To my darling, nameless girl - you won't remain nameless for long, I promise. I had planned to name you Harper, but after holding you, I knew it was wrong. I thought about Camille, or Diana, or Lyla, but none of them seemed right either. Give me a bit more time. I'll find something very soon. Happy birthday, sweet one. With love, Mom Eleanor stares at the computer screen. The letter is the first of nine hundred and thirty-six emails. This is the first time she has opened any of them. It is daunting - reading through these one at a time. She's tempted to skip to the most recent - or shut the laptop altogether - but instead, she moves her mouse up and clicks the next one. To my sweet firstborn - you may be wondering what this is. Well, this is your eighteenth birthday present! I made this email address specifically for you and plan to write to it whenever I can. It's like an electronic scrapbook! Look, I even put photos in! The first one is right after you were born. The second is you with grandpa, and the third is you just being cute. I have yet to pick out your name. Soon, though. It'll be perfect. With love, Mom The photos adorning the bottom of the screen are truly horrendous quality. Despite the pixelated and unfocused mess of colors, Eleanor still smiles, making out a young woman grinning deliriously into the camera with a tiny baby in her arms. The second one was a little clearer, an old man staring down at the baby with absolute wonder as he sat in a plastic hospital chair. And the third... The third is the clearest. The one clearly taken with the most care now that the chaos of afterbirth had been settled and all that was left was this tiny human studying its new world for the first time. Eleanor moves back out of the email, hovering over the third before scrolling up a bit higher. She isn't sure which this is - perhaps the ninetieth email written? Ninety-first? Eleanor clicks it, and is greeted by a photo of a toddler covered in green cake. I do not understand the fascination with frogs, was the first thing written, and Eleanor bursts into laughter. She had forgotten that the frogs were such a long phase of her life. I'm not sure I can ever fully forgive you for 'ribbet' being your first word instead of 'mama,' but I suppose watching you smash your face into a green cake as you screamed it repeatedly does soften the sting. We've set up an aquarium for your birthday and filled it with three frogs. You've stared at it for three hours now. Your grandfather says it isn't normal to stare at something so long, but I've been watching you watch the frogs for three hours now, and it doesn't feel odd. I guess that's just what happens when you love something. Happy birthday, little frog. With love, Mom There are more. So many more. Eleanor reads one after another, torn between savoring each word and gluttonously stuffing every letter into her mind. She reads just one more - then two. Then eight. And suddenly, time zips by, and she is no longer in the toddler section but reading about a nine-year-old who wore superhero costumes and got stuck in trees. I won't lie to you, little frog. Things are getting harder around here. You don't seem to notice. I'm glad. You're always so ready to see the best in everything. You don't ask why we have less food. You just say it's yummy. You don't cry about not getting more toys. You just make your own out of paper and crayons. I wish I could give you so much more. I thought I could handle this by myself - but maybe I should give you to your grandfather for a little while. Just until I get back on my feet. I need a job, and you need someone who smiles at you more. If you don't understand now... please understand as you read this. I don't want to be away from you. I don't. It's just for a little while. I promise. The next letter is sent a month later. No job yet! But soon. Your grandfather sends me pictures of you every day. I miss you. And then a week later. Nothing. Weren't they saying there was a worker shortage? It certainly doesn't feel like it... And then a day. Nothing. Another day. Nothing. One more. Nothing . And then... nothing. No letters came for weeks. Eleanor kneads a hand over her forehead, coaxing away the rising tension in her temples. By her feet, there is a low whimper, and she looks down to see a pair of labrador eyes peering up at her with a pitiful look. Smiling, she bends down and kisses his nose, grabbing a treat from a container and watching in wry amusement as the dog snatches it away - the sad moaning and groaning gone. Shaking her head, Eleanor opens the next email. I've done something awful, little frog. I only write you this because you'll be eighteen when you read it, and you should know what kind of person your mother is. I was interviewing for a job - yes, another - and a woman came into the waiting room... Interviewing for the same job. I realized it was between her and me. She was a nice woman. She has a son. He's around your age and likes racecars, apparently. She said she would take him to a race down in Florida if she got the job. She didn't get the job. I told her I was interviewing for something else and that she was in the wrong room - and when I went to interview, I told them she ran out. It was a terrible thing to do. I won't do something that awful again. I promise. But what matters is you get to come home now. I'll see you soon, little frog. With love, Mom From outside the window Eleanor is next to, there's laughter. Children are racing down the street, and a man yells at them to slow down as he chases after them. Eleanor grabs the curtain - thinking she might close it - before letting her hand fall away. The next letter is dated a few months later. I stole something today. You would think a job would pay you enough for both rent and food, but it feels like we have to choose every week. It was just some frozen peas. I'm sure nobody noticed... but I've decided not to tell you that stealing is wrong. Sometimes, little frog, we need to do things to survive. It is only wrong if we take out of greed. Not out of need. And a few months later. You said you hated me today. It's normal, I think. You're angry I left you and then took you away from your grandfather into an ugly apartment with stale food and one bed. I still kept your aquarium. There are four frogs in it now, but you never seem to look anymore. I still watch you, at least. I hate how fast you're growing up. I hate how it isn't fast enough for you. It'll get better. Soon. I'm going to try and get you something nice for your birthday. With love, Mom It gets harder to read. More stealing. More fighting. The letters get shorter. Angrier. Eleanor flinches when she opens the next one. I broke your aquarium today. I'm not entirely sure what happened. They say thirteen-year-olds are hard, but I never expected a hard life on top of it. I was just... angry. Angry that you forgot about that school project, and it was so late, and that we didn't have the money to get what you needed, and then you got upset, and I got upset, and I am so, so, so sorry. I tried apologizing, but all you did was pick up the broken glass. I tried to help. You just got more upset, so I made dinner instead. It hurts, a little, seeing you cry as you try to put leaves and rocks into a shoebox for your frogs. I hadn't realized you still liked them. I'm sorry, Davina. We'll get this figured out. With love, Mom A knock thuds through the house. Eleanor jumps, swearing loudly as she closes the laptop and gets up. Another knock comes - nudging the melancholy into irritation as she marches down the stairs, passing a large aquarium and framed photos to get to the front door. The dog barks belatedly but makes no move to get to the front door. Eleanor glances out the window and sighs. "Dad," she says once she pulls open the door. The man turns, having been waving at some neighbors, before smiling at her. "What are you doing here?" "And hello to you too, Eleanor," he says, tipping an imaginary hat. Eleanor scowls, and the wry attempt at humor fades. "It's Davina's eighteenth birthday," her father says, voice softening. "I didn't think you should be alone." She had half a mind to slam the door in his face. Unfortunately, her father had already walked by her into the house. Eleanor closed the front door, letting her forehead rest against the wood for a moment before taking a deep breath and glancing over her shoulder to where her father was waiting for her. His hair had gotten whiter since she'd last seen him. The wrinkles on his face were deepening, but his health seemed strong, and his mind sound as he slipped into the kitchen. "I was hoping to be alone today," Eleanor admits, running a finger over the granite countertops. Her father ignores the comment, flipping on the espresso machine and grabbing two mugs. "Dad." "To do what? Read emails?" Eleanor didn't answer. Someone had to read them, she thought. "You shouldn't do that to yourself." "They're memories." Her voice grows a little distant as she says the words, sitting on one of the counter stools. She stares at the frog mug her father had taken out and then pinches the bridge of her nose. "Two years," she says, a little numbly. There is a whirring from the espresso machine. "I just needed two more years, and she could have had all of this." "...an espresso machine?" her father asks dryly, but Eleanor is positive he knows what she means. "I live in a two-story house with three televisions, wood flooring, and a backyard that I don't know what to do with." Her father hands her a mug, steam rising from the cup. Eleanor just stares at it. "And I still can't seem to burn through this money." "You should be proud of yourself, El. You pulled yourself up-" "I wasn't able to give her any of this," Eleanor says. She's holding the espresso but not drinking it, instead using the mug to keep her hands warm, praying the glass burns her as she clenches it tighter. "I think every day of things I wanted her to have. Food, her own bed, private school, nice clothes..." she trails off and forces herself to try and at least taste the drink her father had made her. "You were a good mother, Eleanor." Her father places his own mug to the side to look at her. "Davina loved you very much." Outliving your child leaves one contemplative of the what-ifs. So often, you wonder what kind of person they would have turned into if they had lived long enough. Then there were other times when you dared to wonder what they might think of you if they lived long enough to see how you've changed. "I told her in those emails that I wanted to be honest with her about who I was... but I didn't put even half of the truth in there," Eleanor admits. There's a clink as she puts her cup down. "I mugged a woman in the park once to get her a birthday present. When she was living with you, I got arrested. Twice. I never even mentioned her father," she breathes out and places her thumbs to her forehead. A silence settles over them. It was strange - to read a version of herself that only Davina knew and that time had altered. It felt so far removed from who and what she was now... Like her daughter had perhaps not even known her at all. Her father reached over, lightly pulling her hand away from her face. Eleanor blinks back the tears, taking a slow breath. "I could have gotten her a car with all the money I have now," she murmurs, and her father sighs, squeezing her hand tightly. "A safe one. Then she wouldn't have ridden with Carly that day, or-" Her eyes drift to three sealed bottles of wine. They were gifted to her over the holidays from work or as a housewarming gift from strangers who were unaware of her distaste for drinking. A newer development, spurred by the drunk driver who had hit her daughter and her friend. He was alive somewhere. In some jail Eleanor didn't bother to look up even though she had been told several times. She didn't care. "I'm going to read," she decides, slipping from