The golden sunrise of the summer season pierced the soft clouds and wormed the yellow sand as the gentle hot wind picked it up and scattered it a cross the quiet town of "Pathstow" and no soul walked the streets today because most of the residence were either at home avoiding the heat or at the local bar named "Coal Pit Bar" drinking away their sorrows, listening to the beautiful singing of lady Vera and betting with what little money they still had in their pocket hoping to win at a game of poker and all of that put a smile on the bar owner's face. His name was Victor, a shot old men wearing the same old clothes he wore when he came into town. The strong and awful smell of cheaply made cigars and spilled alcoholic drinks filled the bar but it didn't matter to any of the customers because they were either too drunk to care or too focused on the game of poker. In a corner of the bar sat a young looking man with a big grin that stretched from ear to ear wearing clothes that looked fancy and clean in comparison to the cloths of the other customers and around him gathered a small crowed of amazed people watching him do magic tricks. All went well at first with his tricks but then in one of his tricks he pulled out a perfectly cut shining diamond the size of an egg and when one of the greedier customers pushed away everyone and tried to grab it but the young man made it disappear into thin air which made the customer's face go red with blind rage and then the furious customer pulled out his revolver and demanded to be given the diamond or else he will scatter the young man's brains across the walls of the bar but the young man wasn't fazed by his demands and when he pulled the trigger he discovered that his revolver was empty and then he fell face first on the wooden floor and everyone in the bar was horrified and their skin turned pale when they saw the same diamond covered in blood protruding out his head. The frightened customers fled the bar as if it was burning but Victor stayed. "By this point I would beat the devil out of you but you put on a great show and so I'll let you stay for a drink and by the way what is your name?" said Victor holding two glasses of whisky. "Victor, my name is not important but if you insist on knowing my name than call me Jack." said Jack as he manifested a rose tipped cigarette and a golden lighter out of thin air. "How did you know my name? Is this another trick?" said Victor as he sat on a chair and put the whisky glasses on the table. As soon as the glass touched the old wooden table Jack grabbed it and drank it faster than humanly possible. "I know a lot my friend and I even know what is your deepest desire" said jack while he was lighting the cigarette with a flame so tall that it almost touched the ceiling. "What's next? Are you going to read my fate with some cards that you will manifest out of the smoke of your cigarette?" said Victor in a laughing voice after he drank his glass of whisky. "Oh! I don’t need cards to tell you that your fate will be one of misery and regret! But this is not why I am here today." said Jack with a laughing voice as he put the ashes of his cigarette on the ashtray. "Then you better tell me if you don't want to end up inside a trash can!" said Victor as he furiously slammed the table with his fist. "I am here to help you settle a small problem regarding lady Vera." said Jack with a smile. "Tell me Victor..." continued Jack "Do you love her? Despite your age you still want the love that you lost when your dear wife met her end on the rail road tracks as you hopelessly watched while running towards her with the hope to save her from the upcoming train." said Jack while holding a picture of Victor's wife and Vera which he manifested out of the smoke of his cigarette. "Even if I wanted to marry her I won't be able to since she is married to that banker!" screamed Victor with a furious voice as he slammed the table again with his fist. "But do not fear my golden child for I and only I with my endless powers and strength can insure that you and lady Vera will be a happy married couple and your fate will be a happy one but only if you bow down before me and worship me!" said Jack with an enthusiastic voice that echoed in Victor's mind as he stood up and revealed himself to be a lot taller than what he seems. The sunlight that came from the windows turned red as blood and the air smelled like roses. Despite the echoing of Jack's words in his mind he stood up and looked straight into Jack's glassy eyes and said "I worked hard my entire life to get to this point and if I bow down before you then I will lose everything!" and then he picked up a knife from his pocket and stabbed Jack multiple times in the neck and throat. "Bravo! I can safely say that your show is entertaining but it still doesn't compare to me and my skills!" said Jack who was standing in the opposite side of the bar holding a golden revolver. Victor turned to the direction of Jack and then he turned back and saw the lifeless body of lady Vera with her blood on his hands. "Look at the bright side of the situation my friend! You will finally be together!" said Jack in a loud laughing voice before pulling the trigger and putting an end to Victor's life. Jack sat the bar alight and exited the town with a big grin that stretched from ear to ear.


I looked up at the old iron sign dangling over the entrance by a single rusty chain. It had lost a few letters over the past hundred and fifty years or so. Now the words “Memori Cemete” swayed back and forth with the occasional squeal of ancient metal. “You sure we want to go in?” I asked, looking over at William who stood beside me with his hands in the pockets of his well-worn slacks. “I think we have to.” The dusty shoulders of William’s jacket seemed to bounce with his shrug. “Only choice we have left.” “But we haven’t tried...” I started to say. “We’ve tried everything, Frank,” William interrupted me, and I let him. “You’re right,” I conceded, knowing he was. We were out of options. No other choice. Dead end, if that’s not too ironic to say. “I’m just tired, Frank.” He looked over at me then, and I could see it in his pale eyes. “Well, let’s just call it weariness.” He gave me that broken, half smile of his before looking back into the darkness in front of us. “We’ve traveled together a lot,” he said, and I could hear the weariness of which he spoke. “Before and after.” I simply nodded and let his words hang in the night air for a while. “Let’s go a bit farther then,” I said finally, nodding toward the entrance. I picked up the shovel I’d rested against my leg and started walking. William followed suit a second later. “Been a while since we were here last,” I said, trying to fill the silence. “Sign’s a bit more run down than I recall.” William looked up only briefly as we walked between the tall stone pillars that held the rusty old sign. He didn’t say anything as we passed the first of the wide stones standing in the overgrown lawn. He simply shook his head sadly and dragged his feet along the rocky, weed-covered path. Several gnarled, elderly trees grew beside the path and I near stumbled over the many roots protruding from the ground. “It’s all really gone downhill,” I observed as we passed more stones. Some had fallen over, and more than a few lay broken and half-covered with grass and soil. The writing on many was so worn or dirt encrusted that I could barely read them. I tried to straighten my jacket as we walked, fastening it with the one remaining button. I wondered if William and I looked as unkempt as the cemetery. “You remember where they are?” I asked, unsure myself as to where we were going. I looked off into the darkness on either side of us, and across the many faces of those worn and broken tombstones. “They’re just ahead here, up on the right,” William said, nodding in that direction. We both came to a stop at the edge of the path, and I followed his gaze. It was dark, and the standing stones seemed even older, if that was possible. “You really think it’ll work?” I asked, looking over at William. “That shaman said it should,” he answered, continuing to gaze into the darkness. “But if it doesn’t, we just keep going, I guess.” I could hear the fear of hopelessness in his voice. I didn’t bring up that the old man had never tried it before, and had no proof that it would work. William knew it all as well as I. “Let’s go then,” I said, and together we stepped off the path and into the tall grasses. Our destination was only a few dozen paces away, and we soon stopped before a pair of ancient and worn stones. The writing on each was faded but readable. The names, I knew, and the dates, so long ago. “Died of influenza,” I read, “1919.” Both stones held the same epitaph. “It’s 2020 this year, right William?” He only nodded. Neither of us spoke as we pushed our shovels into the ground. The soil was hard but forgiving as we worked our way down one scoopful at a time over the next two hours. William’s shovel hit wood first and I heard him scraping away for a few minutes before I, too, struck the lid of the coffin. Several minutes later, we stood together, looking down into the fresh pair of deep holes. “Why do you think they did it?” I asked, not for the first time. I looked again at the stones and the names there. “What would you have done, Frank?” William asked. “They’d lost so much that I just don’t think they could stand to lose any more.” “It’s happening again, you know,” I said. “It is,” William replied. “I just hope today’s generation don’t try what our families did” He stood there, hands in his pockets like they so often were when he was lost in thought. “Do you think it’ll work?” I asked again after a minute of silence. “I hope so, Frank.” “Alright, William, after you,” I said, turning to the hole he had dug. “It’s my job to get you there first.” “But, how will you...” William started. “I’ll figure it out,” I interrupted. “Don’t worry about me.” I put a hand on his shoulder as I spoke. “It’s time to go, William.” I helped William climb back into the hole. The lid of the coffin was open, though half of it was broken and splintered. I could see that the once-white silk of the interior was rotten and covered with a century’s worth of dirt. The casket I had unearthed was in a similar condition. He looked up at me as he lay down in the empty coffin. “Goodbye William,” I said simply. “Goodbye Frank,” he said. “You’ve been a great big brother.” With that, William pulled the lid closed. I could still see his face through the broken half of the coffin as I began to shovel the dirt back on top. Somehow, I knew it had worked. I knew that William was finally at rest again. I looked over at the headstones as I worked at refilling the hole. The names “Willaim Henry Northcott” and “Franklin Edmund Northcott” stared back at me. If I could have cried I would have, but there had been no tears for many years. More than a century, actually. We’d taken ill at the same time, my brother William and me. And we’d died side by side within hours of each other. The Spanish Flu had taken so many, even before we’d gotten sick. Our wifes and children had somehow been spared, but not so our parents and countless others. How our families had brought us back, we never found out. We both woke in our coffins and had to dig ourselves out. When we finally made our way back to our families, they were shocked that whatever they had done had worked. But, it had been too long, our bodies were too far decayed. William and I spent the next century as far from people as we could. But we were tired and ready for the end. So we found a wise man who told us a way. I turned to my own grave and looked down at my coffin. It wouldn’t be easy, but I could do it. I could pull the dirt down on top and follow William back to rest. “There! Zombie!” I turned at the shout. “Get it!” Six men were running toward me holding lights. Some held hatchets or machetes. I heard a gunshot and felt something hit me in the arm. I felt no pain, had no loss of motion. I took one last look at the mob before turning to flee. None of them were wearing masks and I felt sorry for the lot of them. Would they, too, end up with their names on a broken stone in an overgrown cemetery? My foot caught the edge of a root before I’d taken a single step. I felt like I was falling forever when I landed hard in my coffin. The lid slammed closed on top of me and I looked up through the splinted hole. I began to panic as the dirt I’d inadvertently knocked loose spilled into my grave, covering my coffin. As I closed my eyes, I heard voices somewhere in the distance. William’s, my wife’s, my children’s. All there, all calling me to rest.


