they walk singing praises to the Lord. Suddenly the beings of light leave, disappearing into the night sky. “No, Don’t Leave! Please stay!” Madison cries out as she watches them depart. “Who’s there? Show yourself, I’m a Police officer!” Shouts a voice in the distance. “Help us! My name is Adam, I’m with my family, we’ve been stranded in the desert.” “Come out where I can see you!” the officer yells as he flicks on the lights of his cruiser. Bethany puts the gun in her pack and they pull the travois onto the paved road. When the officer sees the children, he releases a sign of relief; he hadn’t expected to run into anyone on this desolate road, especially at this time of night. Adam lets him know they have a gun, which he takes for now, then he helps them all into his cruiser. The boys wake up excited to see the officer. “It’s a miracle that you were here; we’ve been walking for hours. Our truck died so we had to walk out.” Adam told the officer. “How far back is it?” “About 10 miles, we were by the old homestead.” The officer whistles, “That is quite a dangerous walk with coyotes and cougars out here. I came out here because we had a call about an abandon vehicle, but I couldn’t find one. I was ready to leave when your daughter yelled at me to stop.” “I didn’t yell at you, I yelled at the Angels in the balls of light, they were with us in the desert, they kept the coyotes away and they lit the way for us. I didn't wasnt then to leave.” Madison told them. “They lit the way?” The officer asked. “We followed the light from the house in the distance.” Her father clarified. “There are No houses or buildings for miles around here.” Her Father steps out of the cruiser and scans the horizon. He can't see the light, actually he doesn't see any lights at all. A mountain lion screams close by and Adam hurriedly returns to the cruiser. The officer smiles and starts the vehicle,” I’d say you just experienced a bonafide miracle. You know the Bible tells us we should see through the eyes of a child. Sometimes they see and experience more of God’s supernatural wonders than adults do, because they see through eyes of wonder and innocence. For you to have walked all that way through the night safely, shows that God was watching out for you.” As they drove away Madison turned around in the back seat, kneeling so she could stare up into the stars, “Thank you Lord for being with us.” She watched as a bright star seemed to twinkle at her, acknowledging her prayer.


thoughts??? ideas on where to take it??  Naturally, I use a washing machine to wash my clothes. Unnaturally, I think about how it makes it so easy to forget dirt stains and the memories that came with them. Even the stubborn ones go away after a while. The laundromat doesn’t let you wash rubber-lined mats, but I wash them anyway. I conceal them in a ball of cotton sheets and shove them into the corner washer as quickly as possible. The same way, I shove them into the dryer. They only need 4 quarters; a good 20 minutes and they dry right up. It's amazing. The fresh scent Tide on my washroom rubber mats, all the filth and blood wrung out of them. I want to think the dryer is gentle to them, pulling out the moisture softly and kindly. But in reality, the inside of the dryer is aggressive and unforgiving. Dangerously humid and bleak. Yes, I know this for a fact. There’s no one else here except for the plump middle-aged lady who’s always at the front folding other peoples’ laundry. Everyone calls her Bea. Does Miss Bea get pleasure out of folding soft strangers’ clothes; does she ever find money in their pockets? And what type of people don’t have time to wash their own laundry? I’m thinking this as she steams the pleats of a woman’s dress that she couldn’t even dream of ever fitting into. I wonder about the woman who wears that dress - probably tall, slender and deliciously round in all the right places. Maybe she wears it a big established corporate office. A big businesswoman like herself wouldn’t wear anything less pretty. In fact, she shouldn’t - unless I was with her.We, meaning myself and my laundry walk ourselves back to my car. The air outside is a type of cold you just want to breathe in like the smoke from a Belmont cigarette. It’s the type of air that hurts to breathe after a while. The sun was pale and sad, like the moon had decided to come out instead. Maybe the sun took a sick day. The snow however looked rather sparkly and confident but only where no one had walked all over it and ruined it. Everyone loves new snow but its only fun shovelling until it turns into a disgusting sludge of dirt, branches and lost mittens and hats - then I’m lucky if I find a matching pair to wear the next time it snows. I plop the drawstring bag under the cheap black carpet lining of the trunk where the spare tire should have been. Walking back to the front of my 2014 Toyota Corolla, I look back at the laundromat:NEW WORLD LAUNDRYIt’s a weekly trip to the washed-out pale blue and white sign on Parliament Street. But for some reason I don’t think I’ll be back next week.I inhale a couple Oreos that I have in a little packet kept in the glove compartment. Then the metaphysical world hits me and I feel the rough texture of the third Oreo. I wonder why they bother putting such a complicated design on the cookie when no one pays attention to them. What’s the point of making things more complicated than they have to be? Does it affect the