her father's grasp. She got up, leaving the coffee to grow cold on the counter as she grabbed her laptop from upstairs. This time, she takes it to the living room, curling up on the couch. She can hear her father still in the kitchen but ignores him as she clicks the next email. Davina - We tried pecan pie today. It's bizarre to live your entire life not realizing you've missed out on something. I sometimes get stressed, thinking that you might miss out on things. I thought the pie was delicious. You spat it right out. I don't know what about this makes me so happy, but it feels important to tell you about it. With love, Mom If Eleanor still drank, she would have cracked open the wine at that one. How was this her? It had been strange to start reading the first couple of emails - the voice of a teenage girl excited to be a mother. Someone bright and loving and warm. Eleanor doesn't feel like any of those things now... but she also doesn't feel like a desperate, angry adult scraping by each day. She wasn't sure what this era was. Change was peculiar in that if it was slow enough, then you never got to mourn what once was. Hello again, little frog! Happy birthday! I can't believe you're sixteen already - which sounds cliché, but I mean that. You're spending the day with Carly, but we're going to the movies when you get back. I have some exciting news that I'll tell you tomorrow... I got a new job! Something fancy and corporate. I'll tell you more about it later, but I'm thinking we celebrate with a nice dinner. With love, Mom This was where the notes changed. Again. This is when Eleanor changed. Again. The mouse hovered over the remaining fifty emails. She remembers each of them - she had broken her computer once after pressing send. There's no use reading them now. Eleanor doesn't want to read her grief - the begging and apologies and mourning to a cave with no echo. Shaking her head, she pulled the mouse away, figuring she's had enough for today. Then her eye caught something to the left of the inbox. The number of remaining unread emails sat bolded near the top, but underneath was the word 'Drafts' with a 'one' beside it. Eleanor frowns, trying to remember if she has ever logged into this account before. She clicks it twice, so the email pops up in a new window. Surprise, the first line read. Tis I! Allow me to explain. I was looking for my birth certificate to sign up for driver's ed in your desk, and I found this super old-looking sticky note in a plastic bag with login information. I decided to bring out my detective skills - and I found this! Please don't be mad. I know this is supposed to be for my eighteenth birthday, but I've already read through most of these. I couldn't help it. I miss you sometimes. I get why you have to work all the time, but it feels like we can go for days without talking. Maybe I'll get a job now that I'm sixteen, so we won't have to worry about bills so much. Either way, I marked all of these as unread again. That way, when I open this up in front of you, you won't suspect a thing (we both know you'll be looking over my shoulder as I log in). But when the time is right, I'll send this, and you'll be like, 'wow, Davina's so smart and like a super secret spy.' Or maybe at eighteen, I'll be super mature and serious and delete this because I'll be an 'adult.' Who knows? I hope I'm not too different from how I am now. You once told me that sometimes it's hard to like yourself, and it takes work for everyone to get there. There are time it feels like you have to start that work over when you change. I hope you know I loved you the entire time we grew up together. I know I haven't always been an easy child. I did my best, and I know you did too. Hopefully, we'll help each other work out how to love ourselves for whoever we are in the future too. Thank you for the birthday present, mom. And the eighteen years. With love, Davina


We were there for the interview. *The* interview. The one at Vectorien that everyone wanted. Most didn’t get the invite. I did. No job title or position was specified. The invite said: Vectorien Tower / 190 / 0900 Photos don’t do it justice. It looms over San Francisco like a monument. You need to experience it personally. I was there early. We all were: sitting in the lobby. Anxiety is weakness, Emon Nakamori says. Rumor was that he would be there. I flirted with a receptionist and noted her number. Her name was Andi. Displays of confidence are one way of asserting dominance. People in low places can be useful. At 0850, we were told to enter the elevators. There were seventeen of us. The elevator took us to the 190th floor, which is the roof of Vectorien Tower. The ride was quick. The doors opened and we saw the executives waiting. Emon Nakamori was among them. The sun was blinding and the wind was powerful. We proceeded to the edge, where Emon Nakamori and the executives had gathered. The view was magnificent. “This could be yours,” Emon Nakamori said. He introduced us to everyone in turn, including Bill Rabic, the senior public relations manager. “You may be wondering for which position you are interviewing,” Emon Nakamori said. “Unfortunately we have no position,” he said. Then he laughed and pushed Bill Rabic off the building-- Bill Rabic fell. We heard his screams fade. “Now we have a position,” Emon Nakamori said. Bill Rabic smashed against the ground. Someone vomited. Emon Nakamori said: “There is a file marked File-A in the lobby. Whoever brings me File-A becomes senior public relations manager. Everyone else will die. You may not take the elevator down, but you may take it up. There are no other rules. Good luck.” We scrambled for the stairwell. On the stairs we began our mad descent. A man fisted a woman’s hair and bashed her face against a railing. A woman pushed the frontrunner so that he fell and broke his neck against a wall. Soon she was dead too. Fifty floors down and it was safer to stay in the pack. Then one of them tripped me. I lost my balance. I hit another-- Together we tumbled. He punched me and leapt down the stairs. I knew I could not win the race. But I had a notion. I called Andi. “There’s a file. File-A,” I told her. “Emon Nakamori needs it on the top floor. Bring it now!” I ran up the stairs. I made it just as Andi was exiting the elevator. I was out of breath. Andi neared Emon Nakamori. The pack was somewhere down below. Andi had File-A. As she handed it to Emon Nakamori, I basked in triumph. “Congratulations,” said Emon Nakamori-- But not to me. “It was me,” I pleaded. “The rules were straightforward," Emon Nakamori said. Andi is the senior public relations manager. And I am dead. *We all are dead*.


After a long week that was filled with meetings, conferences, kids’ homework, and staying alive while commuting to work with the fellow crazy American drivers, we are home. Not just home, but home for a weekend. The bra is in our purse since we quickly took it off on the way out of the building and getting into our car. Shoes next and after kicking them off they fly across the room, hitting the wall and landing amongst the tower of shoes in the corner of the living room. We open the fridge and see a bottle of white wine chilling and know that this could be the peak of our day. But before we get to pop that cork, we grab some oversized sweats and sweatshirt to put on and get out of these restrictive business clothes from our day. Why are these clothes so uncomfortable? We grab the wine from the fridge, grab the cork screw and then pop it and clug clug clug into a nice glass. This glass happens to be from our best friend inscribed 'I like to wrap both hands around and swallow'. Our favorite! How could it not be? These glasses offer humor and talking points during a party or gathering. Tonight, though, we are gathered alone, and the humor is just being able drink in silence. With the kids at grandma's house for the weekend, our plan for dinner is easy. Just throw some food in the oven and relax. Which frozen concoction shall be our dinner? How about a quick freezer pizza. Takes no time at all to cook and makes us feel like we are 16 again. Well, one glass of delicious wine turned into two and then three. Our face is starting to get flushed, our body temperature is increasing, and our head is a little fuzzy. The sweatshirt gets swapped for a tank top, a tighter one as we do not want the ladies to escape. We need to show off our very un-shaved legs and pull up our sweatpants, so they turn into a mix between shorts and capris. It has been a long winter and why do we need to shave when no one is seeing our bare legs anyways? As we relax even further, we start to doze off. The stress of the week falls from our shoulders as the quiet and the slightly drunkenness overcomes us. Feet propped up. Dozed turns to sleep. Deep sleep. BEEP BEEP BEEP... Jolts you awake! BEEP BEEP BEEP! Repeats. The room is filled with smoke, and you begin coughing. How long were you asleep? Long enough for someone to break in and start a fire, that's how long! Who could do that? Why? As we stumble around the house, opening windows and doors, flashing the neighborhood our headlights since it is still February and the tank top is thin. We then remember that the yummy food choice we decided to put in the oven must be the culprit. Grabbing the oven door and whipping it open, you see the baking dish covered in blackness with what was once edible food. Not anymore! It is the thought that counts, right? Perhaps bed should be next? Naw.. we have waited 5 days to relax, 50 hours working for a paycheck, 120 hours being a single mom, 10 hours cleaning a house that the kids ultimately destroy, and 8 hours stuck in traffic going to and from work. We have earned this relaxation and must enjoy to the fullest! POP! Another bottle gets opened. Why cut us short? After we rummage through the pantry, we find some girl scout cookies which would go great with this wine and provide the subsistence to our body, so we don’t wake up hungover. There is so much sugar in wine, which makes it taste so good, there is always a hangover. Something about the sweetness and alcohol that just causes this dreaded consequence to brighten our Saturday morning. Cookies while drinking are free calories, or they should be. We would have to remember how many we ate but if we completely devour the box and then put it in the trash, were they consumed without evidence? Lounging on the couch, we are still smelling the burnt food in the air, the windows are still open, but will that smell ever leave? It’s like the decomposing corpse smell that we’ve only heard about it in our favorite crime shows. It just lingers. Since we have started thinking about our odd obsession with death and crime shows, we turn on the TV and put on the latest scary movie. Not just any scary movie though. We need to choose one that is gory, suspenseful, thrilling but not jumping out at us scary. We don’t need to spill our wine now do we. We decide on an older suspenseful movie, Bone Collector, which is quite the classic. Even though we know every part of the movie and who the killer is, we still enjoy the deep plot and amazing detective work by none other than Angelina and Denzel. Years before they were established as the actors they are today, we can reminisce. The wine starts to work its magic again, but the burned food smell is still in our nose. Will it ever go away? Do we just need to burn down the house and start new tomorrow? No, that is not a great decision. Let us just put our movie on and drink our wine and enjoy the predictable thriller. Maybe we can watch Saw next? That movie always made us squirm. Goodness that’s an oldie but it’s a good one. Why else would there be like 6 sequels? No, the Fast and Furious franchise does not count! We can only watch people drive fast cars so many times before it gets annoying, to say the least. Saturday we will wake up with a pep in our step and a loud bang in our head but we’ll get things done. We need to be productive on the mom-less day. Or not? Is it even necessary? Who would ever know if we weren’t? Perhaps we will take all the expectations and must-dos off the table and let the day take control. Pamela Fitch


