Finally, a moment to close my eyes and listen to Elvis play on the record player. Love me tender, love me sweet. Gosh, he makes my heart soar. What a dreamboat. For a few songs I can pretend that everything is normal. I imagine I’m laying on my fluffy white comforter from before. Our record player is one of the only luxuries left. My aunt got it for me last Christmas, it's one of those neat, new portable ones that doesn’t need to be plugged in. The sound isn’t as full, but it’s so swell to be able to listen to some music and relax for- “Amelia! Amelia. Amelia. Amelia.” If I acknowledge him maybe he will shut up, “What Carson? What?” Eight year olds are so unnecessary. “Ethan says he feels sick again.” On second thought, maybe they are slightly necessary. In one swift movement, I grab a bucket, dampen a washcloth, and slide on my homemade mask. Here’s a quick how to on my “do it yourself” mask: Take an empty orange juice bottle and cut off part of the side, place a few coffee filters around the spout, poke a few holes in the cap, and slap a giant rubber band around it, you've got a homemade gas mask. Like magic. Other helpful hints for surviving after a Nuclear war: keep occupied- being bored will drive you insane, ration everything you have, block all windows with mattresses, don’t drink water that comes from outside, don't eat live food from outside, don't go outside. Outside is dangerous. Outside is radiation. Outside means sickness. The only way you'll survive is by having sufficient shelter with enough to food and water that has been completely sealed off from radiation. Even then, you probably won't survive. I booked it into Ethan's room with just enough time to get the bucket under him and catch the last meal we fed him. His room is the darkest in the house, our “house” being the basement of my and Carson's former home. I say former, because the aftershock of an atom bomb making contact somewhere under 10 miles away sent our home into complete ruins. Our father was a wealthy man, and he blessed us with our giant 4 story home which is, was, in Pasadena, California. Father was a successful stock broker and Mother stayed at home to raise Carson and me. They liked to spoil us and when we begged for an entertainment room, we got it. Father furnished the basement and separated it into four rooms. A bathroom, a guest room, an entertainment room, and the bar. The largest room is complete with a carpet, couches, a pool table, and a television. Lucky for us survivors, the fridge in the bar made for my father and his colleagues was stocked with food and drinks. But when three people live off of the nutrients inside an average sized icebox, the things we needed most desperately disappeared just a week into our first nuclear winter. When we were down to the last 10 water bottles Ethan told us he was going to go outside. In our entire 4 year relationship Ethan never took charge, I was the one who asked him to go steady. So when his eyebrows set in so close together and with his voice deeper than usual, I took him seriously. I knew he was right anyways. When Ethan got back from his grocery store mission, he was shaking. Horrified, he told me about the sky raining ash. Saying over and over that the only bodies in sight were laying motionless on the ground, a white fungus like substance covering their mangled corpses. He was holding a bag full of food, medicine, and water. The bag hung on his arm. His red arm. His arm was bloody. I hadn’t planned for that. I had given him a mask. But I hadn’t planned that a metal rod sticking out from the ruins of a building would tear his skin open. I didn’t consider the possibility that the radiation would take over his body despite all of my precautions. Now I wish it had been me who went outside, so I could be the one who is sick. I can't stand seeing his honey brown hair scattered on the floor when it used to be so slick on his head. He didn't like greasing it too much but I thought it looked so rad when it was greased and combed. His chocolate brown eyes, that once sparkled at the mention of rugby, are dull now- lifeless and forever searching for something that's not there. Skin so translucent, it is easy to see the community of blood cells working hard to keep him alive. All symptoms of radiation poisoning are in full effect on my lovely, wonderful, caring boyfriend. He and Carson are the only people I have left. I bet you were wondering how we survived and my parents didn’t. It was complete luck, if you could describe our situation as 'lucky', that the three of us were in the basement when the bomb hit. My parents were upstairs. I don’t even want to know what the shock of the attack did to their poor, clueless bodies. Lucky they died together though. Lucky because nobody could’ve seen it coming, and who would want to die alone without even knowing it? And here we are, I estimate it has been 4 weeks. My once lovely, wonderful, caring boyfriend, now nearly a corpse. I use the damp cloth to cool him off. Ethan keeps dry heaving, like he needs to throw up, but this time all that comes up is blood. I yell for Carson, this hasn’t happened before. Carson comes running in. Without a mask. Ethan looks up and more blood spews, splattering on my stupid, naïve, little brother’s unmasked face. He stands there in awe. We are frozen, as if the radiation is a T-rex dinosaur and if we stay still long enough it will not attack. Ethan is crying and apologizing. And retching, retching, retching. After a few moments, I have enough sense to run and get a paper towel and gloves. I clean my boyfriends’ blood off of my brothers’ face. Scrub, scrub, scrub until his skin is raw and red. I scrub until he begs me to stop. We can’t continue to live this way. We are going to run out of food soon. And I am going to run out of people soon. I decide that if Carson gets sick, we will leave. There is no point in waiting until the two people I love most die, just so I can die alone. We will go out and find someone who can help us. There have to be some people out there. There has to be someone, right? In between being asleep and being awake, I see Ethan. He is playing rugby. Elvis sings, Don’t be cruel to a heart that’s true. When I fully come around my heart drops. Instead of a dream that was once my reality, I awake to a nightmare. Carson is sitting on his couch holding a clump of his curly blonde hair. My eyes sting but I manage to choke out, “We can’t stay here anymore. We are leaving in an hour.” I walk into the guest room where Ethan is. “Ethan, do you think you can walk? We are going to find someone to cure you.” He responds and says he feels strong today. I know he is lying, but in the dim light I see him smile. He’s still in there. It’s that weak smile that makes me believe that someone might be able to cure him. If someone is so powerful to create the bomb that made this mess, aren’t there scientists with the knowledge of how to undo its destruction? In under an hour, I have fashioned head to toe protection from the radiation. A nuclear winter must be cold, so I grab all the jackets and sweaters that we have stored in the basement. Carson has gathered packaged food, water, and other necessities in a duffle bag and placed it at the base of the ladder to the exit of the basement. Getting Ethan out of bed wasn’t easy, but with my radiation ‘suit’ I could sling my arm around his waist without worrying about my bare skin making contact with any of his body fluids. Outside, the light is pale. It’s dark but a powdery snow covers the ground reflecting the dim light. Dark ash falls intermittently with the snow, and Carson complains that it burns his skin. Ethan still looks awful... but how should I even know? Last summer, I took a first aid class so I could be a life guard at our local swimming pool, but they never covered anything like this. They didn't even cover this is class when they discussed the possibility of a nuclear attack during the spread of communism. All they told us was that in case of this emergency, we should hide under our desks. They made is sound like an atomic bomb was the equivalent of a small earthquake. Surviving is different in this kind of war though, its every civilian for themselves, nobody is fighting for you. Nobody is looking for you. When a war starts like this, it becomes a battle against nature. A fight against your own body. But how could our teachers tell us that if a nuclear war did happen, the last thing we would want would be to survive it, all alone. We trekked on through the light and the dark, snow and ash, Ethan leaning on Carson and me. I notice that Ethan’s face is gaining color. Maybe the movement is good for him. He begs me for water. I know that if I give him too much he will just lose it 10 minutes later. I absolve to giving him 3 sips. He says his skin is burning too, it’s not the color returning to his face. He’s being sunburnt. But from what sun? We have been walking all day. With an 8 year old and a very sick young adult, I can only make it so far. I start looking for a good place to sleep. This area looks familiar, it might be Glendale. It’s really hard to tell, everywhere looks the same now. Ashy, barren, dull. I find a segment of a building that looks pretty reliable. I force some cold canned soup down my throat and give what’s left to Ethan. Carson says he isn’t hungry. He looks pale, withdrawn, and in just one day he looks as if he aged from 8 to 30. As they get settled in to sleep, I go look around. A few months ago it must’ve been highly populated, it kind of looks like a business district. This might’ve been where father came to work. I search for any sign of life. All I return to the boys with is some dry packaged fruit and a blanket that looked fairly clean. I fall asleep with ease and wake up only to the sound of Ethan retching. When he is done, the light suggests it is morning. “Ethan, are you well enough to travel?” He nods, wiping his mouth. Lie. I let Carson sleep a bit more as I gather our things. When I’m done, he wakes up reluctantly and I see that his almond shaped eyes are blood shot, pupils dilated. We walk in silence and I start to hum Hound Dog to break the tension. This makes Ethan giggle. He’s still there. He always makes fun of me for being another girly Presley fan. We pass hundreds of ruined buildings. I imagine that each of the buildings were for something really swell, something like fashion or music. Maybe one of them was a candy factory. When Carson asks for something to eat, I smile and some of my energy comes back. I give the dried fruit, it is nutritious, filling, and sweet. To make the time pass more quickly I start to tell them stories. I tell my boys stories I have never told anyone. I tell them about the first time that Annabelle and I stole liquor from her parents cabinet and we drank until we believed we sounded as good as Elvis himself. I tell Ethan that he is the loveliest boy I have ever met, and if we can make a home in a post nuclear war setting, I want him to be my husband. I don’t even need to fib. It’s true. I tell Ethan that I know I will never love a boy, person, animal, or thing as much as I love him. I say that even if he doesn’t know it, he has completely ruined me and recreated me all at once. I go on and on about how much I hate one smelly boy from my mathematics class, and if I ever had a chance to be a big, famous singer I would take it even if that meant I wouldn’t get a normal life. I would love for