Month One Ronan looked at the slip of paper in his hand, then up at the cafe, then back to the bit of paper. The letters all matched up, so there was no avoiding it. This was the place, and the time. All he had to do was walk in. Or he could walk away. No-one knew he was here, so no-one would know if he just left. He didn’t have to do this. That was what shops were for, as he always said. With a sigh Ronan headed inside, the clipping clutched in his hand like a safety blanket. It was old-fashioned he knew, checking out groups in the local newsletter, but he was hoping that being old-fashioned about it would mean he’d find a group with like-minded people. None of those millennials, who always complained about having it so hard but seemed to enjoy life far more than he had in his youth. The group wasn’t hard to spot in the half-empty cafe. Eight women clustered round a table at the back, with half a wool shop sprawled out between them. For the hundredth time he checked the listing again, checking yet again that there weren’t any restrictions. Open to everyone, from beginners to experts , it still said. Everyone, so that had to include men as well. Only one way to find out , Ronan thought and he squared his shoulders before marching up to the group. They were talking as he approached, and that made him falter, but he was too close now to leave again. One of the women noticed him and smiled. “Hello,” she said in the patient voice of someone used to having to explain what she was doing. “Um, is this the knitting c-group?” There was no way in hell he was going to call it a club, whatever their ad said. That made it sound like a kids group, and most of the women here looked to be even older than him. Apart from- aw damn it - one girl at the back, who could only have been twenty or so. “Yes it is.” Even as he'd said it Ronan had realised it was a stupid question, but what else was he going to start with? “The ad said novices. I- I need to learn how to knit.” It was the first time he’d said it out-loud since he’d come up with the stupid idea, and he was bright red in seconds. If the woman noticed though she didn’t say anything. “That’s brilliant! Come on, take a seat and show me what you know so far.” “Not much.” Ronan grabbed a chair from the next table and tucked himself on the end, still trying to keep as much distance between himself and the group as he could. Just in case he needed to make a quick exit. “I... borrowed these needles from my wife. Are they... are they alright?” Borrowed- that was a nice word. It was simpler and gentler than the truth. “Oh wow. These are gorgeous. Is she an avid knitter then, your wife?” “Yeah, she loves it,” Ronan said, digging his nails into his palm as he spoke. “I wanted to try and make her something, in secret.” That got a round of ‘awws’ from the table, and suddenly everyone was on board with helping Ronan pull off the most romantic gesture of the year. If only they knew. Month Three “How are you getting on Ronan?” Julia asked. Ever since that first meeting she’d appointed herself as his personal knitting tutor, and he hated that he wasn’t a better pupil. “I think I’ve got... a row?” He held up the piece and winced. Even after weeks of work he still couldn’t knit a straight line, and this row was far shorter than the one before it. “That’s good! You’ve just dropped a few stitches, but that’s okay. And you’re getting faster at it as well.” For all her kind words, Ronan still figured he was a lost cause. What was I thinking? Just buy something, it’ll be easier. And it’ll look better, though at the moment my old handkerchiefs look better. Julia could read the doubt in his face, like she always could. “Come on. I’ll do a row and neaten it up, then you can have another go, okay?” “Yeah.” It took what little self-control he had left not to throw it at her. That wasn’t fair though; he knew she was doing the best she could. “Shannon always says I have thick fingers. Can’t even put up a shelf straight. Don’t know why I thought I could do this.” “You’re too hard on yourself,” Julia said. “I know it might not feel like it, but you really are improving. Besides, if it’s for someone you love then they don’t mind what it looks like. It’s the thought that counts, and your wife will understand that.” “I’ve never understood it,” Ronan confessed. “I always... well, I was never the most supportive when she made things for people. Always said we should just buy something instead. I never really got the whole ‘hand-made means more’ thing.” “But you’re trying this?” “Yeah, well. Thought it was about time to try and work out what it was all about.” Better late than never. Julia smiled, that exaggerated, slightly patronising smile that he hated to admit did actually make him feel better. “Well then, I’m sure this’ll mean even more to her. Now come on, have another go while I get some more tea in.” Month Five “Hey Ronan! You’re here early.” “Yeah, the bus was on time. Guess it had to happen eventually, right?” Ronan grinned at Julia as she put her tea cup down on the table. He was already halfway through his, having actually gotten the earlier bus. “Here, look what I’ve got done.” “Oh wow! Oh, that’s a beautiful colour.” “Yeah. Figured I’d try stretching out to a baby's cardigan, but I didn’t want it to be gendered.” “You can’t really go wrong with green, can you? It’s such a gentle shade as well. And you cast it on by yourself!” “Haha! After so long I should at least be able to manage that, right? I’ve not been at this one long.” That last bit was a shameless lie, and Ronan wasn’t sure why he’d even bothered saying it. Of course Julia would know he’d been at it since last week, and had still only managed to get four rows done. But they were even, with a consistent tension, and each of them had the same number of stitches. He was damn proud of those four rows. “You see, I told you you’d get it. Don’t forget, the rest of us have been doing this for decades .” “Apart from Abby.” The millennial was the best knitter of the whole group, although Ronan was the only one who was bitter about that fact. That was mostly because she’d rocked up one week saying she was learning how to crochet, and the next week had brought a pile of exquisitely made hats. If Ronan had even a smidgen of the talent that girl had, this stupid idea of his wouldn’t have been such torture. “Yeah, well. We don’t talk about her,” Julia teased. The pair of them sat in silence as they waited for the others, Ronan knitting at his snail’s pace with his tongue sticking out while Julia watched and smiled. Month Seven “Hey Ronan, glad you made it.” Even though it wasn’t a knitting group meeting, Julia had still taken the large table at the back, and she’d already bought tea and cake. “Hey. You didn’t have to call me up you know?” “You’ve missed two meetings. I just... wanted to check you were alright.” Ronan took a deep breath and helped himself to a cup. The plan had been to fade away, and to never have to face up to this, but then damn Julia, brilliant, caring Julia had called him up and invited him to afternoon tea. After everything she’d done for him he couldn’t refuse. Besides, it wasn’t like he had much else to do on a Saturday. “I’m fine,” he said, although he still hadn’t convinced himself of that. “Then why haven’t you turned up?” I could say I’ve been busy. That I’ll be back in a week or so, and keep pushing it back until they forget about me. Then he looked up at Julia, and her perfectly open and innocent eyes, and remembered other eyes just like that. “I’ve packed it in,” he confessed. “I’m not cut out for knitting. I mean come on, it’s been months and I still can’t knit a square properly. Children can knits squares, but I can’t. It’s just not meant to be. I’ll just buy something.” And he knew as he said it aloud that if he did he’d regret it for the rest of his life. But I just can’t! I’m not good enough- “You love your wife, don’t you?” Julia’s question caught him off guard, and with all the thoughts in his head this time he choked up. “Y-yes.” With a cough he took a drink, the cup shaking as he lifted it. The scalding tea helped him get a grip on himself. “Yes, of course I do.” “Then trust me.” Julia leant across the table and touched his hand gently. “You can do this. You’re doing really well, and Shannon would be so proud of you if she knew what you were doing.” Yes she would. She’d also laugh, and call me a soppy old sod, with his fingers on backwards. That’s what she always said when I tried to put up the bookshelves. “Trust me,” Julia continued. “I’ll get you through this. You can do this. And then she’ll be so proud.” “But... everything I make is crap.” “That’s not the point though, is it Ronan? If was just to have a purpose you’d buy it. But this is to show that you love her. So you make it.” “I’m still not sure I get the appeal of that.” Julia laughed, and even Ronan had to grin, taking the chance as she looked away to blink back his tears. “Finish her present,” Julia said. “Then you’ll understand. Come back to the sessions? Please?” Upbringing won out over any last reservations he had. “How can I refuse the request of a lady?” Month Nine The piece lay on the middle of the table, sprawled across napkins to keep it off the sticky surface. “It’s so cute!” Abby said, and Ronan hated himself for checking to see if she was taking the piss. Be fair; they’re nice people, and they’re genuinely encouraging me. Besides, it’s not like I’m competition to them or anything. “It’s adorable,” Julia said. “And it’s finished. Your wife is going to be so proud.” After so many months Ronan was getting better at hearing that but this time, with the finished little cardigan in front of him, his breath caught again. “Oh, it’s perfect. Can you just imagine a tiny little baby wearing it?” “Abby, please tell me you’re not getting broody.” The group laughed and broke up into baby talk, but Ronan was still staring at his handiwork. It was bent, but not half as bent as the first few pieces he’d made. There weren’t any holes in it, although that was only because of some emergency intervention from Julia. At a distance the soft pastel green hid the worst of the faults. Overall, for a first time, not bad. It’s just- “What’s bugging you?” Julia said quietly to him as the conversation drifted off. “I’m not sure about the buttons. Do you think two is enough?” God, why do I hate myself? The button holes were the absolute worst thing to do. I couldn’t bear to do any more. “It’s only a small cardigan. Any more would swallow the rest of it. They look sweet.” “It doesn’t just... look like I gave up then?” “No,” Julia giggled, having held his hand and supplied him with tea as he fought his way through them. “It looks great. It looks perfect. When will you give it to her?” “I’m going to wait for the right moment. After all this effort, I want to get this right.” Month Nine Point Two The right moment had arrived. Ronan wandered through the hospital, marvelling at how much had changed and how much hadn’t since the last time he’d done this. The walls were still the same bland off-white, but the machines were all shiny and curved edges now. Outside the door to her room he stopped and tried to neaten his hair. Should I have made an effort? I can’t remember what I did last time, it was all such a blur. The shirt he wore was clean, but there was a smudge of last night’s dinner on his trousers. After he picked the worst of it off he figured it would have to do. He was too scared and excited to leave again. Besides, neither of them were going to notice. With his present wrapped and tucked under his arm, Ronan knocked gently on the door. For a fleeting moment the guilt at misleading the knitting group came back, until he heard a murmur from inside the room. He slipped inside as quietly as he could. “Morning Lisa,” he said with a grin that he couldn’t stop even if he’d wanted to. “Morning Dad.” “How are you doing darling?” Though he was asking his daughter, his eyes drifted over to the far side of her bed. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Come on, come and meet her.” The tiny little baby in the cot was sound asleep and wrapped up snugly. Nothing was visible apart from her face and one miniscule little hand, but Ronan was already in tears. “She’s beautiful.” “Dad-” There was a catch in Lisa’s voice, and worry in her eyes. “What is it? What’s wrong?” “I’m sorry Dad. I know I said I would, but I can’t... It’s still too soon. I can’t name her after Mum, I’m sorry-” As she broke down Ronan sat on the bed next to her and gathered her up in a hug. “That’s okay my darling. She’s your daughter. You call her what you want. We’ll remember Mum in other ways, okay?” It took a while to dig out the tissues, or for either of them to be able to speak clearly again, but Ronan waited. I want to get this right. “What are you going to call her then?” “Evelyn. Evelyn Shannon.” “That’s a good name. And...” This is it. This is what it was all for. “Speaking of your mother, I got you something.” He handed the present over, glad that his daughter was still too snuffly to notice his shakes. “It’s not much, and it’s not good. But... well, if your mother was here she’d have had this sorted. But she isn’t, so I’m going to do the best I can. I don’t want you and little Evelyn missing out on this.” There was suspicion in Lisa’s face as she started to pick at the tape. That’s only fair, she is my daughter after all. It’s exactly how I would’ve reacted. God, why did I even bother with this, it’s a stupid idea- The delicate, wobbly cardigan dropped out into Lisa’s hands, and she sat there staring at it. Ronan couldn’t take the silence. “Your mum had all these books of baby patterns. She was really looking forward to being able to knit them all again. But since she’s gone... I wanted to honour her memory. I wanted to keep a part of her with us-” Ten months of pent up grief burst in that moment. Tears streamed down Ronan’s face, as he waited for his daughter and granddaughter to pass judgement on his knitting. “Dad.” As Lisa looked up, her eyes damp with tears and her face still drawn from labour, she looked the spitting image of Shannon, sat in the same maternity ward all those years ago. It broke Ronan’s heart even more, but there was a comfort to the pain. She’s still with us. “I love it Dad. Thank you. And she would be so proud of you.” Ronan sighed, and felt the first ray of joy since that terrible day. “That’s as good as hearing it from her,” he said, beaming at the echo of his wife that lived in their daughter.


