Herb Goes Out In A Huff They should have seen it coming. It had been building for a long time. Still, the event shocked all who witnessed it and is still talked about in the cafeteria, around water coolers, even in the parking lot as the workforce arrives in the morning and leaves at the end of the day. In this mega-company with facilities throughout the world, “Going Postal” has been replaced with “Going Herb.” The highlight of the annual Christmas Party is “Who Gets the Herbie”?, a prestigious award bestowed upon the worker who committed the most outrageous act of employee disregard for the welfare of the company. Herb wasn’t so much a loaner as he was an outcast. No one could stand Herb. It was a good day at work if you didn’t cross paths with Herb. Rude, obnoxious, mean, nasty, offensive...and those were his good qualities. The official TOE (Time of Event) has been chronicled as 11:42 AM though many put it closer to noon. Those closest to Herb’s cubicle and still suffering from PHSD (Post Herb Stress Syndrome) aren’t even sure of the date. It was said with such volume, such anger, teetering on a primordial scream of anguish-“I quit!!” Gladys, seated in the cubicle directly across from Herb knew something was up when he suddenly executed a leopard-like leap onto his desk, ripped off his shirt and dropped his pants before announcing his resignation. For reasons unknown to anyone, Herb apparently thought his announcement would be more impactful if made in his underwear, much in the mode of Lady Godiva’s legendary ride in the buff to protest a social injustice. All present agreed that it was an attention getter. The tirade continued. “I hate this place! I hated Barnes, and I hate the new guy Jones! I hate my cubicle! I hate all of you!!” Herb’s co-workers looked on in stunned silence while many were impressed with the amount of preparation that must have gone into his departure. The anthem of the disgruntled employee “Take This Job and Shove It!” was blaring out of an I-Pad on Herb’s desk as he gyrated wildly to the music in his underpants. Vigorous twerking with imaginary figures added artistic merit to the performance. He reached down into a box and threw handfuls of shredded paper into the air while shouting “Here’s your freaking Employee Handbook assholes!” At this point Jones, the new office manager, ran into the room to investigate the commotion. Upon seeing him, Herb pulled down his shorts, bent over and shockingly delivered a full moon salute to his boss. Herb then executed an awkward, yet impressive, foot-shuffling full pirouette so everyone could get the message. It was upsetting for all present, especially for Gladys whose close proximity provided unwelcome detail. Jones clearly misunderstood the moment. " Get down from there right now! That’s an order!” " I guess you missed the first part you freaking moron! I already quit!” Jones still wasn’t getting it. “You’re fired!” Herb, showing great agility for an older man, hopped down to the floor, donned rubber gloves, and grabbed a large bucket from under his desk. As he danced around the office in his underpants shouting obscenities, he sprinkled handfuls of an unknown substance on his co-workers’ desks. The gesture caused an immediate panic as it was known that Herb’s Uncle had a small dairy farm just ten miles from the city. Everyone stampeded to the exit leaving Herb alone to finish his goodbye opus. With each desk deposit, Herb left a note for the cubicle’s occupant. A sampling: “Marcie- Thanks so much for the twelve rejections. I hope Frankenstein shows up at your wedding, and then you and Rod rot in hell.” “Tom- Thanks for tanking my chances with Katie. I hope you rot in hell with Marcie and Rod.” “Connie- Would it have killed you to sit with me at lunch just one time? Maybe I could have warned you about eating too many chips so you wouldn’t have gotten so fat.” “Gladys- Why the hell do you think cans of deodorant kept showing up on your desk? Couldn’t you have given yourself a good squirt just one freaking time?” “Jerry- Thanks for giving Ralph that new chair that I should have gotten. The next time you go swimming in the ocean I hope a shark bites off your wiener.” “ Mister Jones- If you think cream rises to the top, look at it this way- poop floats.” Herb dressed himself and stepped into Mr. Jones’ office to empty the remaining dried dairy farm dust and clumps onto the rug. He paused at the door, looked back to admire his work, and left. ---------- The next morning a still agitated Mr. Jones called his assistant into his office. “Thank God that jerk is gone, Jerry. I knew he was trouble the day I arrived.” “For sure. He certainly was an odd duck.” “Well, we should probably find a replacement for him as soon as possible, you know, to keep things running smoothly. What did that goof do here?” Jerry appeared to be deep in thought. “Uh, I’m not exactly sure. We have Accounting and Sales mixed into the area. We even have a couple people in Customer Relations. I’m not exactly sure what he did.” “Let’s hope he wasn’t in Customer Relations. You’re the Assistant Office Manager, and you don’t know what he did?” “Not really. He was here when I got here seven years ago. He was kind of a loner, a real loser to tell the truth. I never had a need to deal with him. I never wanted to deal with him.” “Well, find out what his duties were. I want to put this whole Herb episode behind me as soon as possible.” ---------- “Say Ralph, Mr. Jones and I were going to start our search for a replacement for that idiot Herb. We’re not exactly sure what to put down for a job description. Maybe you could fill me in on his duties here.” Ralph looked puzzled. “Herb? Well, he was on his computer a lot. And he made a lot of phone calls. He wrote stuff down too.” “Well, was he in Accounting with you?” “I don’t think so. Ask Tom in Sales. He knows everything about this place.” ---------- “Herb? No, he wasn’t in Sales. I thought he was in Accounting.” “Are you sure? Ralph says he wasn’t in Accounting. He must have been in Sales.” “Jerry, I’m the head of Sales. I would know if Herb was in Sales.” “Gladys, can you tell me exactly what Herb did around here?” “He bothered people, that’s what he did.” “Yeah, I know that, but what did he do for work?” “I have no idea.” “Gladys, you sat next to him for five years, and you don’t know what he did here?” “Haven’t got a clue. I tried my best to ignore him. We all did.” “Connie, did Herb ever do any work in Customer Relations?” “Oh God, lets hope not. If he did, we probably wouldn’t have any customers.” ---------- “Mr. Jones, I’ve canvassed the entire office, and no one seems to know what Herb did here.” “You’ve got to be kidding me. How are we supposed to replace him if we don’t know what he did?” “That’s a good point, sir.” “He was here for twenty-five years. How can no one know what his job was?” “That’s another good point, sir.” “Stop it with the ‘good point’ crap, Jerry. I need some help here. Do you have any ideas?” “Well, I would just call Corporate. They cut the checks. They’ll know what he did. They must have a good job description on file for Herb’s position.” “Jesus Christ, how do I call Corporate and tell them we’ve had a guy here for twenty-five years and we don’t know what he did?” “That’s a good...I mean, yeah, that would be awkward.” “Oh my God, I just remembered. A team from Corporate is coming here next week to review my first three months as Manager. They’ll probably ask about staffing. What if they ask me about the vacancy in Herb’s position?” “Yeah, that could be a problem.” “What would I tell them? Dammit! That freaking Herb is a problem even after he’s gone.” “Well, sir, there is one thing you could do.” “What’s that?” “Call Herb and ask him what he did.” “Call Herb?! Are you out of your mind?! The guy called me a floating turd!” “Actually, I think his note said ‘poop’, sir.” “Jerry, I don’t think there’s a great deal of difference between a turd and a poop.” “I guess not. I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page.” “Same page?! What the hell are you talking about?! Poop, turd, bag of shit, what difference does it make? He insulted the crap out of me.” “That’s kind of funny.” “What’s