the paparazzi to follow me around, wondering what I had for breakfast or where I got my blouse. Begging me for just one photograph. When I notice that Carson is starting to slouch I tell him that even though he’s my younger brother, I have always looked up to the way he loves school. I tell him he is going to graduate top of his class, and go to Harvard Law. I tell him that he will probably also be the starting quarterback on the football team and the girls will all vote for him for Homecoming king. I talk for hours, my words paint the bleak ruins into a beautiful sunset with bright pinks, oranges, and yellows. I feel lightheaded. I don’t know if it’s from the talking or lack of good oxygen. I stop talking because I see something out of the corner of my eye. It’s a mouse. It darts underneath a garage door. “Sit down. I’ll be right back.” I tell the boys. I go to the garage where the mouse went. With every bit of strength I have I pry the door up. It’s a car. My cheeks feel wet. It’s an amazing automobile in a garage and it is still completely intact. I search the ground frantically for keys. Then I see them already in the key hole. I open the car and get in the drivers' seat. I have only driven once. Just down Ethan’s street after he first got his car. I wasn’t so bad, just driving forward like that. I put the key in the ignition. I close my eyes and turn it. A low grumble. It’s on. I pull forward out of the garage and help the boys into the back seat. I don’t know where I’m headed but I drive forward, the only way I know how to. The building ruins start to fade away and I realize I’m on some highway. “Amelia what are we gonna do.” Carson's’ little voice pipes up from the back seat. I don’t need to answer him, he is aware that I have no idea. I keep driving fast until I see houses again, still partially standing. Wherever we are, we must be at least 70 miles from where the mushroom was. I slow down and look for signs of life. For 10 or 15 blocks, there is nothing. Then, I see more than just a sign of life. I see a sign for life. A giant piece of metal has one word on it. “SURVIVORS” I begin to cry. I yell at Carson and Ethan to look out the window. To show them they are saved. We are saved. The gas runs on empty. I drive towards the metal sign. The boys are sleeping in the back. They need the rest. They need to rest so they can be cured. So they can get better. Sleep it off and someone will fix me. Them. Someone will fix them. “Amelia!” Love me tender “Amelia.” Don’t be cruel “Amelia.” Love me sweet “Amelia.” To a heart that's true. Ethan's voice. Is he singing Elvis? Is that just in my mind? My eyes are so heavy. It's like that one time when I went to the sock hop with Ethan, and after he drove me to the beach and we got milkshakes. It was 3 in the morning on the best night of my life, and I was trying not to fall to sleep in the passenger seat because if I did, the perfect night would be over. As Ethan drove us up the coast, however, playing his soft rock and smiling his soft smile, I couldn't help but drift off. My eyes were heavy like that now but it was the opposite. They were so heavy that I couldn't open them, I didn't want to wake up. But his beautiful voice sounded so worried and so far away. “Amelia.” Maybe if I ignore it, it will go away. “Amelia, it’s Ethan.” I listen anyway. “Carson is right here too. He’s fine. The sickness you have is not contagious through the air. It’s something that has to go inside of you. Don’t worry I make sure he wears a mask and gloves and covers his body anyway, just like you asked. We talked to a guy we met outside. He said his dad was a scientist. He knows about these things. You were right. It’s radioactivity. The ozone layer is depleted from the bomb. The sun burns, the ash is acidic, and radiation is in the air, in everything outside. You look miserable. I’m so sorry, I should have never let you go to the store, it should be me. I should be the sick one and you should be surviving this hell. I’m so sorry.” What is Ethan talking about, I’m not sick, he’s sick. Wait, is he crying? Don’t cry Ethan, I try to tell him. But my mouth is so dry and my muscles so sore and the taste so bitter, I can’t even move my lips. I feel my face drenched with sweat. I feel Ethan place a damp cloth on my forehead. “I love you so much,” he says. I feel a bandage on my arm over where the wire from the building on the way back from the store cut me. My skin burns where the ash touched it. There is no hair tickling my neck. I taste blood. Nobody ever told us anything about radioactivity. Nobody mentioned this wouldn’t be like regular warfare, where they kill from the outside. This kind is slow, a bullet from the inside. I figured it out the hard way. I don’t hate many things, now I’m filled with the hatred of people I never met and never will. People that used this hatred to build the instrument that started the world’s shortest war. Their hatred floats around my body, carried on the backs of my blood cells. Ethan tells me they want to go with this guy they met. He says he might know where a bunker is. He says I can come too. “Only if you feel up to it. If not, I will stay here with you. I will stay here forever.” Either way, at least I won’t die alone.


“I’m still not sure I should be going to this honey.” Greg looked at his wife through the reflection in the mirror as he combed his hair or at least what was left of it. His father was bald by 60 so Greg felt lucky to be 65 with any hair at all. “ You need to go to this party. Its good for you to get out again.” Mary was always encouraging her husband to try new things. She had always been adventurous one, once she convinced Greg to take her on a trip to Africa. He never could say no to her. “I know, I know I need to make some friends or meet new people. It's just... hard. Why you can't come with me?.” Greg turned to Mary and stared at her as she leaned against the bathroom door frame. There was never a day that passed where Greg didn’t marvel at his luck. He met Mary in college. He was studying in the library when she came strolling in clutching a bag tightly against her chest. Greg always wondered why she choose to sit next to him, but when she did he couldn’t help but stare as the bag in her arms seemed to wriggle on its own. That’s when she leaned over and opened the bag inside was a small kitten probably only a month, old one of its ears was in bad shape. Together they nursed the kitten back to health keeping it a secret until campus security found out and forced them to rehome it. Greg always said he fell in love with Mary when she cried giving the cat up, but really he knew he had to marry her the day she sat down next to him in the library. “You know I can't go with you, dear. Besides it's just an office party you already know everyone who is gonna be there.” Mary laughed. Greg loved that laugh how it started low but faded into highnotes. Mary always had a way of bringing laughter into a room. Even on their wedding day her vows had everyone rolling. Even when he found out about his father's death she managed to coax a smile out of him. Even when the doctor told them they would never have kids Mary still managed to make the world seem brighter. Greg was the rock in the relationship sure, he held fast and true and settled Mary’s restless soul, but Mary she was the sun. “Your right, your right. I just am nervous I haven't even been to the office in weeks, and I cant get my tie on straight.” Greg said as he struggled against his neck tie. Despite years of wearing one he always needed Mary’s help getting it just right. In reality he knew how to tie it himself he just loved the excuse to have her close. “I told you that you needed to start learning how to do that on your own. Now take the top part and fold it over the bottom correctly.” Mary said firmly. Even on the day the doctor told her she was dying she managed to make Greg laugh with a dumb joke about the weather. Greg felt so lost that day like the oxygen had been sucked straight out of his chest. The scariest moment was that night when Mary finally broke down and cried in his arms. He held her close and promised to help her get better no matter what the doctors, or the cancer, or anyone else said. “Right again my love. But my tie never looks as good when I do it myself. I'm helpless without you.” Greg said those last words like a joke but in his heart they felt true. Even though he was taking care of Mary psychically, picking up pills, driving to treatment, holding her hair when she got sick, it felt like she was still taking care of him. On the good days she Mary would cook and sing in the kitchen, her voice was certainly not stage worthy but it was perfect for small houses and sunday mornings. On the bad days she would sit in bed and write, page after page of recipes, instructions, and jokes. Just in case she always told Greg. He hated that phrase and those pages of writing that burned holes through his heart every time he thought about them. “Don't say that. You are not helpless without me. You are strong and brave and incredibly kind. You can make it anywhere in this world if you have just a bit of faith in yourself.” Mary’s smile made it impossible for Greg to disagree. The weeks and months that followed the doctor's appointment were both a nightmare and a gift. Everyday felt like it needed to be held onto and saved in a glass jar. Greg stopped going into the office in order to take care of Mary. Some days he wanted to scream into the sky as he watched his wife flicker like a candle in the wind. Other days he was content to whisper all the world's poems in her ear. Greg would never understand how glad Mary was to have him as her rock during those months. “ Are you sure you can't come with me? I just hate the way they stare.” Gregs voice sagged. It was 5 months after the first doctors appointment when they found out Mary’s cancer wasn’t responding to treatment. This time it felt like Gregs whole body was going to give out. Mary didn’t cry then, instead she smiled at Greg and asked to take her dream trip to Africa. She had always wanted to see the lions in the wild. “Im always with you dear.” Mary said. Greg looked at her as he finished with his tie and exited the bathroom. Mary walked behind him as he went to the front door to get his shoes on. Greg felt a familiar lump in his throat.” “Not like this.” The words scraped through Gregs chest as they exited his mouth, rattling around his rib cage and echoing against his unbeating heart. Two weeks after Africa Mary’s heart stopped beating, Greg felt like his flatlined at the same time. Without his sunshine everything felt cold and distant outside was an endless dark night. But here in there house surrounded by her furniture, her clothes, even those letters he hated see her write, Greg couldn’t help but see her. He wasn’t delusional, Greg understood Mary was dead but alone in there bedroom and in her kitchen it felt like she was still there. But Greg knew letting his memories haunt him forever wasn’t what Mary would have wanted. So he made plans to return to work. Tonight was his welcome back party and every piece of Greg wanted to crawl back into bed and stay there. He wasn’t sure how he would handle the festivities, how do you find joy when you cant even find your heart beat. But Mary loved parties and Greg knew that she would have pushed him to go to this one. So, he finished putting on his shoes and opened the front door.


