“Accounting tells me you haven’t docketed any pro bono hours,” the Partner said. He was one of the law firm’s most senior partners, and he occupied a vast corner office down the hall from the shitty cubicle where I worked. The Partner only summoned me to his office when I’d done something wrong or pissed someone off. I spent a lot of time in the corner office, getting chewed out by the Partner. “Do I get any credit for all the dockets that my boss deletes? Those have to count for something, at least.” My boss, a three-year associate, docketed more time than any other junior at the firm, and I docketed the least, mainly because my boss deleted my dockets, and re-entered the time as his own. I’d complained about this before, but no one cared. I was a nobody, but my boss wore bespoke suits from Surmesur and shoes from Leone. He golfed with the partners at a private club and ate with them in places too expensive for me to even order an appetizer. So far as the firm was concerned, my boss owned me and my dockets, and could dispose of either as he saw fit. “Your sarcasm isn’t doing you any favors,” he said. For a moment I thought I’d pushed the Partner into one of his meltdowns, but he’d decided that I wasn’t worth yelling at. I wasn’t a keeper. “Do you have any pro bono files for me?” I thought I might as well try; my boss wasn’t giving me any. “Ask your boss. You only need to docket four hours. How hard can that be? You draft an agreement, or give an opinion. It’s not hard, Calledinthe90s.” I started to ask a question, but then the Partner’s phone rang. He waved a hand at me. “That’ll be from a new client we’ve unboarding. Talk to me later. Or better yet, don’t talk to me. Talk to your boss.” I slunk back to my desk and returned to the stack of work that always awaited me. It didn’t help that I did more than my share of court appearances. I was doing three or four motions a week, spending a lot of time in court, and then working late at night to catch up. When I sat down at my desk, I saw there was a piece of paper on top of one of the stacks that hadn’t been there earlier that morning. I picked up the paper, and then my phone rang. It was the firm’s bookkeeper slash office manager. “You haven’t docketed for any pro bono work,” she said. “That’s true,” I said. “I left a form on your desk. You can’t docket any pro bono work unless a partner signs off on the work you did. So do the work, fill out the form, get a Partner’s signature, and then hand it in.” She hung up before I could reply. The office manager didn’t like me very much; she blamed me for the fun people made of her after the office Christmas party. She’d been the butt of some jokes, jokes that I’d told. I looked at the Pro Bono Work Assessment and Docketing Permission form with its various boxes and lines and questions and bullshit. I had nothing to put on that form. I’d asked my boss for some pro bono work, many times, but he had no pro bono work for me. The firm had a few charities run by this or that spouse of a partner, and the juniors competed to do whatever pro bono work was available. I didn’t even get a nibble. But I had to try. “You gotta give me some pro bono files,” I said to my boss again a few minutes later, “I’m getting heat from the Partner.” “Please fuck off,” my boss said. He didn’t use those exact words, of course. What he actually said was “yeah, ok, sure, I’ll find something.” But in downtown law firm speak, his words meant “please fuck off,” so I headed back to my desk, glad that for a change I had no court that day, so that I could catch up on stacks of files that grew like mushrooms on all the flat surfaces of the shitty little cubicle where I worked. I opened one at random, and started to work on a routine motion. I had been at it for less than ten minutes when I got interrupted. “I forgot to mention that I need you to go to court for me,” my boss said, standing over me. “For what?” “Refusals motion. I just don’t have time today.” He tossed the motion record on my desk, and walked away. I grabbed the papers and my jacket and headed out almost at a run. I made it to court just in time to sign in. The list wasn’t too bad that day, and I sat in the body of the court as the judge vetted the list. I listened as he granted or refused adjournments, tossed a motion for lack of jurisdiction, and another for citing the wrong rule. I was listening with half an ear, reading my boss’s motion record, trying to make sense of my boss’s shitty drafting, when I heard the voice of a young woman. “I need an adjournment, Your Honour,” she said, “I need more time to find a lawyer.” “It’s a simple debt collection case,” her opponent said, “and it’s already been adjourned twice.” I looked up. The lawyer I ignored, but the young woman was different. She was not someone that could be ignored. The only thing about her that was average, was her height. In a room full of dark suited lawyers, she stood out like a bright jewel. “It’s hard to find a lawyer I can afford,” she said, “and the legal aid clinic downstairs won’t take it on.” “The clinic can only give advice,” the judge said, “they can’t argue a case for you. If they won’t do it pro bono, you’ll have to argue it yourself.” “How am I going to argue a case?” she said, “I don’t make enough to pay a lawyer, but I make too much for legal aid, and I can’t get someone to do it pro bono.” I sensed an opportunity. “I’ll do it pro bono,” I said. “Really?” said the young woman, and the judge, and opposing counsel all at the same time. “Sure,” I said, “but I’ll need an adjournment, just a short adjournment. A week at most, just to read the file--” “No adjournment,” said the judge, “but I’ll take you up on that pro bono offer.” “But--” “That was very generous of you to offer,” continued the judge as I started to sweat, “very generous indeed.” I sat there feeling like an idiot. I felt my face turning red, certain that I’d embarrassed myself, and I was sure that I would embarrass myself even more when I argued the case. It got even more embarrassing when the case my boss sent me on got adjourned, because my boss had forgotten to file his legal argument. I stepped outside, and gestured to the young woman to follow me. “I saw your case isn’t going ahead,” the young woman said in the hallway, “and if you want to go, I won’t hold you to helping me out.” “Too late,” I said, “now I gotta do it.” Judging from her expression, I sensed that this perhaps wasn’t quite the right thing to say to the woman that was to become the love of my life. This was more than thirty years ago, and I still say the wrong thing around her sometimes, or rather, a lot of times. I asked to see the paperwork for the court case she had that day. “I’m getting sued on a credit card,” she said. I nodded. “I’m being sued by a bank,” she added. I nodded again. I’d learned that at a glance. She was being sued by Evil Bank, a lender that was so subprime, that it was barely above payday loan level. They had a big book of business, and it was growing. They were the go to card for people with bad credit, so I had one of their cards, too. I heard their ads all the time on the radio. I hardly ever listen to the radio now, but back then, back in the 90s when everything was shit because we had no internet, we listened to the radio a lot. We watched a lot of shitty t.v., too. It sucked back in those days, before the internet. “How do I say your name,” I said. Her name was on the papers before me, spelled out in black and white, but her first and last names had so many syllables that I didn’t even want to guess how to say it. “Just call me Angela. That’s what everyone calls me.” Her English was perfect, a native speaker’s English, but the sounds came with the tint of her home country, a slight and beautiful lilt. I was attracted to her from the start, but it was her voice that I fell in love with. She continued to talk, just like clients always do, explaining all about her case, and I mm-hmm’ed and h-huh’ed and nodded, the polite part of my brain maintaining the pretense of a conversation, while my fledgling lawyer brain read the file. “Are you even listening to me?” Angela said. “Yes,” I said. “Then what did I tell you?” she said, wanting proof. You’d think she was the one doing me a favor, by letting me work for free. She was even worse than my firm. At least my firm paid me. “You said that upon the bank's lending you money at a high interest rate, you defaulted when you failed to manage your money properly, and--” “It’s not my fault a cheque bounced!” “--and then the bank pursued legal action against you. You offered the arrears, but Evil Bank declined reinstatement and refused to engage in settlement negotiations. Instead, the bank unilaterally chose to increase the interest rate and imposed additional fees, charges, and expenses." “Oh. I guess you were listening.” She sounded apologetic. But I hadn’t been listening to her words, only the sound of her voice, and what I told her was info that I’d easily gleaned from Evil Bank’s claim against her. “Can you negotiate a deal for me?” She spoke in a tone of entreaty, and looked up at me like she needed rescue. “Just one sec,” I said, as I flipped through the affidavit from an Evil Bank employee. I stood up. “Gotta go to the library.” “Should I wait here?” “You can come along,” I said, and she did. I headed for the law library at my usual pace, striding along, the young woman’s shoes clack clacking behind me, but before long she said, “Can you slow down? I’m in heels.” I looked at her shoes, and saw the high heels, and realized that she wasn’t of average height, not without heels to help her. “Sorry,” I said. I slowed down to what for me was a slow crawl, and eventually we reached the law library. I walked up to the librarian. “I’m in a rush,” I said, “where’s the Criminal Code?” The librarian pointed, and I took off. Angela tugged at my sleeve. “Slow down” she said again, and I did, but by then we were in the stacks, and I reached out my hand for the bible, for the holiest of holy legal writ: Martin’s Annotated Canadian Criminal Code, a book I first read when I was fifteen years old. It had been a constant companion since then, but I never needed it for work, because our firm only did civil cases, not criminal. I gently pulled the book from the shelves, slowly and with reverence. I carried it with me to a table. “Have a seat,” I said, and Angela sat, while I opened Martin’s and started flipping the pages. “Am I in trouble?” she said. “I thought I was only being sued. Could I go to jail?” “What?” She pointed at the book. “You’re reading a criminal law book,” she said. She spoke loudly, and heads turned. The librarian issued a low ‘sshhhhh’. “I just needed to check something,” I said. It wasn’t the statute itself that I needed to read; I knew the Code inside out. But it was the annotations I had to double check, and as Angela sat there looking beautiful and a bit confused, my eyes scanned the book's annotations, each of them a tiny summary of a legal case, explaining how judges had interpreted the words of the Code. “You don’t happen to have a calculator, do you?” I said. She looked at me like I was an idiot. Nowadays, everyone has a smartphone, and smartphones always have a calculator, but that was another thing that sucked back in the nineties, not always having a calculator on you when you needed one. “S’ok,” I said. I pulled a pad and pen from my briefcase, and the Pro Bono Work Assessment and Docketing Permission fell out. I’d snatched it up with the court papers when I ran out of the office. I shoved it back into my briefcase, and then opened the motion record, and went again to the affidavit sworn by Evil Bank’s employee, setting out the interest rate they’d charged, and which they’d increased after default, and the fees they’d added and the expenses they claimed. When I’d read the numbers the first time back in the courtroom, I’d given them a quick run through in my head, but I needed to double check. I wrote out some numbers on the pad. “First you start looking in criminal books, and now you’re doing math. Are you like an actual lawyer? Is this going to help me?” It was something that my boss might say, but my boss didn’t look like Angela. “We gotta get back to court,” I said, picking up my note and my briefcase and the bible, the holy of holy writs, Martin's Annotated Criminal Code. “You’re walking too fast again,” Angela said as we headed back to the courtroom. I slowed, and explained to her why I’d been looking at the