1.  The farmhouse sat atop a slightly-sloping hill and looked out towards Ménerbes. To the west, a clock tower perched on a *colline* of a nearby town and white bluffs guarded the property to the east. The whole property sloped gently south except for the flat grassy section behind the farmhouse. It was flat because that’s the way it needed to be for farming hundreds of years ago, Pierre said. He did not know what they farmed but figured it was grain since flat ground was easier for animals to process grain. It was a cold and sunny morning. The ground was wet and cold and there was a damp breeze out of the south. I heard about *Le Mistral* but never felt it. Pierre compared it to the *Santa Ana* winds of California. This was too mild to be *Le Mistral,* but I hoped it would blow before I left so I could feel its strength. It was mid-November and the olives were in full harvest. The fig tree by the stone wall had lost most of its leaves but the remaining few danced in the wind. The mulberry tree covering the gravel terrace in front of the farmhouse still had its dark green leaves and the branches hung low and flat. Down the hill the silver tops of the olive trees shined in the sun. I leaned down to pet *Lola* behind the ear on the windowsill. Her face was too small for her body and her closely-set and wide eyes looked up at me. She jumped onto the gravel terrace and climbed up the mulberry tree. I walked over gravel and wet fig and mulberry leaves and around the thigh-high stone wall where the gravel turned to grass. The previous day’s harvest was sitting in gray and red crates on the stone wall with thin slits running along the sides but not wide enough for olives to fall out. I grabbed a handful off the top. They were dewy and green. I flicked a few wet leaves and twigs to the ground and admired their beauty and oiliness on my skin. I dropped them back in the crate and wiped my wet hands on my pants. I carried an empty crate in each hand and walked towards the spot where we finished the day before. My knee-high rubber boots were damp and cold but fit perfectly. The damp cold early morning ground numbed my feet. I made a note to warm my boots inside overnight. Pierre was already in the groves. I heard the *“tat, tat, tattatat tat”* of olives hitting his crate. He was harvesting a shorter *olivier* on the eastern edge near wild thyme and rows of pine trees leading up *Mt. Perreal*. Through the forest and up the mountain the sun shined below the tops of the pine trees. The sunlight came in patches and shimmered through the forest. The pine trees stood straight spaced closely together and swayed gently in the morning wind. “*Bonjour, monsieur*” “*Boujour*”, I replied. “*Les fruits sont incroyables*” *“Oui”* I dropped my crates and started on a branch opposite him. The limbs drooped and nearly touched the ground from the weight of the olives. When picked, the limbs would rise again. The ripest fell to the ground when shook and we picked them up off the ground once we picked all we could pick standing up. “They must be happy to shed all this weight”, I said. “*Oui*. Do you think they talk among themselves?” “Maybe” “I do” “How so?”, I asked. “Between their roots and their branches”. He pointed to a branch entangled in a branch of another tree: “You see how this branch touches that tree?” “Yes” “I believe that is how they communicate” “Interesting”, I said. “What do they talk about?” “About how grateful they are to shed the weight!” The sun rose above the tops of the trees. I started to warm up and removed my jacket while two blue jays sang for us on the next tree. The blue jays flew away, then I thought I heard sheep bells in the direction of the mountain. The other day returning from Apt, a shepherd and his sheep dogs and sheep crossed the road and blocked the way to the farmhouse. There were many sheep and beautiful white dogs larger than the sheep protecting the flock. The sheep wore steel bells around their necks and it sounded like wooden spoons hitting tin cups as they moved together guarded by the dogs. I was surprised how much the shepherd looked like a shepherd. He stood at the rear of the flock with his shepherd stick looking biblical. Pierre and I watched them move slowly into the vineyard to the north. I thought I heard the bells of the sheep. It was a distinct sound, the sound of sheep bells. Instead a hunter and his two dogs emerged from the pine trees. The dogs wore steel bells and were sniffing for tracks and zigzagging in front of the hunter. The hunter carried a wood-trimmed double barrel shotgun slung over his right shoulder and stepped high through the dry brush under the pine trees. The hunter looked up and waved and walked towards me: “English?”, the hunter asked. “American” “*Ahh*. Welcome! What brings you to Gargas?” I looked towards Pierre. “Helping my friend with the harvest” “Very well. I’ve known Pierre thirty years. I live nearby”, he pointed towards the town with the clock tower. “Any luck?” “Nothing yet. Hunting boar but no luck yet” “Hunt anything besides boar?” “Just boar”, the hunter said. “They love boar, these dogs”, he said patting one of his dogs. “Beautiful dogs”, I said. “Well, best of luck!” “Same to you, sir”, he said and tipped his hat. We said goodbye and the hunter continued west with his dogs. He walked between the olive trees then through the brush in the forest and out of sight. “Let’s take lunch”, Pierre said. “I’m hungry” “Crêpes and salad?” “Sounds delicious” Pierre finished his crate and carried it up the hill towards the farmhouse. I picked a few more handfuls and followed him. I caught up to him under the oak tree and we walked together. We placed our harvest on the stone wall and Pierre wiped leaves off the white cast-iron table. He left his boots by the door on the stone and walked inside.   2. The white cast-iron table and chairs were on the gravel terrace under the shade of the mulberry tree. I sat at the table and looked south. It was windier than the sheltered olive groves but warm in the sun. Across the valley was the *Massif du Luberon*. A deep green and flat-topped silhouette against the blue sky like a smooth rolling wave. At the base was Ménerbes but I couldn’t see the town during the day. On the other side of the mountain was Marseilles and the Mediterranean and Algeria across the water. Pierre opened the kitchen window: “Egg on your crêpe?” “Yes, please” “Wine?” “Why not?" “Americans love their *booze!”* “We sure do” He kept the right half of the tall white window open and fed *Puce* sitting on the windowsill. “*Papa est ici mon petit chat*”. He scooped food into his dish. Pierre loved his cats and talked to them often. I could hear the eggs cooking in olive oil on the stove through the open window and my stomach jumped. The wind blew and a leaf fell on the table. I wiped it off and watched *Puce* eat his lunch. I looked up and *Lola* stirred in a branch above my head. She must have heard Pierre flirting with *Puce* and got jealous. I watched the cat move about the branch looking to get down. She jumped on the table and the table clanked loudly but *Puce* wasn’t startled because he was deaf. The sizzling stopped and clanking of silverware on plates signaled lunch was on its way. *Lola* ran across the gravel terrace and up on the windowsill and through the kitchen window looking for food: “*Papa est ici mon petit chat”*. I couldn’t see Pierre feed *Lola* but I knew he was feeding her because he never said no to his cats. The short wooden front door was open and Pierre walked out carrying a tray with two plates and a bowl of salad. “Anything else I can bring out?” “The wine and the glasses near the radio in the kitchen” “*Ah* yes. The *booze*!” “Americans and their *booze”,* he muttered. The door was a few steps away. I took off my boots and slipped on my loafers and the warmth felt nice inside. I found the wine and the glasses by the radio in the kitchen and brought them outside to the table. Pierre was tossing the salad in the bowl: “Salad with olive oil and olives”, he said. He held a serving of salad between two spoons over my plate and eyed me for my consent. I nodded and thanked him as he lowered the salad onto my plate. No coincidence an olive farmer made an olive salad tossed in olive oil, I thought. “From the farm?”, I asked nodding my head towards the olive trees. “Of course. The last bottle of last year’s oil and olives from last month”, he said pointing his fork at the bowl. “Excellent quality”, he continued, “Fetches a very good price at *le moulin”* “I’m sure it does. It’s delicious” *“Oui”* We sat in silence and finished our olive salad and I thought of Anna and I missed her very much. We visited the farmhouse years ago and I pictured her sitting across the table with her back to the mulberry tree and she looked beautiful in the sun. She always looked beautiful but that day she looked exceptionally beautiful sitting in the sun. During our visit we sat at the same white cast-iron table and chairs on the gravel terrace. The table sat near the edge of the stone wall in the sun. It was a hot and sunny day I remembered. *Puce* was much younger and was up in a tree watching us. Anna was across the table and Pierre to my right and Griff to my left with her back to the farmhouse. We were sweaty and hot from our hike up *Mt. Perreal*. Pierre led the way on narrow pine needle covered trails around and up the mountain, stopping to take in views when the trees cleared. Ruins of a red stone and flat roofed church sat on top of the mountain. The surrounding valley stretched off and far below the farmhouse glowed in the sun. We were tired and rested awhile at the top. It was a splendid hike up the mountain. Griff now lived in California and Pierre would love to talk to her about the golden state. He loved few things more than California. He used to lead bike tours all around the world and Yosemite was his favorite place. His bike hung in the garage and I knew he missed riding very much. I daydreamed about that day with Anna and Griff and *Puce* in the tree and the hike to the ruins and the farmhouse in the sun. I blinked away the thoughts and Pierre slid a crêpe onto my place. I thanked him and looked down at an egg on a crêpe with salt and wild rosemary from the farm. The outer edges of the egg were crisped brown and porous. “I almost forgot”, Pierre said as he reached across the table for the wine. “*Baron Philippe de Rothschild.* Only the best for my American guest”, he said reading the label on the bottle. “Only the best” “I’ve never tried it”, he said. “But I’ve heard it’s excellent” “Yes”, I said after my first sip. “Excellent *booze”* “We had a lovely time with your friends a few years ago”, Pierre said. “Remember our hike up *Mt. Perreal?”* “Yes. How could I forget?”, I said. “Such a hot and beautiful day” “Most beautiful and hot” “And the champagne and cheese and fruit afterwards?” “Such a reward that was” “Yes. Great reward after the hard hike”, Pierre said. We were quiet a moment reflecting on that day on the mountain. Pierre was much older now and his face was grey and tired. He knew those days had passed. The days climbing the mountain to the ruins. “How are they doing?”, he asked. “Great” “Where do they live now?” “Anna lives near I and Griff lives in California” “How wonderful. Whereabouts in California?” “Los Angeles”, I said. “She really loves it there” I looked down at *Lola* who joined us under the table. She laid at my feet in the sun. “*Ahh.