The wind was blowing from the north: a hint of rose in the air, mixed with the smell of shit, a breeze coming both from a parfumerie and the Seine. It brushed back the fine hairs on my arms and made my skin prickle. From somewhere in the apartment, the chocolatey strains of ‘Ave Maria’ slipped between the hinges of the balcony door and wisped away through ivy leaves into the night. The moon hung full above, looking for all the world like a movie prop, like a sigil proclaiming oui , this is Paris, this is la ville d’amour . It was cold out. I was in the mood for that. And the ivy that wound around the wrought-iron bars of the balcony, creeping up the brick wall to sprawl over the roof, itched between my shoulder blades as I slouched on the floor. I was in the mood for that, too. A few bats wheeled over the great, fat moon, probably twittering in a French accent, and I rested my head back against the railing. This wasn’t my balcony. I’d gotten to it from the roof, smiling at the doorman and taking the stairs two at a time until there weren’t any more stairs to take. I’d shimmied onto the slope of the roof, slipped, and slid down the shingles like I’d meant to fall in the most undignified way it could be done, and I’d landed on this balcony so hard that the metal had screeched. I’d thought surely somebody would come because of the noise. Nobody had. Music had been playing, and I’d slumped over and stared at the faraway ground through the grated balcony floor, feeling bruises blossom on my knees. There were some flowers in pots up here, and they smelled better than the distant perfumery. I hunkered closer to them. I plucked a few and braided them into my hair. I definitely hadn’t processed the end of the world. Or rather, not the world. My world. Somehow, I think, I had believed this roof-climbing nonsense would help me come to terms with it. An exclamation rang out from inside the flat, and then the glass door slid aside with a sharp tack as it hit the end of its rail. Warm air from inside gushed out over the balcony. “ Qu’est-ce que vous faites ici? ” a voice demanded. It sounded female, young but maybe a smoker, and I made myself look up. I offered a smile and a halfhearted little wave, like finding strange foreign girls on one’s balcony at midnight should be a perfectly normal thing. “Sorry,” I said, and realized the cold had made me numb and I sounded a little drunk. “Hello.” The girl in the doorway had short black hair and wore a motorcycle jacket, and she made a tch noise through her teeth. “An American,” she said, as if finding strange foreign girls on one’s balcony was completely normal, but only if they were American. She looked me over disapprovingly once or twice, but on each pass, her eyes softened. They caught on the pitiful details: my unintentionally-ripped jeans, torn on the way down the roof. The stain on my blouse that could maybe pass for wine if nobody looked too close. The girl smelled like cloves and cigarettes, but not clove cigarettes, and I found the mixture startlingly pleasant. I focused on that instead of her increasingly-interested eyes when she spoke: “How did you get here?” “The roof,” I said. “I fell off the roof.” She nodded, like this made perfect sense. “Ah,” she said sympathetically. “Well, it could happen to anyone.” I frowned. Without any hesitation, she beckoned me inside. “I have brandy. You need it.” “Wait.” I blinked at her, confused. “What?” “Brandy,” she said, and then seemed to question whether she’d gotten her English correct. “Brandy? To drink?” “Right,” I pushed myself up, making the balcony creak. “Sure. Thanks, I guess.” “ De rien .” She slid the door closed behind me, and gave me another strange look before she busied herself with a glass and honey-colored alcohol. “Why were you on the roof?” she asked, setting a glass of brandy down on the table in front of me and keeping the bottle for herself. I looked around instead of answering. It was a very cozy flat, with grandmotherly hangings over the backs of armchairs and paintings on the walls that depicted flowers, lily ponds, and one lovingly-rendered motorcycle. The tile floor was scuffed, and somehow that gave the whole place an air of weariness. “I like your flat,” I said. The girl--I decided she was probably around my age, early twenties or maybe younger--looked around, like she needed to remind herself what I could possibly be complimenting. “Oh,” she said, a bit confused. “ Merci .” She glanced into the neck of the brandy bottle, clearly contemplating drinking from it, but then scowled and found herself a glass. I sipped my own; I’d never had brandy, but it was pleasantly warming on the way down. “What were you doing on the roof?” the girl asked again. I sighed, remembering the exhilaration of such height, the cold wind, the relief of being alone. “I don’t have an answer,” I said. “You don’t want to tell me?” Her tone made it clear that she found this rather rude, and I supposed that it was. I’d intruded on her balcony, after all, and she’d given me a drink instead of calling the police. “It’s not that,” I said, shaking my head. My hair, shorter than I was used to, brushed against the sides of my neck. “Then what?” I shrugged. “I just don’t know why I was on the roof.” She looked confused, but curious, too. “You don’t know how you got there?” “I don’t know why I got there.” “Oh,” she said with a frown of faint disappointment, refilling my glass, which evidently I’d emptied. “That’s not very exciting, is it?” Contemplating that for a moment, I wondered if it was a mindless thing to say, or if I just didn’t know what she meant. Unlike me, the French girl didn’t seem opposed to conversation. “What’s your name?” The question caught me off-guard for some reason. “Finch.” “Your name is Finch?” “You can call me Finch.” “Hm.” She sipped her drink, brown eyes roving over her flat. “I’m Amelie.” She didn’t seem to expect a ‘nice to meet you, Amelie,’ and I didn’t offer one. “Why are you doing this?” She shrugged, but didn’t hesitate. “You look interesting.” “Interesting?” She pointed to my shirt, and I noticed that in the whole summer I’d passed in Paris, I hadn’t seen more than five Parisian women whose nails were less than manicured. But Amelie’s were bitten and ragged, adorned with a couple of hangnails. “Is that blood?” “Yes,” I said. “It’s not mine, though.” “Whose, then?” “I don’t know,” I said, plucking at my shirt. “Not a person, don’t worry.” The girl leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You see? Interesting.” She twirled the ends of her hair between her fingers. “I want to hear this story.” I owed it to her and I knew it--as payment for my trespassing, and double payment for her kindness in light of my trespassing--but I didn’t feel like telling it. “There’s not much of a story,” I mumbled. “Then it won’t take long to tell.” She inclined her glass to me, as easily as if we were friends, then slipped a hand into her motorcycle jacket to pull out a cigarette and a lighter. The smell of smoke filled the flat, settling into the smell of older smoke. My glass clinked when I set it onto the wooden surface of the table, and I let out my breath all at once. It didn’t hurt when I remembered, but it was numbing and made me feel tired. The past few months had passed in a flurry of blue eyes and black hair. There had been tangled sheets and boxes of candies, and the scent of laundry detergent that wasn’t mine clinging to my skin more often than not. And then, suddenly, there wasn’t. “Just a boy,” I said. The French girl scoffed, tapping her cigarette off into a nearby glass ashtray. “A boy,” she said, “is not a story.” That almost startled me. “What?” “A boy isn’t a story,” she said again. Her accent made her sound very knowledgeable. “A boy is a boy.” “Well, fine,” I said, bristling a little bit. “Then what he did is a story.” “And what did he do?” I pressed my lips together. “Nothing,” I said eventually. “He didn’t do anything .” He’d let the smell of waiting rooms and hospital hallways overwhelm the smell of his laundry detergent on my clothes. He’d let the feeling of cold latex gloves, worn by people I didn’t know, replace his warm hands on my skin. I hadn’t argued, but after everything was done, I realized that I had wanted him to. “Say,” I said. “Could I have a cigarette?” Obligingly, Amelie tapped a cigarette out of the carton and handed it over. I held the little roll between my lips and leaned in while she lit it for me. I hadn’t smoked in years, but the feeling of familiarity and nicotine made me feel more stable. Steadier. “We had been together all summer,” I said. “I had thought maybe he was going to marry me.” Amelie pushed her spent cigarette into the ashtray and crushed it down absently, waiting for me to keep speaking. I chuckled humorlessly. “He wasn’t much. I knew that, and anyway, he’d told me so, but I’d still thought...” I shook my head, and licked my lips, and took another drag on the cigarette. “I was going to have a baby,” I said finally, and to my surprise, Amelie’s eyes did not widen with scandal. Instead, she picked up her glass of brandy and swirled it around. “You’re not anymore.” “No.” I looked down at the edge of the table. It was full of dents, and was probably as old as the apartment itself. “I’m not anymore.” “Was that his wish?” I hesitated at that, but then I shook my head. “No. Yes. I don’t know.” She tilted her head. “I suggested it,” I said. “It was my idea.” Perhaps, at the time, I’d proposed it because I wanted him to stop me. But then he hadn’t stopped me, and I’d done it. And it was done. And I wasn’t going to have a baby, and I wasn’t going to get married. Amelie frowned thoughtfully. “So you climbed the roof?” A thought seemed to strike her, and she set her brandy down a little too hard. “You weren’t going to jump, were you?” “I don’t think I planned to,” I said. “I don’t think I thought at all.” When everything was over, we had gone to his father, a butcher in the 17th Arrondissement. I had thought he was going to tell the old man that yes, we had perhaps made a mistake, but we had fixed it and we were still in love and maybe would get married someday. But he didn’t say any of that. He’d stopped at the mistake. And so, I realized, had we. The old man had come close to striking his son. The son had moved aside--probably an instinct, nothing personal--and his father’s fist, covered in the blood of some or another dead animal, had connected with me instead. It hadn’t really hurt. He hadn’t been trying to inflict hurt, not truly. But his hand had left a smear of red over my belly, and somehow, seeing that had been too much. I had run out of the charcuterie , leaving the black-haired, blue-eyed boy behind. He hadn’t followed me. “I don’t think I was going to jump,” I said. “But I think... I think maybe I wanted to fall.” “You didn’t do a very good job,” Amelie observed. “No,” I said. “I suppose I didn’t.” Outside, the ivy rustled on the wrought-iron balcony, and the round, romantic moon washed everything in cold light. “I don’t think falling would be like you think,” Amelie said after a while. I snorted. “And how do I think it would be?” She tapped the backs of her fingers against the ashtray, making little clink s. “Freeing.” That took me aback for a few breaths. Maybe she wasn’t wrong. The feeling of the wind in my hair as I neared the ground--the hair I had cut so that I looked good, like a responsible girl, when we talked to his father in the butcher’s shop--and the knowledge that I was beholden in that moment to nothing but gravity... that might be very freeing. “It wouldn’t be, though,” Amelie said. She shook her head. “Not worth it.” “How do you know?” Her shoulders rose and fell. “I know.” She stood, pressing herself up with her palms flat to the table, and started putting the brandy away. “You want your own self back, no? You want what you want.” “I don’t know what I want.” “Best find out,” she said, closing the cabinet. She nodded at my bloodied shirt. “That man of yours will, new men will, women will... everyone will tell you what to want.” She walked to the door of the flat, and it took me a second to realize that she was showing me out. “No more falling, yes?” I ground my cigarette into the ashtray and got to my feet, went to the door, stood at the threshold. Amelie’s face was questioning, one eyebrow raised. “Yes,” I agreed. “No more falling.”


