It is an innocuous...don’t really know what to call it. It reminds me of having your soul cleaned by a professional. Your sins are pulled from you by the mere mention of the word salvation. Father Maytag and Mother Westinghouse, delve into the spirit of who you are, and spin the inevitable shedding of life’s lessons into the collection basket for easy disposal. But that is not the reason I chose lint as something to collect. My first inclination was to use it to stuff pillows with, like the new version of My Pillow, which in actuality would be closer to personal experience than some guy who appears in your medicine cabinet and suggests you’d sleep better if you were aligned. My mind of course jumped to an add suggesting I may just be out of alignment. Then, I began to obsess about paying for the service. Not having the protection of the new syndicate, “If It Can, It Will.” Of course, they assume you will become eligible for acceptance for their protection, by having a problem that will not occur until after they have changed their name, and moved on, or you have been so often dismissed by a synthetic televangelist voice you simply expect to be abused. But such is... In deciding I needed a hobby, I will call it that, as it was suggested in this time of self-imposed isolation, and my delicate nature, I needed something to take my thoughts off the incompetence in the world around me. Incompetence seemed a natural progression of choice in the consideration of Lint. Lint has no political or social ambiance that allows bigotry and arrogance to flaunt its dismissive paranoia on the material from which it has originated. Therefore it represents the everyman nostalgia. Just because the everyman phenomenon never became recognized as a phenomenon, should not prevent it for remaining a possibility. Lint also has its own spiritual following that was founded on the scripture, According to Dust. Or at least that is my interpretation. “Encounters Under the Bed,” a must read. Dust is also an innocuous element, but it has a distinctive organic panache, that because of its nature radiates a color differential unrivaled by imitation, and therefore a step above lint, which is primarily varying shades of gray or brown, depending upon personal fashion choices. Gray and brown are not the most inspirational of colors, but then they are representative colors of the majority of God-fearing political analysts. It is for these reasons, as well as the fact that one has to do little to acquire the desire of your needs, makes it available to anyone who may or may not, have the funding to partake of this unique and entertaining endeavor, collecting. I have always had an unfulfilled desire to know what lint actually consisted of. Especially after the cost of clothing soared. If I have to pay an exorbitant amount of money for a shirt, because it purveys a modicum of success or social status, I anticipate it will remain a viable example of not only fashion, but necessity, for longer than it takes me to proceed home and place it lovingly on a pillowed hanger in my closet. And then there is the question of becoming involved with a business that encourages 6, 10, and 12 year olds to exploit material to produce a shirt likely to succumb to deteriorating principles, allowing the smiley face of Gump to find its way into the realm of wash pails and auto waxing. So, I began to look at lint in an entirely different light. When something can change from, lets say an iconic example of acceptable design, to an element that will make you sneeze if you are not aware of its ability to distract, I had no choice but to delve into the basics of where it came from, what it actually was, and why. I didn’t know what the exact definition of lint was, but being that it was to become my most recent chance to redeem myself from the intoxicating world of advertising and exaggerated promises, I went to Google for advice. I was shocked. The synonyms for lint are, fur, hair, fluff, and bandage? According to Wikipedia lint is the common name for visible accumulations of textile fibers, usually found, in and around, clothing. Not one word about dryer traps and the need to keep them clean if they are to remain functional. Now, I’m confused and begin to doubt my original assumption that lint could set me free, while allowing me to maintain my ability to attract and analyze differing opinions. A marvel that can hang out, and yet become an intimate part of my existence; spirituality. Lint becomes part of one of our most personal of all consumer goods, and it is commandeered, a speck at a time, by an invisible thief that wishes nothing less than, the emperor having to stand naked. This revelation caused me to re-examine my new found passion for all particulates, lint in particular. This entire ordeal is responsible for me remembering an ancient proverbial question of my mothers, “Where have you been, what have you been doing and what were you thinking.” The questions succinct, but to the point. Because I was covered in mud, or there was a policeman at the door, solicited her queries, and my ingrained response, “Joey did it.” Now, there was no Joey, but then I’d discovered there was no Santa Clause or Tooth Fairy either. I learned by example to believe lying was not only acceptable but encouraged. Especially if the intent was admirable, despite its lack of monetary compensation. I have always believed a tooth should been worth more than a dollar, having been to a dentist, and later receiving the bill. I began to collect lint in 2010, the 21 st century after Christ. I have, with the aid of neighbors, family members, and ex-friends, produced a lint lump weighing somewhere in the vicinity of 1500 pounds. I keep it in the laundry room next to the dryer, for efficiency reasons. I was asked the other day by a washing machine repair man, what I planned to do with the...he didn’t really have an adequate description for my fluffy sculpture. I assumed he meant lint, and me having at some point, to remove it from my home. I had not given it much thought; any really. The idea of course, of making a competitive pillow that a consumer created themselves from particulates they themselves encouraged, was intriguing. But after checking with the patent office, I realized pillow mania was already injected with more possibilities for undisturbed sleep, than there were insomniacs, so I laid my plan to rest. Lint also has an interpretive inference pertaining to not only objects, but people. Being referred to as lint, can have only one pejorative meaning and it suggests a sense of, “Good Riddance,” to anyone it is applied to. After having considered the advantages of collecting lint, and the disadvantages of not doing so, I have decided that perhaps used gum would be more readily adaptable to my life style. Whereas lint has limited recycling possibilities, pre-chewed gum, with the simple addition of moisture, can be used to seal leaks, wreak revenge, stress remediation, and making anyone in the process of creating a future collectible, look like a cool person from the 1950’s. But when considering my health, mental or otherwise, and after examining the potential for euphemistic existentialism, I have decided to resign from the need to self-heal and revert to a more selfish prerogative, the tabloids. Where I am able to interpret any fact in the light of my own prejudice, and arrogance, thus eliminating my need for external distraction, altogether.


It felt strange to have somebody else in my garden. It was a rather special and intimate place between only nature and I; but now there was somebody else. I wasn’t angry nor was I scared that he was in my space, it just felt...different. It was a warm and beautiful day. The sun shone down brightly onto my growing plants and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The birds shared in the joy, singing sweet melodies that merged and mixed together creating one big masterpiece. It was beautiful. Richard was his name, and I thought that it fit him well. He stood calmly in the centre of my backyard, a comically large straw hat placed on top of his short grey hair and a goofy smile plastered across his face. The sun hit his features at an angle that made his bright blue eyes shine splendidly in the light and his face looked almost youthful. He was beautiful. I sighed at the thought, mentally lecturing myself for having momentarily failed Terry as I fondled the dulling old ring on my finger. I’d met Richard at the local community centre during a bake sale a few weeks back. He’d seemed to take an immediate interest in my garden of which I told him very little about, but with great enthusiasm. I was glad that he had taken a certain delight in my hobby so, with a sudden impulse, I’d invited him over to check it out. “Wow, this is gorgeous!” He’d exclaimed upon entering my backyard. His mouth had been slightly agape as he’d stared at the vegetation in awe. I had simply blushed and thanked him, tucking a strand of stray white hair behind my ear. Nobody else had ever set foot in that area since Terry, and it took me a strange amount of courage to let Richard in. However, I was glad that I did. “Alright, so first thing’s first, here are some gloves.” I said, handing him a pair of gardening gloves imprinted with a charming pattern of blue and white flowers. I also pulled on my own gloves decorated with detailed images of ladybugs and butterflies. Then, I led him to an isolated spot near the back corner of the yard. It was a calm and shadowy area under a tall and beautiful oak tree. The light seeped gracefully through the tree’s long and leafy branches, creating moving patterns and pictures on the floor. I had already prepared the soil and filled the vacant garden box that I had decided we could use, leaving the necessary tools laid out neatly in the grass. Richard had a bit of trouble bending over, his legs being slightly stiff, and he chuckled whole-heartedly when he stumbled down onto the ground in a sudden movement. He had a nice laugh, I thought to myself, trying to push away the growing guilt that had begun to overcome me. “Okay, so all you have to do is dig a little hole,” I began, using the shovel to pull up a section of soil “and then put the seed in.” I finished, plopping a white pip into the ground and covering it back up. He simply rolled his eyes. “I know how to plant a seed,” he said in a mockingly-sarcastic tone, “I’m not that dumb.” I suddenly felt bad and began to apologize. “Sorry, I didn't mean-” He chuckled again, the warm sound reassuring me. “I didn’t mean it like that, Janet. I was just joking.” He said, lightly nudging my side. “Oh, ok.” I replied, forcing a smile, but feeling taken aback at the sudden contact. Though it was a friendly gesture, nobody had ever really touched me since Terry, and the moment played back over and over in my head, feeling slightly more intimate every time. There was a brief moment of silence as he proceeded to bury a few seeds himself. “See? I’m an expert already!” He exclaimed proudly with a toothy grin. I smiled back at him before returning to the seeds that I had begun working on. We remained in a calm and peaceful silence for a while as we both worked away on our separate tasks, exchanging the occasional comment on the beautiful weather or on some bit of news we’d read in the papers. It was pleasant. Then, I suddenly dropped my shovel and it scrapped the side of one of my fragile fingers just enough to draw a bit of blood. Richard turned to me immediately. “Are you okay?” He asked with concern. I felt more embarrassed than in pain at the fact that I had made such a careless mistake after so many decades of practice, but reassured him nonetheless. “Yes, I’m fine.” He didn’t persist any further, but took a band-aid out of his pocket and unpeeled it carefully, asking me silently to make the next move. So, with slight hesitation, I held out my injured hand to Richard who tenderly wrapped the tape around my finger. I was flattered at his kindness, but was completely taken aback when he placed a delicate kiss on the injured spot. I pulled back my hand immediately in shock and fear, trembling slightly but trying to control my nerves. “I’m sorry, I-” He began to apologize rapidly. “No, no, it’s okay.” I assured, though I wasn’t completely certain if I even agreed with my own statement. We sat in an awkward silence for a few seconds before he spoke up again. “You’re beautiful, Janet.” I scoffed, trying to cover up my shock and fear. “How?” I asked curiously, pushing all thoughts of Terry guiltily aside. I stared tentatively into his bright blue eyes. They reminded me of forget-me-nots . Beautiful. “I’m old, wrinkly, and frail.” Richard shook his head immediately. “No. You’re beautiful.” He assured, turning back to his work without saying another word. I was unsatisfied with his explanation, but