Oreo experience? I laugh out loud in my sparse voice. Here I am, in my cab with a box of designer cookies. When did I start affording such luxuries? Of course, I knew it from the Cross of Lorraine. Geometric crusader cookies. I even remember googling it. I laughed again, louder this time as though someone was going to start laughing with me. The cream is sickly sweet but soft enough to make me want more. So, I have a few more before rolling down my window and wiping the cookie crumbs off my long veiny fingers. My hands instantly freeze in the cold air and I wish they’d just fall off. I am elemental so this will be no resolution. I will exist even after I have existed. Water exists even after it goes down the drain. They just wash it and send it back to you. The same old water. How do they call it? Water purification. I reckon I’ll be drinking laundry water the next time I go back home for a cup of tap water.The streets are far too bare to make money. All I know is I’m wasting gas driving around the city waiting for someone to hail me to the side or for an operator to buzz me in and assign me a pickup. Maybe I should go home and drop off my laundry, I think. But instead I stop for a cup of coffee. I park on the flat street in between an ugly 2007 Saturn Ion and a clunky Subaru Tribeca.This coffee shop is sweet. It’s one of those cute little cubes squished slightly behind a failing law office and another lesser quality restaurant. The baristas wear white shirts and beige aprons. Mmm. I spot the woman who makes my bitter coffee taste sweet. She could even make coffee burnt beyond recognition taste like molasses. I’m still working on my hypothesis, but I think it’s her long curly brown-blonde hair and deep almond eyes that make the coffee sweet, and not the sugar. I couldn’t care less for the coffee. I couldn’t care more about her.She hands me the cup and the immediate warmth of her love makes me shiver. “Thank you.” I say to her, smiling with my teeth and making pertinent eye contact. “You’re welcome.” is all she says back to me. If only she knew how badly I wanted to make love to her peaceful looking body. Could I have had found peace in her as badly as I wanted to offer her peace? I wanted to tell her how much I wanted to hold her around the small of her back. How much I wanted her bare chest pressed against mine. And I think most of all, I just wanted her to kiss me. Although graceful in her movements, she disappears into the back of the store quickly. Suddenly I remember I mean nothing to her, and my coffee feels strangely cold. Grief-stricken, overpriced coffee in hand, I walk back out onto the sidewalk. Just as I’m about to get back into my car, I open the lid, let the steam hit my face for a couple of seconds before pouring the brown water onto the street, watching it making its way towards a rain gutter.


THE AGE OF INNOCENCE They sat on the grass outside the village library awaiting Toby’s return; he having been sent to scope out the building. They watched as he walked back towards them, a mournful look on his face. “It’s the old battle-axe on duty. She absolutely loathes me so I daren’t ask her. What do we do now?’ Miss Aznavour, the librarian, at the age of 36, hardly qualified for Toby’s description of being old. Nor was she a battle-axe. Rather, in her usual twin set and pearls, she was the epitome of a woman who had long given up hope of finding love and lived with her French mother in a cottage just a stone’s throw from her place of employment, resigned to her spinsterhood. To Miss Aznavour, the children of the village were her children and, little did they know, that she spent hours devouring book reviews and selecting suitable books for the children of Pinewater Village so that they, too, could discover the wonderful worlds that existed in literature, much as she, herself, had done as a child. When they did well in their exams or were accepted by a university, as Sebastian had been, she glowed with pride. She watched as Sebastian approached her. Intelligent, handsome Sebastian, though fast departing adolescence, still retained a touch of innocence that melted Marie Aznavour’s heart. “Hello, Sebastian. You’ve been delegated, have you?” Sebastian looked up shyly at the librarian, a puzzled look on his face, but followed her stare towards the library doors and the four faces peeping in. Swallowing, he got straight to the point. “I say, Miss Aznavour, yesterday, Toby returned a book and...” “Swallows and Amazons. I seem to recall it was one of your favourites, Sebastian. At least, I presumed so as you checked it out so many times”. Sebastian blushed red. He was of an age, with college fast approaching, when he did not care to be reminded too often of his youthful pastimes. “The thing is, Miss, we think he may have misplaced a five pound note inside the book, possibly uh, probably, that is. I wondered...” “Well, why don’t we have a look, Sebastian?” With a quick glance back at his friends, Sebastian followed the woman to the children’s section of the library where she scoured the book shelves, alphabetically labelled. Under R there was no sign of the book. Sebastian’s face expressed his glumness. “Well, it’s not here, is it? I’m quite sure that it hasn’t been checked out again -which means that Vera, my assistant, can’t have processed it yet. Let’s try the returned book trolley”. Sebastian’s face brightened, once more, as he followed her dutifully. “All