White and Gold Hi Greg, Can you hear me? Good. Take it easy, big guy. You’ll be able to move again when I leave your mind. I have chosen you because you’re exemplary. That’s not a compliment. Perhaps, if you can change...forget it. I feel like sharing. Look at me. Let’s start with the dress. The dress. It was meant to be funny. Which, objectively, it was. I’d been away. I’d popped off down the spheres to hear the sound a forgotten promise makes when it passes through the heart of a living star at the speed of rage. There was a symposium afterwards. I come back, and all you mayfly ingrates have forgotten my name, even though I left it right there . So, I played a little trick. Incidentally, Greg, as your friend and honest broker of chaos, I must warn you: after any time spent in my company, it’s wise to check your wallet. To test your bones for marrow and run your mind over that cheap bridal train you call a past for any remaining memories of summer. Give me your attention and I’ll take everything else. I digress. My trick. The dress, Greg. Pay attention. The dress that was blue and black. The dress that was white and gold. Remember? Pandemonium! Delicious, delightful, pathetic, humanity to the hilt. I particularly adored the articles that it extracted from otherwise competent scientists. “It’s...well...the light receptors in your eyes...” It was sweet in a way. To be clear: it was magic. Cheap magic, if we’re being honest. I was pretty spent after my expedition and thought my clearest path back to power lay through virality. When you’re right, you’re right. Which is how you and I met, Greg! In the same living room where your Grandpa Heinrich died seven years before, in the middle of Super Bowl XL while the paramedics worked with the TV still on and not-quite-muted. Go Steelers. You were with Shanna then, your last girlfriend, looking over her shoulder at a picture on her laptop that told you either not to trust your eyes, or not to trust the person you slept beside every night. You laughed but you were scared. The two of you argued about something that should have been obvious and knowable. You started out on opposite sides, but by the end you were both black and blue. Sweet consensus. Eventually, you all just accepted it, forgot about it. You looked at a picture and saw a different dress than your spouse, than half your friends, sometimes than yourself twenty minutes later and still you accepted an explanation that you didn’t understand. The world is no longer comfortable with obvious truths. I meant it all gently enough. Gods do not feel remorse. Let's dispense with that notion before it makes a full circuit of your meaty brain. If we allowed ourselves that indulgence, we would do nothing at all and we’re supposed to be the heroes of the deistic fan fiction that 3/4 of you build your lives around. Price of power. So it’s disconcerting to feel the ghost of regret sneaking in on the tail of the tidal rush of untrammeled power that fills me each day with holy potency and alchemical fire. Unlike many of my peers, I was a man once, or a boy at least. We all change as we must. There aren’t that many gods left, you know. Not locals, anyway--most have sought greener pastures. Nevertheless, one would have thought the internet strip-mined for power ages ago. Certainly there are some auto-heirophantic God-Head-Zillas lurking in plain sight, tucked away in the corners of The New Town Square. You should see the Goddess of pornography, for example. I mean, you have, everyone has, you freak, but her true face. It isn’t actually varied at all once you know her and we go way back. She has scales now, and she scares me a bit, but she’s up for anything. Anyway, enough about her, let's talk about me. It turns out there’s some digital real estate left and by lucky instinct, I cornered a lucrative market with my little sartorial gaslight. The potential was already there, rumbling under your discourse, thriving in your isolation. All it took was my innocuous joke. As the pebble to the avalanche, once the earth beneath you started shifting it began to erode your very belief in a shared reality. Certainly, by the time events truly escalated, you were alone. Living in an empty house stacked to the rafters with memories. Walking the same beetle-brown carpet you crawled on as a child. The world a mass of nebulous threats, family passed, love abandoned as just another scheme. You were alone with your truth. It was the work of the barest whispering spirit to make some of you, enough of you, believe and spread anything the right stranger would tell you. Because it meant you weren’t alone anymore. No holy warrior is. I am Edison. You do the work but I own the patent. I am the truth-monger. “InCelibacy! Pax Anti-Vaccination! QAnonymity! Step right up!” Such was always the business of Gods. I am become legion. It’s intoxicating. I accept your harrowing as so much passive income. Draped across an electric nervous system of paranoia, resentment, and ferocious need, I lay back, gorge myself, become gravid with bile and purge that shit right back onto the wire. You’re mine, bitch. I mean, where are you going to go? Yet now, on the precipice of some second ascension, I feel that something is amiss. You have splintered yourselves and the edges...are sharp . I was never a blood god. Not that I’m prejudiced, some of my best friends are blood gods. HAHAHA. There’s this moment of calm before...The Storm. Get it? I was only ever trying to tell a joke . It’s just... Help. I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Once, when I was very small and clothed in flesh, I had a doll. It was like me and I loved it. I held it to the fire, only to see what would happen. Afterwards, I was inconsolable but my father held me and let me weep. You could leave it behind. I told you the truth, Greg, what remains of it. I had to tell someone. It hurt the first time. The old priests tricked me, and it hurt. I persevered, they got what they asked for. Apotheosis isn’t for cowards. This, on the other hand, feels so good I may never stop screaming. Ah, well. Look at me. Calm down. Fuck your feelings. LOOK AT ME,


Once upon a time, there was a woman named Vanessa no older than 42 age that lived in Los Angeles, California all her life. Back in her days, she was the popular one in high school and college. All the boys liked her and everyone wanted to be her friend. They always invited Vanessa to all the parties, and she had lots of fun. But now them days are over. She graduated from high school and college. Now she is one of the top doctors in Los Angeles. Now today she’s divorced once with two kids 5 and 8. Things were hard for her after the divorce three years ago. But she could pull through it for the sake of her kids. And that’s what she did and living a happy life. She had gotten a big promotion today at work. And you know what that means, more money. Vanessa was so excited about the glorious news. But it is bittersweet because she didn’t have anyone to share the good news with. It would’ve been nice, Vanessa said in her head. But she was still happy with where her life had gone, she thought to herself. She also thought in her head, I will find someone to love me one day if I have any time. It would be nice to run into someone, but it’s been too long and I am too old. No more parties and dates for me at this age, especially with two little kids. Let me just get that happy ending out of my head, Vanessa said. Since she was at home now, she checked on the kids and was sound asleep. So Vanessa went to her room at hopped in the shower from a long day of work. Once she got and got dressed, she went downstairs to fix herself some leftover spaghetti and garlic bread. Vanessa grabbed her food out of the microwave and proceeded back upstairs to her room. As she laid in bed eating her food watching a romance movie, Vanessa thought, I am always sitting here at home on a Friday night when I don’t have to work doing the same thing. She ate her food and went downstairs to put her plate and cup in the sink. Vanessa turned all the lights out and made sure that I had locked the doors for safety. She went back upstairs and snuggled back under her covers. But she wasn’t sleepy yet, so she put on another movie but this time it was an action movie. After a while, she found her eye slowly going down as she fell asleep with the movie still playing. Waking up to the sound of her kids running into her room and jumping on the bed. Going morning mom, good morning kids. Vanessa got up and to fix the kids some breakfast. Pancakes anyone, me the kids said. Now in the kitchen, she made the kids some pancakes, eggs, and some bacon. Breakfast, Vanessa yelled, then here came the kids running down the stairs to the table. As the kids ate, Vanessa wondered what she was going to do with her day after playing with the kids for a few hours. As Vanessa and the kids played, she looked at her phone and seen that it was time to put the kids in the tube and straight to bed. When done, they went to bed; she went around to their rooms and tucked them into bed, saying I love my angels and they replied love you too mommy. She turned the lights out and close the door. As she walked away and went downstairs, she hopped on the couch, turning on the TV. Vanessa went through the channels and couldn’t find anything to watch. But her phone had rung. It’s my friend Crystal. I wonder what she wants, so I answered. Hello, Hey Vanessa what you doing right now? Nothing but the same thing, watching nothing on the TV. Well, I was wondering if you wanted to come to my birthday party tonight. Tonight, Vanessa replied. Aren’t you too old to be having a birthday party? Nope, age ain’t nothing. I’m living my life, Crystal said. But anyway, the party starts at 9 so will you come so we can catch up? Hum Hum, please, said Crystal. Huh, okay, let me call the babysitter and see if she can watch the kids. Okay, great, I will text you the address of the place. Okay, bye. Vanessa got on the phone with the babysitter and asked her, could you come and watch the kids for a few hours? Sure said the babysitter, I would love to. Why so late? My friend invited me to her birthday party replied Vanessa. That’s great you finally got out of the house but why your face looks like that. I am very nervous because I haven’t been to a party in a long time no less than I don’t know a lot of the people that are going to be there. Well, everything is going to be fine and you have some fun. Just go in there and be yourself. Okay, we will see replied Vanessa. Vanessa looked at her phone. Shoot, I’m going to be late for the party, I better get going. See you later, the babysitter said. Okay, I will call you when I’m on my way home from the party okay bye. Bye!! Vanessa made her way to the party, and it was many people in and outside. Vanessa walked in with that same nervousness that she had on her face before she left home. She really didn’t know anyone, and it made her feel uncomfortable. So she made her way to the back tables and had a seat. Guys came up to her trying to talk to her, but she was acting too shy and she was nervous. Vanessa hasn’t talked to other people besides her friends and patients. Soon enough her friend Crystal walked in, entering. She said hello to everyone and thanked everyone for coming. But now it was time to party. Vanessa's friend walked off stage she notices her seating in the back and she ran right over. Why are you sitting in the back? Just nervous and don’t know too many people here. You don’t have to be nervous, here take this glass of wine and loosen up. We are going to have fun today. A few glasses of wine later, Vanessa had loosened up. And then her friend came over and grabbed her hand to pull her onto the dance floor. Vanessa started dancing slowly but then she shook her nervous off and started having some real fun. Vanessa danced the night away until it was time for her to go. So she said bye to the people she just met, then to her good friend Crystal. You had a good time? I sure did say, Vanessa. Now I’m about to go home to the kids. Okay, talk to you tomorrow. Bye. As she drove home, she had a big smile on her face, saying that wasn’t that bad. Vanessa pulled up in the driveway and the babysitter came to open the door for her. Hey, how was the party? It was great, and I had a lot of fun for the first time in a long time. That’s great to hear. By the way, the kids woke up and so we just watched a movie eating popcorn but now they're back in bed fast asleep. Thank you so much, I don’t know what I will do without you replied Vanessa. Vanessa paid the babysitter, and she walked out the door saying see you tomorrow. Vanessa replied okay bye. While she got ready for be all just keep thinking that sometimes you have to put yourself out there to make yourself happy. She turned off the light to tell herself good night.