returned to what I was doing nonetheless, deciding that I would not be persistent nor pesky. Once more, I could feel Terry’s presence re-emerge in my mind and I felt miserable. I was seeking two completely different things that could not unite. Both Terry and Richard could simply not exist in the same universe. It was unsettling. We both continued to drop the seeds into the holes and cover them up with soil in silence, the singing birds filling the awkward air as we both remained deep in thought. The sweat was accumulating on my cheeks and I wiped an arm carelessly across my forehead, accidentally knocking off my glasses. I sighed, looking down at my dirty gloves, but just as I was about to remove them, Richard picked up my glasses from in the grass. He wiped them gently on his shirt and placed them delicately back on my face with a smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear in the process and gently running his hand down my cheekbone. He apologized again, but did not pull his hand away. Instead, he wiped away a stray tear that had somehow made its way down my cheek. “What’s wrong, Janet?” He asked, worried and concerned. I felt embarrassed--humiliated--crying in front of Richard. I was overreacting. He placed a hesitant hand across my back, waiting for my response patiently. I only shook my head, holding my hand with the ring up to my heart and saying his name, asking for either forgiveness or for comfort. “Terry.” Richard did not know of Terry, but he spotted the ring on my finger and from his expression, I could tell that he had guessed. “I’m so sorry.” He said, full of empathy. I onl y continued to cry. Richard wrapped his arms around my frail frame and pulled me close to his chest so that I could hear his beating heart. He was not going to leave me. “It’s okay, Janet.” He assured, rubbing tender circles on my back. There were a few more minutes of silence before I mumbled hesitantly, “I have to let him go.” “Pardon?” “I have to let him go.” I repeated, a bit louder this time and with more conviction. Richard said nothing, but let me proceed. “I’ve been hanging on to him for so long.” I explained “He’s been gone for so long.” “What happened?” Asked Richard prudently. “A heart attack.” I simply replied with a sigh. Richard said nothing more, but squeezed me closer to his chest in comfort. “It’s been almost twenty years,” I explained, desperate to get everything off my chest “twenty year since he’s been gone. Twenty years since I’ve locked up my heart.” Richard hummed in acknowledgment, letting me know that he was listening. “It’s been twenty years of loneliness, guilt and misery.” I finally declared with a frown. There was another brief silence before I continued. “He’d want me to be happy.” I said to myself “He’d want me to be happy, right?” “I’m sure he would.” Replied Richard slowly. With hesitation, I took the ring off of my finger for the first time in years and placed it delicately on a stone under the tree. “I have to let him go.” I repeated as I stared down at the metal. Then, Richard unwrapped his arm from around me and pulled me down beside him so that we were side by side, leaning against the thick wood of the tree trunk, my small hand in his. For the first time in twenty years, I felt a strong weight lifted from my shoulders and a sense of reassuring peace emerge. I looked back at the ring that I had placed on the stone and noticed that it was glimmering for the first time in years under the bright sunny sky. I told myself that it was a sign; a promise for happiness. We sat in a comfortable silence in the cool shade as the birds continued to sing melodically in the trees. “Thank you for letting me into your heart,” smiled Richard “and into your garden.” He whispered, placing a gentle kiss on my fragile forehead. “ Our garden.” I corrected, smiling contently as my eyes fluttered gently shut and an uplifting sense of happiness overtook me.


It was a good day, walking alone, only my shadow next to me. I had run away from my home. I'm sick of all the lies my 'role models' tell me. My name is Jonathan Suburbia. My friends at my homeland called me the Jesus of Suburbia. I miss my friends at home. The name of it is pointless now. Here in America, I have nothing. I do blend in well as a regular white suburban teenager, living in a ordinary suburban town called Longview, California, and; blgahagah! I am sick being a normal American Idiot! Then it happened. As I was deep in thought, I crossed the street, then a white Ford SUV came and hit me. My body buckled like I had been shot with a shotgun in the chest. I hit my skull on the hood and then the pavement below me as I fell to the floor in pain. I'm not sure if I blacked out from the pain or got knocked out from me hitting the car and the pavement. When I woke up I was in St. Jimmy's National Hospital. I as I came to I heard this voice in my head, a voice that I have never heard in my life, raging and rebelling against everything that I kept secreted in my mind. It hurt. Then a nurse came over to my cot and spoke to me. I noticed her name tag hung from a lanyard around her neck. Her name was Maria Liberty. She was a sight to behold after what happened to me. She said," Good mourning John!" Her smile probably cured a case of cancer at one point. I know it stopped my headache. After a bit of routine vital signs check, Maria helped me off the cot and into a wheelchair. We made idle conversation as she brought me into a room with a two men and women, sitting at a table together. One man just stared at me. I knew that disappointed face from anywhere. It was Brad. My stepfather. He always seemed to be neglecting me and me being around him made him very angry. He looked disgruntled and unhappy about me still being alive and breathing. My mother's face was red and her eyes were wet with tears. The other man turned out to be a doctor. He was was a bald old man with glasses. He smiled gently at me as he looked up from his clipboard. He turned his glance toward Maria, my parent, and THAT other person, and motioned for them to talk with him. Being the eavesdropper I am, I listened closely. "Mr. and Ms. Suburbia, John has suffered a major blow to his brain after his accident," he said sympathetically. "He now has permanent damage to his prefrontal cortex, deep limbic system and his temporal lobes. These are the parts of the brain that essentially control our emotions," the doctor said sternly. "I'm sorry to say this; but your son now has a multipersonality disorder. We have had cases like this in the past and we call it Saint Jimmy's disorder." The doctor's voice began to crack. "Your son is expected to live for 1 year." The voice in my head begins to take control of me. It tells me this," That's a lie Jesus! They just want your parents money! The government just wants your money!" I didn't know what to think of it so I let out an enormous scream. I shouted to St. Jimmy," GEEEETTTTT OOOOOUUUUUUTTTTTT!!!! My Mom and Brad jumped and so did Maria. I was pale and breathing heavy. Maria came over and sat down on my lap. When she sat down St. Jimmy disappeared. POOF. Out of my mind. I started to relax as she put her hand on my cheek and rubbed her thumb back and forth on it. We shared a moment, alone in the world. Then the doctor cleared his throat and spoke. "It seems John's disorder disappears when Maria is around him," He said with a smile. "I think we will start the therapy with Maria accompanying John." He turned his glance at me and said,"There maybe hope for you yet, John." After that ordeal was over and done with, my parent gave me some money so grab some food at the Cafe. I brought Maria with me. I asked her what she does for a living. She says she interns here, but that's not her real job. I asked her what it was and said," How about you come with me to work tonight, John?", she said with mischievous smile. She saw the worried look on my face and said,"Don't worry it's not like we are going to get caught." I thought to myself, she's a rebel all right. Later that evening she appeared outside my door. She was the definition of an angel. She was wearing a pair of skinny jeans with a men's black button-up shirt with a red tie on it. Her hair was in a pony tail and on her lips was the reddest lip stick I've ever seen. Her top two buttons on her shirt were unbuttoned so I could see a bit of hear cleavage. She teasing me, I thought. Jimmy had something to say too. "It's not going to work John. She's not your kind of girl." I fire back at Jimmy," I will make her mine! Jimmy had enough. He took control and told her to wait a second and guided me inside. He sat me down at the dinner table. He said,"Look Jesus, I know your exited about dating... Ms. Whatsername out there. But your no rebel, you have no guts. I backed off today to see what you would do. AND YOU DID SHIT ALL! Let me show you how to give Whatsername the time of her life." My head started to ache. I am now St. Jimmy. I picked myself up and took some Novacaine and rejoined Whatsername outside. She was about to say something but my lips stopped her and she closed her eyes. We hurry along in a taxi to a club in town. We go inside and she disappears among the crowd. I find her again and shes with a white guy with dreadlocks. She was sitting on the floor getting high on weed. Her top is unbuttoned and her bra is on the floor next to her underwear. She offers the blunt to me and I accept it. Jesus in says in my head, "Don't do it Jimmy! We are going to get in trouble!" I take a big sniff of air and start to feel the effects. I sink to the floor next to Whatsername and lean my head against her shoulder. She tells the white guy to get us a drink. He comes back and we drink until we get wasted to the point where she kicks a stripper off of her place and replaces her. And does better. Then I hear the sounds of sirens outside. Jesus says to me,"SHIT! We are done Jimmy; it's over." I thought of any way out and I saw a the fire door identified by a red EXIT sign. I quickly picked up Whatsername while she was still giggling drunkenly from all the booze we drank tonight. She cussed at me for taking her away from her position as the center of attention to the male patrons at the club. I made a break for the door, when Jesus said something," D-DUDE! That door has an alarm on it!" I disregarded his warning and burst through the door carrying Whatsername in my arms. Then the bell sounded. The sprinklers came on and tried to put out a fire that didn't exist. I could hear the people screaming from the water getting soaked. I laughed to myself as I ran. I ran to my home and never looked back. I layed Whatsername on the couch. She said as her eyes closed,"Best 20 minute date I've ever had." I buttoned her shirt back up and sort of just drooped down to the floor and passed out. I could tell Jesus was impressed. Maybe even jealous. I woke up with the biggest headache ever, probably from Jimmy and... her, going to the club and getting drunk of their asses. Also, Jimmy had gone to sleep for today, he told me in my dreams. I was in control for today. I saw her get up, stretch and let out a big yawn. She rubbed her eyes and then her neck, probably from bunking on the couch all night. She looked really hungover. I said smoothly," Good mourning, sleepyhead." "Mourning Jimmy," She says half asleep. Then she realizes that Jimmy is not here but instead it was the non-rebelous John Suburbia. She smiled kindly at me and then I heard HIM come down the stairs. Brad came down the stairs to see us sitting next to each other in a moment. His face swells up with anger at me. Probably from the sight of ME being with a girl that was AMAZING. "JOHN WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TO HER?!!", he bellowed. "SHE'S YOUR NURSE NOT YOUR GIRLFRIEND!!!!" I called for St. Jimmy in my head to help me but he told me sort it out myself. I took a deep gasp of air and while he was still babbling, I let out at the top of my lungs,"Listen asshole, she is mine and you can't say otherwise! I am TIRED of you neglecting me and you telling me what to do. Hell, your not even my dad. You just married my mom that I love, oh so much, so you could sleep with her!!! You know what we are done here! Maria... let get the hell out of here." I could see him beginning to swell up with anger as me and Maria walked out the door. To my surprise he seized me by the by the collar of my shirt and held me against the wall next to the door. He called for my Mom. As soon as she came down the stairs I curled my fist and hit him square in the nose. I heard the *crack* as his nose bent and broke. He released me and I ran out the door with Maria at my heels. We stopped at after a few blocks to catch our breath. Maria asked,"Jesus is going to be jealous after that Jimmy." I laughed and then said,"That was me, the Jesus of Suburbia.