Describe yourself. “I live in the moment”. Not in some kind of puffed up display of bravado, like, ‘watch me base jump off this cliff!’, or any kind of new-age-yoga-zen sense of ‘onefullness’. No, I literally live in ‘the moment’. The moment when time froze.   Like a flash mob gone horribly wrong, everyone and everything around me is frozen in an instance. Mid way through walking, talking, cooking, cleaning, eating, showering, and all other expected forms of human behaviour. Whatever they’d been doing the moment that time froze, that’s how they’re stuck now. As does inanimate matter. Water which once flowed was now fixed in the air. Once flickering flames now stand static.   It’s as if someone has hit pause on the movie of ‘the universe’, except, I’m some kind of exception. I can still move around. I can still interact with things. But not in the manner you’re hoping for, I’m sorry. The best way I can think to describe the way I exist is that I’m something of a ghost in whatever world this is. I’ve no idea how or why I’m trapped here, or how long I will remain here. I don’t even know if I’m alive or not. In a perfect instance, a single frame of time, what differentiates ‘alive’ from ‘dead’?   This realm has been a collision of science and philosophy of sorts for me.     **THE MOMENT OF OBSERVATION**   I was mid argument with my girlfriend at the time, when she just froze. Actually, I was staring at the cracked linoleum floor in the kitchen and avoiding eye contact at the time. I had a habit of drifting off during confrontation. I wondered “How old was our floor? Who was the first person to notice the cracks in what would eventually become my life?”. And that’s when I noticed the silence.   Do you remember that childhood saying, “Don’t pull that face. What if the wind changes and you’re stuck like that forever?”. Well, the wind changed, and my girlfriend was stuck in the midst of spitting vitriol at me. I thought she’d done it on purpose for dramatic flair, but after a few seconds I grew impatient and tried to cut her off. Muffled vibrations of words rippled in my throat and body, but as they exited my mouth, they became silence.   Worried that we might be having simultaneous strokes, I grabbed her, and shook her. No response. Literally, she didn’t even move. Which was odd, because I could feel her moving in my hands, but visibly she was completely still. That’s when I realised that I couldn’t even see my own arms. I couldn’t see my own body. Turning around, I came face to face with myself. Like my girlfriend, I too was frozen in place. Staring at the cracked linoleum floor, looking pathetic.   Was this an out of body experience? Was I dead? I could feel my limbs, but I couldn’t see them. Instinct commanded me to grab myself, to try and wake myself up. But unlike my girlfriend, there was no body behind the apparition that was me. I fell through myself, straight out the other side. This image of me was empty like a hologram of myself.   I’ve read and watched my fair share of sci-fi. We’ve seen portrayals of the frozen time world plenty of times before. They always look like so much fun. The perfect platform for mischief. This is not fun, though. The rules of this... experience? They aren’t particularly clear. I’ve had to figure a lot of it out as I go, based on what I can experience, because that’s my only avenue for learning. I’m no scientist, so I could never figure this world out, but even if I could, it would be impossible. I can’t use the internet, because computers and electricity are frozen. I can’t read books, because light is frozen. That’s right, the one major element of frozen time which is always overlooked is the properties of light, and that it, too, can freeze. That’s why I could see the ghost of myself, but couldn’t see myself.   When time froze, light froze with it, holding only the information of what it had just reflected off. If you pulled a blind down in a well lit room it made no difference, because light was already in there, projecting the images of the outside world into what should be a now dark space. Crazier still, you wouldn’t even see that the blind had been pulled down, because light would need to be able to move again to bounce off the drawn blind to show its new position. That’s why I could only read pages of books and screens that were already open. If I pulled a book off the shelf and opened it, I wouldn’t be able to see it. The phantom of where it had been would continue burn on the lightwaves filling the space around it, whilst the book disappeared behind the projection screen. Like the next frame in the reel of a projector, waiting for the projector to tick over to be revealed.   So despite being able to see, there is also an element of living blind. I have to be careful with what I move. If I grab a bottle of water to drink, it would appear as if the bottle hadn’t moved, so I always made the effort to put things back where I found them. Even something as mundane as a bottle of water can scare the shit out of you if it’s invisible and you bump into it. Moved objects are the spiderwebs of this time-frozen-ghost-world, that send you into a fit of panic not knowing what you’ve just walked into, and if it’s still on you. No, I had to be neat and tidy in this world, to save myself the stained underwear of dealing with invisible land mines and unintentional booby traps.   Regardless of the limitations of sight, to stay sane in a limbo like this requires a bit of creative exploration. I began to experiment with things, relying solely on my sense of touch to try to unfurl as many more rules of this realm as possible. From what I could tell, everything was frozen except for me, and except for things I interacted with. Breathing was laboured, as I sucked in static oxygen from around me. Breathing out was like blowing bubbles underwater. That slight pressure of resistance as liquid parted to make way for bubbles of air. Sound was a painful experience. Trapped as crests and troughs of frequency, the world was mostly a cacophony of single notes which would bend slightly as I moved around and my ear shifted from space to space. One day, I was absent-mindedly walking towards on of those hands-free, loud-talking mobile phone types, and I noticed that I could start to make out some of his words. It was like listening to a recording that had been slowed down hundreds of times, but the cadence of conversation became clear. If I ran full pelt at the loud-talker from 20 meters away, I could actually get a comprehensible full word. It was faint at the start, being so far away from him, and still in an incredibly slow motion pitch because I can’t run at the speed of sound, but I was finally able to hear my first word in this world. “Fffffffaaaaaarrrrrrkkkkkiiinn...”.   “Fuckin...”. It was incredibly underwhelming. After that, I took to wearing a pair of noise cancelling ear muffs to block out the noise. My experiments continued. I played with objects being held in suspended animation. Gravity was frozen, so everything could actually be lifted up and left floating in the air. I couldn’t see that, but I could feel it. A squeezed bottle of water became a stream of water bubbles. Invisible patches of wetness in the air. Floating in the air until my fingers collided with them, kick starting them back to life as they broke free of their suspended membrane and trickled down the pores of my skin.     **THE OBSERVER EFFECT**   I remember once, back in the real time, I lost myself in an internet spiral. Looking at memes, as you do, I stumbled on to the Nyan Cat meme. Trawling the internet for different incarnations of the cat, I found Schrodinger’s Nyan Cat. Which lead to me investigating who or what Schrodinger was. Which lead to me poring over Wikipedia pages and watching terribly low-fi YouTube explainer videos about quantum physics, wave-particle duality, the observer effect, and other concepts which blew my mind.   For those who don’t know, there’s a cat in a box, with poison in it which is set to be released at some random point in time. Whilst the box is closed, there’s no way for us to know whether the cat is alive or dead, until we open the box and confirm it with our own eyes (aka, observing). So, as long as the box is closed, the cat is both alive and dead at the same time.   Trapped in this world, surrounded by objects that are there but aren’t, this felt like the strongest piece of scientific knowledge I was armed with. Am I alive, or dead? Am I still in the kitchen arguing with my girlfriend, or am I in a restaurant eating the invisible remains of someone’s meal? Am I, presently, living in a superposition? I feel alive. “I think, therefore I am” and all that. But doesn’t being alive require a transition of time? Time was passing for me, but not for anything else.   To an external party who’s able to oversee this whole experience in real time, I think I’d be a textbook example of something existing in a superposition. In this single moment of frozen time, which would have been less than a nanosecond in real time, I would have; been in the kitchen being yelled at, been in most other places in my kitchen, been running at a man on a phone out in the street, been shoplifting noise cancelling ear muffs, been eating someone else’s meal in a restaurant, and been in many other states and places over the course of however long I’d been here. A textbook example of something existing in a superposition. But, I’ve never read a textbook on superposition, so that claim itself will remain in a superposition until I can actually open a textbook to confirm it.     **WHO OBSERVES THE OBSERVERS?** Which brings me to a more philosophical quandary I’ve stumbled upon. Morals. It would be remiss of me not to admit that as an only child who didn’t have an abundance of toys or friends, I had to conjure amazing fantasies to keep myself entertained. One of them involved this very kind of situation. A world where I could do anything that I liked. Enemies I could smite without fear of retribution. Beautiful women whom I could claim simply by my own will. Exciting adventures of building floating cities. Well, here’s the twisted adult version of that fantasy, and the naive ignorance of youth has long since left me, and I’m paralysed by my awareness of the moral injustice of doing anything untoward. Which has me wondering...   Morals essentially exist in a superposition, don’t they? The cat isn’t alive or dead until an observer opens the box, observes the cat, and projects their interpretation of what they see onto the body of the cat. Equally, a moral isn’t actually a moral until an action is observed by an observer, who then projects they’re own moral code on to that action. In real time, if I slap a complete stranger, the moral judgement of that will come down to who’s observing. If I slapped someone’s mother, they’re likely to condemn the action as a ‘bad’ action. If that someone’s mother had a knife and was about to attack them, my intervening slap might be seen as a moral act of defending them. To a third party, witnessing this from across the street where their view of the knife is obscured, they might just see this action as a man attacking a woman. But even after these initial observations and judgements have collapsed the moral wave, interpretation is still open to change. Perhaps a second later the mother stumbles aside and drops the knife, allowing the Third Party to see this and change their moral projection.   So, in this perfect instance, I can be both good and bad at the same time. That’s bizarre. I’m actively restraining myself from doing things that could be considered ‘bad’, which by my observation makes me ‘good’.