I jump out the window at full speed, eyes closed. Forget falling down a rabbit hole or going through a looking glass. I blink, suddenly feeling like I’m falling. I feel myself wake up in the same way one wakes from a dream where the floor vanishes beneath them and I find myself looking at myself in a mirror. I instinctively look down at the prosthetic breasts and the dress I’m wearing. Yeah...no. I’m getting pants. “Miss!” I cringe, and resist the urge to say “no”. “Yes?” I ask as the maids continue to apply make-up and jewellery. The jewellery, for the most part, is fine. The make-up is not. “Do behave today.” ...what? What’s today? “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten!” I look at the reflection of the person who’s talking to me through the mirror. She’s not quite the head maid, but she’s up there. What’s today? I’m fairly confident the ball-- which I plan to skip-- isn’t until-- “The banquet!” The...the what now? “The banquet! ” She said as if her saying it like that would clarify what she was talking about, “I swear your memory is non-existent nowadays!” To be fair, I am a different person. Literally. I’m pretty sure I’m either possessing or switching places with Emily. I have no idea what she knows. The maid gives a very loud sigh and then explains that, apparently, there is a banquet and that I have to attend. In a dress . I politely signal to the maids that I won’t be wearing earrings. I’ll just go back and let Emily deal with this nonsense. The maids finish up and, after getting more information about the banquet, they leave. I quickly get up and look at the window. Yeah, no. I can barely move in dresses. Pants first, jump later. I try to find where Emily put my clothes and, while it takes a minute, I do end up finding them. I undo the skirt portion of the dress and quickly put on pants. I can’t help but nod in satisfaction. I open the window and take several steps back. It’s easier to run and jump out of the window than to climb out. “What do you think you’re doing.” “Jumping out the window” and “this window is magical. Don’t worry, I won’t die. I’m just switching places” are sentences which people tend to...not react well to so, instead of saying either of those, I answer a different question: “I find dresses uncomfortable.” He-- Emily’s stepfather-- starts loudly ranting at me and calling me names. I mentally curse as I put the skirt back on, over my pants of course, and get forcefully dragged out to the carriage after he slams Emily’s door shut. The household servants all seem to have disappeared as I’m dragged through the hallways. I resist the urge to put him in his place, reminding him that he technically he has no power. Emily’s mother does. Emily does. Hell, technically speaking Emily’s younger siblings might have more power than him in this household. I resist though because this isn’t my life. It’s Emily’s. I yank my arm out of his grasp and enter the carriage. Emily’s sister comments that I look pretty and I nod, give a gentle smile and thank her. Her demeanour changes as Richard-- Dick, as he actually prefers to be called-- enters the carriage. As the carriage takes us to the banquet, I’m reminded of how I used to live a few years ago. Even if it wasn’t...optimal...circumstances, I’m glad I got out. I ignore that forbidden thought which tries to pass through my mind. I stare out the carriage window, admiring the scene moving before my eyes. We weren’t in the city. We, from my understanding, were going to some private property that’s surrounded by...well, it’s basically surrounded by forest even though most of the forest is private property. There’s a seemingly never ending wall of trees, tangling one and overlapping one another. I think about that window that connects us. I wish I knew more about it. Did Emily create it? Regardless of who made it, why? Also, why in the seven hells is it a freaking window? Like why not a door? Or some other entryway? I rest my head on the glass and try to see the stars. I love looking at the stars. I wonder if the person who linked the windows misses the stars over there? Wait. What if they jumped between worlds? It still exists and there’s no magic over there so either they stayed there, died there or died over here before they could do anything else with it. Why that world though? Was it random chance? As the carriage comes to a stop, everyone climbs out. We’re eventually escorted to a table where we all sit. I lean back and to see if the stars are visible in spite of the light. I smile as they are. I hear familiar footsteps as I turn to see a familiar face. His hair is a different colour, but it’s definitely him though. Without thinking, I stand up and walk towards him and start chatting. Ronald gives me a look and I raise an eyebrow as I cross my arms. “And who might you, who dares speak to me so casually, be?” “Come on-- what? Do you seriously not recognise me just because I’m wearing a dress and my hair is down?” His look hardens. Dick quickly gets up, pushes me into a bow and starts apologising to Ronald while berating me. I brush him off and stand up straight, looking Ronald in the eye. I pull out and toss aside the prosthetic breasts and quickly style my hair so it looks like my usual hairstyle. I gesture to myself as Ronald’s face morphs into realisation and something that looks like panic. “ E-Emery!? ” “ Listen , I know I probably look different with a dress and my hair down, but I’m not Clark Kent, Ronald--” “How dare you refer to Prince Roland in such a manner!” Wait-- What. I turn to...Ronald? Roland? He shifts awkwardly. I stare at him. Prince? Wait-- Hold on-- He grabs me by the hand and leads me away in a way where I can’t see his face. I frown, but let him lead me away in silence. We eventually enter a room. He lets go, stands still for a minute, seemingly in thought, before he starts pacing back and forth and running a hand through his hair. He suddenly stops and turns towards me. “You and Emily...you’re different people, right? And the window story...that’s real too, right?” “I’m surprised you believed me.” “Of course I do!” I nod and give him a smile. “...do you want a change of clothes?” “Hmm?” I furrow my brows. “Do you want a change of clothes? You seem uncomfortable in a dress.” “Oh,” I stand up and undo the skirt portion of the dress. The apparent-prince quickly goes to face a wall. I raise an eyebrow, “By the way, Ronald or Roland?” “W-What?” “Ronald or Roland? Which name do you want me to call you? Or does it not matter? Oh-- you can turn around whenever now.” “...Roland.” “Cool,” I remove the jacket/sleeve portion of the dress as well and I watch him flinch at my bruised arms. “You technically have all the power,” Roland hands me a ribbon to do my hair. “What?” “You technically are the head of the household.” I knew Emily had power, but...wow. That’s...wow. But... “I’m not Emily.” “You could be.” “That’s--” “Emily is dead.” “W...What?” “Emily was poisoned. When you...when we were sparring, that one time the sword flew out of your hand...I got concerned. Perhaps it’s the paranoia that comes with being in power, but...” “You looked into it.” He nods, “Yes. I went to talk to you about it once, but...I met Emily instead. I realised that dresses meant it was Emily and pants meant it was you.” I nod and we sit, “That’s why you were confused.” “Yeah... ” “I see a potential problem if I were to stay here.” “Ah, your life in--” “The window.” “Ah?” “The window. I don’t know how it works. I don’t know what happens if someone else tries to come through. I don’t know what happens to my body. I’ve been assuming I’ve been...well, I assumed my body was either in a coma or sleeping.” He blinks in a way that reminds me of a specific meme. “Like sure, I’ll stay since it’s an empty vessel now but I want to one or two more things in my other life before moving. And, you know, making sure I don’t get screwed over by a magic window is also nice.” He nods, “Makes sense.” “...so...any ideas? Like I only discovered magic after coming here.” It looks like he was about to start talking, but then stopped himself, “Wait-- how did-- if--” “I was pushed out the window.” “ Wha-- ” “Anyway--” “ Wait-- ” “Would either smashing the glass or sealing the window or something work?” “Wha-- Maybe?” I nod, “So, take control of the household, maybe tie up some loose ends of my previous life and mess up the window. Seems...yeah...” I groan and look at the ceiling. “Well, at least one of those is rather simple.” “Eeh?” “You kind of just have to declare it-- ideally at an event-- and that’s basically it. If anyone has any issues, I, prince of the empire, will declare my support. After that, you can decide what to do with the household whenever.” “...it can’t be that easy-- it’s never that easy.” “I mean...it is. You wouldn’t be aware of it, but there was this whole big thing-- long story short: due to events before you came here, the household has always belonged to you -- well, Emily-- but it was simply...delegated. You can un-delegate at any time.” I blink, stupefied, and then stand up, “I guess I’ll do it now then?” Roland laughs as he stands. Before we go back to the event, Roland stops and runs off somewhere only to return with a sword. “Wanna join the competition?” “Of course, may the best man win,” I give Roland a grin as I take the sword. As we walk back to the banquet, we discuss a bet. As we walk towards the banquet, Roland grabs the megaphone from the announcer and gives me a mischievous smile. “ Roland no-- ” “ Roland yes~ ” He takes a deep breath and then bluntly announces that I am now in charge of the household in what I’d argue was the most embarrassing manner possible. After Dick throws a tantrum and me telling him we will discuss this later, as I have no idea what to do with him at the moment, the rest of the banquet was rather uneventful. Unfortunately, the hunting contest was a tie and Roland and I immediately started planning a tiebreaker. Once we return to the mansion, I declare that Dick would no longer live here. I would loan money for his (new) lodgings and would give him an allowance of sorts-- which would be paid back-- for about a year (or until he found a job). Depending on his behaviour, he would either have a week or a month to find a place to stay that’s not here. I also told Emily’s siblings and mother that they are free to do what they want-- whether it be staying, going with him, going back and forth or something else entirely-- and then left to figure out what needed to be done next. After a few days of me un-delegating the household and figuring out what to do now, Roland comes over with a mage and the three of us stare at the infamous window. I also tried finding info about the window. Unsurprisingly, I find nothing. “Tell me about the window.” I confidently face the mage, “I jump through it and end up in a different universe and in a different body. On the other side, there’s a window that I jump through and end up in this universe and in this body.” “...” “...” “...and?” “That’s it.” “...” The mage gives us a look and then stares at the ceiling, as if it would give them the answer, “...I’m guessing it’s the window itself rather than the glass.” “...does that mean I have to remove the wall or...?” “We might be able to just have the window re-done--” “Magical seal.” We both turn to the mage who has a blank expression. “I could apply a magic seal. It’s more cost-effective and less destructive.” I turn to Roland. We both shrug. Yeah, that works. I turn to the window and smile. Something of a second chance at life, eh? Something tells me it won’t be too bad this time around.