Criminal Code, and why I’d been doing math. “No way,” she said. “Yes way,” I said. “No way,” she said again. “Just watch.” “You’re gonna embarrass me. I just know it. I come to court to throw myself on the judge’s mercy, to try to catch a break--” “You can still try that,” I said. Angela’s looks could get her only so far, and I was starting to get pissed off. “You can try throwing yourself on the mercy of Evil Bank, too.” “I already tried that,” she said, “but it didn’t work.” “Then let me do my job.” We were outside the courtroom, and I looked through the small window. I saw a lawyer on her feet arguing a case, so we still had some time. “Have you ever argued a case like this before?” “Nope.” “Well, at least it will be interesting to watch,” she said. \* \* \* “I need an adjournment,” I said, not needing an adjournment, not wanting one. I was just baiting the hook. “I have an argument I want to make, something that I think is a good argument, but I just need a little time to--” Opposing counsel was on his feet in an instant, but before he could open his mouth, the judge shut him down. “No adjournment,” the judge said, “I already ruled on that. This case is going ahead, no matter what.” The lawyer for Evil Bank, a junior lawyer like myself, smiled with satisfaction and sat down, and he smiled even more at the judge’s next words. “Mr. Calledinthe90s, I have to tell you that I’ve read Evil Bank’s materials, and your client has filed nothing in reply. It’s good of you to take this case on at the last minute, but there’s not much you can do here, so if you have trump, you’d better lead it.” I got to my feet, and I led trump. “Evil Bank is charging an illegal rate of interest,” I said, pulling Martin’s Annotated Criminal Code out of my briefcase. I pulled the book out slowly, and watched Evil Bank’s lawyer from the corner of my eye. He started at the book, taking in its title. He sensed trouble, and stood up. “The defendant never raised an issue about the interest rate before now,” he said. “I’ll hear it,” the judge said, “ex turpi causa and all that. Go on, counsel,” he said, motioning me to continue. “The maximum interest on a loan is sixty percent,” I said, “and when the loan default, the interest popped. It jumped to four percent a month--.” “That’s only forty-eight percent,” my opponent said. “--and to that we add the fees and charges and expenses,” I said, setting them out for the judge, slowly so that he could write them down, and Evil Bank’s lawyer did the same. There was an extension fee and a default charge, and a charge for this and a fee for that, and it took a while before I finished. When I finished, Evil Bank’s lawyer stood. “Counsel’s numbers don’t add up to more than sixty percent,” he said, “I added them up while he was talking, and they reach” “Fifty-nine point nine nine percent,” the judge said, “at least, that’s what I got.” Evil Bank’s lawyer’s head bobbed up and down gratefully. He looked at me angrily, annoyed at the bad scare I’d given. “Sorry, counsel,” the judge said to me, “I know you did your best, and I wish I could help. I really do. The interest rate is horrible, rapacious really, but unfortunately it’s still legal.” He reached for a pen to write his decision on the back of the motion record, but I stopped him. “There’s one more thing,” I said. The judge’s pen stopped moving, and opposing counsel looked up again. The fear was back in his face. “The interest rate is compounding,” I said. “Compounding?” the judge said. “Compounding,” I said, “as in Evil Bank is charging interest on overdue interest. It says so right in the contract. Each month it adds the overdue interest to the principle, and charges interest on the new balance.” “But that hardly makes any difference,” said Evil Bank’s lawyer. “It makes enough of a difference to put the rate over sixty percent,” I said, explaining that four percent a month compounded was not forty-eight percent per year, but instead, but just a fraction more than that, which together with all the fees and charges and expenses and bullshit, was just enough to-- “I need an adjournment,” Evil Bank’s lawyer said, “I need to speak to the client, or the partner. I need to speak to someone about this. I need to speak to someone about the numbers, about the math, about how everything’s calculated.” The judge looked down at him from the bench, and grinned. “You can add, just like I can, and the interest rate is over sixty percent.” “Only by a tiny fraction of a percent,” he said. “It’s either over the legal limit, or it’s not,” I said. “De minimis,” Evil Bank’s lawyer said, but it was a desperate argument, and I could see from the judge’s face that I didn’t need to respond. The judge told us to sit down while he wrote his reasons, and we sat in the silence of an almost empty courtroom and listened to the judge’s pen as it scratched across the back of the motion record, which is where judges in those days wrote their decisions back in those days, in hand. He flipped over the page, and wrote some more, and then to the back of another page, and continued writing. He wrote, and wrote, and the longer he wrote, the worse Evil Bank’s lawyer looked. If the judge had been writing a decision in his favor, it would have taken him only a few strokes of the pen to write a decision granting judgment on a credit card debt. But a lengthy decision meant that bad tidings were coming Evil Bank’s way, and the lawyer looked like he was a prisoner awaiting execution, which the judge soon delivered, reading his decision out for us. We listened as the judge talked about the contract, and set out my arguments, and quoted the Criminal Code, and mentioned the evils of usury, and the importance of protecting the public from rapacious, unsavory lenders. “The debt is uncollectible,” he concluded, “not just the interest and fees and charges, but I have the discretion to disallow the principal as well, and I do disallow it. Ex turpi causa non oritur actio,” meaning that Evil Bank’s case was dishonorable, and that the court would not hear their complaint, due to the whole breaking the Criminal Code thing, committing a crime when they gave my client a credit card with illegal interest attached to it. The judge stood, and so did counsel. “That was an excellent argument,” he said to me. He asked who my principal was. I gave him the partner’s name. “He’s lucky to have you,” he said, and then he exited the courtroom. The clerk gave me a copy of the decision, and another to Evil Bank’s lawyer. His face was white and he looked crushed when he took the document into his hands. If the boss he reported to was anything like mine, he was in for a serious talking to. I pitied him, actually. But me? I was heading back to the office with a big win, a win I could brag about. Sure, it was only a little credit card case, but to me, it felt like I’d hit a home run and scored a touchdown at the same time. I’d really stuck it to Evil Bank, plus I’d hit my pro bono quote as well. My boss would be pleased. The bookkeeper would be off my back. And the Partner would be impressed. I stepped out of the courtroom with Angela, and we watched Evil Bank’s lawyer slink off into the sunset. She started to thank me, but my brain got in the way. “My pro bono sheet!” I opened up my briefcase and pulled out the Pro Bono Work Assessment and Docketing Permission Form. It was creased and crumpled. I straightened it out. “You were amazing,” Angela said. She was beautiful and grateful and impressed and happy, but my brain had temporarily become attached to another task. “You gotta sign my pro bono sheet,” I said. “What?” “I need to get credit for this,” I said, “you gotta sign my sheet.” I passed her the crinkled paper, and a pen. I pointed to where she was to sign. She looked at me strangely, took the pen, and signed. “Thanks,” she said. She turned, and started to walk away. “But--” She didn’t look grateful or impressed any more. She didn’t look happy either. Instead, she looked a bit disappointed. But she still looked beautiful, and I was beginning to realize that I’d said the wrong thing, or looked the wrong way or done something stupid. “But,” I said. She kept on walking. I walked after her, and caught up with her as she reached the elevator. She pushed the button, then turned, and said, “I signed your form.” Then the doors opened and the elevator took her away. \* \* \* I walked back to the office feeling down. It was the same thing that always seemed to happen whenever I got a good result. I always said or did something that ruined the win, that turned it into a loss, and I was feeling like the biggest loser on earth when I got back to the office. I’m pretty good with numbers, but women were another thing altogether. I’d been wrong to mention the pro bono thing to Angela. Angela had wanted me to win the case not for me, but for her. It wasn’t just the result Angela cared about; it was my motive. Angela had liked me, and I’d pissed her off. But at least I’d done well in court. I still had that. I’d done well; the judge had said so himself. My firm was lucky to have me, the judge said, the first words of praise I’d heard since the firm had hired me. The elevator opened to the office where I worked but before I could get to my desk I heard a door down the hall burst open. “Calledinthe90s, get your ass in here,” the Partner cried from his corner office. I’d heard him angry before, but he was at a whole new level of mad. I got my ass down to his office in a hurry. “Just what the fucking fuck were you doing in court today?” he said. He was seated behind his enormous mahogany desk. I was facing him, standing, because he had not invited me to sit. “I was doing a refusals motion for my boss,” I said. “And anything else?” he said. “A pro bono case, just a little pro bono case. I even have the Pro Bono Work Assessment and Docketing Permission Form.” I pulled the ragged paper from my briefcase. I started to hand it to him, and he snatched it from my hand. He read the form, with the names of the parties and the nature of the case and Angela’s signature at the bottom. “Evil Bank,” he said, “just like the judge said.” He looked up at me, his face a mask of rage. “The judge?” “He called me to say what a great job you’d done, what a wonderful thing you did.” That sounded good, and I didn’t understand why the Partner was so angry. “You idiot,” he shouted, “the firm spent months trying to land Evil Bank. We wined them and dined and schmoozed them. We golfed with them and got them hockey tickets. We bought them booze and laughed at their jokes, and we signed them today, at lunch, a couple of hours after you left my office.” “But I didn’t know--” “And what did you do? You fucked them. You fucked them, Calledinthe90s, that’s what you did.” “It’s only one case,” I said, and then he really exploded. “You destroyed their standard agreement,” he said, “a contract that hundreds of thousands of their customers have signed. This case is going to be reported. It will be in the DLRs. Do you have any idea what will happen, once the word gets out?” I was starting to get the idea, but I shook my head as if I didn’t understand. “Everyone with an Evil Bank credit card is going to refuse to pay them back, if they have half a brain in their head. A superior court judge has ruled that their contract is unenforceable, and that their paper is worthless.” I opened my mouth to say something, but he ordered me out of his office. That night when I got home, I opened my briefcase and called a phone number. Angela picked up. “I need to give back your legal papers,” I said. “You can keep them,” she said. “They’re originals. You need the originals.” “You can mail them to me. Maybe you can claim pro bono time for that, too.” “I’m sorry about that,” I said. That's the thing about beautiful women; you do them a favor, and they still get pissed off, and then you have to apologize. Or maybe that’s just Angela. “Can I buy you dinner?” There was a long pause, and for a change I had the sense to keep my mouth shut. “It better be a nice place,” she said. “It will, I promise,” I said. I was going to take her to the most expensive place I could find. I had an Evil Bank credit card, too, and I would not be paying the balance on that card. Evil Bank would be paying for the dinner, and that made me feel good. “Ok,” she said, and when I heard her say that, I didn't care about my boss or the Partner or the firm that paid me badly while treating me like shit. Everything had turned out just fine in the end.