Lucy moved her hand slowly, her eyes fixed on her pout lips, trying hard to control her breathing. She wanted her lipstick to be perfect, but the wine had already gone to her head. She knew she would have to slow down, but the wine was giving her the courage to go through with it. Satisfied, she dropped the lipstick back in her bag and kissed the air, smiling at her reflection in the mirror. She gave her little black top a tug and readjusted herself, to show a little more cleavage. She had been much less provocative when Dean made a move before. Although at that time, Lucy was not interested in him. She still wasn’t, but now she had a use for him. He was not going to be able to resist her tonight. Back at the table, the guys had arrived. The girls were still seated, and the guys had positioned themselves to guard their girls from other men, marking their territory, Lucy thought. Dean, as she had expected, had squeezed in between Sandra and Jessica. He was holding a drink in one hand and leaning into Jessica, who was giggling at whatever he was saying. Lucy fixed her eyes on Jessica as she approached the table. Their eyes met, and Lucy grinned, the smile on Jessica’s face vanished behind a sheepish glare. “Hello handsome,” Lucy said. Dean looked up as she deliberately leaned way too far forward to pick up her drink, giving him an eyeful. He looked uncomfortable, not knowing where to look. Jessica on the other hand, sat staring down Lucy’s top. Was that envy Lucy saw? Jessica was certainly lacking in that department in comparison. “Please, don’t let me interrupt,” Lucy said, turning away from them both, but staying within Dean’s line of sight. Lucy did not hear Jessica giggle again. # Lucy waited at the bar; she was moving on from wine to cocktails. The mixologist always took an inordinate amount of time to prepare the drinks, but that was one way to slow down. “What are you doing?” said Jessica. She stood beside Lucy now, side on, with a pout like she had just down a sour shot. “I am just getting a drink, you?” “You know what I mean. I asked you not to go for Dean, and you’re flaunting yourself right in front of us.” Lucy shrugged, “Honey, I ain’t dressed like a nun, and I can’t help what God gave me.” Jessica sighed, “Just, please, don’t. Not him, for me, OK?” The mixologist finished her drink, “One Screaming Orgasm”, he said, as he placed it on the bar. Lucy looked to Jessica, “Just what every girl wants, right?”. She began to suck the straw and made her eyes go wide to indicate the pleasure of it and walked away from her. “For you, miss?” said the barman. “Do you do a Redheaded Slut?” emphasizing the name so Lucy could hear, but Lucy did not react. “I’m sorry, a what?” “Nothing, I’ll have a Gin and Tonic, easy on the tonic.” # As Jessica was at the bar, there was a seat free next to Dean. Lucy needed to sit down anyway, the high heels and the alcohol were taking their toll. “Excuse me,” she said as she staggered through to the gap, knocking over a bottle of beer. She tried to grab it, but just knocked it over faster. “Oh, sorry, sorry.” “It’s fine, it was almost dead anyway”, said Ben. She plonked down in the seat next to Dean, splashing some of her cocktail onto him. He frowned at her, with a sort of half smile. “Oh, I am so sorry, Dean,” Lucy said, patting down his shirt with her hand. “It’s, fine, don’t worry.” “I thought it would be you giving me the screaming orgasm,” Lucy said. “What?” “It’s a joke, my drink, it’s a...” “Yeah, I get it,” Dean said, without so much as a smirk at the pun. Lucy could see Jessica was coming back to the table. So, she turned in to face Dean, she placed her hand on his chest and whispered in his ear, “so how about it? Is your game as good as you make it out to be?”. She breathed out her hot breath onto his neck. That drives guys wild. In her mind, she imagined Dean getting flustered, maybe even blushing, maybe having the need to adjust the way he was sitting. She smirked to herself at the thought of that. Then his bravado would kick in and he would place his hand on her bare thigh, or on her waist, and take the bait. All on display for Jessica to witness. Lucy then began to imagine how Jessica would feel. Would she get that numb sinking feeling, like your heart has dropped to your stomach, or that feeling like you can’t breathe, making her run out of the bar. Ultimately, her goal tonight was to humiliate Jessica. If she had to go through with her provocations and have a half stimulating night with Dean to do so, then that would be a side bonus. It had been a while since she had taken someone home anyway. Tomorrow, she would put it down to the drink, and make it clear to him it was a one time only thing. He would not care, guys don’t, or so she thought. “Hey, stop this, you’re drunk?” Dean said, gently pushing Lucy off him. “What? I thought you wanted this, that you wanted me?” Dean laughed, “Yeah, but that was before. You’re drunk, Lucy. I think you should go home.” Lucy was now the one siting next to Dean, looking sheepishly at the now standing Jessica. “Is it her?” Lucy said. “Is what her?” Dean said. “Do you want her, is that why you don’t want me tonight?” Dean was lost for words, he looked to Jessica, and back to Lucy, looking for a way out of answering. “Never mind.” Lucy said, as she moved out from the seat. She could feel tears swelling up in her eyes. This was not supposed to be. Jessica was the one meant to be leaving disgraced and upset. “Lucy,” Jessica said, calling to her as she walked away. # Lucy walked out of the bar and along the river. People seemed to be mingled everywhere outside, making the most of the summer nights heat. Lucy could not find a place to be alone. Tears streamed down her face now. ‘Why are you crying?’ she thought to herself. She could not understand it. How could he have refused her? She was not that drunk, was she? “Lucy, stop.” It was Jessica, chasing after her. “Come to gloat? Twist the knife?” Lucy said. “What? No, what has gotten into you?” said Jessica. “I heard you, Jessica. Talking to Sandra at work. You said that you didn’t want me to get with Dean tonight. That it would ruin your evening. Why? Am I not good enough to be picked over you?” “Is that what all this was about? You don’t even like Dean.” “That’s not the point.” Lucy said, turning away from Jessica. Jessica stepped around in front of Lucy, “I’m sorry, Lucy. I don’t like Dean, well, not like that.” Lucy scrunched her brow, “What? Then, why did you say that to Sandra?” “I didn’t know how to say it, but it’s you, Lucy. I like you. I have never seen you with a guy, and you always avoid the advances from those vultures at work. I hoped that maybe, there was a reason for that. I was telling Sandra that seeing Dean all over you last time, made me, sick and jealous. I just didn’t want a repeat of that.” Lucy stared at Jessica, not knowing how to take it all in. Not knowing how to feel. Jessica placed her hands on the back of Lucy neck, and slowly edged in. Lucy was confused, and she did not pull away, she almost longed for what was about to happen, her heart raced in her chest. Jessica pushed her soft lips against Lucy’s, just once, then she pulled away, gripping Lucy bottom lip with her own lips. Lucy felt her bottom lip quiver as Jessica let go and exhaled sharply. “Now, we could both have some humiliating gossip for tomorrow, but I hope not. Go home, Lucy. See you in the morning.” And with that, Jessica returned toward the bar. Lucy stood by the river, watching as the city lights distorted and danced across the surface. Jessica had not been bitching about her after all. Jessica had feelings for her. There was a time when Lucy had questioned her own sexuality, but she never pursued it. All this tonight was designed to get at Jessica too; was this really about Dean, or due to some hidden desire for Jessica? Lucy placed her hand to her lips, reliving the kiss in her mind, remembering the sweet smell of Jessica’s perfume. She had never felt like that with a guy. She turned, and walked after Jessica. “Hey, Jessica.” She turned, and smiled, “Hey”. Lucy could not find the words, she did not even know what she even wanted to say. Jessica cocked her head, “What is it?” “Just shut up for a moment,” Lucy said. “Ok, but, are we just going to stand here and...” “I said shut up,” Lucy said. She set aside her reservations, putting it down to the cocktails, she wanted to know how she felt. She stepped up to Jessica, and paused just in front of her, their lips almost touching. She felt like everyone had their eyes on them. She felt apprehensive, looking around for any familiar faces, for a reason to stop. “If you’re going to kiss me, you need to...” Lucy could feel the vibrations of Jessica’s voice on her own lips, like electricity. “I don’t ask a third time, stop talking,” with that, Lucy pressed her lips against Jessica’s. They kissed, softly. Jessica placed her hand on the small of Lucy’s back, Lucy placing her hand on Jessica’s neck, as she had done to her just now. When she opened her eyes, all she saw was Jessica. No one else mattered.