This year vacation has begun but everything seems unnatural. This unnatural mood of nature needlessly negated the near final preparations for an excursion down south and forced to stay put indoors. A boy who prefers to remain outdoors all through the year is disheartened and disgusted to hear that the dams have been opened. The damn good days are brushing past at jet speed and dull school days are fast approaching with bated breath stretching their arms and drawing the boy’s attention to do his homework and readying the essay on how he spent his vacation. The boy on the other hand is ruminating over the numerous varieties of duels that were debated upon and domesticated for dealing delicately and dramatically to endure and relive the ancient warfare, along with it related ammunitions in the form of toys were procured but those not readily available located and decided well in advance with the distant cousins the ways and means to deploy during the holidays, all appearing to disappear in the thin air, with it the hopes of long distance horseback rides also remained a fantasy and hung as if frozen or in suspended animation. The week long train journey to the hometown, with break journey at important towns, with quick shopping from the nearby markets, the breakfast sessions in the trains, the lunch sessions on the railway canteens, the dinner ordered from the pantry car had a pride of place in the mind of the school boy. The arrangements with regard to the dresses that need to be packed in layers and to be worn as per the occasions it is meant for and clothes to be kept handy in order not to waste time in searching and make a mess of the arrangements in the suitcase. Prepare a check list of what all need to be taken as the holidays is for almost a month and cannot be made available if forgotten after the journey begins. The story books, board games, cards, albums, copies of certificates and photographs of medallions won need to be kept in order to show the cousins who are also bent upon showing their achievements and producing these things as a proof in case they are not believed. The question and answer sessions with the elders from uncles to grandfathers were also earmarked to give them the insight as to what lies in future from them for the elders. The journey per se had a lot of other areas to savour. There was the anxious wait for stations to approach with hot and delicious dishes for breakfast along with hot tea and coffee to choose from. Vendors can be seen selling fancy items, toys and story books by yelling, and highlighting the quality and worthiness of their stuff. After breakfast and viewing from the window seats of the train the plains and also hills and mountains at a distance and seeing from close quarters the cows and goats grazing in the fields and scarecrows as watch guards overlooking the acres of fields of numerous crops awaiting the harvesting season. Thereafter on reaching almost at the middle of the long journey towards south, in the afternoon the boy would be getting ready for lunch from the station known for mouth watering side dishes for lunch. Lunch having been served and satisfied to the soul’s content the boy feels sleepy and collapses on the berth and goes to sleep. In his sleep he starts dreaming about his near future as well as his distant future. He dreams to have reached his hometown to a rousing welcome from his grandparents and cousins. He revels on the games he won in the board games by outmanouvering his cousins and thinks of the praises heaped on him by his grandparents added to which he finds himself gifted with toys. When he wakes up he finds he is still in the train and it is evening time and what he thought was a dream. It was also time for evening snacks and tea, which was yet to be offered to him by his mother after taking him to the wash basin at the corner of the compartment and getting him wash his face and brush his teeth and freshened up. The boy comes back to his berth and eats the snacks and sips the tea and feels the cool wind, blowing in the opposite direction to which the train is speeding up. He also again gets transported to what he dreamt and started to visualize the chances of his dream coming true. After the visualization he began to plan how to make his dream come true. He starts analysing his strengths and his cousin’s weakness, and registers the games in which he finds his cousin better than him and decides to make it a point not to enter into a wager for such games. Instead he tries to remember in the corners of his mind the games that suit him best and which he shall initiate to play. By the time he finalizes his strategy the sun seemed to have set and it was dark outside the train and lights were on inside the train. It was time for little prayer and thereafter read the story book for an hour and be ready for dinner. The dinner arrived at around nine pm and his mother served him and gestured him to go to sleep which he did as an obedient son. He knew he would not take much time to fall asleep as he was excited at the very thought that he will be reaching his dream destination, his hometown next day morning around 10 am. With such thoughts he lodged himself on the middle berth and closed his eyes and covered himself with the blanket that was offered to him by his mother and went off to sleep. As expected the train was running on time and hence they reached their hometown station also at good time. Suddenly he heard a voice coming from behind. It was his sister asking him to get ready for school otherwise he will miss the school bus.


The price for a gallon of gas is always stated on the sign out front, but it doesn’t really matter anyway.This is the only gas station for miles around. In cities they’re everywhere, constantly competing with their enemies across the street (I always wondered why anyone would ever go to one that wasn’t the cheapest, and yet the stations on all four corners would stay in business) but out here we have no competition and no need to seduce customers with a bargain. We are the kind of place you find on long road trips, the kind of place that might as well stop existing the moment it disappears from your rearview mirror, leaving you with nothing but a Kit-Kat wrapper in your glove box. To you we are a liminal space, a temporary plane of existence. But to us, you are temporary people, liminal beings. You drive up and park and get out the car and stretch your legs, you get a Kit-Kat and pay with two twenties and ask to get the rest on number 5, you’re disappointed at how much change you get back because today gas costs three dollars and eighty cents a gallon which seems high but you were desperate and had no other options. You get in the car and drive off. Maybe you made it home safe. Maybe you didn’t. It makes no difference to the gas station, because you stopped existing the moment your car disappeared over the hill. Another customer comes in and gets a Gatorade, another asks for the bathroom, another asks for directions, which seems silly because there’s only one road here and two directions you can go, and you’ve already come from one of them. One day I saw a white Corolla drive up. It came from the South and stopped for gas, the driver was a young man wearing an orange baseball cap with no logo. He didn’t come inside. I watched him through the dusty window as he pumped his gas. He got back in and took off, and I noticed a bumper sticker. It was black with white letters that read “You mad?” He left and, for all I know, stopped existing. Thirty minutes later, after a couple more nondescript patrons had come and gone, another white Corolla pulled up from the North side and into the lot. The driver of this one was a middle aged lady. There were kids in the backseat. The woman came inside and bought two bags of Corn Nuts, one spicy and one original. She gave me a fifty and asked for the rest to be on pump three. She had thick hands with clubbed thumbs. She filled up, got her change, and then left. I watched her drive away through the window. The car had a bumper sticker, black with white letters, reading “You mad?” Strange. But white Corollas are common cars. Maybe this was a common bumper sticker that I hadn’t previously noticed. Not too strange. I sat behind the counter doing sudoku. Another car drove in from the North. Not a white Corolla, but a big Expedition. An older kid, maybe 12 or 13, got out of the car and ran into the mart. He had three wrinkly one dollar bills in his hand. He said hello to me, which was quite polite. He was wearing an orange baseball cap with no logo. Haven’t I seen a hat like that today? Kid comes to the counter, he wants an ice cream cookie sandwich. “That’s $3.23 after tax,” I say. “Do you have a quarter?” He roots around in his pocket and finds one. As I’m pulling out his two cents change he’s looking down at the scratch cards. “I like your hat,” I say. “Where’d you get it?” He seems surprised I’m talking to him. “Uh,” he stutters, “it was a gift.” “Oh. Well it’s a cool color.” I gave him his change. “Thanks.” He runs out. A man, probably the dad, is still pumping gas. When they’re finished, they drive away like everyone else. There’s a long gap between customers this time. It’s rare for cars to drive by this station without stopping, seeing as we’re so isolated. It’s also rare to see the same person twice, but it’s occurred to me before that it would be difficult to notice. I’ve imagined what would happen if the police or the FBI showed up at this mart, saying a criminal had been through here and asking if I remembered them. I know that I wouldn’t. There’s no way, not unless they had something unusual about them, like some strange clothes or a heavily decorated car. But then again, I would have thought the orange hat and the “You mad?” bumper sticker would have been rare, and there've been two of each in one day. Unless of course they were the same, I chuckled to myself. I imagined two giant factories, one to the North and one to the South, both just out of view of the station. They’d send people back and forth, having them stop for gas, and they’d switch everything up enough just so that I wouldn’t realize they were recycling. It was all just to mess with me. I sat doing my sudoku. The speakers played Kenny Rogers. A white Corolla drove up with a “You mad?” bumper sticker. This time the driver was a big dude with a Hawaiian shirt. He paid with a card, and started to pump his gas. I set my sudoku book down on the counter and left the register and stepped outside. “Hey!” I called out to him. He looked at me with his eyebrows knitted together, like he didn’t want to deal with me. “Can I help you?” he asked. I looked in the backseat of his car. It was mostly clean, save for a couple Corn Nut wrappers. “What does that bumper sticker mean?” “Excuse me?” “Your bumper sticker, what does it mean?” “I don’t know. This isn’t my car, I’m just borrowing it.” “Oh. It’s just that I’ve seen that sticker a lot, and I don’t see a lot of bumper stickers anymore, so I was wondering what it meant.” “Alright,” he said, turning back to his pump as if to dismiss me. I stared at him for a moment. Then I started going to the paper towel and sanitizer dispensers, acting like I was changing them out. He ignored me. I had the keys to the mart in my pocket. I crouched down as if to tie my shoe and when he wasn’t looking I scraped the keys into the paint right above the left back tire, right near the bumper, and made an X about an inch across, hands shaking. I had to be insane. Was this a felony? He didn’t catch me. He got back in the car and drove off, and I went back inside to sit down before my heart pounded out of my chest. Hours passed. Dozens of customers came and went, none in white Corollas. Another man with an orange hat insisted it was a gift and didn’t know where it came from. The sun went down over the desert. I was yawning. Finally, a white Corolla. The driver this time was a woman in mirrored sunglasses. I lost my sleepiness immediately as I left the counter, adrenaline already in my veins. I went around checking the dispensers. Sure enough, when I looked out of the corner of my eye, the car had the bumper sticker. I bent down to tie my shoe and looked for the X. I couldn’t tell right away if I’d seen it. Was that it? It had to be, it was in the same spot, but it looked faded, almost like someone had tried to buff it out. That had to be it. I stood up and looked in the backseat. There was a little girl staring at me with snot on her nose. There were two Corn Nut wrappers on the seat. I looked at the little girl and she looked at me. I wondered who she was and where she came from, and if the woman driving her was even her mother, or if any of these people were even human. I’d say my blood turned to ice but it felt more like I didn’t have blood at all, like it all just vanished and left me empty. I turned away before the mom could catch me staring into the car and went back inside. I needed to sit down. The Carpenters were playing on the speakers now. *“Don’t you remember you told me you loved me, baby.”* I sat down at the counter. My sudoku was lying next to me, dull pencil laying neatly in between the open pages. *“Said you’d be coming back this way again, baby.”* I sighed, picked up the pencil, and kept doing the sudoku. A teenager came in wearing an orange hat with no logo and bought a Kit-Kat. He gave me a wrinkled five dollar bill and I gave him his change. “*Baby baby baby, oh, baby.”* “That’s a cool hat,” I told him. “Thank you,” he said. “It was a gift.