*Trigger Warning: Cancer, Suspenseful* “Breathe, Harley! Breathe!” He begged. She gasped for air as he wrapped his arms around her gently, his body tense and his mind racing with questions that needed answers. It felt as if the taxi driver didn’t care that his best friend was dying. “Breathe, damnit!” He pleaded, rubbing her back as they flew past the walking pedestrians and the wait signs. He had paid the taxi driver extra to hurry and get them to the hospital. “Just relax, we’re almost there.” He told her. Her small frame was tense and she was shaking like jello, practically gasping for air as she inhales, pierced her lungs with the pain of a thousand needles. “Breathe, Harley,” He told her. He couldn’t lose her, they had been through everything together. School, awkward socializing, panic attacks, family divorces, rehab. Everything he had ever gone through, she was right by his side. They were pals to the end, yet this truly felt as if it was the end. As the screeching tires of the Taxi pulled into the drop off lane of the hospital, He got out first, then picked Harley up bridal style as he hurriedly carried her inside, out of the rain. He ran up to the front desk. “We need a doctor, now! She can’t breathe!” He demanded, his voice more shaky and aggressive than he had ever used it before. The front desk lady nodded and called for a stretcher. While waiting, all he could do was hold her close and whisper that everything was gonna be ok. “You’re gonna be fine, Harley, I promise, just breathe...” He directed her. She gripped his wet jacket tightly, her weak body begging for air. A group of nurses, a doctor, and a stretcher came running into the waiting room. He laid her down as the nurses put an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth. She reached out longingly for him. A male nurse held him back as they took her away. “No! She needs me! I need her! Let me go with her!” He begged. As the stretcher was quickly rolled away, all she could do was reach out for him, her hand shaking with pain and dizziness. All she could say before losing consciousness was... “Carter...” ~1 Hour Ago~ “Wait, are you serious?” Harley asked with a giggle. Carter laughed and nodded. Harley flopped down on her bed, holding her phone up enough to where her best friend could see her face. Thank god for facetime. Besides, she liked knowing Carter was safe as he walked to her house. It was a long walk and, knowing him and his luck, something bad would happen to him. “How did you hear that? Is she really pregnant?” “Yep! She’s 19 weeks pregnant. She posted it on her Instapic account,” Carter explained. “Arg! I hate the rain! Why does it always have to be rainy in the fall?” Harley could only smile a response to her friend. “Hey, did your chest ever stop hurting? You told me it was Costochondritis, but I’m still worried about you.” He asked her. Harley shrugged. “It’s a little worse today than it has been, but it’s really nothing bad,” Harley replied as she fiddled with a lock of her slightly wavy, red hair. She was a redhead with blue eyes and tan skin, though lately, Carter had noticed that she was getting paler and more tired. “I told you not to worry about me. It’s fine.” She snapped in a silly tone. Carter chuckled and looked around before glancing back down at his phone. “Yeah, yeah, I know, I know,” He chuckled through his sentence. Harley cleared her throat and sighed. “Hey, is your front door unlocked? I’m almost there.” He asked. Harley nodded and coughed slightly. She inhaled slightly before coughing again. “Hey, are you ok?” Carter asked, turning his full attention to the girl on his screen. “Hey, answer me,” He demanded in a gentle voice. Harley nodded and coughed, the cough growing harsher and harsher. “Hey, what’s wrong? Can you even breathe, dude?” Carter asked with a nervous chuckle leaving his lips. Harley shook her head and coughed, sitting up from her bed. “I-i can’t... I can’t breathe!” She told him as she coughed again. Carter could feel his face go pale as he began sprinting as hard as he could toward her house. He didn’t know what was going on, but whatever it was, it was bad. He listened to her cough get worse and worse as he got closer and closer to her house. “C-carter, I can’t breathe...” Harley repeated as she gasped for air. Carter ran up to the front door of her house and jiggled the doorknob. "You said your door was unlocked!" Carter criticized. There was no response from Harley. He ran to the side of the house and climbed over the fence, running for the back door. He slid the door open and ran through the house, down the hall, and barging into Harley's room. "Harley!" ~The Present Moment~ Harley slowly opened her eyes as the beep of the heart monitor woke her. She felt sick and dizzy. She could feel her heartbeat in her chest. Harley could smell hand sanitizer, cloth linen, and lavender Scentsy light. She couldn’t help but yawn, though she just woke up. Harley slowly sat up, looking around at her surroundings. She could feel an oxygen tube wrapped around her neck and attached to her nose, but she wasn’t complaining. It definitely was helping her breathe. She looked toward the door when she heard the knock, yet couldn’t make out words to invite them in. As the door opened, Harley could see that it was her friend, Carter, with a small bouquet of flowers and a get well card. He smiled when he saw her as he walked over to her bedside. “How are you doing?” He asked her, his tone soft and gentle. She could barely remember anything that had happened. Last she remembered she was talking to Carter on the phone... or... fighting with her parents... “Where am I?” She asked him, completely sitting up and taking a deep, pained breath. Carter sighed softly as he put the flowers next to her bed, then sat in a chair by the foot of the bed. “You're in the hospital,” Carter replied. Harley flinched as she finally understood why her bedroom decor changed. “Two days ago you had trouble breathing. I rushed you here. The doctors took x-rays and...” He trailed off. Harley looked at him. She could see that he had been crying about something. He sighed deeply before continuing. “The doctors diagnosed you with Stage 3 Lung Cancer.” Carter finally explained. Harley just seemed to... freeze. This couldn’t be happening to her. She was only 15, turning 16 in a few weeks. She just got a scholarship from one of the best Colleges in her state. She just became the head photographer for her school yearbook club. Stage 3 Lung Cancer... this couldn’t be happening... “Did anyone tell my parents?” She asked, her voice now soft. Carter shook his head and looked down. “I tried calling both of them but... no answer.” He told her. Harley nodded. Her relationship with her parents was always rocky, having its ups and downs, never really looking right from the left. It was her stepmom's fault. Harley always knew that she wasn’t the right woman for her daddy. She sniffed and looked at the flowers on the bedside table, right next to all the tubes and wires and the heart monitor machine. Harley took another deep breath before nodding and looking at Carter. “Then, I guess I’ll start Chemo and they can pay for it later.” She confirmed. Carter looked at her and smiled, nodding in agreement. “After all, how hard could it be?” ~1 Year Later~ It was hard. Really, really hard. The first week of Chemo wasn’t the worst, it was the weeks following that really rocked Harley off. She’d get sick all the time, lose energy, and miss school days because of chemo sessions. Her 16th birthday was spent at home with Carter, staying up late and watching movies with popcorn. They both ended up falling asleep by 10:30, Harley’s head resting on Carter's lap as Carter fell asleep listening to Harley breathe. Due to missing so much school, Harley had to give up her position as head photographer for the school yearbook. That really devastated her, so Carter decided to throw an “at home fashion show”, so Harley could experience the high school crazy outfits. It helped Harley a little bit, but it wasn’t the real thing. Carter started staying long weekends at Harley's house. It wasn’t like her parents cared, all they were doing was paying for the Chemo and grumbling about how much it cost them. It helped Harley’s mental state for Carter to be there for her every day, all day. Carter adjusted his classes at school that way he could have the same schedule as Harley. He was always safe with Harley at school. If there was someone with a cold, Carter would make Harley stay as far away from them as possible. Needless to say that during the flu and cold season, they ate lunch in a Teacher Conference room once they got permission. There were good and bad days, some being a lot worse than others. The days that Harley struggled, Carter was always right by her side, getting water or holding her hair back as she threw up or simply just reading to her until she fell asleep when her medications kicked in. He hated that this was happening to her. He missed going out and walking around the mall or ice skating or looking at cute boys and girls downtown as they walked past. But there was nothing, nothing that could compare to his worry for Harley. All he wanted was for her to get better, to be healthy... She was like a baby sister to him... It was at the doctor's office that they found out it had spread. Leukemia was added to the picture. Carter held Harley’s hand through the entire doctor's visit. More medications were prescribed, heavier Chemo was administered, and worst of all: The doctor told Harley that she had to stop going to school. With the flu and cold season this year being so severe, he didn’t want Harley to risk getting worse. Harley agreed, of course, but cried the entire way home. Carter couldn’t say anything. He was so afraid of losing his baby sister, his best friend, his one companion. Nothing could compare to the fear he had. Harley started sleeping a lot more, getting much more tired easier, and betting dizzy after standing for long periods of time. “Carter?” Harley asked one night as they sat in her room, Carter reading “Great Expectations” to her in a soft tone. He looked down at her and smiled. “Yeah?” “If I don’t get better,” She started. “Now stop,” He interrupted. Harley stared up at him. “You’re gonna get better. Everything’s gonna turn out ok, sis. I promise,” Carter reassured, though he couldn’t really reassure himself. It was hard always smiling and saying that it would be ok when it was simply only getting worse. “You're my baby sister, I can’t lose you.” He told her as he held her close, the beanie on her shiny head slowly sliding off. Harley nodded as she closed her eyes. “Thanks, bro...” Carter chuckled softly as he closed the book in his hands and set it on the floor, turning off the lamp on her bedside table. “No problem sis.” January 1, 2021. Carter stared down at the large, blackish tombstone, umbrella over his head protecting him from the rain. He stared down at the flowers planted at the grave, knowing that this isn’t how this should’ve ended. He sighed softly as several tears rolled down his reddened cheeks. She had so much more fight in her, yet she stopped. Her body was too tired to go on, yet her mind was prepared for anything. Carter closed his eyes, remembering all the things that he was told before she passed. “Love you, bro!” “Happy birthday Bro!” “Stop crying. It’ll be ok, bro.” “Wait, bro, say hi to the teachers for me!” He opened his eyes when he felt the cold hand on his shoulder. His mother smiled warmly down at him. Carter sighed softly as he read her grave one more time before turning away. Harley Rayne Johnson 16 and a Half July 4th, 2005 - December 25th, 2020 Beloved Daughter, Best Friend, and Sister. Carter swallowed as he mumbled softly, “See you on the other side, sis...” *A/N: This short story is based on real life. On January 1st, my sister passed away of Stage 4 Cancer in the blood, lungs, and brain. In this story, I used a different name, yet it’ll always be dedicated to the same person. Enjoy!*


