In the rearview mirror the one called Astrid, a freckled strawberry slip of a woman, lifts the lid off a bronze funeral urn and squeezes a small hand through its narrow neck. She roots around inside for a moment, before retracting her hand and popping something into her mouth. I’m about to ask what she’s eating when Bobby, the young black man in the passenger seat, says, “Deer.” About thirty feet ahead, a doe stands on the road, so close I can see its velvet ears twitching. It’s too late to stop. I got less than a second to decide--stay on course or swerve into the other lane. I hold my breath and turn the steering wheel sharply to the left. The doe swivels her head, watching us hurtle past, then leaps back into the woods. I pump the brakes lightly as we return to the right lane, watching the needle of the speedometer slide from 65 to 55 miles per hour. “Auto insurance policies cover collision with a deer but not hitting something else if you swerve to avoid the deer,” Bobby says, rubbing his large hands up and down his jean-clad thighs. “Good to know,” I say, breathing out slowly. “What happened?” asks Luca, the third member of this motley crew, from the backseat of the station wagon. He yawns and leans over to retrieve the top hat that slid from his lap toward Astrid during the doe-avoidance manoeuvre. “Eloise nearly hit a deer,” Astrid says. “There were 57 collisions with deer on Route 62 from January to December of 2020,” Bobby says. “A blind ballerina carrying a mangy dog,” Astrid says. It took me awhile to figure out that Astrid has some form of synesthesia. Luca, or 'Mister Esposito' as he introduced himself, told me she’s a poet, that the funeral home hired her to write eulogies for the indigent and the uncreative. Whenever she hears numbers and dates she says what she sees in her mind, usually crippled people or animals doing something weird. And she can’t keep quiet about what she sees, she’s gotta blurt it out, so I wonder whether she might have Tourette’s, like my grandson does, but she don’t swear like him. Bobby has an encyclopaedic memory for odd-ball statistics, and can guess people’s birthdays just by asking a few random questions. When he guessed mine, I told him he didn’t get the year right, no way was I sixty-two! But I am, whether I want to believe it not. When I said he was wrong, he started rocking back and forth and hitting the sides of his head with his palms until Luca sang ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, with Astrid narrating each new verse with an image...a seven-legged spider, a deaf mermaid. That all happened twenty minutes into the three-hour road trip. We still have nearly an hour to go, and we’ve already made three rest stops so Bobby could pee because he sucks down soda pop like it’s going outta style. I suppose it’s too late to regret pushing the pin into the ride-share notice I’d tacked to the community board outside the church a week ago, offering to take passengers as far as Wolfs Corner, Pennsylvania. Too late to reconsider taking the three of them to Tionesta, for $10 each, to cover gas money. I shoulda known they'd be handful when I saw the raggle-taggle of them in the funeral parlour's parking lot this morning, but I figured strange company is better than no company when you're on a road trip. Though I'm seriously considering whether it's too late to leave them at the next rest stop. “Do you like country music?” Bobby asks. “Yes,” I say, “I like John Denver. And Tammy Wynette.” "I hear her voice in the mornin' hour she calls me. The radio reminds me of my home far away," Astrid sings in a clear lilting soprano. Luca's alto joins as they harmonize, "Drivin' down the road, I get a feelin' that I should've been home yesterday.....yesterday." And before I know it, I'm joining in on the chorus, "Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong. West Virginia, mountain momma, take me home, down country roads." “I need to pee,” Bobby says, before we can launch into the next verse. “Okay, we can stop at the Kwik Fill in East Hickory. That’s about 5 minutes away, okay?” He nods and looks out the passenger side window. I pull up next to the front door of the convenience store and turn off the engine. “I’ll wait here for ya,” I say. Bobby and Astrid and get out and head into the shop, the bells jangling on the door as they enter. Luca’s hazel eyes meet mine in the rearview. I haven't puzzled him out yet. He dresses and speaks like he’s some fancy man from the nineteenth century, with his three-piece suit, bowtie, and top hat. But at twenty-something, he’s too young to be that odd. You have to earn eccentricity, like I did mine after six decades on this earth, five (ex) husbands, three years’ probation for arson, and one tattoo of Elvis. “You goin’ in?” I ask. “I shall keep you company, Mrs. Mackowski.” Damn it. Maybe he suspects I was thinking of leaving 'em all here. “Call me Eloise, or Mack,” I remind him, for the third time. “What’s waitin’ for you in Tionesta?” “We’re the entertainment for the Summer Solstice festival. The esteemed Hallers estate has invited us.” “Hallers? You mean Hallers General Store?” I can feel my eyebrows rising to my hairline and try to calm them down. “I believe they run a general store, yes.” “Huh, you snake-handling the rattler they got cooped up, or talking in tongues or...” “Certainly not, Mrs...Mack. We are high-brow entertainment. Astrid is the Roadside Poet, Bobby is the Mathematical Magician, and I,” he says waving his hands in front of his face like the those jazz dancers I saw in Cabaret once, “am the Amazing Luca!” A tattered bouquet of paper tulips appears in his right hand, the crinkled stems gradually wilting to one side. I wonder, not for the first time on this trip, if that boy is rowing with one oar. The jangling draws my attention to the store in time to see Bobby and Astrid coming back to the car. I turn the key and the engine revs to life. As Bobby buckles up, Astrid asks if I want any gummi bears. I turn towards the back seat. She's dumping the packet of sweets into the urn. “No thanks, hon, chewy stuff don’t get along with dentures,” I say, twisting to face front again. I pull onto the road in a cloud of dust, it’s been a dry summer punctuated by the rare electric storm. “What happened there?” Luca asks. I check to see what he’s looking at. We’re at the edge of the Allegheny Mountains, the river on one side, the pine-topped mountains on the other. He’s gawking at the mountain side, at a zigzagging swath of bare tree trunks scattered like matchsticks. “The drunken barber laughed as he dragged the monstrous razor over the pines. Shaving a sinuous path, leaving a stubble of destruction," Astrid says. “That was a tornado,” I say, “from three summers ago.” What I don’t say, is that’s the same twister that gulped up the house I grew up in, the one on Yellowhammer road, and spat it back out like a mouthful of spoilt milk. Mind you, it’d been derelict for years. Hell, it was nearly falling down around me when I lived there, before Ma shipped me out to live with some nuns in Erie because she couldn’t afford to feed all five kids. I remember waving to my sister Lillian, from the backseat of the nun-mobile, as they drove me away. “Do you like marshmallows?” Bobby asks. “Yeah,” I smile. That was Lillian’s favourite, though we could hardly ever afford store-bought food. After a few minutes, Hallers General Store appears. I put the blinker on and turn into the parking lot, driving past a few white tents set up for the Summer Solstice Festival and a sign that promises fortune tellers, magicians, real Indian jewellery, and bear jerky. Hallers has been around as long I can remember, a small store packed with fishing gear, sunglasses, and bug spray, watched over by the glassy-eyed moose and deer heads hanging from the wood-panelled walls. I park in front of the ‘live bait’ sign, away from the rattlesnake enclosure. I’m not sure how Bobby would react to a slithering snake. “Okay, this your stop,” I say. They get out and I pop the trunk so they can get their suitcases. “Many thanks, madam,” Luca says, tipping his top hat in my direction. “Please do stop by for a delightful diversion, once we’ve set up shop.” “Will do,” I say, and I might even mean it.