All was quiet, save for the footsteps. Just the rhythmic tap of shoes on concrete. These particular shoes were handcrafted by their owner, made of shining black leather, and the man wearing them was rather proud of them. They looked just like the pair he wore ten years ago, and that pair looked like the pair from ten years before, and so on backwards for over 200 years. Yes, Abraham Weston was proud of his shoes. This is not to say Abraham was not proud of all his clothes, but he was particularly fond of the shoes. He gazed down at them as he walked leisurely along the sidewalk, his hands in the pockets of his coat. When he looked up, he saw his destination in the distance. A large, elegant home on the very end of a cul-de-sac. Deep maroon with white shutters, and the liveliest little garden out front. As he approached the house, Abraham looked up at the sky. In this part of town, he could see the stars so well. The moon was nearly full-- just one day shy. He thought of his good friend, Eleanor. Tomorrow would be hard for her. Perhaps he would see her tonight? Abraham pulled his watch from his pocket and saw it was 11:59 P.M. The house was still over half a mile down the road, and he was due to arrive at midnight. He had to pick up the pace. With a sigh, Abraham moved to a brisk stride. At least, it was what he considered a brisk stride. He arrived at the door of the house. He looked at his watch again, just as the hands moved. Midnight, on the dot. Abraham grinned, putting his watch back into his pocket, and knocked on the door. He was almost immediately greeted by a familiar face. “Abraham.” “Oliver.” Abraham looked up at Oliver and they exchanged smiles. Oliver’s teeth were strikingly white, and his skin nearly matched. His porcelain complexion was only made to look paler by his shock of black hair. Abraham’s eyes lingered on the other man’s lips as they drifted down to his cheekbones and jawline, both worrisomely sharp. His golden eyes shone underneath his sculpted brows, surveying Abraham’s features. “Are you going to come in?” Oliver asked, an eyebrow raising. “Well, I can’t come in until you invite me.” “Please, you know you’re always welcome here, my friend.” Abraham shook his head, though he still smiled. He entered Oliver’s home, brushing past him as he did. Abraham made his way to the dining room, where he found another set of familiar faces around the table. Eleanor, short, stout, blonde, and beaming; Isaac, thin and mousy; and Mary, serene and adorned in her usual white gown. Each of their heads turned towards Abraham. Greetings filled the room as Abraham found a seat amongst the rest. “Abraham,” Isaac said, “I see not much has changed with you. All these years, and still the same pair of oxfords.” “Consistency is key,” Abraham replied, chuckling. “Just ask Mary and her dress.” “I would change if I could,” Mary murmured. Her eyes danced around the room as she hovered just above the seat of her chair. “Don’t you get bored of them?” Eleanor chimed in. “You should spice it up!” “Don’t listen to them,” Oliver said as he entered. “I’ve always loved them.” The conversation shifted to Oliver, and it did not stop there. Chatter and laughter surrounded the friends, eager to see each other once more. “Eleanor, you know, I was thinking of you as I was coming here,” Abraham said. “I was unsure as to whether you would be here, seeing as tomorrow is your big day.” “Big day, right.” Eleanor giggled. “Well, that’s exactly why I *am* here. Might as well enjoy myself while I still have some control, you know?” “And before you have to spend a week inside recovering,” Isaac muttered. “That too,” Eleanor said. “Post-transformation, I’m a real sorry sight.” “I think you’re still lovely then,” Mary said, eyes drifting around the room. “You’ve never seen me after I’ve turned!” “No, *you’ve* never seen *me* after you’ve turned.” Mary’s already translucent body faded and disappeared momentarily. Everyone laughed, save Eleanor, who blushed deeply. “Folks,” Oliver said, “may I interest you in a glass of my finest sanguine wines?” Abraham nodded politely, and Eleanor exclaimed that she would love some. Isaac rolled his eyes. “Oliver Price, in literal centuries, you’re the most pretentious man I’ve ever met. Just call it blood.” Oliver simply smiled in response, then stood and walked to the kitchen. When he returned, he held a labelless wine bottle, filled to the neck with thick red liquid and corked. He set it on the table, left the room again, and returned with four glasses. “Mary, I would have offered you a glass, but...” “Understandable. Blood was never my sort of drink, anyway.” Mary focused her eyes on Oliver as she spoke, and he shivered ever so slightly. He sat down, looked to Abraham, and gestured to the bottle. Abraham picked it up and effortlessly plucked the cork from the bottle before pouring each glass full. Isaac sniffed the contents of his glass. “This is--” “Yes, animal blood. I would never neglect your dietary habits.” Oliver sipped from his glass, and Isaac managed a small smile before doing the same. “It’s blood of the Tahiti rail, actually. This was gifted to me by an old friend of mine from over in Tahiti. He’s been collecting it for centuries-- it’s always been one of his drinks of choice-- and once they went extinct it became very valuable. He gave me this bottle some time ago... My 200th birthday, I believe. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. Now, what’s more special than having all your dearest friends together on a beautiful night like this?” Abraham took a sip and grimaced. He much preferred human blood, and thought to himself that he could never be like Isaac. “How fascinating. It’s delicious,” he lied. “Oh, I love birds!” Eleanor exclaimed. “So tasty-- and they’re bite size! I love the way they crunch. Although, I could do without the feathers in my teeth.” “Yes, I imagine that’s unpleasant.” Abraham shook his head and took another sip of blood. He continued talking with his friends, catching up on how they’d been since they’d last been together and on plans for their upcoming days. The group laughed and chatted, drank and told stories. He felt at home here. He felt understood. As the night went on, his friends began to leave one by one. Eleanor was the first to go. After all, tomorrow was going to be busy, and she wanted to rest up. Despite the wretchedness she knew would soon envelope her, she said her goodbyes cheerfully and departed with a smile. “She’s so sweet,” Isaac mused. “I’m going to miss her.” “She’s not that old,” Mary said. “We have time.” “Of course we have time,” Isaac responded, “but not enough.” “We have all the time in the world, old friend,” Oliver said. “Eleanor doesn’t.” Isaac stared at the table as he spoke. He chewed his lip, his fangs poking tiny holes into them. He sighed, and the holes had already closed. “Perhaps she’ll become a ghost,” Abraham offered. “You should hope not,” Mary said. “Do you want her to suffer?” “Oh, right. Tricky business, becoming a ghost. Not too often pleasant.” Abraham glanced at Mary, whose face flickered for a moment, becoming mangled and bloody. Red stains flashed on her gown and her arm hung to her shoulder by merely a thread. Only a flash, though, and Mary returned to her normal self. “Never pleasant,” she said. The group sat there for a moment in silence, each lost in their own head. Mary broke the silence. “I think I’ll go.” Isaac, Abraham, and Oliver said goodbye and she wordlessly floated away, out of the house. “I should probably go, too.” Isaac rose from his seat and emptied what remained in his glass in one swig. “Getting home before sunrise, all that.” “Right. Goodbye, Isaac,” Abraham said. “Take care,” Oliver said, nodding at his friend. “I’ll see you soon,” Isaac said, and showed himself to the door. Only Abraham and Oliver remained. They sat quietly, both with empty glasses in hand. Abraham gazed into the glass, and Oliver gazed at Abraham. “How about now that Isaac has gone, we enjoy the good stuff?” Oliver asked. “Human?” Abraham had a hint of excitement in his voice. “Of course. Freshly drained, just last night.” “I’d be delighted.” With that, Oliver made his way to the kitchen and came back with another bottle. He popped the cork out and filled both their glasses. Abraham took a large sip and sighed in delight. “I’ll never understand Isaac. This is far too delicious to give up.” “He still hasn’t quite embraced the monster, I suppose,” Oliver said. “Well, neither have I,” Abraham said. “I don’t think we’re monsters at all. I never have. There’s nothing monstrous about survival.” Oliver smiled wryly. “I understand completely.” “I know.” The two men sat in silence once more. Abraham studied the room around him, taking in the elegance. A cabinet full of beautiful china stood against one wall. A deep blue Victorian wallpaper covered the room, and the cherry hardwood floors shone. The very table they sat at was vintage and beautiful; Abraham had sit here many times over the past century, and yet he was astonished every time. He noted for what must have been the millionth how beautiful everything in the room was. He looked over to Oliver and their eyes locked. Yes, he noted how beautiful everything in the room was. “You know, I do understand how Isaac mourns.” Oliver sipped his glass and closed his eyes. “How so?” Abraham kept his eyes trained on the man across from him the whole time. “It’s terribly difficult not to feel empty sometimes, when you know the people you care about will be gone one day. We’ll stick around, and dear Eleanor... Well, and every year gets faster, doesn’t it?” “I don’t know,” Abraham whispered. “Sometimes it feels so slow to me. Like nothing ever changes, even when everything is new.” Oliver nodded thoughtfully, placing his glass down on the table. Silence consumed the room once more, though it did not weigh so heavily on them now. It embraced them, rather, like an old friend. “Do you miss anyone, Abraham?” “Not right now, no. Perhaps in an hour.” “Why then?” Oliver inquired. “I’ll have left you.” Abraham looked softly upon Oliver, who hid a smile behind his glass as he drank. There was a pause, and then, “I still miss my mother.” Oliver looked away as he said it. “I do wish I had gotten to meet her.” “You would have loved her,” Oliver said, “and she would have loved you. To this day, she was the kindest woman I’ve ever known. I miss her sorely, still.” “I know,” Abraham said, blinking back tears. “You always speak so highly of her.” “Yes, yes I do... Some days, I think she should have been bitten, instead of me. She would never view it as a pain. In an endless life, she would have done endless good.” “I’m sure she would have.” Abraham placed his glass down and let his hands rest on the table. Oliver reached out and grabbed one in his own. “Although, I am eternally grateful to get to be in your company forevermore.” Oliver smiled. Abraham blushed. “As am I.” Abraham checked his pocket watch. 