Jake the master chef “Aww, Jakey. Mummy loves you matey, just remember that. Yeah..?’ “Yes Mummy.” “Now Hun, don’t answer the door to anyone and Mummy won’t be long. I...just need some time to me self, you know to relax.” “Yes mummy.” “Did you get the dinner I left on the table?’. “Yes Mummy ... Mummy can you come home soon?” “Aww Jakey, I won’t be long”. There is laughing in the background and clinking glass, it sounds like she’s at the pub again. “Mum, are you at the pub again?” “No, no, nooo matey. Just ran into some old friends with Aunty Rebecca. You remember Gordo and Stimps?’ I nod on the phone; they were the two blokes that used to come to tea all the time, just before Dad took all his stuff and left. Mum keeps talking I don’t really have to say anything. She’s not listening anyway, I just continue to nod. I’m not sure whether she’s talking to me or to someone else. “We’re just catching up and we’ll be home soon.” “Hey Nadine, we’re going for a smoke,” someone yells above all the other voices. “Jakey, I gotta go! I’ll be home soon! Awww love ya maate.” Then the phone goes dead. I look at the chicken schnitzel and vegies in a box on the table, I always get one of those on pay day. I take it out of the box, poke the fork through the plastic three times for luck and put it in the microwave for three minutes. It’s still a bit cold from the shop but not frozen so it doesn’t take that much time to cook. I love cooking. Mum showed me how to scramble eggs last week. She reckons I make the best toast ever and lets me get us breakfast every morning. Sometimes I come home from school and her toast is still on the table and she’s asleep on the couch. That’s the days she feels really sick. The light in the microwave is a buttery gold; I reckon that’s why it cooks my tea really nice and warm. Just as the bell on the microwave dings, the doorbell goes and there’s a knock at the door. “Jake, Jake, are ya there mate?” Really! I get so excited, “Dad is that you?” “Yeah mate, can ya let me in?” Dad sounds tired and I hear him lean onto the wall next to the door, both the wall and Dad give a soft groan. I want to ask him if he is Ok but I have to let him know what Mum said. “Mum...Mum...Mum said...” “Aww Jakey, it’s ya old man - you can let me in; besides Nadine was expecting me. She said she’d pay me back today. It’s pay day today isn’t it Jakey?” “Yeah, I got me schnitzel dinner for tea! Hang on Dad; I’ve got to get me tea out of the microwave. I’m cooking it. Do you want some?’ “Aww. Jakey, you’ve made tea for ya old man. You’d better let me in eh? What sort of schnitzel are we havin? Bet you can cook up a treat yeah?” I love seeing Dad; I wish he wouldn’t fight with Mum so much and maybe he could come round more often. I open the door and he’s standing there with his arms open. I give him a hug and he stumbles back a bit. “Easy mate, you don’t know your own strength. Gees, least she’s feedin ya right.” I take dad by the hand and start telling him about school. How Mrs Jenkins reckons I could go to cooking school one day where they teach you stuff like on Master Chef. Dad uses the wall a bit to help himself into the kitchen. His eyesight is a bit bad at night. He smells of beer and wee. He must have forgotten they were yesterday’s pants when he put them on. Dad slumps into a kitchen chair and reaches into his top pocket for a smoke. As he lights the smoke I drag the ashtray over to him and find a clean plate. I look for another one as I begin to cut up dinner and share it between the plate and the cooking tray. I’ll just use the tray now, then I’ll do some of the dishes in the sink till I find a plate. Gee, it will be just like going out for tea. I tell him about how sharing something in two becomes two halves and that if mum and Shantell were here we could share it in four and it would be one quarter. Dad looks at me and starts to say something like he’s really upset, when there’s a loud bang at the front door. “You arsehole! What you doing here?” Mum yells as she flies down the passage. “Jakey, didn’t I tell you not to let anyone in?” She looks cold and angry at Dad, “I guess you tricked him, didn’t ya?” she spits the words out as she glares at Dad. In a flash she picks up the plate of tea I just put out for dad and throws it across the room. My tea! If I don’t grab it now, she’ll throw it. I grab my half of the schnitzel and vegies on the tray and hug it as I race to the back door. The back door kicks back at me as I try to get through and knocks the tray as if trying to wrestle it from my arms, spilling peas, carrot and potato pieces over the back step and pieces of board I put there last week to make a bridge over the puddles. I really wanted to put it on a plate so Dad and I could sit and eat it like we were eating out. I’m glad I didn’t or I would have smashed my dinner as well. I had enough time to pick up the potato and some carrot, and almost cry with relief; least the good bits still in the tray, the yummy meat and thick gravy spread on top of the crumb coat. I feel the potato burning my hand but it’s not as bad as the tears burning my eyes and that really sore lump in my throat. Clutching my tea as carefully as I can, I run down the backyard. It’s just starting to get dark and everything is starting to look like a black and white photo. I slip into the fold in the base of the trunk of the old fir tree that seemed to be urging me forward so he could grab me, hug me and carefully sit me in his safe care. That’s why I call this tree Gramps, he makes me feel safe. This is my spot - I don’t need a cushion. The pine needles are soft and always smell like Christmas. I know this because Nan and Pop have a real Christmas tree every year; a tiny, tiny one, not like Gramps, my tree, they smell the same though. You can only see the top of Gramps from down the street and our front yard, from the back yard; he just goes on for ever. I sit down and can’t stop the tears soaking my face and soaking my shirt. I put my vegies carefully back into the tray - I’ll eat it soon. I.... I’ve just got to relax. I can hear Mum and Dad yelling, and then it all goes quiet. It’s OK. I pick up my tea and start to eat. I forgot I was so hungry. Part of tummy feels good after the food but part of it still feels empty, like there’s a hidden pocket in it. I rub my tummy and think about how good the chicken tasted and it eases the bits that still feel empty. Oh good, I hear laughter from the kitchen. The empty feeling flows away. I knew the food would find its way there. Mum must have got some smoke, that’s the laugh she has when she has, “Happy Smoke”. It’s her special medicine to help her cope. Maybe Dad will stay this time. We could go and get his things tomorrow and maybe we could go and get Shantell from the family she is staying with. My tea settles in my tummy and works out the knots and hidden pockets of emptiness, spreading a warmth that mingles with the tinkling of mum’s laugh. Maybe... maybe we could have tea out tomorrow, all of us.


“Do you ever feel like you’re looking out of your eyeholes?” He said. “What?” She replied. Sometimes David would just talk. Not talk in the sense that he couldn’t stop moving his lips and making sounds, but talk in the way that he would just say...things. Things that were on his mind. Things he thought about when nobody else was around or when everyone was. He thought often. In fact, he thought so much that sometimes he couldn’t stop thinking. It had quickly become a problem. “Honey?” His wife said again. “Sometimes I feel like I’m looking out of my eyeholes.” “What a funny thing to say. We all look out of our eye holes, dear.” “Yes, but we don’t feel it. I feel it.” His wife had borrowed the look she used when trying to tell him about that song she’d heard on the radio earlier that day. She used to listen to it all the time when she was a teenager. It went a certain way, like this, she said, and had kissed her lips together for some doos and dees and dahs. All around the world, he remembered. Simon and Garfunkel. No, just Simon. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she said. “I know.” As of late, David had a tendency to feel trapped. Trapped in his own head. He wanted to fall onto his hands and knees and crawl like he did when he was a baby. In her old age, his mother liked to watch the videos she’d taken when he and his sister were little. His wife leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. The bedside light clicked on and the overhead light clicked off. The VCR continued to whirr inside his mind. She used to wear a satin dressing gown with red flowers on and her house smelled like microwaved milk. “Do you see that?” David was looking out the window toward a great dappling of chalky, sallow smoke arising from his neighbour’s garden. The achromatic plumes of pencil were being drawn towards the heavens, trying to escape the circles of fire from below with wind as their Virgil. Prometheus had bought us this, he thought, and he had paid the price. “I think the neighbours are having a bonfire. Either that or a very large barbecue!” She laughed and looked back at her husband. The right corner of his lip faintly heaved upward and she glanced back toward her hands like a window had been opened in her heart. Everybody sees the wind blow. “Honey? What did you mean by ‘I know’?” “I know things.” “Yes, I know that, honey.” “But I know a lot of things.” “I know that, too.” She didn’t. “I know things that you don’t know and others don’t know and even I don’t know.” “Are you worried about how smart you are?” “I can’t tell if I’m smart or if I’m cursed.” “Cursed?” “With knowledge.” “How can you be cursed with knowledge, dear?” He met her eyes with his. “Do you ever know things that you wish you didn’t?” “Well, just last week Amanda told me how Harriet’s husband had an affair a few years ago. How am I supposed to talk to him now?” “Harriet’s husband had an affair?” “Yes, a few years ago.” “You would never have guessed if you saw them.” “Well, you can’t tell much from the outside.” She thought back to the song she’d heard on the radio earlier. Paul Simon. Graceland. David continued turning the pages of his book without looking at them as his eyes were seduced into a black abyss before him. There was a vortex there that he couldn’t see, drawing him in and covering him in grey. Not silver, grey. It clung to him like cling film, wrapping him up as a cellophane mummy. “Why don’t we take a trip?” She interjected. “Just me and you. This weekend.” “Where to?” “I don’t know. Where would you like to go?” He felt dense and heavy as he washed across the universe, discovering the insensate, deafening torment of corporeal and ethereal mortality. He wanted to go to sleep. “The Cotswolds?” “That sounds lovely. We can go hiking and exploring.” “Can you call it exploring if someone’s already found it?” “We haven’t found it.” “That’s true.” He felt so large and yet, so informally empty. The waxy candle of fiction had been snuffed by the frozen candour of existence. “Just because someone’s been somewhere before us doesn’t mean it’s any less exciting for us nor does it make it any less difficult to get through.” He frowned. “Why would it be difficult to get through the Cotswolds?” His wife still had the lyrics rattling around her head. But I’ve reason to believe, we will all be received in Graceland. “Sorry, honey, I was thinking about something else.” He nodded as if he understood. “I like that song you showed me earlier.” “The Paul Simon one?” “Yes.” “So do I. I used to listen to it all the time when I was a teenager but I had no clue what it was about.” “I guess sometimes music doesn’t need a meaning to be enjoyable,” he said, letting the words wash out from his mouth. His eyes opened as wide as they could in order to let the light steal his heart. He smiled and suddenly felt the weight of himself against the bed. Watching her now he saw her looking irreplaceably identical at 18 and 80. The paralysing Elysium of memory and vision crafted a pool in the crevasse of his eye. An escaping droplet lay against his forearm as a feather upon the floor of spring. The light of the lamp felt like it could burn forever, and she felt it on her shoulders and in her chest. The warmth enveloped her from all sides and melted them into one. Together and alone they had lived. Together and alone they were ample. The radio that day had played Bridge Over Troubled Water by Simon and Garfunkel. The notes of the piano escaped from their mind and embosomed the room as the two continued to hold hands even after the light of the lamp had surrendered. It was in this moment, and the next, that the iridescence was sculpted into one complete, fulfilled eternity.