that?” “You said crap because he called you a poop.” “Not funny, Jerry.” ---------- Two days passed. Jerry and Mr. Jones tried everything they could think of, but still could not come up with anything on what Herb did during his twenty-five years with the Company. “Why are you so concerned about what he did here? He’s gone. Be thankful for that.” Most going away parties are held with the retiree in attendance. Herb’s was held the weekend after he left. It was indeed a festive occasion as the song from “The Wizard of Oz” was sung repeatedly throughout the evening, with modified lyrics. “Ding-dong, Herb is gone, Which old Herb? The wicked one, Ding-dong, The wicked Herb is gone.” A sense of peace hung over the maze of cubicles Monday morning while stress and worry still reigned in Mr. Jones’ office. “Jerry, I have an idea on this Herb thing.” “What’s that?” “Well, since I can’t call the jerk, I thought you could call him.” “Huh?” “He insulted me, compared me to a poop. I can’t call him.” “Hey, he wants a shark to bite off my wiener. That’s worse than being called a poop.” “Maybe, but you’re forgetting one thing.” “What’s that?” “I’m the boss. Do you like being the Assistant Manager and having your own office?” ---------- Ring, ring. “Hello, what do you want?” “Hi! Is this Herb?” “Who wants to know?” “Jerry, from work.” “Huh?” “Jerry, you know, the Assistant Manager.” “Oh, are you that weaselly little red haired butt-kisser?” “Uh...yeah, I guess that’s me.” “What do you want butt-boy?” “Well, we were all talking the other day, and we couldn’t quite remember what you did at the office. So, I thought I’d just give you a call and ask you...maybe, you know, I just thought you could tell me what your job description was.” “You thought wrong. Get lost, loser.” ---------- “How did it go, Jerry?” “Not so good.” “What did he tell you?” “Nothing. He wouldn’t say a thing about what he did here.” “We need a Plan B. Think, Jerry think. We’ve got two days.” “I don’t know. The guy is pretty difficult.” “Hey, I’ve got an idea.” “Am I involved in this new idea?” “Of course. You’re my right hand man. Remember the census thing a couple years ago?” “Yes...” “Well, you go to his house...” “What?!” “...and pose as a census taker. Tell him the last guy forgot to write down what he did for a living, and you just need fill in the missing information. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.” “That’s not going to work. He’ll recognize me.” “Put on a disguise...and we’ll get you a badge so you will look official.” “The guy is a nut job. What if he shoots me?” “That’s a chance I’m willing to take.” ---------- “How did it go?” “Not so good.” “What did he say?” “He said he hates the Government and anyone who works for the Government. He wouldn’t even open the door. Then I heard a barking, snarling dog. He said if I didn’t leave he’d let the dog out, and it would rip me to shreds. So I took off running.” “That’s it?!” “Yeah, that’s it. It sounded like a really big dog, sir.” “Jerry, if you’ve got upper management ambitions, you can’t be giving up so easily. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. Looks like I’m going to have to have to come up with a Plan C myself. Jesus Christ, I have to do everything around here.” ---------- The cubicle dwellers continued to perform their tasks, unaware of the turmoil brewing in the boss’s office, and inside his head. What would he tell the review committee should they ask about the vacant position? He could just make something up about the intensive job search underway. Too risky. He could bring in his deadbeat cousin Mel and have him sit in the cubicle and look busy while the Corporate guys were there. No, someone out there would snitch. Think, Mr. Jones, think. “Jerry! Get in here.” “Yes sir.” “I have another good idea.” Jerry appeared less than enthused. “I’m sure you do, sir, What is it?” “We tell Herb we have a nice retirement gift for him, you know, like a cheap watch or a small plaque, something like that. Then...someone... takes it over to him. He’ll be appreciative of the gesture, and then that...someone... can engage him in conversation and get him talking about what he did here.” “A retirement gift for Herb? Why would we do that? Everyone hates him.” “It’s a ruse, you dope. Just to get a foot in the door and get him talking. I thought about...someone...bringing him a nice fruit basket and telling him he was the employee of the month, but he would probably see right through that.” “Probably, especially since we’ve never had an employee of the month.” “We’re agreed then. Run out and buy a moderately priced Casio and take it over to Herb’s, butter him up, get him talking. And don’t give up so easily this time. Stay with it until you get the scoop.” “I can’t go back there! His dog will kill me.” “Do you like your office, Jerry?” ---------- Knock, knock. The first response was a barking, snarling, growling dog. “Quiet down Killer! Who is it?” “It’s me, Herb...Jerry from the office.” “Butt-kisser! What the hell do you want? Oh by the way, has that shark got your wiener yet? Ha, ha, ha!” This was not making Jerry’s job any easier. “I have a nice gift for you.” “Huh? What are you talking about?” “We all pitched in and got you a nice retirement gift. Everyone gets one after twenty-five years.” “What is it?” “A pretty nice watch. I’d like to come in and give it to you, Herb. Then maybe we could chat for a bit.” “Does it give time and date?” “Yes.” “Lap times?” “Yes.” “Indigo light?” “Let me check...Yes.” “Okay, come on in.” “Uh...Herb, will I be okay with your dog?” “Oh, don’t worry about Killer. He almost never bites. Come on in.” Jerry entered slowly, cautiously. He had his eye on Killer the entire visit. It was worrisome that Killer had his eye on Jerry. “So, you’re Jerry. Yeah, I’ve seen you around the office. You’re the little brown nose who’s always trying to impress the boss. Let’s see the watch.” Jerry handed over the watch. “Here’s a small token of our appreciation for all your years of hard work.” “Yeah, it’s small alright, but I’ll take it.” “Speaking off all your hard work, just exactly what did you do at work?” “Oh, a little of this, a little of that. Probably more of this than that.” “Maybe I was a little too isolated being cooped up in my office. Could you be a little more specific?” “No, that’s about it. You better get going. Killer gets nervous if someone is here too long. We wouldn’t want him to get your wiener before that shark gets it. Ha, ha, ha.” ---------- “A little of this and a little of that?! What kind of job description is that?!” “Sorry, Boss. His damn dog was getting agitated. I had to get out of there.” “For God’s sake, Jerry, I give you a simple task, and you come up with ‘a little of this and a little of that’? I’m surrounded by nincompoops, fools and idiots. Looks like I’ll have to handle this myself!” ---------- Jerry came into work late the next morning. He was immediately summoned to Mr. Jones’ office. “Well, I solved the Herb problem.” “Great! How did you do that Mr. Jones?” “I called him last night. You were right. He wouldn’t say a word about what he did here.” “So, how did you solve the problem?” “I convinced him to come back.” “What?!! Why would you want him back?” “I was out of options, Jerry. I didn’t want to look stupid to the Corporate guys.” “Oh my God, Herb back?! And after that meltdown I’m surprised he’d even want to come back.” “Well, I had to make some concessions.” “Like what?” Just little things. Like he’ll come in an hour late every morning and leave an hour early, and an extra week of vacation. Oh, and everyone threatened to quit if they would have to sit out there with him again, so he gets his own office.” “But we don’t have an extra office.” “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” ---------- Jerry fumed away in his cubicle, distraught at the sight of Herb sitting with his feet up on the desk and resting comfortably in his old office. He was bombarded with Country Western tunes, and nearly rendered senseless by the foul odor emanating from his neighbor’s workspace. Even the less observant in the office could see it was only a matter of time before “Going Herb” would be replaced with “Going Jerry.”