ready for university, Sebastian?” “Uh, yes, Miss. Yes I am. Though it will be a wrench to leave, you know, the village”. “And your friends, too, I expect”. “Yes, of course”. “Here we are and, look, here it is. Vera can be a bit slow to process returned books. You’re lucky. If I had been on duty yesterday evening, this book may already have been checked out by another fortunate child. Now, let’s see”. With Sebastian looking on expectantly, the librarian took the book by its front cover and shook it. Out fluttered the five pound note. Sebastian grabbed at it delightedly. “What’s it for, this money, if you don’t mind me asking?” “Oh no, Miss. Not at all. You see, we all pooled our piggy bank savings and took all the coins to the bank and exchanged it for this note. We plan to go to Holtoms and order up as much food and pop as we can afford and have a farewell party”. Miss Aznavour smiled at this but was puzzled by one thing. “But why the note? Mr Holtom would have accepted money in any form, surely?” Blushing, Sebastian answered. “We just want to see the look on his face. You see, every time one of us enters his shop, he follows us around suspiciously as if we’re thieves. It’s rather annoying. We just want to see the look on his greedy face. It’s silly, I suppose...” “No. I understand perfectly, Sebastian”. And, looking at the librarian anew, Sebastian, somehow, knew that she did understand. Just an hour earlier, the five friends had been crowded into Toby’s bedroom, rummaging through his drawers, rifling through books, emptying out his wardrobe; clothes and artefacts scattered everywhere. Sebastian, the eldest, suddenly called for quiet. “Wait! This is crazy. Let’s all calm down for just a mo and think”. “Gosh, I hope you’ll all help me tidy this mess up before my mother gets home”, Toby whined, looking around at the bomb site that his bedroom had become. “You can just blooming well clean it up yourself, Tobes. You’re the cause of all this, after all”, Toby’s sister, Pete, short for Petunia, responded. Sebastian, the undoubted leader of this motley gang, called for silence. Outside, birds could be heard singing away happily as they revelled in the sunshine; all talk of possible war with Germany forgotten on this perfect English summer day. “Now listen, chaps”, he began, Pete glowing with pride at being considered one of the chaps but Alice, her cousin, who spent an inordinate amount of time preening herself in front of a mirror, not so enamoured of this collective noun, crinkled her nose in protest. Sebastian, oblivious to the fact that he was the reason for her titivating, continued. “Let’s all have a jolly good think about this. Toby, what were your exact movements yesterday after Jasper gave you the envelope?” Toby, a shy bookish boy, much given to distraction and absent-mindedness, took off his glasses and polished them on his Ladybird tee shirt, a sign that he was giving serious consideration to this question. “Well, I remember coming home...” “You s.s.said that you were going to return your library b.b.books b.b.because one of them w.w.was overdue”, blurted Jasper, his stutter evident as usual whenever he was excited. “Yes, that’s right . One of them was overdue and I didn’t want to cop another fine. Rather a good yarn, too, Have any of you read Swall...” “Never mind about the book , Toby. Did you go to the library? Yes or no?” “Well, as a matter of fact, I did. I’d forgotten all about that. Thanks, Jasp”. The others let out a unified sigh of exasperation. “You nitwit, Tobes. How could you forget that you went to the library?” Pete exclaimed; always ready to find fault with her brother. “Toby, we have spent hours searching everywhere in this house for the envelope, including the destruction of your bedroom, and you failed to tell us that you had actually visited the library after you had returned home. Can you not see how frustrating you are? You were specifically entrusted with the care of the money and...” Sebastian was halted in mid-stream as Jasper, despite his speech ailment, the most gung-ho of the five friends, clambered over Toby’s bed and darted for the door. “Jasp, where are you off to?” his sister, Alice, called after him. “T.t.to the l.l.library!”. Of course, she had understood. Marie Aznavour, though English, had arrived in Pinewater with her French mother which was reason enough to have been cast as an outsider; a label that had taken several years for her to throw off. Oh yes, Miss Aznavour knew only too well what it was like to be viewed suspiciously in Holtoms. This same Marie Aznavour who, upon the death of her mother in three years time, would volunteer her services, as a French speaking person, to SOE, be parachuted into occupied France to work with the resistance, would discover love, finally and briefly, in the arms of a resistance leader, be betrayed by his jealous wife, captured and tortured by the Gestapo and, finally, executed at Dachau concentration camp just two days before it was liberated by the Americans, smiled as she watched Sebastian rejoin his friends gleefully. She felt deep joy as the five children whooped and hugged over the recovery of the five pound note; her children. The village shop, owned by Mr and Mrs Holtom and known to one and all as Holtoms, stood adjoining the cobbler’s opposite the village green. It was the only food shop in the vicinity and Mr. Holtom was well aware of that, charging far too much for food