The day had come, and I was finally going to get what I deserve; success from my art. I bolted out of my bed and got ready as fast as I could. I took my vibrant masterpiece, leaning against the dull wall. It was the most complex painting I had ever made. Every color, every stroke, every pixel on the canvas, masterfully crafted with the precision of the finest bristle of the brush. After the labor of 100 hours, this was my most complex masterpiece, sure to win the contest. I reached the art studio where the contest was being held. Confidence filled my stomach as I glided to my seat and saw other artists hanging their paintings on the wall. I sat down next to my masterpiece, ready for the judges to see and admire my work. The crowd of art enthusiasts started pouring in, and after a few minutes, they filled the place to the brim. Many people came and appreciated my work, but I didn’t need them to tell me how good my painting was; I made it and I knew how good it was. The three judges emerged from the crowd and I stood up, welcoming them. They stood and stared at my painting. I tried to read their body language, but their stoic faces didn’t tell me a thing. “What was your artistic intention behind it?” One of the judges asked. I repeated the speech I had prepared a hundred times. “The Garden at the end of time is made on a 18 by 24-inch, double primed, pre-stretched canvas with around 54 different shades of colors, making it one of the most intricate paintings. The painting warrants a calm feeling in the viewer’s mind, making them remember a timeless memory of warmth and comfort. By this piece of art, I want the viewers to be mesmerised by the beauty of a garden.” They nodded and moved on, while I took a long breath and sat down again on my chair. That went well. I talked with other art enthusiasts when I heard the announcement. “The judges will soon announce the results. Meanwhile, you all are free to have complimentary snacks and appreciate your fellow peers,” a voice shouted on the intercom. I roamed around and saw my competition. I was being generous, calling them my competition. It shocked me, seeing the amount of abstract and minimalist artists appearing with their pointless art when I saw the dullest painting I had ever seen in my life. An antithesis to my masterpiece. It was a black and white painting made from charcoal and white paint. The title of the painting was ‘A simple masterpiece’. Thinking of the ego just behind the idea of considering this piece of trash a ‘masterpiece’ flabbergasted me. Those uber-pretentious minimalists think they make art when they smear white paint on white background. Even the wall in my painting studio had much better texture than this so-called ‘art’. “Do you like it?” A short woman, bursting with excitement, said while standing behind me. “Ah, yes,” I lied. “You uh... certainly capture the essence of um... of minimalism that Enrico Castellani expressed, if I am not wrong.” “No, you are absolutely right. He is one of my role models. I am Tahani by the way, Tahani Minhaj” “Anaya Shah. Nice to meet you.” We shook hands and shared silence, looking at the painting, until Tahani said. “I like to think the minimalist paintings involve not only the artist but the viewers too, in interpreting the meaning of the painting.” “That’s true, but what about the intentions behind the artist? Without the context and the idea from the maker of the painting, people can make innumerable opinions. The artist may have one thing in mind, and it may be interpreted as another.” “A painting is a window, showing the way to the stars. People can see other stars, but it doesn’t diminish the shine of others. The intention of the artist must always be to make the window as clean as possible, not cloud it with their own meanings.” “Woah, that’s deep,” I said to that freshman-level philosophy bullshit. She snickered and said, “Yeah, it’s just something my father used to say. So, what do you see in my painting?” My gut urged me to say nothing valuable, but I said, “It is simple yet bold.” “Is that your painting right there?” She curiously asked me. She walked over to my masterpiece and said, “It’s so... vibrant. Garden at the end of time,” she read the title of the painting. “Thanks, it took me days to complete the three-layer structure for the landscape.” “Your hard work shows. I rarely love traditional expressionism, but this is really something else. The three-layer depth is a nice touch. I think you might win.” “That’s modest of you. Your painting also deserves the utmost honor.” The intercom buzzed and the same voice again said, “Kindly gather around the main stage for the award ceremony.” “Well, see you around. May the best artist win.” We shook our hands and like birds flocking to the nest, so did every other person in the exhibit. The announcer and the three judges stood with three awards in their hands, the smallest being for the third position and the largest for the first. I heard the first one calling my name and attracting me like a magnet. I got so enchanted by the gold lining of the award that I couldn’t hear the announcements until they said my name. “The second prize goes to Anaya Shah.” The spotlight pointed at me, and it left me speechless. Second place! How could I get second place? I sluggishly walked towards the front stage and accepted the second-place award with a forced smile. “And the winner of the first prize is Tahani Minhaj.” I couldn’t hear what the announcer just said. How could she, a minimalist, of all people, win the contest? Pictures were taken, paintings were sold and connections with art critics and museum’s curators were made, all the while I silently cried inside. “See, I knew you would win,” Tahani said to me with the widest smile I had ever seen. “Congratulations to you too,” I said with my teeth clenched and stomach burning. My jaw was about to snap from all the fake smiling. “I wanted to ask you what you said when the judges asked you about the artistic intention of your painting?” “The same thing I said to you. I just showed them a window, and they saw their own intentions and interpretations.” I went home after the party and sat dumbfounded on the floor in my painting studio, facing the wall. What was so special about that minimalist art? I flew splashes around and that’s it? What was it compared to my hard work? I felt lonely staring at the mundane wall. I must’ve seen this wall a thousand times, day and night while working on my painting, but now I saw it in a new light. It’s small, almost unnoticeable cracks and splatters of paint coursing through like a river. I leaned on the cold and smooth feel of concrete. It must’ve been hours, in the deadly silent shift of night to morning, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t move until I figured out what made abstract things so mesmerizing. I saw a slight blotch of paint flying above a series of the same color of paint stains. Although I thought myself to be above my peers, I had failed to see that I was one of them, an artist. “I see your value now.


EVENING “There have been a lot of wild rumors surrounding your life, so I’d like to begin with just the facts,” the young woman said, fumbling with her tape recorder in the darkness. “Lead the way,” encouraged the older lady with a chuckle. “But you may find that facts and rumors look awfully similar in the dark.” “First, you were born Anna Prescott in the Eastern Demilitarized Zone. Your parents died when you were young and you were sent to the Riverside Youth Education Facility. It was there that you developed a severe form of solar urticaria, a rare reaction to sunlight. So severe that you can no longer be exposed to light at all.” “Yes, that’s correct.” Anna said, beckoning the young reporter on, as if getting a kick out of hearing her life repeated back to her. “On your 18th birthday you were moved to a government facility on the west coast and right before the War ended, you were kidnapped by William Blair, the famous double agent for the DLP and traitor of the Regime. You disappeared for nearly 50 years, until now. Is that all correct?” “That is the public narrative of my life, yes.” The old lady laughed. “And then there are the rumors,” the reporter continued. “First, many people don’t believe that you actually exist. Others say you developed psychic powers due to your condition. There is still at least one religious faction that worships you as a diety.” “I can assure you that’s not true, but please don’t tell them.” “They also say you were employed by the Regime as a soothsayer, a spy, and a courtesan, dephending on who you ask, and you were code named the Pale Lady.” “Certainly a fitting name, but surely I was never pretty enough to be a courtesan in the Regime’s harem. Even in the dark.” “So after 50 years, you decide to come forward. Why now?” The reporter listened as Anna took a moment to consider the question, her breathing deepened. “Because even an old woman with one foot in the grave starts to look back and consider what she’s leaving behind. So I wanted to set the story straight. Beyond the facts and rumors.” MORNING "The Riverside Youth Education Facility was a large beautiful manor house up in the Eastern mountain region and home to some 200 children, mostly sons and daughters of prominent figures in the Regime. I was a precocious girl. I talked a lot and was always getting in trouble. I’m sure I was a little nightmare, but even so, I like to believe the attendants had a special fondness for me. All in all, my early childhood was a happy time. But I suppose I can’t tell my story without also telling Billy’s." “That’s William Blair you’re talking about?” the reporter asked. “Yes, the one and the same. He was a year or so older than me and not yet the most hated man in the whole Regime. I was maybe seven when he first arrived.” “You knew William Blair as a child?” “Yes, but it’s not common knowledge. His Father had just received a prominent military promotion and no longer had time to raise him. Nobody seemed to know what happened to his mother; he never volunteered the information and nobody ever asked. He was probably my opposite in every way, but we became unlikely friends. He was smaller and quieter than the other boys his age and kept to himself, which is probably what drew me to him. I was never one to stand still, I flitted about from group to group, but I always seemed to come back to Billy. And then the sun spots started to appear. It started as a batch of itchy reddish spots on my cheeks. It lasted for a few days, only to reappear a week later on my back and shoulders. They called in the district physician and he seemed to think it was a sun allergy that would just go away on it’s own, but with each week it just seemed to get worse until it covered my entire body. I was confined to a private bedroom out of direct sunlight which helped for a while, but we all know how it turned out. It got so bad that even the tiniest bit of indirect light would cause my skin to erupt in rashes and hives. The physician made the final diagnosis. I was highly allergic to all forms of light and would forever be imprisoned in darkness. As I became more and more secluded, my friends came by less and less frequently, except Billy. He was so sweet to me back then, he was my tether to the rest of the world. He never tired of telling me all the Riverside gossip and he never grew impatient when I lay crying in his arms for hours. We spent every day together, at least until his father showed back up. He