(Content warning for animal birth) When my husband left me, I felt like I was going to die. My heart ached so fiercely that I swore it would simply shatter into a million pieces within my chest. The only small consolation I could take from my husband abandoning me was that he hadn’t left me for another person. He just left because he didn’t love me anymore and he didn’t like the life we had created. “I hate this place!” he had shouted at me over breakfast. He gestured aggressively out the open window to the rolling plains and sloping hills as far as the eye could see. I didn’t understand at that moment how he could hate a place so beautiful, so full of promise. “This place takes and takes and takes and we don’t get anything out of it, Rebecca! It’s a prison!” I stood up and pointed to the cows grazing peacefully in the pastures, and the birds chirping in the little apple tree in our front yard. “How can you say that?” I had asked him. “We have so much here.” Exasperated, he stormed out of the room before turning around to say one last thing. “That answer is exactly why I think I made a mistake in marrying you. You can’t see it! You don’t understand me,” he had said before slamming the door shut behind him. His words floored me. I crumpled into a chair, shocked and wounded. Never before that fight had he said our marriage was a mistake. I loved him with every part of my soul and every fiber of my being. How could it have been a mistake? How could he not love me the way I loved him? That fight was our last fight. After that, when he returned home, he refused to even speak to me. I begged and pleaded for him to just explain to me in a way that I could understand. But all he did was shake his head and pack his bags. He left the next morning and I fell to the floor and held myself together to keep from breaking apart. I wanted to scream and cry. I wanted to smash things and tear my eyes out. The hurt was so big I wanted to jump into the void to forget it. My dad’s words crept into my head, whispering in my brain as I contemplated giving up. “You’re a rancher’s daughter. You come from a long line of ranchers who have worked to the bone to live this life. You don’t give up, you don’t cry. Wipe your tears and quit wasting your water.” The memory hurt, bringing back all the years as a child when I had to hide my tears from my dad. He wanted me to be strong and thick against the hurts of the world. Well, my chance had come. What better time to show how strong I was than when I’ve been betrayed by the one person I truly loved. I wouldn’t cry. I might die inside, but I wouldn’t cry. “Wipe your tears and quit wasting your water...” my father’s voice echoed in my head. I spent the rest of the day curled on the floor in a miserable heap, but I didn’t let myself cry. I locked the tears away, somewhere deep inside me. When it came time for my husband and me to go to court, I wore my best clothes and rallied together the last of my strength. I did my hair, put on makeup, and met him in the mediation room. As I walked into the room and saw my husband sitting beside his lawyer I almost ran away. How was I supposed to face him? How could I look that man in his eyes and discuss the fact that I would never have him again? I would never kiss him, never hug him, never share quiet evenings together. We would never again work side by side as we sorted cattle or stayed up long hours of the night to help a cow give birth. That life was gone. “My client wants full access to the savings account and the new truck. That’s it. He is willing to be amicable as long as this process isn’t drawn out. He says Rebecca can keep the ranch and the old Chevy, as well as the SUV, and the checking account,” my husband’s lawyer announced. My lawyer looked over at me carefully. “No!” I gasped, grabbing my lawyer’s arm for support. “He can’t take the savings account! That’s got all the ranch money in it! How am I supposed to feed and doctor the cattle without that money?” “My client says that money was contributed by his own income and--” the lawyer began. “Bullshit!” I interrupted. “That money was built up by my father and his father before him! My ex -husband is just the one who convinced me to put it in the same bank as his account and put his name on it! It’s not his!” My ex’s lawyer cleared his throat in annoyance. The man who once loved me stared at me, no emotion in his eyes. I hardly even recognized him. “He can take the SUV, the new truck, and half the checking account,” I offered desperately. “Rebecca...” my lawyer warned me. “No, I don’t care,” I insisted. “Take most of what we’ve got. I just want the ranch, the Chevy, and the ranch account. I need that money to keep the ranch afloat,” I begged. “I’m sorry, my client is very firm on what he wants,” my ex’s lawyer said. “How could you?” I snapped at my ex-husband. “ How could you ?” My lawyer fought on my behalf for what felt likes days, though it was only a matter of hours. But despite how hard we fought, we lost in the end. When it was presented before the judge a few weeks later, my ex won the account. Once again, I wanted to cry. It was so unfair. But I held it together somehow, pushing the tears and the sorrow down, down, down. Each day it became easier to not feel the pain. But for some reason, each day the world became a little bleaker. It was as if the color was slowly leaching from the world. Once vibrant sunrises now seemed thin and pale. The birdsong I had loved so much sounded off-tune and annoying. Food lost its flavor, and I stopped cooking for myself. When I worked cattle, I only referred to them as numbers, rather than the loving nicknames I used to give them. I had pushed that pain and sorrow down so far, but as it was drowning, it pulled my happiness and joy down with it. Time ticked by in a monotonous cycle of work and sleep. Each day melted together into one blurry haze. Without the ranch account, money was tight. There was a nagging voice in the back of my mind reminding me that I was one hardship away from losing the ranch. This ranch that my family had worked so hard for, that we had poured our blood into. Any second it could be taken from me. Spring came around and I looked forward to the rains. It hadn’t rained all winter, since my husband left me. But with the spring here, I was optimistic that the land would get the water it needed. Rain was the life-giver on a ranch. Rain made the grass grow and filled tanks for watering animals. Rain nourished the fields of hay that would feed the cattle all winter. We needed rain. March came and went. So did April. May rolled around and the skies were as clear and dry as my heart had become. The rain did not fall. Tentative shoots of grass that had begun to grow in the warmer weather soon withered and died. The cattle lowed in protest as I shoveled them hay to feed them. They too had been looking forward to lush grass pastures. My tanks began to dry up, the water levels dropping inch by inch every day. Panic soon choked my throat at night as I lay in bed, wondering how long I could afford to keep up like this if we didn’t get rain soon. June came, blowing hot dry air over the rolling hills. July was worse, with a scorching sun that cracked the earth. August came and went. Still no rain. Every day my account grew smaller. Every day I burned through the reserves of water and hay to keep my animals alive. Every day I pushed my emotions further and further down. Inside, I felt like a dried-up husk, just like the ghostly remains of grass that crackled underfoot when I walked outside. September came and it was finally time to bring a load of calves to auction. The check I got for them would help to cover some of the costs of feed that I was accruing. At the auction, the cattle were a little thinner than I liked, and the prices were a little lower. Small-time farmers were unloading their steers as fast as they could, trying to stay ahead of any long-term drought. The influx of cattle kept market prices lower. Worry began to twist my stomach. With my measly check, I returned home to pay the vet bills and load up on more hay. I groaned when each bale of hay came out to an extra twenty dollars each. My last, tenacious bit of hope reminded me that we still could have rain before winter came and froze the land. We still had time... Winter came. It came hard and fast and early. The pastures frosted over, and the cattle devoured the hay to stay warm. I was almost completely out of money. The ranch I had loved so much was slipping away from me. I had nothing to sell to make up for the lost savings account. My old Chevy was on its last foot and I had sold the SUV to pay for my lawyer’s fees. I wandered the barns, walking amongst the cows and patting them each one by one. “It’s ok girls,” I whispered to them. “We will make it through this.” “ You don’t cry,” my father’s voice reminded me. So, I pushed it down again. I didn’t know how deep the reserve of my soul went, but it seemed endless. More color leached from the world as I thought about what I would have to do next. The next week I rounded up ten of my breeding cows and took them to auction. A year ago, I would have never done that. A year ago, I would have sobbed as I said goodbye to each cow. They were the backbone of my entire life, and here I was, selling them off. When I returned home with an empty trailer it seemed fitting to me somehow. Everything had become so empty. The winter months dragged on. Christmas passed by as a forgotten holiday. There was no cheer this time, no flickering lights and fragrant trees. My herd grew smaller every week. I couldn’t stand to see the cows thinning out so miserably. The fat dissolved off their haunches from the lack of nutritious food. To try to combat it, to give myself just a little bit more time, I sold off a couple of cows every week. The money was less each time. There were too many farmers in the same situation as me, too many skinny cows coming through the auctions. I wasn’t making much money back, and the cost of feed just kept getting higher and higher. Soon enough it was calving season. What had once been my favorite time of year had become something I dreaded. I used to get such joy from the sounds of baby calves mooing for the first time. My heart used to burst with joy at the sight of wobbly legs as the calves learned to stand. Each