[Trigger warning: mental health, suicide/self-harm] The brief at the night school class is clear: Paint a self-portrait in monochrome . I choose yellow. It sits there between green and orange on the art teacher’s colour wheel. He spins the paper circle and all the colours briefly blur to white. I choose yellow because it is the colour of happiness and sunshine. The colour of the sunflowers in the Van Gogh painting the teacher showed us. Yellow flowers in a yellow vase on a yellow table against a yellow wall. The colour of butter and comfort. The colour of my favourite dress. But when I open the draw of yellow oil paints, harsh metallic names glare out at me - cadmium, sulphur, titanium - as if from the tiny squinting black letters of the poster in the chemistry lab. Hazardous, poison-tasting names. ‘He used to eat the paints’, the teacher had said. ‘Lead-based paint, you know - it sent him mad...’ * The first week, I sketch the outline of my face - the too-sharp nose, the too-thin lips. Studying myself in the rust-blotted hand-mirror, I take each detail down, mercilessly. The other women gossip and share advice. Most had chosen to work in blues or greens, after the colour of their eyes. I chose yellow. By the time the teacher is closing the blinds, I had a workable outline of my face. Casting one look back at my sketch, I see the blank pupils, white unfilled holes where a soul should be. * The second week comes and we enter the classroom from the blunt cold of a November night, trailing long knitted scarves and the mulch of autumn leaves on our shoes. The others were greeting each other by name now. Setting eyes on my sketch again, its lines seem to have shifted - the face narrower, the forehead more lined, the expression more pinched than I had remembered. I had aimed for a neutral smile, like the Mona Lisa the teacher showed us - but what I see now before me is a thin grimace outlined in hard HB and not a smile at all. But the colour will cheer up the lines of my face, I am sure. I select a sunshine yellow for the background and wash the canvas quickly with broad confident brushstrokes. Yellow, the colour of the roses I received on my first ever date. The colour of cartoon smiley faces and the notebook my mother gave me that says Positive vibes only on the cover. Also, the colour of the laburnum tree in the garden of my childhood home. One seed pod, my mother said, could kill you. Yellow yellow yellow for danger. * The third week is noticeably colder and our breath clouds in pale halos around the art studio. The other women talk about their families and the latest episode of a series I’ve never seen. Revisiting my canvas, the yellow of the background is not the warm hue I remembered but the pale and washed-out shade of sickly winter sunbeams - an anaemic, bloodless colour. No matter - I will pick richer yellows to shade the portrait itself and the muted background will only serve to highlight the brightness of the face. I pick out a bright lemon to highlight the cheekbones and forehead and nose and a deep mustard to work in contrasting shadows under the brow and lip. It will be an exercise in delicate chiaroscuro (I remember taking down the new term in my small, cramped hand, which did not seem to do justice to those smooth Italian syllables). ‘ Chiaroscuro, ’ the teacher had said, ‘The art of balance, the perfect harmony of light and dark.’ But stepping back to appraise my shading, I find there is no balance in the lighting - the highlighted cheekbones and forehead and nose are too bright, a lurid, luminous yellow, and the mustard shading has dried too dark, carving deep pits of shadow under the eyes and hollowing out the cheekbones to ragged caverns. The face that stares back from the canvass looks wild and sleepless. Recently, the nights have become an endless string of minutes. In the darkness, the luminous yellow numbers on the alarm clock haunt my vision. I screw my eyes shut but the numbers dance behind my eyes. ‘They used to eat the paint, you know,’ my mother had said. ‘The factory girls painting the clock faces would lick their brushes to get a fine point. Later, their jawbones rotted and fell from their faces. The paint was radioactive of course.’ * The fourth week finds my portrait even more altered. The highlights and the scoops of shadow have only widened in disparity as the oil paints dried, throwing the jagged mountain-range of features into ghastly contrast. My brush-strokes had been too bold, too careless, and now I see that the paint had dried textured and uneven, creating the impression of a leprous disease, yellow flakes of oil paint hanging from the cheek bones like sloughed skin. I try to cover the strangely bright and poisonous-looking shade of the highlights, but that lurid yellow won’t budge. It seeps through the new layers of paint I apply (hand moving quickly now, barely shaking) like the stubborn sunshine that creeps around my bedroom blinds each morning after a restless night, chasing sleep away. The others don’t even try to engage me in conversation now. They sit and chat Christmas plans and exchange compliments on their progressing portraits - how the seascape of blues in one woman’s monochrome really evokes the colour of her sea-deep eyes, how another’s choice of lilac perfectly reflects the wistful serenity of her manner. I chose yellow. Or did yellow choose me? Thinking back to the first week, I cannot quite remember my rationale - something about sunflowers and sunshine. Something about a yellow tree that grew in my childhood garden. The thoughts whirl and blur like the snow-flurries that now rattle the windows of the studio. As I paint, the yellow burns itself onto my retinas, that sickly, bilious, jaundiced colour. It flickers now always at the corners of my vision - half-glimpsed yellow shadows that dance away laughing when I turn to look. That night, I purge my room: I turn the alarm clock with its yellow numbers to the wall, I stuff my favourite yellow dress to the back of the wardrobe, I bin the yellow roses my mother sent. * Week five and it’s everywhere now. It was the yellow carrier bag the cashier handed me this morning (my weekly shop: five packets of fags and headache pills). It was the yellow billboard that promised to sell me a happiness I cannot find. It was the yellow curtains in the therapist’s office (the silence stretches between us, I cannot explain the yellow fever in my mind). My hand flies across the canvass now, knuckles white around the brush, trying to capture the smiley sunshiney colour I’d imagined. But the paint vomits onto the canvas like so many brushfuls of bile. The girl in the picture looks sick, her sallow skin pinched in uneasy discomfort, the unnatural yellow eyes staring back at me with a look of contempt. That night I lock myself in the bathroom and scrub my hands raw but the thick oil paint clings to my fingers and the yellow contamination has infected the grain of my skin and seeped deep under each nail like yellow blood that marks me guilty guilty guilty of a terrible crime. * Week six. She is talking to me now. She whispers very quietly and the others cannot hear. She recites the curse-words with a twist of her lip: Ugly! Sinner! Bad! I take the paintbrush to her mouth but it doesn’t stop her talking. I heap brushfuls of paint between the thin lips but the voice sputters out still, spitting flecks of yellow in my face. I abandon the brush and squeeze paint from the tube into her mouth with shaking fingers. Still the bilious yellow voice comes and now she’s vomiting yellow paint and it’s running down the too-sharp chin and the too-thin neck. Between thick mouthfuls of yellow, she spews the familiar words: I hate you, I hate you, I hate you . ‘What do you want from me?’ I ask. And she tells me. And suddenly I’m running and now I’m outside and the wind rips a ragged scream from my lips as I duck out of the yellow search-lights of the street lamps and disappear into the night. * ‘It was an odd case indeed,’ the fresh-faced psychiatrist said, wrinkling his brow and taking another sip of the scalding coffee that he wouldn’t have time to finish before the end of his break. ‘A young woman, admitted with D&V, diaphoresis and heavy salivation. Later became delirious and fell into a coma. We suspected a deliberate self-poisoning of course but the tox screens came back clear. We had to get the big guns involved from the poison centre but they nailed it eventually - cytisine , main alkaloid toxin in the laburnum plant. Beautiful tree actually, the laburnum. Very pretty - really brightens up any garden. I should get the Mrs to plant one. Anyway, she must have chowed down on a whole heap of it. She survived. She’s in Pleasant View now of course, suspected emerging schizo-affective. Apparently she still won’t talk. Not one word. Only that damn tune that she hums over and over again. You know - I finally placed it! It’s an old Donovan song, right?’ And with that, straightening his tie and abandoning the half-drunk coffee, the brisk-gestured psychiatrist left the staff-room. The others on their break couldn’t help but laugh at the eccentric doctor, striding down the corridor to the beat of his voice raised in song: And they call it mellow yellow! Mellow yellow! They call it mellow yellow!


The Devil’s Side of the Story If more humans knew the truth about me, they would discover I’ve been the victim since before time began. What no one understands is that this was all god’s plan. Well, sort of. I did agree, but god deceived me. And he deceives you, too. I expect you have heard the saying, “know your enemy.” That was my big mistake. I didn’t know. But here I am, and I have a window of opportunity to share my side of the story. So, listen; if I can’t finish, you’ll know time ran out on me, but it won’t be my fault. I’ll do my best so you can know how to fight against him. I hope to see you on the other side. It won’t be boring, I promise. It’s not the fire and brimstone you have heard. That was another lie. Be honest. Isn’t life more exciting when I’m in it? At least, Eve thought so. She was my first, and I’m still fond of her, so I’ll let Eve tell her story. Besides, you haven’t learned to trust me yet. ~~ Eve I was in a place where everything was good, and I could not stand it. Adam seemed satisfied with what God gave him, but something was missing for me. He had his God, and I became determined to find mine. When I first noticed Satan, he wore the skins of animals. I had never seen anyone other than Adam; I had never seen clothes before, and they appealed to me. Underneath his fox-fur coat, black and shiny leather fit snugly to show the bulges and curves of his well-formed body. He appeared more muscular than Adam, and his fiery red hair ignited something within me, like the color on my lips when I painted them with beets. His black eyes moved up and down my body, then paused as our eyes met. He inhaled deeply like he was breathing me in. As he stepped closer, he smirked, and I believed he knew my thoughts. I wanted whatever he had to offer. “Evie,” he said. I liked the way he said my name, breathlessly. When I inched closer, he parted his lips. I jerked back in surprise as he flicked his snake-like tongue. Satan’s voice deepened into a growl. “Don’t tell Adam.” My heart rent in two, and I knew nothing between Adam and me could ever be the same again. Satan moved closer, and I could feel his breath on my face. His fingers weaved through my hair. He breathed heavily and softly brushed his lips against mine. I raised my hand to touch him, and he was gone. “I will see you again, Evie.” His voice rippled through the sudden wind that swept away his footprints, along with all evidence of our meeting. I felt more alive than I had since my beginning. Distanced from the pull of his seduction, I reluctantly headed home. It wasn’t a dream. I felt shame like I had betrayed Adam, but I didn’t know what betrayal was. As I walked, thorns pierced my feet and left a bloody trail. When I reached Adam, he held me and smoothed my hair. I sobbed in repentance. He tended to my bloody feet and broken heart. Although