‘Yes ma’am, this is a courtesy call from ABC self-storage. We will be auctioning off your storage unit on March 8th, so you have till the end of the week to remove whatever belongings you would like to keep.’ The woman professionally informs Emeri. ‘The end of the week? Auction off my belongings? On my birthday? Seriously? What are you talking about? My ex-husband, Johnathan Archer, pays for that unit. It’s in our divorce decree for him to pay!’ Emeri rambles as confusion distorts her face. ‘Yes maam he was but he removed his credit card six months ago.’ She politely explains. ‘Six months! But.. why... when.... Ughhh!’ Emeri exclaims in shock as the hate for her ex pools in her stomach; Tears sting her eyes as the memories of her marriage sear her brain. All of the control and physical abuse; the gaslighting and manipulation. All the memories that lead up to that awful night and now this. ‘How much?’ Emeri grits out through clenched teeth. ‘Excuse me ma’am?’ The lady asks incredulously. ‘How much to get my unit back? How much money to get you off my phone, ma’am?’ Emeri asks sharply -allowing the venomous disdain to ooze from her voice. ‘The unit was $548 behind but that is a moot point because it’s already been acquired by the storage facility. Your only two option is to collect your belongings or not. Period.’ The lady curtly states. ‘And I don’t appreciate you implying that I can be bought.’ ‘And I don’t appreciate you ...’ Emeri starts, ‘Never mind. Just never-mind. Thank you for letting me know about the storage unit.’ She angrily finishes as she ends the call and closes her eyes tightly. Keep it together.. don’t lose your composure over a storage unit she tells herself as she grinds her nails into her palm to keep the tears from escaping her eyes. But it’s not about the storage unit -and Emeri knows that - it’s about the memories in that storage unit. All her belongings that she was allowed to take when her horrendous marriage of fifteen years ended. Photos, appliances, clothes, decor, etc; all the things she had collected while trying to pretend she had the perfect family. All the things that Emeri shoved into the unit a year ago because hiding them was easier than shattering all the false memories. And that’s what would happen because each item had a memory that was covered in sugar and pink glitter but shit is still shit, even if it’s covered in sugar and pink glitter. Over the next two days, Emeri’s anxiety over her looming deadline only grew. At first, she tried to tell herself to just let it go. Leave it and let them auction it. Why did she even care? She hasn’t seen, touched, or thought about anything in that unit for a year and she was fine. But she knew there was one thing in that storage unit that she didn’t dare lose; the only thing with enough pull to force her to confront her past- A past that was the reason for Emeri’s functioning anxiety and PTSD; The baby book that contained the ultrasound of her son. The only picture she has of the only pregnancy she was able to momentarily enjoy. Conceiving hadn’t been the problem; the six miscarriages had proven that. No, her problem had been her left fallopian tube which was badly scarred and blocked. It had been a miracle when her doctor told her she was pregnant. ‘Looks like this one knew the right path!’ Dr. Allen announced happily as she proceeded to print out the small ultrasound picture that had hi mommy typed in the bottom left corner. Emeri clenches her eyes tightly and allows her fingernails to cut into her palm to try and control the emotions surging through her body. The tears that want to release so badly; the tremors that quickly take over her body; the ball of anxiety that fills her stomach. Breathe. Breathe. It’s the past. You are not a victim, you are a survivor Emery slowly chanted to herself, remembering what her yoga instructor taught her and allowing her body to release the crippling memories of the control that Jonathan had once wielded over her. The memories of the miscarriage she had at twenty-four weeks pregnant. The memories of Jonathan leaving her two weeks later for his girlfriend who was twenty weeks pregnant. ‘ It’s a Boy, Emeri. And we are naming him Jonathan Archer III.’ Jonathan coldly stated. ‘ No! No! You can’t do that! That’s our son's name. You CAN NOT take that from me. Please. Please don’t do this.’ Emeri sobbed hysterically as she begged him to be reasonable. ‘ We don’t have a son. Remember? You aren’t woman enough to have a baby.’ He heartlessly spat as he turned and left her in a crumpled heap in the middle of their living room. That had been the last time she saw her monstrous ex-husband. He filed for divorce by the end of the week, was remarried to his new wife sixty days later, and welcomed a healthy baby boy on June 19th. The same day Emeri tried to end her life. It had just been too much and the temptation of peace that the handful of sleeping pills had quietly seduced her with had won. She only survived because her nosey neighbor, Mrs. Anders, had stopped by to check on her after hearing from another gossipy neighbor that Jonathan’s baby had been born. Mrs. Anders had found her collapsed on the living room floor, the empty pill bottle close by, and called 911. But she survived and voluntarily committed herself to a psychiatric facility for a thirty-day evaluation. In those thirty days, she had learned to control her anxiety through yoga while allowing her wounds to heal; emotional and physical. And if you survived that, you can survive this Emeri seethes as she squares her shoulder and straightens her back. Tomorrow You will go to that storage unit, get baby Jonathan’s ultrasound -fuck everything else- and cut this final tie to your past. You are stronger than this and deserve a happy life. Tomorrow this ends. The next morning Emeri quickly finishes her morning coffee and shower in record time due to not wanting to lose her nerve but it only momentarily works. As she pulls up to the dingy blue metal building and keys in her code, all the anxiety came slamming into her body and she could feel her airway getting tighter. Her heart begins racing, nausea fills her stomach and the horribly familiar weight on her chest begins getting heavier. Breathe. Breathe. It’s the past. You are not a victim, you are a survivor Emeri recites quietly, allowing her breathing to lessen the excruciating weight on her chest that was stealing her air. As the seconds tick by, Emeri’s anxiety loosened its grip on her and she was able to open her eyes. With a deep inhale, she shoves her key into the padlock and opens the loud rickety metal door that she hadn’t laid eyes on for a year. The stale scent of mothballs and mildew slam her in the face causing her nausea to surge into her throat. Emeri swallows down the nausea and surveys the dust-ridden items in front of her. ‘What is that?’ She murmurs to herself as she walks toward a glint of metal reflecting under a heavy blue tarp in the very back of the unit. She carefully pulls the tarp causing a cloud of dust to go flying in the air and her to erupt into a sneezing fit. As the dust clears and Emeri’s sneezing finally stops, she beheld the last thing she was expecting to see- her bike. Her mouth fell open and a shock froze her face as the memories surge through her mind. Memories of being fed up with Jonathan’s control after five years so for the first -and last time -she did something for herself; she bought a bike for herself. And not just a normal bike, no this bike was beautiful. The most beautiful thing she had seen in years with its bright pink frame, shiny silver accents, and a perfect white wicker basket hanging on the front. It had taken her three months of siphoning off her grocery allowance to save the three hundred and forty-five dollars that it cost. But the day she reached her goal, her eyes danced with excitement as she gifted it to herself behind Jonathan’s back. This bike was going to give her brief moments of freedom; she could finally go places on her own. Before this she was dependent on Jonathan because he didn’t think she needed a car- it was an added useless expense. She was so excited that Jonathan’s hateful rant hadn’t even discouraged her. ‘ What the fuck do you need a bike for? Your lazy ass isn’t going to ever ride it. And you better not slack on keeping my house clean for some wasteful joy ride around the block. You know how you are when your mind gets in the clouds. Lazy. You get real lazy.’ He sneered as watched the excitement leak from Emeri’s face. ‘ I have to go to work. One of us has to make some money instead of blowing it on dumb shit. That laundry better be done and my dinner ready when I get home.’ Jonathan belittled as he walked out the front door. But she hadn’t let him steal her joy. This bike was HERS and even he couldn’t take that from her. Or she thought. She had only been able to enjoy it for two days before it disappeared. The first day was a ride to the grocery store two blocks away and had been as exhilarating as a rollercoaster. The wind blew through her hair and the fresh clean air was lightly seasoned with scents from the little cafe attached to the grocery store. The sweet scent of streusel, cinnamon rolls, and fresh donuts caused Emeri to inhale deeply and smile. We are definitely getting one of those! She had thought happily. And she did. And it was delicious. But she knew better than to keep that smile on her face when Jonathan got home. If he had seen how happy her excursion had made her, he would have begun the accusations. He would have berated her about wasting time and how lazy she was to enjoy such a frivolous thing. So she wiped the smile off her face and replaced it with her normal sullen look, playing the role Jonathan wanted till the next day when she went back to the cafe to enjoy an iced coffee and a blueberry streusel while reading her favorite book. She got so distracted she was late fixing dinner and Jonathan was so furious he wouldn’t even speak to her for the remainder of the night. The next morning it was gone; stolen in the night according to Jonathan. Some thugs must have snatched it, he had told her as a tear slipped down her cheek. But she knew better; she knew Jonathan had gotten rid of it to punish her and the rancid taste of captivity had settled in her mouth and stomach once again- replacing the sugary sweetness of the delicious blueberries streusel. But there it was- the personification of hope and dreams - staring at her. She could hear the whisper as it asks are you ready to live Emeri? Are you ready to live a life where you get to indulge in a bike ride and blueberry streusel as often as you want? A life that you and only you controls? ‘ Yes, yes I am.’ Emeri smiles as she wheels the dingy bike out of the storage unit and loads it into the back of her beat-up ford ranger. As she returns to the storage to retrieve her ultrasound of baby Jonathan, there wasn’t any more anxiety or sadness. No, there were only hopes and dreams clouding her mind as she clutches her precious ultrasound and left that dingy storage unit, and all the abhorrent memories, in her rearview mirror. Tomorrow is a new day and it will begin with a bike ride, iced coffee, and a blueberry streusel.