This is made by the help of Karthika Veeturi, so make sure you go follow her! I was helping my mom make lasagna for dinner when my dad walked in. My mom went into the living room to greet him and told me to continue. "How was your day?" she asked my dad. "It was okay. Just really tiring. " he answered. "Okay...well go upstairs and freshen up," she replied, "Dinner will ready in a minute." My dad went upstairs to freshen up and my mom came back into the kitchen and smiled at me. My mom has been acting really weird lately. She has been making my favorite food, smiling at me every single minute. Something is suspicious. She is not acting like herself. "Can you go set up the table, sweetie?" my mom requested. "Yeah sure." I replied. After setting up the plates and the food, my dad came back down stairs and we started eating. "The lasagna tastes good." my dad said. I nodded at him. "Soo...um...Zayn...I have to tell you something," my mom stated, " You know how I have been going for some interviews lately? Well, I got in for one of the companies." "Oh really? That's nice!" I said, smiling at her. "Yes, but I'm going to have to be there for 9 hours every weekday, which means I won't be at home most of the time. You will have to be home alone once you come back from school." she added. Now I know why she has been acting so weird. She knows I wouldn't be very happy with this. I am not the kind of person who can easily mingle with anyone and my only "friend" has been my mom, but now her going to work means that won't be possible either. "Um...okay..." I replied, not knowing what else to say. "Okay! I am glad you are okay with this!" she said, happily. I wasn't okay, but I had no other way to tell her and I knew she was excited, so I didn't want to ruin her mood. My dad just smiled at me. ---------------Two days later---------------- `I woke up feeling energized for the day, which is weird because I usually wake up feeling cranky. Then I looked at the clock and realized why I feel so energized. I SLEPT FOR AN EXTRA HOUR WITHOUT KNOWING! "MOM!! Why didn't you wake me up?? I'm late!!!" I yelled. There was no reply. I was confused and it took a while for me to remember that she went to her job that started today. I got and started getting ready for school. It was weird not having my mom tell me to wake up, move faster, and have her tell to have a great day at school. --------------After School ----------------------- When I came back home, I freshened up and started watching TV. Normally, my mom wouldn't let me watch TV until I finished all of my homework, but she wasn't there this time. After a few hours, my mom came home and she looked at me watching TV. I thought she would ask me if I did all my homework, but she just walked past me and started walking upstairs. I figured if she wasn't going to tell me to do it, I don't have to do it. At dinner time, I thought at least my mom would ask me then about my homework, but that didn't happen either, so I just slept without doing the homework. The next day... when I went to school... the teacher called me over to her desk. I could sense that it was about my missing homework. I made up a lie and told her I didn't have any time to do it. The teacher warned me to complete it next time and that I would get a B for not completing it. Great! Because of my mom's job... I have a bad grade! I know that I should have done it myself even I she didn't tell me to, but I was still angry at her job! I thought she would spend time with me after her job... but she didn't... she didn't even say a word to me. I was sad that my one and only friend in the world has no time for me anymore. At home, I watched TV for a while, thinking that I could do my homework after some time. When my mom came home, she glared at me. "Your teacher called me at work to tell me that you didn't do your homework yesterday." she told me. "Oh yeah sorry about that." I apologized. "What happened? You always do your work." she questioned me. "Well...you weren't there to tell me to do it." I answered. "I can't be there for you all the time to tell you to do your work," she explained, "You have to learn to be responsible by yourself." "Well, it takes time to get used to this. You don't even have time for me anymore" I argued. "So, you think this is my fault??" she asked. "No, it's just...I wish that you had more time for me." I replied. "Look...Zayn...this is just how it's going to be from now on and I will always try to make time for you, but you also have to start learning how to do some things on your own." she said. "Okay." I sighed. "Now, go do your homework." she told me. As I went into my room to start the homework, I could hear my mom and dad whispering about if it was a good idea to continue doing this job. I felt guilty inside knowing that my mom was so excited for this job and I just ruined it for her. She was right, though. I have to start being responsible on my own because this is just how my life is going to be from now on. As much as I wish things could go back to the way they were before, I have to start getting used to this. This is my life now.