* California is so beautiful. I would love to bike Yosemite again” He poured another glass of wine and I drank it and it warmed me up. There was some bread on the table and we cleaned our plates of yolk and olive oil. I looked at Pierre, but he looked down between his clasped hands and his elbows on the table. His wrinkled forehead touched his thumbs. I watched him for a moment and saw tears in his eyes. He closed his eyes tightly and released them and a tear fell through the table to the gravel. I knew he was thinking of Jaqueline riding beside him down smooth pavement in Yosemite with a cool breeze in their faces and a California sun on their backs. I turned and looked towards the olive trees and we sat in silence under the mulberry tree.   3. The rain came from the east from the mountains and the sky darkened quickly. I stood at my opened bedroom window and looked south and saw the lights of Ménerbes in the rain and mist across the valley. The lights of the town spread up the *Massif du Luberon* but I couldn’t see the mountain through the opaque wet sky. Faint automobile lights zigzagged down the mountain towards Ménerbes. I watched the automobile lights awhile and it was soothing looking out across the valley through the window. I pictured families returning from Marseilles after a day at the beach, speeding to get home off wet roads into warm houses. The children slept quietly in the backseats while the parents drove. They’d get home and bake wild oysters and boil leeks from the *Vieux Port* market and the parents would drink wine while the children laughed. They’d all go to bed full and happy and sunburnt. The rain was steady but there was no lightning. The air held a sweet zing and the smell reminded me of storms back home. I left the window open and walked over the warm grainy floor to the curved staircase lined with artwork. The kitchen was at the base of the stairs where Pierre was boiling water for tea. The radio spoke fast but I sat down and listened and knew it was about the California wildfires. The fires had started a few days ago and spread quickly near Chico in the mountains. The disaster troubled Pierre. He looked up from his milky grey tea with watery eyes: “Fifty-seven dead and over five hundred missing”, his voice choked back tears. “*Incroyable*”. He lifted his white octagonal porcelain cup with both hands and tilted it back and took a sip. He looked down at the table shaking his head in disbelief. “The entire town burned to the ground. Many more will die. *Incroyable”*, Pierre said. “Every year the fires are worse. It’s a shame” “Yes” I looked out the window into the rain. If only the rain came to the mountains near Chico, I thought. “Have you ever been to the area of the fires?”, I asked. I reached for a cup and filled it with black tea from the white porcelain teapot. I added honey and milk and stirred until the dark clear liquid turned milky grey. “Yes”, Pierre replied. “Many years ago” “On a cycling tour?” “Yes”, he said sipping his tea. “I led a group of Austrians south along the foothills of the Sacramento Valley, then east and up into the Cascade Range. We rode through the town they speak of on the radio” I cut a few slices of day-old baguette on a thin wooden board and spread peach jam. I pushed the wooden board towards Pierre and he grabbed a slice. He dipped the bread in his cup and took a bite. “We rode up the mountains to Paradise. It was early May and cool in the mountains”, he said. “We rode hard that day. It was a very memorable trip” “How many of you?” “About twenty”, he replied. “The Austrians were strong cyclists and we rode *fast* that day”. Pierre closed his eyes imagining the ride. “Were you the strongest of the group?” “Of course. I could’ve been a champion cyclist, *you know!*” “I know” “That town is gone. It’s a pile of ashes”. He took another sip and bite of bread. “It’s completely gone. *Incroyable*” “The fire came so quickly. It’s awful to think about” “Such a tragedy” “*Oui”* I cut two more slices of bread. Pierre ate one and I ate the other with peach jam. “I can’t handle any more bad news. Every day it’s worse”. He turned off the radio. “Time for a nap”, he said placing his empty cup in the sink. “Leeks and mussels and roasted chestnuts for dinner. But first I need a nap” I cleared the table and climbed the stairs to my bedroom. The window was open and I could hear the rain against the roof.   4. I thought I was dreaming when I woke in the cold and dark room. A thick wool blanket secured me against the bed and I laid motionless listening to the rain on the roof. A terrace lamp casted long shadows across the room and I tried to focus on the shadows hugging the mahogany wardrobe at the foot of the bed but my eyes were too heavy and tired. I couldn’t move my arms and I laid stuck to the warm bed under the wool blanket. I must be dreaming. I fell back asleep. The sound of an accordion woke me up. It billowed through the high ceilings and hallways of the farmhouse and skipped across the bricks and tiles and filled each room with music. I switched on the bedside lamp and checked my watch and stood and moved to the window. I had slept for an hour but it felt much longer. The lights of Ménerbes twinkled in the distance but no automobile lights came down the mountain. I suppose all the families are home now in their dry houses eating a hot meal, sunburnt from a day at the beach in Marseille. “*Bravo*!”, I shouted down the hall and clapped my hands when the music stopped. “*Bravo*!” “*Merci, monsieur!* I walked down the hall towards the music and pushed open the half open door to Pierre’s room. He sat on a wooden chair at a wooden desk while a white cloth lamp illuminated a pile of sheet music. His black and white accordion rested gently on his lap. “I had no idea you played an instrument” “It’s been a very long time”, he said patting the instrument lightly, his left hand under the strap. “Look how dusty she is” “I see that”, I said. “It sure is a beautiful instrument” He moved some sheet music around. “How long have you played?” “Over thirty years. I bought it at a Paris flea market before I moved to Les Chauvets” “It sounds lovely” I watched him shuffle more sheet music until he found what he was looking for. I took a step back leaning on the doorframe and watched him perform his next piece. He pulled his left hand away from the body and the instrument breathed to life. The music sailed through the farmhouse. His right hand danced on the treble keyboard while his left hand controlled the expansion and contraction and managed the brass buttons and switches. It was a beautiful marriage of music and coordination. *Lola* jumped on the wooden desk. She’s waited many years to hear him play again. He played the last measure squeezing the remaining air out of the instrument then it was silent again except for the rain. “Well done!” “*Ohh* it’s been so long since I’ve last played. My fingers needed the exercise” “You are quite talented” “It has been collecting dust under Jaqueline’s bed”, he said removing the instrument from his lap. “I shall keep it out and play more often” “Great idea” He set the accordion against the wall next to the wooden desk. “Did you sleep well?”, Pierre asked. “It was an odd sleep”, I replied. Pierre stroked *Lola* on the desk. “I dreamt I was a cat”   5. We ate our last dinner of leeks and mussels and roasted chestnuts in the white-washed dining room with thick wooden beams supporting the high ceiling. It was still raining. “What time’s your train tomorrow?”, Pierre asked. “Four in the afternoon leaving Cavaillon” “We shall leave here at two thirty then” “I shall pack my bags tonight” There was plenty of food and he ladled mussels onto my plate until there were no mussels left in the steel pot. We slurped them and filled an empty bowl with shells and slurped more and filled a second. We ate boiled leeks and the mild greens complimented the saltiness of the mussels. He filled our glasses with *Baron Philippe de Rothschild* and he held his glass up and I clanked his with mine: “*Santé*” “*Santé*” “To good friendships and olives” “To good friendships and olives” “I will miss having you around”, Pierre said. “Will you come back for next year’s harvest?” “I hope I can” “Maybe Anna and Griff will join you?” “They would love to” “Les Chauvets is lonely sometimes” “I bet” “Even with my olives and my cats”, he said. “It truly is a very lonely place sometimes” “I bet” I watched Pierre mop his plate of mussel and leek juice with bread then I did the same. He cleared the bowls of empty shells and returned with a pan of roasted chestnuts and an empty bowl for chestnut shells. “More food?” “The last supper with my hungry American guest” “I’ve never had chestnuts” “They are delicious. *Here*”, he said handing me a plateful. “How do you eat them?” “Like this”, he said opening one with his knife. We sat around the table awhile pealing and eating sweet spongy and earthy chestnuts and drinking good wine. *Lola* was curled on the other end watching Pierre with her chin on her tail. “*Lola mon chat. Veux-tu une châtaigne?”* He rolled a chestnut across the table towards the cat but the cat watched it roll off the table and crack on the floor. “*Je suppose que non”*   6. The rain stopped in the morning. Pierre was in the kitchen feeding the cats and boiling water for tea. The radio was on but quiet. “*Bonjour*” “*Bonjour*” “Tea?” “Please” He poured dark grey tea from the white porcelain teapot and I added milk and honey. “The rain stopped”, he said. “Would you like to walk the property?” “I would love to”, I replied. “Great. After breakfast we will walk the property”, he said. “How is your tea?” “Great” “Bread with jam?” “Please”, I said. “Anything on the radio?”, I asked. “Nothing”, he replied. We finished our tea with stale baguette and peach jam and dressed to walk the property. We stepped out onto the gravel terrace and around the stone wall. The sun was rising and drying the dew and low clouds moved west across the valley. “Beautiful sky this morning. Like a painting” “Very much so” “Don’t the clouds look fat with colors?” “Yes” We walked gently downhill along the edge of the farm to a row of bare almond trees\*.\* We followed a trail to the top of a dried river bed at the base of the mountain and stood at the edge in the grass in the sun. The river banks were packed layers of red and orange clay. A single fir tree grew from the clay on the other side and a large grey bird with red feet looked at us from a limb. Down below were fresh boar tracks in the wet clay. “*Le Colorado”*, Pierre said. “Funny” “The Mighty Mississippi”, he joked. “I like *Le Colorado* better” “So do I” \*“\*It’s beautiful, *Le Colorado”* We continued along the base of the mountain through the pine trees. White mushrooms covered in dirt had broken through the brush and dotted the ground. Pierre examined the mushrooms but none were edible. The forest was quiet except for the breeze. We walked awhile uphill through the forest then downhill through knee-high brush and into an abandoned almond farm. “This is my neighbor’s property”, Pierre said. “It’s a shame they don’t take care of the almond trees anymore” “Why did they stop?” “They planted grapes and left these to rot” “That’s rotten” “Yes” “How long have they been like this?” “Many years” “What a waste” The brush between the rows of almond trees was unnavigable. We walked the perimeter along the edge of the forest. Around a bend we saw more abandoned almond trees and the vineyard in the distance. The grey stone house sat at the end of a gravel driveway lined with olive trees. Grape vines stretched into the valley and the vines were bare and grew from short mounds of gravel. We continued along the edge of the forest and passed the vineyard and reached the road. “I want to show you something”, Pierre said. He pointed down the road: “There’s an abandoned farmhouse I want to show you” “Why is it abandoned?”, I asked “It’s a very tragic story”, he replied. We started down the road. “The mother was in the kitchen one morning many years ago”. He paused to pick packed mud off the bottom of his boot with a stick. “She saw her daughter standing on the railing of the stairs with a rope around her neck. The girl jumped. Her neck snapped right in front of her *own* mother” “That’s horrific” “The family left and never returned” “It’s been empty since the day she died?” “*Oui”* We were close enough to see the abandoned farmhouse over the tops of trees. “Look at the decay”, Pierre said pointing to the roof. “The roof has caved it” “I see” Overgrown sycamore trees lined the driveway. We walked in the shade up the winding dirt path. Ahead was an opened garage and to our right the abandoned farmhouse and a grassy field in the distance. Pierre froze: “*Arrête!”