“Take it dear. You look like you could use it.” I turned my head away from surveying the calm sea and looked down at the little old lady. She must have sidled noiselessly up alongside me while I was lost in thought, staring out at the monstrous vessel sliding ponderously along the calm waters of the Solent, imagining that it was off on a glorious voyage - more likely it was delivering a load of cargo, cars probably, to the Far East. Her outstretched arm hung horizontally before her, trembling with the weight of the small round pebble grasped within her upturned varicose fingers. Unsure how to react, but not wanted to insult her, I quickly reached out and took it from her. Relieved of its burden, her arm dropped to her side, fingers wrapping now around the handle of her shopping cart, one of those little cloth-covered ones on two wheels that all the elderly people in the supermarkets seem to have. She turned and hobbled off along the promenade towards The Green, cart clattering loudly on the uneven pavers. “Um, excuse me.” She’d gone a few metres before my mind caught up, but I caught up to her in a couple of strides. “Why did you give me this?” I asked. “Looks to me like you need it,” she answered, staring ahead and maintaining her rackety pace. Slowing to match her, I looked down at the stone in my hand, rubbing my thumb over its surface. “I look like a need a rock?” It was a question as much to myself as it was to her, which was good because she seemed not to hear or chose not to answer. We walked silently together past the Squadron, each squinting against the sunset glare shooting off the golden cannons guarding the battlements of the ancient, if diminutive, castle. I continued to stroke the surface of the stone, half expecting understanding to wash over me at any moment, occasionally glancing down at the tiny woman for a clue of some kind. She seemed to have forgotten about me entirely. “Is it a special rock?” I asked, as the high-end sea-front apartments alongside us gave way suddenly to the open expanse of The Green, a hundred-metre stretch of grassy park, pockmarked with concrete benches, and pebbly beach; pebbles that looked to my eye like very close relatives of the one still clutched in my hand. “They’re all special,” she said matter-of-factly, stopping and surveying the expanse of pebbles, white curls of her hair rustling in the breeze blowing softly off the water. “But that one’s the one for you.” She stepped off the path and onto the stones, dragging her cart behind her, barely managing to keep its ricocheting frame the right way up. About halfway to the gently crashing waves she stopped. Leaving the trolley standing alone, she picked her way nimbly in a wide circle across the pebbles, back bent deeply. Her eyes never left the ground and every now and then she would stop, stoop down further and peer intensely at one of the pebbles, picking the occasional one up before discarding it with a clatter amongst its equally unsuitable peers. Standing there watching her work, circle slowly expanding as the light grew more and more golden, I realised that I’d seen her before; right here doing exactly this as I passed by on my way home from the office. Not every evening, but occasionally. Of course, I’d never in my three years walking this commute stopped to watch her; never stood statuesque for ten minutes in the setting sun as the crazy old lady picked up stones on the beach. Why would I? I shook my head and turned away from her; turned for my little flat at the end of the promenade; turned for home. I rolled the pebble over in my hand before slipping it into my pocket. “Make sure you look after it,” her shrill voice called to my back as I walked away. “That one’s been my favourite for longer than I can remember.” \*\*\* “And?” My mom asked. “How are you doing?” She’d called me on FaceTime just a few minutes after I’d walked through the door. We spoke about once a week, sometimes less. I sat on the small couch in the corner of the kitchen slash living room. The wifi was playing up as it sometimes did so we’d turned the video off and were making do with a voice chat. “I don’t know,” I said, “sometimes I just wonder what I’m doing.” “What do you mean?” she asked, concern in her voice. “Just that...I don’t know...just what the point of it all is. Work for instance. It’s not like I enjoy it, or that I’m any good at what I do. I’m surprised they haven’t fired me yet actually.” She clucked at that. She always clucked when I made comments like that. “Oh come on,” she said, “you don’t mean that. Why would they fire you?” I fixed my attention on the pebble in my hand, turning it over and over, inspecting the variations of its grey-blue-brown colouring. It felt coarse against my skin; the etchings of centuries of erosion all over its surface giving it the texture of fine-grained sandpaper. “You’re just having a tough time at the moment,” she continued, oblivious to my inattention. “Just keep your head down and push through, it’ll all be alright soon.” I nodded my head then remembered she couldn’t see me and verbalised my affirmation, even though I didn’t agree with her. It’s not like she’d understand anyway. I’d tried telling her before in different ways, but it was always the same. Just get through it and things would get better. It’s just a bad patch that I’m going through. I wasn’t so sure though. If it was just a bad patch then it was a very long one and the end was nowhere in sight, not to my eyes at least. I was bored and unmotivated; had been for as long as I could remember. It’s not like things are terrible and I can hardly claim great misfortune or hardship, but I also can’t just perk myself up as some people seem to be able to do; just pretend like everything is hunky-dory and get on with things when they brought me no joy. I have a job sure, even if I can’t remember why I took it. I have the flat. It’s small - compact according to the proud agent - but the view out over the water, full with the comings and goings of maritime vessels, is mesmerising. I’m healthy and have a family who loves me. And yet, I feel like something is missing, or that I’m missing out on something. We spoke about nothing for another ten or so minutes before saying our goodbyes and hanging up. I stood up from the couch and set about making something to eat, slipping the stone back into my pocket, feeling the weight settle against my thigh. It’s not like I was going to change anything right now. After dinner and a few episodes of mindless TV, I left the dishes unwashed in the sink and got ready to go to bed. On the way out of the room, I passed the peace lily that my mom had sent me a few months back, no doubt hoping that having another living entity dependent on me for survival would have some sort of magical effect on my outlook. Instead, I’d ended up with a near-dead houseplant. “Come on little guy,” I said as I walked past, sounding like I was talking to a puppy or a three-week-old baby, “don’t die on me.” I stroked a forlorn leaf and continued on through to the bedroom. Undressing, I put my hand into my pocket to retrieve the pebble. It was warm. Not body-heat warm, but sitting-in-the-sunshine-all-day warm. I held it against my cheek, feeling the heat transfer into my skin. It was comforting. Peculiar, but comforting for some reason. I set it down on the bedside table, telling myself that it was probably some unusually conductive material. Maybe some rocks are just like that. What did I know about rocks? I climbed into bed and fell asleep. \*\*\* In the morning, I went through my regular routine. Alarm rings at seven, hit snooze a couple of times and then roll out of bed and get dressed: jeans, T-shirt and a black zip-up sweater from Patagonia that I’d had for at least the last ten years. Quick breakfast of whatever cereal had caught my eye in Sainsbury’s on the weekend, sitting on the couch and eating while looking through various apps on my phone, always in the same order: e-mail, BBC News, Instagram and then Reddit. By the time I’ve got through all of that, it’s usually eight and time to brush my teeth and start the walk to work. As I opened the front door to leave this morning, I felt a pull in the pit of my stomach, like I’d forgotten something but didn’t know what. I pulled open my bag to check I had my laptop and then patted my pockets to make sure my phone and wallet were there. I had all three. It was as I tapped my right pocket though that I thought of the pebble, which had occupied that space alongside my phone yesterday evening after I left that strange old lady on the beach. I backtracked into my bedroom, picked up the little grey rock off the table beside my bed and dropped it into my pocket. The feeling disappeared. Exiting the bedroom once again, I noticed the lily; the near-dead lily that I had whispered meaningless words of encouragement to last night as if the sound of my voice could somehow bring it back to life. Only it seemed to have worked. Instead of looking dreary and withered, it was lush and verdant, broad green leaves standing tall and and even a couple of white kayak-shaped flowers spearing proudly upwards. I stopped to examine it, running my hands over the smooth leaves. Surely this can’t be the same plant? Time was ticking past though and I needed to get to work. I shook my head, turned away from the miraculous houseplant and shut the door behind me. I was halfway along the promenade when I put my hand into my pocket and felt the pebble, recalling suddenly how strangely warm it had been before I went to sleep yesterday evening. \*\*\* The email arrived in my inbox with a chime at exactly 10:00 AM. I reckon it must have been typed sometime earlier, days earlier perhaps, and then scheduled to go out at this precise time. It was from the head of HR - although the title here was Chief People Officer - and it informed me that my role was, “no longer feasible to maintain given the current commercial environment” and that they were, “sorry to have to let me go.” It went on to tell me that as per my contract I was being given the standard one-month’s notice and was thus expected to perform my duties diligently until May 31st. My first thought was that I’d get to tell my mom I told her so. My second was that I should just go crazy and create a scene worthy of a TV sitcom, throw my laptop against the wall, stride purposefully across the room and hook the manager a sharp one in the jaw. I actually grinned behind my monitor as that played across my mind’s eye. My third was that I shouldn’t be surprised; that this was the email I’d been expecting from the moment Henk, the head of IT, had issued me my laptop on my first day, it had just arrived three years late now that they’d finally realised I had no idea what I was doing and never had. I closed Outlook and double-clicked the Powerpoint icon. Growing up, once I’d matured beyond the childish fascination of becoming Spiderman or the white Power-Ranger I’d still had dreams, albeit more realistic ones. I’d marvelled at the colossal mega-structures on Discovery Channel documentaries and discovered that they were built by civil engineers. At some point I’d moved on to wanting to be a doctor, a surgeon even, saving lives amongst the beeps and whooshes of the operating theatre. Then I’d dreamed of designing Formula One cars. Instead, I’d ended up here, spending most of my time playing Tetris with the shared calendar and craning my neck closer to the screen so that I could be sure the corners of the text boxes in my one-thousandth Powerpoint slide deck lined up perfectly. Really important work. Stuff to be proud of. “We’re off to the Anchor for a drink, you coming?” A voice called from across the open-plan office. Just like that the day had disappeared and I had nothing to show for it except a headache blooming at the base of my neck and seven new, perfectly aligned slides. “Nah,” I shrugged back, slamming my laptop closed. “I’ve got plans tonight I’m afraid.” I didn’t, but this was a recurrent ritual we went through whenever a gang of the team was heading for an after-work drink at one of the local pubs. They’d ask me, knowing that I would decline with a made-up excuse, and I’d turn down the offer, knowing that they didn’t really want me there but felt obliged to ask anyway. I held back a few minutes, giving them enough time to draw a safe distance away from the building, and then headed out for home. And so passed the remaining four weeks of my employment. Looking back I can’t really tell one day apart from another. There was a meeting with Joy, the Chief People Officer, who wanted