The grip on the cold butcher knife in my right hand is firm, calming against my fiery skin. I'm standing under the fluorescent lights looking towards the double doors, taking deep breaths, counting down the seconds in my head and straining my ears, waiting for the telltale noise of steps approaching to jump into action. It's almost time, I can feel the buzz of the anticipation through my body, muscles tensing and senses sharpening. It doesn't matter how many times I went through the same routine already, the feeling doesn't get old; if anything, it gets better. It's dark outside, the streets filled to the brim with people celebrating the beginning of the longest weekend of Summer. Music, horns, laughs, conversations...everything overlapping, the pulse of an unrelent civilization kept away by some inches of concrete walls only. I close my eyes and take a long deep breath, reveling in the brief calm that surrounds me. The others in the room stand absolutely still behind me, well trained in the respect of this daily ritual but unaware of the meaning of this specific evening. I exhale slowly during the last seconds of the countdown and allow myself to feel the light weight and pressure contained into my trouser's left pocket; a lucky charm of sorts, the most cherished object to me and the only way to keep the chaos restrained, because someone must be able to manage chaos at their whim and for still unknown reasons, I got the gig. Nepotism? Maybe. 3, 2, 1... Showtime! The double doors open and suddenly there's no more room for stilness or silence. Everybody knows how to keep their pace in the dance that just started and there's no time for hesitation. Orders are placed, the clanking of pots and pans mixes with the hissing of hot oil and the knifes against cutting boards mark the rhythm of an improvised melody. Music to my ears, nothing as the dull background music that disturbs the ambience each time the doors are opened to bring in a new order. The place isn't big, just a dozen tables situated in a cozy dining hall, warm lighting and fresh flowers giving a romantic vibe not much in my dècor line, honestly. I very much rather a touch a little dramatic, personally, but hey, I'm not the owner, even if that could be arranged in a blink. Literally. Being not expensive but neither cheap, the clientele is rather eclectic; families celebrating birthdays or graduations, young lovers being engaged, friends catching up after long separations, middle aged couples looking for a spark on their boring settled lives, with or without their relative ones... A colorful palette in which it shouldn't be hard to choose the one who will have the honor to be the recipient of a very special treat tonight, with the best wishes from the Chef itself. A delightful tradition that I've kept alive all around the world without fail for so long I don't have the actual ability to remember when it started, and a very important one. I like to give my customers a personal attention touch, making them feel valued and seen even for just one brief evening before getting back to their usually sad and boring lives. I feel better knowing that I make a difference; a small one, yes, but what are the oceans but small water drops together? And if sometimes the one drop makes the ocean roar, it makes things more interesting, right? The entrees are being delivered and I don't miss the chance to take a gander at the dining hall every time the doors open, quickly enough to go unnoticed but I don't need more to take notice of the people seated at the room. There's three young women with bright eyes in what looks like an emotional last dinner before going their separate ways on the beginning of their adult lives. On the corner near the bathrooms a pretty little girl is enjoying the company of her grandparents after a day on the beach; I can smell the salt in her hair from here and her sunkissed cheecks are rosy from smiling so much. I like how they'd choose the most practical table for the sake of the child, ignoring the annoying passing of people from and towards the toilets. Other table is occupied by two men in an obvious first date. They are nervous around each other but there's an undeniable attraction and lots of eye contact. I wonder if not for the little girl seated near the door, they would be snogging on the bathroom before desserts... A couple in their thirties have taken the central table in an unfortunate attempt from him to show her off. Their clothes are expensive but her jewelry is fake, same as her allegedly luxury branded purse, and under her carefully applied make up there's a faint purple shadow on her right cheek. She's beautiful and painfully silent in contrast of his obnoxious bravado and her eyes don't look away from her plate, even as she laughs mirthlessly at his jokes. Before starting the main courses everyone at the dining hall has been scrutinized and catalogued. Now I just need to make a choice based on what I've learned about them not only by their behavior but also their stance, the glint of their eyes, the miriad of subtle details that go unnoticed for the untrained eye but not for me. I've been doing this long enough to recognize the whiff of disguise and the hum of blood running too fast under the skin. It's not an easy task, in fact I would dare to say it is the hardest ever, being the one who makes the choice, but there's no one else. It's lonely too, the need to move around the world in an endless search, never stopping twice in the same place, makes my existence impossible for friendship, love or any kind of long lasting company but I can't complain anyway. Mine is a one day a year job and I'm free to do as I please until next cycle, so I learn and dance and paint and sing and start wars and end them and leave my handprint in fresh cement and write my thoughts in anonymous poems and create pandemics and their remedies and cry and scream and laugh while I roam this world since the beginning of the times, gathering information on these fascinating creatures, studying their flaws and whims, dissecting them as a species in my mind since I can't do it as individuals in a physical way. That's not my job and anyway, they manage to do it themselves without any help. So I slip my left hand in my pocket and grab the small pebble turning it between my fingers, feeling its smooth surface polished by eons of winds and rains, and drop it in a dish, dissolving itself immediately. The choice is made. The people seated at the tables on the dining hall are completely unaware of the fact that one of them in a matter of days will change humankind's trajectory forever, be it for the better or the worse. I hope my choice was the right one today, I really, really hope it because sometimes, not very often fortunately, the chosen one takes a different path than whichever I put in front of them with catastrophic consequences (sorry for the Black Plague, by the way). I'll never understand free will; I would never, ever gave it to them. But when I showed my disagreement to the idea the only thing I got was a kick in the butt and a one way ticket to much warmer realms so I guess now I just can sit, watch and hope for the best. See you next year!


THE LEGEND OF THE MERMAID “Wake up, Oh Great Eland, I have come to you.” “You find me asleep - I watched through the full moon, and when the morning came I saw the dust of your trail many walks away, and then, satisfied that help was coming, I closed my eyes for a while.” “Can you still see so far?” “Oh yes, it is not my eyes that have deceived me, it is these wounds, I cannot even lift my body from the dust even though I urgently need medicinal herbs.” “Let me look, I will not hurt you. Yes, I see what you need, I will go and pick the herbs for you and you will be better in no time.” “No, do not leave me, perhaps something will happen to you so that you cannot not return.” “Are you not the great Eland, are you afraid now? Where is your brave heart, have you lost it? Think well while I am gone, for I want to hear the truth from the depth of your heart when I return.” “I am back, and was it so terrible that you wanted to collapse further, or did you use the time to think upon the reason for this sissy way of yours, hmm?” “Now please, do not take advantage of my unfortunate circumstances now, I know you are a woman with a heart of gold.” “So I am, else I would not have come to help you, I could have left you to the jackals and the leopards. Tell me, from the bottom of your heart. Everything.” “It was my friend from the farm who deceived me, and it was the witchdoctor who lied to me, and it was the mermaid who caused it all.” “Mermaid! The only mermaids