* He pointed across a ditch towards the barn in the field. White sheep dogs looked at us. They barked and paced along the edge of the ditch keeping the flock behind them. Their snouts pointed towards the sky when they barked. The sheep rested in the field by the barn behind the dogs. “They’ll kill us if we move any closer” “Why?” “They’re trained to kill anything they think threatens the flock” “Better we leave, then” “Yes” We retreated slowly keeping our eyes fixed on the dogs then we were out of sight and back to the road. “They would have killed us if we didn’t stop” “How do you know?” “In September they killed a cyclist that rode too close to the flock” “*My God*” “They are beautiful animals but very dangerous if you threaten their sheep” Pierre checked his watch. “We better get going” The sun had disappeared and the wind was blowing heavy clouds from the mountains.   7. We drove past Roussillon and Gordes then continued southwest towards Cavaillon. Clouds moved low and fast from the east from the mountains and it started raining. Pierre was quiet and I looked out the window at the passing stone houses with flat red roofs in the grey countryside. We rode through Robion on a narrow street lined with cypress trees and to the west jutted steep white cliffs dark with trees. We slowed around roundabouts and passed closed cafes with chairs and tables moved inside for the winter. “Cavaillon is two towns away”, Pierre said driving under a metal bridge. “That’s a lovely name for a town” “It’s world famous for their melons” “What types of melons?” “Cantaloupes” “If I have time I will buy a cantaloupe” “They’re world famous” We arrived at the train station and I checked my watch. The train left in fifteen minutes. “No time to buy a melon”, I said. “Next time” “Yes” We parked and walked to the front of the train station. The square in front of the train station was empty except for a man with his dog on a wooden bench under a sycamore tree. The building was off-white with dark green shutters and a red terracotta roof. A flag flew below the station’s clock and chairs were stacked on tables outside closed cafes along *Avenue Pierre Semard* across the square. “I guess this is it” “So long my friend” “Thank you for everything” “My pleasure” I extended my hand and he shook it and we hugged in the empty square and the train whistled. “You’re a good man”, I said with my hand on his shoulder. “Best of luck with the remaining harvest” “Please visit again soon” “I will” “*À bientôt*” “*À bientôt*” Pierre walked away and I stood there and watched him with his arms crossed behind his back and his head tilted down. He stopped and turned and waved and I waved and headed for the train.


I'm Detective Kristen Jones and I'm a police homicide detective with the Lexington Kentucky police Department. My father and grandfather were officers, so it's in my blood. I have investigated all type of crimes. The story I'm about to tell you is very strange. It's not really an investigation but it is, at least at first. A call was made to the Lexington Police Department regarding an assault victim had shown up at a home in the Horses Lane Area. The victim had been assaulted in another state the day before but hadn't sought medical treatment due to being scared. Now the victim needed to go to the hospital due to severe pain from her injuries. This area is where a lot of the jockeys who live in Kentucky live. They tend to live in colonies. Some live closer to Louisville but some live in the Lexington area. The house that we were called to was actually a couple of miles down the road from the Horses Lane Area. The gate opened as I went into the large estate. The estate had a horse farm on it. Everyone in the area knew the couple who lived here. Melisa and Keith Milson were the owners of the home. Keith Milson was a retired jockey turned sports caster for horse racing. Their daughter Kaitlyn met me at the gate and jumped into my car. "Do you know what happened to the victim?" "Not really. All I know is that Janice had neck, stomach and back pain due to being assaulted after the Belmont Stakes race. Of course she denies that she was assaulted. I'm surprised that she has no , marks on her body but that creep, your know Bill, I know that he did something to her." I nodded in agreement. Jockey Bill Verse only had one thing going for him. He was a good jockey who could ride a horse. None of the other jockeys liked him and stayed away from him as much as possible. He was a mean cruel individual who had been arrested numerous times for getting into bar room brawls, disorderly conduct and disorderly Intoxication and had tested positive for cocaine and marijuana use at least 3 times in 10 years. At least 3 women he had been involved with had said that he had been abusive towards them. He hurt them without leaving any marks that could be seen was his MO. All of them were afraid and scared to death of him. However, they had never reported it to police until much later, so nothing could be done about it. He often became abusive towards them when he did poorly at the track. At the Belmont Stakes, he had come in last place. Lately he hadn't done very well. The ambulance was already on scene. I went into the house and Janice was lying on the floor. I was shocked to see that she had given birth. Janice had a daughter. I was taken aside by one of the paramedics. "She has no marks or bruises on her body but that doesn't mean that Bill didn't do anything to her. I really feel sorry for this baby, because Bill doesn't like kids. Remember what happened a couple of days before the Kentucky Derby." I remember that well. Some kids wanted to speak with him and he yelled at them, cussed them out and told them to leave him alone. He even told them that he hated them. He was forced to apologize to them but his apology wasn't genuine. Janice went to the hospital. I called a social worker and we discussed what had happened. The only thing she could do is go to the hospital and have a chat with Janice. There was no physical evidence of abuse as you have neck, stomach and back pain from pregnancy. The strange thing was Janice had no idea she was pregnant and pictures I saw of her she didn't look like she was. Very strange. A couple of days later No one seems to know where Bill was. My guess is that he was out drinking and possibly other things. Well, got a call. He was arrested for DUI. Old Man Wilson was a convicted felon but wasn't generally of the violent variety. Car Theft, some drug dealing, Dealing in Stolen Property, etc. He was sitting in the jail on the Violation of Probation Charge. Bill had called Janice and was furious about the baby. This really angered Old Man Wilson who liked kids. One thing he hated was someone who hated or harmed kids. He was a large tall burly intimidating looking guy. "You did this deliberately. Don't you know that I don't like kids? Well, Janice I am going to make you pay for this when I get out. Oh, I will and you better not ever go to sleep again because I will attack you in your sleep." Bill slammed the phone down. "Leave the woman alone." shouted Old Man Wilson. "Oh, really, what are you going to do about it, beat me up." Bill went up to Old Man Wilson and poked him in the arm and threatened to beat him up. Five minutes later, jail officials found the room where the old pay phone was empty and Bill Verse unconscious on the floor. No one knew or saw what happened. Bill was taken to the hospital where he died shortly thereafter. Old Man Wilson admitted to poking him with something but wouldn't say what. An autopsy failed to show what caused Bill Verse's death. Old Man Wilson was never charged with his death as he mysteriously died the next day. You would think this would be the end of the story but it wasn't. Bill Verse as I said was a bad person and I guess when he died, he didn't go anywhere but was in limbo. He was angry and was an angry ghost and entity. Several days later He was furious that he wasn't given a memorial service or funeral. Bill Verse had no family or ifI f they did, they wanted nothing to do with him. Janice refused to pay for any burial costs, so the county paid for it. She didn't have to as she never was legally married to Bill. She used the name Janice Verse but she wasn't married to him. I found out the truth. She knew that she was pregnant but had kept it from Bill. She finally told him at Belmont before the race and he was furious. Grabbed her by the arm and threatened to kill her. When he did poorly at the race, he went looking for her but she had hidden. He was angry that he couldn't find her. He flew back home to Louisville and was furious when she wasn't at home. He then went out drinking. As she telling me this, I can feel an evil presence in the room and I know Bill is there. Both of us could hear a hissing sound. We are the house that Bill and Janice had lived in. Janice gets into my vehicle which the little possessions she has and leaves the house. She fears for her child's safety, especially the night before when she has dreams about Bill who had threatened to harm the child. In the dream, he was in his jockey's uniform with a horse whip in his hand. He points the horse whip at Janice, threatening to use it on her. She wakes up with welts on her legs. Then she has pain. The baby is screaming in terror. She sees Bill in the room with a whip in his hand. He has the look of rage in his face. Old man Wilson then appears and prevents him from harming Janice or the baby. She screams and both men disappears. As you can imagine, Janice didn't sleep that night. The angry ghost then seems to wonder around following the horse circuit that he did in life. There was vandalism, some of the horses were freaked out and then things went missing. An empty barn near one of the horse racing centers caught fire. People had seen a dark figure walking around the various horse racing venues when no one was supposed to be there. The figure looked like a jockey and fit Bill's description. Bill had many unresolved issues in this life. He didn't want to go to the other side which wouldn't be heaven. Old Man Wilson has become Janice's protector and has appeared to her in dreams telling her that he's protecting her. Bill left her and the baby alone after that. Someone made the mistake of threatening to do an exorcism on an abandoned barn that had his evil presence. The barn shook violently and then it caught on fire. Several acres of land were also burned. About 10 years after Bill died, his presence disappeared. Old man Wilson forced him to go the other side which for him was hell. Not pleasant. Shortly thereafter Old Man Wilson appeared in a dream to Janice wishing her well as he's leaving. She never saw him again after that.