4:49 AM. “Oh, dear. It is getting quite late. Or, early, I suppose. I should get going before the sun comes up.” Abraham stood, but Oliver rose with him. “Why not stay?” Oliver’s grip tightened on Abraham’s hand. “I don’t want you missing me in an hour.” Abraham smiled and pondered it for a moment. “Yes, I think I will.” He used his free hand to raise his glass and take a sip. A bit of blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth and down his chin. “Careful, my friend,” Oliver said, walking around the table to stand next to Abraham. He placed his free hand under Abraham’s chin and gently wiped away the blood with his thumb. The two men gravitated closer and closer towards each other, until they were so close their noses nearly touched. Their gazes were holding onto each other for dear life, and their hands still matched. Oliver’s hand still lingered underneath Abraham’s chin, and he slowly brought it up to rest on his cheek. “Oliver...” “Yes, Abraham?” Oliver’s voice was nothing more than a whisper. “I know I’ve said it before, but sometimes I wonder if it would have been easier to have lived and died like a real human. Eternity can be so burdensome.” “You’re mistaken. It may be difficult, but it is never a burden. Nothing will ever be too heavy for you, because you have me to help carry it all.” And Abraham leaned in. He pressed his lips against Oliver’s and squeezed his eyes shut. They held their kiss for a moment, and then Abraham pulled away. When he looked at Oliver again, he was grinning. “I never thought you’d do it,” Oliver said, cocking his head. “Neither did I,” Abraham replied, a smile cracking across his own face, “but a century’s worth of waiting proved to be arduous.” “My apologies. You may have waited a century, but you have me for the rest of time,” Oliver said. “And it’s still not enough.” Both of them smiled, and they made their way upstairs to a bed they would share, knowing in the morning, they would have the pleasure of waking up next to one another. Abraham Weston and Oliver Price relished the thought of waking up besides each other every day for the rest of time.


I awoke in Anna’s dark wood cabin on the mountain. The rain was showering down outside. I tried to pull myself together, to think about how I got there. All I could remember was that I was hiking on holiday with my girlfriend, she looked up at the sky and it began to rain. “It’s boiling around my cabin, wanna roast some kittens?”, remembering Anna’s dark humour telling me what the forecast was made me smile. Whatever lay before me and her, this heavy rain, didn’t fit into place. It seemed to be planned. I felt the wall and found a light switch which I flipped on. Looking around the cabin, I saw that I was the only human presence in the place save the news reporter on the TV talking about the disappearances around the county. I couldn’t ever stand the news, so I grabbed the remote and turned it off. Once I had silence I sat down on the sofa I woke up on to see if I had any messages on my phone. Damn, nothing. Where Anna could be was beyond me, she should have been there in the Cabin. I had no way of calling her, the heavy rain made the signal virtually non-existent. But even more alarming was that looking around, I could see a note on the front door reading“Find me”. I had no idea if this note had a hidden meaning but it made the matter of getting to her all the more pressing. I had promised to take Anna on this holiday so I could calm her down. Over the last couple of weeks, the life un-expectedly started to drain out of her. Also her humour got progressively darker which, admittedly, I enjoyed. And now it was possible that she had been taken by someone. I wasn’t prepared to leave Anna in danger, so I got up from the sofa to make an effort to find her. There was a cupboard next to the back door of the cabin. Upon going to it and looking inside, I saw that among some un-organised house trinkets, there was a sturdy blue golf umbrella. Not much in the way of explaining the situation but certainly a valuable tool right then. As I approached the front door, I peered out of the window to assess where I would go. My heart sank as I looked at the landscape to see it was completely different to the view of the serene village I had been in only a day prior. The cabin on the mountainside was instead overlooking an endless pine forest, the tips of the dark trees against the dark blue sky made the place look agitated. The hairpin bend path lined with steps going down the mountain led to another, ancient looking building appearing to be a mansion. In the dark I couldn’t make out much about it. It was situated in the pine trees next to the mountainside. I would not have gone to the intimidating building save for the fact that the lights were on, which meant hope for finding Anna. Opening the front door of the cabin, I was met with a huge bluster of wind and rain spitting on my face. As the rain hit my skin I began to worry, the hope drained out of me and I nearly went back inside. Closing the door behind me, I opened the umbrella before starting down the mountain path, unusually making my angst fade. While walking in my bubble of protection the umbrella offered me from the desolate sea of rain, I reassured myself I was acting like a hero for Anna. ‘We’ll be together soon. I’ll have her in my arms’ I thought. Just then as I thought that, my phone vibrated. I immediately looked at my phone, to my surprise, to see I still had no signal of any kind. I opened the message, it was from Anna. “We’ll be together forever” I was definitely startled by this, where she could have been was far beyond me. Obviously she or whoever was really sending me messages knew something I didn’t about this miserable place, so I pressed on for the mansion in the cold showering gloom. Finally, I had turned the last bend and was walking the path to the front entrance of the un-inviting mansion. I found it strange that the front entrance should be facing the mountainside, expecting people to come from the Cabin. Because I was closer in the rain and now able to see all of the features, I could see that the mansion was more rough looking than I originally believed it to be. It was covered in messy, frustrated brambles that also loomed their way through the garden. At the same time, whoever lived here had very expensive and very acquired taste. The garden surrounding the path leading up to the entrance had a crowd of immaculate stone carvings of people. All of the figures looked terrified, as if they were afraid of being smitten. Some of them looked as if they were suffocating. I arrived at the front door and knocked, looking at the lit room beyond the blurred glass on the top half of the door. After vaguely hearing some feet shuffling an extremely frail looking figure with strings of long hair coming down from the scalp appeared in the hallway, piercing the brightness of the room beyond. The figure came to the door and rattled with the lock a little before opening it. As the figure opened the door, it looked at me menacingly with jittering facial features. “Anna”, I said. “What happened to you, you look like you’ve aged a hundred years”. Anna coughed and one of her teeth fell out before forming a smile “I do look pretty good don’t I?”, said Anna in a voice withered with age. “Anna who took you here, who did this to you”, I asked. “Me, this is my house, it’s all mine. I have to say, I didn’t think I’d make it much longer this time”. “Anna, babe, what happened, what do you need”, I said with confused adrenaline running through me. “I need you, I’ll die if I don’t have you”. “But what do you need from me”. “Life”, said Anna with a curve forming on her lips. At that moment I found it unbelievable that I had laughed at that same darkhumour so many times. “Babe, I don’t know what’s got into you but we need to leave now OK, your cabin’s on the mountainside, maybe we can get back that way”. Anna wheezed and slowly raised her meatless arm to point towards her cabin. Looking towards it, myhope shattered to see that the cabin was nowhere to be seen, neither was the mountain. It was just us two in Anna’s real home surrounded by endless empty forest. “You’re not Anna, who are you?”, I demanded. Anna’s face then shifted to be more sinister. “Rain”, upon her saying this, her bodily features all began turning to water before my eyes “Don’t you recognize me?”. Her face faded into liquid and she was finally a blob. I did not care where I would go, but I dropped the umbrella and ran. A foolish mistake though as once I was exposed to the rain again I felt shameful and weak. In panic, I scrambled as fast as my feet would carry me, sympathising with all of the stone figures surrounding me. Darting left, I could see an opening in the pine trees that I immediately went for. The rain however, made me hesitate and I tripped on what can only be described as water that wouldn’t move. As soon as I had realised this, the rain was engulfing me. When it had done so from head to toe there was a surge of pain going through my nerves and I could feel the life being drained out of me. I regained consciousness later on to find that I had joined the other stone figures, I was one of them. I was still alive although it seemed all the substance of my life had been robbed from me. The downpour had stopped and the sun was shining. I could see that the messy brambles were gone from the garden and it actually looked like an inviting place to be. I did not see the rain, but instead Anna standing before me. She looked younger than when I had first met her and she was awkwardly turning one of her feet on its toe in the dress I got her for her birthday. “I am so sorry I had to do that”. And supposedly just as innocent as when I had first met her too. She definitely got what she needed from the trip. The colour was back in her face and life seemed to have returned to her. I didn’t have enough of my life in me left to feel anger of resentment at her, I still don’t. And so I stand here, a stone figure with the memories of a person. Remaining idle until the rain gets hungry again and claims another un-suspecting fool.