I know of were written on the rocks in the caves by our forefathers in the Langeberg many, many lives ago.” “No, no - Oudtshoorn has a mermaid. She used to live in the pool beneath the waterfall here in Meiringspoort. Lots of people have seen her, and the children are not allowed to go near the pool lest she grab them and take them under the water with her, for she has no children of her own, and would love to have one or two.” “True, I have heard that story, but it is merely a legend to keep the children safe, for the pool is deep and extremely dangerous.” “You have worked far too long in the farmer’s kitchen, you are drifting away from our forefathers and from our traditions. You can say nothing, for, with a full moon a time ago, I as waiting for visitors to bring me a present, as is our tradition.” “Did anyone come to you?” “Yes, and I was hoping that my present would be a woman, for everyone knows that I am living alone.” “And?” “Nothing. They just told me about the mermaid. She is no longer here. With the last big rains, when the Olifants River came down in an enormous flood, the waters swept her away to the sea. She sits there upon a rock with her arms outstretched, beckoning me to come to her. That was my present. I could go to her and bring her back, they said.” “Agh no! How can you possibly go so far at your age?” “Listen further, or must I stop telling you what happened?” “Go on ...” “When the visitors were gone I fell into a deep and peaceful sleep. I saw the mermaid where she sat on the rocks at the sea. The hair on her lovely little round head was parted into a hundred pieces, each twisted and fastened with a chip of ostrich shell, just like yours. I say, you are quite beautiful!” “Tch, tch! You are an old man, what are you talking now, about me, about a mermaid!” “Sorry. But she was beckoning me to come to her, and with a swish of her beautiful pearly tail she swam deep down to the floor of the ocean to her paradise of pearls. I went to my friend who works on the farm to ask if he could help me get to the sea.” “Could he?” “No, but he took me to his witchdoctor on the other side of the dry river.” “... and you talk about me leaving our traditions, a witchdoctor indeed! What do they do, have they a lot of bones that they throw about, and according to where they fall, they tell you what your destiny is?” “Something like that. He went into a trance and he was shouting that he saw little dots. Then the dots started forming a pattern. And then he saw her.” “Who?” “The mermaid. He said that the hair on her lovely little round head was curled with the red clay from a faraway river, each curl ending with sparkling yellow and red and blue and green beads, all held together on the top with the spotted feather of a guinea fowl.” “How very strange!” “Yes, and I could see the lust in his eyes!” “You should have run away. Did you?” “Just about. But he brought me good news. He would bring the mermaid back here with his magic potion which was bubbling in a pot with three legs on a fire in his hut. Through the smoke I think saw various animal skins with heads on them - a leopard, a wild red cat, an owl. He said that the mermaid would be in the river above the waterfall, and when the next big rains came, she would be washed down into the pool where she would be waiting to welcome me.” “Come on, do not hesitate, this is getting interesting.” “I waited and waited and waited for the rains to come. And then, at last, after more than two years, I saw a storm coming our way from afar, and I put in an effort to make my old legs come all the way here to the waterfall. And this is how I ended up, lying in the dust.” “What on earth happened?” “The storm broke out, viciously. The thunder hit against the ravines, the overwhelming sound hitting back and forth from side to side against the krantzes, the electric fire dancing about and the downpour smashing my body and my face, nearly blinding me. But through it all I saw her near the pool, beckoning me, beckoning me ...” “It is alright, Great Eland, you are safe now ... take a sip of this, and let me hear the rest.” “When ... when I was nearly in her arms, she turned into a wild red cat with enormous fangs, and she wildly clawed at me ... it is these wounds that have left me down on the ground.” “But what happed, how did you survive this terrible attack?” “Our forefathers looked down upon me in mercy, and I was saved. The lightning struck right next to me, but it struck him.” "Him? Wait here, I see you are confused. I am going to fetch help, for I alone am not strong enough to help you back to your hut.” “Quiet woman! I am not confused, just listen further.” “Sorry.” “He gave an unearthly scream when he was struck, he fell sideways and rolled down toward the river. The waters took him. Do you see that tree, the one that was washed down with the storm water but got stuck between those rocks? “Yes.” “Go and see what was caught in its branches, and then you will understand.” “Brr! The head and skin of the wild red cat! His camouflage!” “Yes dear.” “No wonder your heart has deceived you, it is too terrible a thing that happened to you. I am doing my best to dress your wounds very nicely with these weeds, tomorrow you will be better, and I will help you to go home, even if it takes a week or even a month.” “You are very, very kind. I think if I finish telling you what happed, I will be able to put it all behind me and get on with my life without nightmares. Will you listen further?” “My poor heart! What now?” “Keep steady. Before I tell any further I want to know how it came to be that you came to me here. Were you on your way somewhere, did our forefathers once more look mercifully down upon me, and you came to see me lying here on the ground?” “You said I have been working too long at the farm. But I have not lost my intuition. I had to leave the farm and follow the tip of the moon towards the two bright stars, until I came here. And I find a feeble old man! Tell further.” “Give me your hand. It’s so soft. It was my friend who worked on the farm. He was watching everything happen from behind some bushes. Everything turned out well for him.” “How come?” “He told me so. When he saw me lying helplessly and in need, he laughed at me. He told me his whole story.” “His story?" “Yes. He has a story too. He and the witchdoctor conspired against me. He paid the witchdoctor his only cow to kill me, so that he could have the mermaid.” “I cannot bear to hear this.” “What happened is that he heard that the witchdoctor planned to kill me, and then immediately leave to find the mermaid for himself, before my friend could find out." “No! What am I hearing today!” “My friend was so furious when he heard that he was now minus his only cow for nothing at all, that he decided to kill the witchdoctor after the witchdoctor had killed me. Then things turned out well for him - the lightning and the river took the witchdoctor, and I was lying helpless on the ground. The mermaid is still waiting on the rocks at the sea, she was never brought here, and he has gone after her. He can have her, I am over her now. You are here with me now." "I love it when you stroke my hand."


It was around one in the afternoon when the lights went out. Of course, that wasn’t the strangest thing about that day. After what had already happened, the power going out was almost expected. It was the middle of the summer, and I was falling asleep in class. I had completed geometry the previous year and was taking summer classes to try to skip precalculus. It wasn’t my decision, but my guidance counselor had thought it would be good for me, so here I was, wasting my summer away, sitting in a sweltering hot room with very little AC and listening to the teacher drone on about sinusoidal functions or something like that. My friends were away, Amy was at the beach, Flora was in Kentucky visiting her grandparents, while I was shipped away to a summer boarding camp to learn math. I thought it would be the most boring summer ever. And how wrong I was. Around ten in the morning, Joan had burst into the classroom, exclaiming that it was snowing. No one believed her initially, since one, it was the middle of a hot, sunny day in July like every other one that month, and two, Joan had the tendency to make things up. But it was true. We crowded around the windows of the classroom, yelling about the snow until Mrs. Megan finally corralled us back into our seats to continue learning about sine waves or whatever we had been learning, I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention. Snow in Florida was practically unheard of, even in the winter. In the summer, that was just