calf got a name, and I poured all my love into them. This year all I could think was that I was going to have a hundred more hungry mouths to fill, and nursing mothers that needed extra supplements and nutrition. This year all I could think about was the muddy water that barely covered the bottom of my tanks and ponds. About a week into calving season, my favorite cow began to show signs of labor. She had separated herself from the other cattle and was restlessly alternating between standing and laying down. Dolly had been my first breech calf that I had pulled with my own hands, all by myself. Because of her traumatic birth, she required extra care and love. As she grew stronger, our bond strengthened as well. Out of all the cows, Dolly was the one who came when I called for her, who laid her head against my shoulder, and who comforted me when I needed it. She was my last friend. I knew Dolly very well, and because of that, I knew that something was wrong. Her births were normally very fast and easy. This one wasn’t the same. I got Dolly situated in one of the barns and I sat with her all night. By morning, she was finally beginning to push. Still, no matter how hard she labored, she wasn’t making any progress. Fighting back my panic, I made the decision to intervene. When I felt around, I realized the calf was too big, and its legs were folded back, causing it to be stuck behind Dolly’s pelvis. The situation had become an emergency. If I didn’t act fast to fix the problem, the calf, and Dolly, would die. Dolly watched me with her baleful brown eyes, trusting me to help her. Gritting my teeth, I tried to move the calf’s legs to the proper position, but it was too stuck. Dolly grew weaker with each contraction. Panic made bile rise in my throat. I couldn’t lose Dolly. I couldn’t bear to lose her too, after all the losses we had survived this last year. With every ounce of strength that I possessed in my body, I worked to save Dolly and her calf. “Come on Dolly! You can do this!” I urged her desperately. She bellowed in response, exhausted and in pain. “We can do this together Dolly, I promise you! I won’t give up on you. I won’t give up on us!” At one point Dolly went down and refused to get back up. Her eyes rolled back, and she panted shallowly. Pulling on her halter I tugged her face towards mine. “Don’t give up girl, please,” I begged. “Don’t give up just yet. I love you too much to lose you,” I whispered. Dolly bellowed in pain but lurched to her feet one final time. “That’s it! Cry it out, Dolly! Cry it all out! Cry that pain out of your body and let me do the rest of the work for you,” I didn’t know if I was going to manage to do it, but somehow, I did. With one final tug, the calf’s legs pulled forward into position. With a big push, and with me pulling on the legs, Dolly finally labored the calf out onto the straw of the barn. As if she had just been given a big shot of pain killers and energy, Dolly turned around to care for her calf. She began to lick it clean, softly mumbling to it with gentle sounds of love. But the calf did not move. Its chest didn’t rise and fall with breath. “No,” I cried. The labor had been too long for the little calf. “No!” I repeated. Grabbing a towel, I roughly rubbed the calf, hoping to stimulate it. When that didn’t work, I cleared out its nostrils with a suction. Desperation kicked in. I had never done CPR on a calf before, but I started it then. I blew into its nostrils and pressed its chest, trying to force life into the body. Dolly watched me, patiently trusting me to save her calf. “Come on little baby,” I urged as I blew into its nostrils. “Please don’t die. Please don’t die.” Something warm and wet filled my eyes. My chest heaved with sobs. Before I could stop myself, I realized I had tears flowing down my cheeks. All the pain of the last year bubbled out of me. Deep racking sobs broke free, and I cuddled the calf to me as I cried into its fur. I don’t know how long I cried but it was as if a dam had broken and released a river. Small movements shook me from my daze of tears. I lifted my head to see a dark eye blinking at me. The calf snorted, weakly looking around. Dolly nudged it, urging it to stand. “Thank you,” I sobbed. I was crying so hard that I could barely see as I stumbled out of the barn into the fresh air. I felt mildly confused as to why my tears were splattering so hard against my boots until I looked up. Rain hit my face, gently at first, and then harder as the clouds opened overhead. It was raining. Laughter soon took the place of my tears as I spun around under the thunderstorm, dancing wildly in the rain. Raindrops soak into the parched earth. Cattle bellowed joyfully in the pasture, licking water droplets from their damp noses. The drought lasted a year, and for a year I was a dry husk of a person. Bitter and broken, I did not let myself feel, for fear of breaking down completely. As the raindrops and my tears soothed the thirsty earth beneath my dancing feet, the color came slowly back into the world, as vibrant and wonderous as it had ever been. We would be ok.


Down the long driveway we went and there it was; a house. A house, what? Did we go to the wrong address? No, it was the right one and there was a sign. "Courtney, it is a house! What if this is a snake dancing church, I will die!" She laughed so hard she was about to pee on herself. "Well she is our friend and we spent a long time in college with her". We had been praying for her husband all those years, and he finally gave his heart to the Lord. Going back to the week before; my friend Maraleigh called and asked me to come to their church anniversary service. She knew I would not come to her church because she was Muslim. She said it was her husband's church and they were Baptist. I didn't really like that idea either but at least we worshipped the same God. So there it was; a church in a basement. It looked like a normal sanctuary inside. Now I remember my friend Barry had talked about remodeling this basement for a church. But I noticed that he was not going here. I wonder why because he gave his life to the Lord. Oh, this was not a good sign. But everyone here is so friendly and kind. I noticed it was all Asian women married to American men. They must have met in the military or I wondered if any were mailorder brides. Wow, this could be an exciting adventure learning of others' way of life. The little man behind the pulpit called for the singers to come forward and they sang traditional hymns. No one ever sings these good old hymns anymore. There were only about twenty people there and they all knew each other. There was prayer and announcements next. Then the preacher got up and asked everyone to meet and greet. Oh, this was a hugging bunch. I just quenched my shoulders and went along. I thought if my sister were here she would die. She was Miss untouchable. I liked that it was a friendly church. Maybe I would have a home now because I had become an introvert. The preacher had a descent sermon and then closed with prayer. He told everyone to go to the garage to sit down and have a meal and to fellowship. It was nice to be fellowshipping once again. Down the drive came a truck and a man got out and greeted the pastor. He went to get something out back and he puts it on the table. I am about to shriek. It is a cooked pig with its head still on. They said they had cooked it for about 24 hours. I thought back to the time I was in Mexico and my friend told me not to offend anyone by not eating. Just take the food, eat a couple of bites and then swirl it around the plate. Pretend to like their food. Now here comes another shock; a plate with a long fish on it with fixings around it. As you guessed, the head was still on the fish. How will I ever get through this dinner? Lord, please help me get through this with no offensives. After putting the food on my plate, there were trying to give me chicken soup with whole eggs in it. They told me it was duck eggs. I just took a little in the bowl. Looked like egg drop soup to me. There was a dish that did catch my eye. It was sweet potato souffle'. Now you are talking my language. We have this every Thanksgiving. This I can relate to. There were some ribs and chicken wings that caught my eyes. Those ribs look like they would melt in your mouth. The chicken wings were Teriyaki. One thing I noticed; that it was all meat. Where were the veggies? No bread? It would have been great to have a salad and green beans with this meal. I finally got sat down and I ate the things I dreaded first. Two bites each and then I ate the things I liked. They were all talking in a language I never heard before but I couldn't understand their English either. They were all laughing and having a good time. I guess Courtney and I looked isolated when a woman came over and started talking to us. I found out that she was Japanese and she was a mail-order bride. She said she did not mind because he took good care of her and she got to hang out with her friends and come to church. She was so happy and bubbly. I really liked her. After I got through dinner, we ate celebration cake. I got to talk to the pastor for a while and then I knew I wanted to come back. It had been so long since I had been to church. Most were so dead and dry and the women were always in cliques. But this one; I felt as though I might fit in. Now it was time to leave and I already couldn't wait to come back. The next Sunday, I came alone because Courtney already had a church. I decided to come to Sunday School. This was the best because they didn't go by anyone's programs. He let the Holy Spirit teach him and guide him. He knew all the things I had been studying for the past eleven years since I left the church. So we went through the service and we were going to have dinner. It was someone's birthday this week They said they celebrated everyone's birthday. I was looking at the food to see what I really wanted to eat. There was this cabbage, noodle, and pork dish. This would be my all-time favorite. One day, maybe I would get to go somewhere exciting. All my children moved to Florida. Time for a new adventure. One day, maybe I can travel to Europe and Asia. Maybe we could all take a trip together. It's only twenty people. I just know I love being here and I finally found a home.