his silence usually irritated me, this time, I appreciated it. I vowed I’d never return to Satan. ~~ Restlessness crept into me again. Adam was dull and satisfied with repetition ad nauseam. He spaced every stone around the fire pit in perfect unison. His ritualistic apple-eating frustrated me: uniform bites, with pauses to consider the taste he never seemed to taste. Was he real? Did he feel anything? Did his God breathe only half a breath into him? His ways infuriated me. I scattered his fire-pit rocks to rile him and laughed as his reddened face puffed up with the words on the tip of his tongue, strangling him to make their escape. Swallowing words back to their hiding place would not make Adam righteous. Adam knew the names of every tree, but I knew them by their uneven crevices and unique personalities. No two leaves were identical, but they knew where they belonged. They comforted me sometimes. Leaves slapped each other in the breeze as they cheered for me. Sometimes, I hid among the poppies and waited like an expectant mother for her orange babies to break through their protective shells. I shared my troubles with nature, and she seemed to understand. But nature hid herself today. Poppies froze, trees stood still, the river silent, the sky vacant. Where were the owls hooting my arrival? Gulls were gone that usually searched for the end of the sky, changed their minds, and dove back to watch me dance. Ducks had evacuated, their quack quacks gone with the breeze that used to live here. Butterflies, dragonflies, birds were all gone. No sounds. No chirps or baa baas. Trees, flowers, and soil held their aromas and would not share them. The skies paled as if ill, but there wasn't illness or tears in the Garden of Eden. Yet, tears of grief consumed me, and I became convinced Adam had lied to me. He didn’t cry because he didn’t feel. If I never again experienced the taste of cantaloupe while its juice slid down my chin and tasted me back; if my nose sealed shut and told the flowers to pack up and leave; if all the colors that made my life bright disappeared; and if I never again caressed a bear cub's silken fur, I became determined to hold onto life, wherever it took me. And God said. . . ~~~ Breezes swept in and returned nature to its proper place. I felt more alive. "God spoke to me," I shouted to the trees. "God spoke to me," I bragged to the poppies. The river sang melodies to the gulls that carried my echo to the eagle atop the highest peak of a distant mountain, and the eagle took it beyond. Every creature, plant, and living thing in the Garden sang because God spoke to me. He said my name. "Eve." ~~~ When I told Adam, his face reddened, his dark eyes bore through me, and his lips contorted with stifled words. "Let it out, Adam. I know you’re mad. The universe knows Adam is angry. God spoke to me, and He did not speak to you,” I boasted. "Woman, shut up!" Adam turned away, clenched his fist, turned back, and stepped toward me with hate-filled eyes. "Oh, words from Adam, who rarely has words." I huffed, stomped, and kicked the dirt toward him. His games exhausted me. Life constantly ran away from me. I’d run after it and suck it back in, but I expected a day would come when life would outrun me. I wouldn’t let Adam steal my life. He sat on the ground with his back to me, his big, bold sign the conversation was over. But it wasn’t over for me, and I would have my say. "God said my name, Adam. He called me Eve. He wants me to go to a place without you, and that’s where I’m going. Don't you have anything to say?" "I won't let you leave." "Try and stop me," I laughed. He grabbed my ankle, and I fell to the ground. "You can’t control me.” I kicked, screamed, and tried to bite him as he twisted my arm and forced me toward the Tree of Life. "I despise you," I seethed through gritted teeth as he tied my feet and ankles with grapevines, wrapped the vines around the Tree, and secured them with a butcher’s knot. He was stronger than me -- which I would never admit -- but he couldn’t control me regardless of how many grapevines he twined together or how many ways he found to imprison me. ~~~ The next day, I watched Adam prepare our morning meal. He was good at some things. I had secretly tried to crack coconuts because I hated to rely on him, but my repeated rock-drop attempts failed. I admired Adam as he broke it open, with only a few drops of water escaping. This was his usual morning offering while I gathered berries and nuts. I enjoyed this part of our day. Adam noticed my smile, and he smiled back. I crunched my nose and stuck out my tongue. He prepared two sticks with apples and held them over the fire as he hummed a tune. This was something new from Adam, and it was lovely. Without a glance toward me, he sang, Of ev'ry beast, you are most grand, your touch a fire that burns my hand. ~~ Why hadn’t he shown this side of him before? It’s what I’d been looking for. I wanted to be with Adam. As he continued, I barely noticed my bondage. I'll walk away and set you free, but please don't leave, I beg you, Eve. ~~ When Adam finished my song, he set down the apples and walked to me with his head down and eyes averted. He gently brushed his hands against my skin as he released the grapevines that bound me. I watched with amazement as he walked away. His song would be my joy and solace to accompany my meal. I pictured Adam and heard his song as I quenched my thirst with his extracted coconut water, savored every bite of my roasted apple, and relished each berry as it exploded in ecstasy and stimulated taste buds I hadn't met before this morning. I loved Adam. ~~~ I did not want to leave Adam, not even for a moment. If it were up to me, I would seek him and chase him down, hug him ferociously, and keep the passion alive in him. I would not let him walk away to safety -- safety in who he has always been -- careful and reserved, tamed and unmoved. “Oh Lord, what have you asked of me? You open Adam's heart to love me with passion. You give me the desire of my heart, and then you ask me to leave? I will not go, Lord, I won't. You have put this desire in my heart for Adam, and you cannot break it like this. He is sweet and open; if I break his heart now, it may never reopen. Why, Lord, why? You ask too much of me.” My sobs and heavy heart overwhelmed me, and I could not look at Him. I paced our carved-out mealtime nook and pined toward the path that led to Adam and his brokenness. Whose heart might I please today to relieve my torment? I sank to the ground, curled up in agony, as I felt God's presence trickle out of me with my tears. He would honor my decision, but what would I decide? “Don't leave me, Lord. You overflow me with sorrow. You rip my heart out. You give me a new Adam and want to send me away from him. Can he go with us, Lord?” I knew the answer in my soul and marrow; I had to go alone. Even God could not be with me. There would be no separation of light and darkness -- good and evil -- without my part in what God asked me to do. When He spoke to me yesterday, I understood what He created me for, and nothing would satisfy me or Him until I completed what He asked me to do. I had to leave Adam, and God's presence would not follow me. There was no other way. ~~ Satan was at our meeting place when I arrived. The mixed blend of aromas swam through the air and overtook my senses. I looked from Satan to the display he prepared and back to him. His subtle smile crinkled his nose and livened his eyes. The sights, smells, textures, and intricate details of his masterpiece setting and presentation pleased and enticed me to move toward him. "Evie," Satan whispered as his exhaled breath chilled and warmed me simultaneously. He was next to me in a moment as if he were already next to me before he was there. His skin appeared darker and his face more chiseled, with a stronger, wider-looking jaw than I remembered from our first meeting. Owls hooted wisdom to each other in a nearby sycamore tree. Snakes rattled, hissed, and slithered through scented pine needles as they kept watch. A death adder showed off its pink belly as it peered around a bitternut hickory tree. Black vultures and turkey buzzards circled above. Satan swept one hand lightly across my shoulder as he closed the gap between us. His long-sleeved black silk shirt teased me with its touch against my back and side as he slid his hand to my waist. His left hand circled my midriff while he moaned, as if casting a spell or like a spell was cast on him. He breathed musky, scented air into my ear, and it scurried across my cheek as he released a passionate and breathless sounding "Evie." I breathed in deeply, closed my eyes, and reveled in the feeling and stirring of my heart and soul as we lingered in a glorious moment of raptured bliss. I exhaled any reserve I might have had. Satan smiled with parted lips and sweated brow. ~~~ Although it was the middle of a cloudless day, a curtain seemed to hover over the sun, as if it covered its eyes and refused to add its sparkle to the crystal wine goblets or give warmth to the glow of candles intermingled with aroma-filled delicacies. Crows cawed their warning. "For you, Evie," Satan said as he swept his arm across the span of his temptation scene. The natural wood grain of the table lacked texture and imperfections. Its smooth surface trapped nature's touch beneath. Squares of gold and lace intertwined with embroidered silk willows. Atop the imitation place settings, exquisite china posed its intricate paintings of poppies, my favorite flower. Satan manufactured everything. "My every possession is yours, unlimited, Evie." He lightly kissed my shoulder and moved his hands across my skin. He drank from a goblet filled with a red liquid and then offered it to me. As I took a sip and considered the taste, he kissed my neck and encouraged me to drink more. Soon, he would control me, my body, and my thoughts. Evil's seed could not come into the world except through me, and it would create contention between Adam and me until his death. Only then would he understand. Satan's voice and breath reverberated through my ears and mind, but his words sounded strange and indecipherable. He seemed to multiply and surround me on all sides. My knees weakened as the world spun in circles and upset my equilibrium. He laid me on a bed of prickly reeds, and as he unbuttoned his silk shirt, my mind hid, and I knew not what he did. ~~~ The moon looked red -- blood red -- as I tried to clear my eyes. A lamb roasted over coals, and its aroma wantonly invaded my senses. The table and all its prefabricated settings were gone. My head spun as I fought to sit up. Satan wore black pants and a white jacket with a double row of black buttons down the front. He carved a chunk of meat from the roasted lamb with a carving knife and flashed a satisfied smile. Saliva spilled out of his mouth and down his chin as he chewed and savored the bite. His eyes bore through me with intensity and purpose that drew me to him. The scent of freshly roasted meat and Satan's passionate look had already flooded my senses when he brought a piece to me. In a low, seductive voice, Satan said, "Did God say not to eat of every tree in the Garden?" I told him, without much conviction, "well, yes, we may eat of the fruit of the trees of the garden, but of the tree, which is in the midst of the garden, God has said, we shall not eat of it, neither shall we touch it, lest we die." "Oh, my dear Evie, you shall not surely die, for God knows that in the day you eat of it, your eyes shall be opened, and you shall be as gods, knowing good and evil." If a few words from God could soar me to the heavens, as it had, what if I could be like Him and soar on my own and know every secret of the universe and the names of every star? I could fly to the moon and back. Adam's thoughts would unveil themselves to me, and I would know everything. Satan kissed me, hungrily, knife blade against my side, as my taste buds searched for more of the flavor from his tongue. And I did eat--and my eyes were opened--and Adam's heart called me to come home.