To the untrained eye, the window was as ordinary as windows come. It was a round window, which sat comfortably in its aging frame at the top of its aging wall. It didn’t get to see much of what happened inside the house, but it could see the whole street. In fact, the window was quite proud of the things it could see, for on the rare occasions someone came all the way up into the attic, it got to see both sides of every story. The people on either side could only see what they saw looking out through the window, but the window saw everything. The window saw many different people come and go throughout the years. Each one tried to hide the inside of the house, and made the window wear many things. It had worn curtains, blinds, and duct taped bedsheets. Most recently, it wore a thick coat of black paint, which obscured any view it used to have of the inside of the house. It had nearly despaired of ever seeing the inside again because of that paint, but then it met Samantha. Samantha scraped the paint off the window and polished it until it could see again. The window watched curiously as she cleaned out the junk that had accumulated in the attic room over the years, wondering idly what it would wear this time. It couldn’t help but be surprised when she painted the walls and polished the wooden floor. She fixed everything up... except for the window and its frame. It experienced true confusion when she set a desk in front of the window, sat down with a computer, and stared joyfully out. The confusion only became more potent because of what Samantha saw when she looked out the window. The window saw everything on that street, but it couldn’t see the things it saw reflected in her eyes. In her eyes, it saw castles and spaceships, dragons and warlocks. But when it looked at the street, none of that was there. Children played in the yard. The lampposts blinked on. Cars pulled wearily back home after a long day’s work. There were no dragons. Yet Samantha saw dragons, and she somehow saw them when she looked out the window. It was perplexing. Surely, Samantha was insane. Not only were there no rolling green hills or towering castles now, there never had been any in the first place. The window slowly grew accustomed to Samantha, in spite of her apparent insanity. Every day, close to sunset, she would climb the stairs to the little attic room, sit down at her desk, and gaze through the window upon things that weren’t there. Then she would tap away at her keyboard while the window, curious, tried to see the things she saw. Maybe that dragon she had seen was a cloud or a car moving too fast down the narrow street. Maybe the castle was the old brick house at the end of the block with a round tower on the corner. Try as it might, however, the window just couldn’t see it. The thought occurred to the window that perhaps Samantha was looking at the window, rather than through it. But when it looked closely, it was obvious that wasn’t the case. What could she possibly be seeing on the window that would lead to her fantasy world? The window was old. It had great long scratches and several small cracks. No, Samantha’s eyes saw something besides the window. Something strange and wonderful. The window couldn’t see what she saw, so it began to pretend it could. (Although that’s not something windows generally do.) It would watch the beautiful scenes play out in Samantha’s eyes, then try to play them out itself. Maybe if it tried hard enough, it too would see the things Samantha saw instead of just reflecting them. It became a sort of game for the window. Samantha would see something, and the window would reflect it the best it could. One day it would be a calm day at the beach with mermaids playing in the waves. The next day, it would be an epic duel between two staff-wielding sorcerers. Ever so slowly, the window began to see glimpses of the things Samantha saw. It warmed up to the game, and it even began to predict what would happen next in her story. Of course, the brave knight would defeat the fire-breathing dragon. Of course, the princess would fall for him. Now, the window saw. Now, it understood. Then came the day that the sun rose on the window, and the window didn’t wait for Samantha. It began to look for the things she saw before she ever got there. The window saw Samantha open the door. Of course it did. The window saw everything. It watched as Samantha’s eyes grew wide. It couldn’t fathom why. Samantha had always seen such scenes out the window as the window saw now. Yet Samantha gaped at the window, awestruck. The window didn’t understand, so it just ignored Samantha, happily playing out the scene it imagined on its glass. Fairies, like little multicolored sparks, danced and bobbed in the rolling green hills of a faraway land. A little elf girl and boy ran through the tall grass, trying to catch one. Their mother, tall and beautiful, came out of a hole in the hill to call them home for dinner. There was movement in the little attic room, and the window’s attention was drawn back to Samantha. She sat in her desk chair, her hands up to her mouth. When she pulled them away, she was smiling, even though tears rolled softly down her cheeks. She eased her hands onto the keyboard of her computer, just as she always did. Then she hesitated, her eyes locked on the window. This time, Samantha’s eyes didn’t look through the window. They stared at it. This time, Samantha’s eyes reflected what the window saw, not the other way around. The window played on, happily oblivious as to the reasons for Samantha’s awe. After all, the window was as ordinary as windows come.


I sit quietly in my chair, headphones on as another mindless meeting drones on, my eyes are on the screen, but my mind is not focused. Days like these make me question what I’m doing with my life. My headphones are on, but the words coming through have no meaning. My mind drifts, as it often does, to the various items around my small apartment. Day’s like today, I retreat to a younger version of myself. I stand up and walk away from my computer. Despite being right at my ears, the meeting might as well be miles away. I walk over to my sofa, and examine the small vacuum cleaner still sitting out from the last time I cleaned. Carefully I unsnap the extended arm, and place the vacuum itself back onto the sofa. It’s only a few feet long, but it’s lightweight and balanced, easy to spin around. I look over and notice one of the foam dart guns sitting upon my bookshelf, a monument to simpler times, of great battles and lost darts scattered across friends' basements. With the vacuum arm in one hand, and the dart gun in the other, I hold them up and close my eyes.  I open my eyes and examine my surroundings. I am on a small freighter ship, delivering valuable goods across the andromeda galaxy. Alarms are blaring as pirates have attacked my ship and are about to board. I examine my equipment, press the small button at the base of my shield baton, with a whirr it powers up, a transparent grid of hexagons materialized forming a clear shield, a soft blue glow emanates from its exteriors. On my other hand is my trusty blaster, a M-23 plasma cartridge revolver. I press the button to release the drum, and with a stylish spin, the weapon rotates around my finger, the barrel now facing up towards me, with a quick glance, I confirm each of the 9 slots are ready and loaded. I spin the weapon back, and flick it to the side, allowing the cylinder to slide back into place with a satisfying click.  Quickly I move to the cargo control panel, and ensure the cargo is locked down and secure. The loudspeaker echoes in my head, a reminder of the impending threat. I can hear the pirates chattering in their alien tongue on the other side of my airlock, no doubt preparing to breach my small ship in an attempt to steal my precious cargo. I ready myself in front of the door, weapon drawn, shield at the ready, and wait patiently.  The control panel begins to flash as the pirates hack the door, it flashes red, faster and faster, until it suddenly turns green, and the door rapidly slides open. I raise my shield and quickly open fire with three quick shots, each hitting one of the pirates straight in the head, as they fall quickly to the ground. Their chatter continues as I fall back, they may have numbers, but I know my own ship, and quickly hide at the end of the small corridor, weapon drawn as they move towards me. When I know they are close, I swing my shield and bash the closest pirate straight in the face, stunning him and surprising those behind him, this moment of panic gives me the opening to fire off five more shots with quick precision, all while blocking each incoming shot with my shield, the bursts of plasma absorbing into my shield and dissipating the energy harmlessly outwards. Once the smoke clears, only one pirate remains, I stand tall and face him, as we silently stare at each other, he draws his sword, and begins to march forward. I aim my weapon and fire off the last shot from my pistol, as it harmlessly bounces off his plated armor. I take a few steps back, and set my blaster down on a nearby crate. I place my other hand on my shield and press a button, with a click the shield retracts then reorients into narrow cylinders out from either end of the baton, creating a makeshift staff. I grip the staff nervously as I take my stance, watching as the pirate walks slowly towards me, step by step. My grip tightens, and I plan my first strike.  “Mike? Are you still here?”  In an instant, the world around me shifts again, and I am back in my small apartment, holding the arm of a vacuum cleaner in a battle stance staring in the empty room that is my office. A wave of nostalgia passes over me as I gently place the arm down, being thankful that I'm on the 12th floor of a Highrise building, and it's very unlikely anyone saw me running around like a crazy person. The adult version of me quickly has to retake control, as the imaginative child that lives inside and escapes the fantastic worlds retreats back into my subconscious. I sit back on my computer, and try my best to figure out what was going on in the meeting, before my hand approaches my mouse and clicks the unmute button on the meeting.