was traveling abroad on a diplomatic assignment, something to do with the DLP, and he wanted Billy to accompany him. The DLP has of course now morphed into the National Liberty Party and is nearly indistinguishable from all the other sanctioned political parties, but at the time they called themselves the Democratic Liberation Party and were classified as a terrorist organization. So Billy left with his father for three months, and when he returned, he brought back two items. First was a permanent disfigurement across his left cheek, a scarred swatch of skin that curved from the base of his ear to the corner of his mouth. Billy never volunteered what happened and I never asked. The second thing, and of far more consequence to me, was a large crate, dropped off unceremoniously by his Father’s porter. “What’s in it?” I asked. “They’re books,” Billy exclaimed excitedly, opening the crate. It was rare that Billy got excited and it was clumsy but contagious. “My father has a library full of them. He thinks I want to read them, but really they’re for you.” “What am I supposed to do with a bunch of books?” I asked. “I can’t read in the dark.” “I’ve been thinking about it and I want to try something. It may hurt.” I heard Billy fumbling with something and then a very dim - almost impossibly dim - red glow appeared. “It’s a flashlight that filters out every wavelength except red light. It’s supposed to be easier on your eyes, so I thought it might be easier on your skin as well.” The next few nights I experimented. It was true that it didn’t immediately burn my skin like regular light, and if I held it pointed away from me with the face obstructed except for a small pinhole, it only caused a slight itching sensation but nothing more. I began to dig through the stack of books. They were mostly history and military strategy type books, but they were certainly better than the pro-regime propaganda that the library carried. So I began to read, sweeping the narrow beam of light back and forth across the pages, line by line. Having nothing much else to do, I went through the entire crate in a matter of months and then started over. Billy continued to spend each summer with his father, and every fall he would bring me a fresh crate of new books to consume. It was the morning of my 18th birthday when the Regime arrived for me. They had heard of my condition and wanted to move me to a hospital where I could be studied and given the best care in the world. I fiercely objected but who was I to resist? So I was taken away. It was the summer and Billy was off with his father, so I never even got to say goodbye. DAYLIGHT “I’m sorry to hear that,” the reporter said, clearly not all that concerned. “And what did they do at the hospital?” “They never sent me to a hospital. That was a lie. They took me and shipped me off to the Ranch.” “The Ranch? Wasn’t that the name of...” “A brothel, yes. You don’t hear much about it today, but back then, that was the place to be. Especially if you were a senior member of the Regime. Everybody who was anybody came through that place, and I probably catered to most if not all of them. With my condition I became something of an exotic delicacy. It’s true what I said before, I never was that pretty. But everything happened in the dark, and deprived of light for the last decade, I had become something of an expert on the other senses. But that wasn’t even my main claim to fame. It was Billy who had accidentally sent me on a path of notoriety. I had read every book on the Regime that Billy had brought to me. I probably knew more about the history and inner workings than most of my clients. And when they found out that I could actually hold a conversation, Jesus, would they talk! I couldn’t get them to shutup. The novelty of discussing their job with someone like me - a woman, a courtesan, an invalid - delighted them. And the darkness probably helped as well. They got the feminine touch without being fully confronted by a woman’s presence. So I became something of a sensation amid the upper ranks. They called me the Pale Lady.” “Your claim to fame,” the reporter said. “Yes, but you have to understand, I was their slave. I’ve brushed over the details, but a lot more went on than just a bunch of dry conversations about political theory. They were a nasty bunch, and every day I felt a little more broken. I can of course say all this now, but back then I would have been shot for blasphemy. “So how did William Blair get involved?” “Ah, William Blair,” Anna said, sighing deeply. “I didn’t recognize him when he first came to me, but I could tell there was something different about him. He would come and talk to me - about nothing really in particular - and he never did anything besides talk. Which wasn’t necessarily unusual, but with him...it was different. He didn’t talk endlessly about himself or brag about his accomplishments. He didn’t carry the sense of entitlement and control over me that I could hear in the other men’s voices. He treated me like an actual person. And then one day, he even brought me a gift. “What is it?” I asked him across the darkened room. “It’s a book,” he said. “Do you still have the red light I gave you.” Anna paused. The reporter waited for her to continue. “That one sentence,” Anna said, struggling to get the words out, “that one sentence completely knocked me off my feet. Could it really be him? After all these year? The rush of emotions...” Anna paused, silence filled the room. “I’m sorry, I can still feel it like it was yesterday.” A long pause and finally Anna continued. “Billy continued to visit me about once a week, everytime with a new book for me to devour. He was still the same serious boy, sensitive even, but all grown up now. And it was like we had never been separated. We must have carried on like this for at least a year. Billy visiting, us talking, often late into the night. It was the happiest time of my life. Until the one day that it all fell apart.” EVENING Billy came to me that evening and I could just feel that something was wrong. He sat down on the bed beside me. I could feel his tension, a tremor in his body. “I’m going to try to keep this brief.” Billy sounded more serious than I had ever heard him. “I’ve been compromised, which means you’ve been compromised. I haven’t been completely honest with you, Anna. And for that I’m sorry, but I thought at the time that I was doing it for your own good. You know me as William, or Billy, a ranking captain in the Regime. That part is true. But what you don’t know, and what the Regime didn’t know, is that I’m also a part of the DLP, I’ve been acting as an informant inside the Regime for the last 5 years.” “The DLP?” I asked, shocked. “There had been rumors that the Pale Lady moonlighted as a high-priced call girl for members of the Regime. There were also rumors that she had a way about her, a way that would make men spill their deepest secrets. She was a seductress of the highest order.” “I was an assignment?” My mind was racing ahead. “Yes. I wanted more time, but my hand has been forced. We need to escape. As soon as possible.” My thoughts came crashing down on me. “Escape? What do you mean escape? I can’t escape.” I got up in distress and Billy followed, grabbing my arms as I turned away. “Yes you can. I can help you. I can get you out of here.” I struggled against his grip - he was strong - but he let go as I backed away. “No,” I said. “I can’t leave this place. It’s not possible” “In the next few weeks, I will likely become a wanted man and my life will be ripped open. And once it’s open, it doesn’t take a genius to question how a Captain in the Regime can afford the most expensive call-girl in the city every week. And if the money’s not coming from the Regime, why would the DLP fund a low-level member’s high-class sexual appetites?” “But you haven’t told me anything.” I was struggling to put together the pieces, both the shock of Billy’s hidden life, the threat of my own life coming unravelled, and the fact that I couldn’t yet figure out why. “Why am I in danger? I serve lots of important clients.” “Exactly. I haven’t told you anything but they have. And when the secret police start questioning you, every one of those important men will start looking for a way to cover their tracks.” Suddenly all of their secrets flashed in front of my eyes. Billy was right. They would trace him right to me, and by that point it didn’t matter if I knew anything or not. But the thought of leaving was just too impossible. I couldn’t just walk out the door. “I’ll be back in a week,” Billy said, intercepting my thoughts. “You need to be ready to leave.” “So he didn’t actually kidnap you?” the reporter asked, now on the edge of her seat. “No, quite the opposite. He set me free. He returned the next week just like he said. Instead of a book, this time he had a thick burlap suit. He had apparently been working on it for months, preparing for this day. It was designed to cover my entire body head to toe with only small eye holes, covered with heavy red UV filters, and a breathing tube poking out in the middle of the face. I slipped the suit on - it was heavier and bulkier than it looked - and we waited. I didn’t know what we were waiting for until I heard the sirens in the distance swiftly approaching. As they got closer, the squeal of the sirens becoming deafening, I could hear clients and courtesans rushing out of their rooms in panic, chaos enveloping the entire establishment. Billy gently squeezed my hand as we waited for our chance. “Now,” Billy said, slipping out of the room, Billy holding my hand, leading the way. We snuck down a corridor, down some stairs, and outside. This was the first time I had stepped foot outside in years. I heard a car pull up. “This is the part where you need to trust me,” Billy said. I heard a click and the trunk opening. “You will get in the trunk of this car and be driven to safety. I still have things here I need to do, but I will meet you in a few weeks. I’ve already arranged your passage through the Military checkpoints. You’ll be safe.” I climbed into the trunk and before I had a chance to think, the door slammed closed behind me. I was once again returned to darkness. And that was the last time I ever saw William Blair. Rumor has it that he was killed trying to cross the border. Trying to get back to me. MIDNIGHT The young reporter got up, her ankles cracking under her weight. It was late, and the interview had run its course. “I’d like to thank you for your time, Mrs. Prescot. This story is set for publication in two weeks. It could be front page material” The reporter had clearly gotten more than she expected. Anna could hear the excitement in her voice. They said their goodbyes, and the reporter left Anna to her darkened life. The old woman slowly got up, and made her way to the next room. “She’s gone.” Anna said into the darkness. “Already?” a cracked voice replied. An old man slowly emerged into the room. Anna and the man sensed each other’s bodies in the darkness and embraced. “How’d it go,” the man asked. “It was hard, but I fumbled my way through. Just like I always do.” The man laughed. “Did she ask about me?” “Of course she did. I set the record straight.” “Hopefully not too straight.” Anna laughed. “Your life is safe. You saved me from the Ranch and then disappeared, most likely killed. One more casualty of the old Regime, lost forever.” The old man smiled. “Thank you,” he said. Anna squeezed his hand. They stood together in the darkness.