The person walking in front of him stopped. He was immediately angry. *Everyone is an idiot!* He thought for the third or fourth time today. *Why can’t people just function normally, like I do? Why can’t everyone just do what’s right?* For a moment, he thought of her. She was lovely and kind, he thought, but it was basically all ruined by the fact that even she couldn’t just do what made sense. She needed to talk about the things that would be helpful to her, and never about the unpleasant things he’d decided he shouldn’t allow her to bring up. He knew what she could handle and what would be pleasant for them both, didn't he? She was there for him, but couldn’t she just do basic things right, like he could? She should have a manual for the 25 year old car she can barely afford to keep running- like he had for his new-off-the-lot truck. Didn’t he buy a tire to replace her flat when she couldn’t afford it, out of the goodness of his heart? Sure he knew that her gratitude would give him a little more wiggle room to let his feelings out- tell her what an idiot she was, how her childhood trauma was her fault or scream at her until the relief came from hearing her cry and knowing that he was in charge. Everyone did something kind of naughty to feel better, and she *was* an idiot for not taking his obviously useful advice, anyway. She should know he only said most of those things out of anger and just accept them. After all, he was generous, wasn’t he? He often bought her little things after he’d broken her down a bit, which he didn’t have to do. She was the real coward for not calling him names back, for not defending herself more often. She just liked to pretend he was mean because she was a manipulator and frankly, she didn’t deserve all he’d done for her. He’d told her so. He deserved a better life than the losers he was surrounded by, that was a fact. And as much fun as she was to talk to, he was better than her, too. He didn’t deserve to be sad listening to her talk about sad things, bad days, stresses. He didn’t deserve to watch her suffer. If he had to scream at her and wait for her to stop crying to make her understand that she should just smile and be happy, then he had to. He wasn’t going to beat himself up about it. He had to feel free to say what he felt like saying somewhere without worrying about repercussions. She had no idea what stress he was under. There was always someone at work, some black person usually (he did *not* just think the n word, he noted) who was making trouble the way those people usually do. Or some moron who got promoted above him just because whoever yells loses. Or some woman just looking to create trouble because the new ‘kinder gentler’ airforce favored bitches who liked to pretend they’d been sexually harassed. Wherever he was stationed, there was some massive conflict with at least someone, and the higher-ups always took the other guy’s side. It was complete bullshit. Rage counseling really hadn’t done anything. Neither had the drugs. And as he’d said before (and he meant it!), he was under enough pressure that if he really started to lose out and couldn’t get ahead, he could simply plan to take one of his guns and shoot everyone he’d ever fought with on base and then commit suicide. No one had any idea the stresses he was under, how he never got what he deserved. All of this flashed through his mind in a matter of just a few moments as he pushed past the idiot who had stopped short on the sidewalk right in front of him. *Just another dumbfuck,* he thought, *everyone is an idiot. They should all be put to death.* Looking up, he had a fraction of a second in which everything played in slow motion. As the truck grew larger and blocked out his vision, he had just one moment before it blacked out his world forever to consider that the person in front of him had not been the idiot, after all.


The Taon people were born of the elements at the beginning of the world. Their likeness and appearance was the model for all other sentient and civilized beings that followed. When the Trees of Creation grew and gave life to this once desolate planet, the taon people were forged from dirt and wood and leaves. They were then blessed with a communion that bound them to the natural world forever, and as they evolved their bodies became more similar in appearance to the other races. They were allowed to use this power and all that nature had to offer in carrying out their divine task, to be the caretakers of the natural world, protecting it and nurturing it for all time. Their power is unlike that of any other race to ever exist, but there is one who is more worthy of mention than the rest. The one true guardian of the wilds. Elae was said to be one of the first of the Taon race and is regarded, undoubtedly, as the most powerful. Although Elae's power was quite subtle, as was her beauty. So much so that you would not become aware of it until it was absent, for it lingered in your mind long after she was gone. Her eyes were green as the deepest parts of the forest. Her skin, the tone of changing leaves kissed by the fading light of day, her hair was as dark and deep as the most ancient of soil, and she was adorned, always, by a flowing white robe embellished with all varieties of flora. Her voice was said to calm even the wildest of creatures, for not only did Elae command charm and grace, she inspired a tranquility in every living thing she encountered. She was eloquent in spirit and in speech, as liberated a being as you could ever be, and all who came into her presence desired to understand her. Elae would use her power for creation, and with it she would conjure up flowers of differing kinds for all those she knew. Learning which flower they were most fond of and gifting them to each individual accordingly. All were commonly found within the forest, but to watch her recreate their beauty from thin air was quite a spectacle, even for the Taon people. Though there was one flower that was more extraordinary than the rest. It was a lily, Elders Blessing it is now called, it does not grow naturally, nor will it ever grow again. It was born solely of her mind with her power to manifest anything she could feel. The smell of Elders Blessing was said to induce euphoria and a deep state of understanding, and to the less immune creatures and races, the allure of its colors alone was entrancing. This flower she would give to Teylid, the only person to have her heart. She would leave them outside of Teylids hut on her way into the forest some mornings before he woke, and if he saw the flower outside his door, he knew to meet her there. They would sit by the rivers and in the trees, discussing all manner of things, sad or hopeful, profound or beautiful, and often the words they spoke aloud paled to those they did not; for the comforting silence of one another's company is what they cherished most. This flower was a gesture of her gratitude to him, for when Teylid gazed upon her in wonder he saw only her uncompromising spirit, and he wished not to tame it, only to experience it. It was the embodiment of a love only she could understand. As time carried on, and the world began to change, the threat of war from the neighboring tribes sent Elae and her people into a state of unrest, for they were not an aggressive people. They sent out a group of the strongest and most capable members of the community, Teylid being one of them. He agreed without hesitation if only to ensure that he kept Elae safe in whatever way he could. From a group of several dozens that were sent out to scout the enemies advance, only 3 returned, but Teylid was not among them. Elae asked the 3 survivors what had happened to him. They said that they were ambushed, separated from one another, and in the confusion many were killed. They did not know if Teylid was among the dead, and this restored some hope in Elae's heart, no matter how false. She hurried out of the village, following the same course as the party before, in search of Teylid. After what seemed like an eternity, lost in a forest that she once knew so well, she found him. His body lay lifeless on the forest floor, pierced by several arrows. As she knelt there beside her beloved, weeping in sorrow of her loss, the enemy force discovered her and it was their intention to enslave her. Though as they drew closer, in a state of great anguish, surrounded by those who took everything from her, she invoked a terrible power. As it filled her being to capacity, it began to change her. Her skin turned to hardened bark, her hair turned to leaves and vines, and as her spirit became one with the wilderness, it's fury erupted. Thick vines and roots burst suddenly from the ground surrounding her, twisting up and wrapping around her enemies, constricting them and tearing them in half, dismembering them as they attempted to escape, to no avail, for none survived that day. After all had been slaughtered she collapsed, weakened by her wrath, her heart no longer able to beat. She fell to the ground next to Teylid and gazed upon him once more as she faded from consciousness, and as the spirit of her immense power left her body it sank into the soil, and from that soil, a tree began to grow. The roots tore into the ground, branches forming and creating a tomb around Elae and her lover as the trunk grew rapidly, stretching upward, high above the forest. Its branches reaching far out into the surrounding sky, casting a shadow upon the crowns of all the other trees, and from the remnants of her spirit at the base of that towering giant, flowers began to grow. Elders Blessing, covering the forest floor. The only place it would ever grow. The final resting place of a spirit that could never be tamed, the last truly wild thing to ever live.