to conduct an exit interview where she managed to tell me at least five more times how sorry they were that I was leaving as if at some point it had transitioned from their decision to mine. I actually joined the guys at the pub one evening, but swiftly regretted that choice when someone asked me what I was going to get up to now that I was free of this place. I probably said something along the lines of, “oh you know, probably just take a break and see what opportunities come up,” doubting all the while that anything would. Then it was my last day. The only thing that gave it away as anything other than an ordinary day was the cringeworthy farewell party that was half-heartedly thrown in the kitchen at lunchtime. There was a small cake and about one-third of the office decided it was worth leaving their critically time-sensitive work for ten minutes to join in and wish me well for the future. At five o’clock on the dot, having handed my laptop back to Henk from IT, I gave a feeble wave to those few colleagues looking up from their computers and walked out of the door for the last time. The fingers of my right hand ran reassuringly over the surface of the pebble within my pocket. \*\*\* I didn’t see it, I heard it. You wouldn’t think that an object falling out of a tree onto grass makes a noise loud enough to hear from fifty metres away, but it does. It makes a solid thud as it hits the ground, muted slightly depending on the thickness of the grass and dampness of the ground onto which it falls. If it’s a person, you’d expect them to scream as they fall, but she didn’t. There was just the thud. I was walking home past The Green again, just as I’d done every evening since meeting the old lady over a month ago. Just as I’d done nearly every evening for the past three years and every morning in the opposite direction. Now, I was walking it for the final time, backpack full of the few personal knick-knacks I’d collected on my desk in my time in the office: Rubik’s cube, a couple of books, the computer mouse I’d brought in from home, those sorts of things. I hadn’t seen the pebble-picker again, though I’d looked for her, my eyes automatically dancing across the rocky beach as I emerged from the promenade walkway into the open space. She must have gotten a good haul that night she gave her favourite pebble away to me. Behind the grassy embankment that lines the beach, at the far end from where I emerged, there is an ablutions block, bricks coloured green and grey by decades of sea air. You have to cross the road along which I walked to get to it from the beach. The stench of stale urine emanated from within on a warm night like tonight. Behind it, stood an enormous oak tree. Easily two metres across at the base and who knows how high. It was probably older than the Squadron castle and definitely older than the toilet block. I saw her as I walked past the decrepit building, holding my breath against the smell, like we used to do when the school bus drove alongside a graveyard, gasping when the rows of headstones ended suddenly. She must have been ten or twelve years old - I’m terrible at guessing ages - and she was high, high up amongst the limbs climbing fearlessly. It set my heart racing just watching her. I wondered briefly where her parents were and whether they knew that their daughter was so dangerously high in the upper echelons of a monumental tree, but I didn’t stop walking. I did little more than glance at her really. I was just reaching the end of The Green, where the grass ends at the ice-cream hut and the seafront houses pick up their guardianship of the coastline when I heard the thump behind me. I turned reflexively and saw a shape at the base of the tree, a lumpy mound. I looked up into the branches and didn’t see the girl. Two-and-two clicked and I dashed madly over the road, heedless to whether there were any approaching vehicles, sprinted across the grass and collapsed hard on my knees beside her body. I took in all of her in that split-second of arrival, my knees lightly touching the warm cotton of her top at the side of her chest. She was a little thing. Delicate like the finches and sparrows that dart and dive amongst the tight-knit branches of the box hedge and the pink-plumed hydrangea outside my kitchen window. Her blonde hair splayed out in a crown above her head, weaving in and out through the blades of grass. I watched her eyes flutter beneath closed eyelids. Had I not just seen her twenty metres up in the sky amongst the leaves and branches, I would have believed her to be sleeping. Perhaps she’d come down to play a game of solo imagination amongst the bees and squirrels as young children are wont to do and, growing weary in the warmth of the afternoon had nestled into the fragrant grass for a nap. I could have convinced myself of that were it not for the trickle of scarlet blood dripping down her pale cheek from the corner of her mouth and the rasping of her breath. I tore my eyes from her and searched desperately around me for rescue; for somebody to rescue me from the ultimate responsibility for this little human being, this young soul whose life, whose dreams now depended solely on me. Me who had given up on my own dreams and settled for something less. There was nobody else. I felt her breath stop. “Don’t you fucking die on me,” I pleaded. I drove my hand into my pocket in search of my phone. I needed to call an ambulance; should have called one the second I saw her lying there. Closing my fingers around the cool titanium device, the back of my hand brushed against the pebble, it was scorching. I pulled my hand back sharply, keeping a grip on my phone. The back of my hand stung like I’d laid it against a hot pan without noticing. Pushing aside the pain and questions about how the pebble got so hot, I dialled nine-nine-nine and held the phone to my ear. Expecting an immediate answer all I got was a series of monotone beeps stretching infinitely in those couple of seconds. No signal. There never was around here. I dashed the phone to the ground and turned back to her, fraught with the realisation that she had only me. And I had only her. “Please, please, just breathe!” I ignored the heat that flared suddenly against my thigh and tried to remember the first aid course I’d attended in high school - it must have been ten years ago now - and whispered myself through the steps of CPR as I recalled them. “Hands on the sternum.” I placed my right hand over my left at the centre of her chest. Someone would surely walk by any second now and rescue us both. “Come on, you can remember this.” Deep breath. “Fifteen compressions followed by thr-“ Her body leapt as she drew in a breath, back lifting off the flattened grass. Her eyes shot open and stared at me, through me. Fragile chest heaving, she gasped time and time again, never turning her wide unblinking eyes from mine. An eternity passed in the moments it took for her to calm; for both of us to calm. I wrapped my fingers tenderly around her small hand. I felt everything and nothing at the same time, overcome with shock and numb. “Thank you,” she whispered then, her eyes talking as much as her voice. And then she was gone, darting off past the monolithic tree trunk, disappearing behind the toilet block and off up the road. \*\*\* I don’t remember walking home. As I closed the front door behind me I went straight to the toilet and threw up, the terror of brushing so closely up alongside death overcoming me. When I was done, I splashed cold water on my face and brushed my teeth, spearmint not quite erasing the bile in the back of my throat. The sun was just setting now and the still evening air felt stifling inside my tiny living room so I opened the sliding glass door and sat down on the step at the edge of the small deck that fronted my flat, staring out over the small garden at a behemoth drifting up the Solent, container load bound to Southampton. The breeze off the sea was fresh and I soaked it in, closing my eyes and giving myself up into its care, trying not to focus on my adrenalin thoughts. When my heart had quieted marginally, I opened them again and a brown hydrangea at the bottom of the garden, part of the barrier separating the border of the property from the sidewalk alongside the seafront road, caught my eye. I thought suddenly of the lily inside my hallway. The lily that had been teetering on the edge of death that night four weeks ago and was then so vividly alive the next morning; was still alive now. My mind skipped from the lily to the pebble, still cradled in my right pocket, and I lifted my hand in front of my face. On the backside there was a deep red mark, like I’d brushed it up against a boiling pan and removed it too late. It looked like it would blister. I knew that my thigh would be sporting an identical mark. An idea blinked into existence. A ridiculous idea. I reached my scorched hand into my pocket and closed my fingers around the cool stone, withdrawing it and regarding it in front of me, balancing it precariously on the tips of my fingers. It was just an ordinary beach pebble. There were at least a million of them on the short stretch of rocky beach before me. But what if it wasn’t ordinary? I stood and walked to the end of the garden, gripping the rock tightly now and holding it slightly ahead of me as if I might need to let go of it suddenly and needed to be able to spring backwards away from it lest it strike out at me. When I reached the hydrangea, I could see the full extent of its situation. Like my peace lily a month ago, it seemed to be on its last legs, brittle brown leaves crumbling in the gusting wind. I crouched down, putting my face alongside one of the large dry flower heads. “Come on,” I whispered, wondering what my neighbours would think if they saw me murmuring to a dying plant. “You don’t need to die.” I’m not sure what I expected to happen, but the plant gave no indication that it had heard me at all, simply fluttering in the energetic breeze. The rock for its part sat unchanged and unchanging within my grasp, as cool and rough as any sane person would expect it to be. I let out a rush of held breath and chuckled, chastising myself for thinking anything so absurd. I grasped one of the hydrangea’s brown leaves and began to crinkle it, feeling the crisp crackle as it shattered between my fingers. I remembered then that I had touched my dying lily that night a month ago, not to destroy it, but to encourage it, to stroke it reassuringly. My chest felt empty then as I dropped the disintegrated leaf onto the grass below and reached out for another. The leaf I chose was brown like all the others, but there were a few remaining flecks of green, bastions of chlorophyll standing resolute against the onslaught of decay. I held the delicate leaf between my fingertips like I might hold a child’s hand; like I’d held her little hand as she lay on the grass. “You can do it,” I whispered. “Don’t give up.” Heat bloomed in my right hand, nearly enough to for me to drop the pebble inside, but I kept my grip, feeling the heat as it developed a pulse in tune with my own. It was intense, but bearable, not the searing heat I had felt earlier when I told the girl to breathe. I remained unmoving, isolated from the world around me as the stone slowly cooled, its uncanny warmth dissipating into my fingers and up my arm until it was cool once again and I was calm once again. I released the leaf then and stood to make my way back inside. There was not a doubt in my mind that when I looked out at the sea across the garden tomorrow morning, I would find the hydrangea in perfect health. \*\*\* “Was I right? Was it the one for you?” She didn’t look at me as she asked, but stayed stooped over, keenly inspecting a particularly large, grey-blue pebble; turning it over with clack to examine the underside. I didn’t think she’d heard me approach. “It was,” I answered, bending to pick up the stone when she nodded her satisfaction that it met her criteria, wobbling a crooked finger instructively at it before stepping carefully away to examine a new one. It was far heavier than the one she’d given me that day on the promenade. I picked my way across the short distance to her cart, opened the cover and peered inside at the contents. She’d been busy for a while before I’d arrived, it was almost three-quarters full of pebbles. Large ones, tiny ones, perfectly round ones and oddly shaped ones. And each one perfect. “Things will be different now you know,” she said to me. I looked at her and smiled and said, “I hope so.” And not only did I hope, I believed.