A young woman named Lily lived in a quaint coastal town. With her long chestnut hair flowing freely in the wind, she walked along the shoreline, capturing the essence of a genuine, free spirit. As if reflecting the calm ocean, her deep blue eyes shimmered with a captivating curiosity, luring everyone in. Lily couldn’t resist whispering her heartfelt wishes to the gentle ocean waves as she strolled along the shore, her heart brimming with dreams. “My greatest desire is to find a lover, a man who can match and return my deep passion, and most importantly, a man who will always remain by my side, never leaving me.” The very idea of him evoked an intense desire that consumed her every moment. Immersed within the depths of her imagination, he transcended mere mortality. By being her lover, he would also serve as her protector and eternal companion. Believing the ocean listened, some thought that the God of the sea ruled over all creatures in its vast depths. Starting with this wish, the tale of her heart’s desire unfolded. Those who called out to the god of the sea from above were the ones the deity aimed to increase the population from. Lily’s pleas echoed through the vast depths of the sea and caught the attention of the God who ruled over it. The sound of the wind passing through the palms gave off an eerie vibe, almost as if it was whispering, “Be careful what you ask for.” While Lily was strolling along the shoreline one day, she came across a tall, mysterious man. His eyes, a striking shade of green, seemed to conceal a hidden mystery. With a hint of a sea breeze in his voice, Jack revealed his recent arrival as a sailor in town when he introduced himself. When their eyes met, Lily couldn’t ignore the instant and undeniable connection between her and him. Jack’s charming personality, both delightful and witty, matched her adventurous spirit. He embodied everything she had ever dreamed of. Deepening their bond, Lily’s and Jack’s connection only grew stronger as time passed. While under the enchanting moonlit sky, they shared passionate kisses that kindled a deep connection, binding them together. The rest of the town, consumed by envy, whispered countless tales of their nightly escapades, unable to resist being captivated by their love. Lily was happier than she had ever been, but a small voice in her head kept nagging, “Be careful what you wish for.” Without a second thought, she ignored the warning, being infatuated with her newfound love. Jack mysteriously disappeared, leaving no evidence, all the while being surrounded by the gleaming silver glow of the full moon. Lily’s heart ached with longing for his touch, causing her to wonder where he had gone. She found herself unable to resist the mesmerizing allure of the sea as the first rays of sunlight broke through the horizon, casting a stunning golden hue upon the ocean’s surface. His disappearance became a powerful symbol, a constant reminder of how ephemeral their love truly was, a love that flourished solely in the captivating illumination of the moon. With the breaking of dawn, his silhouette emerged, resembling a ghostly figure from the depths of the ocean. The scales on his tail shimmered with a mesmerizing iridescence, reflecting a kaleidoscope of colors, while his eyes gleamed with a radiance that seemed to belong to another realm. Much to Lily’s surprise, Jack turned out to be quite different from the man she had envisioned. After seeing him, a peculiar being with the characteristics of both man and fish, Lily experienced an inexplicable shiver coursing down her spine, evoking a mixture of both fear and desire. The pull of the ocean, with its irresistible force, was inescapable as it drew her heart closer and closer to the captivating Merman who had seized her imagination and soul. Lily became entangled in the snare as soon as the spell was cast. Upon seeing the merman’s silhouette, Lily felt a sense of tranquility instead of alarm. Her heart ached with a deep longing as if she had been waiting for his touch for an eternity. The sight of him was a haunting reminder, a bittersweet symbol of the love they had once shared - a love that surpassed the boundaries of ordinary life. The mighty ocean waves had granted her wish, but she soon realized the weight of the consequences she had unleashed. Ensnared in a love affair gone wrong, Lily’s life took a dark and unexpected turn. She was so captivated by the intense magic from below that she couldn’t perceive the danger as anything other than a sign of love. Lily found herself under the enchantment of the God of the sea, who had cast a spell that forever intertwined her heart with his, deep within the ocean’s vastness. For their love to thrive, she would have to let go of something truly meaningful. The something would be so precious that she couldn’t even bear to imagine it. Despite the danger and the sacrifices that would change her life forever, her passion for him burned brightly. Her mind was filled with thoughts of him, drowning out her worries about the potential risks and dangers ahead. Sharing was a concept that had never crossed Lily’s mind before. The Mer people’s ways were as different from those of the land dwellers’ as the ocean’s depths are from the peaks of mountains. The sailors who escaped the deathly claws of the sirens were aware of this fact. On that fateful night of the last full moon of the month, the moon rose, its pale light reflecting off the dark waters like a ghostly apparition. Jack motioned for her to follow him, and she hesitated for a moment before diving into the tumultuous sea. Like his father’s magic, his spell had an irresistible allure that pulled her in like a siren’s song. She took a deep breath, feeling her heart race as she descended into the unknown, her body trembling with a mix of nerves and determination, ready to do whatever it took for the man she loved. Lily’s naivety sealed her fate, transforming her into a captivating mermaid. She sat upon the rocks, her haunting melodies harmonizing with the others, drawing lost sailors to their doom. In his quest to expand his unsettling collection of wives, Jack persisted. Jack’s father had an impressive collection of thousands of wives luring sailors into the breakers worldwide. Jack had only just begun and had a very modest count of twenty. With Lily among them, Jack’s tally increased to twenty-one. If you’re walking the ocean shore at night and are lonely for the love of your life, be careful what you ask for. You might get much more than you bargained for.


As faint light washes over the beach, I begin to see the sun blooming from its deep sleep under the horizon. With just the slight top of it showing through the slightly colored clouds i think, even the sun takes time to be complete again. I lift the elbows that were supporting me, and lay my back down in the sand. As my mold takes place, I close my eyes. when i open them again, it must of been a little while because the warmth almost shocks me. I had forgotten the unfamiliar kindness of the sun. My skin and body open and exposed, I take in every ray I am given. The sun is holding me, hugging me, keeping me. "I have you" It tells me. We let go of ourselves when we begin to believe that trapping our minds in our rooms, away from the outside and people and light, is safety and love. This is emptiness, coldness. This is pain disguising itself as comfort so it can keep us longer. * After a while, I make my way home to my parents house. I push through the screen door, kick off my sandy flip flops and put my bag down as the door closes behind me. Ahead of me at the kitchen table turns my mom looking at me wide-eyed. " Honey... you were ou- out?" She manages to say with her jaw practically on the floor. "Yes, mom... i was out." I say bluntly with a smile as though it was normal. However her and I are both well aware this is not normal and i had not been going out for almost 3 1/2 months now. I kiss her cheek and sit next to her while she tries to find the next thing to say. " Honeyyy! where is my surf board? And where the heck is julia?" My dad says while he passes my room coming into the kitchen. "Ohhh never mind found her!" He says jokingly while kissing my forehead. I see him turn to mom and examine the still shocked and confused expression on her face. "Okay guys. Mom, Dad, i did in fact go out this morning... to watch sunrise. Yes it was very nice, yes i know this is a big turn from keeping myself locked away. No i do not really want to continue this conversation." This finishes our conversation on the topic. I see my mom turn to look at my dad with the normal "from one parent to another" confused look. He mouths to her, just move on darling we will talk about it later. " So, who wants eggs! I know you do pumpkin!" I love him for changing the subject. As for an explanation, here it is. Im 22 and for the past year i've been home from college. I was engaged, yes i know it's early but we didn't care. We were everything, and thats the only way i can put it. Everything. Then he was gone... more like taken. And suddenly it felt as though everything was gone. So i came home. I came home to find the non- existing way to accept it. People say, "Some day you will accept it and move on." In hopes to make feel better. However, in reality, in my reality, there is no accepting it there is no moving on . There is just living on. Living on. Live. * I decide to take myself to the beach again for sunset. I want to visit the sun again and say goodnight. I don't pack anything with me accept a blanket. I go to my mom sitting on the couch and say, "Bye mom. Im just gonna go watch the sun go down. I'll eat when I get home so you and dad have dinner dont wait up for me" I kiss her on the cheek as she says okay and start walking to the beach. She worries a lot about me. I don't want her too. I get to the beach and find my spot again. I feel the sand under my feet, and the breeze blowing through my hair. I take a seat on my blanket facing the ocean and the pink and purple sky. I first say hello to my pretty friend who is waiting for me within the clouds just above the horizon. Hi my sun. Then i close my eyes just for a moment. * When i open them something is different, and I cant put my finger quite on it... maybe it's the way the wind is blowing, or the crashing of the waves, but something has changed . Then I look just down the beach a little bit and there stands a young man. I make my way over to him because something was drawing me to him. Of course i'm drawn. I stand just over 5 feet away i'm guessing. I stand there and stare at him (because how could anyone not) until he notices. "It's beautiful isn't it?" He speaks. I realize he's referring to the sun and respond. "I find it complicated." "Therefor not beautiful?" He questions what i say. "Therefor incredibly." There's his smile. That smile. His smile shows everything. His perfectly bright teeth that were simply made to be seen. The way his eyes scrunch just slightly when he laughs, his smile lines that shows his past smiles paths. His smile is my way into his soul, so I can see and learn all of him. His smile makes me smile. "So, what brings you here? are you just visiting?" Im now noticing what he's wearing. That shirt. My favorite shirt. Then just some swim trunks Where do they come from? I want to know every thing. "Hellooo..." He brings me back from my lost thoughts. He's now standing directly in front of me. I look at him straight in the eyes. "Sorry!" I start giggling. Oh god here we go, "I- yes i'm just visiting my parents. And you?" I feel my cheeks turning red. He's just an nose away from my face now. "Ahh, interesting. Just moved here myself. Just for a little while though. Change it up." Change it up. That's my favorite thing he always says, said. I accidentally laugh out loud when he says this. He's practically a foot taller than me so i look back up at him, smile, and tuck my hair behind my ear. "That sounds-" I start. "Ohhhh my god!" He stops me. He brings his hands too his head and spins around in a circle to land right back a nose away from me. He's laughing now. That SMILE! "What!" His laughing makes me laugh. "Your just so adorable! Like i just can NOT believe it!" He has always been so upfront and i simply adore it. "You can't just say that!" My smile is bigger than i'd like to admit. "why not?" "I just met you!" "What, we just met so that doesn't allow for you to be adorable?" "No it simply doesn't allow for you to tell me. Not yet anyway." "Well i am and i did. Life is too short!" If only he knew. "Fine... i'll let it pass," I wink at him, "Sit with me..." I wait for him to tell me his name. I'm waiting to hear it roll off his lips. That beautiful name. "-Joshua. I'm Joshua. And you are?" There it is. "Julia." My smile still bigger than my face. "Yes julia. I will sit with you!" I love him saying my name. He smiles big, and leads the way to my blanket. We sit. Out of instinct I lay my head on his shoulder and surprisingly he lets me. We "just met" but we didn't. I look back up at my friend above the horizon. My sun. Now i am watching the very top of it's head rest back into its sleep under the clouds. The pink coloring of the sky fading. I keep my head under his ear. I want to be here for forever. In some way, I know I always will be. "you know, i disagree with what you said earlier." Joshua starts. "Hm? Go on." "About the sun- it being complicated. I think it's simple. It's just the sun. And yet we are it and it is us. But we see it all right there. Us human complicate everything. But the sun is just itself and yet so beautiful. It's complex, yet not complicated. It's full and yet not overwhelming. The sun is our everything. All right there. In my head that is more simple than complicated. Maybe it's the simplest thing there is." My adoration is overwhelming. Even if he is way to smart for me sometimes and I often can't understand what he says. Joshua lifts his head and turns to me. 'This is...this is-"He starts. " Everything" I say. I take his hand in mine. There our sun goes. As I watch the very last of it go down, I take a deep breath in and close my eyes. * I open them, I have a few minutes before my sun goes. I rub my eyes. I know i'm alone. I know he was never here. I know that he visited me in my dreams. But he is here. Right here. I hold my hand to my chest and wrap my fingers around my locket. Engraved on the outisde, it reads Joshua my Everything Sun, 1998-2021 . I smile, or maybe i cried. Looking up to my sun, I feel her (yes the sun) winking at me. Today I gave the sun a little bit of myself, and in return, she gave me a little bit of him. Thank you for holding him for my my sun.