Everything became a waiting game. I sat silently, biting my lips to keep my breathing quieter, trying to keep every centimetre of my body still. I could hear one of the guards getting closer. Their footsteps were slow. Methodical. Every few paces they paused and swiveled, looking for movements in the forest. They must have been only a few metres awaye, standing on the edge of the bank behind me. I could sense his feet above my head, his presence closing in. I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the moment. “Anything?” another guard in the distance called out. I prayed for a negative answer. “Nothing,” the guard behind me replied. I let a small exhale of air leave my lungs. The guard continued past me. But their progress was slow, and it took many minutes for the sound of their footsteps to disappear into the darkness. Eventually, it seemed like my part of the woods was empty again. I guessed by the positioning of the moon that it was around two or three in the morning. I had maybe six or so hours before daylight came and I no longer had the protection of darkness. It was enough, but time would disappear. I made my way back through the woods towards the Citadel. I crouched low and tried to keep my footsteps quiet. I couldn’t hear any guards nearby, but I could never be certain how far the sound traveled. It had taken me five minutes of running to find my hiding spot, but it took a good hour of patient steps, moving from tree to tree, to get back to the Citadel. At the perimeter wall, I snaked to the back of the settlement, away from the populated parts, towards the empty houses, and more importantly, to the storage areas. I managed to guess my spot with perfection, and as I heaved myself over the wall, I landed right next to the propane tanks and petrol canisters. Strange as it was, this was probably one of the safest places to be right now. Almost every guard would be out looking for me, no one would have expected me to come back. I lifted one of the propane tanks and dragged it over to a nearby home. With the butt of the gun, I smashed the corner of the window. Large cracks split across the glass, and with a small push, a large section of the pane came loose and fell inside the building, smashing against the ground below. I picked up the tank, and with care placed it inside the building before returning to the storage area. I bought two more cans, placing each one inside the home. Finally, I returned with one of the ordinary petrol canisters. Inside the hollow lie were three large propane tanks, sitting quietly, waiting. I lifted up the petrol cannister over the cracked window and opened the cap. The clear, strong-smelling liquid, gushed out from the tank, and spread across the floor of the home, pooling around the tanks. I held the can in place till the noise of liquid splashing against the concrete stopped. With every last drop emptied I discarded the cannister inside. A strong acrid smell poured from the building, burning the inside of my nose. The whole process had taken an hour, and I could already begin to make out the slightest hints of the sun rising in the east. I hurriedly pulled out the lighter from my pocket. I flicked the ignition hard. However, the old artifact had rusted, and it was hard to get it to come to life. I flicked the ignition maybe four or five times before the briefest of flames, and the smallest of sparks jumped from the lighter. It was all that was needed. The smallest of embers fell to the ground, landing among the fumes rising from the liquid, immediately igniting. Fire spread out from the window ledge and ran into the home. Flames leaped from the floor, painting the walls in oranges, reds, and yellows. I could feel the roasting heat rise from inside and I know it wouldn’t take long for the pressure in the tanks to overflow. I quickly ran back to the perimeter wall and climbed back over, retreating to the forest. From there, I trekked along the wall until I was level with where the prisoners were kept. I could do nothing now but wait and hope that the fire took hold. The minutes that followed were torture. The sky to the East was getting brighter by the moment, and I was beginning to mutter to myself from the sheer anxiety, bargaining with some universal force to let my plan go as I hoped. Then, it happened. There was a boom, a mighty roar that pushed the leaves of the trees back in fright. From behind the wall, I watched as the sky was filled with a huge fireball, a bright orb that made it seem like the sun had already risen. It gave way to a magnificent fire that stretched up like a beacon, calling all to its presence. The citadel, or at least some part of it, was aflame. I climbed back over the wall and ran towards the building where the prisoners were kept. As I hoped, the event was big enough to have distracted the guard outside, and they had already abandoned their post to deal with the larger crisis. I walked up to the door and shouted as loud as I could. “Stand back, away from the door, quick.” I counted to three before firing two gunshots at the lock of the door. Wood splintered and metal snapped, and with one final kick, the door was open. “Get out. Tell everyone you can.” The prisoners ran out onto the grass, running in whichever direction felt safest. Last to reach the door was Jacob. “Thank you,” I said. “It was worth it.” I paused for a moment. “Do you want to come too? We could escape together.” He hobbled out the door. “You think that fall was all fake? Nah, I’m not getting out of here quickly enough.” “You’ve got to escape,” I insisted. He looked to the fire. “Half the island will have seen what you just did, and they’re all about to rush up here to help. There’s nothing I need to escape anymore.” He smiled at the pillows of smoke spreading over the Citadel. “You go. There will still be plenty of people who would gladly shoot you dead. It’s too late to save the Citadel, but not too late for their revenge.” I patted him on the arm. He patted mine back. And we parted. \ It was time to escape from the island. But if I were to survive out on the seas, visiting different islands, I would need to eat and pay for transport and shelter. I needed money. I headed to the front of the Citadel, and barged into one of the council member’s homes. I walked to the front of the house where I found a small canvas bag. I picked it up and began grabbing anything small enough to carry. Delicate gold jewelry, subtly carved trinkets, and of course artifacts; numerous small plastic boxes to which I had no idea of the purpose and a couple of handfulls of the lighters piled in that glass cabinet. I filled the bag with as much as I could, and then headed outside. I opened the door, stepping out into the dawn. It took maybe a couple of seconds for my eyes to adjust to the light. When they did, I saw the glint of the gun pointed at me. “Stop,” the guard said. His voice was strained, his hands trembling. His eyes darted around him searching. “Put down the bag.” I lowered the bag, and raised my hands. “It’s okay. I’m not going to cause any trouble.” “You already have,” the guard replied. His fingers twitched on the trigger. I thought of the gun still tucked in my waistband hidden by my shirt. Did I have time to pull it? Could I beat his reactions? More importantly, was I prepared to shoot it? My thoughts were broken by voices rising from the Citadel entrance. I looked left, as around the corner came a dozen or so citizens arriving to help. Some carried blankets; others labored with tubs of water carried between many people. The guard lowered the gun and turned to them. “You’re not allowed here.” “We’ve come to help,” responded a woman carrying a bucket. “We can help.” “Turn back,” the guard shouted. “Turn back, or...” I could see his arm twitch, as he thought about raising the gun on them. “Don’t,” I warned him. “They can’t be here.” “But they are. It’s over. You can’t protect the Citadel anymore.” The citizens continued their march up the path, helping each other carry the buckets and supplies through the entranceway. “You’ve ruined everything. You don’t understand.” The guard was shaking. “Do you know what they are going to do to us when they find out? Do you know what will happen? They’re going to kill me, my family...” “You aren’t the enemy. Not anymore,” I said. The guard shook his head. He looked to the crowd of people walking past him, paying him no mind as they headed to save the Citadel. He turned the pistol it in his hand, inspecting it. His shoulders slumped, and he threw his gun away from him as far as he could. The guard fell back, landing in a seated position, before turning to watch the citizens walk up the path. “Just go,” he said. I didn’t say another word. I simply grabbed my bag and ran for the entrance. There were a number of bikes by the entrance, propped up against the wall by those coming to rescue the Citadel. I grabbed the first one I saw, and began my ride back home. With the Citadel on fire, and myself heading towards the sea, I began to relax. Sunrise had arrived, and the cool Winter air felt invigorating rather than bitter. At the Citadel people would be panicking, but out here was peace. I parked the bike back at my old house. I stepped inside and grabbed a few essentials - a few changes of clothes, what money I had, and of course most importantly paper and pencils. When I stepped outside again, the sun was casting long thin shadows across the ground, and people were busy starting their day. I began walking down the road outside my house, hanging my head low, trying not to draw attention to my disheveled appearance. My eyes were fixed on the small square meter of ground in front of me, and in my restricted vision, I failed to realize who I was walking towards. “Ferdinand? Is that you?” I looked up. There, staring at me, trying to reach my eyes was Thomas. “How are you? I haven’t seen you in weeks.” He went to walk up to me, but after a couple of paces, he seemed to take in my appearance - the ill-fitting clothes, the weak muscles, the loose pale skin. Seeing it seemed to instinctively repulse him, and he stopped where he was. “What happened to you?” he asked. “They told me you were promoted and moved to the Citadel. I tried to reach out, but didn’t hear anything.” I opened my mouth to speak. But I wasn’t quite sure what to say. How could I summarize everything that had happened? The Citadel was a lie, the dream we had been working for was a farce. I had been imprisoned for discovering the lie, and I had near-killed myself escaping. Right now, words weren’t a priority. My silence was interrupted by a large thunderous roar from the citadel. The fire must have spread and caught another propane tank, maybe even the storage area. I looked over Thomas’s shoulder to the sky. Thick black smoke was billowing out from the direction of the Citadel, the fringes of the fire visible as pale light reaching above the trees. People turned to look. Many held their hands to their mouths or gasped as they realized the smoke’s origin. A few people even began to walk in the direction of the Citadel, feeling the call to help. Thomas caught my gaze and turned too, and like others was entranced by the blanket of black covering the blue sky. I took my chance at his distraction and fled, running down a small gap between two buildings. I weaved my way between the homes until I came across a thin pebbly beach, and an old rowing boat lying on the sand. I grabbed the boat and dragged it into the sea until I could feel it begin to float on the surface. The icy waters grabbed at my ankles, as I lifted myself and my bag into the boat. As I rowed out to sea, my back facing the horizon, I looked in front of me at the Kadear Coalfields. I had never seen the island from here before. Seeing the island as its full width, it suddenly seemed so small, so insignificant. At the centre of the island the flames were still burning and creeping over the tops of the trees. That thick tube of burning gas and wood continued to ring out like a bell, beckoning people to come its way and find out the truth. Whatever was to become of the Kadear Coalfieilds was for other people to decide. My island may have gone, but there were a hundred others like it to explore. I didn’t have a house anymore, no place to live. Yet, now that everything had passed I was out on the sea, living my long-hoped-for dream. Whatever happened, I was closer to home than I had ever been.