impossible. Yet it was happening, not a gray cloud to be seen, but white flakes floating down from the baby blue sky. Everyone had their own suspicions on why it was snowing. Someone claimed that it was an anomaly with the weather, that it happened every so often. That would have at least made sense if it had been very cold outside, but it wasn’t. Some joked that it was a gift from God or a message from the aliens. Most of the reasons were just plain absurd. A few minutes later, the green grass had already been covered in a layer of knee-deep snow. We watched as other students trekked through the white powder, wearing thin orange t-shirts and shorts, trampling snow inside the mansion, sneakers squeaking across the floor. The teachers tried to get the derailed class back on track, but obviously, no one wanted to return to studying trigonometry, so they canceled classes for that day. So as everyone does while trapped inside of a large, old stone mansion with nothing to do, we decided to explore. Now, this was the first year I had gone here. My mom had been given a flyer for it and the campus looked nice enough so we decided on it. Being a boarding summer camp, of course, there are rules. It’s a nice school, an old stone mansion, built in the seventeen hundreds before it was abandoned until repurposed as a summer camp recently. We once looked it up. The old mansion used to be owned by a small, rich family, a mother, a father, and a young daughter. Not much is known about them, they were recluse and stayed out of the public light. Anya, the girl was around fifteen the last time she was heard from. She was a strange child, according to most, but not much was known about her since the people tended to steer clear from her. At some point, the mother and father disappeared, their bodies turning up at the edge of the town, the father covered in scorch marks, the mother frozen still, her skin milky white. The townspeople went to check on Anya, but she was simply gone. This of course sparked conspiracy theory after conspiracy theory. We had a few of our own too. Many claimed that the mansion was haunted, that Anya had died mysteriously. Her old classmates claimed that she loved fire and always smelled faintly of smoke. Others claimed that her skin was ice cold and they never saw her take a breath. Of her disappearance, well there were plenty of theories. Cole swears that they died in a fire that Anya started in the basement. According to another source, the family froze to death. But that didn’t make any sense, seeing as the parents turned up on the side of the road. Some people wondered if it was possible that a serial killer had gotten to them. Others wondered if it was possible that Anya had murdered her parents. Besides the ghosts and the legends, the main thing about our school is the fact that there are certain rooms that we aren’t allowed into. One being the faculty room, of course, and our teacher’s rooms. But the other is more interesting. Being an old house, built over three hundred years ago, the mansion is full of locked rooms and hidden passageways. Believe me, we tried to get in. We tried all sorts of things. Sebastian knew how to pick locks, so we managed to get into many of them. They were mostly empty except for cobwebs and dusty furniture, our sneakers leaving a winding trail of footprints as we explored, trying not to sneeze. We found hidden hallways that connected the English room to the Math room and one that connected the girls’ to the boys’ one. That one we used quite a bit, smoking cigarettes in the small stone passageway late at night. At some point, Cole found a doorway that led to empty air, two stories above the yard in the back of the house. But most of the rooms and doorways were just abandoned because they weren’t in good enough condition. The floorboards were rotting or they were being used for storage, things that weren’t very interesting. But the last room that we found was where everything went wrong. In the library, there was a painting of a little girl. It was one of those paintings, the ones with the dark eyes that seem to follow you, watching you no matter how far away they move. The girl in the painting was young, probably around seven or eight with pale white skin and dark hair done up in braids, colorful flowers woven into it. She stared out, not exactly smiling, yet not frowning either, a watchful glint in her eyes. It was our guess that it was Anya since none of the teachers seemed to know where it had come from. But the painting wasn’t the weirdest part. The weird part was behind it, there was a door. Sarah had found it when she accidentally ran a cart into it, causing the painting to swing to the side, revealing hinges. A small door was tucked neatly behind it, an ornate door made of dark wood, little patterns of flowers and swirls decorating the edges. She tried the brass knocker shaped like a flower, then the dusty handle. Not surprisingly, it was locked. As if we all had the same thought, my little group congregated in the library. Me, Sarah, Cole, Sebastian. When Sarah tried the handle this time, it creaked open, revealing a staircase winding upward. That should have been the first sign that something was wrong. But we went anyway, excited for the prospect of an adventure. The stairs were broken but we didn’t realize it until my foot went through a rotted board, the wood clattering down into the basement far below. Cole grabbed my arm and pulled me up, but I daresay we proceeded much more cautiously after that. I hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight, but Sebastian had, so he led the way as we climbed up the twisting staircase that never seemed to end. It seemed like we were going to the roof possibly, or maybe the attic. I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t even realize that we had stopped. It was the attic, a dusty space, the ceiling rafters stretching before us. I wrinkled my nose as I stepped inside, the floorboard creaking as we walked. An old chalkboard sat in one corner, a desk in the other, old papers piled on top. When Sarah touched it, the paper crumpled into dust. We explored for a while, that’s not important, I doubt that you would want to hear what we found, just old belongings and toys, a doll in the corner, its waxen face crumbled in as if someone had hit it. A small round window let in a faint beam of sunlight. The snow was still thickly falling outside. But the important part was the large wooden box that sat in the corner. It was around five feet long and one foot long and one foot wide. The dark wood of the sides was ornately carved with flowers and the letters AW. Anya Wilhelm. That was when we realized that it was a coffin. “What the fuck,” Sarah whispered. “Why is that up here?” No one knew how to respond, why was the coffin up here? Who had built it? If it was Anya inside the coffin, why was she there? Why was she not with her parents when they were found? The whole thing was extremely unsettling. “I’m going back down,” Sebastian called. I heard the others agree, but something drew me forward. I wanted to see what was in the coffin. Maybe I sound crazy, but I swear, it whispered to me, calling me forward and I couldn’t resist. “Yeah, I’ll be down in a moment,” I replied. I heard them hesitate, but the sound of their footsteps echoed through the stairwell as they headed back down. I moved forward, my fingers brushing against the dust, leaving marks in the thick layer that covered it. Before I could lose my nerve, I opened the coffin. There was a girl inside. She wasn’t human. That much was obvious from the moment she opened her eyes, staring at me with her strange, dark gaze. I don’t exactly know how to explain it, but whatever she was, she wasn’t human. There was just something...off about all of her features. Her eyes were slightly too big, her teeth slightly too pointed as she smiled. Even the sight of that smile sent a disgusted feeling through me like something was wrong. Believe me, I thought she was merely a dream, but when I stumbled back, my ankle twisted, shooting sharp pains through my leg and I knew that I was awake. I glanced outside the small round window, almost screaming at the sight. The snow had changed to blood, flakes of scarlet melting against the ground. I wanted to yell, to scream, to move away, but I couldn’t. I was frozen still. “Thank you for my freedom,” the girl said. As she turned and disappeared down the stairs, I couldn’t move to stop her, even though I knew I should have. And when the screams reached my ears, echoing from the floors below, I felt a tear roll down my cheek, cold against my skin, but I still couldn’t move.