items that, otherwise, would have entailed a ten mile journey to the nearest town; an undertaking most villagers could not easily make as they did not own a motor car. In one corner of this store, which, somehow, seemed to stock everything, stood a glass cabinet in which every conceivable sweet that a child could possibly want was displayed. Though the glass prevented a shopper from touching, nevertheless, whenever a child entered the store and, as if drawn by magnetic force, made a beeline for this treasure trove, Mr Holtom would drop whatever he was doing, no matter how important, and scrutinise the child until, finally, he, or she, would move away. He may as well have put up a sign: No window shopping allowed. To Mr Holtom only good, hard cash was important. What a shock this man received when the five burst into his emporium and, instead of clamouring around his glass display of untouchables, they, led by that Sebastian whose father owned the only motor car in Pinewater, gathered around the main counter with a grocery list of adult items. Mrs. Holtom, her eyes transfixed by the sight of that large, blue, Bank of England five pound note that Sebastian held in his hand, rushed to fill his order while her avaricious partner looked on, mouth agape. Poor timid, put upon Mrs. Holtom, dominated by her husband, would suffer a severe mental breakdown from which she would never recover when, in exactly twelve months time, she would be the recipient of a telegram informing her of the death of her only child, Flying Officer Nigel Holtom, RAF, whose single seater Supermarine Spitfire aircraft would be shot down in an aerial encounter with German aircraft that would become known as The Battle of Britain. While we are in this part of the village, let us spare a thought for the cobbler whose shop adjoined Holtoms. This man had arrived in Pinewater, from Warsaw, Poland, almost twenty five years previously and had set up shop before the Holtoms, themselves, had arrived. Yet he was still considered an outsider despite the demand for his undoubted skill at repairing shoes. Not even addressed by the moniker of “cobbler,” he was known to all and sundry as “the shoe mender”. Real name: Karel Koslowski, he worked diligently every day, smiled politely to all his customers, returned to his lonely cottage each night and pined for his Polish family. Four years from now, he would open his shop, as usual, one morning, then lock the door. Quietly, he would extract the laces from the many, many pairs of shoes that sat on shelves, their leather giving this shop its pungent, familiar odour. Then he would weave, knot and fashion a noose and hang himself from the oaken rafter; as he swung, the letter he had received that morning, informing him of the death of his mother and father in the gas chambers of Auschwitz, would flutter to the ground. The five needed two trips in the rowing boat across to One Tree Island, in order to transport themselves and their goods. The boat belonged to Sebastian’s father and was moored on the private jetty that loomed over the Thames at the bottom of the family garden. As they hauled the wooden crate of pop and the picnic basket up onto the grass, unknown to them, they were being observed through binoculars by Professor Quintin Channon, Sebastian’s father, from his study at the rear of the house. Once he saw that all five were safely ashore, he relaxed and left them to enjoy their feast. How he longed to tell his only child how much he loved him but the “stiff upper lip” instilled in him as a child simply forbade it. This highly intelligent man would go on to win honours for his work at Bletchley Park, breaking down the German’s Enigma Code that would help win the war for England, but would never recover from the loss of his beloved son who, only a few months into university life, would suddenly, in a fit of patriotic duty, enlist, only to lose his life in the Dunkirk evacuation. Their food laid out on the picnic blanket, their mouths watering, the five friends stared with pride at the feast they had gathered: pork pies, sausage rolls, scotch eggs, great slabs of Cadbury’s chocolate. In the crate sat bottles of their favourite pop: Cream Soda, Tizer and Lucozade; all warm and fizzy. Little did they know that this would be their last supper together; the age of innocence passing. They reminisced, laughed and gorged until, fully sated, they made their way back across to the jetty in the twilight. Petunia and Toby, would never hear of Sebastian’s death for they would be sent by their parents to the “safety” of relatives in the United States upon the outbreak of war but would both be among the 117 passengers of the S.S. Athenia that perished when struck by a German torpedo off the coast of Scotland. My sister, Alice, and I would mourn our two cousins and friends together, inconsolable. A year later, when the news of Sebastian’s death was revealed, the shock proved too much for poor Alice who walked into the Thames at high tide and was no more. I, of course, survived everything. I still stutter occasionally but, usually, only when I think back on those days. It was a time of joy, friendship, innocence and, dare I say it, love. For us, it was idyllic for we were blind to everything outside of our band of five. To us, we were the Swallows and Amazons, inseparable until, one fateful day, the promise made by Neville Chamberlain of peace in our time was shattered forever.