Every morning I wake up one minute before my alarm goes off. The first thing I do is roll over to cancel said alarm before the siren blares, giving me the worst migraine a person could possibly imagine. I take a moment to wake up, rubbing my eyes and stretching a bit. After all, it feels good to get moving after a full 8 hours of sleep. This is the second thing I do every morning. Next on the list is opening the drapes. I look out the window and onto the roofs of the other old buildings in town. I see the ocean in the distance and can nearly hear the sound of its waves. And then I notice the weather: the weather that so happens to be perfect for that day. If I wanted an outdoor wedding to be inside, it would be rainy. If I wanted to go for a run, it would be sunny. If I wanted an aesthetic day in a coffee shop, it would be foggy. The weather had not interrupted my plans for a long while. From there I dress accordingly, eat accordingly, and think accordingly to what the rest of my day looks like. And through this morning routine that I experience every single day, I never hear dogs barking or loud construction, my phone doesn’t ring unless I expect it to, I don’t spill coffee on my blouse, I don’t discover a leaky faucet, I don’t step in a puddle of water while wearing socks. I never leave home too soon or too late. My internet connection is always stable. I get the same amount of sleep every night. I never walk to my car to find I am out of gas or that my vehicle had been broken into. The stoplights are always green, my lane of traffic always moves fastest, I never get cut off or pulled over. I never have to work longer than I want to and don’t need to attend events I don’t want to. I never burn food. I don’t get sick. I never wake up hungover. The weddings go smoothly. My clients are happy. Every day. This perfect rhythm has occurred nonstop for as long as I can remember. It has been at least a few weeks. It became so extreme that I started to test my good luck. I would try to change this odd routine that ruled my life, but I was never able to. No matter how hard I tried, I kept having good luck. Every. Single. Day. I should be happy, right? Most people would kill for just one day like mine. Where everything is flawless. Where everything gets off to a good start and ends the same way, over and over and over. Well, to be honest, this was a curse. The best curse anyone could receive, but a curse nonetheless. Simply enough, it gets old. You stop planning for contingencies because you know there won’t be any. You stop having anything to talk about that doesn’t make you sound like a privileged jerk. You know exactly how your day begins and ends, and you lose any sense of adventure or wonder. You long for curiosity and fall into a never-ending pattern of perfection. But, this seemingly immaculate routine made me develop a theory. “Let me tell you if this makes sense,” I shared with my best friend and assistant, Tara, one day while we were helping clean up a wedding venue, “I think every person has the same amount of good luck.” “Really?” she asked skeptically. She might not have been convinced yet, but she always loved to hear my crazy ideas about what made the world go ‘round. She loved to debate them and prove how I could be wrong. It was one reason why we were such good friends. “Hold on, this is going somewhere,” I said, encouraging her to be patient while we started folding tablecloths. “I think each person’s luck is spread out in different ways. I might hit every green light, and you might hit every red one.” Tara scoffed with envy. She always made me drive because of this. “But, you go home to your dog acting all cute and your husband making you dinner. I just go home.” “That almost makes sense. Go on.” “Your daily luck is in the form of living things, like your dog and your husband. My luck is in the form of sequences, or daily routines, or whatever you want to call them, because I don’t have anyone or anything special,” I said. It sounded much sadder than I had intended, but she didn’t seem to notice. She pondered the theory. “That would mean my husband and dog have the same amount of luck as your perfect days do.” She took a moment more to contemplate the idea. “So you’re saying that everyone has the same amount of good luck, it’s just placed differently every day?” “Sure. I don’t trip on my own shoelace, and you are married to a hottie. Seems fair, right?” Tara laughed. “I am married to a hottie, but don’t sell yourself short. You have had these perfect days for so long...” Her voice trailed off as she seemed to imagine what it would be like to live as I had been for weeks on end. “Because I don’t have all of the things that you have,” I said with a smile. “I guess we’re both lucky.” “The same amount of lucky.” We chuckled and went back to work. At that moment, I became jealous of Tara. If my childlike idea were true, I would much rather sleep a little less than normal and wake up with a dog jumping on my bed than sleep the same amount every day and wake up to a dark and empty room. But it was just an idea, after all. I shouldn't have taken it so seriously. This always happened, and I should have known better. I always came up with some outrageous explanation for whatever was going on in my life at that time. I would fixate on that idea and how it could solve my problems. I wasn’t going to do that again. It was for the best that I was done with crazy ideas and explanations, truly. I needed to find peace with what I had. I needed to learn to be happy with good luck. ---------------------------------------------------------------- A few weeks later, I still experienced the same good luck every day. The streak had gone from weeks to a few months. I was starting to wonder if this was going to be the rest of my life. The same process... it was a bit depressing. I mean, I had tried to change it. To make my day bad. But it wasn’t possible. It always turned out the same way, with me alone, and started the same way, with me alone, the next day. Maybe I wouldn’t be like Tara, with the happy little family. I would simply just have my lucky routine. I quickly decided that that was enough of an existential crisis for the night. I rolled over and picked up my phone to check the time. 10:05 p.m. It was five minutes past when I normally went to bed. No matter. I would wake up the next morning at 6:05, then. I would get my 8 hours, like always. And this time, I would be thankful for it. Even if I wished my luck were different. I took a deep breath and went to sleep. ---------------------------------------------------------------- I woke the next morning to the glorious sensation of the sun on my face. I could see its bright rays peeking through my drapes. Still, it was odd to feel the sun on my face while lying in bed. And then I realized- why was I feeling the warmth of sunlight? It was 6:05 in the morning; the sun wasn’t up. I checked my phone. 7:45. Holy guacamole. I could have jumped up and down. Something finally changed from my neverending good luck. And then I remembered why the alternative was called ‘bad’ luck. I was late. I had a meeting with a client in 45 minutes. I quickly got in the shower. It was too hot. And then too cold. And then too hot. I tried to blow my hair dry and the power went off. I tried to put my soaking wet hair in a bun, and the hair tie snapped. I got another tie but at this point there were strands of hair protruding left right and center. I had to start over. I couldn't find any bobby pins. Where were my bobby pins? I checked the time and relaxed a bit. I definitely couldn’t read the news or go for a run this morning but I was not going to be late. Yet. I hurriedly fixed my hair until it was good enough, changed clothes, and looked in the mirror. A new stain on my pants that I hadn’t noticed. A new zit on my forehead. To disguise such a zit, I needed makeup. However, somehow, I put on the ugliest makeup look I ever had. The eyeliner was hideous. The shades didn’t look right. It was probably because the power was out and I could barely see what I was doing. I checked the time again. I would have to forget about the makeup. I needed to go. I went to the kitchen to grab a bagel, but I was out of bagels. And out of cereal. And bananas. And I couldn’t make much of anything else because the power was out. I forgot about breakfast. I wasn’t that hungry anyway. I grabbed my purse and everything fell out of it. I scrambled to pick it all up and stubbed my toe on a bookshelf in the process. I walked out the door and shortly ran right back inside. Shoes. I needed shoes. I put on the first thing I could find and was out the door. I sprinted to my car. The parking garage was quite busy. Everyone was leaving for work. I passed by lots of people rushing around like I was. I couldn’t find my car. Where did I park? After running in a complete circle around the entire garage I found my car. I hopped in and started it, and sure enough, my tire pressure sensor came on. I jumped out and saw that a tire was flat. I took my phone out of my purse to call Tara to come get me. But my phone was now dead. I was on the verge of a breakdown. After ages of the same routine, when everything goes right, it is apparently quite the shock when everything doesn’t. I would have to walk. The meeting place was just down the street, anyway. I hoped that the new clients were patient. I walked out of the parking garage to find that it was pouring rain. Lovely. I dashed down the street and every single pedestrian crosswalk was not only red when I got there but also took ages to change. In my hurry, I bumped into a passing businessman and his phone fell on the ground. I could hear the screen crack. “Are you kidding me? I just bought this!” he screamed. “What are you doing, bumping into people like that? Don’t you watch where you’re going?” “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I said, retreating slowly. I could still hear him shouting at me as I ran away. I finally got to the cafe and hurriedly looked around for a young couple. I didn’t see anyone matching their description and decided to get in line to order something when I noticed Tara at a table in the corner. I darted over to her and left watery footprints in my trail. “Hi,” I greeted Tara. I couldn’t say much of anything else. “Good Lord! You look horrendous!” I could feel her staring at my zit, then at my drooping eyeliner, then at the stain on my pants that I had forgotten about. And at the fact that I looked like a wet rat. “Thank you,” I said, plopping down in the booth beside her. “Where’s Tim and Julie?” “I called you, like, six times and you didn’t answer. I was actually really worried about you. They canceled this morning because Julie got sick.” “Oh. Okay.” I was so flustered. So much had happened already, and the day had just begun. “Are you okay? What’s going on?” Tara asked with genuine concern. “I never beat you to meetings and I have been here for at least 15 minutes. Why are you late?” “I’m fine. Rough morning,” I admitted with a chuckle. “You finally running out of luck?” she asked me, smirking. “I guess so.” “You want to talk about it?” “No, I kinda just want to sit here for a minute. I think I need to calm down.” “Okay. I have somewhere to be, so I’ll leave you to it. You sure you’re okay?” I sighed and met her eyes. “I’ll be fine.” “Okay,” she said, still concerned about me but content enough to leave. As soon as she was out the door I let my head drop onto the tabletop. I slammed it up and down a few times. I started sniffling heavily and was worried I might begin to cry. What a morning. I suppose I was creating more of a ruckus than I thought because some guy walked over to my table. “Are you okay?” he asked sincerely. I lifted my head, embarrassed. I wiped my eyes and sniffled some more. “I’m sorry, I must be quite noisy. I’ll get going in a moment.” I