“... so, what I am saying is, by observing ants closely, you’ll see they don’t do anything stupid, they always walk in orderly lines, carrying leaves and twigs back to the nest.”“Well, not always, they sometimes fall off branches,” Anna interjected, looking left and right, “that doesn’t seem too clever.”“Okay, I suppose, but a fall doesn’t kill an ant, does it? You could drop an ant from the roof of a house and the fall would not prove fatal.”“I don’t know, I’ve never carried out an experiment. Have you ever thrown an ant off from the top of a building?”“No, I haven’t Anna.”Anna pulled away from the junction, her fingers located the heating control to make a minor adjustment.“I guess you’d need at least two people present; one to throw the ant off the building and the other to monitor and record the outcome at ground level.” Anna's mind drifted, imagining herself wearing a researcher’s white laboratory coat, cradling a clipboard, peering up through black horn-rimmed glasses to the roof of a typical family home. Her friend seen ready and in position, holds tweezers in one hand and a glass beaker in the other. “It’d be really hard to keep track of an ant as it was falling from a roof, even if you shouted a warning.”“What, like - I am releasing the ant, now!” said Phoebe.“You could tie a piece of brightly coloured cotton thread around the ant, to help.”“No Anna.”“Why not, because it would interfere with the experiment? You anticipate the ant struggling, getting tangled up in the thread? I suppose one might wrongly assume the ant had died on impact, whereas it may have been due to mid air strangulation.”“Look, I am just saying, ant society is structured and co-supportive. There are no stupid ants, they understand the role they fulfil for the common good of ant society. And, there are certainly no evil ants.”Immediately ahead, traffic lights switched from green to amber and then to red. Anna braked, coming to a stop, front tyres coming to rest upon a faded white line on the road.“Why did you stop?”“The light turned red.”“It hadn’t, it had just changed to amber, you could have gone through.”“No Phoebe, it was red.”The morning rush hour traffic crawled along bumper to bumper, backed up in both directions. Pedestrians made better progress, cyclists appeared travelling at supersonic speed in comparison to the cars, vans and lorries sharing the road space.“Soldier ants are evil.” Squinting under the sun visor, Anna watched for the traffic lights to change. “Did you ever read those books in the school library, the one’s about unusual phenomena around the world? Giant sink holes, the Loch Ness monster, UFOs, spontaneous human combustion, piranha attacks.”“And army ants?”“Yes, that’s right, army ants. They’d be a photograph too, showing a thin, cross-eyed man with a thick moustache stripped to the waist with lots of stings all over his face and body.” Anna’s eyes widened, her grip tightened around the steering wheel. “What were those books ever doing in a school library? They used to scare the shit out of me!”“Yes, they were pretty grim, stuffed full of nightmares.”“I’m sure I saw films too, with ants attacking people, crawling all over them.” Anna shuddered and thumbed an itch on her shoulder, her head and the side of her nose.The traffic lights changed colour, signalling hope for progress. Morning road-users continued in slow monotony. Anna flashed her lights and waved an encouraging hand to a driver to pull out of a side road and join the queued traffic.“What are you doing?” Phoebe asked sharply.“I'm letting her out.”“Why?”“Well, that guy on the other side let her through." Anna continued motioning her hand. "Yes - yes, you! Go on, go then!” She let out a sigh, “I’ve noticed you barely ever let people out. Why is that?”“Simple, because if a motorcyclist slammed into the side of her now, you’d be culpable and your insurance policy doesn't cover being an idiot.”Silence stretched out a temporary distance between the two friends, time enough for the queues of traffic to resume uniformity.


It was dark. The wind blew through the house like a low menacing growl. The walls crawled with the dark strings of grief and sorrow. The cold air weighed heavily in the house reminding its occupants of its emptiness. His cute giggles still resonated through the house yet he was not here. The sun seemed to have taken its leave. The sky a jagged slate. It had been months yet it felt like yesterday. The sobs did not stop but they only got quieter. Tears engraved their trail so deep into their faces yet the outside couldn’t see them. The strident screams echo through the walls every night as memories of the little boy accompany her. Each day was worse. Her sanity slowly slipped from her grasp with every passing minute. Face as pale as the first morning snow. We no longer had our heartfelt conversations. Grousing about taking care of children. There was nothing left to say. I couldn’t relate. I didn’t know how it felt for a billionaire to lose their only child. I couldn’t even imagine. At least that’s what Mary told me. The only sentence she spoke to me after I told her I knew how it felt to lose a child . “It’s the constant reminder with us always in the spotlight” . Even after years, paparazzi still probe and prod on the matter just to write a juicy story. Maybe it is different for the rest of us behind the scenes. After a few months everybody has forgotten and you’re the only clinging to the tenebrous days. And nobody is willing to pull you out of the darkness. Nobody is willing to help but everybody is wishing you would just move on already. I had been their maid for seven years and had watched the young boy, Felix, grow out of his diapers. I knew him inside out. He adored his parents with every fiber in his being and cherished the time he spent with them. He was a child who loved with no limit and no regret. It was disheartening to see him lay lifeless and unmoving on the road. Struck down by a speeding car. The incision on his head was prominent as the carmine liquid inundated the road. Arms outstretched at an odd angle as if he was begging for mercy. The funeral was supposed to be short as to not draw unwanted attention but his mother held onto him like he was her last piece of life and letting him go would make all to come crushing down. Her tears cascaded down her cheeks and poured down on the bunched up creases of the black crisp suit that embraced him, hoping that maybe the fairytales were true. That he would feel her warmth, her magic, and her love seep into him and raise him out of the smothering four foot box. My melancholy heart ached in pain as a tear escaped me while I stood at the far end of the tent. Watching as her husband wretched her away from the peacefully sleeping boy, eyes red and tired. A sharp pain wedge itself into my chest as anamneses of my late daughter tore through my mind. Holding her close to my chest hoping for a miracle that I knew deep down would not happen. Despite Mary denying it, we were cognate in so many ways. Yet society classified our grief to be of different levels even if the underlying factor was the same. I knew exactly how it felt to be ripped apart, to be stripped of what one loves and left exposed to pain and suffering. To lament for someone so long your heart can’t take any more. The nightmares that haunt you taunting that you could have done better even when it has already been done. For the following months, people from various walks of life came to give their condolences. And for months they barely spoke. Their eyes were a never ending abyss of stygian blackness weighing you down with languish every time you gaze upon them. The words of visitors falling upon death ears as they single handedly delivered a long discourse on how things will be alright in time and how they should be strong. But how is one supposed to be strong when they are in pain. I wondered whether people learnt how to console someone at the same place. It is never nothing new. The same words ringing in your head day in day out but no one really helping. It is the constant reminder that torments a grieving person. From Mary’s side it was different from my own. For her, everybody knew the tragic incident and didn’t bother to ask whilst for me, not everyone was aware. “How is your little girl, Emily?” “Uh... uh she... passed on” “I’m so sorry! My condolences” “Where is Emily?” “She ... passed on a couple of months ago” “I’m sorry I didn’t know” It is having to repeat that statement over and over again like a mantra until it finally knocks me into the reality that she was indeed gone. I didn’t want to assimilate myself to my boss, I was way pass that. But her words buzzed through my head. You don’t know how it feels for a billionaire to lose their only child. I didn’t know whether she was being frank with me, condescending me for my financial state, pointing out that I had other children so it hurt way less or she uttered the words out of grief and she felt like no one understood her pain. It had come to me that she had tried to equate us, seeing who had gone through the most suffering and seeing who is at an advantage just like how society had taught her to do. The rich people’s emotions hold more value than your own because they can pay for ways to express them and for people to listen to them. My grandmother had once told me so and now I had finally witnessed it. Nobody took heed of the people in the backstage even if you were bleeding your guts out they would only notice after the show is over.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #This week’s challenge: *“Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.” - Dr. Seuss* - **Theme: Memories** / - **Bonus Constraint (10 pts):** A photograph and/or photographer plays a *key role* in the story. With the holidays around the corner, it’s got me thinking about memories and the role they play in our lives. This week, I want you to write a story inspired by the theme of memories. I’ve provided a quote and two images for additional inspiration (you are not obligated to use them). You may use the theme as creatively as you wish as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required (it is worth points). Note: We have returned to the standard 300-word max for stories. You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 2pm EST next Monday.** Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read the stories aloud and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and/or listen to the others! Everyone is welcome and we’d like to have you, we absolutely love new friends!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied **Note: As of Oct 16, there has been a change to the crit caps and points!** **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10 - 15** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **10** pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** #Rankings for Just one winner this week! - u/wileycourage *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Experiment with tropes and different genres with the brand new feature on r/WritingPrompts! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