This year, I’m going to change my own bedsheets. Waking up in the morning is easy enough. I open my eyes, shrug the crick out of my shoulders, and wait silently in bed until my blinds darken enough for the night light in my room to flicker on. It’s a bit embarrassing to still be using a night light at eighteen years old; the last person to mention that to me was my mom. I haven’t seen her in a year-which explains why my bedsheets are so dirty. She’ll laugh if it’s not clean by the time she gets back home for dinner. I guess I should take out the dirty laundry, then. The aged wooden floor creaks precariously as I slowly pad my way through the house to the kitchen. There’s an anthill in the sink that’s been there since last summer; I softly greet the wiggling mound of insects and edge around their steady line to the pantry. The doorknob to the small storeroom is coated in rust, bits of copper plating flaking onto my hand as I turn the handle, and a plume of dust greets me as the door swings open. Coughs instinctively rip through my chest and I harshly bat a hand through the air, reaching with the other for the light switch on the far wall. A warm yellow light flickers on. Through the dust, my eyes settle on the rows of merchandise neatly arranged on the shelves before me: dresses. A stunning rainbow array, albeit slightly faded, ranging from youthful summer maxis to elegantly effortless pinafores and beyond. I already know what I’m looking for, though; a bit of rummaging around the top shelves reveals a still-stunning bright blue bardot dress. I remember my mom mentioning something about wearing it to her senior prom, but the specifics are lost on me. An experimental shake sends a volley of ants spraying into the air-the dress has gained their approval. Right then and there in the pantry, I strip down to my boxers and shrug on the dress. It’s a bit of an awkward fit, the waist pinching into my sides and the skirt scraping high against my calves, but the warm feeling that washes over me entirely overshadows the faults. It’s perfect-or maybe that warm feeling is just from the ants. A giggle slips from my mouth as I whirl around in a dramatic arc, my dress spinning in an obnoxious circle in turn. Rifling through the kitchen cupboards, I thumb past the shoes spinning by their laces on coat hangers. My hands settle over a pair of worn denim combat boots-a gift from my mom, from a random yacht party years ago-and I instinctively snatch the shoes from the hanger, bearing my weight against the doorframe as I toe them on. They’re a bit too big and something soft and small briefly wriggles against my right foot before stilling. I hope Henry got a good day of rest. The ants stream beside me like a river as I stomp my way back over the bathroom for a final lookover. I grab the countertop so hard that I feel the marble splinter underneath my fingers. A wide smile spreads across my face, toothless gaps visible in the bathroom mirror’s reflection. The hem of my dress is frayed and rotted and the ensemble almost reeks worse than my bedsheets, but I cherish this outfit all the same. I wonder what my mother looked like in it. It’s time to go to the laundromat. Slipping back into my room, I strip the sheets from my bed. They’re molded and practically falling apart in my hands; I clutch them against my chest like they’re made of gold. There’s a mountain of other dirty laundry for me to attend to, but I don’t bother with them. With sheets in tow, I stroll my way back through the kitchen and kick open the front door. Quite literally-the frame crumbles as I step into the threshold. I wander out into the night, walking aimlessly along the sidewalk until I spot a homeless man crouched with his back against a wall. There’s a flicker of orange light washing across his face; he’s sitting by a small fire. I approach the man wordlessly, stopping right in front of his line of vision. He squints up in my direction, pale eyes seeming to stare right through me. His gaze darts between the sheets in my arms and the small campfire that crackles at the edge of his site and then realization flickers into his eyes. I yelp as he grabs my wrist and yanks me towards the fire. He stops just short of throwing me in. Then, with his slightly smiling face illuminated by the flames, he waits. With a resigned sigh, I dump the bedsheets into the fire. The flame gobbles up the bizarre kindling and then hisses before growing to twice its previous size; the man’s smile grows all the same. Before I can even get a word in, he thanks me profusely before whirling around and tipping face-first into the campfire. I watch on with a blank expression as the man lets himself sink into the heat, curling onto his back as flames lick at his pruning skin. A weird sound bubbles up into the air; a laugh, my brain eventually recognizes, and it’s coming from the charring mass of man that lays in front of me. He laughs, and coughs, and laughs some more, all the while roasting in a hellish blaze. His sharp, canine teeth glow like embers in his smiling mouth; beads of spittle hiss against the heat as he chokes on manic laughter. I linger beside the commotion, hastily stamping out the tiny flame that edges onto the hem of my dress. I wait there for a minute. It starts to rain. The fire only seems to grow under the downpour. Finally, after ages , the laughing ceases. The man’s giggles slope down to humored gasps before he sobers completely. Then he jerks abruptly and his eyes flicker over to me, almost as if he’d forgotten that I was waiting next to him. In the midst of the still roaring fire, a hand jerks into his coat pocket and I step forward to hold my own hand out as the man turns back towards me. Into my outstretched palm, he pours two gold coins. I curl my fingers around and pull my hand away sharply as the fire suddenly blazes anew. The man mutters his thanks again before stilling completely, letting himself be swallowed under the inferno until he’s lost from view under the flames. Satisfied, I set out for the bus stop. It begins to pour in earnest as the bus stop comes into view. Cold rain begins to seep into my shoes, but I can’t bring myself to run without fear of scruffing the boots. Instead, I let myself get drenched as I walk the final few meters. The bus is posted along the sidewalk with its hazard lights on, as if it’s been waiting for a while. It’s as if it’s waiting for me. I finally manage to clamber aboard amidst a gust of wind and rain. The bus driver wordlessly fixes me with an owlish look, blocking my path with an outstretched arm. I wait there silently for what seems like ages before it finally hits me: my fare. I unclasp rain-slicked fingers to reveal the two coins impressed into my palm. I’ve barely begun to hold out my hand when the coins are snatched with terrifying agility and then the bus is thrust into motion. I scramble to brace myself, dragging my body into one of the nearest seats before I can fall. I take a moment to catch my breath while eyeing the only two other passengers; it’s a baby and his mother in the seat across the aisle. The mother doesn’t even look up, eyes lost in the rolling nothingness outside the window, but the baby is fixated on me. I smile kindly towards him, but he never breaks eye contact. Innocent, baby blue eyes slowly cool to a deep navy as he stares back, as if he’s slowly figuring something out as he stares. His mother remains completely unfazed, her tired gaze lost in the view through the window. In my peripheral, I see the bus driver’s eyes flicker up in the rearview mirror before returning to the road. My smile drops. The rest of the bus ride is notably quiet. Some time later, the bus screeches to a halt; I, at this moment, decide that this is my stop. The woman sighs softly at the pause in movement. The baby’s head turns slightly as he follows my movements. Though the bus has stilled, the bus driver’s eyes are fixed on the road. There’s something hanging in the air, but no one decides to mention it. I get up wordlessly and mutter a thank you before stomping down the steps at the front. The sliding door snaps shut behind me, the bus taking off down the road towards the toll bridge. I absentmindedly wave at the retreating tail lights of the vehicle before turning in the opposite direction and continuing the final stretch towards the laundromat. After a minute or two, I faintly hear the sound of car horns and a considerably large splash some distance behind me. Something in the back of my head tells me it’s better not to question it. I follow my own advice and keep walking. I’m not quite sure where I’m going, but it just feels like the right direction. A few more steps and the rain picks up. This time, I take my chances running and sprint down the sidewalk towards the only lit-up building on the block. When I manage to slosh inside from the rain, the scent of fabric softener hits me like a truck. I’ve made it to the laundromat. There’s a desk with a receptionist in the front. She spots me at the door and immediately fixes me with an uncanny smile, bright white and sharp like a shark. There’s something oddly familiar about her; without half of her face turned to look out a window, I can now fully see where the bus baby got his unusual demeanor from. I don’t question her sudden reappearance as the lady leads me through the facility. She holds her arm out as a means of displaying the walls of washing machines before us, but I shake my head no. I just need to get some bedsheets. The lady pauses for a moment, brow furrowed in thought. Then the smile is back and she’s leading me through a door that’s marked for employees only. It’s cold in here. The room is littered with tables, arranged in oddly perfect rows with crisp white sheets spread out atop them. There’s something off, though; I can sense that there is more to this room. The lady smiles that strange smile and motions towards a random table on the opposite wall. I pull the sheet off the table and stare at what’s underneath. He’s staring at me. I’m awake. I’m laying on my bare mattress, the bed stripping of its sheets. There’s soft sunlight trailing through the curtains. None of it makes any sense, but nothing has for a while now. My mom is standing in the corner of the room, quietly stuffing laundry into a hamper. Words begin tumbling out of my mouth before I know any better: “You... You never came back.” She turns at the sound of my voice and smiles sadly. I try again, more firmly: “It’s been a year, and I never learned how to change my sheets.” Something in the look she gives me tells me that I never really woke up, either.