Shruti’s legs devilishly dangled from the stone ledge. She swung them in small circles like coffee stirrers blending in some half and half. Her eyes followed the stoned walkways to a set of regal stone stairs that existed only at prominent government buildings and Ivy League campuses. She made eye contact with the statue of Alma Mater, her hands upraised as if to ask her, “And what will you bring to enrich us all?” Two degrees and seven years later, she didn’t have an answer. “Shruti!” “Hey, Miles.” His lanky figure towered over hers despite her perch, his hug nearly dropping her from the ledge. Shruti jumped off before she could fall, suddenly embarrassed that she only reached the beginning of his chest. She felt shorter than she remembered. “I missed you.” “I didn’t think you’d actually make it.” “I’m offended! When have I ever flaked?” “On about almost every phone call the last year!” “Phone calls are different than meet-ups.” “Shall we?” Shruti was already walking on auto-pilot to her favorite pastry shop and Miles obediently followed, excited to be on someone else’s turf. Shruti Davis and Miles Li. Together, they used to joke, they made a full Asian. Her first name and his last name signaled “otherness,” and his first name and her last name were cloaked in privilege, or as Miles used to say, “white in disguise.” Shruti’s mom and Miles’ dad both international college students that found a way to stay in the States. Their white parents falling deeply in love with someone their grandparents didn’t approve of. Both understood what it was like to be half accepted and half unbelonging. Yet, their upbringing yielded very different outlooks. After experiencing her race coming before her qualifications, Shruti did everything to be mainstream and successful. She wore pencil skirts to her law office and refused to wear henna. She never mentioned bilingualism on her applications and straightened her hair. But Miles? He joined affinity groups and packed bento boxes for lunch. Munched on seaweed snacks in staff meetings and took advanced Korean classes in college. His confidence frightened Shruti, but emboldened her, too. She was always envious of the easy way he carried himself, as if the world should mold to him than the other way around. “Wow. You’re an Ivy Leaguer now.” “Have been for a while now.” “You’re forgetting your state roots.” “As if Berkeley wasn’t top-ranked.” “And soon you’ll be making that big New York salary getting people off for white-collar crimes.” “How’s that big fancy tech company of yours? Still convincing people vaccines cause autism?” “Hey--those algorithms only generate what they’re fed.” Shruti rolled her eyes and shoved him aside, walking faster ahead of him. Shruti turned and shouted, “Have fun testifying in court!” Miles looked down and winced, but Shruti assumed the gust of wind was to blame. “I missed you, Shruti Pebbles.” Miles caught up and loosely hung his arm on her shoulder. “Fuck off, Miles.” “Nice shorts.” It was a tepid day in New York, but as a girl from Orange County, Shruti protested a climate too cold by exclusively wearing shorts when the weather inched above 60. Shruti instinctively looked down to see what was on her. “Wow, didn’t even realize I was wearing these.” ------------------------------------------------------------- Shruti wore a fitted halter neck crop top now dyed orange and pink and teal. Her jean shorts were ripped stained either making them impossible to resell or markedly more expensive--time would tell. Miles’ hands hovered the small of Shruti’s back. It tickled, but she wouldn’t admit it. She left Miles believe that her small giggles were a symptom of her infatuation. They were coming back from Paint!, an event where undergrads squirted paint out of dining hall ketchup and hot sauce bottles. “That was such a rip off Holi.” “Yeah? And what are you going to do about it?” “Continue feeling frustrated but refuse to do anything about it because most people are unwilling to participate once you attach a culture to it that isn’t mainstream.” “Wow, all in one breath.” Miles tugged at her belt loop and they continued walking, Miles a graceful lead and Shruti simply following cadence. Their naivete still engulfed them, drowning in an ocean of idealism not yet shattered by the reality that all couples either break up or one half perishes. They defiantly spread saliva on public sidewalks and joined hands as if in a daily parade of affection. There were dozens of other students smeared in paint ahead, behind, and to the sides. Shruti watched them lazily branch off into boba shops and fast-food joints, wondering which impulse they’d give into first. Shruti was about to surrender to a Thai restaurant before she saw a few chess boards waiting for a few bored passerby. Shruti stepped out of Miles’ embrace and landed on a stone bench, waiting for an opponent. “I told you I grew up going to chess tournaments, right?” Miles asked. “I vaguely remember. I’m just not sure you live up to the title.” “Well, I’ll give you the advantage. Play white. You can start first.” For every ninety seconds that Shruti used, Miles used eight. He barely glanced at the chess board with every move which infuriated Shruti, making her resort to tactics of distraction. Shruti leaned forward on her palms, widening her eyes and looking into his. Miles mimicked her, resting his elbow on the table and cupping his own chin. “Having fun, Shruti Pebbles?” “Mildly.” As soon as she moved her knight, he took it without breaking eye contact. “Still?” “Slightly less.” Miles laughed and waited for her to play. She moved a measly pawn and asked, “So what’s your master plan?” “To win.” “Not for this game. For life.” “I’d like to change some things. Maybe disrupt the social order.” “Very leftist of you.” “Just trying to fit in with California.” “No, seriously. What do you want to do?” “I’m not sure exactly. But I do want to defy people’s expectations.” “Again, vague.” “Again, your bishop.” Her stolen pieces were starting to form a mob on the side of the table, outnumbering the two black pawns and a rook. “Tell me, Miles. Sure, you’re studying computer science, but there’s no way you just want to code for a big company all your life.” “I think tech is fascinating. I’m just not sure I find it fascinating enough to want to succumb to the corporate structure. Maybe if I can use tech to show people there’s a lot they’re missing.” “You love risks, don’t you?” “Checkmate, babe," Miles said, twirling her king piece between his fingers. ------------------------------------------------------------- “You’re favorite pastry shop, I’m assuming?” “I used to eat my weight in rainbow cakes every weekend morning while sifting through my case book.” Everything was packed together, much like everything in New York. Luxury was marked by space, whether it be vaulted ceilings in SoHo or restaurants with enough space for waiters to do traditional wine pours. The old couple ordered and found a table tucked away by the door, a gush of air bringing goosebumps to their skin every time a customer walked through the door. “Don’t take all my pastries!” “Hey! I’m the guest.” But Miles reluctantly surrendered his hand away from Shruti’s plate stacked with a tower of various cookies. Of course, Shruti had thought about them finding their way back to one another as all people reminisce about young love. She hoped one day they’d relocate to the same city and run into each other in a bar and suddenly they’d fall into the same easy rhythm that only previously existed because of the simplicity of life at eighteen. “You never did tell me why you were in town.” For once, Miles did not snicker, smirk, or smile. He looked away and chewed meticulously, until he could no longer procrastinate answering the question. He reached for a napkin and wiped the corners of his mouth, finally putting his hands palm down on the table in front of him. Shruti thought, this is the moment. The monumental affair when Miles would tell her he was engaged or dying or madly in love with her. She let herself hope that she’d receive the buried fruit of a declaration of love. Miles leaned forward, so far that she could see the crease between his eyebrows, the thickness of his glasses’ lens, and the little dimple on his cheek. She wondered if it would be inappropriate to lean forward and hover closer, so distracted that she barely heard Miles when he whispered-- “Shruti, I need a lawyer.” ------------------------------------------------------------- Shruti was packing her things one last time, as were most of her friends, each in a different house painted a bright shade of the rainbow. She and Miles were armed with rolls of packing tape, busying themselves with the boxes in front of them instead of the many other decisions that lay ahead. Twenty-seven minutes of silence transpired where only the crackles of unwound tape interrupted the air. Shruti felt like if she acknowledged that she was moving, she would acknowledge the cluster of decisions, goodbyes, and heartbreaks that came with graduating. “I’ll hold you back,” Miles said. Shruti didn’t immediately register that her boyfriend had spoken. It took her three more boxes of tape to realize that he was talking about her, about them. “What does that mean? We went to the same school. You’ve got a job with a 401k lined up.” “That’s not what I’m worried about.” “My parents even like you and they don’t like anybody.” “I won’t hold you back like that.” “Like what?” “The superficial version of me, I agree, is compatible with you.” “Stop speaking like a fucking horoscope. You don’t think I see you for who you are?” “I think I hide a lot from you.” “How do you think I’m supposed to interpret that?” “I’m an idealist. You live here, in the world. You agree to its structure and that you have a place in it. Me? I’ll never have a place.” “That’s some bullshit, Miles. You’re working at one of the biggest tech companies in the world!” “And then what?” “I’m not sure! We’ll figure it out, you and me. Maybe I’m the idealist!” “Shruti, trust me. We won’t work. You’ll see.” Shruti responded through the clatter of the packing tape on the floor and Miles kept boxing up the last of her things. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Shruti fell back on her chair and pulled her arms inwards, crossing them across her chest. She felt angry, a sense that she was being used. The only reason Miles was in town was to network, to climb up a ladder that he would pretend he didn’t care about. “Lawyer? Why a lawyer?” “I’m in some deep shit.” “What do you mean? What did you do?” She whispered forcefully, hoping the words would land with the same punch as a shout. “Some illegal activity,” Miles returned casually. “Miles, not so loud!” “Don’t worry. Crowded places are safest to chat. No one is really listening. Stop talking.” Miles was right. The entire pastry shop sounded like a YouTube video of coffeeshop ambient noise. Merchants talking to customers drowned out by small spoon percussion on mugs. Bathroom door slamming and shuffles of people leaving and newcomers hovering over tables. Those alone wore noise-cancelling headphones and others were too preoccupied by their partner’s chit chat to pay any attention to them. “Fine. But tell me what happened.” “I can’t really. You’d be an accomplice. And I need you to be my lawyer.” “Give me a hint.” “I leaked some information.” “How much?” “Enough that I violated some contracts. Hopefully enough to stir up something. People deserved some truth.” “All right, so you’re Edward Snowden?” “But much less political.” “Miles, this is a big deal.” “I know. But if it’s fine. I wanted this.” Shruti finally understood. He was right. She overlooked what this man had been trying to tell her for years. He was always going to make a choice that put his lofty ideals first and everyone else second. He had never graduated from those early-formed convictions about the world that most young adults shed with their first few paychecks. “Miles. You have to go.” “Where?” “Run. Where do rich people gallivant off to to avoid taxes?” “And let people forget me? No way. I’m going to make everyone watch this trial and face what’s been hidden.” It was one final act of martyrdom. If he wasn’t going to escape the country, then at least propel his college girlfriend’s career while he sunk some formidable foe. “Fine, but you still have to go. You haven’t hired me yet.” “Touche. Thanks for coffee and the pastries. Looks like your firm pays you decently.” “Don’t hug me. It’ll look suspicious.” Miles instead squeezed her hand under the table and said, “See you soon.” ------------------------------------------------------------- Shruti went to her Greenwich Village apartment and sank into her pearly white bed without a shower. She slept fitfully, a 7:30 alarm rousing her slowly. A Sunday morning was her favorite time of day, and she refused to ever miss it. She cinched a robe around her waist and wandered off to the Juliet’s balcony, relishing in the quiet that only ever struck New York City on Sunday mornings. Sirens blared in the distance and Shruti counted in her head, anticipating when they would shrink back away into the atmosphere. But they kept encroaching until Shruti saw a squad of cars surround an apartment building across the street. Shruti debated heading inside, but human nature urged her to gawk. Six minutes later and her college sweetheart was manhandled out of the building. Shruti gripped the railing, worried she would fall over and tumble seven stories down. She closed her mouth and reached for some sunglasses on her dresser, knowing that the press wouldn’t be far away. Her instinct to protect Miles left her with a warning not to be recognized, but not one to look away. Miles looked up and imperceptibly winked in her direction. So agile that Shruti would swear it was an aberration if she didn’t know him better. She blinked hard, convinced that if she shut her eyes long enough, she would still be in bed. She opened her eyes to the same stare, though he had no idea if she was watching. With a half-smile, he mouthed “I feel alive.” Shruti smiled and shook her head, walking away from the window. She clicked on her espresso machine and waited for the phone call from a holding cell.