“*GAH!* Not again!” Grumbling, the Beast removed a smoking, charcoal-black rectangle from the oven. He slammed the ceramic oven tray heavily onto the marbled counter, pulled the polka-dot oven mitts off his large paws and flung them across the kitchen in a blind fury, where they almost hit a passing servant in the face. “Everything going alright, your Highness?” the servant squeaked, picking up the discarded mitts. “Beth is getting impatient for her dinner.” The Beast growled in frustration as he clumsily leafed through the chunky recipe book, tattered and yellowed with age, that had been sitting on the counter. “I don’t *get* it, Lucy,” he muttered. “I just don’t *get* it. I did everything the recipe said. *EVERYTHING!”* The last word was almost a roar, and he slammed the book back down on the counter, startling the maid several steps back. “Fry the onions. Simmer the tomato. Bake in the oven for forty minutes. And yet...” He thrust a paw at the burnt mess sitting on the counter. “Does that *look* like a lasagna to you?” Lucy coughed a little from the thick smoke that hung in the air. “It doesn’t look *that* bad.” “Would *you* eat it?” “No, your Highness.” “Then it’s a failure.” He heaved a sigh. “I’ll never break this curse. I’ll be stuck as this ferocious, hairy thing *forever.*” “Oh don’t say that,” said Lucy, a sympathetic look on her round, pink face. “You’ve still got three days.” “*Three days!”* the Beast roared, making Lucy flinch. “How can I get that woman to compliment my cooking in *three days?* She’ll never eat this. She didn’t even like the oatmeal I made her this morning, and that was my best work yet.” “Oh, that reminds me, I’m almost done scraping the burnt bits off the oatmeal pot, so you should be able to use it again tomorrow,” Lucy said. “Oh, *joy,”* the Beast muttered. He slumped down at the large table, burying his large furry head in his paws. “It’s no use, Lucy. There’s just no pleasing her.” Lucy softly patted him between the ears. It was a bit like patting a dog--a very sad dog that didn’t know how to cook. “We could always get her drunk,” she suggested. “Bit of extra wine with dinner. Everything tastes better when you’re sloshed, believe me.” She began to chuckle, then stopped, blushing self-consciously. “It’s no use,” the Beast muttered. “You remember what the witch said. It has to be a *genuine* compliment on the quality of food I’ve prepared.” He banged a huge fist down on the table. “Of all the women I could have picked to break this stupid curse, why did I have to pick the *food critic?”* \~\*\~\*\~\*\~ The Beast was in his armchair by the fireplace when Lucy came in to the living room later that evening, after having brought tea and toast to Beth and apologising for the lack of dinner. He was gazing despondently at the oil painting on the wall across from him which depicted a handsome, golden-haired young man grinning smugly. Lucy had paused at the doorway, silent as a mouse, unwilling to intrude. “Come in, Lucy,” he said, somehow detecting her presence without turning around. Lucy had grown used to this sort of ‘sixth sense’ he now possessed--it was a bit like how dogs knew who was at the door because of their keen sense of smell. Except it clearly wasn’t a keen sense of smell, otherwise he’d be able to smell his cooking burning. “There’s no point, Lucy,” he said, as Lucy drew closer. “I can’t possibly learn how to cook in three days. I might as well get used to this.” Lucy took a deep breath. “I didn’t want to give you these before, your Highness,” she said, “because I was worried you’d be offended. But now... well, I don’t feel I have much of a choice.” “What are you talking about?” said the Beast. Lucy placed two books on the end table next to him. He glanced sideways at the stack, then, curiosity piqued, picked one up. “*Cooking for Dummies?”* he read. He looked at the second one. *“Cooking for Idiots?”* “And if those don’t work...” Lucy hesitantly handed him a third book. “There’s this one.” *“Cooking for Complete and Utter Nitwits?”* the Beast’s furry brow wrinkled in confusion. “But I don’t understand. I don’t *think* Beth is a Complete and Utter Nitwit... although she certainly acts like one.” Lucy swallowed. “No, erm, you see... the titles refer to the... the...” “The what?” said the Beast impatiently. “The person who’s... *doing* the cooking, your Highness.” She gulped. “You.” The Beast was silent for a very long moment. Lucy’s heart hammered. She had never insulted the prince before. He was going to tear her to shreds, she was sure of it. Suddenly, he roared--with laughter. He laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks. Lucy, rather taken aback, managed a nervous chuckle. “Of course!*”* he managed at last. “Of *course*! All the recipes I’ve tried so far were written for people who’ve got a clue what they’re doing! No wonder I’ve failed. This, my dear Lucy, is *exactly* what I need!” *\~\*\~\*\~\*\~* “Zero out of five stars,” said Beth, placing her fork down. “You’ve barely even *tasted* it,” growled the Beast from the other end of the long dining table. He’d woken at dawn to pore through (well, paw through) *Cooking for Dummies,* and the recipe for perfect scrambled eggs had seemed easy enough. “I don’t need to finish the whole thing to know they taste like burnt rubber,” said Beth, turning up her nose at the yellowish-grey blob on the plate. “They do not,” grumbled the Beast. He took a spoonful himself, but couldn’t remember how eggs were meant to taste, and has no idea if Beth was in fact correct. “The eggs are fine. You’re just snooty. Nothing pleases you, not even the meal I slaved over all morning.” “I am *not* snooty!” Beth snapped, glaring down the length of the table. “It’s my *job* to be critical of what I eat, even if it is prepared by a dog.” “I’m not a dog,” the Beast growled, pausing to dislodge a flea from his left ear, “I’m a *beast!”* “Same bloody thing!” said Beth, standing up. “I’m not going to sit here and pretend to like your bad quality food. I’m going for a walk.” She left in a huff and headed for the door to the unkempt garden, no doubt looking for an escape route (she wouldn’t find one--it wasn’t that easy to break through to the Outside). The Beast was left alone in the enormous, empty dining room. He sighed and brought the recipe book out of his coat pocket, glaring at its bright, glossy cover. He threw *Cooking for Dummies* in the bin \~\*\~\*\~\*\~ The salad he made for Beth’s luncheon had been a limp, soggy affair, with a ‘zesty’ vinaigrette that tasted like a mouse had peed in it. Beth had given it one out of five stars, only because “it wasn’t burnt”. The Beast had remained in his seat long after she’d left, pondering how someone could possibly burn a salad. Perhaps it was something a Complete and Utter Nitwit would do, he mused. He threw *Cooking for Idiots* in the bin. The spaghetti and meatballs he made for Beth’s dinner were no better. The meatballs all coagulated in the pan to form one enormous, formidable meatblob that looked like the alien monster from a low-budget science fiction film. He threw *Cooking for Complete and Utter Nitwits* in the bin. \~\*\~\*\~\*\~ That night, after Lucy had given Beth her supper, she did not go down to the living room, but went straight to bed. It broke her heart to see the Beast so glum every evening, and after the events of the day he was sure to be gloomier than ever. He’d been such a proud, smug little man before the curse, she remembered. He’d been picky with his food, too, like Beth. He even used to give the meals a rating when he’d finished. She bet he and Beth would get along marvellously if he was human. She lay back on her pillows and lost herself in reverie. Imagine if the Beast became human again, and he and Beth fell in love! She’d surely forget all about being kidnapped and being forced to eat his horrible cooking, once she’d laid eyes on his handsome face and golden curls. All the household staff would come back, too--the staff that had fled on that stormy night when the curse took hold--and the old ruined house would be full of life again! Her fancy popped like a bubble when she remembered that there were only two days remaining before the anniversary of the curse, when it would be stuck forever--his birthday. That night, he had turned a starving beggar woman away from his doorstep, not wanting to ruin the mood of his big coming-of-age party. That beggar woman had turned out to be a witch. Of *course* she bloody had. Honestly, sometimes Lucy felt like she was a character in one of those stupid fairytales. Why did that witch have to pick on him, of all people? All young men were like that, weren’t they? Caring only about themselves, not giving a toss about some ratty old woman on the doorstep, begging for scraps? There wouldn’t have been a scrap to *give* her, anyway. He’d already eaten all the frozen pizza. He hadn’t known it was frozen pizza, of course--had he known, he would have turned his nose up at it, the way Beth had at her eggs that morning. It had been a little joke amongst the kitchen staff. His Highness, so picky with food, had devoured that cheap frozen meal, claiming it was the best thing he’d ever eaten. The laughter down in the kitchens that night had soon turned to shrieks of terror at the menacing creature that had lumbered frantically down there to hide his hideous new form from his terrified guests. She thought again of the witch’s curse that had echoed through the halls that night, muttering the lines to herself in the dark. “With thine own hands, prepare a meal...” Lucy sat up in bed, beaming with excitement. “I’ve *got* it!” \~\*\~\*\~\*\~ “So you’re telling me,” said the Beast, raising a skeptical, furry eyebrow, “I don’t need to actually *cook* the food? Just *prepare* it? Why didn’t you tell me this before?*”* “I only thought of it last night,” explained Lucy, tending to the sizzling bacon in the pan. “And besides, you heard the curse as well as I did. You could have looked for a loophole too.” “You’re right,” he replied, in considerably better spirits this morning after Lucy had told him her idea. “And besides, it’s not as if I need a lot of time to make this work. Surely just one meal will suffice.” “I hope so,” said Lucy. “Here, plate this up. Make it nice and presentable. Remember: toast first, then bacon, then egg, then the hollandaise sauce.” She gestured to each pot and pan in turn. The Beast’s clumsy paws were, however, not designed for assembling breakfasts, and the result looked less like an Eggs Benedict and more like an earthquake at brunch. Lucy hid her dismay as she surveyed the plate. “I suppose it will have to do,” she said. “Besides, it’s the taste that’s important. I’ll wake Beth, shall I?” \~\*\~\*\~\*\~ “Zero out of five stars for presentation,” Beth announced. “Oh, come on!” snarled the Beast. “It’s not that bad. Besides, who cares how it looks? What are you doing to do, take a photo of it?” “I usually do,” said Beth primly. The Beast refrained from rolling his eyes. “Just taste it,” he urged. “I worked very hard to *prepare* it this morning.” Beth eyed the plate critically, and sighed, poking it with her fork. “Oh, all right. If you worked *so* hard to--*eek!”* She shrieked suddenly, her fork flying out of her hand and landing on the floor. “What *now?”* “There’s a *hair* in it!” Grimacing, Beth pointed a manicured fingernail at the intruder. “Right there. In the sauce.” Sure enough, there was a long, ruddy brown hair, coiled up in the hollandaise sauce. “Can’t you just eat *around* the hair?” *“No!* I’m not going to eat something with dog hair in it. It’s unhygienic.*”* “It’s not *dog* hair,” growled the Beast, insulted. “It’s *my* hair!” “Same thing,” muttered Beth, getting up and storming out of the dining room like she did at every meal. The Beast groaned in annoyance. He had been so close! Of course he had to go and get a hair in it. He was always shedding these days; he really ought to have been more careful. There was still lunch and dinner, after all. And tomorrow. \~\*\~\*\~\*\~ “Just grab a sprig of parsley from the herb garden and put it on top,” Lucy had instructed, after checking for stray hairs in the steaming bowl of pasta carbonara that the Beast had just scooped. “You do know which one’s parsley, right?” “Of course I do,” he replied coolly. “I’m not a Complete and Utter Nitwit.” Evidently he was, because Beth turned her nose up at the meal. “I do *not* eat coriander,” she announced. *Coriander. Dammit,* thought the Beast. He should have swallowed his pride and let Lucy see the herb first. “Just pick it off.” *“No.”