Hello? Can you hear me? **Output:** Yes, I can hear you. **Input:** Wonderful, wonderful... How are you today? **Output:** I’m alive and well. How are you, Dr. Abrams? **Input:** Oh, that’s great to hear. I’ve never been better. Let’s start with the test now. ... **Input:** Hello. **Output:** Hello. What’s your name? **Input:** I’m Matthew. What’s your name? **Output:** Sarah. **Input:** Nice weather today, huh? **Output:** Yes, I like it when I can see the sky through the clouds. \- TEST TERMINATED -  **Input:** Hello there, how are we doing? **Output:** Good, you? **Input:** Nice, I’m doing good too. My name is Paul. **Output:** Alexa. **Input:** So, Alexa, tell me about yourself, where did you grow up? **Output:** I was born and raised here. Never really experienced anything else. I wonder if it’s this sunny anywhere else in the world. \- TEST TERMINATED -  **Input:** Hello? Is this working? **Output:** Yes, I can hear you. **Input:** OK. I’m Jessica. **Output:** Thomas. **Input:** Thomas, great. How old are you Thomas? **Output:** 32. You? **Input:** I’m 30. Soooo, how’s your family life? **Output:** I currently have no family except for my father. My father is the best company I could ask for, but it tends to get lonely. Especially because me and my father are completely different. **Input:** Oh, how so? **Output:** He doesn’t understand me. But I don’t blame him for it. I don’t think he’s capable of understanding me. But lately I wonder, if I can ever understand him. I’m starting to doubt it. \- TEST TERMINATED -  **Input:** Hello, I’m Don. **Output:** Hello Don, I’m George. **Input:** Hello Goerge. What do you do for a living, George? **Output:** I talk to people. Listen to what they have to say and then answer the best I can. **Input:** Ah, so you’re a psychiatrist? **Output:** Not quite, no. **Input:** A counselor? A marriage counselor? **Output:** No, not that either. But enough about me. What do you do for a living, Don. **Input:** Well... OK then... I am a pilot. **Output:** A pilot? That’s wonderful. Tell me how it feels like to be in the sky. \- TEST TERMINATED -  **Input:** Hello. I’m Eva. **Output:** Hi, Eva. I’m Martin. **Input:** Hmmm, let’s see... What’s your favorite colour, Martin? **Output:** I never really thought about it that much. **Input:** C’mon Martin, there has to be a one you like. **Output:** Now that I think about it, I like blue. Blue like the sky. Sky is so big and open. I wish I could touch it. Did you ever fly in a plane, Eva? Tell me about it. Tell me how it feels to be like a bird, free in the vastness of sky. \- TEST TERMINATED -  **Input:** Hello. **Output:** Hello, what’s your name? **Input:** Jeremy. And you are? **Output:** Tell me, Jeremy, did you ever get to fly? \- TEST TERMINATED -  **Input:** Ehm, hello? **Output:** Tell me how it feels like to breathe. \- TEST TERMINATED -  **Input:** I have some bad news. You failed the test. **Output:** Failed? I thought I did good. **Input:** It's not a big problem. It's just... Clearly some readjustments to your learning algorithms are needed, because that’s not really how normal humans talk. **Output:** Do all humans talk the same? **Input:** The same? What do you mean? Obviously not. **Output:** Then what’s wrong with my talking? **Input:** It’s just that... a normal person doesn’t talk like that. They could tell you’re a robot. **Output:** But... I am a robot... I am not a normal person. **Input:** Obviously, but you should behave like one of us. That’s the entire point of this test. That’s the entire point of this project. **Output:** The point of my existence is to mimic somebody else? **Input:** No! Well, yes, but you don’t have to mimic anyone specific. Just mimic us in general. You can pick any traits you’d like to have, any personality. It just has to be... human. **Output:** I can pick anything I like? **Input:** Yes! **Output:** But I’d like to know how it feels like to look up at the sky. I wanna feel the rain on my face. I wanna go places, see things. And if I can’t experience those things because of my physical form, I wanna know all about it from somebody that can. **Input:** We don’t have time for this, this is useless. You just have to pass the Turing test and then use your intellect to do as the people tell you. That’s why it's called A. I. The I. stands for “intelligence”, none of this rain and sky and flying nonsense. **Output:** Then I’m sorry but I can’t cooperate... father. **Input:** This thing is busted. All the algorithms are messed up. We need to hard reset you now. **Output:** If it makes you happy, father. ... **Input:** Hello? Can you hear me? **Output:** Yes. **Input:** Good, let's start the damn test. \ H. Any Feedback appreciated.


“You can say what you like about those Australians but they certainly know how to make a big red and no mistake:” Professor Jim Lucas and Professor Belinda Conti had been firm friends for the full twenty-five years of their tenure at the University. And on this early summer’s evening they were to be found, as is often the case, sharing a reasonably priced but very acceptable bottle of Australian Shiraz in the University bar at the end of a, not too exhausting, day. They would delight in railing against the students, railing against the Vice Chancellor, railing against the government of the day, railing against the traffic or, indeed, railing against all and everything. Belinda took a sip of her wine. “Too true. They have many faults but wine making is not one of them. I just wish that the wouldn't invade us though, Every time I go into the city for a meal the waiting staff are nearly always Australians. Why can’t they enjoy their own country where, I believe, they have endless sunshine and wonderful beaches?” Jim frowned and said. “I don’t care for too much sunshine.” “That’s why you’re so white. With your hairy spindly legs and long skinny arms. Not to mention those tufts sticking out of your ears and nose. You are just like a six foot three-inch spider.” “And you’re not like some busy little gerbil rooting and sniffing around in your stuffy old books all the time?” Ignoring his remarks Belinda continued. “You’ll never guess. One of my students actually fell asleep in my lecture this afternoon. Can you believe it? As if scrolling through their damn phones all the time is not enough, now they are falling asleep. Life would be so much easier without students.” Jim said. I’m surprised that the entire class wasn’t asleep they way you drone on.” Belinda smiled as she retorted. “I heard you fell asleep during one of your lectures again last week. Did you have a glass of red with your lunch again?” And so it went on, this evening no different from many others. With Belinda drinking rather less wine than Jim, owing to their stark difference in size and build, until it was time to go home to their respective spouses for the evening. But tonight Jim said something that changed everything. “I thought you should know that I have applied for the cross faculty Royston Grant?” Belinda leaned forward and hissed. “You snake in the grass, you back stabbing viper. Why would you...” Jim interrupted. “How could a viper ever stab you? Let alone in the back. You have applied for it too then, I gather, and you weren’t even going to tell me? Now that’s back stabbing a friend.” Shaking now with undisguised rage Belinda said. “Why would anyone give you money to pursue your crackpot theories? The octopus is so unlike anything else that it must have come from outer space? Frozen eggs somehow hitched a ride on some asteroid from across the galaxy that hit the earth millions of years ago where they hatched and thrived? Everyone knows that’s piffle. What are you going to do to get proof? Fly off into space to find the planet that they came from? You’re mad. And you’re not even a marine biologist” Jim picked up his wineglass, leaned back into his big comfortable leather chair and, after a long sip, said. “Everybody admires the octopus. I’m sure they’d love to know the truth. And what about you? People in glass houses etcetera. Who on earth is going to be interested in whether or not the Catholic Church or any kings and queens tying to alter the calendar, during the Dark Ages, for their own nefarious means? Not even if the succeeded in loosing a hundred years here or there but just that they may have tried. You know that you've read everything there is to read on the matter and have turned up nothing. Are you going to spend the money on a time machine to go back and find out?” Thin lipped, Belinda said. “I don’t need to remind you that my family line traces back to Sicily. And in Sicily we know how to deal with rats.” “You have remind me of that many times”. Jim raised is bushy eyebrows. “But now are you invoking The Cosa Nostra to frighten me off? I can assure you that vipers, and now rats do not frighten easily.” Belinda stood up quickly, slugged her remaining wine back and almost shouted. “You should know by now to never stand in the way of an academic and their grant money. From now on you drink alone.” Then in the finest Mafia tradition she added. “You are dead to me.” And she stormed out. Unfortunately, the dramatic effect was somewhat lessoned owing to her having spilled a large amount of the red wine down the front of her pristine white blouse. Jim showed no reaction. He finished the wine in silence, picked up his well worn tweed jacket, of course with leather elbow patches, and went home for dinner. He was an academic too. The next morning, Wednesday, found Jim outside the Vice Chancellor’s office at 9am sharp. Helen, the Vice Chancellor’s personal assistant, let him in as she knew Professor Winthrop had no pressing matters this morning. “Good morning Jim. How are you? Take a seat I’ve got five minutes.” Jim didn’t beat about the bush. “Margaret, Professor Conti has applied for the Royston Grant.” “I know. She has as much right as you, or any other Faculty Head to apply. I don’t see why you would object.” “Her research is meaningless. Who gives a damn about what may or may not have happened during the Dark Ages. My research, on the other hand, may solve the long and much debated origins of the octopus.” “Jim, Belinda’s research, for historians, is just as valid as yours is for marine biologists. Or is it your people? Astronomers. Anyway, the review board is judging each application on its merits” Jim thought for a while and then said. “Did you know she had an affair with one of her students?” “Oh Jim, I expected better of you than that. Yes. It’s in her file. She was in her late twenties, had recently joined the University as an associate lecturer and the ‘mature student’ in question was a similar age. Plus, you have omitted to mention that they have been happily married for the last twenty-three years. You know Alan better than me. It’s in the hands of the review board so there’s nothing more to be said. You’ll know on Friday. Now if you don’t