Nora walked home through the snow with the ingredients she had bought to make her daughter a thick brown stew, as she always did around this time of year. She passed the frozen statue of a famous explorer in the town square, up to its shins in snow, with his rusting copper features illuminated by the glare of lighting from the stores. Her daughter, Astrid had been born on the official start of winter, the 27th November, although the wintery darkness was always present for more than two weeks in the lead up to the date. Tonight, as she did every year, Nora would make her the special meal of perfectly tender stewed beef and cabbage for her annual birthday dinner. Returning home, Nora unpacked the bag of ingredients by the hearth. She set them out carefully like a little family in a semicircle and added another log to the embers in the grate to thaw them out. When the fire burned strong and good, she went to peel potatoes. At the sink, blue light flashed intermittently on the silver edge of her knife as she skilfully removed the skins, coiling them like flat snakes and adding them to a pile of scraps. The dull, blue midday sky shone through the kitchen window mixing the glassy, deep blue light with the red emanating from the hearth fire. It cast a purple hue over her cooking. Outside the snowy expanse looked somewhat like a moon far from earth and the log pile like a strange being. She noted to herself that it was always on the evening of just such a day that Asrid came by to visit. Her daughter would make her way over the mountain and meet in the same spot as they did every year. Nora switched the radio on to the weather forecast and heard the confirmation she needed. Tonight would be the first auras of the season. She took comfort in the different steps she knew so well to make her daughter’s special meal. Tenderising the meat with a small mallet, dicing it and salting it, then adding the prepared pieces to the old black pot above the fire. The little family of ingredients had now all been safely placed within. She left to let time do its work on the dish and took the stairs to continue with the birthday ritual. She hadn’t bothered with decorations this year as she had in past years but the house still had a festive air to it, filled as it was with the smell of cooking. She padded in moccasins across the patterned rug to her daughter’s room to check its silent contents. Inside the sky’s blue horizon lay flat across the window, dimly lighting her made bed with its patchwork quilt that Nora had painstakingly hand stitched, before she was even pregnant with her much desired child. Her only, her Astrid. She switched on a lamp by the bed, suddenly bringing to life the blanket’s brightly coloured diamonds of patterned material with woodland animals playing across it. Every stitch a wish and a commitment to care for her before she had even been born. She walked gently to the bed and took the cover off wrapping herself in it. In her own room, as was customary, she went to the sideboard and picked up the small lacquered pot with a lock of Astrid’s hair inside it. She dropped it into her housecoat pocket to remember her birth day in her own way. The day she had become a mother. She lay on her bed, warm in the patchwork. Here she’d stay and rest a few hours until the stew would be cooked and Astrid had arrived. It was hard to stay calm with the excitement she felt within. It had been a full year since Astrid had made her way through the night to visit her mother. When Nora awoke, it was dark. All of the day’s blue had drained away into the navy of night. She rushed downstairs clutching the old cotton blanket around her frail frame. She first pulled on her gloves, then boots and coat over the blanket for another layer against the cold. The hearth had burned down again but she didn’t add another log. She carefully ladled hot stew into a flask. Carrying it to the door it warmed her gloves and hands within. As she left her home, a blast of cold hit the soft skin of her face waking her fully to the night that stretched out beyond her door. She walked out across the vista she’d viewed earlier from her kitchen window and trudged past the strange log pile, onwards, passing through the dwindling pines bent heavy with snow like other-worldly monsters. The white expanse was fresh and still, like a made bed around the trees’ drooped and sleeping heads. She headed for the foot of the mountain beyond with her breath expiring into the minus degree air. As she approached the meeting place, she checked her watch. There was no agreed time but it was usually within the window of late evening hours that they would meet here. She felt that Astrid would be coming slowly nearer every second, as she made her way over the summit. Nora stood shivering with excitement as the first flickers of green light arose from behind the peak. It was time, so she removed her glove and pulled the small lacquered pot from her pocket, as was customary. Her fingers shook with cold and anticipation as she removed the lid. In the sky, swirling rivers of emerald and blue danced their way over the body of the mountain. The luminous colours moved gently overhead as she plucked the lock of Astrid’s baby hair from its resting place. She let fly a few strands onto the air and watched them dance and twirl, interrupted only by a shock of laughter. She was here. The ancient aura with its band of lost children had come to dance above the trees and play. She watched as they leap-frogged over the mountain and back again. Astrid was here too, laughing in the wind with the others. As she followed the strands of gold blowing up on the wind, Nora saw her girl in the light, twisting and floating like an iridescent angel in the gloaming. As the lights moved, the laughter drew nearer. She set down the flask and opened the lid. The billowing steam from the special meal she always cooked her daughter on her birthdays’ flew up and disappeared into the cold air, as if being consumed by a spirit. 1106 words


TW: terrorism Her fingers are trembling when she presses the keys. Just three numbers, and for that she needs three tries. “911, what’s your emergency?” The familiar refrain from TV shows. Nothing she’s ever had to hear, herself, before. “This is an anonymous tip,” she says, feeling foolish, instantly. One doesn’t have to say their tip is anonymous. One merely doesn’t give one’s name. Lessons for a next time. “There are bombs in the Garden. Hurry. You must hurry. Get them out. There’s no time,” she says, her voice somewhere between a scream and a whisper. The images are flashing in her mind, explosions, bloody limbs. A stray arm, torn from a body. “Calm down, Ma’am,” says the operator. “Can you give us your name?” “You have to hurry,” she says, sobbing. She’s feeling desperate now. What’s in a name? But this is no time for poetry. “Which garden? How do you know there are bombs?” She realizes the extent of her discombobulation. She’s failed to tell them where. Her son’s face flashes in her mind. Then an image of him, face apart from body, limbs asunder. She shudders. “Terry,” she says. “My son’s in there. Madison Square Garden. He’s at the concert, Ten Thousand Maniacs.” “I need you to tell us more.” She can tell from the voice that this person does not believe her. This nameless, faceless operator thinks she’s just another one of the thousands of crazies who call every day to report the crimes that aren’t. Out of madness, despair, loneliness, a desperate cry for attention. But she’s not one of those. She’s desperate all right, but not for lonely-person attention. She realizes she has to change this dynamic, and now. “I’m going to call all the news outlets,” she says, a new urgency in her voice. She’s found some strength now, and her tone is clearer, stronger, lower, and her hands are no longer shaking. “ABC, CBS, Fox News. I’m going to tell them I planted the bombs there, I called you to warn you, and you did nothing. Then when the arena goes up in flames, and everyone is dead, they’ll blame you, the NYPD for doing nothing. For ignoring a terrorist attack that was called in .” She is quiet for a second, now that she’s issued her final warning. And she knows that this is what she’s going to do. She needs to force their hand. “Ma’am, I need you to give us your name and location.” The operator sounds worried now and she’s wondering which of her words did the trick, was it the phrase “terrorist attack” or “called in?” She disconnects the phone. She’s wondering if they’ve traced the call already. They must have. She was too slow at the start, unconvincing, a novice. She shouldn’t have started off with the premonition, who’d believe a random psychic? No one. Not until it’s too late. Better to pretend to be the terrorist than be an actual psychic. * She jabs at her phone to call her son, and it goes to voicemail. Again. “Terry?” she screams into the phone. “The Garden, it’s going to blow up,” she shouts. “You need to get out of there.” In her mind, the images begin to flash, over and over again. The explosion, always from the center of the stage and then ripples of mini-explosions through the seats, leaving bodies in their wake. She is sobbing now, hysterical, how to cope with this, the impending loss of her only son, why won’t he answer his phone, she’s tried a million times, and now she’s scared the police will be here at her door any second. Picking her up to ask her the unanswerable question: How did you know? She’s had the power since when she was small. Of course, no one believed her for the longest time. She can pick up waves in the air, tremors, the lightest of vibrations, they tell her things. Most of all, she can smell things. Like with Aunty Edith when she was small, and her stomach had not even begun to curve, and she’d not even missed her first bleed, but she knew from the heat emanating from her belly, and that slight smell of milky sweetness from her skin. She went up to her and put her arms around her body, her face against her tummy and said: Baby wants a hug. And then the adults looked at her and Mum said, she always says the strangest things. But eight and a half months later, they found out she was right. And deaths, she could tell when someone was going to die. The thing is, the dying, they always smell different too. And she’s been able to sense these things. She’s made a living off it for the longest time. There are many charlatans in this city, but she’s the real thing. She went to the regular schools for a while, but the things they taught her there, they bored her. She has no need for science and geography, she can feel the future from the vibrations in the air, the heating and cooling of currents and the way the wind blows. She knows of another bigger apocalypse that’s coming, the gases are all out of whack, but she is powerless to stop its relentless march. But the little disasters, of those she can warn people, change the course of their events. She smells out the sadness, the hopelessness in people and tells them things to change their paths. Except Terry. She hasn’t been able to help the sadness of her own. Isn’t that always the way it goes? * This one, she thinks she can change. She runs out, jumps into a taxi and calls the ticket line for MSG. She hits zero repeatedly, she needs a live person, and when finally she gets one, the taxi is at 23rd and 8th. It’s slow going, the traffic is thick this evening. It’s humid too but the reason she’s sweating is the fear that she’ll be too late. She screams into the phone scaring the guy manning the ticket booth, “There’s a bomb at the Garden, evacuate, evacuate immediately.” The taxi driver, unfazed, checks her out in his rear view mirror. Maybe he’s had a lot of crazies in his cab, he’s not taking her seriously. After all, this is Manhattan. But then she hears the police sirens up sixth avenue, their familiar whine, too loud, but this time, so welcome. She’s never felt so relieved at that sound. There seem to be a million of them roaring up the road. She feels a sudden rush, an immense relief flooding through her body, then an enormous tiredness. The taxi is at a standstill. She fishes out a twenty and hands it to the driver. She gets out of the car and starts walking. * She tries her son on the phone again. This time he answers. “Terry?” she says. “You’ve gotta come home. It’s not safe there darling, are you out?” “Yes, I’m out,” he sounds angry. “Someone called in to report bombs.” She thinks he's upset, he must have been looking forward to the show, the sound of Ten Thousand Maniacs. “Yes, yes,” she says, hurriedly. “It was me." “How did you know, Mum?” he asks. “I’ve had this smell of chemicals for days, Terry, lingering on the periphery, it didn’t all come together till now, but then today, I got an image, my darling, everything blowing up. I’m so glad you are safe,” she is sobbing again now, this time with relief. She can’t believe she’s managed to save his life. “I’m not sure how much time I have darling, I’m sure they’re coming for me, to ask me how I knew.” She doesn’t tell him of the lie she told to convince them this was real. That she was the terrorist. The danger she's put herself in, for a bigger cause. “I wish you hadn’t called it in, Mum,” he says. His voice is fading. She can’t believe what she is hearing. She knows he has been depressed, angry for so long, about so many things, but she is finding this hard to take, this death wish. She stops walking, comes to a standstill on the sidewalk. She is a pillar, processing emotions, and a stream of pedestrians flows around her, uptown and downtown. “What are you saying, my love? Come home, come home and we’ll talk it through,” she says, bereft. “No, I can’t, Mum,” he says. “No one is going to pay attention to the things that matter till a disaster strikes at home. And I just can’t be around you when I plan the next one. I can’t take the risk that you’ll sense it on me, and give it away. Again.”