tried to gather enough dignity to stand and leave. “No, don’t worry about it.” He stood there awkwardly. “May I sit?” I was uncomfortable but gestured to the open chair on the other side of the table. “You look terrible,” he said, not in a rude way, but gently. “So I’ve heard.” I wiped my eyes again and laughed painfully. “You know, I have had the worst morning. I stubbed my toe, the power went out, I haven’t eaten a thing, I was late, my phone died, my tire was flat, it is pouring rain...” my voice started to trail off. I’m sure I sounded crazy. “You want to know something?” He looked at me so purely that I wasn’t afraid of him. Which was unusual, because if any other random man sat down at my table and asked me questions, I would be quite frightened. But he had a bit of a reassuring presence. “What?” “I had a terrible morning too. I woke up to a jackhammer right outside my window and couldn’t go back to sleep. I spilled jelly all over my tie, and I slipped in some water on the floor while I tried to clean that off. My internet went down in the middle of an online meeting, so I had to come in to work. While I was driving there, I not only got cut off a million times, but I hit every red light too!” I laughed. “So did you not make it to work in time?” I asked, wondering why he was in a cafe when it sounded like he should have been in a meeting. “I actually just got fired, if you can believe it. Not because I was late today but because of overstaffing.” He shrugged it off and smiled, seemingly unharmed. “I’m sorry, that really sucks.” “It does a little bit. I mean, I really liked the job, but it just wasn’t meant to be.” He paused, trying to figure out what to say next. “I guess it’s all right though, because now I have a free rest of the day, and I got to meet you here!” He was very enthusiastic. We both laughed. “Misery does love company,” I said. “I’m sorry that you had such a bad morning,” he offered. He was so obviously warmhearted and charming. “Well, I’m sorry you had the same,” I told him. “It seems like we both have some bad luck today.” “Bad luck? No. Well, yes, we both had a wretched start to the day. But I don’t think it’s bad luck. I just think the luck is somewhere else.” I thought back to my theory from weeks ago. That everyone had the same amount of good luck every day, it just presented itself in different ways. My perfect luck wasn’t running out today. It was just changing. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”


"I'll help you wrap it," she said. It was her Christmas present, and she has said the same thing every year for the last thirty years. "No," I say, "I can do it myself." So, saying that, I close the bedroom door. She will stand at the door and turn the knob threatening to enter as I have the package exposed sitting on top of the first Christmas paper I find. "Can I help you find anythingscissors, scotch tape, ribbons, bows, name tags?" "No, I'm just fine", I'll say. "Now, where are the scissors?". "In the top drawer of the desk," she says from the outside of the door. "The scotch tape, the ribbons, bows and name tags are in the box under the ironing board." "How does she do that?" I mean, I didn't say anything out loud. I think we've been married too long! Come to think of it, she always knows what is in the package before she opens it. She finishes my sentences. She'll say things like, "an In-N-Out hamburger sounds good", when I've been thinking about it. I hope we're not beginning to look alike because I don't think she would look good with a bald spot. Well, back to work. There were two gifts to wrap. The first was a package of two plug-in flashlights. It would have been easy to put them into a shoe box and wrap the square edges, but I thought it would drive her crazy to wrap it as it had come from the shelf. This way I didn't have to be neat. As long as all parts were covered, the job would be done. I covered the holes I made with Christmas stickers--looked great! Scotch tape the corners, slap a bow and name tag with 1-4-3 on it (code for "I Love You") and one down and one to go. Better get another roll of scotch tape. She must use dozens of rolls with all the packages she wraps. "Sure you don't need any help?", she says each time she passed the bedroom. I didn't. The first package took twenty minutes. If you want to do something right, it takes time. I once built a car from a weekend kit. The directions said it could be done in one weekend. I took ten months. Things take time. The second gift was in a box with square corners. It was an espresso/cappuccino maker and about a cubic foot in size. I turned the package upside-down because I wanted all the taping to be on the bottom. I cut the paper the right length, but there seemed to be too much paper on the sides. How do wives measure the right amount? No matter, that's what scissors are for. I tried to fold the corners into little triangles that folded together at the center. Too much paper. Get the scissors. Now the corners fit, almost. Some of the box showed. No problem! Cut a patch and scotch tape it over the opening. The corners seemed to bunch up. No problem! Get the fat ribbon and pull it over the corners. How does she tie the ribbon? No problem--scotch tape. Put a ribbon in each corner and a name tag in the middle. Done--30 minutes, a new record. Looks good! "Are you alright in there," she wanted to know. I said, "all finished, and by the way, you ran out of scotch tape!" Now it was time to make a grand entrance with both gifts. I would have to give her a couple of innocuous hints as to the contents, and a few phony places where I had shopped, and I was finished (until our anniversary in January). I put them under the tree next to the ones she had wrapped for me. Maybe it was the change in the air temperature, or rough handling, or just bad scotch tape,but the presents just didn't have that professional look that they did in the bedroom. But, it didn't matter. For thirty years we've done it this way. It's expected. It's a ritual. It's our ritual. She knows that it's DONE WITH LOVE, and she wouldn't have it any other way.    This song embodies my goal for this short story; it is meant to uplift people through hard times.


"See you in a bit alright?" The shout came from the porch downstairs, followed shortly by the slamming of the front door and crunching of the key inside the keyhole. "I hope you're quick." He thought, stomach growling for the fourth time in the last couple minutes. "Bloody lockdown. Can't bloody do anything anymore," he messaged his girlfriend on Facebook. "I know it sucks, seeing you this weekend tho <3 <3" She replied. He opened up a video game while he was waiting for his friend to return. It was the middle of his second game when he heard the bathroom door close and the metal latch slide. He lifted up his headphones from his ears, "Yo, you back?" He called through his bedroom door. No answer. "Yo!" He yelled. "James?" Still nothing. Sometimes when James was in a hurry, he'd ignore things. Had the bathroom door even locked? At this point he was too lazy to get up and investigate. James had probably come back for a quick piss and had already left again. He resumed the game. It had been another five minutes when he realised he really needed a piss. This morning's tea and orange juice had gone right through him. He finished his current game and did a desperate walk to the bathroom, but when he tried the handle, it was locked. At first he was confused. "James, are you in there?" When no answer came back, he screamed: "JAMES!" No answer again. Then it suddenly clicked: it *wasn't* James. There was probably a stranger in the house. He slowly backed away from the door and quietly withdrew a kitchen knife from a wooden holder, then tiptoed back to the door. He stood still, holding the knife by his waist and listening in with his ear to the wood. No sound. At this point he was wondering whether to call the police, but he still wasn't absolutely sure there was anyone in the bathroom. He tried the handle again, and again, yanking at it aggressively and shoulder barging the door. It was definitely locked. That means someone HAD to be inside. And, it couldn't have been James; unless, it WAS James. What if he'd passed out in the bathroom and needed to go to hospital? Shit. He felt like he had a valid excuse now to open the door by force, so he leant back and gave it the strongest kick he could manage. Then he did it again. The wooden panels bended and bulged. He kept kicking. Breaking down a door was a lot harder than in the movies. After a dozen kicks the lock was dangling down from the handle and there was a two inch gap ajar. For the final move he leapt into it, pushing the weight and force of his unfit body against the weak panels, which swung open, ricocheted off the basin to the left and smacked him in the head. He rubbed the top of his noggin and looked up from the floor. The legs of a bloodied body were hanging motionless down the side of the bathtub. He couldn't even tell it was James at first. There was blood all over his face, his eyes were gauged out, throat slit, nose chopped off, lips removed. The only thing that confirmed him were the clothes that he'd seen James wear before he left to get food. What on Earth had even happened? His heart was slamming into his chest like the beats of his foot against the door a second ago. He still had the knife in his hand. Was the killer still around? He felt sick with terror. He closed the door and held it there with his feet. Shit. His phone was still in his room. He was thinking of yelling for help, but if the killer was still in the house, that would just encourage him to break into the weak door immediately. After all, what would the killer have to lose at that point? But fuck it, what else could he do? "HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!" He screamed at the top of his lungs. "I'M TRAPPED IN THE BATHROOM AND MY ROOMMATE IS DEAD! HE WAS MURDERED! HEEEEEEEEELP!" He kept screaming over and over again, sandwiched between the bathtub and the closed door. After five minutes of screaming, there was a small crowd outside the front door. They knocked loudly, offering assistance. "MY FLATMATE'S BEEN MURDERED. CALL THE POLICE!" He told them. A few minutes later, he could hear sirens approaching from the distance and a wave of relief swept over him. For a couple of minutes while the police were breaking in the door, his thoughts turned to his friend and his healthy pale-red skin. His small, round-shaped head with his oak-coloured hair arranged smartly. His widthy stubble and his strong jawline with the triangular chin. His bushy eyebrows and piercing hazel eyes that looked like tiny portals into a new universe. His straight nose. His playful ears that stuck out the perfect measurement from each side of his head. The archetypal image of young manhood that he had become obsessed by and fallen in love with; those features that aligned so exquisitely well they inspired a profound rapture, taking one back to an earlier point in history, when all was quieter and genuine joy was a possibility; a time where not everything was known. The front door crashed open and the police yelled up. His legs on the door relaxed, and he left the bathroom. Several seconds passed before he appeared at the stairs. "I just went to get my phone. It's me." He said, slowly making his way down. A policemen gasped. Another muttered, "Jesus Christ," in shock. It was an overweight blonde man with what looked to be a severe facial disfigurement. His nose was hanging off. His lips and eyes were bulging grotesquely. He appeared to be looking at himself in the reflection of his phone. On top of his head was a furry hat, but one officer noticed it looked more like one of those wigs with the plastic bottom, designed to look like a scalped head. He introduced himself, "I'm James." He said.