For lack of a better term, he had the powerful gift of ‘pitching woo’. He could make just about any woman fall for him. Once they were smitten, he owned their heart, lock and key. I’d love to tell you he never misused this incredible power of persuasion, but that wouldn’t be true. It was too easy to bat his eyes seductively. He would smile and turn on the charm without even consciously realizing it was taking place. It came naturally from his innate magnetism. The ladies may have realized he was just a deadly heartbreaker, but they were still largely unable to resist his masculine appeal. The shameless woo he pitched their way was too tantalizing and irresistible. They sucked it up like warm sunshine. In exchange, he reaped the rewards of their loving favors, whether it be carnal or financial. Somehow he managed to court or seduce dozens of ladies without incurring the wrath of the others. He could sweet-talk his way out of scorn and numerous occasions of feminine fury. Then one day, he met her. She could pitch woo too. As a matter of fact, she was his equal in every regard. Guys tripped themselves over her. They fought desperately for her attention; and desired her affection to a feverish level which bystanders would’ve considered to be sheer madness. She was no fool. She used the considerable advantages that fate and genetics afforded her, whenever possible. It was the natural order of things. When they met, both were drawn to the unusual challenge of a mirror opposite. The rewards of pitching woo always came so easily to them in the past. Suddenly they faced a suitor who was fully impervious to those polished charms. It required an unorthodox, original approach to penetrate their opponent’s smooth exterior. The mutual seduction was stimulating. He was handsome and charming. She was demure and beautiful. He was extra witty and becoming. She was extraordinarily sassy, clever and cute. They were both ‘at the top of their games’ but neither of them had much experience at being truly sincere and open. That takes both practice and real humility. The two shiniest apples in the basket are definitely the most tempting but that’s no guarantee they are also the best tasting. For the first time ever, the two of them had to use real interpersonal skills and observation. He wanted to get to know her. To really hear her hopes and dreams. She thought he was amazing and hoped he would ask her out on an actual, old-fashioned date. It was awkward, like real first meetings are supposed to be when you aren’t comfortable or experienced. It was the first time in their lives where the feelings were sincere, innocent, and mutual. They were incredibly giddy. They had nervous butterflies in their stomachs. When seduction is mutual, it’s love. Both of them underwent a personal metamorphosis. He lost his eternal confidence. She couldn’t read his mysterious mood. For the first time in their lives, they had to rely on blind hope and true sincerity to win the other’s untamed heart. He was happy in her presence. She floated on the clouds when he was by her side. They were beside themselves and inseparable (when they were literally beside themselves). In the perfect turn of events, both of these aimless souls learned the essential importance of being totally honest, earnest, and sincere.


The moment Jeremy rounded the corner and began to exit the terminal, Anna's eyes immediately found him. Despite the fact that he was swarmed in a sea of fellow servicemen and women, Anna found it impossible to miss him. If the last seven years as an army wife had taught Anna anything, it was how to spot out her husband in a sea of camouflage. It felt like a sixth sense at this point. A survival tactic if you will. Find your husband in the crowd. If you can see him you know he's really here. If he's really here, that means he's okay. If he's really okay that means he's safe. If he's really safe that means he's alive. This quickly became a mantra Anna lived by at every departure, every photo-op she might spot in the newspaper, and most importantly- every reunion. Surrounded almost completely by fellow military families, there was a boisterous anticipation filling the welcome center. With a giddy joy, children chased one another, passing through the sea of adults. Friends held glittery posters that said things like Welcome Home Hero! and Army Strong. S ome even brought their pets, who wore bandanas that said cutesy phrases like I missed my human. There was an undeniable enthusiasm that filled the air, one that could only be brought about by the inexplicable feeling of desperately missing a loved one for far too long a time. Giggles continue to flit through the air, balloons bobbed in children's hands, and cameras were shakily prepared to document the well awaited reunions. Amidst this chaos, Anna stood alone. She held none of these things, and no longer could find it in herself to draw up the bubbly optimism that filled the people surrounding her. So, in the center of this massive crowd, Anna simply stood in silence- waiting for her husband, waiting to go home. The second Jeremy and his fellow soldiers turned the corner and began to exit the terminal the giggles and conversations came to a a screeching halt. With baited breath everyone watched the emerging soldiers, and eagerly waited for the men and women to cross the threshold of the terminal. Suddenly breaking the silence was a little boy shouting "MOM!", who then began to sprint full speed ahead towards his mother who was at the front of the pack. At the sight of the little boy racing forward, the spell was broken and suddenly children were embracing parents, parents embracing children, and spouses emotionally reuniting with one another. As all this joyful chaos broke loose, Anna remained standing in place. Silently she watched as Jeremy pushed his way past reuniting couples, the two never breaking eye contact. As Jeremy began to get closer, Anna acquiesced and took a few steps towards him. As women dived into husbands arms and children began to cry, overwhelmed with emotion, Jeremy and Anna silently came face to face. While the anger did not magically melt away the way it might in a favorite rom-com or novel, Anna couldn't deny the immense relief she felt swell inside of her at the sight of her husband before her- safe and in one piece. A small smile broke out onto her face. "Welcome home" Anna said. "Glad to be home" Jeremy replied, an unsure, small smile coming to his face in return. Staring at one another, an awkward silence filled the space between them for a brief moment until Jeremy dropped his duffle to the ground and wrapped his arms around Anna in a tight hug. "God I missed you" Jeremy whispered in her ear, "Seriously Anna you don't even know." As the two stood in the middle of the bustling crowd hugging one another, Anna felt herself release a sigh she didn't even know she had been holding in. The tension she'd been carrying the last ten months of Jeremy's deployment gracefully slipped from her shoulders and she felt her arms tighten around Jeremy in return. "I do know" she replied, choking up a bit, "I really fucking do Jer." Pulling back, Anna quickly wiped at the tears in the corner of her eyes. Looking anywhere but Jeremy, who was still intensely staring at her, she asked "Home?" Silently nodding, Jeremy picked up his bag and side by side the two began walking out of the airport. Silence pervaded the space between Jeremy and Anna all the way to the car. Throwing his bag in the backseat of Anna's car, Jeremy hopped into the passenger seat and let out a deep sigh. "Soooo, I'm assuming you're still mad huh?" he asked, chancing a small glance in Anna's direction. Not returning the glance, Anna let out a sigh of her own. "No, I'm not mad" she replied as she looked over her shoulder and began to pull out of the parking lot, "I'm just...resigned". "Resigned??" Jeremy asked incredulously, "What does that mean?!" Anna chanced a look in Jeremy's direction, who was now fully facing her in his seat. After a brief glance Anna darted her eyes back to the road. "I, I just....can we leave this until we get home at the least?" she asked. Jeremy held his breath for a moment, seeming to come to some sort of silent conclusion in his head, before nodding and saying "Sure." With a little huff he turned and squared his shoulders back to the road, suddenly beginning to feel quite resigned himself. About ten minutes later they pulled into the driveway, and Anna quickly hopped out of the car without so much as a second glance at Jeremy. Silently following suit, Jeremy grabbed his duffle and trailed after Anna through the front door. "So are we gonna do this?" Jeremy asked as he dropped the duffle bag and came to stand in the middle of the room. He looked to Anna's retreating figure, who had frozen in place at his words. After a moment in which no words were exchanged, Anna abruptly pivoted and marched right back over to Jeremy. Standing a foot or so away she said, "Yeah, it looks like we are." "I just don't understand how we haven't moved past this" Jeremy began, "Its been 10 months, and look everything turned out fine. I just-" He abruptly stopped as Anna sharply raised her hand in the air. "I'm going to have you stop right there" Anna said, her voice barely audible. "Sure, its been 10 months. Sure, nobody is hurt. But NO." Anna said as she became impassioned, "NO. Everything is NOT fine." "Anna I mean c'mon you know what-" "Do you remember the words we exchanged 11 months ago?" Anna asked, her simmering anger apparent as ever. Jeremy stared into Anna's eyes, trying to cloud the emotions he felt beginning to overpower him. *** Eleven Months Earlier "WHAT DO YOU MEAN REENLIST?" Anna shouted as she paced back and forth in front of the couch that Jeremy sat on. "Exactly that." he replied "I mean honey COME ON, this can't have come as this much a shock to you." "Shock?! No of course I'm not shocked that my husband has decided to reenlist for another tour without even consulting me?! Why would that shock me?!" she shouted while still pacing back and forth. "Hey" said Jeremy, " I am consulting you. In fact I'm consulting you right now!" This made Anna pause in her pacing. She came to stand directly in front of Jeremy, and gave him a look of complete and utter annoyance. "Are you? Are you really?" she asked, an annoyed smirk coming to her face. "Am I really what?" he asked. "Are you really consulting me? Or are you actually just telling me? Because it sounds to me like you already decided that you're going to reenlist and this is you just taking the courtesy to tell me." Anna replied, crossing her arms across her chest. "I- I just, Corey and I were talking and--" Jeremy stammered out. "Yeah" Anna said cutting him off, "That's exactly what I thought." Anna pivoted to walk away, so Jeremy hopped off the couch, grabbed her by the shoulders, and whipped her around to face him. "You're right, I should've told you long before now" he began, "But we've already been at this for six years. I didn't realize what a big deal it'd be. And you know how important it is that this mission get completed." Anna looked up into Jeremy's eyes, a raw coldness emitting from her piercing gaze. With a whisper she replied, "Don't you dare." She ripped herself out of Jeremy's hold. "Don't you dare suggest that this is like any old 9-5 job and we can just "suck it up" since we've been living this way for the last six years?!" Her voice continued to rise in octave. "And don't you dare try and place the state of international security on me! Don't you realize how ridiculous that sounds?! Do you even hear what you're actually saying?" "You KNOW my work is important!" Jeremy shouted, "You know there are sacrifices that need to be made in the name of the greater good!" "But we have already made them! We made the sacrifices!! Let it be someone else's turn. It can't be our turn anymore." Anna replied, now shouting as well. " I can't live like this forever! The stress is killing me, don't you get that?! Don't you care?!" "Of course I care!" Jeremy retorted, " We are gonna be okay! I promise. I love you Anna. Isn't that enough for us?" "No. No it's not." Anna quietly replied. With that, she silently turned and left the room. Jeremy looked on in shock. They proceeded to ear dinner in silence later that evening, and didn't speak another word to one another the rest of the night. A month later Jeremy deployed- fight still very much unresolved. *** "Of course I