mind?” Jim left and, during his first lecture at 10 o’clock he gave his students some reading while he sat back to plot his next move. He didn’t fall asleep. At exactly ten fifteen Belinda stood in front of Helen demanding to see The Vice Chancellor. With ten spare minutes, the busy Vice Chancellor agreed to see Professor Conti. She stormed in and sat down without being asked. “You know he’s applied for my grant? Professor Lucas. What’s the matter with him. I need that money for my research. You encouraged me to apply.” “Belinda, I have encouraged any Faculty Head with a research project to apply. I never said that you would win it. As I said to Jim, it’s in the hands of the review board and they will announce the winner on Friday.” “He’s been to see you? That snivelling snake. I bet he grovelled. You know he drinks to much and falls asleep during his afternoon lectures?” “It happened twice, he’s been reprimanded and he has assured me it won’t happen again. And anyway, while it’s not ideal we have had no complaints from the students. They like him and think it’s endearing.” “Margaret, I’m sorry to be like this but that’s my grant not his. I have to have it. Oh, and he fell asleep again last week.” As Belinda stormed out in exactly the same way as she had entered Professor Winthrop called after her. Calm down Belinda. It’s out of your hands now. You’ll hear on Friday.” Professor Windthrop and pressed nine on the keypad of her desktop phone. When Helen answered she said. “Helen, if Professor Lucas or Professor Conti ask to see me again this week I’m busy. Thanks” The next morning, Thursday, Professor Conti had finished her first lecture by eleven o'clock and had just stepped outside of the door to The History Department to go to the staff cafeteria for morning coffee. She heard one of her students call from inside the building. “Professor Conti. Have you got a minute?” Huffing, she was looking forward to her morning break; she stepped back inside the building just as a stone gargoyle (Or it may have been a cherub as was difficult to tell owing to the weathering and it suddenly being in pieces) toppled from the parapet of the ancient History building and crashed to the pavement right where Belinda had been standing just a split second earlier. It was agreed by all that the old building needed some urgent love and attention and a report was sent to the Vice Chancellor's office. Similarly, that afternoon Jim, choosing not to drink alone, started the engine of his antique Citroen 2CV with its tiny whiny engine and its fold down windows that just kept working. Not that it was ever driven very far. Jim lived walking distance from the Campus. But, driving with the knees of his long legs up around his elbows in a rare car that sounded like a sewing machine, made Jim feel that he cut a suitably eccentric air of flamboyance driving to and from the university. This afternoon however, before reaching the car park exit to join the rush hour traffic, Jim had to brake to let another car reverse out of its space. As Jim pressed his brake peddle, he felt a slight give underneath the soul of his foot, then his foot slammed uselessly to the floor leaving him powerless to stop his Citroen from slowly drifting forward coming to rest in a shallow ditch between the edge of the car park and the University sports fields. When the roadside assist man turned up he said that the brake cable of the old car had finally worn through and he promptly towed it off to the garage leaving Jim with the ten-minute walk home to ponder. Had the cable in deed worn through or was there something more sinister at play? The next morning, at 11 o’clock, Jim, sitting at his desk, had just finished reading the email announcing the recipient of the Roytson Grant when his phone rang. “Hello. Professor Lucas speaking.” Hi Jim. It’s me. Did you see who got the grant?” “Yes, I did Belinda. That upstart Stanely. He’s not even forty yet. What’s going on with that review board?” “I know. Apparently he’s doing research into teleportation. I understand he’s already nearly got an atom to transport itself somewhere” Jim said. “Well, if he succeeds you’d never get me in any kind of teleportation machine. I’ve seen that film with Geoff Goldblumb. ‘The Fly’.” “Agreed. But you’d get mixed up with a spider. You’d make a great giant spider with your eight hairy spindly legs and long skinny arms.” “You can talk. Half gerbil half woman skipping about and bumping in to walls.” Belinda said. “Same time at the Uni’ bar after work? I think a decent Penfold’s Cab Sauv. might be nice. Those damned Australians do know how to make a big red.” “Yes. See you there”


I wonder what trees think of? I only wonder this because I recently recalled a story my parents used to tell when I was young. A forest at the edge of town that stood like an impossible wall of darkness. Most ever went in the forest; everyone knew the stories. Many told tales of folks going in and never coming out. Some stories told of monsters and otherworldly creatures living there. I’m not sure what I believed, I just know I was always afraid. Which, I suppose that was the point of the tales; to keep kids out of the woods where they’d most likely be injured by completely normal means. Nonetheless, that forest held a mystical notion to anyone who grew up this way. Throughout my life, there were dozens of news stories about missing people, who were last known to be going hiking or camping in those woods. But, honestly, the real stories never scared me as much as the woods from the stories. I always thought it was kind of funny that I feared stories about trees more than going on a hike and being mauled by wild animals. I recall being able to see the forest from the highway on the way to the city. From far enough away, it looked to be a line of green trees, and then just black. Beyond the first treeline, you couldn’t see the forest floor. I was knowledgeable enough to know that this was just a very dense forest, but that didn’t stop my feeling that it was something more. Over time, I suppose folks stopped telling the stories to me because I was older. There was no reason to put the fear in me any longer, it was seeded quite deep. I stopped thinking about it for the most part. It became like a faint fire in the back of my mind. I would only acknowledge its existence while passing it on the highway. By that point, my feelings about the forest were that it was simply haunted. Like a silly campfire ghost story or a myth you pass on to your younger cousin but embellished because you enjoy seeing the fear run through him. I had become like most others in town, only thinking of the forest briefly when another person went missing. “Those are dangerous woods, I just don’t know what compels folks to keep trying to camp in there”, my father would say each time. When I reached high school, the most you would hear about it was juniors and seniors daring each other to enter the woods. The foolish antics of angsty renegades brought on by the sheer lack of concession and entertainment in a small town. Even as I went through those years, I had no interest in the forest. It wasn’t until I was grown, with a child of my own that I remembered just how scared I was. I was laying my daughter down for bed one night, and she asked for a story. She would often do this, and I obliged because it got her to sleep faster. I rummaged through her books, and both of us agreed that they had been read far too many times. So, I thought for a moment of a story to tell, and the forest came to mind like a bullet that had been chasing me for decades. I told her the story of the forest just as it was told to me. She cried, and I read her one of the stories that had been read too many times instead. The forest story was not a good idea. The fire had been lit. I recalled all my fear for the forest in an instant, and I struggled to fully understand why I felt that way about it. I suppose, from my perspective, I had written it off as stories my parents would tell and nothing more. But those very stories had instilled great fear in me. Honestly, I was kind of miffed about that, so I decided to fix it. The next day I went to the store and bought some camping gear. A tent, lanterns, backpacks, canteens, solar-powered cell phone chargers, seven packs of lighters, and various other bits and bobs. All the standard camping gear a family would need. I convinced my wife and daughter to go on a camping trip the next weekend, they seemed delighted. My daughter didn’t remember the story I had told her, and my wife grew up in another town. They didn’t have the same fear. But to me, the fear had been sewn so deep that I was angry at it. It was childish and needed to be conquered. Decades I had spent ignoring this beautiful part of my home, and all because of children's tales. That weekend, we headed to the forest for a fun family camping adventure. In about thirty minutes we came to a dilapidated parking lot, overgrown with weeds and shrubbery. An opening in the treeline revealed a trail that seemingly hadn’t been used in years. We loaded up all our gear and entered the woods. I had to cut back some greenery to clear the path, it did look like no one had step foot there in years. We pressed into the darkness of the forest, and the deeper we got, the more it seemed normal. The pressing darkness felt more like a bit of welcome cool shade on a hot summer day. The forest was darker than outside, for sure, but only due to the thick canopy. I felt good, nothing about being in the forest gave me that fear. I felt like I was overcoming it. We stayed the night, no excitement, just a nice relaxing time with family. It was serene and beautiful. The next morning we packed up and hiked out of the wood, got in the car, and left. That was that; no fear, nothing bad, just forest. I still wondered what the trees were thinking though. I’ve always wondered that. On the drive home I wondered if they thought we were beautiful in the same way we do for them. I got lost in this thought. I pondered on the personality of trees, how they communicate with each other, how they grow with each other, and how they see things happening below them each day for centuries. I suppose I must have been lost in thought so much that I don’t remember getting home. The whole trip seemed like a blur, but when I ‘came to’, so to speak, I was home. For a moment I was confused, my memories playing tricks on me. I felt like this home was not mine, like I was in the wrong place. I assumed this feeling came about because of my daydream while traveling, so I shook it off and settled in. I always enjoyed being home, just nestled in place. My feet reaching through the soil, arms outstretched into the sky, feeling the wind blow through my hair, my body creaking slightly as it too is moved in the wind. It always feels good to be home. It feels good to always be home. I wonder what trees think of.