Like Emeralds There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Asher loved his wife, Evelyn. The way he looked at her made it abundantly clear to any passerby that this was surely a match made in Heaven. Asher had been his small town’s prime bachelor for a long time, thanks to his gentlemanly qualities, sharp looks, and ample fortune left to him by some relative (of whom nobody was entirely sure). He was known for his seemingly random acts of philanthropy, and constant willingness to be of service. Asher always had a smile on his face, and carried an air of optimism everywhere he went. When Asher had reached thirty years of age the townsfolk started to suspect that perhaps their favorite bachelor may have succumbed to a life of singleness. After all, it was not uncommon for people who live on their own for too long to decide that marriage may not be everything it’s chalked up to be. It was to the town’s both dismay and delight when Asher married a woman from a few towns over. “Rumor has it they met at one of those spring dances,” the townsfolk would say, “I hear after their eyes locked they already decided to marry one another.” “What was wrong with the bachelorettes here?” others would say, “Ought to give them a fighting chance hasn’t he?” argued the mothers of said bachelorettes. Regardless of how they met or how the townsfolk felt, no one could argue that the couple’s life appeared idyllic. Asher had both the undying respect and envy of his town. He had wealth, status, and a beautiful wife. Evelyn had also garnered a fair deal of envy for herself, having acquired the security of a rich, warm, and loving husband. It was typically at this stage in a man's life when he started to relax and bask in the blissful years to come. Men who appeared to possess all the treasures one could attain in this life often slowed down and did nothing more than enjoy themselves. Unfortunately, the same could not have been said for Asher. As the months continued to trek forward, he began to appear increasingly more disheveled. Dark circles imprinted themselves on Asher’s eyes, and that air of optimism soon began to disappear as though it had been blown away by some malevolent force. No one was entirely sure what the root of this seemingly spontaneous depression was, and in such a small community it was common to make somebody else's personal business your own. People would stop him on the street every chance they got to ask him how everything was going, in a futile attempt to gain any semblance of an answer to their mystery. “I’m right as rain!” he would say with a smile, “and why wouldn’t I be?” Asher did indeed love his wife dearly, and treated her as though she was entitled to every good thing on Earth. Despite this, there was just one, singular, minute problem that Asher could never seem to get over no matter how hard he tried. It was her eyes. If you were to ask any outsider, they would describe Evelyn’s eyes as nothing more than a beautiful shade of green, like that of an emerald. While this was indeed true, there was something missing that any keen observer would notice. Even Asher, with his acute observation skills, was blinded by everything else about Evelyn to notice her eyes during their hasty engagement. Evelyn’s face was fully capable of displaying anger, fear, joy, but no matter her facial expression her eyes remained akin to that of a corpse. Asher loved her, but he felt that at times they were too much to bear. Her cold, loveless, stale eyes penetrated his every thought and action, and caused him to lose sleep at night. There was something deep in Evelyn that appeared to be missing, some essential inexplicable something that made someone human. While everything else from her actions to her voice appeared human, her eyes were the critical tell that this was nothing more than an act. Asher did everything he could to overlook this. He began to pour himself into project after project, looking for work in every place he could find in an effort to avoid being home. Even though Asher had enough money to live the rest of his life comfortably, he still found himself working nine hours a day in the fields or in town. Evelyn seemed ignorant to this change in behavior and continued to live her life as though Asher had not come under some sickness in the head. Asher dreaded when the workday came to an end and had to head home. Unlike most working men, Asher counted down the hours until he was able to go to be in the fields again. Every second that he did not have to look into his wife’s soulless eyes was a relief to him. Life fell into dreary equilibrium for the couple, where Asher would go out and work in some neighbor’s field, while Evelyn would go into town to visit friends and run errands. Asher was by no means happy, but he felt that he was able to make do with the situation. Then something changed. When Asher arrived home one evening there was a very subtle change in Evelyn. So subtle that not even the most scrupulous of individuals would have been able to notice it. Her eyes would appear to blink just ever so slightly less frequently, and her stare seemed to penetrate just a little bit more. This was more than Asher could take, and that ever-so-fragile equilibrium was now beyond repair. After having endured months of paranoia and insomnia, Asher snapped, and he began to scream incomprehensible accusations at Evelyn. Something along the lines of her “being the devil” and that she was “inhuman”. Evelyn’s emotionless face and eyes remained on Asher until he lost all semblance of reason. He started to claw at the walls, topple furniture, and destroy any poor innocent décor that happened to be in the madman’s path. “Asher” Evelyn said with a tone of one trying to replicate sympathy, “Is something the matter?“ Asher turned to look at his wife and what he saw was not his wife. It was as though an unholy creature was wearing the skin of the woman he thought he loved. Not being able to contain the growing fear and apprehension, Asher evacuated the hell he called home. The destitute Asher remained missing for forty-eight hours, and the following morning Evelyn decided to take action. She notified the local sheriff, and search parties were arranged to help find her missing husband. The sheriff couldn’t help but remark on how calm she appeared, given that she was reporting on the seemingly random disappearance of her husband. Regardless, they found him unconscious in a field and had a doctor examine him for any physical ailments. Appearing perfectly healthy, the doctor dismissed it as nothing more than some stress-induced panic that caused him to act irrationally. Asher was sent home, and when the townsfolk were told to recount their side of the subsequent events, seeing him leave the hospital was the last time anyone could remember seeing Asher again. It had been a little over a month before anyone had seen Asher leave the hospital. No one had seen anyone leave or enter his residence in a suspiciously long time, so a neighbor of Asher’s took it upon himself to be a good Samaritan and check up on the couple. He knocked, waited, knocked again, waited a little longer, and knocked harder. When he realized this was a fruitless endeavor he decided to go to the sheriff. The neighbor asked him to go and make sure everything was okay, and with an air of tired reluctance at the affairs of the nosy townsfolk, the sheriff fulfilled his request. The sheriff knocked and waited. He continued to knock for the better half of ten minutes, and when he realized this wouldn’t work he resorted to busting down the door. With only a couple strong kicks the door surrendered and collapsed to the floor, and lying before him in the center of the home was Asher’s lifeless body. The sheriff pulled out his gun and entered the premises cautiously. He inspected Asher’s corpse, and saw a kitchen knife residing in his abdomen. The blood surrounding the wound was a dark crimson, indicating that this wound was not fresh. The sheriff looked around the home and saw no indication of domestic unrest, or any sign of Evelyn either. The sheriff had no idea what to make of the situation. Occasionally, maybe every couple of years, reports would float around of a newly married young man found dead in his home, with no sign of his newly widowed wife.


Aria Dauntair had been waiting for this night for five years now. She had been fifteen when she had found the solar maps in the back of the town library. Her eyes had been drawn to a table with a chess set, the pieces stopped mid game across the black and white board. She had walked to the table to examine the game when she had noticed scrolls stacked beneath it. They smelled of ink and old paper and felt rough against her callused brown fingers. They contained the most beautiful maps and calendars ever, for they depicted the night sky. Pouring over the scrolls all night she had come upon the alignment of the calendar that portrayed a complete lunar eclipse in five years' time. A full lunar eclipse meant the moon would become drenched in blood and turn an ominous red. And as a painter it was her deepest desire to capture that catastrophic color. So on the day of the eclipse Aria packed up all of her best paints, brushes, papers, and canvases into her brown satchel. Then with her easel beneath her arm she walked into the fields that separated the town from the Crass palace. In the East of these fields there lay old castle ruins from a time long forgotten. And what better place to use as a landscape? The ruins of royalty and the death of the sky; it would be a most poetic painting. Her dress was yellow and her breathing heavy as she carried her supplies to the ruins. She set them down to take a rest and pulled her springy black hair into a twist at the back of her head. Noticing a sunflower, she picked it and wove it into the twist of her hair. It was early April and the air was still cold despite the emergence of flowers. For this reason the exercise felt exhilarating, the chilly air pressed onto her hot skin to create an enchanting contrast. Aria glanced at the Crass palace momentarily before continuing to the ruins. The palace stood taller than a mountain, with buttresses like shooting stars and balconies like jutting cliffs. It was both white and black like a game board and it frightened her. The Crass’s were the royal family that ruled her town, and the town past that, and many towns beyond. In her mind, they ruled the world. They felt like gods compared to her, an orphan raised by a prophetess, taught to paint and live simply. The ruins were raised slightly upon a hill and she trudged up it, only stumbling on her skirt twice. When she reached the top she dropped her things and sat down on a piece of concrete rubble, once a great pillar, now a stone surrounded by grass. She heard a laugh and fell backwards off the stone. She stood up hastily and turned to find the source of the laugh. A girl was laying across an old dining table, her lips open with mirth. “Why are you laughing?” Aria asked. The girl stopped laughing to level Aria with a piercing stare. Aria shifted her feet uncomfortably. “What’s funny?” she demanded. The girl shrugged her bony bare shoulders. “Only that you are here. I did not expect anyone to come up here.” Aria looked the girl up and down, hoping to puzzle her out. She had unnaturally pale skin, the opposite color to Aria’s warm dark complexion. Her hair was black, straight, and long like a curtain. She was wearing a deep red dress that fell around her in petticoats and ribbons, a pool of blood drenching her slim body. Her feet were bare and her toenails painted. In one hand she held a bottle of wine and in the other her fingers clutched a small velvet purse. “You, you are very pretty,” Aria managed. “But why are you dressed like you’re going to a ball?” The girl shrugged. “I do not know. It is a game I must play. I must pretend as if I am lovely and together. It does not do anymore. I quit the game. Or perhaps I lost. I’m not sure.” “I don’t understand what you mean.” The girl slid off the old table to her feet. She tipped drunkenly to the left for a