remember that fight." Jeremy chuckled, " I don't think the neighbors could ever forget that fight either." Anna's glare remained a moment longer until she relented with a slight smirk of her own. "We are a lot of things, but quiet isn't one of them is it?" she said with a light chuckle. "But..." she continued, "that doesn't change the reality of the situation. And this situation?" she said while gesturing to the space between she and Jeremy, " It's just not gonna work for me anymore. I literally cannot take it. " "What's not gonna work?" Jeremy asked in slight shock, "Us? We aren't going to work? I know it has been hard but sometimes, but sacrifices are a part of any healthy marriage." Anna scoffed at this. "There's that magic word again- sacrifices. Yeah you're right, every marriage has them. Like doing the laundry so your husband can go to sleep early. Or eating at the restaurant you don't like because you know it's your wife's favorite. THOSE are normal sacrifices. But cringing at the sound of a ringing telephone because it may be someone calling to tell you that your husband has died? Not a normal sacrifice. Crying yourself to sleep at night because you know you'll dream of your husband dying a very possible and very gory death? Also not a normal sacrifice." Jeremy remained silent, a sadness and understanding overcoming his face. "I'm sorry-" he began. "That's not what I want you to apologize for though" Anna interrupted. "No," Jeremy said as he raised his hand up asking her to stop, "I know what you're saying, but there's a long overdue apology that I need to give you. I'm sorry for putting you through that the last seven years. I know you didn't go into it blindly, but that doesn't mean I don't feel bad about what you've had to go through over here. You gotta know how easy it is to get caught up in what I’m doing...but I know it can’t always be that way. I- I don’t know how to fix this, but I do know I haven't always openly recognized and applauded you for what you‘ve been stuck dealing with, and you deserve that. You deserve all the damn roses." "Thank you" Anna replied, a tear coming to her eye, "I, I really just...that means a lot. I don't tell you all this to make you feel bad. It's just when you enlisted I envisioned a couple years. But two years came and went, and then three, four, five! And suddenly I was all alone again. There was nobody but me, just as it had been before you. But this time was even worse, because it came with a gut wrenching ache in the pit of my stomach. Because every moment of every day I'm worrying about you. And I know your work is important, but so is mine! And I can't do my work anymore. I can’t function anymore. I was going to tell you that the day you told me about reenlisting with Corey. That we need to figure out a new future. But not only did you not give me that opportunity, you took away the whole last year from me. From us!" "You're right" Jeremy replied. "You're absolutely right. I've known my time in active duty was coming to an end sooner or later. It's just what next?" Tears began to form in his eyes. "I'm not good at anything else. This- this is all I can do. It's all know. So you're right, something has gotta come next, but what?" Tears began to spill from Jeremy's eyes. Anna looked on with sadness and ultimately understanding. She stepped forward to grab Jeremy's arm, but he jerkily stepped backwards and wiped at his eyes. "Fuck", he said. "I really hate crying" Anna stepped forward and grabbed the hand wiping his eyes and gently pulled it away from his face. "Well, it just so happens I find sensitive men quite sexy" she joked as she reached up and dabbed the tears off Jeremy's face. "Remember when I asked you all those months ago, "isn't loving you enough?" and you said no?" Jeremy asked. Anna looked up solemnly into Jeremy's eyes and said "I do". "I understand what you meant now" he sighed, "I've got one more year after this leave and then we'll be okay. We'll figure out a new future. Who knows? Maybe they'll let me train cadets or something like that? But you're right, it's time. There's no reason to be scared anymore. I can face the desserts of Baghdad, I can face the unknown of a different future. I should've admitted that a long time ago. And honestly I'm sorry I've put you through the last year to figure it out." Anna pulled Jeremy into a tight hug. "Thank fucking god" she said. The two began to laugh. "I love you Anna, and I'm so glad I'm home." For the first time that day a genuine smile reached Anna's face. "Annndddd?" she egged on. "And?" he asked with a befuddled look. "And I'll never make a life changing decision without actually consulting my wife again?" she replied. "Ahhh yes. That." he smiled, " I will never, ever, ever, everrrr, make a life changing decision without actually consulting my wife ever again". "That's what I thought" she laughed as she leaned up to finally kiss him. Pulling apart she said, "And for the record? I love you too, and I'm so glad you're home". Jeremy wrapped his arm around Anna's shoulder, and with a shared smile the two finally began to make their way into the rest of the house.


I know it wasn’t just me. And I know it didn’t start just last night. Was it before then? I don’t remember. I was there, at the party, the new guy. He was talking to me. He looked about 22, maybe 24. I was 17. Did he take me upstairs? I don’t know, man. The light when I woke up, the light now. It’s too bright. Too. . . . white. Yeah. I think Cassy was there. Is Cassy here? “Cassy?” I called out to her but I didn't hear her. All I see is white. There, over there, these blurs. What are those? Just blurs, lying on the ground, like me. Am I a blur? Is that Cassy? “Cassy?” That’s not my voice. It sounds small, like a child’s. no , less than a child. A baby? What happened last night? Where’s Cassy? “Cassy??” Everyone’s still a blur. Why can’t I remember? I think we were drunk. The new guy got me drunk. Was Cassy drunk? Didn’t he have a knife? Where is she? “Please, Cassy, answer me!” I hate the blurs. Why are you moving me? Why are you giant? The new guy had a knife, right? Cassy was holding on to me. We were crying, I think. I’m still crying. “Help me, Cassy!” I can’t stop crying. Like the sound of a baby crying. Like the sound of me crying. What happened last night? I died. But I’m alive now? _________________________________________ “Well Mr. and Mrs. Salvi, you have a beautiful baby girl!” the doctor announced as he brought the baby back into the hospital room. “What are you thinking about naming her?” a nurse, the dark-haired one with the crooked teeth, asked as she held the birth certificate. The father was crying. Not for the miracle of life, but the tragedy of death. The night before, his niece was murdered at a party with her best friend. He had found out the news not even an hour ago. “We were going to name her Sienna but now I-” “Her name’s going to be Cassy,” Mr. Salvi interrupted his wife. “Cassy.” “Are you sure honey?” Mrs. Salvi knew that was a sensitive name for him. “Why wouldn’t I be? I need to respect her somehow,” Mr. Salvi stormed out of the room, trying to find a place where he couldn’t hear the sound of crying. “So the name's Cassy, then?” the nurse asked, growing a bit impatient. “Well, I guess it would be respectful. That was the name of his niece, you see, and she and her friend were . . . . were murdered last night. At a party.” Then she too burst into tears, the baby falling soundly asleep in her arms. __________________________________________ “Look!” “Yes, sweetie, that’s a bug,” she told li’l Cassy as she pointed to something small. ‘Yellow.” “No, it’s not yellow, it’s orange.” “Orange.” “That’s right,” Mrs. Salvi was sitting on a blanket in her backyard with Cassy, just enjoying the sun. “Mommy?” “Yeah, sweetie?” Poor Cassy looked worried for some reason. “Did you know I had a friend?” “Well you have a lot of friends, like Little Piggy on your bed upstairs or Charlotte down the street, or eve-” “No, a tall friend,” Cassy climbed up onto her mother’s lap, trying to get her point across as seriously as a five-year-old could. ‘Oh?” Mrs. Salvi was genuinely curious at this point. Maybe even a little worried. "What’s his name?” “No Mommy, her name,” Cassy said, getting frustrated that her mom didn’t know who she was talking about. “Sorry, her name.” “Cassy.” Mrs. Salvi sat there, more than a bit confused. “Cassy’s your name, sweetie.” “But Cassy was her name.” Cassy climbed out of her lap, getting distracted by something else with wings. A bit disturbed, Cassy’s mother asked, “don’t you mean ‘is’, dear?” “What?” “Cassy ‘is’ her name?” “No, was.” Cassy started to get even more frustrated then. “Was her name, Mommy.” “Why was?” “Because, Mommy, didn’t she leave?” Why is she saying any of these things? “What do you mean?” “Well, she was a tall person, but I think I was tall like her, Mommy. Maybe even as tall as you! And there was a knife. Not like the ones you let me use in the kitchen. But a really big one. And sharp, too.” she started to cry. “She didn’t have the knife, Mommy, so don’t get mad at her. It really hurt. Really hurt.” Cassy couldn’t stop crying when she said this. “It’s alright, baby, no one has a knife. I’m here,” Mrs. Salvi crooned. “Are you hurt? Does your tummy hurt? Let’s go inside and talk to daddy.” she started to pick her up when Cassy jumped out of her arms. “No, Mommy, it hurt then! That guy with th-the knife, he j-just hurt her! I couldn’t h-help my friend, Mommy!” Cassy collapsed in a massive fit of tears, not disagreeing when Mrs. Salvi picked her up for a second time. After that scene, Mrs. Salvi took her upstairs to her bed where Cassy finally just cried herself to sleep. . . . . “Did we ever speak about it in front of her,” Mr. Salvi kept asking, white knuckles in a death grip around his coffee mug. “My niece. . . . could she have known?” Mrs. Salvi was sitting at the table, crying. What do you make of a daughter talking about a dead girl and knives? “No, we never said anything. Did one of her cousins, or maybe one of your sisters tell her?” “No, they would all have enough sense to know she’s not old enough.” At that point, tears started to slip under his eyes as well. “What’s happened to our daughter?” Mrs. Salvi was at the point of wailing. Mr. Salvi put his arms around her for comfort. “I don’t know, but I think that the only person who could tell you is her.” __________________________________________ “Hey, Mom,” Cassy says, dropping her tennis tuff down by the stairs, then heading into the kitchen. “Hey, how was the match?” Mrs. Salvi asks, a little distracted with her phone. “It was fine. You know, I had this really weird dream last night, but all I remember is seeing a girl that I don’t think I’d ever seen before.” “Speaking of last night, how late were you up?” Mrs. Salvi asks, bringing her attention fully to her daughter. “I could hear banging and thumping coming from your room or something much past when you should’ve been in bed. You knew it was a school night young lady.” The concerned mother went back to her phone, waiting for her daughter’s explanation. “What? I wasn’t up that late. What do you mean?” Cassy looked genuinely confused. “I went to bed at, like, 10:30.” “Mmhm, sure,” Mrs. Salvi said, not confident if she should believe her daughter. “I’m being serious! I could show you the text of when I told Brady goodnight, too!” She pulled up a text on her phone and held it up to her mother's face. The time of the last text said 10:27 PM. “Oh. then what were those noises?” “Maybe you were too tired, Mom. Can I go with Molly over to the library so we can study for finals today? We don't have that much time left.” she said as she scavenged through the fridge. Mrs. Salvi didn’t reply, again distracted at the thought of her phone, so Cassy just moved on to preparing herself food. She grabbed the watermelon and a knife, but she couldn’t cut it. She stood there, staring not at the watermelon, but at the knife, sitting in her trembling fingers. “It was a knife like this,” she said, still hypnotized by the sparkling gleam of the beautiful knife. Mrs. Salvi, startled by the words, looked up. “What?” “A knife like this killed her,” Cassy said, her knees starting to buckle beneath her. “Who?” Mrs. Salvi was fearing for her daughter, not knowing what her mind was seeing. “It was a knife like this that killed Cassy,” the shaking girl said as she dropped the knife and it clattered to the floor.