Timmy lay all cozily curled up in bed, his slow rhythmic breathing only ever so slightly audible. A gentle breeze blew the curtains upwards, making them balloon out a little bit. A pile of clothes lay on his chair next to his bed, as if to protect him while he slept. Outside, the night was still. An occasional bug hopped onto the windowsill, but soon hopped off again as it realised it couldn't get past the screen. Unbeknownst to the dreamer, a shadow appeared in his room. It glided soundlessly across the cool tiles, bent over to pick up a lump of blanket on the floor, straightened up again and - "G'mme back my blankie, mommy," Timmy sleepily mumbled with one eye open. He clamped his arm down by his side to keep the blanket on him, but it was too late. The blanket was off him. "Give't back," he mumbled again, stretching out both arms insistently. "Mommy?" he asked, this time more awake. "Wh-" He stopped mid-sentence, frozen. All sleep seemed to have left him. He couldn't scream, he couldn't move, he couldn't do a single thing except stare in shock. For there stood before him a glowing white creature with only sockets for eyes and a tongue that permanently hung out of its jawless mouth. Putrid green saliva (?) escaped onto the floor with a steady "*drip, drip, drip*". Its limbs were unnaturally long and seemed to be able to bend in directions that its apparent joints should not have allowed, and within its translucent chest was a cold, grey stone which Timmy could only assume to be what was once his heart. And as the creature extended its right limb closer and closer towards Timmy, its face cracked into a demented smile, if it was possible at all, since it had no jaws. Then the creature cleared its throat, as if to speak. Timmy squeezed his eyes shut and stuck his fingers in his ears, his heart pounding faster than the time Claire from class gave him a chocolate valentine. And the creature spoke in a deep, booming voice that resonated within Timmy's skull. "Hey kid, my name's Jonathan, but you can call me John. Didn't mean to scare ya, sorry about that. You're...Timothy, right?" \-- "Sooo...you've been living in my house for *how long again?"* Timmy asked in a tone of incredulity. I nodded. "Yep, you heard me. Since 'way back when your Grandma and Grandpa were still young, like you are now. They just didn't know I was around, see. And back then I didn't have my pals with me." I stopped short. "You mean there's more like you?!" he almost screeched, eyes widening in fear. I quickly realised my mistake and hurriedly tried to calm him down. "Hey, hey, they're not bad guys. They just need a place to stay. We got kicked out of this house when your Grandma and Grandpa were grown. I think it's called an...exoricism or something like that? Anyway, we got kicked out, and couldn't find anywhere to stay. Have you ever seen a man sleeping on the streets, Timmy?" He nodded. "Yeah, Mommy said that's because they're something called *homeless.*" "That was us. We wandered around, until we heard your Grandma and Grandpa had died. That meant that the protection surrounding this house had died with them. So we snuck back in. We were careful at first, not wanting to scare your Mommy and Daddy away in case they kicked us out again." "How did you manage that?" Timmy asked breathlessly. \-- Christa slept away, blissfully unaware of the time. The clocked ticked and ticked. Seconds passed, then minutes, then a full hour. Abruptly, she sat upright in bed and glanced at the clock. "Ugh, late again!" she cried out in distress, and scrambled out of bed to the bathroom, berating herself for having partied too hard the night before. Now her boss would certainly disapprove of this, and she wouldn't get that promotion she was eyeing. That goody-two-shoes, show-off, Little Miss Perfect Samantha would get it instead. " 'At Shamangda on'y knowsh 'ow 'oo show off anyway," she mumbled through a mouth full of toothpaste. She quickly finished the rest of her morning routine and came back out to the room, then stopped dead in her tracks with surprise. A nice outfit, admittedly pretty well-chosen, had been laid out nicely on the bed for her, along with her purse neatly sitting next to it. She rubbed her eyes to make sure this wasn't one of those dreams where you think you're all ready to go out the door and then you wake up, but she wasn't mistaken. This was real. "Must be losing my mind," she thought, and put on the outfit. She checked through her purse. Everything she would need for the day was in there. "I probably packed it last night in advance," she thought, and then left the house. That night when she came home exhausted from work, she caught a whiff of...grilled salmon? "That's funny, I don't remember buying salmon at all," she said to herself. "Eric?" she called out. "Are you home yet?" No answer. "I know you're in here somewhere, trying to surprise me with dinner!" she giggled, "Come on out now, I could smell that lovely dinner the minute I entered the house!" No answer. "Eric? C'mon, stop fooling around, I know you're in here. Jig's up. Let's eat, I'm starving," she called out a little louder, but no answer. Just then her phone buzzed. It was a text from Eric. "*Hey honey, I'll have to stay late at the office tonight, so sorry ): there's some pizza in the freezer if you want xx"* Chills ran up and down her spine. She went to the kitchen table, which had a single plate of grilled salmon and some asparagus on it. There was even a slice of lemon. Gingerly, she poked the fork, and then picked up the fork to use it to prod the salmon several times. It fell apart in pink, soft flakes, just the way it should be. Slowly, with a trembling hand, she brought a slice to her mouth. The taste was otherworldly. After finishing the whole plate, she lifted it up when she noticed a note underneath it in unfamiliar handwriting. "I hope you liked it. Please indicate your choice of breakfast the next day by putting a check mark next to any of the following: pancakes with maple syrup, fried bacon and scrambled eggs and toast, waffles with chocolate fudge and strawberries," she read aloud. Shaking her head and telling herself she would try to make things out later, she went to wash her plate. Plate now washed and dried, she dragged herself up the stairs to her bedroom. Halfway up, she tripped and fell flat on her face. She flailed out to catch the railings, but it was too late. She wouldn't have needed to catch the railings anyway, because she fell on something soft. Looking down, she could see the stairs a few inches away from her face. She was actually hovering above the stairs. Before she could react, whatever it was that held her started to push her back up into standing position. "Uhh...thanks?" she said out loud, and a booming "No problem!" made her shriek and sprint the rest of the way up into her bedroom, slamming the door firmly shut. A knock on the door startled her. "Lady, you forgot something," said the same booming voice from just now. "I believe you dropped your glasses." Cautiously, Christa opened the door a crack. There was no one outside, but her extremely battered glasses were floating in mid-air. She opened the door a little wider. "Sh- show yourself," she commanded bravely. There was a sigh. "Look, just get your glasses and go. I guarantee you, if you see what I look like, you won't want me in your house. It's a bad idea." They argued back and forth, until the creature finally relented. "Get a mirror and stand with your back to me," he instructed, and she did so. "Now, just wait. It takes a while for me to un-invisible myself using this method. Aaaand, yup, there we go. That's me." Christa's scream was enough to curdle the blood of any neighbour within a 5 mile radius. \-- "So, I finally managed to convince your parents through all the anonymous favours that I did for them, that although I look horrible enough it's a wonder the mirror didn't shatter, I'm actually just the spirit of a regular good guy that continues to be good even after he's dead," I finished proudly. An awestruck "Woooww!" was the only response I got from Timmy. Then, "You can make yourself invisible? Why didn't you make yourself invisible when you first came in? How do you do it? Wh-" "Hey, hey, buddy," I interrupted gently. "It's about 3am, time you should sleep, You were asleep before this anyway. I'll see you in the morning, okay?" "Okay," he replied, and gave me a huge smile. "Can I hug you goodnight? It must be lonely being a ghost." I could've sworn my cold stone heart felt a flicker of warmth right then, and I agreed on the hug, but reassured him that I had 2 other ghost pals and it wasn't quite as lonesome as he thought. "Goodnight, ghost-John. You're really cold, but I guess you give good hugs. You're a funny guy," he laughed. "Goodnight Timmy," I said, smiling, and softly exited the room.


Content warning: Child loss Another apple disintegrates under the weight of Evelyn's boots. It is the third one in the five minutes that they've been in the orchard, and it does nothing to quell her nagging suspicion that this whole excursion is a mistake. The mushy fruit clings to the sole of her shoe like a beggar, but she refuses to fall any farther behind. Already ten paces ahead, her wife, Gloria, whips through the row of apple trees with the same pinballesque efficiency she uses when stuffing bills and magazines and credit card offers into the mailboxes on her route. Her fingers, nails bitten to the quick, carelessly snatch apples from their branches. Gloria's dark hair, longer than Evelyn likes, flows past her shoulders. In the glare of the Illinois sunshine, Evelyn can discern all the strands of gray that weren't there when they visited this orchard a year ago. Of course, a year ago they'd also had Adam with them. His laughter, delicate and bright as a new Hot Wheels car; the pitter-patter of his feet against the grass; the way he perched on Gloria's shoulders, his legs wrapped around her neck like a hug, as he clutched at the apples high in the trees. Evelyn tries not to think about that, tries to shove those thoughts in the crawl space of her mind along with the bruising and the nosebleeds and the hospital visits and the leukemia. She reminds herself that they're here today to enjoy themselves. "What do you think of this one?" Gloria asks, turning to Evelyn. In her hand sits a lopsided circle the color of blood, large and lustrous. The apple picking bag that's strapped to her shoulders like a harness, already a third of the way full, resembles a baby sling. Though thankful for the words--they've spoken no more than necessary today, no more than to begrudgingly agree to fulfill their promise to come to the apple orchard--Evelyn cannot bring herself to look at her wife, the apple, the bag. She pivots and places a hand above her eyes, squinting until she can see nothing but a dim bar of sunlight, and says, "Looks good." Her throat is dry and her voice comes out like cheap sandpaper. "I think so too. How are you doing over there?" "I'm doing," Evelyn says. Leaves rustle as Gloria picks another apple. The sound of it falling and knocking against the others in her bag is like bone on bone. Evelyn grinds her teeth and turns back to her own tree. Its arms overflow with blood-red offerings. The sugar-sweet aroma churns her stomach. "Ev, your bag is empty," Gloria says, her voice suddenly close, and Evelyn startles. When did Gloria get behind her? How long has she been staring at this tree? She looks down at her bag, at a loss for words and apples. Gloria says, "Here," plucks an apple from her own bag, and tosses it into Evelyn's. "You have to start somewhere." Evelyn murmurs a noncommittal thank you. It's enough for Gloria, who turns on her heels and continues down the lane. Evelyn waits a few seconds before releasing the apple from its baggy prison and dropping it in front of her. This time, she makes sure not to disintegrate it. *** If she wants to, Evelyn can conjure up the image of Adam in the Subaru, his tiny face aglow in the rearview mirror as they passed the apple orchard, his voice as high and feverish as the Elmo doll in his lap. They were heading home from the airport after a trip to Disneyland, and Adam was in no hurry to let the magic end. Jet lag anchored Evelyn's hands to the steering wheel and her body to the leather seat. But then Gloria nodded her approval, twisting in her seat and eyeing the retreating orchard, vetoing fatigue, so Evelyn U-turned and the three of them