second but managed to stand upright. Then she moved towards Aria. “You have beautiful eyes,” she remarked. “I could stare into those all day.” Aria turned her face away, flattered and embarrassed. “Do you always compliment strangers like this?” The girl laughed again. It was a harsh laugh because it sounded empty. It rattled from her throat, out her pink lips, like a last breath. “You’re not a stranger to me. You’re a subject.” Aria tried to make sense of this. The girl rolled her eyes at her confusion. “I’m Lorelai Crass. Or at least I am told that is my name.” “Oh!” Aria cried and she fell harshly to her knees. They would be bruised in the morning. Lorelai laughed. “Do not kneel to me. Didn’t I tell you I quit the game? Stop playing it. We are just too girls, that is all. Call me Rosy, that is what my friends call me.” Aria stared at the flowers that poked up between Lorelai’s dainty bare feet. Bright red wild poppies and blue cornflowers. They wrapped around the princesses ankles and grew stubbornly from the cracks of concrete on the ground. Aria slowly stood up. “Why do they call you Rosy?” she asked. Lorelai, or Rosy for that matter, held out the wine bottle in front of her, tipping it back and forth in Aria’s view. The wine was a light pink and on the bottle in gold lettering it said, “Rosé.” “Why do you think?” Rosy asked, her eyebrows raised and her voice full of satire. Then she took a swig from the bottle, spilling some of it down her front and staining her satin dress. Aria was unsure what to do in this strange situation so she turned back to the reason she had come to the ruins. She set up her easel on a piece of flat marble, what could have been a ballroom years before, and propped up a canvas on it. Then she sat down on the cold floor. She opened her case of paints, their chemical smell filling the air. Rosy was behind her and suddenly leaned her chin onto her shoulder to look at the paints. “You’re a painter,” she noted quite obviously, her words tickling Aria’s ear, the alcohol on her breath wafting about. “Have you come to paint me or the ruins? We are one and the same you see. No one remembers a time when we were one piece.” Aria was becoming more worried for the princess. She glanced sideways at her and their faces came close, Rosy’s pale skin and dark eyes alarming at that proximity. Aria pulled back instinctively and Rosy’s harsh laugh echoed about once more. It was at this moment that Aria noticed something odd. Something in Rosy’s handbag was moving. “What’s in your purse?” she inquired as she fiddled with one of her ivory brushes. “Oh!” Rosy exclaimed, standing up with excitement as if she had forgotten. “I brought along a friend! Yes, a dear friend.” Aria did not like the way it was moving about in the purse, making the velvet material pulse and ripple. “What kind of a friend?” she asked, her voice trembling. The sun was beginning to set behind the purple mountains. The air was growing very cold. Rosy looked as if she was going to answer but then suddenly turned her head, her mind completely sidetracked. “That’s right!” she announced to the open air. “I almost forgot. I chose this day on purpose. Perhaps you did too?” Aria smiled, remembering the excitement the night would bring. “Yes, the blood moon! I am going to paint it. I have wanted to paint it for five years now.” Rosy sat down next to Aria on the marble, taking another quick swig of her wine. “Five years. That is a long time to wait for something. I presume nothing could be more important than being able to paint it. I suppose you would not miss this for anything.” Aria bobbed her head, the sunflower falling from her black hair. “I can’t wait,” she said breathlessly. “Perhaps you could paint me too,” Rosy suggested. “Would I look terrifying in the red light? Or tragic perhaps?” Aria thought for a second, watching the color of the clouds darken to deep blue. “Why do you say you are like the ruins? What do you mean? It doesn’t make sense.” Rosy stood up as if the words had deeply affected her. “Doesn’t make sense,” she muttered. “I sense the moon rising, that is what I sense. Do not worry about it painter girl, I mean nothing. I am nothing. Just pretend I am not here.” Then she turned her back to Aria and disappeared behind a pile of rubble. Aria was not sure how to respond so she laid out her paint brushes, touching them with affection, preparing for the moment when the moon would appear. Something cold and wet suddenly graced her cheek. Like a kiss from a corpse’s lips. She touched her cheek, surprised. The air was icy and she watched her breath billow out of her mouth. Another cold thing landed on her nose. “Snow,” she whispered, understanding. She watched as small snowflakes fell down around her and the ruins. They seemed to be falling all together, as if one body, one white unstable body. She sat beneath the snow and thought of Rosy's strange words. They became more concerning in her mind the more she tried to puzzle through their meaning. She stood and walked towards the princess to see what she was doing. She sat against the pile of rubble, the bottle of wine empty and broken into shards on the ground. Rosy had evidently cut her wrists with some of the glass shards because there was blood spinning down the skin of her forearms. The snow settled around her, landing on the bright flowers and her bare feet. The world felt terribly wrong. Rosy had the purse clutched in her hands and she stared at it as if she was about to make a great decision. The look in her swirling black eyes was haunting. “Rosy,” Aria said, trying to bring her into reality. Rosy’s eyes snapped up to the painter in front of her, clad in soft yellow, skin warm, body steady. “Rosy, what’s in the purse.” Rosy said nothing, her eyes fixed on Aria. The smell of Rosy’s blood hit Aria suddenly, metallic and musty, the snow fresh and stark in comparison. “Rosy, won’t you let me bandage up your wrists? They are bleeding so much.” “Good,” she hissed. “I love blood! Don’t you see, you lovely girl? I am not just like these ruins, I am them! I am the blood moon, and the clouds. I am everything you have ever painted. I am poetry and I, am, death.” She paused between each of her last words, her voice tense with drama. “You aren’t making sense Rosy,” Aria said, feeling like a broken record. She began to cry and it felt odd, crying over someone she did not know. But the tears came anyways, warm and heavy. “Let me bandage up your wrists,” she pleaded. But when Aria took a step forward, Rosy unclasped the velvet purse and pulled out, with one swift motion, a thin black snake. Aria flinched backwards at the sight of it. The laugh came again, echoing against the stone ruins again, echoing back at them. The snow was still falling and it came to Aria’s notice that the moon had appeared. It’s glorious blood light shone on Rosy, willing her to die. “Know what this is, beautiful painter? It’s my mother’s snake. She keeps a whole tank of poisonous snakes in her room. She likes them. One bite from this one will kill me.” “Rosy, put the snake back,” Aria pleaded, afraid to step forward again, glancing up at the blood moon then back at the girl. “Go on!” Rosy cried, hysteria running rampid along her face. “Go paint your moon! Paint it and these ruins, all these ruins! Paint my ruins! Don’t miss your chance!” Rosy laughed again and stroked the back of the thin black snake. Aria was breathing hard with anxiety, watching those cold white fingers stroking the black scales. Her hair was cold and wet on her face from the snow and her body had begun shaking from cold. Her tears had frozen on her face. She should go paint her moon like the princess said. After all this girl was ruined wasn’t she? She looked into Rosy’s eyes, asking what to do. “Go on!” Rosy commanded again. “I won’t keep you waiting!” Aria glanced at the moon and knew she could not paint it. Not now, perhaps not ever. “What about your chance?” she whispered to her. Rosy scoffed, watching the snake coil around her hand and slither between her fingers. “Now you don’t make any sense.” “You said I shouldn’t miss my chance. But what about you? You deserve a chance to keep living.” “No I don’t! What will another chance do for me? Nothing! Nothing you idiot!” Aria was overcome with pain for the girl, and stepped forward, ready to grab the snake from her hands. “Don’t move!” Rosy snapped. If I press on the back of this guy's little head he will bite. I’ll do it now if you move again! I will!” Rosy had begun to sob then. Her eyes were glossy and the tears streamed endlessly down her shallow cheeks. Aria stood frozen, feeling the whole world tipping on a scale. Possible consequences echoing all around. “I know you don’t want to die. So don’t. Don’t.” Rosy shook her head no. “You can’t stop me. You said you have been waiting for five years. Well I have been too! I have been planning this death, my death for five years! For five years I have wanted to-” And then mid-sentence Aria made a decision. She flung herself forward and stopped Rosy’s words short with a searing kiss. Full brown lips against thin pink ones. Lips frozen and wet with tears. Rosy tasted of the sweet pink alcohol she was nicknamed after and it sent a woozy sensation through Aria’s nerves. Rosy had gone still beneath Aria’s embrace, as if she was a machine, her lips the off button. Aria pressed her lips harder to hers, not daring to pull away. Willing to stay there until the end of time. It was Rosy who pulled her head back slightly, disconnecting their cold lips. Aria looked down at the snake. Rosy had not made it bite her. It sat in her hand calmly, coiled up in her white palm like a sleepy pet. Rosy’s eyes were still shut and her eyebrows were scrunched up, her jaw clenched. Aria carefully grabbed the end of the snake tail and picked up the snake from the girl’s hand. Then she placed the poisonous creature in the handbag and clasped it shut. She tossed it far to the side. Rosy’s eyes remained closed. “I still want to die,” she whispered to Aria who sat close on the snowy ground, flowers crushed beneath her thick legs. “I know. But you don’t have to. You don’t have to die.” Rosy’s eyes opened to Aria, wide and vulnerable, two open wounds. Then she fell into Aria’s arms, her sobs drenching her neck. They sat there in each others arms for an hour, the snow still falling lightly, the red moon still shining. Aria’s paints were ruined and the canvas soaked through but she had forgotten their existence. Aria realized how hard both of them were shivering and stood up, pulling Rosy’s limp body with her. “We need to get somewhere warm.” Rosy nodded against her. “Okay. Not the palace though. I don’t want to go back there. I’m done with that game.” So Aria scooped up Rosy into her arms and walked towards her paint studio, the town lights in the distance guiding her through the darkness. The wet grasses were shocking on her bare ankles and Rosy felt light in her arms. Rosy watched Aria’s face as she struggled forward. “We hardly know each other,” she whispered to Aria. Aria nodded, a curl of her hair falling over her forehead and brushing an eyelid. “And we don’t share any blood,” she continued, clutching onto the fabric of Aria’s yellow dress with her quivering hands. “But we are family now. Aren’t we?” Aria looked down at the princess in her arms. “Why do you say that? I have never had family in my life. I’m an orphan.” “Family is people who take care of each other. And save each other. That’s what you did for me.” “I only kissed you,” she remarked, not sure she could accept such a bold statement, such a word as family. “No, you brought me back to life for a moment. I was already dead years ago but for a moment I felt alive again. How can that not be, be what family does? How can family be more than that?” “I’m not sure.” “Do you not wish to be my family?” “Of course I wish it.” “You think I’m terrible don’t you? A mess.” “No. I think you’re lonely. And stunning.” “So...” “Of course I wish to be your family.” And Rosy’s lips tilted into a tipsy smile as Aria stepped onto the cobble path that led to her studio, the blood moon shining above.