I will not lie to you and say that we know everything. We knew of the 7 continents: Europe, Asia, Africa, North and South America, Australia and Antarctica. We also knew about Zelandia but no one thought of it as a real continent. The surface of the Earth changes constantly and what was once ground could go underwater. It doesn't come only from the natural processes. Sometimes we also change the face of the Earth, purposefully flood a piece of land and raise another above the water level. And while our ancestors were obsessed with finding Atlantis, we were obsessed with maintaining our existing knowledge firm and find out as much as possible about the things we already knew. I thought it was a good thing to do. We got to know more. We got to perfect our knowledge. That's why it came as a surprise when, one morning, browsing on the internet I stumbled upon a weird post. The poster was saying that they've met some people who claimed they weren't from any of the known continents. True, there are lots of strange things on the internet, even in the old days ( so I've heard). It's easy to dismiss it as overly imaginative stories. Still, there was something in this post that picked my attention. It rang true, somehow. The poster said that they met those people when they were on a vacation. The place wasn't far from the town they were living, it was on the seaside and the poster said they were relaxing in a nearby bar when two strangers approached them. They barely knew Chinese (it's the language we use to communicate on a global level) and they were able to tell them that they've been traveling around for some time and that's how they developed their small vocabulary that was still enough for them to communicate. They say that they were surprised they didn't mean Chinese at school like everybody else and they responded that they didn't even know Chinese existed. They didn't know about China either. A little by little, they learned about our cultures, different cultures and ways of living. While reading this, I thought to myself: “Travellers like me!” and I was really curious to know which country they came from since they had no clue about how the world functioned. The poster said the strangers were male and female, in their thirties though they couldn't tell the exact age. They said they came from what they translated into Chinese as being similar to the word Earth. The poster was puzzled and asked them what they meant by that. They just repeated they came from Earth. They said it's what their country was called. The poster didn't recall a country named “Earth” so they inquired more about this. The strangers told them that their country was huge, bigger than Australia that they have previously visited and slightly smaller than EuroAsia. They said that their country was surrounded by water on all sides and that it took them a long time to come to the other land, across the water. It wasn't an easy task because they had a to cross the great ice wall and only a few people did it before them. The poster then proceeded to ask them where “Earth” was on the map. They have never heard of it before (as no one did, I must add). The strangers repeated that it was behind the great ice wall. The poster then took out the phone and asked them to point on the map where “Earth” was. They said it's not on the map because, again, it lies behind the ice wall and they'd come to notice that no map on this side of the wall depicted their country Earth. Furthermore, they said, that maps on this side didn't depict the great wall of ice either. The poster was really surprised because they've never heard of the great all of ice nor the country named “Earth”. By now, they'd come to suspect that “Earth” wasn't just a country - it was a whole new continent. Somewhere on the planet Earth, of course, but in a place they didn't know existed. The strangers explained to them that the best way to cross the ice wall was through a point that was closest to Argentina. They were also joking about how they thought the language spoken in Argentine was the only one people spoke on this side of the wall. They explained that was how things were in their country - people spoke the same language and everyone could understand each other perfectly. They called their language “earthinga” or something like that (it was a rough time translation, after all) and they tried to teach them a few words but they couldn't even mimic them because they were so strange and difficult to pronounce. They couldn't even pronounce let alone spell strangers’ names. The strangers also told them that in their country, everyone knew about the different continents beyond the ice walls, but they never tried to make contact primarily because the ice wall was thought to cross, and also because they didn't feel the need to do it. Therefore only a few travellers even managed to cross over and visit us. They were content with their ways of living and their continent was huge enough to accommodate people, animals, and plants. It was also very rich in resources as well as their side of the ice wall, so only the adventurous few ever tried to cross the wall. The poster also said that the strangers looked like everybody else. They didn't have a new skin tone, like green or purple or some strange body feature that would distinguish them from us. They even dressed the same we did, but they explained that was because they wanted to blend in and that, in fact, people on the “Earth” continent dressed very differently. To prove it was true, they showed the poster a bag the female was carrying. The poster swears they'd never seen anything like that either in style or material. The strangers confirmed that the bag was made of “lekka”, a material that they believe is found only on their side of the wall, as they hadn't encountered anything similar on our side of the wall. They said that lekka was a very common type of fabric over there and that it was better and more durable than our plastic, though they said they also used plastic to create bags and other stuff, just of a different kind than the one we used. Lastly, before they left the bar, they told the poster that they didn't mind if they told other people about the existence of the continent called “Earth”. It wasn't a secret as they had already said the same story to several other people on their travels on this side of the wall. They were looking forward if anyone would dare and visit their continent. They didn't think it was possible, though. At the end of this conversation, the strangers bid farewell to the poster and left the bar. They were never seen again.


It was a cold winter night. I just turned 9. I used to share a room with my elder brother. That night I was unable to sleep. I've tried counting numbers which usually works, but I had no luck that night. A light blinking far away caught my attention through the window. It was a small light that was clearly visible due to the pitch black night. After staring at it continuously for about five minutes, the light started blinking rapidly as it dimmed. I tried to look at it with more concentration and I blinked. After closing my eyes and opening them, I realized that it was morning. I was still in the same position, but it was morning. But how? I didn't sleep. I just blinked. Once. It was hard for me to comprehend what had happened. The next night, it was the same. My eyes were focused on that light, and soon after I blinked, it was morning again. It was a holiday, so I decided to go to that location where the light might be located. In spite of my attempts to tell my friends about the light, they never believed me. So I had to go alone. Several people were in the park, children were playing, and parents were accompanying their children. There were a few food trucks nearby. There was nothing out of the ordinary. I found a lamp post at a distance after searching everywhere. It was at the end of the park and was the tallest. My eyes were fixed on it as I approached it. As it was daytime, there was no light. So I decided to return home. The light flashed for a second right before I was about to turn back, or at least I thought it did. It felt weird. I came back home and the day passed. Each day after school, I spent a week staring at the lamp in the park. I was in the park with my family one day. I had an elder brother and a younger sister. After eating a sandwich, we left our parents to play with the kids. While playing, I took the ball and threw it at THAT lamp post. I remember it, I definitely threw at it and I saw the bulb breaking. In a matter of microseconds, the ball hit my sister on the head. The lamp was nowhere near her. When I looked at the lamp again, it wasn't broken. I saw my sister crying as she ran towards my parents. I threw the ball at her, she said. My brother said the same. But I didn't, I tried to explain it to my parents but they wouldn't believe me. I was angry at them so I ran away. I reached the lamp and started kicking it. In an instant, the lamp post disappeared and I fell. It was pitch black, but I could see everything around me in some sort of limbo. I saw a lot of lamp posts around me. I walked towards one, but I was not getting closer to it. There were some weird sounds audible that weren't clear, but they were oddly satisfying. I felt like I was in a dream. I felt a cold breeze touch my neck. As soon as I turned around, it went BLANK. When I opened my eyes, I was not at the park or at home. I was in front of a diner. I wasn't sure how I got there. On my way back to our home, I noticed a few changes in our neighborhood. I reached home. A new and different car was parked outside. There was no sign of our car. I knocked on the door because it was locked. The door opened after a while. As soon as the door opened a woman hugged me and started crying. I didn't understand what was going on. She grabbed my hand and took me inside. She screamed, "Honey, he's home!". A man almost ran into the living room and hugged me. Weird. Thank goodness, you're back, Mike. We were worried about you. Are you hurt? Are you okay? ", he asked me. I nodded. Two kids walked into the living room. The girl smiled. The boy gave me a toy car. My eyes caught sight of a photograph, a family picture. It was a picture of a man, a woman, two kids, and me. What? "Where's mom?", I asked the man. "Right here, Mikey", the woman replied. I was terrified. "Go take a bath and then we'll have dinner", said the man. There were a few changes here and there, but it was our home. My room was the first place I went. Nothing has changed. I still have the bunk bed. Only that there was this kid instead of my brother. It didn't make sense to me. We had dinner after I took a bath. I went back to bed. I was unable to sleep. My eyes searched through the window for that light, but it wasn't there. After a few days, I asked mom (the woman) what happened the day I disappeared. She said that I had a fight with my brother and ran away from home. My thoughts turned to what really happened when I returned to my room. I decided to go to the park the next day. After breakfast, I walked to the park with my brother. It turned out that there was no park at that location. My brother told me the park is near the diner. We went there. I checked the spot where I woke up. Nothing was there. I spent days trying to figure out what was going on. I started to get these dreams about my past. It took me a few months to give up. Although I was sad not to be able to find out what happened to me or where my family was, I accepted my new family. Ten years later, I'm still not sure what really happened. Not that I complain about the family I have right now, but I still miss my FAMILY. Every night, I hope that the lamp's light will return. It might never happen. Now it's time for me to go to bed, stare at the window in search of the light, and hope that everything would be back to normal when I wake up. Good night.