watched the plantation expand through the windshield. Adam bounced around the orchard like a feral child. He sprinted up and down rows of hedges and trees and ran his fingers across all the fruit on the low-slung branches. More than once, he launched Elmo into the air on a mission to retrieve a treetop apple. A few onlookers shook their heads at him. Evelyn turned bright crimson under the weight of their stony judgment, but Gloria simply shrugged and said, "Hey, boys will be boys." Still, Evelyn had fun despite herself. She clapped when Gloria gave him a piggyback ride. She encouraged him to "Reach for the sky!" in her best Woody impersonation. She laughed when he grabbed a bruised apple from the ground, chomped, and the juice dribbled like a trail of tears down his chin. Toward the end of their time in the orchard, as they were going to weigh their fruit, Adam stepped the wrong way onto a fallen apple and pitched forward. Evelyn whirled around when she heard his cry and watched the event unfold as if in slow-motion: Elmo flying from the boy's grip, Adam arcing his body to the side to land on his sleeveless arm instead of his face, his shoe, perpetually untied, dislodging itself from his foot. He collapsed on the ground with a thud. To his credit, the boy neither cried nor fussed, not when Gloria sat him upright and rubbed his back. Not when Evelyn traced her finger lightly down his arm, asking "Does this hurt? How about now?" Not even when, later that night, as Evelyn was weaving crust into a lattice for her apple pie, she questioned the mottled purple bruise by Adam's shoulder as he circled a date in red magic marker on the calendar and made plans for next September's apple picking adventure. She can conjure up all of this at a moment's notice, if she wants to. The problem is, she doesn't. *** To Evelyn, the thirty minutes they've been in the orchard feels like thirty hours. Her apple bag is still empty while Gloria, in the next row over, resembles a mother kangaroo, her pouch poking out over her stomach, pregnant with life. "How're you doing over there, Ev?" she shouts over the thicket of trees. There are small openings in between each tree that reveal a sliver of the other lane. Evelyn can see her wife through the gap, knows she already has the answer to her own question. "I'm doing," Evelyn replies, but her heart isn't in it, hasn't been for a while. "I can't wait to taste some of your apple pie," Gloria says. The rustle of leaves echoes as a branch snaps back into place. "I might even have it with some hot fudge and crushed nuts." Evelyn recognizes this statement as call-and-response. "And I might leave you for Jodie Foster if you do" is the answer Gloria wants to hear, a reference to their first date at Evelyn's house so long ago. Back then, after Evelyn had said that, Gloria abruptly dropped her fork, leaned across the table, and kissed Evelyn, breaking the seal of her lips with her tongue. When she pulled away, the first thing she said was, "I'd like to see Jodie Foster do that." The memory passes through Evelyn's mind as though it were simply something she'd seen once in a movie or a dream, something that happened to actors, imaginary people, anyone but her. Gloria stands on the other side of the trees, her fingers grazing a waxy red apple, and stares at Evelyn. She is waiting for an answer. Evelyn's feet move before her mouth can. She speedwalks down the lane, away from the spot where Gloria is calling after her, bouncing words off her back. She goes four lanes over to a spot where the gaps in the trees only reveal the next two rows. Unsurprisingly, this section of the orchard also exclusively contains apples the same shade as blood. But it also contains quiet, which is sweeter than any fruit could ever hope to taste. A little while before or after Adam died in March--Evelyn can never remember which, in the blurry haze of the timeline--the doctor said that only five percent of children, at the most, got unlucky with leukemia treatment. That was the word he'd used, Evelyn remembers that much: "unlucky." But that isn't something she ever wanted to know. What Evelyn would like to know, what she asked herself today when she crawled out of bed and saw the red magic marker circle on the calendar, what she's been asking herself almost every day since spring, is if he had been sick even before then. Before he fell on the apple and bruised his pale skin. Before the constant calls from the preschool and the blood-crusted T-shirts. What she wants to know is when it started. She already knows how it ends. That's what she's thinking about when the sound of laughter wafts through the lane. The leaves quake like someone is trying to uproot the trees. A little boy pokes his head through the opening as though it's a secret entrance. Evelyn steps back and presses her empty apple bag against her stomach. Somewhere a lane or two over, a woman is yelling a name: "Conrad! Conrad, where are you?" "Shh," says the boy to Evelyn, bringing a finger to his mouth. He winks conspiratorially like an accomplice. He can't be any older than six, with a flop of blond hair. "I'm hiding from my mom." Evelyn says nothing. The shouting gets louder, the voice more shaky. The boy retreats into the interstice of the trees just as his mother appears at the end of the lane. Blonde with her hair in a ponytail, probably a decade younger than Evelyn, late twenties if she had to guess, her tone unmistakably laced with panic and desperation: "Conrad, please! This isn't funny anymore!" She looks like a bobblehead, craning her neck as if it were spring-loaded. When she looks at Evelyn, even from fifteen feet away, the tears and fears in her eyes are unmistakable. Something stirs inside Evelyn, some unspoken maternal bond. She lifts her finger and points to the spot where Conrad is waiting like a ninja, eyes closed, chest barely swaying with the rhythm of his breathing. The mother steps forward tentatively, like Evelyn might be luring her into a trap, but when Conrad's close enough to see, she lets a few tears stain her cheeks and mouths out her thanks. Conrad groans when his mother yanks him from his hiding spot. Green leaves litter his hair. "Aw, man! How did you find me?" is all he thinks to ask. He isn't concerned that his mother thought she lost him. To Evelyn's surprise, Conrad's mother drops to her knees and hugs her son. Her body rocks with the sobs of relief. Any panic, desperation, anger she had is gone. Her son is safe again. He is accounted for. He is alive. "You're okay," she keeps saying, running her hands over his hair. "You're okay, you're okay." Rain clouds drift past the sun, blanketing the three of them in shade. Something fragile inside Evelyn is threatening to shatter. This time she doesn't just speedwalk out of the lane, she dashes. She can't be here anymore. She must look as crazy as Conrad's mother, running past rows of apple trees like a bobblehead. She knows what to look for: plaid vest, camo pants, black boots. Why is it so hard to find her wife? Evelyn realizes with a start that Gloria drove today, that she's got the keys with her. She imagines Gloria jumping behind the wheel, replacing her spot in the passenger's seat with a child-sized lump of produce. After minutes of running, she goes to the first unoccupied lane she sees and slumps against a tree. Throwing a hand over her eyes, she tries to regulate her ragged breathing. The sun and the blue sky are gone, overshadowed by fat gray clouds. Something soft and light and wet pricks her arm. "There you are." She lowers her arm only slightly to see Gloria standing there. The look on her face, like her tone of voice, gives nothing away. She is still carrying her apple bag, which is almost full. "It's time to go." Evelyn hears the desperation in her voice but is helpless to stanch it. Another raindrop hits her face. "I can't do this anymore." Something flashes across Gloria's face that Evelyn doesn't recognize. Gloria tilts her head to the side, as if she's seeing her own wife for the first time. "No, I'm not ready to leave just yet," Gloria says. Evelyn slowly rises to her feet. "Well, I am. I've been ready since the moment we got here." "Trust me, I can tell," Gloria says. Her voice shakes like Conrad's mother's. "Can you just try to enjoy yourself? Please?" The last word comes out as a whisper. "No," Evelyn says, before the word please gets a chance to breathe. "We need to go. Now." "I'm sorry," Gloria says as she rips an apple from a nearby branch, "but I'm having fun here. I'm having a blast." "Don't do that," Evelyn retorts. "Don't act like you're having a good time when you're not." Gloria tilts her head the other way and stares into Evelyn's eyes. "At least I'm trying." Evelyn says nothing. Somewhere a few lanes over, Conrad is shouting: "Hey, hey! Watch what I can do!" "I'm trying to keep things normal," Gloria says, quieter. "That's all." Evelyn shakes her head. "You don't get it. It's not normal. It's never going to be normal again. Not like it was." Gloria tucks a lock of hair behind her ear as the drizzle comes down on them. Beads of rain gather on the apples in her bag and slide off slowly. "And I didn't even wanna come to this stupid place to begin with," Evelyn adds. "In fact, I wouldn't have either if not for," but she can't bring herself to mention the calendar in the kitchen, or the boy who wrote on it. "That's the problem, Evelyn." When was the last time Gloria used her full name? She can't remember. "I've tried to be patient. Really, I have. But you never want to go anywhere or do anything anymore." Though she knows it's true, in the heat of the moment, Evelyn can't help herself from striking back. "Well, what about you, huh? You're acting like everything is fine. Like everything's okay. You're acting like he isn't dead." It occurs to her, already too late, that this comment is a mistake. She can count on one hand the number of times they've broached the subject of Adam in the past six months. Evelyn knows it was a low blow. But wasn't she the one who bore the brunt of the in vitro fertilization? Wasn't she the one who refused the epidural, the one who writhed and panted and cursed in that bleach-white hospital bed five years ago? She and Adam have a bond that Gloria can't possibly understand. She believes that should count for something. Evelyn says, "You're acting like you know everything, like you know how I feel, but you don't. You weren't the one who had him." Gloria blinks once. Her eyelids don't come up all the way on the return trip. She speaks slowly, deliberately: "No, but that doesn't mean I didn't love him." And she turns on her heel and stalks off. She gets to the end of the lane and vanishes behind an armada of trees. Thick raindrops pelt Evelyn's body as she waits for Gloria to return. She doesn't. Gloria is gone. Above Evelyn, a ripe red McIntosh apple hangs off the end of a vine. Slowly, deliberately, she reaches up to grab it. When it's firmly in her grasp, she hurls it at the ground and disintegrates it under the weight of her boot. Then she drops to her knees and rummages through the wreckage until she discovers what she's looking for. She finds five in total. The brown apple seeds, small as grains of rice, weigh heavy in her hand as she walks to the end of the orchard lane. She picks an empty spot of grass. She rips out as many blades as she can before plunging her hands into the wet earth. When she decides the hole is deep enough, she buries each seed, one by one, in the ground. Then she replaces the soil with her dirty fingernails and steps back. It'll be perfect, she thinks. Just give it time. She's creating something here, a legacy, a future. Something beyond herself. Something that will have a fair chance at life. She makes a promise to check it every year, every month, to watch its growth. She'll mark it on her calendar in red if she has to, if that's what it takes. Here now in the autumn rain, Evelyn can conjure up almost everything clearly in her mind's eye, if she wants to: years from now, the blistering sun, the spring-green leaves, and the tree--this very apple tree that she planted and grew all by herself--with its twiggy arms outstretched as if offering a hug, a sweet red embrace. She can feel the breeze on her skin, hear the sound of a child laughing in the distance. The only thing she cannot see, not for the life of her, when she turns her head to the side, is if Gloria is with her or if, once again, she'll be standing here all alone.