"It's been what? Fifteen years. Yeah." "What is or was? I no too sabi this English thing." "What made me me." "Ahhh. This one you're making sense of today. What happened Kay?" "I never talked about my twin right?" "Yeah. I didn't want to probe. It was like you wanted the past to remain where it was. Although, I did want to know." Mide says a bit thoughtful. "Well... Here we go." "I'm the different one in the family. (Some people may replace the different with ugly if you get the gist.)" Mide knows better than to interrupt but he still does. "What! Mide screams. You've got to be kidding me. Or did you do plastic surgery and I'm not aware? How can you look like this and you say you are ugly? I can't believe you. Let me see pictures." "Nah. I didn't do plastic surgery. But here's a picture of us all." "If that's the case, then your family must be fine. Like superb. Spec. That kinda thing." I show him a picture that never left me and for a moment he is stunned into silence. He just stares at me then back at the picture. His mouth agape with shock. "Your family is beautiful. At this point, I think I know what beauty is". He says. I blush. But continue. "So, everyone had light. They were so fair. They even had strands of brown hair scattered around. And I was like this. Their hair was a crown. Mine was more like a comedy. They took me for a joke. I mean a joke. There were several jokes. But, I could not forget one, it said, we know God doesn't make a mistake, but when we see you, we doubt that. Everyone always laughed. And the joke never lost its humor. Tai was the sun and I was just a reflection of him. The moon. The closer I was to him, the more I shone but I still could not be as bright as he was. The farther, he went from me, the less I shone. Just like the sun, everyone loved Tai. He was like warmth. Shining. Even jollof rice could not compete with him. He was loved. He was smart. And you already know he's a head-turner. He was approached by several modeling agencies but he turned them down. He said he wanted to be Doctor. He was so ambitious. I hadn't figured a thing about how my life would go. He was just perfect. He could run so well, when he ran, you would feel his breeze past you. When we were fifteen, we had a small birthday party. More like Tai had a birthday party. After the party, Tai said he had a headache. Mum gave him painkillers. And just as he was about to put the water in his mouth, he fell Mum screamed. Everyone rushed down. It was so scary. Tai never fell ill. If we had known there were scarier things ahead, we would have prepared our hearts. But no. He was going to be a doctor and everyone held on to that. Tests were run on him and we waited. We were asked to go home but we just couldn't. We waited. The tests results came out and mum and dad were called into the Doctor's office. When they got out, mum couldn't look up and we knew something was wrong. Dad was still cool. He was cool in the storm kind of man. Keeping it all together till it fell away. He said it was fine but Tai would not be coming home with us that night. After much persuasion, we agreed to go home but it was obvious that the sun was absent on our planet. Tai kept his cool. He knew he had cancer. He knew he was close to the end of his life. He knew he couldn't be a doctor anymore but he still kept his light on. He was fighting cancer armed with a smile. When I found out, I became numb and dumb. I couldn't feel. I couldn't speak. I forgot how to. I just didn't how I was living all before then. The only word that kept on spinning in my head was cancer. It was ironic. He wanted to be a doctor but now, he would need several. Days passed in a blur and when the pain could no longer be masked, when his hair was gone and his face looked gaunt, Tai began to crack. It wasn't as quick as an egg. It was a slow and painful cracking. He couldn't keep up with the bits of himself that were lost. As each hair fell, so did his spirit drop till nothing was left of him. He and I now shared the same feeling. We were united in our numbness and dumbness. No one could make us speak. Not even ourselves. It was this time that I turned to self-harm. Blades, hot iron, fire were used. I enjoyed the only sensation I could feel. One day, no one knew why but Tai talked. He emptied his empty soul. And I received the only piece left of him. The next day, he died. He knew. He knew he was going to die so he left a piece of himself as a legacy in my heart. When I heard, I screamed or maybe howled. It was an ear-splitting sound that only meant pain. I tore at myself. I grabbed my hair, intending to pull it off. I couldn't do much more because I was sedated. When I came to be, I wept and wept. I did all types of crying. Loud. Silent. Tears only. The sound only. Whichever way. The numbness had left and the feelings that had been accumulated needed an escape. Seeing my state, mum and dad decided to take me to my aunt. I was always happy in her presence. She hated the jokes made about me. Affirmed me. Loved me. She's who I call Mum. She nursed me to full emotional health. I became the crazy happy person that I am. So unlike then when I had no words and no tears, I now have words. A lot of them. And as for the tears, I've become an expert in shedding tears in public without being seen. So, Mide that's what made me me." "Wow. Wow. You went through all that? I'm so sorry" "No, need to be sorry" I said. He gave me a hug and when I looked at his face, I saw tears in his eye. Tears for me.


“Ahhhh yes. Now where do we begin with Lucy?... The first thing everyone notices about her is her hair. It shines golden. Bleach blonde actually... Just like her personality. During those winter months - you know, when it’s dark when you arrive at the office and when it’s dark when you leave - well she’s a shining light... And why not? Who doesn’t need a bit of cheering up at 6:40am on a Tuesday morning? It certainly wasn’t the tea that had me coming back... I could even say, at times it tasted like fresh horse piss! No... It was something most people don’t understand anymore, a certain class, a connection, a candour. She played the role of host perfectly, a smooth blend of frankness, service and... and respect. In years gone by she would have run an establishment for the local gentry, or nobles - or something. As it was, she was a waitress at a greasy spoon just off the A34. But she played the role marvellously... Just marvellously... After a while, we got to know each other quite well. She would always joke about what a lucky woman Mrs. Dowd was... I would joke about how one of these days I was going to leave Mary and run off with her... Yes, a very pleasant woman. Well then, you can understand my surprise when one morning, while in the toilets just before work, I heard two of the regulars chatting. A gruff voice let slip a secret. It turns out our Amy was making a little money on the side. Working discreetly shall we say. I mean, she can’t have been making much as a waitress... But what shocked me was the nature of it you see - she was a dominatrix! Imagine that! I can see why though, she understood roles very well. A good actress.... Psychologically gifted... As a gentleman I never made a peep about it, but you can be damn sure that I watched her a more closely after that! People are like that.... They lead you one way... Then they take you another... The next big surprise came a few days later. She was distracted behind the till one morning. Reading a book or something... I only noticed because we’d normally be having a chat at this point, but instead my only company was the breakfast news on the radio. So, interest piqued, I made my way over to her. Without making a sound, I leant over the till to have a look. Well, I’d never seen her move so quickly in all these years! Like a rat up a drain pipe that book was out of sight! She managed the situation well, as though nothing had happened, and the conversation ran smoothly before I headed out to work. But something changed. From that day on... A look... A feeling... Yes, some sort of distance had grown between us. She was watching me and I was watching her. Of course, it’s only natural for a man to feel a certain... frisson, in such a situation. But you must understand, as a married man... No, it was a purely intellectual curiosity. So, there I was, Mr. Nosey Parker, like a basset hound sniffing for blood. It was quite innocuous at first, just a peek into her car at the car park, through the passenger window. Well, let me tell you, there was... there was... well there was a lewd instrument! Just there, laying on the seat! I tell you, I almost had a heart attack! Oooh she wanted to get caught, I can tell you that. She knew I was sniffing around, and she wanted to get caught. She was leaving me tracks... What’s a man to do in such a situation? There we were circling one another like... like a whirpool, it was only a matter of time before we... plunged down into the sinkhole, as it were. Anyway, like a fool, I decided to take the initiative. I took the day off work. I went into the café as normal, suit and all, of course. So as not raise any suspicion you see. Then I parked my car around the corner, just off the T-junction, and waited. What was I thinking! Well, there it is, that’s what I did. So, I waited until... it must have been just before midday. Out pulls her little coral red Fiat 500 and starts off down the road. I followed just behind. It was rather exciting, but there I was cool as a cucumber, hanging back a car or two. I almost lost her when she turned off just after Stafford! But the hunt was on! Twisting and turning we meandered through some country roads. It was all becoming rather personal, what with the single lane and the hedge rows obscuring everything else. Tunnel vision. Just me and the back of her car. Just me staring at her... behind. Well eventually, she turned off down a dirt track towards the most derelict looking barn you have ever seen. Luckily, I saw a layby on the other side through a gap in the hedge row. What a find! But then I’ve always had the best luck. Without giving away the plot I drove on and parked up at the layby. To cut a long story short, I crept round to the front. The heavy front hung loosely from the top hinge, just, ever so slightly... squealing in the wind. My heart was racing and my blood pumping! What if... what if I saw... Well I skulked through... into the darkness... There were no lights in there, you see, just slats missing in the roof, through which great... shafts of sunlight thrusted into the dusty dinge. Blinking, my eyes adjusted to the gloom, when, there in front of my eyes, I saw... I saw a dungeon. A scaffolding of straps and chains and what not. I couldn’t quite take it all in! Then just as suddenly... darkness. When I came to, I was hanging. I was groggy... Strapped up by my arms and legs, just like this... I remember the drool running down my chin like syrup. I was gagged... Then, from the shadows she emerged... Mistress Lucy...She... She was... I had never seen her like that before... In a tight leather corset, with... And so imperious, such an... She looked at me like she owned me! ‘Hello Piggy’ She says! Her! To me! Well I was shocked, as you can imagine, but there was more, there was... a fire, do you understand? I tried shout, to call out for help, but it came out as a muffled whimper. ‘You’ve been a bad little Piggy haven’t you, following me around in the shadows.’ I struggled... I kicked out, I tried to break free... I did... ‘Mistress isn’t happy.’ I noticed the garden shears in her hands, and I tried... I really tried to break free in a twitching frenzy... ‘Mistress isn’t happy and you are going to make it up to her.’ My screams just came out as a bubbly moan. ‘She’s going to train you, she’s going to turn you into a good Piggy slave or...’ The shears clapped twice like snapping of a hungry crocodile. ‘Mistress wants you to kill Mrs. Dowd and serve Mistress from now on...’ Oh how I screamed... “ The feverish glimmer of his eyes was the only light shining from the abyssal black of the gimp mask. He had been declaiming in this manner for some time now, his zipped-up mouth muffling the monologue. Mark was pouring with sweat. He couldn’t help but notice the pair of garden shears in the gimps hand. “So you see,” whined the gimp. “Everyone learns to serve her, but in the beginning, we just need a little help.