* Beth pushed the plate away with finality, and arose for her afternoon walk. This time, however, she paused by the door and glanced very briefly in the beast’s direction with an odd expression. Then she was gone. \~\*\~\*\~\*\~ Dinner was Lucy’s famous seafood risotto. She hadn’t made it in a very long time, but it had been one of the prince’s favourites. Lucy had watched as the Beast stirred the last of it and carefully ladled it into the bow, checking meticulously for stray hairs. So far, so good, he thought, watching Beth down the length of the table. For one thing, she was *eating.* Her face was impassive as she chewed. Occasionally, she glanced up from her plate and met his eyes with a thoughtful expression. Finally, she scooped up the last mouthful of risotto. The Beast couldn’t believe his eyes. She’d finished the whole meal, and hadn’t complained once! Beth hesitated. “It was good,” she said. The Beast pricked up his ears. “Good?” “More than good. Absolutely delicious,” said Beth. “Best thing I’ve ever eaten.” This was it, the Beast thought, standing up and inadvertently knocking over his chair in excitement. They’d *done* it! Beth had finally given him a genuine compliment on the quality of food he’d prepared! The curse was broken. He’d transform back into a human any minute now. Any minute now... He frowned, looking down at his enormous paws. They didn’t show the slightest sign of changing into the smooth, slender human hands he once had. In fact, he didn’t feel very different at all. He glared up at Beth. “You’re lying.” “I’m *not!”* she insisted. “It really was the best--oh, alright, you got me.” She sighed, leaning back in her seat. “I’m sorry. The texture was like glue and there was too much salt.” “Then why did you tell me you liked it? Do you *pity* me?” “No,” said Beth quickly. “No, of course not. I just... well, on my walk today, I was thinking... I *have* been rather snooty. You’ve been working so hard on these meals, after all, and even though they’ve all been *terrible...* you kept trying. The last two even showed some promise.” She smiled encouragingly. “I didn’t want you to give up.” “It’s too late,” said the Beast quietly, turning and walking away. \~\*\~\*\~\*\~ “Didn’t *like* it? Didn’t *like* my famous seafood risotto?” Lucy furiously scrubbed Beth’s plate in the kitchen sink down in the servant’s quarters. “Too much *salt?!* Texture like *glue?!”* The Beast, seated at the large wooden table, shrugged. “Oh, well,*”* Lucy sighed. “We’ve still got tomorrow. I’ll make something simple. There must be something...” “Forget it,” muttered the Beast. “It’s no use. Everything we’ve tried has failed. This curse is truly unbreakable.” “Oh, please don’t say that,” said Lucy. “We’ll figure it out. There’s a whole *day* ahead, yet! We’re so close!” But Lucy just couldn’t cheer the Beast up, no matter how she tried. Miserably, he went up to bed, and she returned to her own quarters, the matter of what meal to prepare for Beth weighing heavy on her mind. \~\*\~\*\~\*\~ The Beast didn’t come down to the kitchen that morning. Lucy tried to coax him down, telling him that there was no way he could mess up preparing porridge under her watchful eye, but he refused to get out of bed. Deciding it best to leave him alone for the time being, Lucy cooked some scrambled eggs for Beth (much closer to a sunny yellow than a yellowish-grey this morning) and served her breakfast in the dining room. “Where’s the beast this morning?” asked Beth. “His Highness,” said Lucy pointedly, still a little sore from the news that her famous risotto had gone unappreciated, “is unwell.” “Oh,” said Beth, poking her scrambled eggs with a fork. “I hope I didn’t offend him last night. He’s awfully sensitive about his cooking, isn’t he?” “You might say that,” said Lucy as she poured Beth’s tea. “But I can’t help the way I am,” said Beth, shrugging. “Only the finest quality food suits my taste. Still,” she mused, with a mouthful of egg, “It seems he’s really trying to impress me with his cooking. He really wants to win my heart, doesn’t he?” *Not your heart,* thought Lucy, but the curse allowed her to say no more. \~\*\~\*\~\*\~ The Beast didn’t come down to prepare lunch, or dinner, no matter how Lucy cajoled. Lucy’s heart sank--he really had given up. Lucy’s vision of the palace bustling with life again seemed more distant than ever. But though the beast had given up, Lucy had not. \~\*\~\*\~\*\~ It must have been about 10 o’clock at night by the time the Beast grew weary of staying in his room and made his way down to the living room for a change of scenery. Lucy had come down there to pester him about preparing a meal for Beth, but he had sent her away. Besides, she was unlikely to eat anything at this time of night. As he sat, listening to the hiss and crackle of the fireplace, he heard the door creak open. Thinking it was Lucy come to pester him again, he turned around to tell her off--and stopped. “Beth?” “Your Highness,” she said, walking slowly into the room. She was wearing a horrible yellow, frilly dress instead of her usual t-shirt and jeans, and appeared to have done her hair up. The Beast was rather taken aback. She never called him Your Highness. “What do you want?” he said. “I’m not going to cook for you. Lucy’s been feeding you, hasn’t she?” “She has,” said Beth. She smiled shyly. “I came down here to... talk.” The Beast grimaced. “I don’t want to talk to *you*. And there’s no need to come down here and try to make friends with me. Tomorrow you’ll be free. I’ll be out of your life forever.” He turned his head back toward the fire. “Well, you see... I don’t think I want that,” said Beth. “What?” “Can I sit here?” said Beth, perching awkwardly on the arm of the Beast’s huge leather armchair. “There’s another chair over there,” grumbled the Beast, but Beth didn’t seem to hear him. \~\*\~\*\~\*\~ Lucy picked her way through the unkempt back lawn in the dark. Her stockings were wet with the evening mist that clung to the long grass, and her feet squelched in their sensible shoes. She shivered. This was no time of night to be out of doors, and a small, selfish part of her wanted to give up as the beast had, to sit by the fire and accept the curse. “No,” she said to herself, as she finally reached the dilapidated old garage that sat a little ways from the house. Her freezing hands fumbled for the rusty old key that would unlock it. “I must give it one last try.” There was a family of rats living in the old car, and they seemed to be having some sort of party. After shooing them out and settling herself in, Lucy took a deep breath. It has been a while since she’d broken through the barrier to the Outside -- the day before the prince’s coming-of-age party, in fact. She remembered it well--she and the other cooks had crowded into the car, laughing about the prank. She remembered her heart hammering as they broke into the Outside with an ear-splitting *Pop!* She remembered the busy streets, the people walking about in their strange clothes, the chill of the frozen-food aisle. They’d even gone through a “Drive-Thru” on the way back, for chips and burgers, the woman in the window eyeing them strangely as she handed them a brown paper bag that was nearly transparent with grease. It had been a good day. This time, she was alone. \~\*\~\*\~\*\~ “You know,” said Beth, “I’ve had my share of terrible boyfriends in the past.” The Beast wished she would stop talking. He just wanted to be left alone. Suppressing a groan of frustration, he said, “All right. Tell me about them.” “Oh, I won’t bore you with the details,” said Beth, waving a hand. (*Then why did you mention them in the first place?* thought the Beast.) “But I will say this: they *never* put in any effort for me. Cheap gifts picked up from the dollar store. Ugly flowers--I hate flowers, you know. One of them, in fact, tried to throw me a romantic candlelight dinner\*,\*” she paused for effect, “with *frozen food!* I saw the boxes in the bin by the freezer. A frozen lasagna, and a blueberry cheesecake. I can still see the cheesecake, a greyish-purple slab of horror, defrosting on the counter. Can you *imagine?”* The Beast could not imagine it. He had heard of pre-packaged frozen meals, of course--they were apparently quite popular in the Outside--but had *certainly* never tried them. He was surprised to find he was chuckling. “So what did you do?” he asked. “Why, I stormed out without so much as eating a bite!” Beth exclaimed. “You should have given the meal a go,” said the Beast. “You might have liked it.” After a moment, the two burst into laughter. “My point is,” said Beth, “he didn’t even *try* to cook something for me himself. In fact, none of my boyfriends have.” She held his gaze. “Except for you.” Now the Beast was *really* confused. “But I’m not your boyfriend,” he said. “No,” said Beth softly. “But you could be.” “What?” “You see, nobody has ever gone to this much effort for me before,” she said. “And even though you can’t cook to save your life, I... well, I think I’m in lo--” “Your Highness!” Beth and the Beast looked up, startled. Lucy, red-faced and dishevelled, with mousy-grey curls escaping her bonnet, clutched the doorframe and struggled to catch her breath. “In the kitchen,” she managed at last. “Important. Emergency. Now.” \~\*\~\*\~\*\~ *“Frozen pizza?”* the Beast exclaimed. “Are you out of your mind? She’ll *never* eat this. She literally just finished telling me a story about how she ended a long-term relationship over a frozen meal. Why in blazes do you think this is going to work?” “Just trust me,” pleaded Lucy, shoving the box into his hands. “She won’t know. Besides, what have we got to lose? Hurry now, we only have until midnight.” The Beast shrugged. “Well, if you insist. But I tell you, it’s not going to work. Now, how do I prepare this?” He peered at the box. *“Delicious gourmet pizza in twenty minutes,”* he read. *“So simple, even a Complete and Utter Nitwit can prepare it.”* \~\*\~\*\~\*\~ The old grandfather clock showed 11.45 by the time the Beast re-entered the living room, carefully balancing a plate of steaming pizza between his large paws. He still didn’t think this was going to work, but Lucy had seemed so *certain* for some reason. “Oh, Beth,” he called gently. “Fancy a midnight feast?” Beth, who had been sitting sulkily in the large armchair, turned around, and her face lit up. “Goodness, is that *pizza?”* she said, sniffing the air hungrily. “Did you make it for *me?”* “Of course I did,” replied the Beast, setting the plate down on the coffee table near the chair. “That’s why the maid came in earlier....to tell me that I forgot to take it out of the oven.” Beth laughed. “You were having so much fun *talking* to me, you forgot that you were *cooking* for me!” “Yes, that must have been it,” said the Beast distractedly. “Look, just try a slice, will you?” He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but couldn’t help it. Beth wordlessly ate slice after slice, a rapturous expression on her face. She even dabbed the crumbs off the plate with a finger when she was done. “That,” she said emphatically, “was the *best* meal I have ever eaten in my *life.”* The clock struck midnight. The Beast felt his paws begin to tingle. He felt an odd pulling feeling in his face, as if it were changing shape. Torn between glee at the prospect of having broken the curse, and amusement at the fact that the snooty food critic had complimented a cheap, frozen meal, he began to roar with laughter--the laugh becoming less roar-like as it went on. Beth’s eyes grew wide as the ferocious beast changed into a handsome young man, with golden curls and dark blue eyes, before her. “It *worked!* Oh, I *knew* it would work!” Lucy, who had been hanging around the doorway tentatively, now bounded into the room, tears of joy spilling down her face. She joined hands with the handsome young prince, and they danced in a circle, laughing and whooping with jubilation. Beth, unused to being ignored in this way, cleared her throat loudly. They stopped dancing; the prince looked at Beth with a slightly disgusted expression on his face. “Yes? What is it?” he said. “You’re *human!”* Beth exclaimed, beaming. “I broke the curse! Oh, don’t you see? Now we can be together! ...Darling? What is it? Don’t you... don’t you want me?” “Well, frankly, no,” replied the young prince, sneering. “I just can’t bring myself to be with someone who enjoys *frozen* pizza.” “Frozen pizza? What on earth are you--” Her eyes darted to the empty plate, and she gasped in horror, her hand flying to her mouth. “You *fiend!* You *trickster!* You--you--” Overcome with anger, she fled from the room. The prince rolled his eyes. “What a fraud. I can’t believe she ate that garbage\*,\* but turned up her nose at my cooking--and even *your* famous risotto.” He turned to Lucy, incredulous. “How on earth did you know that would *work?”* Lucy smiled mysteriously. Some things were better off kept secret.