Mark drank his coffee as he watched the sun rise. He used to do this with his wife, but marriage was something that he or his wife Jennifer could seem to master. They got married young assuming that they would learn how to manage a marriage as they went, but they did this with no luck. Their little girl was the only thing that kept them from divorce. 8-year-old Maggie was the love of their lives. But they did not feel the same about each other. Mark and Jen had loved each other when they got married at 19 and 20, but now well into their 30’s they could not stand each other. They argued often about something and nothing all at the same time. Mark spent too much time working and Jennifer not enough. Money, time and responsibility plagued their marriage with unhappiness and resentment. Throughout these struggles the couple still tried their hardest to provide the best life for their daughter. She went to a prestigious private school because her mother wanted her to succeed, and she played baseball because her father wanted her to learn how to let loose and have fun. These two different outlooks on life were yet another point of argument for the pair and was something that was “discussed” in great length behind closed doors. Maggie was no longer a toddler and understood that her parents were not always happy but like a child did not know why and wished that she could help. June 21 st marked the summer solstice which meant two very different things for Maggie’s two very different parents. For Jennifer this day marked the first day of Maggie’s summer school. A summer course not because she was behind, but so she could get ahead. For Mark however June 21 st meant the first day of summer and the longest day of the year. This day for him signified a tradition in which his whole family used to drive down to the beach of Florida and kick off the summer. Although he now lived in California with his small family he still liked to carry on this tradition. His plans were meant to be a surprise for his daughter, but after disclosing them to his wife and kickstarting a heated argument Maggie became aware of his intentions for a beach day. Through much convincing of her mother, it was finally decided that Mark and Maggie were going to go to the beach on the summer solstice. After persuading her mother to let them go Maggie pleaded with her mother to accompany them to the beach, but she would not hear about, Jennifer was stubborn in her ways and was determined to get out of her husband’s childish traditions. So, with that Maggie and Mark drove down the street on their way to the beach to kick off the summer adventure. The trip was short lived however, because even before the pair could turn the corner, a busted transmission ruined their plans. Although his wife had told him repeatedly to get the car checked out, Mark never did. This meant that Maggie sat in the driver’s seat as Mark pushed the car back down the street and into the driveway. Disappointed but not yet hopeless, Maggie suggested that her father just drives her mother’s car to the beach for the day. Unfortunately, what the little girl did not understand was that Jennifer’s car was a manual transmission car, also known as a stick shift, also known as a type of car that Mark did not know how to drive. After carefully explaining this to his daughter Maggie began to sob over her ruined plans. The pair unpacked the car and walked defeated into the quiet house. Having heard of this setback and not wanting to see her daughter cry with a slight smile on her face Jennifer offered to drive to the beach. Maggie’s tears dried up instantly at this new plan, she ran over to her mother and hugged her, ecstatic about this turn in luck. Mark looked down, he had been excited to spend the day alone with his daughter, but was relieved to see her happy. With that, the family piled into the car, Maggie sitting shotgun and Mark behind the driver’s seat. The 2-hour drive was filled two different types of conversations. The first were conversations between Jennifer and Maggie and the others were between Mark and Maggie, the two never mixed or became combined. Jennifer asked Maggie about school and quizzed her on math and science and Mark asked about friends and games. Eventually the ocean was in sight, just off in the distance. Maggie squealed with excitement, Mark told her all of his plans and Jennifer said nothing, for this was Mark’s conversation not hers. Jennifer and Mark were not surprised that the beach was very crowded that day, parties littered the coast, parking lots were full and the ocean was overflowing with people. Jennifer eventually found parking and the family walked casually to the beach. Maggie was bouncing around them eager to swim and play in the sand. Mark was smiling and he took his shirt off, emboldened by the salty air. Jennifer was smiling, but her eyes showed no happiness, she was not happy to be at the beach because she had different plans for the day, but nonetheless she was pleased to see the smile on her daughter’s face as they approached the sand. Hours went by and the family started behaving like a family, they swam in the ocean and built sandcastles. Mark and Jennifer buried Maggie in the sand and laughed as she sprang out into the breezy ocean air. They watched their daughter play in the waves together, for the first time in many months the husband and wife were happy to be with each other. Shortly before sunset the couple and their daughter decided to go for a walk along the coast. They walked for about 20 minutes before the shaking started. The sand quivered as the earth shook, palm trees rocked and buildings were evacuated. Screams could be heard from all around them, people ran consumed with fear from the quaking earth. The shaking stopped as suddenly as it started, leaving people to wonder whether it had all been in their heads. Maggie was afraid and she held onto her parents’ hands. Mark quickly began to lead his family back along the coast towards their car. He became suddenly aware of the receding waterline, but put it out of his head, all that mattered was getting back to the car and driving away from the coast. The waterline was getting noticeably further away, and in the distance a wave grew. The wave traveled towards them at an alarming speed. The family stopped moving and stared out into the blue sea. Mark could no longer hear the screams from the many people around him, but he knew they were still there. People ran in every direction consumed with fear. Cars were stopped in the road, helicopters flew above them, but none of that mattered to Mark. Maggie was frozen, staring into something that she had no way of understanding. Mark got on his knees and hugged his daughter as tight as he could knowing that running was pointless. Jennifer also on her knees completed the circle around their daughter. The family created a circle of calm in midst of a storm, a family that had been plagued with the longing for separation was finally at peace together. And with that, the wave overtook them, preserving that peace forever.


I run up the stairs, dizzy and out of breath, while at the same time the adrenaline rushes through my body. This is the last chance. “I cannot mess up this time” is all I think about. I reach to the top of the stairs, and the I can see the sturdy metal door slightly ajar. “This has to be it. She couldn’t be anywhere else”. I checked every single door looking for her, and now that I’ve reached the top, with only one door left, I am suddenly filled with excitement and uncertainty. “What if she’s not here?” “What if it’s not her?” “What if she’s with someone here already?”. These thoughts spin in my head, faster and faster. I walk closer to the door, and push it. A chilly breeze welcomes me, and I feel the cold January afternoon. I instantly feel proud of myself for wearing the coat and scarf, for once. I look around. Ahead of me is a medium balcony with a simple, gray concrete fence. It’s cracked over the edges. To my left is a small round outdoor table with three plastic chairs around it. One of them is missing a leg. And there she was, at last. Who even cares about the plain, ugly rooftop. All I can think about right now is her. She stands with her back at me, leaning on the fence. She is shivering, and she isn’t dressed properly for a cold day such as that one. She doesn’t notice me, and probably didn’t hear the door either. Her breathes are heavy, and each time she breathes out, small white clouds leave her mouth, creating an aura around her. A raindrop falls down on my cheek, and another one. Gentle raindrops. I breathe sharply, trying to ease the pain in my chest. She tenses up but doesn’t move from where she stands, which probably means that she finally realized I’m here. A raindrop falls of from her cheek as well. And another one. I step closer to her, only a meter separating us now. I gently put my hands on her arms and suddenly she’s facing me. My hands are moving slowly, gently from her arms to her shoulders, slightly up to her neck I pause. At this point, both of us are already wet from the raindrops who became heavier and bigger. She opens her mouth, then closes it. I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t know what to say either, if I were here. I take off my scarf and wrap it around her frozen shoulders and neck, even though she tries to argue. I don’t care if I get sick at this point. Her gaze is locked in mine. The world slows down and the wind calms down a bit. She holds my coat sleeves and clenches her small fists against my chest, leaning against me while she buries her had in my chest. I hold her, scared to break her. Again. I’m afraid. I’m so, so scared of hurting her. My shirt gets wet from the drops on her face and I my eyes are blurry. “I’m sorry. So, so sorry.” I whisper to her. I look up to the sky, only to see the clear blue skies up above. Not a cloud. We both knew it wasn’t raining.