It's a text-based game that you download on your phone, that lets you make choices and develop your 'bitlife' by aging them up. I found it while looking for a game to occupy myself during a 6-hour flight, and against all odds, I got hooked to it. I’m not much of a ‘gamer’, unless you count Candy Crush, but for some reason this game really drew me in. All the options and unique scenarios just kept me coming back for more. My first ‘Bitlife’ died as a mid-level salesman. The next was a famous musician. The one after was a notorious serial killer. Every new ‘bitlife’ was different, and every one more interesting than the next. One day, I was lying on my couch, sipping on a vitamin water as my latest bitlife lived out his final years. He was a very successful CEO, married to his partner for 40 years, and was the loving adopted father of two boys. The black ‘death’ screen popped up, as I aged him up one last time. “*Gary Newell died at the age of 82.*” “*He passed away peacefully in his sleep.*” I let out a satisfied sigh. Gary lived a very fulfilling, very successful life. I took another sip of my water, letting the silence of my apartment envelop me for a few moments. I checked the time. 9:18 p.m. Enough time for me to start a new life. I clicked the little sperm icon to start again. My phone froze, the screen becoming unresponsive for a few seconds. Frustrated, I locked and unlocked the screen to try to get it to work again. It flickered back to life, the app opening again. I gasped as double-checked the new name. “*Rita Thatcher*”. The exact same name as me! I let out a laugh, trying to imagine what the chances are that the random name would be mine! I decided I was gonna give little Rita the best life possible. Make her a CEO, or a famous painter. Maybe even a movie star. Feeling excited, I took a look at the information screen. “*I was born a female in Glasgow, UK.*” My eyes went wide as I double-checked the location. I was born in Glasgow. My excitement slowly faded to a dull sense of dread as I continued to read. “*Born 28 November.*” Same day as me. The feeling of dread grew as I read the names of the parents. "*David Thatcher, writer. (age 29)*" "*Willow Thatcher, police officer. (age 27)*" Those are my parents names. My dad was a writer, and my mom was a police officer back in those days. I quickly did the math, and the ages also matched. With shaking hands, I clicked "Age up". "*Age: 1 year. My mother and father had a baby boy named Jenson.*" My blood turned to ice as I read the text again. "No way." I said to myself over and over, unable to believe that this is really happening. My stomach wrenched itself into knots as I thought of my poor, sweet brother. I clicked "Age up." Nothing showed up for Age 2 and 3. With each blank screen, the feeling of dread that sat inside me eased up just a little. I tried to imagine what the odds of all this being a coincidence was. Probably impossibly low. I clicked "Age up." "*Age 4: your parents want to buy you and your brother a pet spaniel named Daphne!*" I let out a shriek as I dropped my phone and scrambled to the other side of the couch. I fell off the edge, my butt hitting the cold, tiled floor. I sat there for a bit, curled up and taking deep breaths. I remembered Daphne's sweet, brown eyes and golden coat. My parents got her for Jenson and I when I was four. She was my sweet angel, my best friend for five years. I sat on the floor for a few seconds more, as the weight in my stomach eased up enough for me to get up. I went to the kitchen, grabbed a glass from the cabinet and poured myself some water. I leaned against the counter, taking slow sips as the feeling of dread faded little by little. I placed the empty glass in the sink and turned the hot water on, grabbing the sponge and dish soap as the water heated up. Still in a daze, I cleaned the glass, rinsing off the suds and placing it on the rack to dry. I think I'm just tired. Overworked and delusional from working a double shift. I'll just turn off the game and go to bed. I jumped as a 'Ping!' sounded from the lounge. It's my phone, letting me know I had a message. I made my way to the lounge, sitting back on the couch as I picked up my phone and glanced at its screen. Bitlife was still open, it's text waiting patiently for me as I swiped down and checked the notification. It was from Bitlife. "*Don't leave just yet!*" it said. "You must be losing your mind, Rita." I told myself, as I clicked "Age up", bracing myself for whatever came next. "It's just a game." I tried to tell myself. It didn't help. "*Age: 6 years. My dad is now addicted to alcohol.*" I tried to lock the phone, my hands fumbling over the button over and over in a panic. The screen refused to lock, the text becoming blurry as I started to cry. In frustration, I threw my phone across the room. It gave a loud **Crack!** as it bounced against the wall, it's screen ripping off and hanging from the main body. The phone started pinging. Slowly at first, but picking up speed until it became a torrent of noise. Mechanically, I made my way over to it, delicately picking up the screen as its cabling snapped off and left the main body behind. Impossibly, notifications flooded across the top of its lit screen. "Don't leave just yet, Rita!" it said, all from Bitlife. I watched as they flickered by. Suddenly they stopped, one final message popping up from the Text app. It was from my dad. "*Keep playing, Rita.*" I clicked "Age up." "*Age: 7 years. My brother Jenson died at the age of 6.*" My eyesight became more blurry as tears flowed down my face. "*He died in a car crash.*" My dad was driving that car. He picked him up from nursery school and was on his way to pick me up from my school when it happened. It was a head-on collision. The police found my dad over the limit, and halfway across the other lane. Another notification, this time from my mom. "*Keep going!*" Numbly, I clicked "Age up." "*Age: 8 years. My mom died at the age of 35.*" The phones speakers came to life from the other side of the room, giving me a start. Two voices flooded out of it. It's been years, but I recognized my parent's voices. It started out hushed, both of them whispering to each other so as to not wake little Rita. Soon the voices grew louder and louder, filling the living room as they screamed angrily at each other. I cupped my ears, trying to drown out the sounds. It grew louder, the noise filling the room until I screamed, trying to drown them out. Suddenly it stopped. A door slammed and the sound of heavy footsteps marched away. I heard someone open a kitchen drawer, the utensils clanging together inside it as someone rifled around. They pulled something out, slamming the drawer shut as they made their way back to where they came. I heard another 'Ping!' come from my phone. "*She was stabbed by my father during an argument.*" The screaming turned my blood to ice. It started off loud and shrill, the sound reverberating throughout the house. It started becoming hoarse and choked, before cutting off to a gargling silence. I cupped my hands over my ears, dropping the screen as I curled into a ball. I began screaming, telling it to stop as the sounds of my dad's labored breathing joined the sounds of his knife. Suddenly it cut off with another 'Ping!'. As my vision returned, I looked up at the screen. "*Keep playing, Rita.*" I clicked "Age up." "*Age: 9 years. My father committed suicide in prison at age 38. I've been sent to an orphanage.*" I clicked again. "Age up." "*Age: 13 years. I was adopted by Adam Whiteley and Sarah Whiteley.*" Another 'Ping!'. "*Almost there.*" "*Age: 15 years. My adoptive father hit me for not finishing dinner.*" 'Ping!'. "Age up." "*Age: 18 years. I ran away from home.*" "*Age: 19 years. I got a job as a barista.*" "*Age: 20 years." "*22 years*" 25. My breathing is shallow, my head is fuzzy and my hands are shaking as I stare at the screen. 25 years. I turned 26 today. I jumped as I heard another 'Ping!'. "*Almost there.*" I clicked "Age up." The black 'Death' screen popped up.