Rule #1: The microphone records everything you say, so don’t say much. For example, don’t say, “People will die.” Instead, say, “It is possible that war will be declared.” (The passive voice is best.) Don’t say, “Everyone must suffer for this;” say, “The stock market is expected to dive.” (Be careful not to say by how much; see Rule 11.) Rule #2: Don’t start talking about personal details that aren’t worth their own story, such as: “An author has written that the war is the idea of a crazed tyrant, and he hasn’t posted anything since, and people are wondering what happened to him.” This is too specific and takes attention away from the bigger picture. Rule #3: Do not say “I” when stating an opinion, a wish, or a hope. “I hope that author survives the night” is cardinally unacceptable. You may, however, say, “We hope that author survives ...” because “we” is not identifiable. Rule #4: You must not decide what you say and what you don’t. It has been decreed by powers above you that if you do not begin by apologizing for this morning when you gave the incorrect pronunciation of the committee chairman’s name, the institution of broadcasting will fall and you will be the primary cause. Read what is given to you. Read it word-for-word. Make no substitutions. Make no insinuations. Make no art and no subtlety. Read what is on the page. Read only that. When time is limited, cut only something of marginal importance. Rule #5: When choosing what to cut, start with the past and end with the present. Never cut the future. If your speech is twenty minutes and should be ten, cut the historical background first. “We signed an agreement and promised to protect them” is extraneous information. If your speech is still too long, cut the present next. “Women have taken up arms to protect themselves” is not only particularly depressing but is also useless. Above all, however, do not cut the future. “We will be okay!” is encouraging and hasn’t happened yet, and by the time it does (or doesn’t) people will have forgotten you said it. Rule #6: “Personality” is a requirement, and personality will end your career. You will find it challenging to have a personality and no opinions, but you must do it regardless. When you are told to say, “He is doing everything he can to reach a compromise that satisfies both parties,” you must say it cheerfully. Part of you may wonder if what you’re saying is true. Divorce those thoughts immediately. Even if they were true, what could you do about it? Rule #7: Never forget your audience doesn’t care about you. When they state an opinion, they are merely playing along. They are like children stealing pawns from a chessboard because they think they can beat their elders. They think if they speak loudly enough, you will hear them and they will get a finger in the pie. But they don’t really care. Never let yourself think that when they say one thing, they don’t mean the other. If they say, “We want war,” they don’t know what they are talking about, because who in their right mind would want war? The enlisted men and women who thought they were willing to fight are all deceiving themselves, and you wouldn’t want to be responsible for deception! Rule #8: Art is the ultimate enemy. People will make art, and you will ignore it. In fact, if you don’t ignore it, it will likely ignore you, since art is never made about people who listen to it. Rule #9: Do not burden your audience with negative specifics. “War” is both negative and specific; consider “negotiation” instead. “Shortage” is bad, but “surplus” is good. (Don’t hesitate to use the two interchangeably. After all, the net loss to the economy is the same.) “Molotov cocktails made with kitchen chemicals in somebody’s basement” is too reminiscent of the Soviet Union, so instead say, “Civilians have been provided with safety measures.” Rule #10: Laughter is always an answer. “How are you doing today?” Cheerful laugh. “Do you have any comment on the situation?” Scornful laugh. “Will we be sending aid?” Embarrassed laugh (embarrassed for them, whoever was stupid enough to ask that question). “Is there a backup supply of energy for countries that may be affected?” Reassuring laugh. In short, master the art of expressive laughter. Rule #11: Statistics are banned. Statistics are what Orwell’s pigs used to convince a population born and raised without numbers. Your audience has been fed numbers for breakfast from arithmetic to calculus and are now so bewitched that one or two of them might think to pull out a calculator and double-check your math. Instead of numbers, offer quantities. “Much,” “most,” “many,” “the majority,” “some,” “a few,” “outliers,” “a minority,” and “several” are all acceptable. Rule #12: Pictures less expressive than words. A bomb can flatten an entire city, and a photograph of a road sign that still stands is enough to prove that the city was never flattened at all. A picture of yourself and your family will convince an orphan that families still exist, so publish them frequently. Rule #13: Avoid the following unlucky phrases: “Let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear ...” (“Assert” is too strong, while “fear” is too negative.) “Only a few generations have been granted the role of defending freedom ...” (“Generations” will remind the audience that they are not the only people to have ever existed. “Defending freedom” implies that “freedom,” whatever that means, is under attack.) “We’re the brightest beacon for freedom and opportunity ...” (This sounds too much like an invitation for people to come take advantage of our “freedom” and “opportunity.”) Produced by the Committee for Diplomatic Excellence. Errors and contradictions in this style guide may be reported to us. If you cannot find our contact information on our website, or if you cannot find our website, you may simply ask us. If you cannot find us, we don’t want your opinion.


A good 10 minutes had passed from the phone call and she still couldn’t bring herself to move. Reba’s stiff feet refused to take another step and the rest of her body complied. After she hung up, she grabbed her phone, her bag, the laptop, clothes and clenched on to them, waiting for something to happen. Her wrist watch moved another minute and then another one, still nothing happened. Reba’s stone-like body got stuck in front of the chestnut door, focused on its tiny crack . (Was it always there?) As soon as she will open the door, everything will become real. She tightened her belongings closer to her chest, but wouldn’t let go of that crack. (How long will I stay there?) Reba just moved in a few weeks back, what else had she missed about the house? (I don’t want to go... Do I wait for Nicolas?) When Nicolas asked her to move in two weeks ago, he did it with open heart. After she finally said yes, they celebrated by making love on the oak floor, next to another small gap that neither of them noticed. She accepted to move back to Myria only because of him; Nicolas gave her the reassurance that things can be safe here. And that reassurance was what she was waiting for again. (I can’t do this alone... I can’t go back there) As long as she saw the dent, she knew the door was there, too. And if the door was still there, she was still safe, in the house. A part of her hoped the door will open to a caressing hand to touch her shoulder and tell her not to worry, everything was being taken care of. That she was not needed anymore and she could just return to her couch, cocoon herself into the warmest blanket and when Nicolas will get home from his late afternoon shift, she would jump in his arms. The night was getting darker (How long do I wait?) and the front door was not touched at all. Years ago, after the event happened, her therapist urged her to face her fears alone, leaving the trauma behind, by returning to Moulley Valley at some point. Reba postponed that from happening as much as it was in her power. She moved out of Myria when it was time for college - 800 km away from all she knew, seemed a decent distance between her and her home. What her Mom considered to be emergencies and specifically asked Reba to come back for a few days were almost always related to church. It would either be a memorial service for her dad, Ethan, that had passed years prior and needed year and year again to be celebrated and cried for, either another holyday function that Mom wanted Reba to be a part of. Reba came and faked enthusiasm as she always had, ever since she was a kid. Out of 4 years in college, these “emergencies” became less often than she was dreading them. Her college friends were understanding enough to come and join her as an excuse for a road trip when was needed. For “mental support”, as her former therapist would say. Those road trips excuses extended into a full year of travelling abroad, as soon as they received their diplomas. Reba was the first to propose the idea, coaxing her young peers that “those careers will still be there, but live happens now ”. On a certain level, she did believe it. And she was committed enough to the idea to even push it for another few months. But the gig was up when the other parents started asking questions about their money and life plans. Reba was the only one that was using her