Mikel stood on the rooftop, chest heaving as he realized there was nowhere else to go. Overhead, the fireworks lit the sky up in a series of magnificent colors. Shades of blue and red and green seemed to add millions of sparkling new stars to the sky. Past the celebration, Mikel could hear the screams and mad rush of people as the city panicked. Listening further, he could hear the pounding feet of his assailants as they raced up the stairs after him. Any minute now and they’d be upon him. For the hundredth time Mikel pondered if he had done the right thing. He wracked his brain for all the possible choices and all the potential outcomes. Maybe he should have said something. Maybe he should have told Darius he knew where the blast would come from. Maybe then the Baron would still be alive, and the city wouldn’t be burning while it celebrated. The pounding was closer now. Any second Darius himself would be up those stairs, Kull and Sarina flanking him. Bartholomew would come soon after. Mikel would try to explain it to them, that he believed he made the right choice. He doubted they would hear him though. Blood had been spilt, and some things aren’t so easily forgiven. So Mikel prepared for a fight. He drew his sword with his right hand and concentrated his magic through the rune symbols etched on his left. His last rune mark began to glow just as they arrived. Darius was first, followed by Kull and Sarina. They were panting from hunting him across the city. Blades had been drawn a long time ago, their rune arms primed and enchanted. All of them were killers and fighters who knew the business well. Mikel considered trying to strike before they could catch their breath. In the end he decided against it, needing them to try and listen. He thought about his choice again. He needed it to be the right one. Darius and Mikel locked eyes, Darius’s own glowing bright like the moon. Mikel saw fury there, but also to his surprise a deep sadness likely stemming from betrayal. Mikel tried to steel himself from it. He couldn’t block it all though, and Mikel’s heart grew heavier still. Mikel started to open his mouth but found it drier than anticipated. He tried to clear his throat so he could speak, but before he could get a word out Darius beat him to it. “How long did you know?” He leveled the question with venom, not caring to mince words. “Does it matter?” Mikel asked. Darius glared his answer, and Mikel sighed heavily. “Since last week.” Darius fumed. He gripped his sword tighter. “Why? Why let that bomb go off?” The silence stretched for an eternity. Mikel found himself asking that same question, wondering why he’d let everything change. He decided to go with the simple answer. “He was a tyrant Darius.” “HE WAS KEEPING THE PEACE!” Darius bellowed as a massive firework brought a red dragon to life in the sky. Only Darius seemed more bristled with rage. “He needed to die.” Mikel said the words softly, seeming to almost be trying to convince himself as much as the three in front of him. “And my brother...did he need to die?” Sarina leveled the question with a cold fury poorly hidden behind chopped purple hair. Mikel had never seen her angry before. Now he saw nothing but hate in her eyes, and it made him shudder. “I tried to warn Daniel. I tried to tell him to get away before-” “But you didn’t.” She cut him off, not wanting to hear anymore. “He’s dead.” Mikel paused, his face failing to mask the pain and guilt he felt. “I’m sorry Sarina. I really am.” “Sorry doesn’t bring him back.” There was nothing for a long moment other than their furious stares. Fireworks exploded overhead. They painted the rooftop in celebratory colors before fading and becoming washed with the dark. City lights extended long shadows, Mikel’s being the longest of all. “You ready?” Darius growled. Mikel met the gaze of his once dear friend with red rimmed eyes. He was already so tired in every facet of the word. He thought again, as he would for his remainder, if he should have said something, should have stopped the Red Sons from killing the Baron and all his men. He could have saved Daniel. He would still be able to call those in front of him his companions, his family. But it was too late, and now he could only hope that there would be some better future from the chaos and flames below. Another firework. Another brilliant flash. Mikel’s runes glowed. “No. But let’s do this anyway,” He muttered sadly. His three assailants’ runes glowed ready. Their feet pivoted and tensed. A barrage of distant screams signaled the start of the show’s finale. And then they were off. The trio burned towards Mikel faster than possible. Mikel was faster. A flash of purple and a flick of his rune arm sent needle crystals so dark they were almost night itself towards the three killers. Darius turned them to dust and Kull slid under. Sarina was not as quick, and caught several to her side. Her veins glowed purple all the way to her eyes, and she crumbled to the ground. Darius heard her screams all the way to Mikel. Their blades moved so fast it could be lost in the mirage of colors exploding in the sky. They were perfectly matched, even with Darius’s moon eyes seeing everything and predicting Mikel’s every move. Neither were better enough to score a blow. The fireball from Kull threw Mikel off enough for Darius to land the first cut to Mikel’s cheek. Mikel recovered a second later only for Kull to continue his barrage. The masked, silent man whipped knives at Mikel so fast they streaked beams of light behind them as they went. Mikel knocked Darius back with a gust of wind and parried all but the last knife, which sunk deep into his side. He had time to flinch, but nothing more. A half second later Kull was on Mikel, swinging with precision and fighting like a rabid dog. More than anyone on that roof Kull was a killer, hallow dark eyes staring unblinking from behind a crudely painted skull mask. Kull whipped his short sword with an expert ruggedness. He had no proper training, no real finesse, and yet Mikel still struggled all the same. Kull even used his magic crudely. An icicle formed in his rune hand, aimed for Mikel’s throat. Mikel side stepped roughly back, so Kull whipped the icicle at blinding speed low to Mikel’s calf. Mikel shifted his leg just in time to avoid being impaled. He barely righted himself before Kull and Darius were on him again. Swords swung and magic slanged at desperate speed, each of the men trying their utmost best to kill one another. As Mikel back stepped, Darius made his first off footed move with an overextended thrust. He tried to correct, but it was too late. Mikel slashed Darius’s left arm’s outer tendon, and his sword clattered to the ground. Kull tried to correct the loss, throwing fire at close range. But Mikel deflected, and the fire swung onto Darius’s face. Darius howled in pain. The left half of his face instantly blistered, one glowing eye already damaged to a crisp as it was lost to the inferno. Mikel focused all his energy on Kull whose dark eyes continued to remain ever stagnant. Kull slung more ice and fire Mikel’s way, but the shifting purple field around Mikel’s runes consumed it all. Their blades danced a moment longer until Mikel threw the field like a net, catching and paralyzing Kull’s left side. A few swipes later, and Kull’s sword lay on the ground and he was on his knees with a slash across his chest. There was a measure of stillness just before Kull collapsed bleeding onto the rooftop. Those dark eyes never betrayed a thing, and he didn’t make a sound as he lay dying. Mikel turned when he felt something slash his back and his whole body screamed misery. He found Sarina free of the crystals and whipping a purple tendril at him for a second time. It connected and Mikel’s shoulder exploded in pain. He barely got his rune hand up in time to block the third strike as Darius barreled into him from the side and knocked Mikel to the ground. Howling like a mad man, Darius began to beat Mikel. Blow after blow came to Mikel’s head and body, and his world began to fade to black. Darius only paused when Sarina arrived to take Mikel’s head. She hefted her sword. For a moment Mikel thought this was fate. He deserved to die. He was a traitor. He’d allowed many to die. He’d killed many more with his own hands. He knew Sarina deserved her revenge. And still his guilt piled higher as his rune hand glowed and his paralyzing aura expanded and launched Darius and Sarina back with a furious yell. The fireworks were gone. Mikel lay there crying while the other two just lay still, frozen by the pain of the magic. Mikel was so spent and so tired, but he knew he had to keep moving. He crawled to a rise, hobbling over to his sword and stooping to pick it up while his thundering head clouded the world. Mikel looked at the two assailants struggling to untangle themselves from the magic. He knew he’d have to kill them. The road he now walked deemed it so. He tried to convince himself he could let them live, but in his mind he knew it couldn’t be. Maybe in another life , he concluded. Mikel took three steps toward his a dark fate, and that’s when Bartholomew crashed down from the sky. Mikel turned as the roof shook, trying to stand as tall as he could against the imposing figure before him. Bartholomew’s snow white wings folded back behind his midnight black garb. He stared Mikel down, golden spear in hand. Then Bartholomew looked past Mikel to his fallen companions, and a calm fury rested in his eyes. “All this blood...was it worth it Mikel?” “I didn’t want this part. I didn’t want to fight them.” “And yet here we are and here they lie.” The roof was silent aside from a slight gust of the wind and the distant sounds of the riots below. “Did you not think this chaos would happen?” Bartholomew accused rather than asked. “I saw it as necessary.” Bartholomew leveled a hard look. “Necessary? Daniel is dead. The Baron is dead. People are savaging each other in this chaos.” Mikel tried to level a hard look. “I did what I had to.” Bartholomew for a moment revealed a pensive sadness before hiding himself before Mikel. “Then those deaths and the ones happening now are on you.” Mikel grew into a rage at the arrogance of the words, of the judgement Bartholomew leveled down from his high seat heading the Agency. Mikel’s rune hand pulsed, and with a roar he tossed a mass of chaotic magic at his former mentor and friend. Bartholomew caught it as easy as if it were a child’s toy. The magic that had so easily bound and tortured Mikel’s other three assailants slid gently off Bartholomew’s hand and fell to the ground were it burned with a purple haze. As he watched in a mixture of sadness and horror, Mikel finally accepted he was going to die. The spear came so fast that even if Mikel had tried to react it would have been fruitless. The force was so great it carried him over the roof and he began to fall to the ground below, spear pushing him the whole way. He thought for the thousandth time if he’d made the right choice not telling Darius of the Red Sons’ plot. A single tear came to his eye as he began to grasp all the death he had caused to end one life. He wasn’t sure if he could lie to himself anymore. He hoped he would be forgiven. He knew deep down he would not. Bartholomew got to edge of the roof to see Mikel impaled on the ground below. All around him people fought and looted and burned the city to the ground. The Duke was dead and the Red Sons had gotten what they wanted. Now it was Bartholomew’s turn to wonder what could have been different. Maybe he could have prepared Mikel better, could have guarded the boy’s heart further. He sighed deep and choked back the well of emotions. Now wasn’t the time. There was no going back. He looked to his other students as they slowly unwound the magic from their bodies. Then Bartholomew spread his wings and descended into the abyss.