I have been keeping secrets since I was six years old. My first secret was when the teacher at our one-room country school came to board with us. Teachers used to board with our neighbors across the road but when Mrs. Watkins became ill, Momma and Daddy thought it would be a good way to make some extra money. So, Miss Trent came to stay with us. I was just starting Grade Two and at first I thought Miss Trent was terrific. She was pretty and funny and had wonderful blond hair and was not nearly as strict as our last teacher. Did I say she was pretty? I wasn't the only one to think so, which is where my first secret came in. When Momma had taken the old car to the store for groceries, I was out playing and when I heard giggling and Daddy's voice, not a regular combination in our household, I peeked around the corner and saw Daddy and Miss Trent in an embrace I didn't really understand at six years old. However, I did know enough to realize it wasn't the sort of thing Daddy would ever talk to Momma about, so I kept quiet. It wasn't until the third time I saw them together that Daddy caught a glimpse of me watching and made a point of asking me if I knew how to keep a secret. What could I do but say yes? I don't know how long it took Momma to catch on, but catch on she did. When Daddy was away with a load of calves to be butchered, Momma and Miss Trent had an all-out free for all by the garden behind the barn. This time I could see them from the vantage point of the barn roof, behind the air vent column, a favorite spot of mine. They weren't shouting, just locked in a tight hold, and at first it looked like they were practising some strange sort of dance. But then Momma pulled free and swung a punch at Miss Trent's face. When Miss Trent stopped to put her hand to her jaw, Momma grabbed her and shoved her really hard. Miss Trent landed against the concrete base of the corner post that marked the garden. After that, she didn't move. Neither did Momma for a few minutes. Then, after a long, slow look around, she turned and ran to the barn. I watched Momma dig a big hole with the shovel, stopping every once in a while to look around as if she could feel someone watching. Then she turned back to the house and came out with the suitcase Miss Trent had brought with her. This Momma threw in the hole after Miss Trent. By the time Daddy got home, Momma had cleaned up and expressed great surprise along with Daddy when Miss Trent didn't show up for supper. For some reason, people accepted the fact that she'd left without a word; I think our community thought she'd been a little too exotic for our school area, just got bored and left. It only took a week for the school board to find a new teacher for the rest of the year. By now Mrs. Watkins was well again and the new teacher was back to boarding with her. I figured that, as I had kept Daddy's secret, I had to keep Momma's. It wouldn't have been fair to do otherwise. I don't know if Momma was aware I'd seen the fight or not. Sometimes, she'd look at me in a puzzled way as if wondering why I never mentioned it. Maybe she caught a flash of color from the barn roof when she ran back to the house and it only partly registered. I don't know. I do know Momma and Daddy went on as if nothing had happened. I don't think anything of that kind ever happened again, but then how would I know. Last month I came back to help Daddy with Momma. She was showing signs of worsening dementia. I was starting to be afraid--not just of the dementia, but of her mind straying back to the past. She would come out with cryptic comments sometimes, maybe a reference to teachers or to Daddy's fascination by blondes, and then she'd give a little giggle and look at either Daddy or me with a glance of conspiracy. I was afraid Daddy would soon figure out what had happened all those years ago. What would happen then? Would he still care for her as he had throughout her illness, or would he feel revulsion towards her? Would other people find out and would justice have to take its course with a sick woman? I didn't want to find the answers. Sometimes Momma had good days. That's when she'd realize what was happening to her and she'd clutch my hand and plead with me for help. She had problems sleeping and took a strong sleeping pill at night. One day I caught her with the bottle, dumping the pills into her hand and staring at them for a long time before putting them back with a heavy sigh. Daddy and I started hiding the pills from her, only giving her the one at a time. Then one night when I gave her the pill, she grabbed my hand, taking the pills from me and holding the bottle tightly. The pleading look she gave me was heartbreaking. I turned and left the room. When we found her lifeless in the morning, the doctor castigated us for not keeping the pills out of her reach. There had to be a hearing of course, but it was ruled suicide while of unsound mind and no-one asked many questions. Neighbors fell into two groups--those who felt she was probably better off this way and those who expressed regret at the loss of years she still could have had with her family, whatever quality they were. And now I have one more secret to keep. Secrets can be lonely when you can't share them with anyone.


Finally, pen down finished my final exam in Business administration and returned home. saw a dozen suits outside my father's room, it is irksome when I see these rebarbative suits. The maid ran to me and said that my father is sick. I asked the manager to take the suit to the conference hall. I went to see father, when he saw me he started murmuring something, I got my ears near to his words "its time" Then he started fainting, the family doctor suggested us to take him to the hospital for some test. after a day at the hospital, the test results said that he is histrionic by blocks in arteries. the doctor suggested that after the operation he might be salubrious. the next day after admission the operation was scheduled. the doctor is querulous but he seems risible to me at the same time irksome. the room allotted for the VIP's is big enough for 10 members to stay there. I stayed there until his operation I know the disease he has is baleful but I had no feel because he never stayed by my side in any situation. the doctor called me to his room, I was zealous to know his upcoming words standing next to the lachrymose manager. the doctor said that the operation went well and the father will be sent to the VIP room after getting his consciousness. for the next 3 days, we stayed at the hospital and returned to our home. the suits were feckless for the past 8 days as the net worth of the BB empire reduced by 2%. I appointed three health professionals to watch my father for physical and mental care. Three days later I got my MBA result, it said that I had 90% I got the percentage to my father's ears, he suddenly canceled all the appointments for the eve and went for a meeting with the board members. I asked where he is headed to, he said “Once and for all” After his return, I asked about it, he said that the new product is to be launched in three days. The day before the event I was gifted with a costliest suit by my father and he asked me to wear it for the event. Again he came to visit me on the eve of the event and told me that I am going to take over his place. I was surprised and at the same time hopeless. the event was organized in an auditorium with 500 seats. As it is said to be a product release there will be a lot of press people so the manager asked me to walk slowly towards the stage, as that will be helpful for the press people to take photos for the cover pages of the magazines. I was standing behind the door, the manager asked me to enter when my father calls my name from the stage. My father started his talk on the stage. my anxiety went up, as there will be a throng behind the door. I concentrated on his words as time went “I hereby declare that the full authority of the BB empire will be taken by my only son Krishna Kumar” The second I heard it, the bodyguard to the left and right opened the door, I saw 10 bouncers to the left and right making a path to the stage, hundreds of flash flickers from both sides, the flash increased as I moved towards the stage and energetic applause from the auditorium. Finally with all the push and pull I stepped on a pace. I can see the final 4 steps to the stage, when I placed my next step, suddenly everything around me went black. I am falling from somewhere to somewhere, I was surrounded by black, I can't feel my weight, the coat is not waving as I can't figure out the air in the local, I am about to blackout, in the last second of my blackout I heard a husky voice saying “you might need this”, with the voice, I saw someone flying with me but he seems stable with his body, kept something in my hand, then my eyes went out. . . After some time I opened my eyes, I am still falling and I ended up in a dustbin at someplace. I got out of the dustbin and saw a throng moving towards the auditorium, the auditorium is the same one I just left a few minutes or seconds ago. But the auditorium looked different than what I saw earlier. I wore the cap the husky voice man gave me and entered the auditorium with the throng. The security did not check my ticket as the cap I wore had the name of the auditorium. It seems the workers at the auditorium wear the same cap. I sat on the last row, waiting to see what is going to happen. The poster in the corner read “Entrepreneur award ceremony”. the award ceremony started and the series of awards were given to different people. “next award is for the best generation entrepreneur for the decade” And the officials at the stage started to announce the name “ the best generation entrepreneur of the decade is owned by Krishna Kumar of BB empire” I saw a man getting on to the stage, seeing his face I am hopeless, that can't happen, the man on the stage is me, not exactly me, he is somewhat older than me. After getting the award he returned to his seat. The man sitting next to me was writing the happenings of the ceremony. The date at the corner of the page is written as “12/03/2031” I helped him “sir you have written the date wrong, it's not 31 it's 21” “No sir you are wrong, it's 31” “I think you are not getting, its 12/03/2021” “no sir, it's not 21, it's 12/02/2031, check the ceremony poster there” The poster at the corner read “award for the decade 2021-2031”. its not that they give award at the starting of the decade for the decade. That proves the one who looks like me is 10 years older than me and the same me. After the ceremony, a press conference is arranged for the award winners. I went to the press conference room, lifting a pack of water bottles wearing a suit. I sat at the corner, The man near the door shouted “the best entrepreneur of the year” the man who got the award for the best entrepreneur of the decade came first, the reporters started triggering questions, most of the questions were about his popularity and his development in his work. After his press meet. To call the next award winner the man near the door shouted “the next is the best generation entrepreneur” The older self came in, the moment he came in the reporters started getting out, I barely saw 5 to 6 reporters sitting here and there just asked one or two questions to him, the session got over in just 3 min. I asked a reporter, why Krishna Kumar is not considered that much. “oh Krishna Kumar, he just took his father’s place, that’s why he is not considered by the reporters” Thinking about that, I got out and saw reporters rushing towards the best entrepreneur and not towards the best generation entrepreneur. I have shown the sadness in different situations but this time it penetrated every cell over the body. I placed my hands on the cheek and sat on the bench, roadside. The different thoughts in my brain started getting complicated and went out of control. I saw someone standing in front of me wearing white shoes, as my head raised I noticed white pant, red belt, holding his own hands, white full hand shirt, red tie “you have used it wisely” I heard the same husky voice and he pulled off the hat from my head. Again I started falling in the dark, I missed his face. This time without falling I stood on the first step of the stage, back in 2021. The same flickering flashes and loud cheering claps. I took the next three steps, my father welcomed me by shaking hands and hugged me. My father's manager gave me a paper and asked me to read it on the mike. I went to the mike and saw the paper, it was written as “with all consciousness, I will be taking over BB empire”. I kept the paper inside the suit and started to talk. “Thanks for the compliments and applause, this empire is too big, my father struggled for 40 years to build this empire, it's not easy to take all at once, I now ask the chairman of the BB empire to sign me a check of 10,000 INR as a father. I have to learn from the start, not from the top. In 10 years from now, there will be an event organized in this auditorium, at that time I will take over the BB empire not as a son but as a fighting empire, lets name my empire now, ok, let us name it after my name, KK empire. I hope the press peoples are not disappointed, as the exclusive is changed.” . . After 10 years (14/03/2031) . . I went to a different city with the amount of 20,000 INR, got a job with a salary of 25,000 INR worked in the same company for the next three years, built a company with the loan and the savings I had, with the balance 8 years I can't build the same as my father but I got up to 60 percent of it. I organized a product release before the day of the award ceremony, my father was there and I officially took over the BB empire as the chairman of KK empire and my father was proud of me. As I can't handle both the empire on my own I gave 50% of my KK empire to charity. The next day at the same auditorium I got the award for the best entrepreneur of the decade, got the triggering questions in the press meet, and a lot of compliments from the people at the auditorium. I felt proud, which I know the one I saw from the past did not felt.