The Yellow Box The security lights were on at the elementary school across the street so I could make out the windows of the classrooms on the east side of the building. I remembered the floor plan inside as I’d spent my childhood there what seemed tonight like a hundred years ago. This was the umpteenth time I’d made tea this week, and many of those had been in the middle of the night. Most of the cups came back with just a couple of grateful sips taken, but it was essentially the only thing mom could keep down anymore. I’d heard the plaintive call coming from the master bedroom five minutes ago as I’d been dozing on the couch in the living room. It was my shift so I flung off the blankets and made my way by the lamp light to the master bedroom. We chatted for a moment about whether the other got any sleep, how mom was feeling and did she need anything. The answer was always the same and it was beginning to hurt my heart. I helped mom onto the commode then left her in privacy. I ramped up the burner under the endlessly full kettle then went back and offered support to return to bed, doing the personal care required before tucking her back in. Passing the computer/T. V/spare room on my way to the kitchen I heard my sister whisper, “Mo, everything okay, do you need me?” I assured my sister with a reply into the dark. “No, it’s all good Kat, get some sleep you’re on in the morning. Love you.” I added, drifting towards the dim light over the sink. This is where mom had stood for years, watching kids on the playground and then past it to the ocean and mountains beyond. Over the years, at this sink, as a healthy young mom, a working woman that popped home for a quick lunch, in her retirement making lunch for herself and dad, then standing stoically after he passed and preparing dinner for one. The kettle was starting to gather steam and I turned to watch it, just to make sure it didn’t overflow when it boiled. Taking a tea bag from the familiar beige box, lowering it by it’s stapled-on string into mom’s favourite mug, adding just a bit of sugar and milk the way she liked it. It was decided right there and then that I’d never make another cup of this stuff after mom died. There it was the word. I tended not to dwell on the fact even knowing it wouldn’t have made a slight bit of difference if I acknowledged it verbally or not. Mom wasn’t going to be here, in her life, in this house, in this realm by the end of the week. They’d had a zoom discussion today, well yesterday now, with the doctor who was going to come up in two days and provide the MAID procedures. Me AKA Maureen, Kat, and David sat on the couch like three sad monkeys, asking and answering questions about the process. It needed to be a consensus and we all consented to the decision for three distinct reasons. I walked gingerly back to the bedroom, making sure I didn’t spill any on the white carpet. Mom was typing something on the purple iPad she’d been keeping close to her lately. “What are you looking at, Facebook?” I smiled and sat the mug on the rickety, pale green side table. Sliding down the wall to sit on the carpet, all the better to chat from this angle. Some people that visited would pull a chair from the dining set just outside the bedroom, or if they were good friends they’d snag a bit of the mattress and gossip. “Maureen, honey? Are you okay? Mm, this tea is perfect, thank you. I don’t know why your siblings can’t make it like this.” “Maybe because they’re not married to a Scot who drinks tea every day?” I answered back then asked again what she was working on. When she told me she’d been writing her own obituary I wasn’t surprised. “Organized to the end eh?” I smiled at her. I’d seemingly adopted a no-nonsense attitude to the whole thing even though the little girl inside was continually throwing a tantrum. It served to make Mom more relaxed about appointing me as the executor. It’s not a job that anyone wants no matter how close you are or were to the deceased. I knew hers would be easier than some. She’d been showing all three of us where her binders were to be found for ages. The campaign picked up after dad died four years ago. She had one binder for personal things like banking and her cell phone plan, and another that covered house details. “Do you want to read out what you have so far?” “Not yet. How’s your brother doing? He doesn’t come in to see me very often.” “I think he’s having a tough time talking, and you know he’s not good with death and dying. He was the same when dad was sick. You wouldn’t even know he was in the same house sometimes.” “That’s true, women are almost always stronger than men, I never got why they get the reputation as being the strong caretakers when it’s us that carry the emotional and physical loads most of the time. I’m done with the tea honey; can you take it away now?” I stood up and before I picked up the mug I looked into its depth; she might have taken two sips from the whole cup. I raised an eyebrow at her, a query without voice then turned and poured the tea into the sink, again. After using the washroom, I measured out the medication she’d asked for from the counter pharmacy. We chatted a bit more then she released me with a smile. “Back to your couch peasant!” She commanded and I laughed back. Peasant had been one of dad’s phrases. I managed to get comfortable on the couch for a couple more hours of light sleep before hearing her again. “Hello, hello, can anyone hear me?” “I’m up Mom, on my way.” I kicked off the cover and clumsily folded it realizing that it was six thirty and therefore unlikely I’d be laying down again for awhile. Even though Kat’s shift started at 7:30 this morning I still had tea to make and another conversation with my mother. “Hey mom, did you get any rest? What can I help with?” “I got an hour or two, I know you did, I could hear you snoring from here!” My snoring had been a family joke for years so it didn’t bother me. It was especially loud when I’d had a couple wines but those were few and far between lately. I’d had a couple of beers with pizza here last week on my birthday. It was only my fifty-fourth, not a big one but the celebration was muted at best. Kathleen had her fiftieth a couple months back, the same week mom had been diagnosed, so she totally won the prize for worst birthday so far. We went through the morning routine of personal care and medications then after I brought her another cup of the perfume scented tea that was starting to make me gag, we sat and chatted. Kat stumbled in, her long dark hair in a messy bun, her glasses emphasizing big hazel eyes. She’d likely put in her contacts later, but for now we three were gloriously unkempt, unbathed, and united. Mom told us the song she’d like to be played as she ‘drifted off.’ It was the Hawaiian version of ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’ She related how she and dad used to hear it all the time in Maui, so it was kind of their song. I knew the one she meant, Al and I spent almost as much time there as they did. I jumped up realizing I hadn’t called my husband since yesterday afternoon. He would come over for a couple hours at a time but he felt at odds here because he didn’t really have a role. I understood that but I still missed him. That day flowed like most the past three weeks. When mom was sleeping my sister and I would just sit and talk at the kitchen table. A few times David would emerge from the basement where his bedroom remained much the same as his teenage den. He would deny any health issues and gently tell us to ‘back off.’ He didn’t want any dissension with his sisters as he knew in our edgy state we’d call him on anything at this point. When the three of us were in a good space and maybe having a glass of wine, we’d hear a plaintive greeting from the bedroom and sigh, Kat and I would put our glasses down and David, knowing it was no place for a man, would slink back downstairs. ‘The morning of’ as we would eventually come to call it was a beautiful April day. The three of us stood in the kitchen, not making tea for once as an empty stomach was called for. We came to the bizarre conclusion that it had been many years since the three of us were awake, in the same house, this early since our last Christmas as kids. The doctor and nurse arrived and we were reminded of the process. We gathered at mom’s bedside and I cued up her song on the iPad for her. She looked at us three grown ups as one of us foolishly said, “Say hi to dad for me” then she said, “Goodbye my babies” and slipped away. Kat and I both had our husbands in the house for comfort, we both tried to keep our brother with us but he continued to slip away during the day. I made the usual phone calls; the funeral home and close family, while my sister phoned her kids. There was a lot going on that day, but I still managed to remember to find that despised light-yellow box and lower it into the garbage can. It had soothed her, and given me something to do, but its job was done now.