The sun was beating down from up high. The sky was a clear blue with no clouds in sight all the way to the horizon. The Chicago White Sox were 2-0 down and it was the bottom of the 8th. Charlie was in his seat in the front row, not able to concentrate on the game. His Dad had forced him to come watch and Charlie didn't care much for baseball anyway. "Ice-cream!", "Ice-cream!" a voice shouted behind him. Charlie turned around to see a vendor hawking ice-creams. He was carrying an ice-box and on the side of it were painted the beautiful pictures of the different flavors. There was a dark chocolate with tiny spikes showing peanuts in them, a swirling orange with streaks of berries within. Charlie turned to his dad and said, "Dad, can I have an ice-cream?" "Sure, son!" his dad replied. "What flavor do you want?" he motioned with his arm for the vendor to come over. "Base hit!" the announcer yelled on the radio next to Charlie's Dad's seat. "Tim Andersen has scored a hit and the Sox have a runner on first!" "Um.. could I have the orange flavor?" Charlie asked his dad. "Absolutely!" his father replied. "Excuse me sir, could I get an orange flavored ice-cream for my son?". "Would you like that in a bowl or a cone sir?" the vendor asked. "A cone!" Charlie said. He had always loved the crunchy taste of a biscuit cone when enjoying an ice-cream. And the day was particularly hot, sweat trickled down the back of his neck and his t-shirt was mostly drenched. "A cone it is!" said the vendor and he proceeded to dig into the ice-box and look for an ice-cream cone. Charlie's father meanwhile rummaged through his pocket to find his wallet. Charlie looked over into the field, the grass was a shining green and all the players looked smart in their uniforms. But some of them had their shoulders hunched. The sun was taking a toll on them too. "Abreu pops it up!" yelled the announcer on the radio, everyone in the stands looked on. "It will land right in the gap! A chance for Chicago to score a double!" as the announcer yelled Andersen was racing over to third-base and the opposing team's players were still only picking up the ball in the outfield. "A stand-up double for Abreu!" the announcer re-capped. "The White Sox are staging a come-back in the bottom of the eighth!" "Here you go son!" said the vendor and Charlie looked behind to see a delcious orange ice-cream cone being handed to him. "Thank you!" he yelled at the vendor, excited for the treat as his father handed over some money to the vendor. The day was looking up! "That brings up Eloy Jimenez" said the announcer. "Eloy has been getting hot in recent games he has scored 11 home runs in the last 15 games!" Charlie turned around and decided to enjoy his treat. The ice-cream cone in his hand was cold and a pleasant touch in the hot summer sun. "Foul!" yelled the announcer and as Charlie looked up he saw the baseball leaving Eloy Jimenez's bat and coming straight at him! Before he could think the ball had landed right in the middle of his ice-cream destroying the cone, but firmly in the grip of his palm! "And the little boy in the front row has caught it bare-handed!" the announcer yelled. Charlie's father looked confused, proud and ecstatic all at once! He lunged forward and picked Charlie up and held him high above his shoulder as Charlie stared befuddled at the crowd that was now focused on him.


“... *and Braum pummeled at the stones with his bare fist. Rocks flew and the giant of a man disappeared into his own-made hole. Only to spring forth, with the troll boy cradled in his arms! But then everything began to rumble. Braum’s tunnel had weakened the mountain and now it was caving in! Thinking quickly, Braum grabbed the door and --”* The yeti let out a giant yawn, matching the howling wind of Freljord. It smelled of doocicles and burps and knocked Nunu off-balance, planting his butt on the snow. “But this is the good part, Willump!” The boy picked himself up and grabbed the yeti’s nose, shaking it left and right to keep his friend awake. “You don’t want to sleep now, what if the raiders attack? You’ll miss all the fun!” Willump smacked his lips and rolled around, showing a furry back to the boy. “Do you want to hear about how Ornn shaped the land instead?” Nunu asked. The yeti snorted. Their small campfire struggled against the night winds. The giant back of the yeti had given it some shelter but the direction of the winds were ever changing in the Thawing Vale, where snow could pile up to the knees one month and verdant grass peek out the very next. The adventures along the rivers had led Nunu and Willump to a frozen lake surrounded by mountains, where he’d lost track of his mother’s heart-song in the howls and gales. At first, they had played around while waiting for the next note but now boredom began to freeze their bottoms. He had hoped that raiders would attack them in the middle of the night. That’s what always happened in the stories when the hero didn’t know what to do. The hero would then defeat the bandits and get a clue on the next destination. Nunu’s cheeks stung from the cold and he pulled his fur-thick cloak tighter around him. A change in the wind pushed his snowcap over his eyes. He was fond of the cap designed like a snow fox, but the giant ears easily got caught by the strong drafts and the constant flapping broke the immersion of his stories. The fire hissed, giving out a last gasp before crumbling to ashes. The last light vanishing from the night. Nunu pulled out his flute tucked by his side. He imagined the fire being a person in need, crying out for help as the harsh-winter cold bullied weak to the ground. He swung his flute -- no, his sword, yes, his magical sword, *Svellsongur*, at the cold enemy, cutting down