Saved John Meiners, Jr. The next morning Clarice rises early, makes coffee, and sits down. She is deep in thought, but surprised she slept as well as she did after last night’s bombshell. Clarice’s mind races as she reconciles the reasons Stefan kept his true identity from her. They met when they were 27. If you meet and fall in love, do you tell someone something so unbelievable that it sends them reeling and running away from you? Even now it’s too difficult to believe, and part of her still refuses to accept it even after Pamela changed into a deer before her very eyes. If Stefan had changed to God knows what to prove he came from another world, would she have accepted him? Maybe it was better not to know. Stefan protected her from something she couldn’t have handled and in the process filled her life with love. Shouldn’t she consider herself lucky? Pamela walks in. “May I join you?” “Of course. I’ll get you some coffee.” “No, no... I’ll get it.” Pamela pours a cup while she watches Clarice. “Listen, I’m sorry I shocked you last night. I hope you’ll forgive me. What I had to say... I can’t blame you for not believing me. If I were you, I wouldn’t have. I thought it the fastest way.” “You’re right. If you hadn’t turned into a... deer... You could have tried to convince me all night long, and I would probably have pretended to humor you then waited for my chance to slip away, thinking you all are insane, but actually seeing you change with my own eyes... well, pretty hard to ignore that. You have nothing to be sorry for. It sounds as though you saved Stefan years ago along with many others before your planet was destroyed. I should thank you. It’s...it’s just so hard to believe. I have never been a fan of sci fi, and now I find myself in a sci fi world.” “I understand, as well as I can. I’m surprised you didn’t slip away after I changed.” “I thought about it.” “Really?” “No...” Pamela and Clarice share a small laugh for the first time. Clarice is no longer angry and wants to learn more about how it affected Stefan. To say she is curious is an understatement. Clarice asks, “What was it like... when you left your planet? Stefan was too young to remember, wasn’t he?” Pamela tells her, “Probably... He knows what Bob has told him... I believe when he boarded the ship, Stefan probably was the youngest boy ever to witness the destruction of a world... and live, but I can’t say how it affected him.” Clarice sees the melancholy on Pamela’s face and the sadness for her lost world, but she sees also her joy in discovering Stefan is alive. Clarice reminds herself that Pamela learned of this only days ago. Stefan comes downstairs, followed by Bob just a few steps behind him. They both take a deep breath when they see Clarice and Pamela sitting having coffee, looking rather comfortable. They seem much calmer now compared to the shock of last night’s revelations. Stefan prays, “Please let this tranquility continue.” He could use some tranquility. Cautiously Bob and Stefan pour themselves a cup of coffee, sit down, and they all begin to plan their day even though the ‘elephant is in the room.’ Bob thinks if someone overheard their conversation this morning, they’re never guess what happened last night. He suggests, “Let’s go to the River Walk. We’re visiting, and that is what visitors do in San Antonio. Lunch on the river will be fun.” “You two go get ready,” urges Pamela. “Clarice and I will clean up down here.” Bob realizes Pamela wants to talk to Clarice without them so he and Stefan finish their coffee and go upstairs. Pamela and Clarice wait until Bob and Stefan are out of ear shot then Clarice turns to Pamela and asks, “Please tell me how Stefan came here. What was it like for Stefan?” “I brought Stefan to this world, but it was Bob who saved his life. If it were not for Bob, Stefan would never have been on board.” “Yes, Stefan told me. He told me he was on the only ship that left the planet. Why didn’t more leave?” “Alerts went out continuously. ‘Our world is ending! It is the apocalypse!’ The news went out constantly, but by the time it was supposed to happen, much like news on this planet, the sensationalism just wore off. Politicians slandered other politicians and ridiculed their warnings. Other stories though meaningless and not nearly as important, were given precedence. Accusations went back and forth. What was really happening? No one seemed to know. People gave up on learning any reliable information from the news, and what warnings they heard, fell on deaf ears. Then suddenly it was too late. The time remaining had been miscalculated. This news was devastating. An asteroid was headed toward our planet, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it. Our world was in denial; they’d lost belief in their government’s ability to save them. Lost belief in the leaders themselves. It’s a shame because so many more could have been saved. My father as a government official was able to commandeer a spacecraft with me in charge. I tried to save as many as I could. Bob got Stefan on board. It was at that moment Stefan was given a chance to live. Bob and Stefan were both unknown to me. Bob really is the one who has all the information concerning Stefan and his upbringing. I know only what Bob told me on our trip here. My link to Stefan, as I mentioned last night, was Stefan’s mother. She was my dearest friend, and I was heartsick when I couldn’t reach her to save both her, her husband, and Stefan. We’d lost contact almost a year before. My father was a government scientist, and he always knew the asteroid was on its way, but no one would take his warnings seriously enough. Suddenly in the last five months, the asteroid’s speed increased. New calculations predicted collision and destruction a good year earlier than was previously anticipated. There was no time for the mass evacuation that officials had considered. Clarice, I have lived for 60 years with the regret of not being able to save Stefan, and he has been alive and well all this time. You have had 34 years with him. He is the man you fell in love with and married, and he is truly part of this world...your world.” Clarice nods and asks, “Your parents?” Pamela shakes her head. “No... all gone.” Stefan and Bob join them. While waiting on Pamela and Clarice to get ready, Bob looks out the front window. It’s a perfect San Antonio day for the River Walk. The sun is shining, it’s not too cold, and no chance of rain. Suddenly Bob notices a grey car driving by rather slowly with two men inside. The passenger looks carefully at their car. Bob calls to Stefan, “See that grey car? Have you seen it before? Maybe it’s one of your neighbor’s cars?” As Stefan looks, the car picks up speed and drives off down the street. “No, I don’t recognize it. Not one of our neighbors.” Bob doesn’t want to jump to conclusions but the old adage ‘Better safe than sorry’ applies here. “Let’s keep this to ourselves. After all, they could have been looking at houses. It could have been as simple as they like the car or possible are looking at addresses trying to find a friend’s house. You all have Ring or some type of security cameras, right?” Stefan nods. “Yes, but they could also be waiting for us to leave the house so they can follow us. What do you suppose they want? Worries me, but Clarice already has been shocked, and just when she may be coming ‘back to earth’, the last thing I want to do is tell her unsavory characters are checking out our house.” Arriving at the River Walk, they park on the street across from the stairs leading down to the water. As soon as they reach the river, Bob realizes dark clouds have come in. “Looks like rain after all,” says Bob. “I’m going to get my umbrella from the car.” Stefan points at a bistro on the river, “We’ll get a table and meet you over there.” Bob thinks, ‘It looks like a good place to relax and enjoy a margherita.’ He goes back up to the street, pausing at the top to peer through the thick shrubbery overhanging the top of the stairs. Before going to his car, he checks the street for anything suspicious like the car he saw drive by this morning. ‘I’m probably overreacting,’ he thinks, but when you’re dealing with unscrupulous people who would just as soon see you dead, you just can’t be too careful.’ He worries mainly about Pamela Lawton. She’s such a well-known figure in Community and has a wealth of knowledge about serums and drugs such as Doesonear which facilitate the change in aliens. No doubt those behind the kidnappings and experimentations in their hometown of Community would like to pick her brain. If they try, they will pay with their life, promises Bob. He watches for one more moment, then satisfied that no one followed them, he starts toward his car. Suddenly he freezes as a grey car passes moving slowly. Bob steps back out of sight, watches and waits for them to make another pass to validate his suspicion. They do. He takes out his phone, “Stefan, you know that grey car we saw drive by this morning?” The End


"There you go, one large Pepperoni and one medium Carbonara! That'll be twenty dollars. Oh, and the Carbonara has the extra olives." "Perfect, thanks! That's her favorite", he winked while pulling out a couple of bills. The delivery man chuckled. "You can count on me, sir. Good evening!" He walked back to the living room, grabbing a knife on his way, put down the pizzas on the coffee table and plopped back down on his side of the couch. "Bon appétit!" he chimed, already trying to cut his pizza and look at the TV at the same time. For a moment, only chewing could be heard as the pizzas were being gobbled up. Daniel really was a great pizzaiolo, and these were a staple of their friday nights. Their dedicated "don't care" evenings, when they'd order pizzas, flop down on the couch and watch whatever movie she'd have picked. He wasn't much into movies himself and, in fact, she probably wasn't either. They'd already woken up more than once on this couch on saturday mornings, with no recalling of the film's ending whatsoever. But their unspoken point was pizza and snuggling, and they wouldn't have it any other way. "Oh dear," he let out as he glanced at her pizza box, where only a handful of olive pits and a grease stain remained. "You've already eaten all of this? I've barely made it to half of mine and I feel like I'm gonna explode!" He smiled. He might've been twice her weight, but it seemed like food would vanish around her before he had a chance to blink. She wasn't one to play princess, especially not on a friday night, and he loved her for it. He, on the other hand, had definitely overestimated his appetite this time. "Well, I'm full. Unless you want some more, I'm just gonna save it for tomorrow. Lemme throw the boxes away as well." He went to the kitchen, slid the remaining half of his pizza onto a plate and put it into the fridge. Turning around, he looked at the recycling bag, which to his dismay was already filled to the brim with empty pizza boxes. "Damn. Honey, I forgot to take out the trash, be right back!" He walked out of the flat, closing the door behind him, and began going down the stairwell. He wrestled with the door to the basement with his elbow, his hands occupied by the large bag and the two pizza boxes. After pressing the dusty light switch with his other elbow, he continued down the last flight of stairs, under the humming of the fluorescent tubes, to the trash bins room. The rattling of the olive pits inside the boxes went softer and softer as he slowed down and stopped at the bottom of the stairs. With a sigh, he shoved the recycling bag and the boxes into the nearest bin. Then he sat on the first step of the stairs, his head buried in his hands, and started weeping.