“Will you have another cuppa? ... Emma?” My Mum’s voice snapped me from my daydream, and I looked up at her. “Sorry, I was miles away. No, I thank ye. I was actually in a mind to take a wee stroll up the village,” I said, and so she’d let me go I quickly added, “I want to see who’s coming tonight.” I knew my Mum was wild for any gossip of who was attending tonight’s “American wake,” proudly hosted by our family, but really for all eleven of us emigrating from our tiny village of Killyderg, in Derry, Ireland. They were called American wakes because once you emigrated to America, you’d be lucky to set foot on Irish soil again. I shook the thought of homesickness off, and thought to myself, this is real progress we live in! I lived in modern times! It was March 1917, and change was starting to trickle in, even in our remote spot north of Derry City. The big ships were readying for the season, and I was leaving for America from Belfast with my Uncle Dermot and my fiancé, John. For New York City, even! “Right, off ye go then, but hurry back and bring any news. Tell Mrs. Duffy that I have her good green shawl mended if ye see her.” Mum stared at me for a pause, as if she’d something to say, then shook her head and with that she was clearing up the tea and moving on to the next item on her busy list. I stole a glance at her while she was saving the cakes. I looked so like her, I thought, with our identical blue eyes and thick black hair. But we were so different in every aspect. She was content just to be... content, and I wanted so much more. And I would find it in America with John! I knew it. Still, there was a deep pain in my ribcage at the thought of leaving my mother. Thinking about a long ship voyage made my scalp crawl and my armpits prickle with anticipation, and I wiped my sweaty palms on my skirts as I walked out of my family’s cottage and into the mid-afternoon light. I could hear the crank and bellow of Mr. Hanlon’s motorcar trying to start up. Good luck to him . It hadn’t run since the week after he came chugging into the village, scaring up every chicken in sight, half the women, and Mr. McShea. Modern times really were everywhere, I thought. On 7 March, Prime Minister George had declared parts of Ireland could self-govern if they were so inclined, except of course the Protestant (loyalist, most economically secure) northern part of Ireland. We were in that northern part, so it put speed on our plans to leave. Our entire village were Nationalists all, and proud to be. So there was political pressure to emigrate, especially because my John had fought in the Easter Rebellion last year. “Alongside Michael Collins himself,” he always liked to boast, but secretly I knew he’d fought in the rear of the GPO, reloading weapons, and bringing supplies with the other young lads who wanted a taste of freeing Ireland but had never fired a weapon in the heat of battle. It saved him from the firing squad though, only getting six months in gaol. When he got out, the decision was made to emigrate along with the rest of the group, with my uncle as chaperone. Will America have many motorcars? Probably thousands, I thought, daydreaming of skyscrapers and opportunity everywhere! Why, I could even become a woman of commerce! Laughing at the thought, I wondered if we’d have servants to mind our future children. John was going to be a solicitor in America, then maybe even a judge someday. I listened for Mr. Hanlon’s car, now a lost cause, and paused to take off my shoes so I could save them through the boggy bit of ground that mucked up after a rain. It led around a bend, under the shade of swaying willows, to the center of the village, and I could smell the peat fires all burning mingled with the smells of different feasts as everyone cooked for the wake and their suppers. The loamy soil, cool and springy between my toes, felt nice, and I decided to stay barefoot. I’d be taking a bath before tonight anyway. I had a new dress for my trip, which I would wear to the American wake. A deep blue skirt to match my eyes, with a ruffled white blouse that we’d had sent special from London! It was a real treat to own, and I almost felt guilty, then thought of John seeing me in my outfit and my heart pounded. I stopped for a minute at Mrs. Duffy’s cottage, to give her Mum’s message about her shawl. She gave me a dozen eggs and a bit of cheese and told me not to be dawdling when there was work to be done. Typical Mrs. Duffy, then. That seemed like my cue to turn back towards our place, but just to be contrary I decided I would dawdle a wee bit. I stopped and sat down under the willow trees after the mucky bit, and decided to watch my village just be... content. Was that so bad, after all? I pondered. In the distance I could hear Mr. McElroy yell at his wife and then she yelled back louder and shoved him off to the pub and I sighed. Just then the wind changed, bringing the smell of fresh baked pies. Mrs. McCarthy’s place, will she still sell them when half the village has gone? I could also smell deep, rich earth and sunshine and played with a blade of grass as I observed a skylark land on a willow branch opposite me. It quickly flew away again, and I let my attention wander as far down the lane as I could see towards my home. After a long moment of peaceful silence, I spied young Seamus Devlin running my way. Sighing, I knew that Seamus had no end to his energy and therefore was the village’s messenger for bits of string or a pretty rock, so he was likely on his way to escort me home to help. Feeling only slightly guilty at being caught out resting, I gathered my shoes and the eggs and cheese and met Seamus on the path. Grinning up at me with one missing front tooth and one half-grown in, he reached for my hand. “Your Ma’s after sending me to fetch you home and says I’m to take ye by the hand if I must.” His little hand was hot and sticky in mine, and I wondered whose cakes he’d got into. We were silent after that, Seamus happy to skip along, and with a start I realized I was perfectly... content. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as I thought, I concluded. But in America...I could be both content and much, much more. I smiled and headed home, barefoot and the sun at my back, daydreaming towards home and my own American wake.


Some time ago I was not much older than a boy, living deep enough in the countryside near the Kent Sussex border. It was a magical place for a child to be back then. My memories are all of the land, or mostly, it feels like. People and places on the land, if you understand me. Standing still or moving, but never vivid as the fields and forests and rivers in the background. Of course, the land wasn’t still either! The trees budded when the winter, and we never had such hard winters, passed and the clods of earth soften in the fields, it was a magical time. The naybellish time, as the old folks would say it, when the clods of earth, frozen up like a pebble beach would soften up like clay and the trees would be budding brightly from their dark winter bark, was like nothing else. The may bells, I think I remember the little girls would sing in some rhyme. The silly sorts of things that stay with you. Spring was a cruel too. Winter, you knew its hard sides and its soft. Biting, itching, cold or excitement of snow. You never know with Springtime. The low hot sun in your eyes and the ice crunching under your feet. Golden green seedlings treaded into mud or swallowed in the freezing mists. You could wake up and see a whole field turn brown one day to the next. But that was it. The yeartimes went by well enough and there was always some fate or festival to be had. When we were small, we, my mother and my older sisters, would go from village to village for them. Vicars and churchyards, tables of teas and sickly-sweet cakes that would make your face feel sticky. The young ones, especially the boys, would always sneak off behind the chapels, squeezing between walls and hedgerows, getting into scraps. Often enough, my poor mum would drag me home with a fat lip and mud caked into my jumper. That’s how boy were. There was no helping it. It must have been summer, with the earth hardened and the grass all dried and sharp. I was playing cricket or knocking a ball about and a boy I never much liked came walking up behind me with his head in the clouds. Well I smacked him as I drew back the bat. My lord. It was like walking up the stairs at night and reaching the top on step too early. Where there should have been resistance, there wasn’t. It felt like a twig breaking under your feet in soft mud. Well of course, after he bled all he was able, all the fingers pointed my way. Not seriously, mind you, but you can hardly say the boy who lost an eye and had his nose wiped across his face was at fault. No one held me to it, no one that didn’t mind me anyway at least. That was the way, you said the right things when you ought to say them. It was a beautiful place and a hard place too sometimes but you were part of it. It felt like we were spiralling through forward, getting older one summer at a time, telling the same stories, trying different things. That’s what eternity meant to me, not what the chaplain told us on a Sunday. These stories though, I don’t know where we even heard then from in particular, you always just knew. I loved them all. The twin sisters, the black dogs, the black cats. You don’t know what’s until you get talking to people from elsewhere. The tooth fairy always felt ridiculous to me, for instance, but the dragons in the wells, the hooded folk, the three deaths... Well the well dragons, Wyrms really, you need to imagine it like this: you’re a child in the summer and the sun is blazing on a sleepy day. You disappear into the fields. Its like hypnotism, with the swaying golden wheat and the dancing pools of shadows by the treeline. You come across a hillside, crumbled away showing a deep dark entrance. In the brightness of the day or the darkness of the night, you couldn’t see a thing. All of a sudden as you feel yourself being drawn near, something like the breath of cold stagnant air groans out over you and in that darkness, there are coal black eyes looking back at you. And yes, sure enough, the Romans mined this area for tin, as I suppose the Celts did before and the Jutes did after and whatever we called ourselves later on did too. And yes, the soil here is full of dark smooth stones, and in the ground water, in a shaft opened up by summer storm on a bright day would... dazzle. Yes. You don’t need to know something isn’t or probably isn’t true to feel it deep down. There was a young girl that crawled into one of these shafts, an old train tunnel, and she was found smashed to bits, presumably by the fall. That was before my time. I’m sure lots of the children that went missing or ran away across in the south, ended up like her but with no basset hound to sniff out the corpse. I swear I’ve seen some thing too sometimes. Felt sometimes for sure. It sounds daft to say but once, older than I should’ve been for a story like this, I was walking home from the pub. It was one of those long summer nights when the sun sets late so I went through the woods instead of the road up the hill. Well, I had maybe a bit more than I should have and it took longer than I thought. The sun started setting. It went so still when the wood doves stopped their cooing and it was just me then. I was maybe 17 or so and, whatever I felt, I wasn’t going show it even to myself! As it got darker, I slowed down minding out for roots and such on the path until eventually, it was black. I could hear sounds, little scraping sounds, rustling in the leaves and passed it off as an owl on the hunt. I kept walking with my hands out in front of me, feeling for the saplings. Saplings everywhere in that part. I became aware that the rustling was matching my own steps. I’d put my foot forwards and sometimes the leaves would make a sound a few feet back. Nonsense, I told myself, but kept ever so quiet. Then I started heard a twig snap, crisp and loud. I bolted upright not knowing what to do. I was like a statue on the outside but, inside, well... I had a bright idea all of a sudden and took out my cigarettes and a book of matches, I put on the show for no one of putting one in my mouth and drunkenly fumbling the match into the perfect position and then, strike. In front of me were eyes then a face, just a face it seemed in the darkness, level with my own. Fox like, somehow, its eyes like solid emerald. I jolted back and the match went out. I went back against the trunk of a tree and smacked the back of my head decently with the hands. I was there for what seemed like... I don’t know. Then I lit another match, this time getting my cigarette too, and nothing. Well, I laid off it for a while after that. It wasn’t that we were believers... it was just what we heard on Sunday was so abstract, you see. Then there was what we all knew by and by. When a fox catches a rabbit, it dies three times. When its caught, when its eaten, when its... passed out, as it were. And there’s life at every stage too. When its living, when its gives life to the fox, and when it gives life to the earth. I don’t mean to sound crude but there is something to it when you see a seedling popping out of shit in the brush. Then there were the stories about when the Celts used to do. Combeston, a place nearby, was one of them. Sacrifice. They, the druids, would take you by the neck, and garrotte you with a rope. When your eyes were bulging, they would force you on your knees with your head back and slice into you. A crowd would be there below this old stone where it happened, and they would be showered in the spray. Then another would take a hammer, or I heard sword too, and finish it. I don’t totally understand why they did it. Sacrifice. It’s such a Christian idea. I think its more of a demonstration or the spiral turning on. There was no here and hereafter... just a doorway you stand between. You spend most of your life facing one way, catching glimpses out of the corner of your eye but sometimes you can turn and, just for a moment, see what’s looking back at you.