the bullies and chasing them away. Fire returned, dancing brighter and stronger than before. It seemed to be unaffected by the wind and showered Nunu with warmth and light. The boy tucked the flute back to his side. Playing in the snow was fun, but the layers of clothes made it hard to move. He wondered sometimes what it felt like to be an Iceborn like Braum who could walk through a blizzard without any clothes. If he was an Iceborn, Nunu wouldn’t need to adjust his snowcap and wear thick gloves that made it hard to tuck in swords. He might even stop having a stuffy nose in the mornings. A purr rumbled from the yeti. He had been confident that the story of how Braum got his shield would’ve kept his best friend awake. They were, after all, in the region where the legendary Iceborn was last seen. But now that he thought about it, he had been telling a lot of heroic tales over the last week. It might be time to switch things up. “I know,” Nunu climbed up the antlers of the giant furball and looked into sleepy, glowing eyes. “Nights like these are perfect for scary stories. Dark nights need dark tales.” The yeti let out an unsure grunt. “Don’t be so scared, Willump. I haven’t even started yet. Let’s see...” The boy looked around for inspiration but there wasn’t much to see in the night. The looming mountains melded with the dark sky, the only light was from their fire. No wolf howls or trails of snow hares or herds of elnuks. Nothing but white snow, black mountain shapes and an ice lake. “Ooooh,” Nunu said, rubbing his gloves together. “I have a good night story!” Willump reached out with his four arms and hugged Nunu, the furry limbs covering the boy like heavy blankets. “No.” Nunu squirmed free from the hug and jumped down from the yeti’s chest, “not a good night story but a *good* night story.” The giant friend tilted his head. The boy placed himself in front of the fire, letting the backlight give an ominous mood. He took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts. The yeti rose to a sitting position. *“Long ago,”* Nunu began, *“there was a pale monster with dark hair who was polite but lonely.* *“Because of his loneliness, he decided to meet everyone in the world and befriend them.* *“The monster entered a village and saw an elder sitting by a bench, staring at the leaves from a tree falling to the ground. The monster sat next to the elder and watched along without saying anything because he was a polite monster and didn’t want to interrupt. The monster practiced his introduction in silence.* *“As the last leaf fell to the ground, the monster turned to introduce himself only to realize that the elder had closed his eyes and fallen asleep.* *“The monster nudged the elder and talked gently but the elder refused to wake up.* *“The monster’s heart ached and grew a little cold as if snow had fallen on top. But he shook it off and continued walking through the village.* *“He met a lumberjack on the way. The lumberjack yawned and seemed to struggle with carrying a log on his shoulder so the polite monster decided to help.* *“As the two walked, the monster introduced himself and wished to learn the lumberjack’s name, but the lumberjack ignored the monster, not even thanking for the help.* *“More snow fell on the monster’s heart but he continued on. Surely, the next person would like to be his friend.* *“The monster found a child crying by the river.* *“The child was sad, crying how lonely he was and how no one wanted to play with him.* *“The monster rushed forward, saying that he was lonely too. He would love to be the child’s friend.* *“But the child closed his eyes and began to sleep while floating on the water.* *“From the river bank, a woman began to scream a shrill pitch.* *“Help!” she yelled. “Help! There’s a monster in the village!”* *“The lumberjack from before rushed over and beat the monster bruised and battered. Even though the monster was hurting, he didn’t fight back. Instead he asked politely why they attacked him. He had done nothing wrong.* *“There are other monsters in the world,” the polite monster reasoned, “But you don’t scream or beat them. Why me?”* *“You’re the worst of them all,” the lumberjack said. “You put people to sleep. When you’re close by, I feel my eyes turn heavy and I begin to yawn.”* *“But isn’t sleep a good thing?” the monster asked.* *“Not your kind of sleep.”* *“The monster didn’t understand what he’d done wrong but the lumberjack looked angry so he apologized. His heart was packed with snow.* *“Apology is not enough,” the lumberjack said. “Go away. We don’t want you here.”* *The words hurt the monster, who only wanted to be friends. He felt tears flood his eyes. But he was a polite monster and held it in as much as he could, pushing the tears back into himself. With nowhere to go, the tears spilled into his snow-filled heart and the mixture turned to ice.* *“The monster changed. The dark hair grew longer and longer and covered his whole body like fur. He went down on all four and growled like a beast, baring his sharp teeth.* *“The woman fainted. The lumberjack ran.* *“On instinct, the monster chased after the moving target. There was a thrill he had never felt before. A warmth that pumped his frozen heart.* *“The lumberjack ran for three whole days before stumbling to the ground.* *“Not yet,” the monster said. “Keep running.”* *“The lumberjack used his elbows and knees to scuttle away from the monster, but it only lasted for another day before he crumbled from exhaustion.* *“More,” the monster said. ““More, I want to chase more and more.”* *“The lumberjack cried.* *“Please,” he said. “I’m too tired. I want to sleep. Please have mercy.”* *“Hearing the magical word ‘please’, the monster regained his senses and the black hair shrunk back to its original size. The lumberjack closed his eyes and slept.