I've often thought about what all I would say if I bumped into you one day, Tori. You were a huge part of my life, and now with one broken promise after another, I don't know that I will ever get the closure I need, but do I even want that? As I sit here wondering where you are and what you are doing, I find myself nervous you may walk in. Would you over hear something I say to the empty seat next to me, where you used to sit? This is silly. You can't hear me. I don't know why I'm scared you would hear me, much less see me. You are nowhere to be seen in this town. But I must admit, I've missed you. I'm back. Did you know that? I came back. You told me to come back. I'm back. Where are you, might I ask? You said you would wait for me. You said you would. You didn't. You aren't on that street anymore. Did you move? Because I'm back. I've been waiting to come back, so I did. *** It took awhile. I had to get myself back together. After, what was it, 20 years, I'm ready. I'm not married, I don't have any kids. I kept my promise. Did you? We made that promise, years ago. You said "If we are both 25, no marriage, no kids, nothing, we would get married." You had just watched 'My Best Friend's Wedding', and were inspired. Honestly, I deliberately didn't get married to anyone. I did it for you. Did you know that? You didn't hold up your side, did you? *** I lived in New York for a while. I earned money. I got a good job. I unfriended you on Facebook. I wanted it to be a surprise; to see how much you've grown when I come back. Okay, I unfriended you on Facebook because your whole feed was full of you and your new boyfriend. It hurts, you know? To see the person that you have loved since forever to just instantly leave and become happy with someone new. You wouldn't get that. You unfriended me on Facebook just because. That hurt even more. As soon as I left our small town, it was like I disappeared. No texts. No calls. Nothing. It was as if we never met. Never talked. Never made promises we wouldn't keep. *** I don't really blame you. I'm forgettable. I'm replaceable. I was never meant for you. But, when you made that promise, I believed it. I believed I could be yours. That you wanted me too. There goes that hypothesis. Your new husband, the man who replaced me, is handsome. You always had the best taste in men. You could tell that I wasn't for you. You could tell I just wasn't it . I wish I was. I truly do. But, I'm currently walking down the street. Your street. Your empty street. I haven't seen anyone. If you still remembered me, you might have been walking with me, or at least sprinting down the street to see me. But you're not. *** I heard you have a kid now. What was her name? Gracey? Oh, and you have an older son. You had promised me you would name him after me. "His name will be Frank Lee Marcy." That was my last and first name. Not only that, that was my FULL name. But, you didn't. His name is Harold Greg Hawkins, the second. You named him after your husband. His full name. That hurt, too. I mean, you promised. Sure, maybe we had problems. Maybe you forgot. But, you should have kept it. *** I found your old house. Nobody lives there. The door was unlocked. I thought that everything would be gone from there. You moved, and every piece of furniture, accessory, and memory was gone. Even that little apple tree out in the backyard was gone. I heard it had its roots ripped up so you could have a pool. It never happened. Still, there was only one thing that was left. A lump of shaped clay, with bright colors. Red, orange, green, black, blue, and gold. The little face looked at me with what looked like pity. It had a little string through a hole and it had two other holes to blow through. You left the bird whistle. Intended or not, you left it. I bought it when I went to San Antonio. You were so excited, because it had your favorite color on it. The next few weeks, we would fill it up with water and go into the wooded area behind your backyard, looking for birds. That stopped after it got a crack in it. You could have taken it with you. You could have even shoved it in a box in the back of your closet and I would be fine. But you didn't. Another broken promise. You said you would hold it with you forever. You didn't. *** I decided to go back home. "Oh, you are already home," you would have said. No I'm not. There is nothing here for me. Your not here, and that's all that mattered to me. Honestly, it is hard to leave you. I mean, I left you in the first place. But, I didn't expect you to do it back. I hurt you, but didn't your mom always teach you not to hurt someone back? I keep thinking about that night. At Senior Prom. You told me we were going together. You promised. I showed up to the dance with a goofy grin and a corsage. You said I didn't have to pick you up. I waited for an hour . You didn't show. I walked to your house and went up our secret way to your room. I didn't expect it. You said you would come. Another promise broken. You were with Paul. The handsome guy from our school. You betrayed me. Maybe I made noise. I don't know. You turned to the window and saw me, and I went running. My pants got ripped from the branches of the apple tree and mud decorated my sneakers. I didn't care. I just had to get away from you. That's when we stopped talking. It was too much, too fast. I moved to New York, and I don't know what you did. I don't even know if you felt sad or bad. Did you feel pity or guilt? Did you wish I hadn't gone? Whatever. I don't care about you anymore. So what if I'm 38 now? So what if I didn't come when we were 25? Maybe you came back. I'm sorry I left you waiting. But, let's be honest, you had it coming. You can break promises, and I can too.


CW: death, grief, mature language. It sounded like a shoe crushing a bag of chips or a pair of glasses. A crushing, cracking sound. From the cab of her dad’s pickup, two sizes too small for the passenger seat, Andie craned her neck to see the road below them. She pressed her face to the glass, trying to angle her head just right to catch a glimpse of what they had hit. Her dad swore in the creative way he always did, some bizarre combination of words that hinted at what he really wanted to say, and pulled over to the side of the road. “What is it, daddy?” Andie asked, squirming in her seat to try another angle in an effort to see the roadkill casualty. “Don’t know, Bug, but I’m gonna find out,” Red said as he opened the driver’s side door. The blistering cold of a New England afternoon in mid-December bit at Andie’s nose and made her feel a little sneezy. Red grabbed his canvas Carhartt coat, the one that had the liner inside so he could stay warm while working outside, and stepped down out of the cab. “Daddy!” Andie squealed. “I wanna come!” “You sure?” Red asked. “It might be bloody.” “Yeah, I wanna see it.” Andie punched the red button that released her seatbelt that her dad insisted she wore even though he didn’t wear his, and used all her strength to push open the truck door. In a practiced routine, she grabbed the handle above her head for leverage as she lowered her right boot onto the step bar, then turned and placed both arms across the seat to step down like climbing on a ladder. Using both mittened hands, she pulled the door closed and scurried around the bed of the truck to meet her dad at the carcass lying in the middle of the road. The turtle’s shell was cracked, like the pothole infested road they were standing on. When Andie reached her dad’s side, he was standing over the body with his hands clasped behind his back and his Timberland-clad feet spread wide. She recognized this stance from years of watching him work. He would take this position when he was deep in thought, puzzling over the angle a 2x4 had to be cut in order to fit in an irregular corner or a construction issue that required math beyond addition or subtraction. Andie was pretty sure her dad could solve any equation and knew the answer to every question. When he looked like this, she knew not to bother him with any of her “pesterin’.” There was a little leak in the fracture of the turtle’s brown shell and hot air was escaping, visible like Andie’s breath meeting the cold air. She crouched and shuffled her feet to get a closer look at the damage. It was a big turtle, the kind that lived in the pond outside her home. It had eyes that bulged from the sides of its head like a cartoon character, and wide, webbed feet that reminded Andie of canoe paddles. The intricate pattern of diamonds and hexagons on its shell was disrupted by a long canyon that stretched from top to bottom, where the tire had hit. The sight of this mangled creature both horrified and delighted Andie. She was already eleven and still had never seen a dead thing, if you could believe that. Sure she had seen dead fish when her dad would cook what he had caught in the pond, and she had seen a sow hanging from its back feet on a hook at the butchers’ once, but that was different. Those were killed on purpose, their deaths were needed for something. Even though she lived in hunting country and all her classmates and friends had seen at least one thing wash up on the shores of the pond or fall from a tree, Andie still had never seen something dead. It was because of her dad. He always shooed her away or cleaned things up before she could see them, but he was letting her inspect this turtle without saying a thing. Then she noticed a flicker of movement from deep within the turtle’s body. It accompanied another little puff of steam. A closer look revealed a tiny fleshy thing, beating to an uneven tune. It was so dark inside the valley of the turtle that its oozing blood looked black like ink, and Andie realized that the little jelly bean sized thing was the animal’s heart. “Daddy!” she gasped, looking up into his pinched face. “It’s alive!” “I know, Bug.” He exhaled one long stream of vapor that looked like cigarette smoke. “I know.” “What do we do now?” she asked, looking to her dad expectantly, as a child who believes her father holds all the answers in his calloused palms does. “I think...we get it out of the middle of the road before we get squashed by a truck too,” he said. Andie swiveled her head up and down the road, checking for danger, but all was quiet. In the stillness of a country road, an incoming