Lucas groaned, rolling over under his massive pile of blankets to muffle his sister’s loud voice. After a few moments of silence, a loud stomping could be heard approaching his room. Then, his door swung open. “Lucas get up! She’s going to be here in 5 minutes, and I don’t want her to think my brother’s a slob,” urged Ariel. “But I am,” he yawned. She shot him an exasperated glare. “Fine,” Lucas sighed as he reluctantly rolled out of bed. Why did he have to make a good impression on Ariel’s girlfriend? Her relationships never lasted very long anyway. The ringing of the doorbell sent Ariel sprinting downstairs excitedly as Lucas haphazardly threw on a t-shirt and sweats. He shuffled down the stairs, introducing himself along the way. “Hey Taylor, I’m Lucas, Ariel’s brother. She’s told me almost nothing about you. It’s nice to meet-” his eyes widened in recognition when he looked up. “Oh.” As they locked eyes, Taylor’s expression shifted from confusion to dread. Ariel turned around quizzically, “Do you guys know each other?” “No we haven’t met,” Taylor sent Lucas a desperate look. “Are you sure?” “Yeah she just kind of looks like this girl in my class, but I haven’t met her before,” Lucas stiffly scratched his head. How was he supposed to tell his sister that this was the girl he hit with his moped a week ago? Meanwhile, Taylor’s mind was racing. She had thought she could vent about her worries and complaints about Ariel to a stranger, but with her luck it turned out to be Ariel’s brother. Ariel's eyes flicked back and forth between Lucas and Taylor suspiciously, but then she just shrugged it off and left to take out the lunch she’d prepared. In her absence, Lucas and Taylor awkwardly acknowledged each other. “You’re moped guy right?” “Yeah...” Lucas raised his eyebrows, amused. “And that girl you were complaining about was Ariel?” Taylor ran her hands through her hair, “Please don’t tell her about that.” Lucas laughed, “I mean you were pretty accurate, and she probably should know about that stuff.” “If you tell her what I said, I’ll tell her you ran me over with your moped,” she threatened. Lucas’ brow furrowed, “You wouldn’t.” She grinned, “You don’t know me.” “Why are you guys just standing there?” Lucas and Taylor flinched as Ariel popped out from the doorway to the kitchen. “Hurry up, I’m hungry.” They followed her to the kitchen, stealing threatening glances at each other. Awkwardness permeated through the air as the three of them ate their food in silence. “So, how did the two of you meet?” Ariel beamed, “I saw her around at the cafe I go to all the time, and I thought she was cute so I asked her out. Turns out she felt the same way, and here we are now!” “Yeah, I thought she was pretty cute, but I also thought she was taken. Otherwise, I would’ve been the one asking her out,” Taylor chuckled. “She’s pretty good at sending out mixed signals isn’t she?” Lucas snickered as Taylor glared at him. “No, I don’t really think so,” Taylor raised an eyebrow. “Although I was a bit confused at her relationship status in the beginning.” “I’m surprised you even found her cute, with how much she talks. Doesn’t it get kind of annoying sometimes?” “Lucas!” Ariel slapped his shoulder. “Stop being a jerk.” She turned to Taylor, “Do I talk too much?” “Yes, but I enjoy it because I’m not much of a talker myself,” reassured Taylor. “It’s a good thing.” Lucas snorted. Ariel shot him a skeptical look, “Are you sure you’ve never met her before?” “Nope,” he shook his head. “Never seen her before in my life... Until now, that is.” She rolled her eyes, “Lucas you’re a terrible liar.” He gasped in mock offense, “I’m not lying!” “You totally are,” She turned to Taylor. “Do you guys know each other?” Taylor shook her head in denial. “Enough about us,” said Taylor. “What are your opinions on traffic safety?” Lucas coughed, choking on his gyoza. “What about traffic safety?” “Well, I saw the moped out in the front. Those are hard to control aren’t they?” “Yeah, I always tell him to get a car, but he insists on driving that dingy old thing,” complained Ariel. “Something about it being convenient or whatever. Watch, you’re going to get into an accident, and I’m going to have to say I told you so.” “To be fair, that thing does look like it’s going to fall apart any second,” Taylor smiled. “You think he’s the type of person who’s more likely to get hit or hit someone else. I’d say he’d hit someone else.” Lucas’ eyes widened desperately, begging Taylor not to continue, but she only smirked at him. Ariel bit her lip, contemplating as she looked Lucas up and down. “Yeah he does kind of seem more likely to hit someone with the moped than get hit.” Lucas stole a gyoza from Ariel’s plate, “That’s tax for how lowly you think of me,” maneuvering his plate so she couldn’t steal one back. “You are so immature Lucas,” Ariel scowled at him. “I’m sorry Lucas, but I agree,” Taylor laughed. “You guys are perfect for each other. You both suck.” Their lunch continued as Taylor and Lucas threw jabs at each other, neither side yielding. The only cooperation they showed was in dodging Ariel’s suspicion at them having met before, which only caused her frustration to grow. When the time came for Taylor to leave, she kissed Ariel goodbye and waved at Lucas. “Be careful on your moped next time,” she grinned. She closed the front door, shutting off any chance at Lucas returning that comment with a clever response. He didn’t have one anyway, so perhaps it was better off that way. After her exit, Ariel angrily turned to Lucas. “You guys are hiding something from me, and I hate it. I finally have a great relationship with a girl I really like, and I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t go behind my back to meet up with her,” she ranted. Lucas’ expression shifted to concern. “Whoa, what do you mean by that.” “I mean that you two clearly have a thing, and she’s cheating on me with you!” she yelled. Lucas internally face palmed. He knew that Ariel had issues with trust, but he didn’t know that she would be this angry. “Look, it’s not like that,” he grabbed her balled fists in his hands reassuringly. “I promise you it’s not like that.” “Then what are you guys hiding from me?” she sniffed. “I hate not knowing.” “It’s nothing, we’ve never even met before,” Lucas said softly. “I’m being honest. Also, she’s definitely not my type. Way too strong-willed for me.” “Hey,” she punched his shoulder playfully. “I like that about her.” “Whatever floats your boat man,” Lucas shrugged. “Are you sure you guys don’t know each other?” “Yep, one hundred percent.”


The day my daddy lost his laugh Wordcount: 2835 Written by Johan van Rensburg It’s a stare-off. Little Steward stares at the man in the doorway -and the man stares back. It’s kind of funny, the seven year old braveboy in front of the dirty somewhere-around-thirty fellow. More awkward than funny, though. Little Steward beholds the torn and muddy shoes, from which the big toe clearly gasps for fresh air, to the two sizes big jacket that clearly dated at least three centuries ago which stinks and clearly cries out for Nenna’s wash, to the long bushy brown beard. His gaze lingersin the cautious eyes, which seems so humiliated, eyes that are the brightest blue he has ever seen on a man. Where have he seen such eyes? A vague memory dissappears in his mind as he remembers his eticet. “Good day, sir. Can we help you?” The wonder of the moment disappears like a shooting star when daddy flung the wooden front door wide open. It was a peculiar sight. Little Steward cautiously seeks the safety of his father’s legs and creeps in behind them. When his father pulls his blue eyes like that, there is trouble on the horison. His fathers stares at the man, maybe just a little too long for comfort’s sake. Then, as he clears his throat in a clumsy effort to break the awkward silence, little Steward can feel his daddy shaking the sight off of him. “You are on the wrong side of town buddy. “ He lowers his voice to a bare whisper. Little Steward leans forward to hear his following words. It snaps through the fresh Sunday morning:“This suburb is no place for beggers and bums...what do you think?” Daddy didn’t even linger to hear what the filthy man was about to utter. Little steward is sure that he saw the man opening his mouth to say something when the big wooden front door closed with a sure bang and shuts him out of their sight. Little Steward comes out from behind his daddy’s legs. “Who was that man, daddy?” “It was a bum.” Just that. Daddy’s face predicts that nothing good will happen if little Steward persist with more questions about the matter. “Go get dressed boy, I hate beingtlate for church.” With his heart still overflowing with questions, little Steward turns around and strolls off to his bedroom. Mommy laid his clothes neatly on his bed. He looks at his red spiderman socks. He looks at his shiny black shoes, his white collared shirt, and his neatly pressed trousers. His shoes have no holes and smiles brightly up to him. Nenna polishes them every week. His shirt is just the right size and the aroma of stasoft still hangs around it. It smells like wild flowers. The poor bum. He clearly have no Nenna to help him with his clothes. Little Steward dresses himself. He is old enough. He can do many things for himself now, he is seven years old! And he’s been in school for a whole two years now! He looks at himself in the mirror. Wow, he is getting big! He is a handsome guy. Smiling at himself the vision of the dirty bum jumps forward again. The man’s teeth were yellow, not pearly white like his. Do the man have a toothbrush? Here comes mommy. She’s beautiful too! She always smells so nice! She always does the final check on little Steward’s “look”. She stretches out a loving hand and brushes her fingers through his neatly shaved hair. “Come on, daddy’s waiting.” Little steward hears the loud footsteps of his daddy as he is making his way towards their car. By the sound of it, daddy is not in a good mood. Is he ever, these days? Little Steward runs out of his room. He do not want to get on his father’s wrong side if he feels like that! The car pulls out of the driveway with screeching tyres. The silence insid the car bangs against little Steward’s eardrums.. Little steward sits in the back of the car next to the window, eyes looking to and fro, as he searches... for any trace of the bum. At last. Little Steward found him. He stands quietly in the shade of an old oak tree a few blocks from their house. He looks at the car, and for a brief moment, locked eyes with little Steward. Little Steward sees the man lifts a hand in a greet, but is too scared to greet back. Daddy might see. His curiosity gets the best of him. “Mommy?” Mommy tries to put on her lipstick in the little mirror on top. She smiles at him and catches his eyes from the mirror. “Yes, sweety-pie?” “What is a bum?” Mommy lowers the hand that holds her lipstiffy. Little