“ Now boarding Flight 101 to Tahiti ,” the lady on the intercom announced and nearly stopped my heart. Are we really doing this? “That’s us!” Kevin excitedly grabbed his bag and my suitcase. His brown eyes glittered, and his smile had never been wider. It was nice to see him like this. I felt the same way last night when we concocted this plan, but now... “Are you ready?” “Yeah,” I nodded and faked a smile the best I could. Nervously, I moved my blonde hair behind my ear and pulled my purse strap over my shoulder. “Oh, Brea, this is going to be amazing! Imagine the views, the ocean breeze, the beach!” “It’ll be amazing!” I parroted as I forced my legs to follow him toward the door. Should we really be doing this? “You aren’t kidding! Most people only dream about things like this, but here we are making it happen.” I nodded along. How could I detest when this was the happiest I’d ever seen him. The lady checked our tickets, and in no time, we were in our seats on the plane. “Do you mind if I have an aisle seat?” I asked him, feeling a bit constricted near the window. “Sure,” he said with a shrug. “I just thought you’d like to see the ocean.” “O, I’ll have plenty of time to see it when we land,” I assured with a smile. Awkwardly, I crossed my arms as I tried to keep him from noticing that my heart was pounding out of my chest. “This is going to be amazing,” he repeated. “Yeah, you said that.” I smiled but couldn’t help the frustration in my voice. Why was he trying so hard to convince me? “Some people only ever dream of going to Tahiti to get married, but here we are running off without anybody knowing or expecting it.” "Yep," I nodded. My nausea rose as the knot in my stomach grew. All I could think about was how mad my mother would be when she found out that she wasn't invited to my wedding. How would my sister feel after planning an elaborate ceremony for us for over a year? I also couldn't help being disappointed that only Kevin and our preacher would see me in my wedding dress. It took my seamstress a year to construct from scratch. I wanted to share this day with my family and party at my reception... Last night, we were both so tired of trying to get everything just right. We were frustrated as we worked around the wedding party’s different schedules to get together for rehearsals. Kevin and I looked at our honeymoon tickets and saw the number to call on the brochure if we wanted to move up our travel dates. He got the idea to just run off and get married so it would be over. Then, we could move on with our married lives. At the time, it sounded great, but now... I want my wedding back. The problem is: how do I tell him that when he looks so... happy? How do I tell him this is a mistake? “Absolutely amazing,” he repeated. Wait... Is he trying to convince me... or himself? “Kevin.” “Yeah?” he turned to me, and it was the first time I noticed him using his fake smile on me. “Do you really think it will be amazing?” “Why wouldn’t it be?” “Well... I know how close you are to your brothers. They would love to be there. Not to mention Addison is making our cake. She sent me pictures yesterday that she was starting the process.” “She can use them for someone else’s wedding or birthday cake.” “But they won’t be her brother. She’s working hard on it.” “What are you trying to say, Brea? That we shouldn’t do this because of what the family will think.” "Not just think but feel. I can't help but feel that it will break their hearts, and eventually ours too, one day. In our wedding pictures, crazy Uncle Bill won't be singing karaoke on stage. Aunt Milly won't be squeezing your cheeks. Your mother won't be crying because she has to let you go." “You’ll miss that?” "No, we will. Yes, it's a hassle to get it all together. But when we do, that day will be beautiful and perfect, surrounded by our loved ones who are celebrating the happiest day of our life with us." I began to feel better as I finally voiced my concern and watched relief flood his features. He didn’t speak at first. However, within seconds his smile was genuine as a deflating sigh left him. “Thank God you said something. I was seriously going to go through with this because I thought you wanted to. I didn’t want you to think that I didn’t want to marry you because I do. I really do, Brea.” “I know,” I said with a giggle and feeling much better than I had. “I just didn’t know how to say it, and I didn’t want to upset you, especially not two days before our wedding.” “You’re so sweet.” “I’d do anything for you.” “You, too.” We shared a light kiss before the lady on the intercom interrupted with another warning. “ Final call for all passengers on Flight 101 to Tahiti !” “We should go,” I suggested. “To Tahiti?” “Well, yeah, but on our honeymoon in a couple days. Let’s go finalize some other things. I need to pick up my dress this afternoon.” “Yeah... my bachelor party is tonight.” “See? You don’t want to miss that.” “I love you.” “I love you, too.” “We’d better go before they lock the doors.” "Good idea." We stood and walked off the plane arm in arm. Kevin and I were happier, lighter, and busier than when we entered. Now, I had to figure out how we were going to make last-minute alterations to my sister's bridesmaid's dress... I needed a different flower to dawn my centerpieces because the florist mistakenly forgot to order wisteria... And I have to figure out how I'm getting Grandma into the reception hall since the building isn't wheelchair accessible... One breath at a time, Brea. One breath at a time. Even if I did make mistakes with any of that, it wouldn't be as bad as the one we almost made.


Lost and Found It was Friday, December 1. Winter opened her left eye ... 8:12am. She would normally be at work by now, but today was the first of 10 vacation days. She stretched, yawned, and pushed up onto one elbow to look out the window. Ugh! Falling back heavily onto her pillow, she pulled the covers up to her chin, rolled over to her right side, moved her knees and arms to the fetal position, and closed her eyes. She woke again at 8:57am, noticing that she hadn’t budged an inch, and enjoyed the muscle and joint relief as she straightened out her limbs. Clearly, it was time to get up, and with some reluctance, she abandoned her bed and stood naked before her bedroom window, looking morosely at the season’s first significant snowfall, a monster storm still very much in progress. Impervious to the cold air, she stood and stared out the icy window, stewing at her plight. She was to have been in the air by now, heading for Vancouver to board a trans-Canadian train to Toronto, snug in her luxurious private room... dining, sipping fine wine, and relishing one beautiful vista after another. But that was all scrapped last night, as flights were cancelled, and connections were irretrievably lost to the storm. Fortunately, she had insured her trip, and full refunds were in progress, but that was of little consolation. Despite her name, Winter was not a fan of winter, nor of its holidays, for that matter. She made it a point to escape Chicago every December. These annual solo retreats were always to faraway, quiet, beautiful places, where she could be anonymous, write, rest and brace herself for the tedium of the season and the urban holiday madness to come. If it kept snowing for ten days, she mused, she could enjoy this view and those from her kitchen and front room, as well, with evergreen limbs sagging bravely under the weight of the fresh snow, and vacant streets invisible under sheets of pure white cotton candy. But she knew that was not to be. The tree dressing would last only briefly, and the streets would soon be a gray-black, half-frozen mess transporting her and other irritated drivers to whatever doldrums they pursued. With a near-empty fridge in advance of her planned trip, she would have to dig out and go to the store, only to prepare meals that would not be so great, clean up the dishes, and try to dive into a writing project that might help her forget her lost holiday. Her freezing body finally got her attention, and she dashed to the bathroom, emerging 25 minutes later feeling better after humanization activities, including a steaming-hot shower. She surveyed her fridge and found enough frozen stuff to get her through the day... not fine dining, but tasty and virtually no prep or cleanup. All in all, the day turned out to be pleasant, if not joyous... typing at her computer while periodically glancing out the window as the snow wound down, while Chopin, Rodrigo, et al filled the air. The next day brought some warming, and the plowed, soon-slushy streets were all too visible. Gone with the warmth and a strong wind, was the tree frosting, but in less time than it took to transform a winter wonderland into a dismal blight, the mercury plunged back down to single digits, as if mocking Winter and others who had not immediately cleared their front porches and driveways. Regardless, with her freezer compartment now depleted, Winter could defer the dreaded dig-out no longer. Hers was a small, one-bedroom ranch on a slab, in a neighborhood of small, one-bedroom ranches on slabs... all likely built in the ‘50s by the same or copycat builders. She had purchased her corner home six years earlier, at age 26, and in all that time she didn’t know any of her neighbors. Her only adjacent neighbor, in the nearly identical house next door to her right, had been an older man, who rarely went out and whom she had never met. He had only one visitor that Winter could recall seeing... a 30ish woman who visited most Sundays. From the ambulance siren that roused her late one night a few weeks earlier, followed by occasional sightings of the woman but not the old man, Winter assumed that the man had passed away. She guessed that the woman, presumably the old man’s daughter, must have moved in temporarily, to manage his things, as her car frequently overnighted in the driveway. Winter phoned Jim, the neighborhood teen who had been making money with his dad’s snow-thrower for the last few seasons, and he was soon battling the frigid conditions clearing her walk and driveways. When he was nearly finished, she bundled-up and went outside with a teapot and two empty cups in hand. She tried not to stare at the frozen snot above his lip, and while he sipped the steaming hot chocolate, she poured one for herself. As she set the pot down by her feet, they were interrupted by the new neighbor, calling out from her front door, “Excuse me, but I don’t suppose you could add me to your customer list, sir? I’m new here and don’t know anyone who can help me move this mountain of snow.” “No problem, mam, I’ll do it right away... sixty bucks ok?” “Sure, thanks so much. Just knock when you’re finished... I’ll be here, and thanks again.” “This hot chocolate really hits the spot, Miss Summers,” Jim said. “I’ve been out here for hours, and I needed something warm in my belly... thanks a lot.” “That’s the least I can do,” Winter responded, “First the huge snowfall, and now these bitter temps are a tough start to the season, and I wouldn’t want to be out here doing what you’re doing.” Noticing her trembling against the wind, he said, “It’s ok, that’s what I’m getting paid for. But when you go out after I’m finished, be careful. With the thaw and then the hard freeze, the unsalted side streets are sheets of ice. And this wind can be dangerous, so you don’t have to stand out here with me in this freezing cold... I’ll knock on your door in a few minutes when I’m finished, and I can return your cup then.” “I’ll take you up on that, Jim... thanks,” Winter replied through chattering teeth. She grabbed the empty teapot and made a bee line for her front door, teeth audibly rattling by the time she got there. She had just begun to warm up when she heard the knock on her door. She opened it and said, “Step in for a minute and warm-up, Jim.” “Oh, no, mam, I’d better not,” he replied, handing her his empty cup. “It would only make me colder when I got back out here, and I still have a lot left to do today. I have to take full advantage of days like this, if I want to pad my bank account... but thanks anyway.” “Ok,” she smiled, “here’s your check. I made it out for myself and for the lady next door... she just moved in recently, and it will be my housewarming gift to her... and I added a tip for hazardous duty pay.” “Wow, thanks Miss Sommers,” he replied, wide-eyed above what was now a fully formed snotsicle protruding from his nose. “I appreciate it, and just call whenever you need me. I’ll let the neighbor lady know how nice you were... have a great rest of your day.” Winter closed the door behind her, paused and leaned back against it. She felt good. She didn’t quite know how to interpret her spontaneous act of paying for the new neighbor’s snow removal, having never even met her, but somehow it made her feel good, so it must be... well... good. She had never done anything like that before, having always kept to herself. She enjoyed her solitary life, or at least, she thought she did. Maybe her atypical act had something to do with her lost vacation... maybe like a reaching out to replace something that was lost. Or maybe it was in sympathy for the neighbor’s presumed loss of her father, or maybe guilt for never having introduced herself to the father during his lifetime. Or maybe it was the new neighbor’s attractive manner and pleasant voice... maybe that combined with some instinct to come out of her solitary life and invite someone in. Winter walked over to the full-length dressing mirror on the closet door and stood looking at herself... thinking that might help her solve the puzzle. Hmm, 32 years old, and she didn’t really understand herself... that was interesting. The girl in the mirror seemed to have, like the new girl next door, an attractive manner, and an ok voice, she supposed. Hmm. She moved over to her desk, opened her laptop to a new word document, and typed, “?”. She thought back to her childhood, her adolescence, her high school and college years, her independence, her early career, and in recent years, her accumulating financial security. She was an avid writer, and generally she could quickly turn a blank page into a flow of thoughts, but this time her fingers weren’t moving. She looked at the all-but-empty page and just kept mulling over her past and present, searching for the answer to that question mark. None came to her, and after what must have been an hour since Jim had left, she heard another knock on the door. The knock pulled Winter Summers from her blank-page trance, and when she opened the door, a frozen gust of air rushed in, past the new neighbor girl, who stood smiling, a steaming teapot of something in her left hand and two empty cups in her right... a warm smile on her attractive, 30ish face.