truck would be obvious from miles away. She turned back to consider the turtle, whose eyelids had begun to flicker slightly. “It’s waking up,” she pointed out. Red didn’t respond, but just pulled off his jacket and knelt down beside Andie and the turtle. He tenderly nudged the turtle onto the canvas and used it as a stretcher to lift its body. Andie wondered why her dad wasn’t cold without his jacket. He was only wearing a long sleeved T-shirt over a regular sleeved T-shirt, not even a sweater or sweatshirt. Andie got to her feet and followed her dad, who was walking slowly and deliberately with the turtle suspended before him. The turtle hadn’t moved except to pull its head in. When they reached the cold, packed earth on the side of the road, Red paused and looked down at his daughter. “I’m going to go in the trees,” he told her. “I’m gonna bring this little guy with me. You wait in the truck and I’ll come get you when I’m ready, sound good?” Andie puckered her lips like she tasted something sour. She wasn’t little anymore, she understood what was happening. “Are you going to kill it?” she asked. “I have to put it out of its misery,” Red answered. His face showed a flicker of amusement at his daughter’s intuition. “It’s what I would want, if I were in this bad shape.” “I’ve seen videos of people saving turtles with cracked shells,” Andie protested. “We should bring it to the hospital.” “Doctors around here wouldn’t know what to do with him,” Red countered. “There’s no point in prolonging his pain.” “We could call Dr. Lindsay?” Andie suggested. “He’d know what to do, I bet.” Red’s forehead creased and he looked to the trees like he was itching to get out there and be done with this. “Dr. Lindsay only works on people-patients, Bug. He can’t help us.” Out of ideas, Andie just wagged her head with the weariness of a person much older than her. The blades of grass, stiffened from the early winter frost, crinkled and crunched under the tread of Red’s boots as he made his way towards the tree line. Andie followed a few paces behind, and despite her best efforts to be stealthy, the grass gave her away. Red didn’t ask her to wait in the truck again, though. Maybe he thought she was old enough to stand by while he performed his duty for a fellow creature of God. Maybe he knew his stubborn daughter would just give him a hard time and he’d have to get stern with her, something he didn’t have the energy for. They walked a few paces beyond the first few saplings, into a cluster of more mature pines. Red placed his jacket on the ground and reversed the movement from earlier, gently nudging the turtle back off the fabric. Once freed, the jacket returned to warming Red’s torso. “What are you going to do?” Andie asked, surveying the weak shell and the blood pooling up under the surface. “I’m going to have to crush it more,” her father answered in a hoarse voice. She hadn’t heard his voice sound like that in a long time. Andie simply stepped back and squeezed her eyes shut. Her hands balled into fists and she flinched when she heard his boot fall heavy on the turtle’s back, but she did not cry out. There was a moment of quiet darkness between the sound of crushing death and the confirmation from her father that it was done. She blinked her eyes back open and took in the gory scene. What used to be a turtle with a broken shell was now a mess of bone, cartilage, and punctured organs. A whimper almost escaped, but Andie swallowed it. She didn’t want to make her dad feel bad about killing this thing. She knew he didn’t like death. It was the curse of being dad that he had to face all the death and wield all the weapons when he hated it as much as everyone else. “Can we bury it?” she asked. “Like mom?” Red let out a rough chuckle and nodded. “Yeah, Bug. We can bury it.” He went back to the truck to grab the shovel he had among his tools. “Lucky we were doing demo today, huh?” he said to Andie, as if they had both been working at the site. Andie giggled, she always liked being included in her dad’s crew. Red set the blade of the shovel at a 45 degree angle and used his foot to plow it into the tough ground. While he worked, Andie perused the brush and collected weeds that looked close enough to flowers. She bundled up the stalks of bulbous seed pods and strands of gossamer leaves and used some grass to tie it into a bouquet. Once the hole was about a foot deep, Red used the spade to scoop up the turtle's remains and laid him in his grave. Andie placed the bouquet upon its body and stood back to admire their work. “Would you like to give the eulogy?” he asked her, his hand resting on the hilt of his shovel. “What’s a eulogy?” “It’s when you say a few nice things about the deceased.” “Oh, like you did for mom?” “Yeah, like I did for mom.” “Okay, I can try,” Andie said and cleared her throat before beginning. “Dear...We don’t know his name.” Andie looked up at Red, her eyes wide with worry. Red thought for a moment before replying, “How about Frank?” “Like Uncle Frank?” “That’s what I was thinking. He kind of looks like a turtle, doesn’t he?” Red said, grinning down at Andie who hid her giggles behind her blue knit mittens. “Okay, Dear Frank,” Andie continued. Her face drew into a look of concentration and sorrow. “If you hadn’t been crossing the road today, maybe you would still be alive, but I guess you had to get to the other side.” Andie paused, then erupted in giggles again. “Why did the turtle cross the road?” Red said, picking up on the accidental joke. “To get to the other side!” Andie replied, clapping her mittens together in muffled joy. “Would you like to continue?” Red asked. “Um...I don’t really know what I’m doing,” Andie confessed. “Can you do it?” “Sure, Love Bug,” Red said, using Andie’s full nickname which he only did when he was being very sincere. Andie noticed the tone change and quieted down, turning her attention back to the turtle carcass in the ground. “Frank, I’m sorry, buddy. If I could go back in time I would make myself pay more attention to the road. I would make myself swerve, or better yet, take a different route home. If I could go back in time I would save you and let you go back to your happy life of swimming in Myer’s Pond, basking in the sun and eating aphids and whatever else crossed your path. I would make sure you got home to your turtle wife and turtle babies who must be waiting for you now, wondering where you’ve gone. You could all get cozy together underwater, getting ready for the winter freeze. I hope your last moments were peaceful and content, I hope you had a full belly and a calm mind. I hope you are in a better place now, up in Turtle Heaven. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry you’re not here with us anymore. I’m sorry your baby won’t know you as she grows up, I’m sorry--” Red coughed, clearing something sticky caught in his throat. He didn’t want his daughter to see him cry, not like this. He had been so brave and stoic through the last year, he couldn’t let this damn turtle get him now. He had to stay present, remember who he was talking about. After a moment, he went on, “Goodbye, Frank the Turtle. We wish we could have known you longer.” Andie felt a tugging in her gut like she was going to be sick, but she knew that wasn’t what it was. It was a sensation she had felt many times, it signaled a yearning for change. She was so tired of feeling helpless. Her mom used to say anything Andie’s mind could think up, her hands could create, but it wasn’t true. It wasn’t that her mom had been wrong, but she hadn’t been thinking big enough. Maybe Andie could make things like her dad did, but she couldn’t make the future different. She had tried so many times. When her mom was in their living room shivering and chattering despite the centralized heat that Andie had turned up to high and all the blankets and sweaters in the house. When her mom was sleeping in a hospital bed, and Andie would stare at her body and will the sickness away. When she would collect the clumps of her mother’s hair and try to sew them back together so she could wear them again, but it never worked. When her mom had told her she could do anything, she hadn’t been talking about saving a life. “Goodbye, Frank the Turtle,” Andie echoed her father. “Sorry.” Red handled the shovel and replaced the dirt he had moved for Frank. Andie wondered if her dad, who she believed really could do anything, had tried to save her mom’s life too. If he had, why didn’t it work? “Daddy?” Andie squeaked. “Yeah, Bug?” “Did we miss something? I mean, could we have done something?” Red turned, clearly lost. “When? With Frank?” “No,” Andie said. “With mom.” “Hm.” Red patted the dirt pile once with the back of his shovel before turning away and taking his daughter’s hand, leading them back to the truck. When they reached his forest green pickup, he tossed the shovel back into the bed and opened the passenger door. In an effortless move, he picked up Andie and plucked her back in her seat next to his. He closed her door, crossed to his side, and climbed in behind the wheel. For a moment they sat there, quiet and still. Then Red replied, “No, baby. There was nothing more we could have done. The doctors tried their best, your mom tried her best, we gave her all the love and help she needed, but when God decides it’s your time, you don’t get a say.” “God didn’t know mom, though. If He had--” “God knew her well enough to know he wanted her by His side,” Red said and turned the key in the ignition. “Oh.” Red gripped the wheel with his chapped hands, and looked over at Andie. “Seatbelt.” Andie obeyed, and once he heard the click, he shifted into drive and turned back onto the deserted country road. Andie leaned forward and turned the heat up to high, then removed her mittens and sat back in her seat to watch the trees rush by as if they had legs and were running alongside their racing truck. Images of Frank’s mangled body mingled with images of her mom, gray and sallow in bed. Andie decided she was like her dad, she didn’t like death all that much. She was grateful he would always be there to handle the grittier parts of life for her. Life behind his shield suited her just fine. She lay her cheek against the cold glass of the window, and her smiling mouth fogged the glass until the trees were hidden behind a veil of wintery smog.