Mary rushed inside the house, locked the door behind her and shuffled slowly to the kitchen. The kitchen, that’s where it was, waiting for her. She was in no hurry to get there plus she was out of breath. Her brisk walk truly was a workout. Going for a walk was supposed to make one feel better, not so in this case. Entering the kitchen, her eyes fixed on the letter resting on the bench by the sink, it was from her mother. Daring not go any closer she parked herself at the dining table and stared at the envelope. Her name in beautiful cursive writing, the address so formal but decorated with little pink hearts, sickening really. How long had it been, seven, maybe eight years? It mattered not, Mary had moved on with life and it was sweet. All the pain of the past was well and truly behind her, she sighed and dropped her head into her chest. Her breath was back to normal but her heart was still beating loudly. Perhaps she was wrong, gasp! Maybe she was still upset with her mother despite the comforting words she would tell herself. Mary never understood why it had come to this, her mother’s logic was so flawed and irrational and selfish, it was beyond hope. It all started with two simple words shared from an innocent heart seeking support, “We’re homeschooling.” The vitriol response was outrageous. It flowed ceaselessly like an erupting volcano, the lava was filled with condemnation, anger and judgement. Mary was dumbfounded. The unexpected attack left her speechless. Bearing the hot wounds of disappointment and shame, she fled. Mary took a deep breath in an attempt to restrain the emotions rising from the pit of her stomach, it was no use. A small tear escaped demanding immediate attention. Her index finger would have to do. She looked at the droplet as it trickled along her skin. Imagine what she would see inside via an emotional microscope. Closing her eyes, Mary remembered the benefits reaped from the price she paid. Her children flourished in every metric, at least the ones she truly cared about. Their relationships were strengthened, their learning a joy and their true identities discovered along the way. They were not necessarily top of the class academically but they were flourishing. They carried an emotional maturity and confidence that will open the world to them. For that, Mary was proud. For six excruciating months, Mary regularly engaged her mother. Her gentle approach and solid reasoning gained her nothing but a mockery of her own identity. The woman would not listen, a hard-hearted creature who knew best. No amount of addressing her concerns, most of which were poor assumptions and judgements, could pierce the wall she had erected around herself. Her mother was incapable of seeing her point of view. Mary had finally concluded that somehow her mother decided it was a personal attack on her. Since Mary chose not to follow in her mother’s footsteps, she must have unwittingly declared war. Addressing that issue made no difference either. Her mother was relentless in her desire to not only cross Mary’s boundaries but utterly destroy them. Perhaps her mother was simply embarrassed? Homeschooling is a bit out there and many people dislike different. The idea of having to tell her family and friends of her daughter’s decision was going to reflect negatively on her, it made no sense. Mary had tried so hard to settle the issues, reassuring her mother the decision was based on many solid foundations. It didn’t matter so Mary eventually stopped caring. She’d had enough and decided to cut the relationship. Her well-being and that of the children was in peril. She cut swiftly, like ripping off a bandaid. The anguish that followed lasted way longer than Mary had expected. Nevertheless, her resolve was stronger. Her mother made many attempts to reconnect and Mary told her the conditions that must be met. The woman still wouldn’t budge. As more time passed, they both accepted the new reality. It was all water under the bridge now, her mind was finally free of the worthless war with her mother, until this morning! Mary had checked the mail oblivious to what lurked within. She lifted her gaze to the white envelope by the sink once again. The possibilities came rushing in. Was it a trap, new condemnation, a death or someone dying? Was it possible it contained the ingredients of reconciliation? Her hope had been dashed so many times that she let that one go immediately. It was surely another trap. Standing tall, Mary marched into the kitchen. She wanted to grab the letter and shred it but instead went right to the kettle and switched it on. She grabbed a mug and prepped everything needed to brew a coffee. She raced back to the dining table and sat. Do I even want her back in my life? Mary was able to conjure up some positive memories which birthed the briefest smile. She found herself drawn back to the envelope, attracted to it. Then she noticed the piece of cake sitting on the bench next to the envelope. Certainly, that was the cause of the attraction. Maybe, in some strange way, she did hope the letter would be delicious and satisfying to her soul like she knew the cake would be. She had to blurt it out, “I want the cake and the letter but I know they’re not good for me.” She chuckled at herself. Enjoying her lighter mood Mary went back to the bench and prepared her coffee. It looked and smelled fabulous but needed one more thing. She filled a teaspoon with raw sugar and paused just before she let it slip into the mug. As it is now, this coffee reflects our relationship, it’s bitter. If we could be reconciled then the sugar will be added and it’ll be sweet. Mary let the sugar drop slowly into the coffee. She watched each grain as if in slow motion rain down into the waiting coffee. Each grain represented a good memory and hope for the future which the coffee warmly welcomed, enriching itself in the process. Mary smiled and stirred the coffee. Returning the spoon to the sink she noticed her left shoelace was untied. Like a crying child, that demanded immediate attention. She knelt and grabbed the two ends of the lace. Again she paused and looked at the two separate ends. When untied, shoelaces can be dangerous, they can trip you up. Mary brought the laces together ready to cross them but stopped again. To unite the laces, they have to get real close and both need to give a little so they can become one when pulled together. Mary giggled, “Okay brain, that’s enough of that, I’m trying to think.” Mary placed her coffee, cake and the letter on the dining table and sat down slowly. She took another deep, hopeful breath and picked up the letter. She dropped it quickly and sipped her coffee instead, delicious. Her hand went to the letter but passed it by for the spoon, using it to smash out a piece of the cake. Into her mouth it went, sweet and satisfying. Finally, she picked up the letter, briefly studied it and then addressed it. “This all started with two words. It can all end with two words. Just two sincere words spoken in true humility is all it will take.” Mary knew how hard it was for people to say those words, she understood because she was not immune. She always wondered why people can be so stubborn though? If talking again, she would have to say them to her mother too. She may stand by her decision but she did say things she shouldn’t have for sure. Enough delaying. Mary ripped it open, unfolded the letter and couldn’t miss the first enlarged words, I’M SORRY!


You take a walk on a cool autumn night. The wind blows against your warm face and the crisp air lifts the cloud from your mind. The sound of traffic in the distance, resonates in your ears. The soft tap of your feet against the sidewalk create the cadence you walk to. You view the homes around you. So beautiful. So bright. So empty. You glance in uncurtained windows and take in the designer furniture. The custom lighting. The real wood floors. Just a small glimpse at how the other half lives. There is no one inside enjoying these material items. Only the paintings stare down at the stark sitting rooms and dining rooms. Untouched by human beings; only for show. The headlights of Mercedes and BMWs flash in your eyes. Important people. Returning from important previous engagements to their beautifully untouched homes. To rest their heads in pressed sheets or to recline in their oversized leather sofas. You certainly do not belong to this world. Your place is somewhere else. Your feet continue to move you along and your mind is free of anxious thoughts. The distance or destination does not matter tonight, only the clear headedness a fall night can provide. A lonely dog barks off in the distance, mimicking the call of your own heart. “Hello?”...”Hello?”. Yearning for a friend, another soul to be near in the dark. Your only companions tonight are the leaves crunching beneath your feet. The stars above your head that occasionally wink your way. The solemn jazz music that seeps through cracked windows. The wind hugs you, coolly. Pushing you back towards your empty apartment. The night is still young, but you are tired. So tired. Your body becomes heavier walking home; bracing itself for the emptiness that will greet you. The warm darkness that will envelop you as you walk into your desolate home. Your key eventually finds its place in your door and you are once again in your fortress. You tap your boot on the floor, just to make a sound in the deserted living room. The boots and clothes are removed as you easily slide into chilly sheets and the lights go off. You lie on your back. Staring at the ceiling. Listening to the faint voices of TV coming through your walls. Is it Big Bang Theory, maybe? Is whoever is watching it, also alone? You close your eyes and take in the silence of your own space. Your hand snakes over to the other side of the bed to find it empty. How quickly that void became a normalcy. The presence of another human being, no longer a necessity to fall asleep. You bring your hand back to your own chest. To the feel of your heartbeat thumping into your palm. That beat knows that you aren’t completely alone. It knows that its partner is out there; somewhere. Maybe feeling as incomplete as you feel, lying alone in bed. Does one’s heart need a companion? Can you truly be whole alone? Your mind pokes at that impossible question. The thought continuing to pop open like a cupboard door that never fully shuts. You roll onto your side and hug one of your many pillows closely. You close your eyes tight and hope for sleep to come fast, before the thoughts suffocate you in their avalanche. “Alone is....alright?”, you ask to your empty room. No one replies to this quandering. You squeeze the pillow tighter and bury your face into it. “Alone is alright”, you whisper again, “alone is alright”.


Liam passionately cut through the pile of evenly squared and spread out potatos upon his kitchen table. Over the past few weeks he has largely perfected this exercise. When he just started cooking for himself Liam was helpless and unsure of every action, he was historically always a bad cook, and when his parents didn't account for his diet he usually settled on eating bags of chips, fruit, instant ramen, and other low effort delicacies. Both his parents worked long hours, so he did so quite a bit, and even when his mom did make proper meals they weren't particularly good. She always poured a bit too much salt. Lousy cooking skills passed through her side of the family. But throughout his childhood Liam did have one occasional path to salvation from his curse of unappetizing food: Granny Claire. Liam always looked forward to visiting Grandma. She was a very kind and boring old woman. She would rattle Liam's brain for hours at a time with war stories and other such things which he never cared for, but he sat through the stories and her old fashioned ways, that's how good her food was, she'd make ratatouilles and stakes and fancy dishes Liam didn't even know the name of, beautiful dishes vibrant with color, made with love and just the right mix of delicate tastes. It was wonderful. By the time Liam turned eighteen Granny Claire had been dead for a long while, two years to be exact. Liam didn't grieve at the funeral, he was never really all that close to Granny, that's the kind of mean boy he was, but he grieved later, when the realization set in, slowly but surely, that he'd never again get to enjoy Granny's cooking. Ouh, how he came to miss poor old dead Granny Claire, the only good cook in the family. So precise and scientific in every part of the cooking process. She never put in too much salt. Liam remembers well the last time he visited Granny (besides the time when she was buried 5 foot under the ground. He doesn't remember that time all that well. There wasn't even any food). The last meal she ever made for him was a beautiful thick potato soup. If only he could make a soup with one hundredth of the brilliance of that one, how blessed he would be to just be able to do that. He would do it, he would either bring that potato soup back into existence or slit his throat with his potato stained knife. This is his thirty second attempt. The vegetables have been cut: tomatoes, garlic, radishes, potatoes and other freaks of nature from a variety of colors, the water is boiling, the pot is still, the flames are dancing at the whim of the cooking plates. Everything is ready. All that is left, is to cook. Liam pours in all the vegetables he had prepared. He starts putting in the spices, paprika, various Indian products, pepper, and how could you ever forget: the salt. Liam was sweating, he was visibly nervous, his heartbeat slows, his cheeks suck in, his eyes are beaming with the determination that only a man hungry for potato soup can understand. Cooking is a subjective art form, many mistakes can be forgiven and easily brushed off, but there is no such leniency when it comes to salt. Put too little and the soup will be tasteless and bland, put too much and the whole meal is ruined. Liam grips the container of the salty substance in his hand: this is it. He starts shaking the salt into the pot of soup and counts the seconds. One, two, three, four, five. He flips the salt over and puts it back on the kitchen table. Is that enough? Is that enough salt? IS IT?! He isn't sure. Liam has always been a lousy cook. Finally, his mind is settled: just one more good shake. He picks the salt back up, and holding it tightly over his precious potato soup, he flips it over and gives it a good. long. healthy. shake. Immediately, he senses the folly of his mistake. He knows the soup is ruined, all he had worked for, his hope, his dream, all of it vanquished in an instant. Uncharmingly and without warning, the soup begins to decompose into an awful black goo, and the goo rambles and aches and quakes. It screams and it hurts and it hates. It clenches and wakens and hell opens its gates. And it grows and expands and gains form and shape while Liam trembles in his shoes. The terrible goo is now tall and gross and uncontained and alive. The goo's shape resembles that of a human, wrinkled and old and with long hair. "Granny?" The goo raises its arms and puts them over Liam's potato stained shoulders. After a long pause it opens its mouth. And the goo speaks. "Why couldn't you just leave the salt alone, Liam?" The creature's eyes widened, its arms grew heavier, its voice embodied despair. "Please, leave the salt alone.