(IP) Punishable by Death The scarlet glow of the lanterns that hung in the trees suddenly looked too bright for the explorer’s eyes, and she swore under her breath. But when she looked up, seeing the portal yawning open, and she saw a small cluster of wood houses, and a chill wind swept around her, lifting her braid off of her shoulders. Had she finally done it? She’d spent years training in the magic of opening portals, and warm blood dripped down her hand, staining the earth a darker brown. Had she finally become successful? She’d tried so many times over the years that she’d lost count. The world above her glowed a white so bright it looked almost blue, and she shivered; she wondered if this was a dream, but the gentle, fat flakes falling upon her upturned face were melting, sending a shock of cold on her cheeks. Samira knew that she should go back to the village to report her success, but something kept her rooted to the ground. A crazy, absurd thought came to her. What if she could climb into that portal and explore it for herself? From the time that she’d been a child, she’d served the village and The Elders, happily so. But that had been before she’d found the books, hidden in the larder, of all places. They’d told impossible tales: mountains that pierced the sky, canyons that contained black, yawning chasms, magic of all kinds and secret doors to worlds that Sam could only dream of. First came the wonder, and then the betrayal. Why had this been hidden from their people? They deserved the truth; however tangled and strange it was. Sam had found herself at a crossroads. Despite jeopardizing her role working as a trusted explorer for The Elders, her curiosity would not be doused, no matter how she tried. Insubordination was made punishable by death, but she no longer cared. Her world was more than just the village and the forests that surrounded it. She’d always suspected, but to have proof, undeniable evidence that they’d been lied to; it had almost been enough to shatter her and everything she’d ever known. Defiance roared in her heart like the flames within the lanterns, and before she could question herself further, she walked over to a tree and began to climb, ignoring where the sharp, prickly bark cut into the skin of her palms. The portal above her loomed ever closer, and she gritted her teeth against the cold, howling wind. Whatever happened next, she was determined to discover something for herself, for once. At long last, she reached the top branch of the tree, and she hung tight, wincing when she felt the branch buckle and sway. She was so close. But her foot slipped, and she gasped. It was a long way to the ground, and she swore once again. But then she felt a hand grip the back of her hood, and the fabric started to tear. Before she realized what was happening, she was pulled off of the branch, and when she landed in the snow, she gasped at its cold wetness seeping into her clothes. “Who are you and how did you open the portal?” A gruff voice asked, and Sam had no idea how to answer it.


Heroin: No Postcards From Portugal “You may like reading, The Freaky Fungal Family Tree, ” I told one of the two waitresses attending my table who’d noticed I was reading, and then had asked for book recommendations on that sun-splashed afternoon. That’s the explanation any of us three shared when strangers encountered us thereafter and inquired how we’d first met. After all, and because of our age differences, we were a curiosity. The two, who at first, became muses for my literary work. Eventually, well, what can I say? Legally, we were all adults... My former cell phone number was 201-484-9631. As of today, I closed my Verizon account which provided mobile access for that number. The $600 smartphone, also provided by Verizon, I’ll donate to the local homeless shelter to do with as they may, once someone else gets suckered into signing up again for G5 mobile service. I only got the freaking thing because I needed to go back and forth for a series of eye surgery operations at a hospital several cities away from where I live. The final of those cut and paste procedures took place last Thursday. Health insurance and cell phones suck, but they’re necessary evils you need every now and then to survive in today’s world. Today’s world: What a joke. It ain’t any better than the world of yesterday - today’s world simply and endlessly drills that little lie into your brain that it is. I’m done! I got a call on the cell from my girls now out in Los Angeles last night. Other than a business colleague and a guitar-playing friend who helped me set up my now disconnected phone, I’ve never given anyone the number I just shared with everyone reading this. Needing the device to only book Uber car rides for the hospital appointments, no one else besides my girls ever phoned me on my mobile number. They even helped me pick it out on the Verizon online store site so they could call me as soon as I got out of surgery to check on how I was doing. The joke’s on all of us I guess, what I knew about surgical procedures was equal to what I knew about smartphones. Because before the operation it was required I leave all personal effects, including the phone, in a locker until I was released from the facility’s care. Today’s world! So, during the call from my muses the other evening, they dropped the big one. They’d met someone. Not sure if it was a man or woman, and that doesn’t matter to me. Full disclosure: I’ve been in a throuple with my girls for nearly a year now - and monogamy was never a concern. In fact, it was an exhilarating sense of freedom not having to be concerned about it. What I am concerned with concerning the person they just met is that person’s profession: dealing heroin. You see, their new acquaintance just introduced the two of them to the product pushers pushed. And according to my girls, it was GREAT! Great - I’ve heard that before. I’ve even had a few personal experiences with junkies during my tenure in yesterday’s world, and they all think the first hit is great. I’ve watched from the sidelines how it just always goes south and downhill thereafter. There goes your better judgment. There goes your health, dreams, career, family, goals, plans, ambitions, reputation, integrity, and practically everything else. And for an unlucky number of heroin addicts, oops, there goes your life! This is the point where I’ll choose to digress and tell you about an experience I had with one junkie in yesterday’s world - so read on if you will... I’d been in a relationship with that addict from my former life for nearly as long as I’ve been in this throuple I just told you about. I knew she was using. She even tried to turn me on to it a few times, but I was never interested. Heroin scared me shitless. I accepted that smack would get the best of me. I was weak - but I wasn’t stupid. For a relatively uneducated person I acknowledged my own limitations rather well, and that I lacked the strength and fortitude to master the evil opiate. Yet, I was absent of intelligence, or perhaps the experience, in how to handle life with an addict. Instead, I told her to not only get out of the apartment we shared on the Lower Eastside of Manhattan but to leave my world as well. And she did, albeit with having not revealed she was pregnant with a child. Our child. My child; at the time of her exile. Damn, I’d not known I even had a son until the call from the NYPD to identify their bodies. Apparently, according to the cops, she thought it was a good idea to nurse the child as she lay in bed after shooting up. If you’d known my former girlfriend then you’d surely conclude, especially if you’d ever sampled her attempts at baking, she lacked a talent for measuring the proportions of ingredients required in a recipe. So, can you take a wild guess at what happened? BINGO! She not only ODed but fell unconscious atop the baby she was nursing, our son, and the boy suffocated. A police officer shared the kid’s name with me: Alan. That was the seldom-used middle name my parent had hung on me. Alan - I had a dead son named Alan. Now the jokes on me, and it’s a joke I’m rarely willing to retell to others. I so vividly can recall what led to my ex’s exile. The deeper she got into heroin the more I felt like I was standing on a seashore as I watched her being dragged further out into the ocean by a riptide. An undertow that was stronger than she realized, and was something never to be mastered. While I stood helplessly as it pulled her down I’d silently think to myself, “Drop me a postcard when you get to Portugal.” But junkies seldom live to see the Portuguese coastline. Nor, do some of their children. It’s just a fact of life. And anyway, I’m done. Now, let’s return to the last tale I’ll ever share with you about my girls in California. So, they told me all about their newly acquired dope connection. This dealer had turned them on for free. That’s something pushers usually do because they know you’ll be back to pay for the next one, then another hit, and another, and all the future fixes after that. Fixes - well, ain’t that the cutest little moniker! What once was fun becomes a fix to maintain the brief and temporary respite of not succumbing to the dreaded dope sickness when you can’t find a fix. When a junkie is “jonesing” they’ll do anything for a fix. You just name it and call the shots, for a fix; they’ll do whatever someone wants. I remembered; I lived through it a few times in yesterday’s world, and the sickly experience I sadly shared with a user. Take it from me, withdrawal’s sick. I know, I watched that woman I used to love sweat, shake, puke, piss, and even crap herself silly when she couldn’t find a fix. Now, I’m done. My girls also said when I come to stay with them in LA this summer, as we’d tentatively planned, they’ll turn me on to their newly discovered acquaintance with that amazing product they’re sure I’d love. I said nothing. I only listened in muted silence to their delusions of an inner ability to beat heroin at its own game and not get hooked by the devious and deadly drug. They’d accomplish what those who were destroyed and died from diamorphine addiction failed to do. They’d break, tame, and ride the wild white horse, unlike all the others who’d attempted to bust that bucking bronco before them. They’d be the exception to the rule. Me? I realized quite a while ago I’d live longer by playing by the rules when it came to addictions. I’m weak. I said nothing as they prattled and rattled on about this new pipedream. Instead, I watched two more people whom I loved being dragged out to a deadly diacetylmorphine sea as I stood upon an imaginary shore. Calling out from the now shifting sands upon which I stood; I did not. For I accepted words were useless when speaking to dopeheads. Attempting to rescue them from their own dead-end device; I did not. For I knew entering the sea that had grasped them they’d only pull me down with them as they slowly sank beneath the waves. So helplessly, wordlessly, I watched. I watched as the undertow pulled them gradually from view. Watching, as they became ever smaller until only tiny specks far off in the distance; bobbing atop those ever-hungry hydrochloric salty waters. I saw them disappear somewhere near the horizon, a horizon where rainbows never tread, drifting away from me and toward the shores of Portugal’s coastline. I’ll no longer waste what precious moments still remain for me in this world waiting for postcards; postcards from Portugal. Postcards that would never arrive, since somewhere between Portugal and the deep blue sea, those who erroneously believed they could pull free from that soulless riptide I call heroin, have perished. For you see, finally, this time, I’m truly done!