2020 had been a banner year for Sergeant Reginald Cottonbottom (Sarge, to anyone who was interested in remaining in one piece). Due to his flatmate working from their shared residence for a majority of the year, and even taking nearly a month off entirely, they had not only been able to spend more time together than ever before, but had ventured out enough that Sarge had claimed more poles than even he had imagined possible. But as the year drew to a close, Sarge was left with a nagging feeling of regret, as there still remained four poles he had not yet claimed as his own. The poles themselves were perfectly ordinary. There was nothing at all special about them. They were in no way the tallest poles he had claimed, nor the widest. They were not even in a location which made laying his claim important, like the six he had claimed last week in front of the Tower of London. Sarge smiled to himself as he thought about that triumph. Claiming those had been some of his best work, not only because of the history surrounding them (think of the thousands of previous claims that had been made upon them!) but because it was not easy to get Arthur to go into crowds like that. Arthur had always preferred quiet, empty routes, as free of others as possible, and while those presented Sarge with plenty of potential claims, it greatly reduced Sarge’s ability to claim more prestigious prizes. But when Arthur had started to cross the bridge, and Sarge realized such a regal claim was in reach, he pulled Arthur as hard and fast as he could to make sure he could be a part of such rich history. But these four poles, and his failure to claim them, ate at Sarge. For months he had seen them, and for months Arthur had refused to let him get close enough to do more than stare at them from across the street. Once, in mid-June, when they had approached the poles from a different direction than was usual, Sarge thought he had finally gotten his chance, but at the last second, SHE had walked out, and ruined it all. As soon as Arthur saw her, he had pulled Sarge, who had not been expecting such an abrupt stop of their forward momentum, and gone back the way they had come. Sarge huffed to himself angrily. The narrowness of that defeat had eaten away at him ever since. He would not, could not, let that failure carry over to the next year. With only two days to go in the year, Sarge decided he would have to take matters into his own four paws. Jumping up, he padded over to where Arthur lay on the couch, and pawed at him until Arthur sighed, put on his shoes, clipped Sarge to their leash, and helped him out of the building. Now was Sarge’s opportunity. As they reached the street, Sarge immediately started out left. He would approach the poles in a wholly unexpected route. They crossed over a half dozen streets before Sarge jerked their leash again to cause them to turn left for the next ten, followed by a right turn for eight more. Sarge stopped then at a familiar pole to get his bearings. If Arthur suspected him, he didn’t show it. Sarge set out again, and was just about to turn right when a sudden scent gave him an idea. Altering course, Sarge pulled them straight instead, right to Arthur’s preferred coffee shop. Sarge slowed as they neared the door, hoping Arthur would catch the scent and decide to go in. Sure enough, as they reached the door Arthur stopped, tied their leash to a tree, asked Sarge to sit, and headed inside. Sarge knew this would be the key. Arthur would be so distracted by his coffee that he would not notice where they were, and Sarge would be to the poles before Arthur could do anything to stop him. Today, Sarge would seize victory, and would finally accomplish that which had so eluded him this year. Today, the poles would be his. Arthur emerged from the shop a few minutes later. Sarge rose from where he was sitting, stretched, and after Arthur had untied their leash, began setting out towards his goal. After two more blocks Sarge quickly pulled them right. He glanced back, and saw that Arthur was still sipping his drink. Nothing on his face suggested he suspected Sarge of attempting to reach their destination. As they reached the busy road on which the elusive poles stood, Sarge, as nonchalantly as he could, turned down it. He could see them. 200 feet to go. Sarge risked a glance back, but Arthur remained oblivious. 150 feet. Sarge, in his excitement, began to quicken his pace. There they were. 100 feet. He would not be denied. 75 feet. Sarge could not take it any longer. He pulled on their leash but, too hard! Arthur had not been expecting such a sudden lunge, and it had caused him to stumble and drop his drink. Swearing loudly, Arthur pulled on the leash, and brought Sarge to a screeching halt. Sarge looked up at Arthur and saw, with horror, a look of comprehension spread across Arthur’s face. Sarge attempted to pull again. He would break free of the leash if he had to, so badly did he want to reach those poles. But Arthur was having none of it. He held their leash firm, and Sarge knew he was beaten. He had failed. Putting his head down, Sarge shuffled after Arthur. To have been so close, Sarge thought, made it all the worse. His haste had cost him, and his failure would continue to haunt him. Sarge shuffled, head hung low, tail stationary, the rest of the walk home. When they reached the flat he lapped dejectedly at his water, before wholly ignoring his kibble and flopping down onto his bed. He tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes all he could see were the poles. After several restless hours (or was it days?) Sarge eventually began to fall asleep, but as he did, an idea struck him. It was not a good idea, and Sarge knew that. But he knew, almost immediately, that it was the only solution to his problem. If Arthur would not come with Sarge to the poles, well then Sarge would just have to go on his own. Admittedly, the idea scared him a bit. He had never left the flat without Arthur before, and while he knew how to get to and from the poles without any issue, it had always comforted Sarge to have someone with a better view of the world walking behind him. But this was no time for cowardice. He was Sergeant Reginald Cottonbottom. And if he could not muster the courage to venture out alone to these, the poles that had thwarted him for months, he might as well be known instead as Reginald Cowardbottom. Sarge made up his mind. The next time Arthur opened the door, we would make his move. He would charge out the door, down the stairs, onto the street and straight to the poles. They would be his in no time. Sarge shifted his body, so he was facing the door. Feigning sleep, he kept half an eye on Arthur, watching for any sign of movement. Two hours passed, but still Arthur sat on the couch. Three hours. Four. Finally, Sarge saw Arthur begin to rise. But was it to the door, or to the bedroom? Sarge readied his hind legs. He would need to be up and out the door before Arthur had a chance to realize what was going on. He leaned back, ready to launch, but, alas, it was not to be. Arthur merely shuffled to the bedroom. Sarge shuffled after him, dejected. It appeared this mission would be delayed until tomorrow. The following morning, Sarge awoke with a start to find that Arthur had already left their bed. Scrambling, Sarge ran into the living room to find Arthur had merely retraced his steps from the night before, and was back on the couch, newspaper in hand. Sarge could not believe it. Not only had Arthur managed to leave their bed without him noticing, but he had left their flat entirely! The shame at having slept through what might have been his last opportunity washed over Sarge, and he slumped to the floor where he stood. Hours of waiting, all wasted. Perhaps it was not meant to be, thought Sarge. Perhaps those poles are there not to be conquered, but instead to serve as a reminder that perfection is unattainable. Yes, that was it. Their existence, and his inability to claim them, was as a metaphor, there to humble him. To keep him grounded. Sarge shook his head, disgusted with himself for even having such thoughts. These were the thoughts of lesser canines. Of course perfection was attainable. He had seen it every time he had walked past a mirror. He was perfection embodied. Such a failure was unacceptable for Sergeant Reginald Cottonbottom. He would remain vigilant. Even Arthur, despite his prodigious ability to remain stationary for long periods of time, would move eventually. So Sarge, reinvigorated with a newfound sense of purpose, re-manned his post. Watching, and waiting, for his opportunity. Around lunch time, it came. Sarge first heard Arthur answer his phone, and a minute later, as Arthur was standing up from the couch, Sarge heard the most beautiful sound he had ever heard: the buzzer, which let them know someone was downstairs, was ringing. This was his moment. Sarge slipped as slowly and silently as he could to a better position. He knew he would only have one chance. He planted his paws firmly on the ground, as Arthur moved towards the door, and as Arthur turned the handle, Sarge launched himself forward. He had timed it perfectly. Arthur was still in the midst of swinging the door open when he noticed Sarge lunging for it, and could not stop himself from opening it further before Sarge was out. Sarge skidded to a stop outside the door, and sprinted to the stairs. He sped down them, threw himself into the door at their base, and was in the street in a matter of seconds. Stopping to regain his bearings, Sarge sped up the street. As he reached the corner, Sarge heard Arthur yelling his name behind him, but ignored him. He had a date with destiny. He ran across the street, weaving his way between the legs of the people walking, and after several blocks turned right, before eventually taking a left, and another right. After three more blocks, Sarge knew he was close. But he also knew Arthur was still hot on his tail. Finally, he saw them ahead, gleaming in the December sunshine. Knowing how close Arthur was, Sarge put on a last spurt of speed. He would not be denied this chance. And as he neared the poles, Sarge’s heart leapt. The woman who had previously caused Arthur to stop short of the poles was outside on the sidewalk. Sarge knew Arthur would not go any further. Sure enough, Sarge heard Arthur’s pace slow behind him. The day was his. Slowing down, Sarge reached the first of the poles, and sniffed it, relishing the moment. He could smell the previous claims of those who had come before him. But from now, until the end of time, it would be him that the world smelled. Raising his leg, Sarge turned away from the pole, just as the woman noticed him, laughed, and began talking to him. Sarge ignored her. Pleasantries could wait. But as he moved to the second pole, something wholly unexpected happened: Arthur had walked up to where he and the woman stood. Sarge paused, despite himself. Arthur, the man who had so actively avoided this woman for so many months, had followed Sarge straight up to where she stood. As the woman turned to talk to him, Sarge saw Arthur turn red for the briefest of seconds, before responding. Shaking himself back to reality, Sarge returned to the business at hand, claiming the second and third poles. With only one remaining, Sarge could not help himself. He stole a glance back at Arthur and the woman, who Sarge was pleased to see, were still talking. The woman had even laughed, and Sarge’s heart leapt when he saw Arthur return a smile, something he had not seen Arthur do in months. It appeared everyone’s day was being made by Sarge’s conquest. And speaking of conquest, Sarge thought to himself, turning to the fourth pole. It was time. He should have prepared a speech, some brief remarks. But speeches could wait. Turning, Sarge lifted his leg, and claimed the pole as his own. It was done. After months of painstaking work, he had finally claimed these four poles as his own. He sauntered back towards Arthur and the woman, head held high, tail wagging. The two of them looked at him, and the woman laughed as she bent down to scratch behind his ears. A well-deserved reward, thought Sarge. But now, with his goal achieved, he was ready to rest. Looking up at Arthur, Sarge saw their leash in his hands, and bent his head low so it could be clipped on. But as he started to walk away, Sarge noticed that Arthur had not followed. Looking back, he was surprised to see Arthur’s phone in the woman’s hands. But, soon enough, it had been returned to Arthur, and he had followed Sarge down the sidewalk, back to their flat, and to the much-needed nap Sarge now craved.