Steward sees her peeking at daddy through the corners of her eyes, Little Steward notices how his daddy’s knuckles turns white as he clenches the steering wheel as he tries to remain calm. Little Steward wonders what he said wrong now. Then daddy breaks the silence. “Its got nothing to do with small boys.” Mommy looks at little Steward through the mirror and puts her forefinger agains her lips. Little Steward understands. He should not say anything more. Church is full, like always. Little Steward walks silently next to his parents. His father smiles as if he is having the best day ever. He is even holding mommy’s hand as they are walking through the people, greeting them heartily , making all kinds of smalltalk. Little Steward wonders about the bum. What if they brought him with to church? Little Steward shakes his head.No. That will wil not work at all! Look how neatly dressed these people are, all look beautiful and they are so loud! Bum is dirty and quiet, the church people will scare him to death! They will never accept him the way he is... They enter the church and walks right to the back, where their seats are. Now he should be very quiet. As he sits down, daddy hands him his tablet to play games with. Their seats is so far at the back of the curch, he can hardly see the reverant on his pulpit. Daddy lets him play games on his tablet to quiet him down for the hour of church. He doesn’t want to be embarresed by a little boy not able to sit still in church. Little Steward shakes his head again. Daddy obviously do not know that he is big now! He can sit still for hours and hours... Clever fingers direct his questionss towards aunty Google. Little Steward smiles. She will tell him the truth. She will not quiet him down. She will satisfy his curiosity. The ...meaning...of...the...word...bum...enter...wait... Google is ready with her answer: a bum is a poor person, from the very bottom class of the society, a person that has no job,a person which have no home to go to and and lives in the streets and sometimes turns out to be a bully, fighting for his survival on the streets It takes little Steward quite some time to read through these difficult words. Some of the words have to be spelled out almost loudly, and mommy pokes him once or twice as he forgets to be super quiet in church. Little steward doesn’t fully understand the meaning of most of these difficult words. Two words that he does understand, is “poor”, and “bully”. He knows that the bum is very poor. He could see that in the way he looks. But being a bully? It doesn’t fit. This bum was very friendly. After the hour of church the family rushes to the safety of their home. Daddy is tired of people now. Little Steward knows. Their lives follows the same routine, Sunday after Sunday. Mommy would disappear into the kitchen to prepare Sundaly lunch, and daddy would go to their bedroom and hide behind the Sunday newspaper for hours. Little Steward goes to the kitchen to help mommy cut the veggies for the day. Mommy is quiet today. On other Sundays she would humm a happy tune, but not today. She is deeply thinking about something, something tat makes furrows on her forehead, and makes her biting her lower lip. Little Steward jumps on the table and starts chewing on a raw carrot. Mommy sees him, and weighs her words for a split second. Then she starts telling little Steward the heartbreaking story of daddy’s brother that chose to live his life as a bum.... Little Steward listens attentively. Bum has a name...it is Herman. Uncle Herman. Uncle Herman didn’t know that they were living at this address when he decided to knock on the door earlier this mornng, begging for bread to eat... Apparently daddy immediately recognised him. It was a great shock. Daddy tries hard not to think back of his past, there are things that he tries to forget. Now uncle Herman came and opened old wounds... Mommy asks little Steward nicely not to ever mention the episode again...and little Steward nodds. He is a big boy. He understands. What he doesn’t understand is why daddy closed the door in his own brother’s face? How can he be so rude? Why didn’t he invite him for breakfast, let him have bath and borrowed him some of his clothes? Why can’t he live with them in the spare room? Why didn’t daddy invite his brother to go with them to church? Why? Little Steward has to get out of the house. He needs to feel the wind in his face to clear the cobwebs that is starting to blur his vision. He has so many questions, but he dare not ask any! Not even aunty Google has an answer to these questions! He needs to go to the park. He takes his bicycle and rides off, as swift as the wind. Mommy thinks he went playing with friend a few blocks from the house. Let her think that. The public park is not really a place for small boys to hang out. Bigger children hangs out here: they play soccer on the lushes green grass, or sit under the shade of the trees and smoke cigarettes and other stuff, and some hangs out here to have a good time with their girlfriends. It is also the place where bums sleep and faggotsspend their days... Little Steward is on a secret mission. His eyes are frantically searching the trees for the blue eyed man that he now knows shares his blood.Little Steward needs answers. Suddenly he notices the man. Little Steward brakes. His throat is dry and his hands are sweaty. For a moment he just stands next to his bicycle, looking at he man in silence, wondering what to do now that he is so near. Uncle Herman is sitting under a big old oak tree on a rock. In front of him is a fire, and on the fire little Steward notices some sort of tin in which something cooks. Uncle Herman stirs the tin’s insides with a stick. Little Steward forgets to whisper. “I shouldv’e brought uncle Herman a cooked lunch!”The words echoesthrough the quiet park. Some birds rise disturbed from their nests in the tree above uncle Herman and take flight. Oom Herman looks up and sees him standing besides the bicycle.. Little Steward is scared. Oom Herman stirs for a last time and stands up from the rock. He walks toward little Steward. “Can I help you, boy?” Little Steward looks at oom Herman. The voice is the same as daddy’s, but without the angry pitch that always creeps in his daddy’s. Their eyes are exactly the same, clear blue sparkiling eyes! It is the truth, this is his father’s brother. Little Steward stretches his hand forward, the way mommy taught him. He is not scared anymore. He offers a friendly smile. “Good day, uncle Herman, my name is Steward.” The man’s eyes dimmed for a moment. He looks at little Steward. He shakes the outstretched hand . “How do you know my name, Steward?” “My mommy told me. She says that you are my daddy’s brother. You were at our house earlier this morning.” There it is. Little Steward blurted it all out in one gasp. He feels mcsh lighter now as he looks up in the frienly blue eyes and the load he carried disappears behind the moving leaves, in the lush summer air. “Oh.” Oom Herman just smiles and then turns around and make his way to the fire again. Little Steward wanders if he should follow him or flee home. He decides to stay. He parks his bicycle and follows the man into the trees. Little Steward find his seat on a nearby rock in front of the fire and watches silently how oom Herman stirs his soup. Oom Herman has great peace. He can feel it. Little Steward feels safe with the man. “I wasn’t aware that my brother lived at that house. I would have never knocked on the door if I knew. I am sorry for the embarresment I caused.” He talks while he tries to take the tin off the fire without burning his fingers. Little Steward wonders what the leafy soup would taste like. He shouldv’e brought the man of their Sunday lunch. Will he be having desert? Little Steward also feels how his tummy rumbles and realises that he is hungry. He remembered that mommy said that he shouldn’t play long, he should be in time for lunch. He definitly will not eat of oom Herman’s soup. Maybe oom Herman is a vegetarian. His friend Marble’s mom is a vegetarian too... He stands up from his rock. “I have to go now, oom Herman. Mommy said I shouldn’t be late for lunch...” He left the sentence hanging after uttering the word “lunch”...knowing that this leafy broth will never measure up to the lunch that he will get at his house.... Oom Herman also knows it. He looks at the tin’s insides andignores little Steward’s final greet. He is so hungry... Little Steward fights the urge to invite uncle Herman to lunch with them. Therefore he rides away like the wind, so that the wind can dry the desperate tears on his cheeks. Daddy sits on the bench on the stoep as little Steward enters. Little Steward swallows dry. He will have to lie to daddy today. “And why the hurry? You are kicking up dust!” Little Steward thinks. “I won the race, daddy! For the first time! Marble got second place!” Daddy laughs. When he laughs he looks just like oom Herman. His eyes wrinkles on the sides and he looks friendly, just like oom Herman looks...when will daddy get his laugh back? While he helps mommy with the dishes later in the afternoon, he prompts her again. “Mommy why is daddy’s brother a bum?” Mommy doesn’t know. Daddy never speaks about his past. Little Steward realises something. Daddy lost his laugh when oom Herman became a bum. He have to get daddy’s laughback. The answer lies with oom Herman. He visits oom Herman again the following day. And the day thereafter. On the third day the answers came. Daddy and oom Herman stayed in the same house on the big family ranch, some twenty years ago. They were farming with wild, and they loved working so closely together, building a beautiful place for their families to come. The unforgivable happened. Oom Herman smoked cigarettes. One day, when the grassfields were very dry and the rains stayed away, he caused a field fire, by the flick of the cigarette in his hand... It was all over in a few minutes. They lost their inheritance and the work of their hands turned to ashes right in front of their eyes. Nothing coud bring it back. Overcome by shame and guilt, oom Herman disappeared for good. He made a choice to never own land again- and become a bum. Daddy lost his laugh and chose a life of wearing a suit and working behind a computer. And this is how it is. Little Steward doesn’t understand. With a heavy heart he rode his bicycle back home. Daddy sits in his chair on the stoep. His daddy - without the laugh. And he so wishes he could help his daddy find his laugh back. Little Steward realizes the fact that he is not big enough to understand all of these things. But he knows of someone that is big enough. God is big enough. He will pray. God will give his daddy his laugh back. And God will give oom Herman a forgiveness for what he did. The next day oom Herman is nowhere to be found. And the next day. And the next. Little Steward keeps on praying. Although little, he is a man of big faith.