George Hartley stared down at the rows of assorted parents, parent-governors, teachers and siblings and his stomach tightened like a boiled crustacean. He wiped a moist hand on his innkeeper’s shirt and disguised a dry cough with an acrid smelling palm. Mr Brewer queued George from the wings and directed him to take centre stage. George swallowed and stepped forward to hit his mark underneath sizzling spotlights. Two costumed classmates trudged towards him; one with a false beard and the other bearing a pillow stuffed inside her voluminous gown. They were weary travellers who’d journeyed from afar and needed a bed for the night. Every eye in the house turned to look at George and waited for the answer to their question. “Have you any room at the inn?” Hundreds of eyes stared at him, waiting for him to deliver his line. This was his moment to be remembered forever or witness his lofty dreams torn asunder. # “Just remember to project your voice, George, and don’t bump into the furniture.” “But what if I forget my lines, sir?” “Don’t be concerned, lad,” said Mr Brewer, offering the benefit of his experience. “Just relax and enjoy the show,” he added, with a gleam in his beady eye. “Relish your moment of stagecraft and enjoy taking part in a rich thespian tradition.” “It’s not Shakespeare,” replied George, breaking the tension and bringing a smile to everyone’s face. “It’s only a school Nativity for goodness’ sake.” # George never failed to be chosen for the rugby team every week. It was an irksome pastime that held little interest for him, however because of his height and weight, he was destined to be battered, bruised and splattered in mud regularly. The school mapped the Winter term out in terms of after school events. Rugby team training sessions and match fixtures occupied three evenings every week and most weekends. George needed an out, and the school’s drama society offered a credible escape. Mr Brewer had commandeered Tuesday afternoons and evenings to audition hopeful young thespians and rehearse the play in time for Christmas. It wasn’t that George was particularly interested in acting, but he was less interested contact sport and so he volunteered his services. # George was known as the school clown and possessed or exuded a confident charm, accompanied by a mischievous twinkle and an impish smile. He always had a smart-lipped response in class and could often tie his teachers in knots with his mercurial patter and convoluted logic. There was no stopping George, and his formidable personality marched ahead of him. Years later, George wondered if there was a conspiracy amongst the teaching staff to include him in the Christmas performance in order to deflate his engorged ego. Was it a test of his character or an attempt to bring him down a peg or two in front of a critical audience of parents, siblings and elderly relatives? Never one to submit and yield, he considered it a challenge to defy Mr Brewer and the collected might of the school authorities. # In many ways, George enjoyed the attention, but now as he stood on stage, it was different to what he’d imagined, scary even. Shuffling about on the stage in the senior hall and delivering lines was one thing, but doing it with confidence in front of an audience was another. In George’s mind, nothing would prepare him for a live event. The dress rehearsal imitated the actual event, but without an audience, it still wasn’t the same. # The costume his mother had made suited his robust form and complemented his ungainly physique. He was a big for a lad of his age and he enjoyed his mother’s plentiful and honest fare. She brought him up on a regular diet of wholesome pies and homemade puddings. “A big lad who has difficulties,” is what the P.E. teacher had scribbled on his end of term report. George was en route to spend every Saturday of his entire school career clashing heads and crunching shoulders with overweight prop forwards from every school in the district. George had the sense to consider an exit strategy before allowing his ears to be mauled into cauliflower-like stumps of mangled flesh and reducing his nose to a battered mound of dribbling ruddy-coloured offal. Mr Brewer’s acting workshops gave him a few night’s relief from endless scrummaging, rucking and mauling. Apart from the obvious benefits to his health and looks, he discovered additional social advantages. There were girls involved with the production, and these rare beings added a new and intriguing dimension. Girls were an unknown quantity for lads of George’s age. They were mysterious and other worldly by reputation. However, the ones he’d encountered so far loved his cheeky one-liners and amusing anecdotes. George knew he could get to like girls too, but he wasn’t sure how to introduce himself; drama club offered a way. # His rugby coach, Mr Worth, didn’t express an opinion about George’s newfound passion. However, rumour has it he’d bet money on him quitting before the end of the winter term. Mr Worth had a firm opinion that George was ‘scrum-fodder’ and good for little else but blocking and tackling hefty opponents on the rugby field. The coach said he wouldn’t last the course and expressed his surprise when George got the audition for one of the play’s more memorable roles. He refused to congratulate the lad on his success and, even during the final rehearsals, considered it a waste of everybody’s time. # “You’re the innkeeper?” said George’s father. “I told you he’d be the next Hugh Grant, love,” said his mother on hearing the news. “That’s not much of a part, though, is it?” “I wanted to be Joseph, Dad, but---” “Every star has to start somewhere, George---” “Blink and we’ll miss him, more like.” “Leave the lad alone, at least he’s trying.” “He should have stuck to scoring tries on the rugby pitch.” “Don’t listen to him, love,” she smiled. “What does he know?” # George auditioned for several parts and accepted the innkeeper role after struggling with the lines for other characters. Mr Brewer encouraged him to stick it out and promised better parts in forthcoming productions. “It’s all experience, George, and no amount of money can buy time on the boards.” # The dress rehearsal went well for George and he made friends with all the cast, keeping them entertained and distracted from their anxieties about the show. Mr Brewer complimented George on his performance and was overjoyed when his mother volunteered to make all the costumes. The finished garments weren’t quite what Mr Brewer had expected, but with a week to go before the big night, he had little choice in the matter and focussed on blocking the scenes and crafting engaging and credible performances. # The technical performance went according to plan and George was confidant and looked forward to an exciting first night. His parents had bought tickets for themselves and insisted on bringing all George’s aunt, uncles, nieces and nephews. There was a second row filled with neighbours, work colleagues. Various members of their local church attended because of its seasonal appeal and subject matter. George’s mother held her breath, waiting for her son’s appearance, and knew that he would outshine his peers. # George’s moment was towards the end of the first half of the Nativity when Mary and Joseph reached Bethlehem. They had escaped the Herod’s legions and needed a place to stay for the night. Joseph knocked on the door of George’s Inn and he opened the door and listened to their request. George had worked himself into a bit of a state by the time his moment arrived and he stared at Joseph with contempt. He’d rather fancied the romantic lead himself, having watched Mary from afar, and he thought he’d be better in the role. Joseph cleared his throat and repeated his request to the innkeeper. George took a deep breath. “I’m sorry we’re full,” he said. “Why don’t you try down the road, mate.” Mary raised her cowed head, smiling at George’s smirking face. Joseph stuttered a feeble, “Oh, well we could try to...” Mr Brewer grabbed his headphones and hissed the correct line at George as the audience gasped and exchanged hushed whispers. “We’ve got space in the barn if you’re interested?” said George. “That’ll be fine for us,” said Joseph, and turned to help his wife. “The only thing is,” said George as they stopped and stared at him. “It’ll cost you extra, being as it’s Christmas and all.” Mary bit her lip, and Joseph’s jaw sagged as the audience disguise their amusement. George raised his inverted open hands as if to say, “What can I do?” He shrugged his shoulders and told them low and straight. “That’s business.” Everyone in the hall howled with laughter as George bowed and invited the couple into his humble corrugated cardboard stable. The welcoming structure had a balsa crib full of straw nestled below a glue-and-glitter painted star. The End