* *“The monster was horrified over what he’d done. He felt ashamed and angry. Who would want to be his friend if he had such a horrible un-polite side?* *“The sleeping lumberjack had an axe poking out from his belt.* *“The monster grabbed the axe and with a single swing he SPLIT HIMSELF IN TWO!* Nunu swung the flute near Willump’s face. The effect was wonderful. His friend roared louder than the winds and jerked backward with such force that a snowbank crumbled over the yeti. A wide grin spread across Nunu’s face. “How about that for a story?” A groan seeped out from the snow. “No, it’s not sad,” Nunu said. “It’s a scary story. It had a monster and people crying and someone split in two.” Willump let out a questioning grunt. “I don’t know if there’s more,” Nunu confessed, “Mom only told me up to this point because I was crying like a newborn baby. I was such a wimp back then.” A gust pushed his snowcap over his eyes again. Behind him, the campfire fizzed out. “Looks like no raiders want to attack us, Willump”, he said, and a yawn stretched over his mouth. “Maybe we should head to bed after all.” The yeti brushed off the snow on his fur and picked up Nunu, cradling the boy in his embrace. “Good night, Willump.” The yeti muttered. “Yes, this time it’s just a good night.” \*\*\*\*\* A surprised snarl woke Nunu up from his sleep. He was rubbing his eyes when strong hands pulled him away from Willump. A large bare-chested man grabbed the Willump by the reindeer horns and flung the huge yeti into a pile of snow. “Have no fear,” the man said with a rumbling voice. He had a shiny mustache and an even shinier bald head glittering against the morning sun. “Because Braum is here!” Nunu pinched both his cheeks while taking in the giant of a man with biceps bigger than his head. His cheeks stung and his nose was stuffed. This was not a dream. From a distance, Willump rolled up to his feet and let out a roar. “Oh, furry monster wants to tussle?” the man asked with a chuckle. He put down Nunu on the soft snow and picked up a giant rectangular shield with a ram head. “Fine by Braum.” The Iceborn charged. Willump, in response, went down on all his six limbs, pointing his antlers towards the incoming disaster. With a flick of the neck, Willump sent Braum flying up in the air. But the large man somersaulted and landed in a perfect hero-pose. “Wait, wait, wait!” Nunu rushed between them. “This is not a fair fight!” “Don’t worry, young boy,” the man said with confidence, “I am Braum and -- “ “That’s what I mean. Willump and I will fight you together!” The man’s brow furrowed and his mustache crinkled. “One more time please. Braum listens slowly.” Nunu took the opportunity to climb up Willump’s head. His heart thumped against his chest and his cheeks hurt from the pinching and all the smiling. He’d always wanted to fight against a hero because that’s how heroes become friends with each other in the stories. He pulled out his flute and warmed up with a few slashes in the air. “Okay, I’m ready. What about you, Willump?” The yeti beat his chest. “Awesome! Wow, can’t believe that we’re going up against a living legend like Braum. Okay, let’s try with a long-range attack.” “Uhm,” Braum said, “Young boy, you were not in danger?” “Go!” Nunu shouted, “Snowball barrage!” Dozens of snowballs rained down on Braum, crashing into the large shield. “Young boy!” Braum shouted, “Time-out!” “It’s working, Willump. Press on!” The yeti’s four arms turned like windmills, spinning round and round until they became a blur. The intensity of the snowballs increased and Braum found himself pushed back. He let out a yell and raised his shield, slamming it on the ground. The terrain cracked. Jagged lines zigzagged to Willump and Nunu and crumbled the snow under them. The yeti lost his footing, all four arms flailing. Both crashed into the snow and blasted the air with white powder. “Young boy?” Braum peeked out from his shield. Nunu’s head popped out from the snow. “That was amazing! Was that your special move? What’s it called?” The Iceborn had a stunned expression before bursting into a hearty laugh. “I take it that this beast --” “His name is Willump.” “Sorry, I take it that, eh, Willump wasn’t about to eat you?” “What? No! Why would he do that?” Willump groaned. Nunu grimaced. “That one doesn’t count, Willump. I was just hiding in your mouth. It’s not the same thing.” “I apologize,” Braum said, pulling the yeti and the boy out from the snow. “I was by a village a few hours from here and heard strange howls in the night and had to investigate. When I saw your friend holding you, I simply leapt into action. Again, I apologize. I’m Braum.” “I know!” Nunu said. “The Avalanche, The Shield of the Weak, The Shiny Baldie,” “That one’s new.” “... the Heart of Freljord!” Braum chuckled. “What’s your name, young boy?” “I’m Nunu of the Notai and this is my friend Willump. The howls might’ve been from him because I told a scary story last night.” “Last night *was* a good night for scary stories,” Braum agreed. “Nunu of Notai, eh? It’s been a while since I’ve met one of the singing nomads. You should come to the village, we would love to hear your songs.” Nunu shook his head. “My mom does all the singing, I only remember the stories. We’re on an adventure to save her right now. We got split up during a raid.” “Here in the Thawing Vale?” Braum asked. “No, it was many many months ago, up north.” The yeti grumbled. “Really, Willump? Years?” The end of Braum’s brows faltered. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said softly. “It’s okay, we will rescue her,” Nunu said, “You see, I can hear her heart-song in the winds, telling me where she is. Well, not always, like yesterday the wind was too loud but now....” The wind had finally stopped with its shouting so perhaps he could hear it now. He removed his snowcap and cupped his ears, closing his eyes. “What...?” Braum asked. Willump put a large hand over the Iceborn’s mouth, then covered his own with two. Silence filled the wind-still morning. Nunu concentrated, listening for a sound, any sound, and from a distance, he heard the faint chimes of bells. He tilted his head. Usually, it was a song but perhaps his mother had a sore throat this morning. The bells chimed again and the source seemed to come from a certain spot past the mountains. “Can you tell me what’s over there?” Nunu asked, pointing to the mountain range with jagged peaks. “Right across?” Braum squinted. “That’s the nation of Demacia.” “Demacia.” Nunu tasted the name. It danced on his tongue and had an enticing tone, much like the beginning of a song. “Willump, we’re going to Demacia! The yeti roared eagerly. “Your mother is in Demacia?” Braum asked. “I don’t know but that’s where she wants me to go. My mom’s heart-song told me.” “By yourself?” Braum asked with a worried expression. “It’s a dangerous journey for one boy. Treacherous stones, crimson raptors, and then there’s the... wyverns...” His voice trailed off when he noticed the boy’s eyes glittered like fresh-fallen snow in the morning. “Willump, we’re leaving now!” “Hold on!” Braum put down his shield in front of them like a barricade. “You have a big heart, Nunu, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to cross the mountains by yourself.” “Don’t worry, I have Willump. We’ve fought against wolves and magical stones. A few snowballs here and there scared them off. And Willump could eat them if they’re really mean.” “But the mountain range is filled with wyverns, cousins of dragons. They can fly where snowballs and jaws won’t reach.” Nunu’s mood began to sour. He had imagined meeting another hero would mean twice the fun, but Braum was just like the wind yesterday pulling down his snowcap. “What about food?” Braum continued, “You will need a lot of food for such a long trip. This is Avarosian territory, how about I take you to their warmother? Braum is good friends with her. She can help with supplies, possibly even have news about your mother. She might already be saved, no?” Nunu’s mother had told him the love story between the barbarian and the Avarosian warmother. He didn’t remember much, except for the barbarian being really angry and the warmother having a magical bow, but he did remember that warmothers were the leaders of their tribe. And Nunu had met leaders before. After the Notai caravan was raided, a band of Frostguards took Nunu and the other Notai children to a village up in the north. For protection, they said, but Nunu found it strange that they only protected the children. He had asked them about Layka, his mother, but the soldiers had ignored him. If he wanted something, they said, he needed to speak to their leader, Lissandra. Their leader was a tall woman with a strange helmet covering her eyes. He had asked and begged her for help and the leader had said that she would help him *after* Nunu answered her questions about the Notai and their stories. In short, leaders were selfish and unreliable as trolls. “No,” Nunu said. He grabbed one of Willump’s hands and walked around the barricade. “We don’t want to see a warmother and we can get our own food. And mom is waiting for *me* to save her.” Willump grunted, patting his stomach. “You’re right,” Nunu said, “We should look for breakfast.” “Breakfast, eh?” Braum stroked his mustache. “The village is close by, how about some warm elnuk milk and a hearty stew? A tiny rest before a giant journey?” Drool dripped out of the corner of Nunu’s lips. Even Willump looked interested. But a hero had to have a will of iron and resolve of steel. He could have some elnuk milk after the adventure. “No thank you,” Nunu said. “And that’s very unheroic of you, Braum, trying to stop a boy from saving his mom.” Braum flinched and clutched his bare chest as if he had suffered a mortal wound. It was with a mixed heart that Nunu left the large man. It would’ve been fun to have the Iceborn in the party but Braum had been different than he’d expected. The stories had always described the Iceborn as loud and happy, but in reality the bald man seemed to be more of a worry-wart. “Wait!” Heavy footsteps stomped against the snow, matching the loud voice. “Please let Braum join you!” The fox-ears on Nunu’s cap fluttered by how fast the boy had turned around. “You want to join our adventure?” “Of course,” Braum said. “Mother always said to move like the herd. It’s safer, no?” “Does three really count as a herd?” Nunu asked, “Don’t we need many more?” The large man smiled warmly. “You don’t need many when you have Braum.” Nunu couldn’t help but match the Iceborn’s smile. “Do you hear that, Willump? The Avalanche is joining us!” Willump grinned, revealing his rows of spiky teeth. Nunu climbed up the yeti’s head and ushered his friend forward. “Braum, there’s so much I want to ask you,” he said, “Is it true that you once cut down a whole forest with your bare hands? How about that time you saved a troll by punching through a mountain? Isn’t that how you got your shield?” Braum chuckled along, listening to the boy’s excited chatter.  \ ***DISCLAIMER*** ***‘The Tales We Tell’ is a non-profit work of fan fiction, based on the game League of Legends.*** ***I do not own League of Legends or any of its material. League of Legends is created and owned by Riot Games Inc. This story is intended for entertainment purposes only. I am not making any profit from this story. All rights of League of Legends belong to Riot Games Inc.