Deft hands riffled through the filing cabinet. She always hated this part - it was never where she needed it to be. Margaret slammed a drawer shut to search another. She grimaced at the bare decor and studied the vanilla blinds. The chairs were cheap and worn, and the walls wore bland art. Dirt eroded the low-pile carpet in a maze-like pattern. She hated the place. Disgust renewed her motivation to get the hell out. She’d been in too long already. “Mrs. Sanford, please sit down.” It was barely a whisper, but it was enough to break her mental barrier. The scene flooded in. Lights flickered on and a man in a white coat appeared. He waited. Margaret struggled against the memory. It was fruitless - the chair met her backside before she realized she was complying. “Your results have come in and I’m afraid it isn’t looking good. I’ve consulted with a colleague and they agree with me. You need to get the treatment or this cancer is going to kill you.” The doctor’s voice was calm and level despite the sweat on his brow. “I’ve survived this long without it, doc. I don’t want the treatment. I don’t want to raise my daughter while weak and sick.” Margaret raised her hand to her throat. She no longer had control. “Marge. Please. You could live a long and happy life with James and your daughter. I know you don’t want to seem weak, but this is not something that makes you weak. It takes great strength to decide to get treatment. It’s not easy. Do it for them.” Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding hard on one another. Still, the words spilled out. “They are the very reason I’m *not* doing it. Trust me, doc, they don’t want me like that either.” She tried to resist. “And you don’t understand what I’d be giving up.” It was quiet, but he heard. “*Ma’am,* no disrespect to you, but I recognize exactly what you would be giving up. I see this every day. I see people die from this almost as frequently. I don’t want you to be one of them. I like you, Marge, please. Maybe just think about it? Talk it over with your husband again.” Mentally crossing her fingers, she lied. “Okay. Sure, doc.” The pressure that held her to the chair released and the lights flickered off again. She was finally free to resume her hunt. She popped up from the chair to search the desk. “Junk, junk, *junk.*” she grumbled. “Where *is* it?!” She toppled the clutter on Doctor Franklin’s desk with a sweeping motion. A clinking sound, metal against ceramic, caught her attention and she dove for the pile of knick-knacks on the floor. On her knees, she shuffled through the man’s belongings. “*Aha!*” The golden key was only one part of the equation, but she was *so close* to escaping. Whispers began anew. She fought to put her walls up, but she was growing weary. The memories sizzled at her barriers like mosquitoes on a bug zapper. Each hit made her more vulnerable. She shuffled toward the main door. “The most obvious solution, but why not try it?” She fumbled with the key in the office's entryway door lock. It didn’t fit. “Shit.” She turned toward the back door. “Lovely to see you, Marge!” the voice of a receptionist chirped at her. *Zap.* The door nearly met her face as she plowed into it, extending the key to the lock. “*Shit.*” “This way, Margie. I’ll get your gown,” a distant nurse echoed. *Zap.* “Guess we’re gonna have to do this the hard way.” Margaret set her stride at a brisk pace, key at the ready. She plugged it into each door she passed, hissing a curse at every failure. It was never where she needed it to be. Her eyes widened with realization. She made her way to the ladies’ restroom near the back of the office, pushed open the door, and grinned. Her eyes raised. *A window of opportunity, indeed.* She chuckled at her own joke as she tried the lock. *Click.* She used the sink to boost herself up and pushed through the window. “Oof.” The bedroom floor knocked the wind out of her as she landed. The sound of urgent footsteps echoed through the floorboards against her ear. Her husband appeared. Without a word, he weaved his arms through hers to lift her back to her bed. Once settled, he brushed her hair out of her face, hiding the clump that fell out. “Are you alright?” He looked her over. “Mmh.” “What happened? Was it another dream? Was it bad?” Margaret averted her eyes. They landed on the snow globe. “Mmh.” “My love, I know this is awful. I can see that you’re in so much pain, but...” he took her hand in his. “But I need you to talk to me.” She turned toward the window. *If only there was a key to that one, too.


I yawn. Somewhere between the boisterous music and the haze in my brain, I realize we’ve been here way too late. How did that happen? Eh. It’s fine. It can’t be that late really, can it? I’ve been waiting a long time to get one more song in on karaoke before we head home for the night. But the outdoor patio of the bar has become super crowded with people. Some are so inebriated they can’t walk out on their own. I had hoped to hear that young lady sing again, too. She’s a pretty girl with a pretty voice, but no self confidence. She’s overweight. Poor thing probably has all the mental health issues that go along with that. I’m not going to get another song in any way. And, I doubt she will either. What was her name? Oh, heck if I know. She only sang once. That’s all I’ve gotten to sing, too, come to think of it. Saturday karaoke is for the wild drunken fools. Where’s Bob now? Oh, right. He went to shoot a game of pool. I weed my way through the crowd to the other side of the bar, ignoring the drunken leers. Little black dress. Sorry, not sorry, penises. Not here for that. Plus, out of here. Bob stands at the opposite end of the pool table from me, so he sees me walk up and smiles. My heart warms. He’s examining the balls on the table when I reach him. He stops as I wrap my arms around his waste from behind. “I’m ready to go,” I exclaim toward his ear, hoping he can hear me. “I’ll be out in the car.” “Okay babe,” he shouts, and kisses me. Out in the car, I crawl into the backseat. Shoving everything off the seat, I’m wishing I had a pillow. I spy my fuzzy pink hoodie with the ears. Wadding it up for a pillow, I curl up on the seat. As an afterthought, I tug my skirt down in case someone strolls by the car. They aren’t going to like getting flashed with my granny underwear. Lying there in a drunken stupor, I sorta grasp that I shouldn’t have had that last whiskey. Ginger whiskey. Who invented that? It goes down too easily, kind of like that vanilla one. That goes down way too quick, too. I can’t drink it because I end up sick to my stomach and having a sugar headache before I even lay down to sleep. I already have a sugar headache from the three I had tonight. Four? My mind’s wandering over the day’s events, and the evening they’ve had out, and what they're going to do tomorrow. I hear yelling. It sifts through the fog in my brain, slowly. People are making some much of a raucous, and the music is concert level loud. Not concert level good at the moment “What’d ya do with our s***?!” “What the hell are you talking about?” Thud, grunt. “Don’t get mouthy, s*** head.” I peek my head over the door and gazes groggily out of the car window A young kid, must be about twenty-five because he looks no older than Jeff, is backed against the patio fence. He’s very confused and dazed. Drunk, I’m sure. He has the appearance of a college boy headed for a career in an office somewhere. Probably, his family has a cottage on the lake and he's there for the summer. The crew of three older hoodlums have him pinned. They’re screaming at him, but I can’t understand what they’re saying. And not because I’m drunk. They’re just screaming nonsense with profanity thrown in. The one older man has his shirt front gripped in his fist and keeps slamming him against the fence. I’m surprised nobody’s reacting inside the fence, but the music is blaring. Somebody's screech karaoking. Too bad one of those young lady’s aren’t up singing. They actually can sing. “I don't know what you're talkin about,” the kid is saying. “Don't play dumb with us. We know you have it. Julio done told us he gave it to you.” Julio? I feel sorry for anybody named Julio that’s gotten himself tangled up with this riff raff. Dumb, cumbersome white guys who think they’re bad ass and always trying to prove it. They probably don’t even know a Julio. They’re just using a Mexican name to sound tough. The kid notices me and makes eye contact. The goons turn around to see who he's looking at. I drop down below the window, quick. That’s the last thing we need, is to get involved in an altercation. “Hey, hey, hey,” the kid stutters, panic creeping into his voice. “You don't have to do that. you got the wrong guy!” “We ain’t got the wrong guy!” I peep over the door again. The ring leader has a knife to the kid’s throat. The young man is pleading with his eyes, begging me to help him. This time the punk turns his head quick. I’m too slow and he spots me. Damn! Are the doors locked? No. Why didn’t I lock the damn doors sleeping in a car outside a damn bar. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I gotta lock the doors. I can’t even figure out how to do that. No more ginger whiskey. I’m done with that poison. I can’t lock the doors from the back seat. I scramble up to through the front bucket seats, thumping and bumping like a pinball. When I keep flopping into everything, I grab a hold of the steering wheel to pull myself toward the door handle. The back door squeaks open. I can hear the other two guys shouting in the distance, feet hitting stones, and a car door slam. The kid broke free and ran to his car. Good. Maybe he made it. I slam my hand on the lock repeatedly, but it's too late. He yanks me by my feet. The fingers of my right hand nearly pull loose. The left hand fingers scrape free of the wheel, scratching grime and gripping at air. That hand automatically clamps back onto the wheel. I didn’t tell it to. I almost stop to contemplate that, but he’s yanking again. I grab on and pull. So does he. My back cracks multiple places down my spine. Ahhh... Focus! A car squeals it's tires, kicking up dirt. Some of the stones patter on Bob’s car. The other two, frustrated at losing their prey, crunch through gravel heading my way. Now I’ve got all three of them on me. I’m dead. I’ll never survive this. At least the kid lived. He’s got his whole life ahead of him. I’ve had a tumultuous, but full one. So far. My heart hurts at not ever seeing the boys again. At them having to lose me. The door to the bar opens. “Someone’s coming, Frank. We gotta get!” Frank growls. And swears. At least he’s got the language of profanity right, even if he can’t speak human. He drops my feet, and I plop awkwardly in the gap. I don’t fit in the gap and am instantly wedged. I can hear them running down the road. My heart is thumping, hard. “Baby! What ya doing?” I hear Bob exclaim, jovially. I gag. A bit of that ginger whiskey comes back up into my throat, and I force it back down. After all this, I’m gonna worry about not puking on his seat? He's trying to open the door, but it’s locked. He reaches for his keys on his pants, but I fumble with the button first. “What's going on? What was the noise out here about?” He stares at me, strewn between the front and back seat. I’m fighting down the whiskey and the chicken strips. “Get me out!!” I manage. I don’t think I can hold the contents in my stomach much longer. Bob clutches my arm. We both pull. It hurts as he pulls me loose and out of the car. I scramble to the bushes by the building. And vomit. He rubs my back. I keep vomiting. I cry. Ugly tears. Hyperventalating. “It’s okay, relax, you're okay. What happened?” A group of drunk people come out, moving to another car and cavorting. “Bob! They were going to kill him and he was just a kid. They were going to kill him. He looked like Jeff. Baby, he was just a kid!” “What are you talkin’ about? You drank too much.” For the first time in twenty years of being together, I slap him. Hard across the face. Shock registers in his eyes, and my hands shoot to cover my mouth. As calmly and as sternly as I can I say, “I am not being a hysterical female, Bob. These guys, they had a kid out here and they were going to kill him. And they’re getting away. They left on foot, they can’t have gone far!” “Okay, okay. Do you want me to go after them?” “No!! They had a knife. They were trying to pull me out of the car.” His face takes on a whole different expression and he pulls out his cell. “I’m calling the cops. Which way did they go?”