Chapter 1 2001: I pushed open the heavy door to her room, mostly white, with an ugly pink wall. A TV surveilled us from its perch. She was under a single white sheet, mouth draped open, in a half dream, her bare feet out in the air. She had a mitten covering one hand. It was tied to the bed rail. The silence was thick. "Hey Mom." I touched her arm. "Oh..." She paused and looked toward me, sort of a blank stare. Her gaze passed over my shoulder. "Johnny Pie Pie.” Her words were just above a whisper. "I've been working.” She coughed and shifted in bed. Her mouth sort of formed circles as if she were smoking. Over and over, she looked off into the distance and smoked imaginary cigarettes. "Now everyone comes to visit," she sighed, "They’re afraid I’ll die", she said with a satisfying grin. "Yeah, they feel guilty.... Ha!" "Nangana." she looked away. "John Travolta was here." knowing I wouldn't believe her. "What? John Travolta?" I paused. "Nah... I think it was just someone who looks like John Travolta." "Oh no, no... No, it was John Travolta". The nurses were talking to him." "Wow, so what was he doing here?" "How should I know?" "Was he a patient, or visiting someone?” "Well he didn't come to see me". We both laughed, and then were silent for while, observing each other, glancing at the TV. She kept on smoking those imaginary cigarettes and looking off into space. Then she looked directly at me, and paused. She sighed, and asked, "How did I get here?" "Well mom... ", I paused, "you had a stroke." She was quiet, looking up, out toward the small window. She nodded a little. I knew it wasn't the answer she wanted. She wanted more but I couldn't give it. All I could come up with was, "you had a stroke". What a stupid answer. Surely she knew she had a stroke, but what was she asking? Then I remembered that she asked me that question before, "How did I get here?" The first time she asked that question was a long time ago. It brought back a very specific memory of something I had long forgotten. 1963: When I was a kid it was easy to skip school. I didn't even have to pretend to be sick. Every once in a while staying home was more important than going to school. I guess I had more sick days than most kids but that didn’t bother me. I knew I had to go to school but in my own little brain I knew that home was more important than school. All I had to do was stay in bed, and when Mom came to check on me, it was easy! “I don’t feel like going to school today”. “What wrong Johnny?” she touched my shoulder. “Okay, stay with me today then.” It was as easy as that. No pretending, no faking a stomach ache like my friends had to do. All I had to say was “I don’t feel like it” and that was it - a day off. A whole day away from all the little nastiness that happens in primary school. Mom knew I didn’t need to be sick to spend a day with her, she wanted company. So I waited in bed until the house was quiet, until everyone had gone, and then when I heard her alone in the kitchen I jumped up and headed straight out the front door. It was already hot outside. The street was empty and dry, and silent. The air was hot, and moved in from Mr. Duke's pasture, bringing with it the fragrances of cut grass and wild flowers. Our house was at the edge of town, in one of those new neighborhoods out on highway 90. It was small but respectful, white with black shutters and a small front porch. Located on a small lot, it was a 60's ranch with just a few young trees to protect it from the harsh Texas sun. We had all types of plant life: Red Buds and Azaleas, a fig tree and Honey Suckle, roses along the side fence. On summer evenings a warm breeze would come up and dance with the trees for a while before moving on into town. I used to go out under those trees and play in the shade. While the sun angrily beat down on the asphalt road I could sit in the shade and let my mind wander. I built roads and bridges for my little cars and trucks. I would bring bricks from the side of the house and pile them up in the dirt. I had a whole little city built with my bricks and dirt: a court house, a gas station, a Weingarten’s. Sometimes I would leave out the cars and play with little plastic Cowboys and Indians, and my city would become an Indian village. I always felt protected under those trees. They were like soldiers at attention, sentinels with outstretched arms, and they listened to my dreams. That summer "Eleanor Rigby" was on the radio. I was dark and skinny, with straw colored hair and cutoff blue jeans. My bicycle was made for popping wheelies and jumping curbs. I had a new pair of white sneakers from The Globe that glistened when I walked. "Johnny" Mom called, "Come in for a while. The sun will leave you with an awful headache... Johnny?" She never quite lost her accent, even after so many years. "Come on now; find your shoes so we can go to the market." I could hear her, but her words sounded distant and dreamlike. I was in another world, another time and place, concentrating on my Indian village. In my mind I cautiously approached the village, walking through the forest, along a stone lined pathway, getting lost in my imagination but then my illusion evaporated. "Johnny!" She was becoming irritated. Her impatient tone brought me out of my haze and back our little house in Texas. "All right Mom, I'm coming". I stood up, dusted off the dirt, and tilted my head to try to listen to one more moment of my imaginative vision. I wasn't ready to let it go, and tried to get back into it, but once interrupted I could not regain the concentration to return. Aggravated that my trance was broken, my inner world momentarily shattered, I slowly walked toward the house, looking back at my bricks and dirt. "I heard you the first time", I complained, "and anyway, I don't know where my shoes are. I left them right there next to the table, but you're always moving things around and I can never find anything! If you'd just leave things alone for...." "Yes, and if I don't pick up the mess, who will, Mr. Rockefeller? Now let's go to the market, I need a few things for lunch." Actually, what she needed was a pack of cigarettes, but that was all right. I used to enjoy walking with her to the store. She called it "the market", but actually it was just a convenience store, a 7-Eleven I think. By the time I'd found my shoes, she was already outside and headed toward that little store. I slipped on the shoes, grabbed an empty coke bottle, ran to catch up to her, and tried to scare her with a quick jab to her ribs, but she didn't crack a smile. I bounced around in front of her, but she strode directly on, head up, khaki shorts, white canvas shoes, no socks; proper British walking posture. "Mom, were there Indians living here a long time ago?" "Well how should I know, I'm not that old, am I?" "But there must have been. Miss Williams said this area was full of um before the pioneers came." "Well, miss Williams must have a keen memory". She smiled. As we approached the store, I noticed the hundreds of bottle caps encrusted in the black asphalt parking. It was a random collection of colors and textures, like stars, or perhaps like people, each one hanging on to its own little piece of the earth. A bell hanging from to the frame above the door rang as we entered the small store. "Good morning mam." the man from behind the counter said. She just nodded and went to the back of the store for a loaf of bread and a can of tuna fish. I dropped my empty bottle in a wire basket and opened the "Cold Sodas" chest. All the bottles floating in dark ice water were so enticing. I fished out an orange soda, then returned it and retrieved a 7-Up. I decided on an RC cola. For the same price of regular coke I could get four extra ounces. Mom placed her tuna and bread on the counter and then at the last minute, as if she had not really thought of it, picked up a bag of pig skins and placed them next to the bread. I popped off the cap of my RC, walked over, and placed it on the counter next to the other items. "And a pack of Benson & Hedges." she said before he had a chance to ask. The man totaled up the items and Mom paid from a small coin purse she had been holding. He placed the items in a paper sack, wrapped a thin paper napkin around the RC and handed it to me. We said our “thank you’s” and “have a nice day’s”, and stepped out into the morning heat. The old door squeaked and the bell jingled once again before it slammed shut. We were off across the barren suburbia. We arrived home went into the kitchen. I sat and watched as Mom prepared our lunch: tuna fish sandwiches. While she was opening the can I noticed her nails, long with cracked red paint. One nail was broken off. Her cigarette smoldered in the full ash tray. I loved tuna fish. Sometimes we had deviled ham but that day was tuna. “Hey Mom, did you have any pets when you were a little kid?" “Oh yes, we had lots of animals. We had a German Sheppard - a beautiful animal named rusty. Then there was Don Pedo. Un perro ordinario. That was your uncle Claudio’s dog. Claudio taught Don Pedo to pee on the nuns habit when they came to visit.” “Ha ha ha.” I laughed and slapped the table as if I had never heard the story. “Oh yes, he would sneak up behind them and lift his little leg against their long robes.... And Tio Claudio would laugh like it was the greatest thing on earth." I continued to laugh. I loved her stories of Paraguay. It was another world - a land of mango trees and siestas, gauchos and Indians, Jaguars and caiman. It was also a world of revolution and political upheaval. "Once my father brought home an ostrich from the Chaco. That animal was very loyal and I think he loved me but he couldn't stand Tia Tinkle. Tinkle had a little cut on her ankle and every time she went outside the ostrich would head straight for the wound". Mom shook her head a little to pry loose the distant memory, "When I was a girl I lived in a big house with lots of servants and tutors and such. I had a woman to wash my hair. She took a long deep drag from her smoke. Oh yes, we had stables in the back for the horses and an orchard out beyond the stables. Then she paused, looked out the window and took a deep drag from her cigarette. She looked straight into my eyes and asked, "Johnny pie pie". She sighed, "How did I get here?" She turned away and looked out the window. I said, "I thought you came on the niña, the pinta, and the Santa Maria". Ha! After a brief moment of silence, she smiled and said, " y si pues". and continued to look out the window. "It's very quiet during the day time, isn't it. What a strange way to live".