It was just approaching night in the proper sense of the word when he heard the noise. A thump, like a bass hiccup from the back. This had happened a lot lately, the straps that held down the cargo were at least a decade old and the buckles kept coming loose. Spotting a lay by, he swerved left and came to a halt on the crunching tarmac. He opened the door and climbed out, fishing a packet of cigarettes off of the windscreen as he did so. The twilight air was cold, he would say crisp but the all pervading stench of petrol and exhaust prevented him from describing it so. He stood there, lighting the cigarette, cupping his hand about the flame, the ridges of his palms lighting up in dancing shadows. When it lit, he put the lighter back in his pocket and went around to the back of the lorry, unclipped the doors at the base and top, heaved off the latch and swung them open. Yep, the crates had slid all to the left of the trailer and were pressing up against the canvas, he thought they had probably shifted at the A17-M74 junction past Larkhall, the turn was sharp and spiralled downwards. It had happened before. He climbed up and in, flicking on the thin overhead lights. The packaging on one of the crates had caught on the one of the metal bars that ran up the walls. This too, had happened before, but not to this extent, at least half of the plastic wrapping had peeled away and the cargo was spilt across the floor. He stepped closer, took out his torch and directed the beam at the floor. Money. Banknotes, stacked in cubes that must have weighed at least a kilogram each. He knelt down, flicked through the notes, all of them 200 euro bills, the circle of stars bright in the torchlight. He put down the packet, carefully, and shined the torch around the trailer, eight separate crates, he went over to the next nearest and crouched down, took out his keys and slit open the wrapping. More bills. He ran his fingernail down the side of the stack, listening to the sound, watching the embossed 200s whip past like the pages of a flip book. At a guess, he thought there must be about 10,000 notes a crate. So about 80,000 notes. 200 times 80,000. 16,000,000 euros in total. His head filled with a murky swarm of ideas like fireflies, shining with possibility, dancing, taunting. He sat down slowly, the keys sitting in his lap, clingfilm still hanging from his door key. - I have a house, I have a house and I have a wife and I have a job. I'm being stupid. I should call the police. No one hires an unsuspecting lorry driver to ship 16 million euros across the entirety of the UK. No one on the right side of the law anyway. - He got out his mobile, keyed in the three nines, all the while knowing that he wouldn't hit call. He sat there, finger hovering over the keypad. Then he flipped it shut, rose to his feet and put it back into his pocket. - I could fit one, maybe two million into the duffel bag I have on the back seat. But where would I take it? I could drive to Edinburgh, dump the rest there, in a warehouse or a lorry park, get a cab to Rosyth, where that big ferry port is, get on a boat to Belgium with the money in the hold. I'm headed south now though, I'll need to change back up north and rejoin the A71. - He picked his way around the spilt bills, booted feet tramping on the metal floor. Then he clambered down from the trailer and latched and locked the doors. He took one last draw on his cigarette then dropped it onto the tarmac, where it hissed in the wet. The cab had coldened in the time he'd been gone and he had to wack the heating up nearly to maximum in order to produce any sort of noticeable difference between the interior and exterior temperatures. He rubbed the sleeves of his coat against his arms, shivering and reached for the map. He fished it out from underneath the newspaper on the passenger seat and flicked on the overhead lights. Picking up the remnants of a McDonald's, he swept it onto the passenger seat and spread the map out over the dashboard. There, change onto the B7078 just south of Blackwood, come round, follow it north onto Carlisle road and rejoin the A71 at the junction. So where was the duffel bag? He swung himself between the two front seats and checked in the backseat footwells. There it was, stuffed down, nearly under the driver's seat. He opened it, intending to pull the contents out and dump it in a foot well or in the locker at the back. But it was his son's. He was never sure why he'd kept his football kit, they hadn't kept his room, or his bed, or the posters on the walls. He could remember tearing it all out, putting it in bin bags in the car boot, this was before they'd had to sell the car, and giving it to a charity shop. An Oxfam. He hadn't wanted to, lord knows he hadn't wanted to, but the room was empty and empty rooms happened to be in high demand. They'd found a lodger. But Edith. After he died Edith had never been the same, she'd have moments where she'd stop whatever she was doing and stare, straight ahead, eyes unfocused as though she were staring into the distance. And she'd wake, in the night, screaming and crying for him to come back to her. When this happened he would always go downstairs to get a cup of tea for her, and by the time he'd come back she would already be asleep. If he were to leave, what would happen to Edith. Any doctor they'd seen had said she was variously in shock, denial, grief. If he left, it would, undoubtedly, get worse. Could he, take her with him? But of course she was staying with her sister, in Welwyn Garden City. His tickets for the ferry to San Malo were for 6:00 am, and it was, what, 10ish now. It was 7 hours to Portsmouth on the best of days and this wasn't the best of days. He knew they would check to see if he got on the ferry, particularly with this much money. And if he didn't, they'd come looking, and when they did, he'd much rather be on a ferry to Belgium than just leaving Buckinghamshire. No. He'd make this decision later. After he'd filled up the duffel bag. Got out, walked round to the back, unlock, unlatch, open. He almost seemed to be working automatically, not thinking too much about what he was doing. He filled the bag with notes from the crate that had split, counting them as he went, 5000, 10,000, 20, 25, 35, 40, 50. He got to 2 million eventually and zipped up the bag, slinging it over his left shoulder, his son's football kit under the other arm. Close, latch, lock. He drew the bolts home with metallic clinks. And went back round to the cab, staggering under the weight of two million euros. He put it down in the passenger seat footwell, where it didn't quite fit, hanging half over the seat itself. He slammed shut the door and began to drive again. What would he do, with the money, buy himself a house? A car? A new TV? A motorbike? What the hell would he do with two million euros. They used to play games like that sometimes, on long car journeys, they'd play eyespy and famous people and the game where you had to remember the previous items. It made him go to sleep. And then he would sleep and sleep and sleep. Sometimes when they arrived they'd just leave him in the car for a while, to sleep. They didn't drive at all after the accident. Which had a lot to do with why they sold the car. He liked to think another family had bought it, that they'd laughed and talked and eaten too many jelliebabies in it. But it probably just went to scrap. The junction was just a few minutes away, he could practically see it, the slip road off, back to Edinburgh, to Belgium, to god knows where. And the other road, the southern road, long, straight, back to Edith, back to the days when they wouldn't talk to each other, the days when she seemed like someone he hardly knew. He'd take the B7078, go back to Edinburgh, get on the- No. He wouldn't. The sliproad came and went, disappearing into the distance behind him. He was going to back to his wife. Back to the bad days and the worse nights. Back to the coldness of their home, where they'd sidestep around each other. But he was going back to her. Because he loved her.


“The day my reality faded away” I discovered our photograph under my bed, rusty at the edges and partly ripped, unloved, undesired, and abandoned. I picked it up. My gaze was fixed on your delightful grin, as your hands wrapped over my shoulders, drawing me in closer for the photograph. I couldn't look at the blinding twinkle in your eyes and flipped the photo to discover a few sentences scribbled, invoking profound emotions in me. I remember you taking photographs wherever you went and anytime you wanted. You would always have the same excitement to take pictures, especially mine, whether it was as simple as walking or as elaborate as modeling for it. You were so focused on the photos you never realized my eyes would always wander away from the camera to you. I have never said it. I loved all of your little quirks, the way you push an out of place strand of hair from your face, and curl your lips, mirth dancing in your eyes at my clumsy stance and awkward smile, how your slender fingers would curve around the camera while you would excitedly show the images. My childhood is filled with memories of you - your tiny hands wiping my tears away, pulling my lips into a grin, and your giggle filling me with complete delight. I had always been speechless in front of you. I would constantly listen and immerse myself in your buoyant speech, to the point that I forgot where I was, let alone remembering to respond. I remember when you determinedly asked me to enjoy the heroes of a movie rather than the evil. “Why would you like such a character? He is bad; he steals and curses.” You had said, cutely covering your mouth in surprise at my choice. “Why should I root for the heroes? I'll like anyone I want.” I declared emphatically. You exhaled, blew your hair out of your face, and pushed your lips together in a thin line. “If you admire the hero, we will have something in common, and we'll be best friends for life.” You claimed and I believed you, believed in your forever, and I began to like the hero - the good guy. Even now a chuckle escapes my dry throat. We were just kids. All we wanted was to stay together forever. But neither did we then nor when we aged knew how brief that eternity would be. I remember you, standing alongside me with an unwavering tenacity fighting everyone who dares make me cry, and trying to reassure that I can love anyone I choose, whether it a girl, a boy, or even a villain and no one can call me wrong. I remember you holding my hands and bringing me wherever you wished to. Whenever you needed company for shopping or eating, you would declare it a girl’s day and gladly nibble on the meat with me sitting in front of you, smiling like a buffoon. For me, they were our unofficial dates, a fantasy that would remain only in my dreams and imagination. I remember how you would always stand in the front of the bike and act as if you were the one driving it. You were just five when you had uttered those words. “Don’t worry! I am here. I’ll take you to your destination safely.” I had nodded in agreement sitting on the back seat while my father chuckled at our naivety. We were worry-free and happy. Our words had their innocence and our laugh had their merriment. If I could wish for something, I would like time to freeze in my childhood and never let me grow into an adult. I remember our first movie together, our first day at college, our first party, and our first cooked meal. It had been 20 years since the little feeling called love started growing in me. Everything you did was admirable, beautiful and you left me in a trance waiting for your love to pull me back. But I never thought I would actually get what I wished for. It was just a usual day, we were watching a movie, snuggling to the warm blankets with a hot chocolate at both our sides. Whenever I bit my nails unconsciously, your hand would come right down to smack it away. You’d have a scowl on your face, with your eyebrows furrowed. But even then all I could look at was your dark brown eyes glistening to the light of the television. Your nostrils flared and after some time of repeating my actions, you finally turned off the movie and gave your full attention to me. Your mouth opened for a heated speech and you were going into a long rant but all I did was grin, remembering our childhood. “It’s a waste of time talking to you. Why even bother.” you had said shaking your head and biting your lips in controlled anger. But before you could walk out of the room I had pulled you back inside the blankets. “It's cold. Just stay here.” I had mumbled. You had protested a bit still frowning. But you soon settled in and slowly your hands curled around my waist, hugging me like a koala. I chuckled and wrapped my hands around you. You were warm, soft, and comfortable. I may have slipped into a deep slumber if we weren’t staring intensely at each other. It was too soon when I broke the eye contact and turned to the other side. I was nervous, my hands were clammy and my heart pounding hard. What should I do? I could feel you lying beside me but there was complete silence in the room except for my heavy breathing. “Will you go on a date with me?” you asked. And we were together since then. We had shared all our days with each other yet why did I never notice your smile shorten each day? Why did I not understand the lost twinkle in your eyes meant your unspoken grief? You had your stress at work, and we had our fights at home and discrimination to face from society. You were the strongest person I knew, but I never thought my pillar could also one day collapse. I had never seen you cry after we got into a relationship. Did you really have to act stronger in front of me? Sometimes I think we should have remained as friends. Then these memories wouldn’t have been tainted by your blood, then you wouldn’t have left me alone to grieve. Some days, I would sit in solitude and relive the horrible memories, allowing me to feel like a thousand needles piercing my body. I would not say I deserved it, but I have the strength to bear it and the resolve, some call it courage, to go through with it only to feel a slight upward curve of my lips at an abysmal amount of laughs or jokes that now seem numerous. There were times when I was eager to create a homemade photo album with all of the lovely images that captured my delight so wonderfully. You were my photographer and I was your model. However, those albums might have turned to ashes blazing in your pyre. I still cannot comprehend why you killed yourself. I want to understand but you aren’t here to tell your story. Instead, you chose to die peacefully forgetting our eternity, my love, and how I would listen to everything you have to say. I can’t look at these photos without the pain, the grief, the hate, and the fear consuming me. You were my happiness. But then why am I scared of you? Why did you leave me hollow? Things were headed in the right direction. Then why did you change their path? You had troubles, I was with you yet you left me helpless. You brought the light to me but it was you who took it away too. Now I am here with the realization. You were never real, never were supposed to be forever. All I want to be is selfish and bring your memories back even if to be left hurt. You got freed, caging me forever. I am sorry that I hate you. I am sorry!