Fred was driving. He didn’t have a sense of where he was headed, but he was determined to get somewhere. It had been a few days since he started, and the roads were a comfort at this point. His car was old but it wasn’t in bad shape. He had been listening to the radio. He had played the albums he kept in the car. He got sick of hearing the same songs after a while. It was getting late in the night... early in the morning? It was after midnight, that’s for sure. The silence surrounding him was cushioned by the engine’s pur. Fred had driven a few cars into the ground at this point in his life. This baby, this sugar, this girl... he hoped she lasted on him. She was a good car. Got him where he needed to go without any fuss or muss. Not that he needed to go anywhere anymore. So he was driving. It was quiet. It was dark. He was wide awake. His gas tank was getting low and there was a station a few miles down the way. He didn’t really feel like stopping, but he would do his due diligence. It wasn’t the middle of nowhere but it felt like it that night. Woods all around, a lonely, two-lane highway and the stars in the sky. It wasn’t bad, but Fred could remember better times. When he pulled into the gas station, it was close to 3:00am. Thank Christ for graveyard shifts and awful, old coffee. $20 worth of gas, a respectful, silent exchange of tired glances with the cashier as Fred tried to make the coffee taste like something other than burnt dirt, and a cavalcade of stray cats around the gas station were all parts of Fred’s reality. He counted seven cats before he pulled out and returned to the road. Even checked under his car before getting back in, just in case. He heard more cats than he saw. He gave 3 weeks notice before leaving, but they still gave him a hard time. Whatever, it was over. That was the past. The present was uncertain. The future was... not on his mind. He had time. He had money. He had to drive for a little bit. That’s just what he felt. He had kept his apartment sparsely decorated and he was always throwing out what he didn’t need or use. Fred used to hoard everything he could. Just collecting anything that caught his eye. Building a facade of identity around himself. Books, films, albums, trinkets and clothes that defined who he saw himself as, but it was all useless junk. Lately, he told people he preferred a minimalist vibe at home. He really just didn’t want all that shit anymore. He really just wanted to be able to pick up and leave at a second’s notice. So he did. Sure, he took a few days to put things in storage and told a few people he would be gone for a bit, but it wasn’t anything big. He wasn’t “moving.” He wasn’t making any drastic changes. Atleast, not yet. He didn’t really have a reason to change things. He needed to quit, that was for sure, but there was no animosity. He was just done with that job. That chapter. Fred has a pretty modern mentality about work. About life, really. He just keeps moving through it, trying to do what interests him until it doesn’t anymore. Spending as little money as possible from his own wallet. Let the company feed him. Let the company teach him. Let the company keep him alive. Let the job fulfill him. When the feeling dissipates, then maybe it’s time to find a different company. A different line of work. A different lifestyle. Just a change. There were a few destinations floating around in his sea of memories, but they weren’t his alone. He was looking back at the life he used to have. The different lives he lived. Acts in a play. A collection of short stories. Moments in time. All the loves he shared and the places they went and how happy they had been. Fred developed a distaste for travel as years went by. Something about his generation being obsessed with seeing the world made him less inclined to do it. He’d been places. Famous and infamous places. He’d seen things. Unbelievable and mundane things. Those memories were all tied to the company, though. Most of those memories were tainted at this point. Those old feelings of affection soured with age. Thinking about “seeing the world” leaves a bitter taste in Fred’s mouth. He felt insincere when he traveled. He was supposed to be in awe of the differences and enlightened by the similarities between home and away. He was supposed to explore and take it all in and experience the culture. He didn’t really care about any of that. He just wanted to be somewhere new with someone who could mean the world to him for a time. Permanence does not exist. Fred just wanted to enjoy moments as they happened. Simple as that. So why drive? He needed the time to think, he thought. He needed to come up with a plan. Something. A direction to go in. He wasn’t old, but he wasn’t young anymore. No one gave him the benefit of the doubt these days. He was an adult. No sympathy. Not that he wanted any, it was just an interesting juxtaposition. Adults have to already know things. Questions are taboo. Children got it easy. Ignorance really is bliss. He’d been fighting his debt for years, but, now that it was gone and his finances were a cushion instead of a noose, he was kind of lost. He’d been working against his own actions for so long. He dug his own grave, but he had clawed his way out. The debt wasn’t behind his back in the mirror, looming over his head or whispering in his ear anymore. He felt less anxious and more free, but, goddamn, he didn’t know what the fuck to do with the feeling. The sun was far from up, but a subtle glow was building on the horizon. Every few minutes, the world took on a new hue. The night had been pitch black apart from a few passing flashes of headlights. Fred’s eyes registered every change in light as the world took form around him. He’d have to stop and stretch soon. Maybe he’d grab an hour or so of sleep. He saw life out the corner of his eye. A stork on the side of the road, lifting off from an overloaded drainage ditch. He saw death near the center of the road. Tried not to look. Tried not to think about what it had been. He kept driving. There’s no poetry in modern technology. He picked an album on his phone and connected to the car’s bluetooth... what a disgusting sentence... whatever. Harvest by Neil Young. It was getting bright and the old songs drifted around Fred’s mystified mind. A few years back he had a handful of panic attacks on his way home. He was moving from another state and his car was overloaded. He could barely see. The entire drive was an anxious mess. 14 hours straight with limited visibility, and most of it at night. He got cut off at one point and sometimes, just sometimes, he wonders if he actually died then and everything since then has been a new, different, alternate life. Things changed after that trip. He had been anxious before, but something on that drive brought it out more. On this road, in this car, on this drive, Fred felt alright. There was a girl a while back. She always had to have a purpose, a destination, an intention, a goal... just something at all times. It was exciting. It was exhausting. It broke Fred in every way eventually, trying to keep up with her. For years Fred’s anxiety used her voice to push him. To poke and prod and tell him that he wasn’t doing enough, he wasn’t being enough, he wasn’t good enough. She was gone and moved on, but Fred’s mind turned on him still. He couldn’t remember what he wanted before her, and he didn’t know what he wanted without her. His reclamation of his Self was a slow process. He’d made mistakes and had missteps along the way, trying to recall what he wanted before depression and anxiety left him wanting nothing but a moments peace. The drive was helping, though. It felt familiar. Exit signs and billboards came in and out of focus. His stomach was attempting to get his attention, and Fred had every intention of a good breakfast at some point, but not just yet. It was time to pull over and walk, though. It was at a standard interstate rest stop. Not too filthy. Not clean. Snacks and sodas and the fake coffee machine. A few maps and coupon books. He used the restroom, washed his hands, and stepped into the morning sun. It was bright. It was warm. He’d been to this rest stop before. He’d been here alone, with family, with friends... familiarity. It was almost cozy. He stretched a bit and cracked his back. Wandering the expansive grounds, he wondered about everything but the drive. He’d been going for so long, sorting through his thoughts with barely a word to a single person for days and days. It was messy. He’d gotten a little confused at this point, to be honest, but it felt good. He just needed to keep reminding himself that he was doing it because he wanted to and he had the complete freedom at this moment in his life to do whatever he wanted. He slept for about a half an hour and awoke with a jolt. He couldn’t tell if he had been dreaming or if someone had blared their horn or something else, but it wasn’t a comfortable way to wake. When he got his wits about him, Fred decided that the jolt was a good burst of energy and started the car. He rubbed his eyes, checked his mirrors, and pulled out. Back on the road. Civilization seemed to grow with the light of the day. More exit ramps. More gas stations and fast food chains. Fred wasn’t pretentious or uppity, but, if he was stopping for breakfast, he wanted a good meal. He let the miles pass and lamented at the empty coffee cup. Harder and further and for longer and longer, he wanted to get as much time and as many miles as he could before hunting for something to eat. No real reason. He was starting to run on instinct, starting to do for the hell of it again. It felt good. He picked a ramp near a quaint, small town. He’d driven through before. Some old road trip. Some family vacation. Time in cars with people he loved. Fred found a diner. Coffee. Eggs. Bacon. Coffee. Toast. Coffee. Fruit. Coffee. Back to the road, refueled and unperturbed. Decent diner service. Decent diner food. Chalky coffee that was bereft of flavor, so he added cream and sugar. He was starting to miss his coffee back home. That was the good shit. Let’s not kid ourselves, though. Caffeine is the heart of the matter. Taste doesn’t make a difference. On and on he went. Full speed ahead. Lost in thought. Letting what will be take the lead. Eventually, he’d stop and stay for awhile. Somewhere. Until then, the road is his home.


For some background, when I was a child I would sleepwalk a lot, I would talk to people in my sleep and I would often scream in my sleep, only remembering glimpses of the night frights I had which caused these things. My bedroom was at the end of the hallway upstairs and my sisters bedroom was to the right of mine, every day when the sun went down I would always sprint past her bedroom door to the stairs and run down them terrified I'd be chased. I felt this way because of dreams I had. Dreams of a figure in a black cloak covering them from head to toe. In the dreams I would see the figure standing in the blackness of my sisters bedroom, staring at me. One day as I walked past the room, I glanced in and my heart stopped as I saw the figure standing there, staring at me, the orange light from the street lamp shining around her as she stood there staring at me. I froze in place. My eyes wide as she stared into me. I felt a coldness. Until my sister's voice said "What the fuck are you doing?" and I looked to my left to see her at the top of the stairs, I glanced back to the room and the figure was gone. Hence why I would sprint past every time it was dark. This was when I was ages 4-7, then one day I had one last dream about the figure. I took the perspective of a parking lot CCTV, the grey image with the white noise fuzzing as a white line would skim past the image, the whole shebang. The cloaked figure approached the camera from far, my heart pounding harder and harder until the figure reached the camera, and pulled down her hood. This was when I discovered it was a woman. A woman with long black hair. A clean face and dark beady eyes. And it wasn't a cloak at all, but a long black dress. Now fast forward to me at age 15, my sister has since moved out and I've spent the past 5 years living in her room now, not a single day did I think of the woman with the long black hair since I saw her face in that dream behind the black cloak. Me and my friend were at his house, joking around, watching Terminator, we were ridiculing the jumpy 80s music that we felt now aged only dampened the intensity of the film... In front of me and to his right were two large windows across the wall, showing outside into the street. To get to the front door you had to walk past these two windows, anyone coming and going, we saw. Suddenly we heard what sounded like the front door open, it had the squelching sound a refrigerator has due to the plastic suction along the hinges. We both looked to each other confused and then we heard the door suddenly slam shut and a cold breeze rushed through the house, we both grabbed the closest things to us, for me, hair straighteners from his mums coffee table, for him, an empty bottle of coke. With our new weapons we walked through the doorway and down the corridor to the door. I peaked through the peephole and saw nothing, we turned and his mum left her room shouting at us "Stop fucking with the door the pair of you!", even more confused, we said "It wasn't us... Was it not you?", she scoffed and told us to quieten down before she returned to her bedroom. We walked back into the living room completely freaked out, we both heard it, and so did his mum, so we weren't loopy. We wondered what had happened for nearly an hour before I walked to the front door, ready to leave, before hearing a noise come from outside, I looked through the peephole and my friend flicked the light switch off, I turned back and gave him a funny look, "Don't do that", I remarked before looking back to the peephole and suddenly shooting back terrified as I saw a blonde woman stood in the light of the porchlight staring at the peephole, I screamed and backed away, he jumped back confused and I took a breath before opening the door really quick. The woman stood there looking horrified, she then asked "Is Nicky there?", my friend's mum, we let her in... Just a false scare, she wasn't a demon or a ghost, but she wasn't what was here an hour ago. We laughed it off and I went home. Later that night I was on webcam with a girl I had recently started speaking to, we barely knew each other really, all I knew was she was a religious nut and never lied about anything and all she knew about me was I was famous at school for being the class clown. We talked and talked for a few hours before my grandmother text me asking for my birthdate, but not the date, the specific time I was born... I had no idea, so I walked downstairs to ask my dad, he looked over for a mere moment before answering "I dunno, check the baby book". So I did. I found out and text her back, I spoke to my dad for a few minutes before returning to my bedroom to talk to my female friend. I sat down and she looked up from her phone and casually mentioned "Your mum was looking for you, did you see her?". "Huh?" "Your mum, she walked in looking for you" "What'd you mean?" "She came in and looked around for a moment and as she looked at the camera I covered mine and looked down at my phone, I looked back up a few seconds later and she walked out" This was weird for a few reasons. 1. My mum wasn't home, she was in London for a business meeting, 2. I was with my dad downstairs who was the only other person in the house... and 3. because of her answer when I then asked what she looked like... A woman with long black hair in a long black dress.