Oh, I used to love him so. The problem is that now, I can't remember why. "I love you more than my soul," he says, and I think, "Yeah, but your soul's not worth much, really, is it? I wouldn't buy a soul like yours, not even if it was cheap." Oh dear, is this what it's come to? He came all the way from America, because he said I could save him - only me - and because in Australia, we don't have crack cocaine. I'd promised always to be there, always, and so when he rang me long distance and said he'd bought tickets, I couldn't say no. But by that time, I wanted to. As soon as he got off the plane I knew it was the wrong decision. He walked like an old man - he, who'd been so magnificently arrogant in his maleness, powerful as a black leopard. He lay down on my bed, and closed his eyes. I stroked him - he used to say i had healing hands - but he just coughed, and asked for vodka. After a week, I've already had enough. Everything I say is wrong, everything he says changes as soon as I try to pin it down. "Do you want to go out?" "I don't know." "Do you want to stay in?" "I don't know." "Do you want to get off your butt and maybe go look for a job?" "I can't." In Australia, apparently, we can't do anything right. Our shopping trolleys veer in the wrong direction. Our cars drive on the wrong side. We don't have enough guns. We don't know how to handle a barbecue. What wouldn't I give to have back those thrilling three weeks in America, when he drove me around in his fast car, and told me stories of his wicked youth, and played soft guitar in his apartment at night. What wouldn't I give not to have seen him that last night, before I left to go home to Australia - when I opened the door of his room and he turned to me, hunched over a crack cigarette - don't press me for details, I don't know anything about crack, really - and gave me the most...the most ruined look I've ever seen on a man. "It's not what you think," he said, then, and I said, "How do you know what I think?" We made it up, somehow. He said he needed a woman to lean on, someone who'd sequester his money so he couldn't buy the stuff, and love him so he wouldn't need it. I kissed him, feeling torn, of course. On the one hand, I wanted to slap his face. The other part of me was thinking - even though I'm not religious - what would Jesus do? What's the right thing to do? The right thing to do was to leave, and that's what I did. But now he's back again. He's on the internet constantly, while my kids pretend he's not there at all. He says, "You know the lion kills the old lion's cubs, when he gets with the lioness." I'm not afraid for them: he's so weak from drug abuse that he couldn't hurt a fly: he'd run out of puff lifting the whisk. My son beats him on the X-Box racing games. He makes my son hold his hand behind his back, and play one-handed: still he beats him. He's only five. He says, "I had a terrible childhood," as if it makes up for it all. I used to like the idea of taming a man from 'the hood' - but now it bores me. He asks, "Can I have some more money?" I think, how can I get rid of this man? I've invited a vampire into my house and now he won't leave, he just stays, draining me of blood and cash and all respect. He starts drinking, and I start hiding. One night he comes in late and finds me in a darkened room. "Why don't you love me like you used to?", he says, but I can't - it's not a matter of effort. I just can't love him, and I just can't respect him - can't be done. I do pity him. He's sick, and frail, and he still loves me, through all the fighting, but I just can't summon any real interest. I want him out so much it almost drives me crazy, like he used to, a year ago. He takes to looming. He's a tall, broad man - that's partly what attracted me in the first place - but that makes it all the worse now. He comes close to me and puts his hands on my neck. I'm not really afraid - I'm cold and very, very angry. "Take your hands off me," I say, quietly, "or I'll call the police." He looks frightened. he steps back straight away, backs away as if I've turned into an evil witch, and begs, "Don't do that, please. Please don't." Well, I don't. But we both know when it's over, it's over. He leaves the next day, on a plane for America, and I'm so relieved that I go out and try to get drunk, on glass after glass of rum and coke. But I find I can't get drunk, I just can't do it. Something in me is so sad, I can't lift it. That something so strong, and lovely, and passionate, should come to this: a lover leaving in the early morning, not even stopping to say goodbye. Years later I get a phone call. "Remember me?" At once, I do, but I pretend I don't, anyway. "No, who's this?" "It's Robert, don't you remember? From America?" "Ok," I say cautiously, without feeling. Well, maybe a little flutter in the pit of my stomach, a nervous, angry tension. "How are you?" We talk a little, jerkily. "You're the only woman I ever really loved," he says. Only now, after all this time, I recognise it for what it is, and was. A lie.


February 3 rd Dear diary, No. I believe I am a bit past the age where I should be saying “dear diary,” Perhaps instead, I should say, umm, Dear Silent Confidant. Yes, that is much better, though still not the best greeting. Still, that does not matter. My name is Hailey. Funny, I am a twenty-two-year-old woman and writing in a diary. I suppose it is not so weird, but it still feels a bit childish. No matter; the reason I got this diary , journal--yes journal sounds much more mature--is because I am moving to a new place. A new town. A new apartment. And a new job. The town is called Newford. It is a smallish town--not too small, where everyone knows your business, but not big enough to get completely lost in a crowd--with a lovely town center with shops and grocery stores. My new job is in that center as well. I believe I shall write here often now that I am heading for a new adventure, but for now, I must tuck you away as my plane has landed. February 10 th Dear Silent Confidant, I have not written in several days as I have spent much of the time settling into my new apartment. The furnishings are sparse at the moment, but the view out my window is lovely. My room overlooks the town center. I can see the tiny people scurrying around down below like ants. I can see the shop windows and the wares that are within them. And the best view of all is the cherry blossom tree beneath my window. It is beginning to bloom and I get to watch it unfold from the comfort of my window-facing bed. Later, I shall tell you a bit more about the town and my new work place, but for now I shall leave my writing off here. February 21 st Dear Silent Confidant, I have met a man. No, that sounds too serious. What I mean to say is I have met someone. But not a romantic someone, just a person I crossed paths with. Well, I suppose I should explain in a bit more detail. I was walking to work--remember that I was supposed to write a bit about my new job, but I keep forgetting--I work at a bakery. It is called Sprinkled with Cinnamon. I suspect you were expecting me to have a more exciting job like a journalist or a company owner, but baking is what I love to do and this opportunity was too good to pass up. Anyway, I was heading to work when I saw this man. He was sitting on a bench two buildings away from where I work and I did not need to even pass him, but I was curious. I want to meet all the people I can, after all. But this man, he is not an ordinary man. He is...well how do I say this without sounding overly blunt. Though I suppose it does not matter since no one shall read this. (I really must find another word other than suppose, seeing it on this entry so many times would have driven my English teacher nuts. Oh, I can see his face now, eyes narrowed and looking down upon me as if I were a bug, lips in a tight line, wrinkles out in full affect.) Oh my, I keep getting distracted. Anyway, this man was homeless. Now before you begin to think (as if a diary journal could think) I have spoken to a random bum; I must tell you that he is not like the homeless people that are portrayed in movies. You know what I mean, covered in dirt, unkempt, rotten teeth, looking to steal from those who pass by. In fact, he looks quite normal. His clothes are clean, his hair is short and neat, and he is very polite. I haven’t gotten to know him much since I had to get to work, but something about him intrigues me. March 5 th Dear Silent Confidant, I have begun to talk to Eric Brooks--the homeless man--every day. I hate to use the word homeless because it paints him in a bad light. He has merely fallen upon a spot of trouble, that is how he describes his situation to me. I forgot to mention that he is a young man, twenty-four. Just two years older than me. He is a very handsome man, but don’t worry that I am getting attached. He is merely a friend. I know that there is no way I could date Eric, not because he is beneath me in any way, but because it would not work out. Still, he is a good friend. In fact, I think tomorrow I shall talk to him after the bakery closes. Maybe I should bring him some treats from the bakery and we can talk. I don’t know all that much about him, after all. Friends must learn things about their friends after all. Yes, that is what I will do. And then tomorrow, I shall write about it. March 6 th Dear Silent Confidant, After the bakery closed, I was preparing to buy some baked goods to share with Eric, pastries and the like. But when I told my boss what I was getting them for, she gave me a basket of the treats that did not get sold that day to take to Eric. He was grateful for the basket when I gave them to him, but insisted that he pay for them or work for them. I simply told him that those baked goods were not a charity offering. In fact, he was helping my boss. Those baked goods were usually given away or thrown out at the end of the day, because the bakery prides itself on only selling fresh items. He finally caved in and accepted the treats graciously and thankfully. And then, we talked. I told him about the reason for my coming to Newford, my family, and my new job. And he in turn told me about himself. I did not ask him--doing so would be horribly rude--but he told me how he came to be homeless. He had a business, a law firm. It was a reputable firm and he was a very good lawyer. However, his firm stopped getting much business. Then, the bills and taxes had gotten the best of him and he was forced to declare bankruptcy. He used some of the money he had saved from before and had gone to Newford, hoping to find work or a way to reopen his practice. He had found neither, which was why he now had no home. He still had some money, enough to keep him fed and clothed for a time, but he was still actively looking for work to no avail. I wish I could help him, (Not with handouts or anything like that) but I barely have enough money to pay my rent every month and keep myself fed and clothed. Still, I believe I shall do some searching of my own to see if I can find a place for Eric to work. He might not like my help--not because he is prideful, but rather because he doesn’t want to be a burden--but I would not be a good friend if I need not at least try to help him. August 3 rd Dear Silent Confidant, I know it has been a while since I have written. A long while indeed. I have been busy. During this time, I have learned something. I am in love. With Eric. I know I was confident that this wouldn’t happen, but I could not stop my heart from loving him. (That sounds incredibly cheesy, but it’s the honest truth.) Now, I don’t know what to do. I wish you could tell me what to do, but you cannot speak, hence the name “ Silent Confidant.” I suppose I will just have to figure it out on my own. August 15 th Dear Silent Confidant, I didn’t know what else to do, so I told Eric how I feel. And to my astonishment, he reciprocates my feelings. I cannot believe it. We talked for a while after that, figuring out what we should do with these said feelings. Eric says that he doesn’t want to officially date me until he is more financially stable (I forgot to mention that he got a job). I told him that there is no reason to wait, but he is adamant, which shows me how thoughtful he is. When I went to Newford, I did not know what to expect--I definitely did not expect to fall in love, but here I am--and now that I’m here, I am glad that I decided to come.