HARRY GET OUT YOUR CANE. Ginny sat, once again, in her therapist's office. She wondered if she’d ever be done with this woman, yet in the same moment looked upon her with deep gratitude. This person had stood beside her for almost two decades. She stored an encyclopedia of details about Gin’s life and knew things and connections to things that few others did. Gin could be quite a blabbermouth and though she told people much, she hid even more. Her words often became a shield that protected her from those she felt most vulnerable. The woman who sat in front of her knew exactly the myriad of ways Gin tried to twist and squirm in her attempts to get off an invisible hook. With one sentence, she could reel Ginny in to a standstill. In this brief moment of respite the therapist's words then had a chance to penetrate a rather thickened outer shell. And so...the therapist’s words, “You deserve a relationship in which the person is equally invested in you!!” sent Ginny into a tailspin. This woman rarely spoke with exclamation marks and Ginny was taken aback by the directness of her observation. The words zapped her like an electrical charge. She had little to say, her tongue felt tied. The thrill of the shock from her words, sent Ginny out of the office, into Luke's waiting truck. The pair headed off into the wild blue horizon. More precisely, home to Gin’s garden. Ginny had great hopes for getting this man into her garden. He certainly had been generous in planting seeds, which, watered by her imagination, produced erotic scene after erotic scene. Most of Luke’s suggestions culminated with him generously spreading his seed across her already lush landscape. She held onto a vague dream where this fantasy would become reality. It didn't happen. As the couple sat and visited, Gin watched Luke retreat into his ivory tower and as hard as she tugged and enticed, he obstinately refused to budge. As Luke coolly spelt out his position, a lovely white feather drifted down and settled at Ginny's feet. She smiled, glanced up into the clouds and...admitted defeat. She was tired of fighting, of always seeking the best in others so that they would then see that reflection through her eyes. She'd begun to see what an arrogant, pretentious act this was. Yes, she was capable of great insights into human nature and had the ability to scour and dig past places few dared to explore. However, having the ability to do something and then ACTING upon that ability, were two different things. What happened most often for Gin was that the person ended up resenting her intrusion and, rightfully so. Her 'marks' would at first be amazed at her abilities to sleuth out hidden secrets and then once they realized the full scope of her powers, would turn and run. Most often they grabbed whatever weapon available to cut the insidious ties that had begun to bind them to this rather remarkable woman. Gin's default position then became a weighty tome of resentments. She would work very hard to stab herself in her heart, in her belly, in her side, over and over again, crying out, "Poor me, why am I so hard done by?" She had finally begun to learn the lesson set out for her by a power so much greater than herself. She entered the safety of her apartment, alone, no Luke in hand. She ate some yogurt and fruit, drank water and retired to her bed for a rest after an emotionally charged morning of activity. Ginny promptly fell asleep.... Lilith woke up panting. She slipped a hand down to her throbbing Netherlands and immediately exploded in a fiery burst of rippling waves of pleasure. She sighed, knowing that her twin, Ginny was soon going to grab her, chastise her severely and then...well, Gin could throw a wet blanket over any fire Lilith started. Ginny could be a bloody pain in the neck. Her prissy assed morals and ‘good’ Catholic girl indoctrination often put a crimp in Lilith’s lifestyle. Sure enough, Lilith felt that irksome sibling’s hand snake out and grab her by the butt. The gentle pinch held promises of a more painful prodding. Lilith’s still rippling orgasm began to settle down and out of the ashes, arose...a beautiful fiery Phoenix. This mythical creature born again and again, silently admonished Lilith with a gentle reminder - “Love should never be a weakness or a place of harm, It should stand rather as a pillar of strength, offering a soft refuge in a turbulent storm.” Lilith had been engaged in a rather steamy affair with a guy that had caught her twin’s attention. Luke wasn’t quite sure what he had trapped, but sensed that Gin’s rather sedate, prissy assed exterior was but a facade for a hidden beast that roamed wild and free. He would have been wise to pay heed to Jim’s warning in the song 'Riders on the Storm'... “There's a killer on the road, his brain is squirming like a toad.” "Into this world Luke had been born, like a dog without a bone." Luke was a musician and easily got caught up in the passion of rhythm. For it was in those brief moments of time that he escaped the prison of his brain and flowed down rhythmically into the rest of his body. He felt hostage to the urges that prodded him to entice, tease and manipulatively nudge Ginny into places that horrified her. She would admonish him severely for his ‘inappropriate’ behaviour and in the same breath, ponder the size of his penis. He’d been rather blatant in his attempts to hook her interest in that organ. One of his observations, “Yes, I fared well when we moved from Imperial to metric, I went from 7 to 17” was an offhand enticement that may have crossed an invisible line. What he didn’t quite realize was that his teasing had aroused Lilith. This creature had been with Ginny for many years. She had sensed her presence many times throughout her life and though she had vague recollections as to Lilith's birth, chose instead to ignore and sublimate this rather troublesome companion. When Lilith came out to play, Ginny’s response was to run and hide, hoping that her twin would grow tired of the game or, get bored and leave. Ginny had allies. Her mother for one. Trixie sensed that her daughter housed some mysterious stranger and she did her best to squelch this rather irksome guest. She ran herd on a child that could be quiet, obedient and rather angelic in one breath and in the next, turn into an unrecognizable feral cat. Trixie did her best to tame this being but came to realize she was fighting a losing battle. Had she been of a generation that understood certain signs in a child, she might have guessed that what happened to her oldest child, at the age of three, at the hands of an inquisitive, hormone driven teenage boy needed to have been addressed. Sadly it took Ginny over 40 years to face the inner issue that had coloured and tainted every moment of her life. Her memory of being carried through the deep forest, was as fresh as the day it happened. Her family was very close to another family who had several children, some older than Gin and some younger. Gin's favourite was the 13 year old son. A hormonally driven teenage boy who was quite indulgent with her. The two families had gone camping. Ginny at 3 adored her 13 year old hero and followed him around like a little puppy. The families joked about their relationship and no one seemed to think it anymore than a little girl’s crush. What happened to end this innocent arrangement, left an indelible scar on Ginny's psyche. The betrayal that happened twisted and jaded her sexual experiences for most of her adult life. Ginny distinctly remembered sitting on the boy's shoulder as he carried her through the forest on their way to the beach. What anyone observing, even carefully, would never have guessed was that while he ‘protectively’ cupped her behind as they walked, he managed to wiggle two fingers into the deepest recesses of Ginny’s body. Her memory? The boy she adored, touching her in a way she found incomprehensible. Her body, however, perfectly comprehended what was being done and...responded. It was at this moment Lilith was born. As Ginny retreated further and further into the sky, Lilith settled deeper and deeper into the body they shared. Lilith loved the sensations produced as the boy stroked her clitoris and slid his finger further and further into her vagina. Ginny? Not so much. She remembered somehow watching what was being done to her body and she flew high up into the sky. It was many years later, as an adult in group therapy that she was finally able to look at what had happened that day in the forest. It took many more years, two failed marriages, an affair with a woman and years of recovery from a disease which frequently took the lives of those who hosted this unwanted guest. Into her sixties, Ginny finally began to trust men...tentatively. She was still suspicious and not quite ready to risk being stabbed yet again. She'd carefully tested the water a few times but usually found a myriad of excuses as to why her dreams could not be fulfilled. Luke, for her, was a great puzzlement. Their relationship, as it developed, brought more and more confusion for Gin. And as always, when Ginny was confused, especially about sexual matters, Lilith came to the rescue and dealt with the problem at hand. With Luke, she was ruthless. She took his provocative teasing and carried it to a level that shocked even a rather jaded musician who had been immersed in a world of “sex drugs and rock’n’roll.” He may have been able to handle Ginny, but not Lilith. She was a hard one to control and when she came out to play, well, no guarantees on what could happen. Lilith was wild, crazy and totally unpredictable. She flew with whatever wind blew her way and when stuck in a doldrum, found many ways to entertain herself and her fellow shipmates. Life was rarely dull when Lilith was in charge! Lilith highly approved of Luke. She smacked her lips, thought to herself “what a delectable morsel this one appeared to be.” Her biggest problem was how to ditch Ginny and her annoying habit of trying to duck out of ways to have ‘fun’. Luke, Ginny and Lilith began spending many hours texting one another. Luke may have believed it was Ginny he was communicating with, when in fact, it was mostly Lilith. She cast out her lures and Luke bit...till he realized that something strange was happening and that he was caught up in an adventure that, at best, was headed for a train wreck. Luke was actually a pretty cool headed guy. His attention to this woman he had unsuspectingly snagged was like a soothing balm to a deep wound. Someplace inside him recognized a troubled soul and he reached out as best he could from his own well of experience, strength and hopes. The odd part was that his own personal issues meshed very well with this woman he had engaged in extremely scintillating provocative texting. Eventually he seemed to come to his senses and sent Gin the following message: “ I'm trying to focus more on what's really best for me, and less on what I think is best for the world. 🌝I have to be honest.... You really need to know that I have no intention of becoming involved with anyone, in any type of romantic endeavors for the foreseeable future. I'm now happy and free...but yet very much wanting to continue with a program of recovery I'm thankful that you've decided to continue looking for "that person" in your life. My friendship with you is not in any way contingent on whether you should find 'that partner.” The message was loud and clear to Gin. Most importantly, it got through to Lilith! Ginny knew this was a man of integrity and honour and one who was doing his utmost to live a life of peace and serenity. She reigned Lilith in, hard. She doubled up on her vigilance over her twin and made every effort possible to accept the situation as it was and at the same time demand and expect accountability. She knew in her heart that even Lilith was not so cruel and selfish as to continue with behaviours that caused harm to herself, Ginny and those who crossed their paths. One of Gin’s decisions was to cease texting, not just with Luke but with those that used this format as a way of avoiding...much. She suffered a small amount of grief, but knew her love for this man was deep enough and pure enough to overcome whatever trouble Lilith may have stirred up. She was very grateful for the catalytic charge he’d detonated within the deepest well of her being. Over the course of the next week, much fell into place for Ginny. Lilith decided to behave, for the most part, and life became...very good. Ginny pondered her therapist's words and the years of counseling that led up to her advice. She knew without doubt that Luke had set a wonderful example for her and her gratitude spilled out into total acceptance of the fact that indeed, “She deserved a relationship in which the person was equally invested in her!!” She began looking beyond the limitations imposed by her previous experiences and saw...a sea of possibilities. She smiled at the images that swam across her imagination. She turned on her music just as Joni started singing “Carey”. Ginny had always heard 'Carey' as 'Harry' and in her mind, that was who Joni was singing about. The wind was in from Africa and images of elegant men with canes began to blow across the corners of her imagination. The next song in the iTunes shuffle just happened to be an old Skeeter Davis song, "Gonna Get Along Without You Now". Ginny laughed. Her Higher Power had a very droll sense of humour. As Skeeter finished up, Eric Clapton's old band, Cream began playing. Ginny gasped as the message sunk in... She was FREE!