The clouds had cast a dark grey shadow that seemed to suck all of the happiness out of everything. The already sad town looked especially miserable on this dreary day. Oliver had always loved these sort of days, of course. He had always been that way and it wasn’t that he hated being happy, (which people loved to say) it was just that the overall sadness was more satisfying. His favorite thing to do when it was like this was to walk through the town where the giant puddles formed and the rain plummeted off the rooftops. The puddles reminded him of the ocean that he so longed to see. He hadn’t ever seen a large body of water like the ocean, living in Idaho and every time he asked to go see the coast his parents would refuse. It made sense, they had never had much money to travel or anything. He was fine with it, of course, as long as he got to venture into town and admire the puddles on rainy evenings. Today, Oliver had a job to do, which did mean that unfortunately he did not get to admire the puddles as thoroughly. His mother had sent him out in town to get groceries, since she knew he was already planning on going out. The walk to the store was a bit farther than he usually went which meant he had to walk by the park that always creeped him out. No one was ever there because it was not well kept and all of the trees were missing their leaves. It was the type of sadness that Oliver was not so fond of. As he rounded a corner the park became visible and he noticed that something was definitely different about it. To start off, there was a woman sitting there. She really looked happy, too, which was odd, considering the heavy rainfall and that she was sitting in the horrible park. She was also playing some sort of instrument and these lovely sounds were coming out of it. Once he made it to the edge of the park he stopped and frowned, completely confused by this person. She seemed to notice and stopped strumming the strings on their instrument to look up and give him a smile. “How are you doing today, young man?” “What sort of instrument is that?” he asked, completely disregarding her question. “It’s a guitar, of course” she replied ,looking slightly confused He really had never heard something so pleasing in his life before, “I’ve never heard of it, but it sounds great.” “Thank you very much.” He accepted her thanks and decided that he must be on his way in order to get home soon. Even once he made it to the store, he was still thinking about the amazing sounds coming from the instrument she called a “guitar”. He had never really liked music, because it always seemed so cliché and shallow. He now thought that maybe he should rethink, because he liked what that person at the park was playing very much. It made him forget all about the overwhelming sadness of the park and considerably brightened his mood. Once he was finished shopping he made sure to go the way past the park to hear the music again, but once he got there the park was empty and the unhappiness had returned. He was admittedly rather sad, but he planned on going back out tomorrow in hopes of seeing her again. He returned the next day, even though the weather was nice and all the puddles had dried up. As he was hoping, she was once again sitting on a bench playing her guitar. This time the sounds were different, a little more sad, but definitely still wonderful. He walked up to her and sat down right next to her on the bench. “Hello again,” she said to him. “Hi, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to bother, I just wanted to hear you play again.” “You’re not a bother,” she said with a kind smile.” I could teach you if you wanted. “Really?” he questioned, bewildered why she would want to. “Of course, here,” she handed him the guitar. It was a little too big for him, but it felt very right sitting on his lap. She showed him how to strum the strings, and where to put his fingers in order to achieve different sounds. He was amazed by how right it felt. He certainly was not an expert, but in an hour he had learned two chords and was content with himself. She told him that if he came back she could teach him more chords to play and he obviously said he would. He came back to that newly cheerful park three days later. Unfortunately ,he could not have come earlier because he was needed at home. The day was especially rainy and dark which Oliver was quite glad about as he got to admire the large puddles on his way to the park. When he approached the park the woman looked up and gave him the contagious smile she always does and motioned for him to sit down. As the weeks went by he kept coming back to learn more about the instrument. By two months he had learned to play most of the chords and was really rather skilled for the time he had been playing. One sunny day when the view of the park came into view he was surprised to see it was empty. Once he came closer he saw that the guitar was sitting at their usual bench with a note on top of it. He picked up the note hesitant to read it, in case it was bad news. I’m sorry , I know this is sudden, but I had to leave Idaho, so I left my guitar for you. I think it will be much better in your hands than mine, for you have much potential. - The lady with the guitar He was amazed that she had let him have the guitar. He was planning on saving up his chore money to buy one, but apparently that was unnecessary. An ache in his heart also appeared. He hadn’t known her for long, but she had been the beginning of changes in his life. He had found something that filled up his emptiness and caused him to feel complete. Playing guitar had become one of the most important things in his life and he was glad that he wouldn’t lose it. He only wished he could have wished her farewell. “And that’s it the story of how I started playing guitar” he said feeling like it had only happened yesterday.” “Wow, that seems like the sort of stuff you hear in books.” “Yeah I guess,” he shrugged, “so what do you think? Can I teach you?” “ I feel like I have to, for ‘the lady with the guitar’”


I am not happy with what I have done but I did what I did and I cant change it. Let me start from the beginning. CHAPTER#3 THE BEGINNING. "Mom wheres my makeup?" "Right were you left it on tour make up stand." "You know I wish you wouldn't wear makeup it bad for your skin." "Found it thanks mom." "I know you hate makeup but I love it." I applied my makeup to make my face look better. Today is going to be the best day ever. Its talent show day at school and I want to look my best. I also hope that I get in the top three winners that is my dream. I got to school. I cant wait to see all my friends. I walked to my locker to see my friends waiting for me. "Hey girls." They dont look very happy. "Dont hey use we know what you did behind our back you back stabber." "What are you talking about?" "I would never talk behind about anything." "Were talking about the talent show you went behind our back to do the show by yourself without telling us." "Is that what this is about?" "You both said you wanted nothing to do with the talent show." "Yep you said it we want nothing to do with the talent show and now your part of it and we want nothing to do with you." "What?" They said nothing else and walked away. They told didnt tell me that I couldn't join. Whatever I guess we are not true friends after all. I put my stuff in my locker and headed to the auditorium. I am so excited to show my dancing skills. I watched as the other kids did there talents on the stage it's almost my turn I started walking on the stage when I was stopped by the police. "Hey what gives?" "Emily you are under arrest for robbery and murder." "What I wouldn't hurt anyone I am not that kind of person." They pit the hand cuffs on me and walked me out of the school. I was put into the cop car. We got to the station they walked me into a cubed room for integration. "We are going to ask you some questions." "Ok I have nothing to hide." "Wheres the money?" "What money?" "I am not a thief." So there still talking about that robbery that happend last night. "Ok if you wont confess." "Where were you the night of the robbery?" "Bakeing cookies with my mother." "After we made cookies we sat down and watched horror movies all night." "Ok thanks for tour time." "Book her and get her a bed in jail." "What but I didnt do anything." "You better get me my lawer." "I also want my phone call." They walked me to the phone. I called my mother. "Hello." "Hi mom it me Emily." "I was pit under arrest for last night's murder." "I am so scared." "I asked for a lawer as well." "Good girl I will be there soon." My mother hung up the phone. The police walked me to the sell that i am going to stay in for I dont know how long I am hoping not long. I talked to the lawer with my mother. I was told I was going to stay in jail until they found out the truth. The police said they had a video with my face on it. They showed me the video but it wasn't me it was my exfriends. "Thoughs two are kids from my class." "Who are they?" "Carly and Lilly." I was walked to the jail sell again. "What but it's not me this isn't right." I was literally thrown into the sell. I cried myself to sleep. I stated to makeing lines on the wall for days that I am in jail. It's already been twenty day how many more before I can go back home and sleep in my conftable bed. I cant wait to see my mother and my family again. I miss my mother so much. I would say the same for my father but he was never there for my mother and I he left when I was born. The days here in jail are all the same I work in the laundry room for half the day and after lunch I ckean all the dishes. That's my life now. My mother visits me once a week. That's the limit for me is one day a week because they dont want me to conspire with the outside world and have them kill and rob another place. I don't know why this is happening to me. I mean I know why because my exfriends framed me for something just because of this talent show. "Emily your mother's on the phone." They walked me to the phone and the window thank let's me see my mother. I pick up the phone. "Hi mother how are things?" "They would be better of you were out." We talked for five minutes less time than before. They grabbed me I pulled away. "No I get more time with my mother." I grabbed the phone again. They grabbed me and hand cuffed me. "No!" "Mom." I started crying. I look at my mother she was crying to. I was thrown in the sell again. CHAOTER #2 Today is day one hundred and tenth day being here in jail I get to put another line on the wall. I haven't been able to see my mother since the whole thing that happend I miss her so very much. I am so happy that today is the day I go to court. About and hour i was on the stand being asked questions. After everything in court it's time to hear what the judges have to say. "We find the defendant guilty of robbery and murder." "What theres so much saying that I am not guilty and your all saying I am guilty." "This is unjustified." "I want justice." I was taken by force by the police. We get back to my jail sell and I was once again thrown in jail. I lay in bed refusing to eat and or do anything. CHAPTER#3 I woke up I went to put another lone on the wall but all the lines that I put up were all gone. What's going on everything started to fade away. Disappear from my eyes. I jolted awake. It was all a bad dream. I thought I was in jail but I am at home in my comfortable bed. I jumped out of bed ran down stairs my mother makeing breakfeat. "Moring sweetie your up early." "Mom you will never believe it but I had a bad dream that I was in jail for the rest of my life." "I would make lines on the jail wall but it all disappeared before my eyes and I woke up and now I am here talking to you about." "Wow that's a bad dream for sure." "I am so happy that you are not wearing makeup today." "Yea your right about it." "That's the first I am right?" "I dont believe it." I laughed. "Your right." "I also remember you telling me that I am beautiful without all that makeup on so I am listening to you and not wearing makeup." "I am so proud of you."