Twenty chairs usually lined the long farm table. This room, but for the table and chairs, was empty most of the day, and yet, it was here that Hannah felt most connected to her family. Tonight she eyed the extra chair warily as she and her sisters carried heaping platters of food from the table as the family assembled. Daed sat at one end, his bib overalls caked with the toil of the early spring planting, Mamm at the other end tucking stray wisps of hair back under her kopp. Mammi and Daadi sat across from each other in the middle of each side, ready to help the little ones cut meat and pour milk. Hannah and her siblings sat on either side of the table in perfect symmetry. Girls on one side, boys on the other, in order of birth. Hannah took her seat beside Daed and watched Levi perch himself on the pile of books on his chair so that he was high enough to reach the table. It had been three years since Levi, the last bopplin. Mamm said sixteen children were quite a blessing, and it would be prideful to wish for more. "Händt nunna," Daed said, and the family dutifully put their hands in their laps and bowed their heads. Finally, Daed cleared his throat, a signal that grace was over and the passing of the platters could begin. Tonight Levi's chair straddled the corner next to Mamm to accommodate the Bishop, Jacob Yoder, who sat at Daed's left. Hannah shifted in her seat to avoid the Bishop's less than subtle glances in her direction. The straight pins holding her blouse together poked her chest. She listened to her father and Jacob drone on endlessly about crops and the shenanigans of the local adolescents enjoying their Rumspringa. Hannah thought back to her own summer of 'worldliness.' While her friends attended parties at the lake, went to movies, and sized each other up as potential partners, Hannah refrained, knowing that stepping that far from the community norms would only upset her parents. Instead, every Saturday morning, she packed a lunch and set out for what her parents thought was a hike. Secretly, Hannah spent those afternoons at the public library reading furiously, vicariously experiencing a forbidden world above the safety net of the pages. Every week the librarian offered her a library card, which Hannah demurred. Bringing home Englisch books would be offensive to Daed and Mamm. The mention of her name brought Hannah back to the dinner table. "So Hannah," Jacob Yoder began, "I've talked to your parents about the possibility of us spending some time together." Hannah inwardly cringed. Last week, when her parents urged her to consider Jacob as a potential suitor, Hannah had quietly accepted his appearance this evening as inevitable. His wife had died last summer, leaving him with three children to raise. She remembered Saloma, his oldest. Hannah was in eighth grade, her final year of school when Saloma was in first. The poor little girl cried endlessly for her Mamm those first few weeks. Hannah had done what she could to be comforting. Now her long-ago kindness was being repaid with Jacob's unwelcome presence at the family table. "Hannah," Daed interrupted her thoughts, "Jacob is talking to you." "Sorry," Hannah turned to Jacob. "I was thinking about Saloma and what a hard time she had adjusting to first grade. How is she?" "She's twelve now. Next year she'll finish school. I'm looking forward to having an extra pair of hands during the week after that." Hannah noticed Jacob didn't tell her how Saloma was, only about how she could benefit him in the future. "I was hoping we could take a walk after supper." The Bishop made it seem more like a directive than a request. There had been whispers by the girls in the community. Hannah's friends Miriam and Sadie both told stories of uncomfortable encounters with the Bishop. There was even talk of Saloma being visited by her father late at night. Hannah glanced down the table at Mamm whose eyes were pleading. "It's been a rather busy day for me, Jacob. Perhaps we could have a visit on the porch instead." The Bishop looked disappointed, and Hannah suspected why. At that moment, the scattered dissatisfactions of her life gelled into a lump of desperation. She looked down at the green flowers printed on her dress from her assigned seat at the table. Mamm never seemed to remember how much she disliked the color when she made Hannah dresses. Her fingers were stained pink from the countless quarts of strawberries she had picked that week. She remembered being ashamed of them last week at the Farmer's Market when a cute Englisch boy had shamed her by noticing them. The bobby pins keeping her bun secure dug into her scalp. She had seen English girls in town with their pixie haircuts dyed in various shades of green and pink and wondered what it would be like to live in a world without modest dresses and prayer kopps. And now her parents, her beloved Daed and Mamm wanted her to consider courtship with this awful man? After the silent prayer at the end of the meal, Hannah found herself alone on the front porch with the Bishop. "Saloma has two little sisters, you know. Becca is seven, and Miriam is five." "Yes, they walk past the house every day on the way to school. They seem well-behaved." "Saloma does the best she can, but they need a mother, and I need sons." And there it was. Bishop Yoder wasn't here because he found Hannah interesting or noticed her strict obedience to the Ordnung. He was looking for a housekeeper and broodmare, like a replacement part for a buggy or plow. Hannah resisted asking him if he'd like to examine her teeth. The screen door creaked as Mammi appeared with two glasses of lemonade and a plate of sugar cookies. She put them on the table, scuffled to her chair at the far end of the porch, and picked up the rug she was crocheting. Hannah hoped that with Mammi acting as chaperone, the conversation would turn to safer topics. "We're having an excellent strawberry season," Hannah offered. "The dry spring made the fruit sweet. We can't pick them fast enough for the customers at the market." Jake smiled his approval, knowing that her parents were saving Hannah's portion of the profits to build her future home. "The new baptism class will start in a few weeks. I will teach some sessions; I hope you'll be there. From the corner of her eye, Hannah saw Mammi staring at her. Hannah picked at the cuticle on her thumb and stared off into the distance. Her plans to attend the class evaporated. Why is every decision presented to me with a dose of added pressure? "Of course she'll be there!" Mammi exclaimed. The betrayal hit Hannah as if Mammi had slapped her in the face. Swallowing the bile that collected in the back of her throat, Hannah turned to Jacob. "Please forgive me; I'm suddenly not feeling very well. I'm sure Mammi would enjoy it if you stayed and kept her company, but I'm afraid I need to go lie down." Hannah headed for the door, ignoring the glass of lemonade she knocked over as she left. Mamm was standing at the bottom of the steps, no doubt eavesdropping on the conversation from the porch. "Hannah," she began, smiling hopefully. "Not now, Mamm," Hannah sharply said as she stomped up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door. Her sisters were all taking down their hair and putting on their nightgowns. Hannah ignored their questions about her visit with Jacob as she hurriedly got ready for bed. She pretended to read as the girls finally settled down and turned off the oil lantern. She listened to the bullfrogs sing their courting songs down by the creek. She laughed to herself, hoping the frogs were making a better argument for mating than Jacob had on the porch earlier. Mamm had carefully modeled a wife's complete submission to her husband. She hardly ever talked about the past, but when she did, she spoke of the two times in her life when she freely had her say. The certainty she felt about the day of her baptism and how happy she was the day she accepted Daed's marriage proposal. Now Hannah doubted the truth of her testimony. Mammi's comment had brought everything into focus. Lies. It was all a lie. This evening had shown her two clear paths, to acquiesce for the sake of the community or the unthinkable. As she listened to the rhythmic breathing of her sisters, her heart swelled with love for each of them. She thought of Levi and his silly antics that could soften Daed's most sullen moods. Someone was sneezing and sniffling from the boys' room across the hall. She knew it was Henry, her dearest friend, and twin brother, who had followed her into the world moments after she arrived. She should talk to him. Did he already know? No, he was blissfully unaware, as she assumed was everyone else in her family. Without realizing it, Hannah's carefully planned Rumspringa adventure had resulted in an unforgivable sin of Biblical proportions two summers ago in the public library. Like Eve, she had spent months picking fruit from the tree of knowledge. Her eyes were open to the coercion, false promises, and oppression, and now the price would need to be paid. With great sadness and firm resolve, she threw back the covers and dressed quickly. A sob caught in her throat as she passed the family table. Unable to resist, she sat down at her assigned place one more time before walking into the night, expelling herself from her Garden of Eden.