I’m going to write. “Star crossed.” Bleh! Gah! Gross! What a teenage cliché. Are you there John Green, it’s me, (insert name here). But still. I mean, it works, doesn’t it? As a description. The timing probably *could* have been worse, but it was pretty fucking bad. Who would have guessed that...after never connecting like this in my entire life, after deciding a long time ago to settle, after being more or less content, resigned to my stagnation, that someone like *you* would come into my life? It became addicting, the “what if?” What if we had met as kids? In high school? At camp? Randomly or unpredictably, before it would have been too late for both of us? I’m going to write. I tried pretty hard not to think about it at the time, to not let it sink it...just exactly what I was doing, what *we* were doing. I was just trying to live in the moment. It’s a bad (good) habit I developed in college, after struggling to pull myself out of a depression. I tried to stop living in the past or the future. I tried to just live. I even remember my friend Rev asking me about it. The change he noticed in me. I told him about Taoism. He knew what I meant before I explained it. I’m not describing this very well. But it’s not going to stop me from going on. Because: I’m going to write. Is it a good thing or a bad thing we live in different parts of the country? Probably both. Two extremes. Is it a good thing or a bad thing that we connected so deeply? Probably both as well. Actually, you know what...no. Fuck that. It WAS good. It IS good. To be seen like that. To see you like that. To have experienced it, to know that it is real, it is possible. I hope it leads to change for you. It seems like it did. It would be arrogant of me to claim to be the only catalyst for your change. But I’d like to humbly think that I played a part in it. I’m going to write. Because that’s what you were to me: a catalyst. It’s what you have to be. If I was stronger, I think we could be together. If I was weaker, I think we could be together. But I’m too damn balanced. The two extremes canceling each other out. Constant internal war breeds constant internal peace, right? Am I at peace? When we said goodbye, I was sobbing quietly in the bathroom, hoping my coworkers wouldn’t hear. It was the most emotion I have felt in years. I won’t let it be for nothing. It can’t have been nothing. It can’t have meant nothing. I know it didn’t. So: I’m going to write. I’m going to write because you saw my potential, because you wouldn’t want me to be shackled by self-doubt anymore, because you wouldn’t want me to give in to the creeping negativity gnawing at me even now. I’m going to write. And I’m not going to stop. And my first book will be dedicated to you. For Kitten. “And one fine morning...” Maybe it will happen. A book tour. A sea of faces. And there yours is. There you are. I can imagine it now. The way my heart would stop. The way my chest would tighten. I’m kidding myself. Or am I? Will the stars align again? I’m going to write. And I’m not going to stop.


“Bloody hell, Mum, are we actually about to live in this palace?!” “Dylan, how many times do I have to tell you it is a mansion, not a palace ? And for God’s Sake, Dylan, will you stop cursing so much?! ” “Gosh, Mum, ‘bloody hell’ is not too harsh. I’m 14, Mum! This isn’t the 20 th century! Oh, and sure, Mum, but when a matchbox works for a home for a bunch of teenage twins and a tween, and they’re exiled to a glorious 10-bedroom , yard, swimming pool, private forest, meadow AND creek-inclusive mansion , it sure seems like that Buckingham palace we’ve trudged by our entire lives.” “Dear me! Why, son, doesn’t your tongue get the better of you! Rake it in like you rake the leaves in autumn! But, pray, this modest outhouse will make Queen Elizabeth go green with jealousy!” “Edward, do quit your sarcasm. First this munchkin goes about saying this is a luxurious palace, then you come along and call this a modest outhouse! You’re making your dear, recently-passed and much-beloved and missed mother go green with rage!” “Edith, sweetheart, it may interest you to know that once upon a time, my mother lived in a slightly-larger-than-the-Roseley-mansion house, and when I was a young lad, she would come along, bounce me on her knee, and tell me “Why, my dearest Eddie, did you know your old Mummy here once lived inside a cigar pipe?” In case I confound you, the cigar pipe she refers to is actually the Esforth Estate. So, it must be genetics.” “Well, do me pleasure enough not to say so in front of your offspring.” “Jeez, Mum! What’s with the sudden offspring fancy vocabulary?” Dylan wrinkled his nose in disgust. Mr.Roseley merely looked at Mrs.Roseley , slightly flushed, and said “Well, Edith, don’t say I didn’t warn you. I told you the munchkins would grow up someday and chastise you for being a show-off with your Oxford Dictionary.” Mrs.Roseley haughtily continued to hold her head high, and replied back “If the future generation of Roseleys dislike my extensive knowledge of the English Language, they are very well equipped to suit themselves.” With this, she turned on her heel and entered the house to start ‘moving in’, whilst Rebecca was barely able to stifle a laugh. Dylan merely shrugged, and Sadie remained standing next to the car door. Even though the rest of the family had taken leave from the stage, the littlest member of the family, who remained in the spotlight, who we focus on, did not move an inch and could not shake the feeling of an impending danger of some sort. Remind yourselves that though she stands only 4’4, her wit is larger and faster than even Mr. or Mrs.Roseley’s... Sadie’s little eyes quickly scanned the ‘large pile of sand and bricks’ which was to be her new home. Antique, old, crumbly, dirty, neglected, what was the word... ah, yes, from the Victorian Era, rather posh, at 3 stories, and was that a terrace she could see up there? The ivy creeping over the walls gave a hearthrobbingly countryside-outskirts-rich person look to it; Andrea would be sure to love it... Sadie quickly dismissed the thought before she threw a fit demanding to be returned to London. Nobody, not even Dylan or her mother, who knew her so well, would guess she was actually quite excited about the house. After the last person had entered the close-to-300 year-old building, Sadie ran her hands along the outer wall of the house, just under the reach of the ivy. She felt like there could be something... something, alive? Inside those walls...? Sadie shook the thought from her mind, though she felt it in her bones. This was definitely Rebecca or Dylan’s fault for playing too many pranks on her and making her such a suspicious little kid. She smiled and simply shook her head when she heard an agitated “ Edward! ” from inside, followed by the unmistakable smell of something burning and a splash of water. Quick bickering completed the sequence, and Sadie giggled, amused at what mischief her dad had already got himself into. “ What now? Surely he hasn’t tried to cook already? God, I can’t wait for the burgers! McDonald’s binge, you won’t know what hit you! Or maybe we should go with Papa John’s? The pizzas are to DIE for... especially those veggie ones... good god, where are we going to eat, sleep, shower, play games? Is this going to be like a HOLIDAY? Ooooh, I can’t wait ! Maybe I do miss London, but one can’t be thankless for all the adventures we might have here! Argh, dammit! If only Andi could be here as well ! Maybe Mum and Dad will let her come over for a week or two? What a big family it could be! But then Dylan and Rebecca will get all jealous, like spineless cows and demand for their friends to be able to come over, too. What fun might that be? Wait, how cool would it be if the three of us could have our friends come over at the same time?! That would be, gosh, heavenly, I fell like I’m already drowning in a heated pool of heavy caramel... Grow up, Sade! What immature thoughts you have! Such a baby , you are.” The large train of thought she’d boarded was quickly brought to a halt by her Mum’s shrill voice, calling out crossly “Sadie! If you want to be kidnapped, burgled, and have your dead body thrown into a well, I would suggest you stay put right where you are!” Goodness gracious, if she was so worked up already, someone must have done something terribly exasperating in the few minutes they’d been here. Her mother never used such harsh words with her, and the curse jar was one less source of money for the Roseley children, because of their mother’s strict tolerance against profanity. Sadie couldn’t help but wonder, as she walked through the large, majestic, wooden door, if the things her mother had so quickly put out were actually possible scenarios for a lone girl of almost-10 standing alone, outside, in the night, in the town they’d moved to. “Sade, Ribs, are we ever going to get over the fact that we’re living in a palace?” Dylan softly called. Bundled near him, Rebecca answered his call. “Mansion, not palace, Dy.” She softly whispered. Dylan chuckled and swatted her arm playfully. “Do you think we could invite our friends from London over?” Sadie piped. “Unfit for the situation, Sadie-bean. But, if it suits Mum and Dad’s fancy, I don’t see why they wouldn’t!” he said, slightly enthusiastic. “Dear sweet Sadie. Always thinking ahead, aren’t you, my own little spaceshuttle?” “Totally am, Caveman.” Rebecca giggled girlishly and turned onto her side, away from Dylan and Sadie on her left with a soft sigh and an almost-clamorous russle of the sheets. “Alright, weirdos, g’night, see y’all tomorrow...” she mumbled. Dylan sat up straight and said rather loudly “Hey, you stole the kid’s dialogue!” “I am NOT a kid...” Sadie mumbled in protest, but it went unnoticed. “Not stolen. Borrowed.” Rebecca grunted. “-without Sadie’s permission, which is stealing!” Sadie said, in a sing-song voice. The three of them laughed. “Har-har!” Dylan continued, in a pitch and loudness equivalent to Sadie. it had definitely been many years since Dylan had sang, or even said anything in that tone. “I’m never going to be able to suck up this glory. Even when I’m 80, I’ll boast to my great-grandchildren about how I was once a rich kid and lived in a house bigger than the Buckingham.” Dylan cooed, lying back down. “Good lord, Dylan, get yourself together in one piece.” Becca groaned, clearly disgusted to hear her brother’s future life plans. “What is that supposed to mean?” Sadie said, nodding off to sleep. Dy and Bex both said “Nothing!” in a cheery voice, synchronized, before pulling the covers over their little sister and kissing her good night.