own saved money, but came to the conclusion that it was time to put the big girl pants, too and come to her senses. She found a job in advertisement in the heart of the capital, still away from Myria. The event barely crossed her mind in the last couple of years. Mostly, because she surrounded herself with new people, all the time. But in reality, because she dug a trench so deep and long between her and her past live, mentally, emotionally and geographically, that there was no need to fear the event as much as before. It was lurking in the back of her mind, but it became less terrifying, knowing there was no need to return there. Until now. Faith has always had a good sense of humour. If faith could choose to be anything, most likely it would be a tarantula. Eight all-seeing eyes, that pays full attention to everything that moves across the scorching sand. An all-knowing creature, in a way. As soon as an insignificant, small prey passes by, the lurker is ready to grab it whole. For that, it needs patience of a saint. Again and again, until the time is just right. Out of 8 years that Reba stayed away from Myria and its memories, 8 of those were uneventful. The occasional short trips back to the city, to catch up on Mom’s emotional state were just not good enough for The Tarantula to fully snatch the young oblivious Reba. It took this long to lure her back, using Nicolas as bait. After just a few weeks back - the longest she had stayed since being a teenager - this happens. Her phone suddenly chimed a message. Is from Mom: “At the airport, getting a red eye flight. Be there in a few hours, by morning. Are you on your way?” Her Mom was going to be there soon also, “you can do this”, she imagine her Mom telling her. But Mom never thought of things in those terms, that people needed to hear encouragement. Or if she did, for sure she didn’t voice it out loud to her daughter. Ever since her husband died in a car crash, her smile crippled more and more, until it was gone. She spent a lot of time at church, praying that her daughter will not suffer as much as she was, while hiding her tears every time she passed by Reba. Mom prayed in silence about things Reba never knew about. Between working double shifts and praying in the House of God, Mom didn’t have enough time to ask Reba what loss was to her. So she asked help from her own parents, to take Reba in for a few months, over the summer. Bunu and Buna , as Reba called them, jumped to the occasion to offer a safe place for their granddaughter to grief and grow. “I can’t help her if I don’t have money”, Mom said. “Who will help me now, if not me? It’s for the girl’s sake”, she argued. “She will understand when she will grow up”. But Reba never understood. No matter how much her therapist tried to explain that some love gestures are difficult to recognise. Reba was all alone now, too. “Who will help me now, if not me?’ It was time to return to Moulley Valley, to their grandparent’s home. Reba locked the door behind her and put her things in her Honda Civic. The GPS showed a 50 km trip ahead of her, meaning she will be there by midnight. • Reba might have wanted to forget the way to Moulley Valley, but her gut didn’t. This was her first time driving on the snaky road herself, but she knew every lengthy curb by heart. The forest that she was cutting through became much denser that she last remembered, but then again, she last seen it 9 years ago, in her uncle’s car. A 2009 Renault Clio that she will forever remember as “this piece of shit”, that Hall was always complaining about. If it was not for the “goddamn ABS light that flickers like a Christmas tree”, it might have been the “fucking windows” that usually get stuck. Hall would constantly cry about how much money fixing the car would eat up. Mom was in the car, too, heading to the Valley and she couldn’t care less about the car maintenance. But what she really hated was his foul mouth, that he was bringing the Name of Lord in vain. She’d school him and then silence would fall again in the car. Mom didn’t push for any particular topic and so Hall would put on a CD. They didn’t seem to have too many things in common, even though they shared the same parents, memories and, up to their 20s, same house. Maybe they didn’t have that many things to talk about, after all. The day her Mom sent her to the Valley, was a beautiful and sunny one. The river flew along the same side as the road, just a few metres below. It ran down from the heart of Backon Mountain, all the way to Moulley Valley, where hikers stop for the beautiful view and for good spots to set up their tents. Nature filled up the emptiness left by three strangers from the same family. So did Layla . “Did you know”, Hall began his story, “that this song was actually sung by Eric Clapton about another man’s wife?” If the poor man expected a reaction from Mom, he sure didn’t get one. She was too busy with her own thoughts. And Reba, 17 back then, knew this behaviour far too well. “Really? Is it somebody famous?”, the girl asked. “So apparently” he joyful continued, “this man got the hots for none other than... the wife of George Harrison! And made her this song!” “Who’s that?’ “ Who’s that? My God, Reba, what are you kids listening to these days?” he berated her, looking in the rear-view mirror. “Hasn’t your Mom shown you the cassettes we had when we were young, of this little band called .... The Beatles ?” Hall looked at Mom, to try and jerk a smile, but nothing showed. “Oh, yeah! The Beatles . I know them, I just don’t know their names”. “Well, don’t worry. Buna has a lot of their albums back home. I’m sure she’ll play them all summer long for you. You will have a lot of fun here with her and Bunu . The song stayed with Reba even after all the ordeal. That summer she did listen to The Beatles , just as Hall had predicted. And also The Doors , some Rolling Stones , Led Zeppelin, Eagles, The Byrds and the Matriarch’s favourite, Queen. For that summer, Reba pictured how her Mom and Hall’s childhood might have been, with parents like theirs. They all went out fishing in the morning and cooking together in the afternoon. She watched her grandparents dance in the summer warm nights. And played games, in between. For that summer, she felt like a seen teenager. The present October chilly wind was welcoming Reba back. A small fraction of her heart still wished for somebody to be with her now. Mom was in pilgrimage 500 km away, Hall’s trucking job took him everywhere in the country, she didn’t have too many friends in Myria, to ask for a favour on a random Tuesday night and Nicolas was far too new for all these. No matter how much she anguished for help. (Who will help me now, if not me?) A few more minutes until her destination and the pumping pulse she felt in the ears were more vibrating. Her heart banged like crazy and the wheel she was steering lost its grip since her palms started to sweat. She couldn’t say how exactly she got there, it seemed more like an autumn dream. And yet, there she was, in front of the dark blue house she knew from before. “Get it together, Reba. Do it for Bunu”. The three knock on the car window came from nowhere, but the dark. And it extended the heavy fat arm of Olivia, the neighbour that called Mom about Bunu’s situation. She was the village nurse and took it upon herself to check on him ever since his condition had worsened. Hall and Mom came as often as they could, but he refused to let them help with things he allowed Olivia to do. It seemed too much for the old man. Olivia and the dreamy hooved man were the only one with full access. Since he started the morphine, his dreams were getting more frightening and vivid, he couldn’t stop the hooved, fury man’s visit. It was a risk he wanted to take, to ease the pain. His last walk in the garden was in the spring, when he got out of bed and let the sun touch him. Soon after, the pain got too much. Reba asked Olivia to stay with her just for a little bit, just to enter the house. But the nurse’s kids needed her, too. “They get scared easily in the dark. But come for me if something happens”, the nurse offered. Reba knew little about the struggles her grandpa had been going through. His cancer came late in the mourning process of his wife. She knew from her Mom that he started drinking heavily after her funeral and didn’t stop until the diagnosis came, a year ago. The summer that Buna’s heart decided it had enough and stopped, changed him as much as it had changed Reba. It had seen enough beautiful trees and bees, it had given and received enough love, danced enough songs and taught enough lessons. But for her husband, it was never going to be “enough” without her. The day the last shovel of dirt was thrown on her coffin was the same day Bunu left the door open for Death itself to come into that big, old house. • Reba remembered how her heart sank, at the sight of her grandma lying on the floor. She had no life in her anymore and maybe no soul , either. The Flowing Woman took it. Her ruby-red eyes haunted her all her life. How that ghostly being came out of nowhere, but maybe was always there... How it felt her grandma’s face, with her pointy fingers... And then it disappeared without even touching the ground, holding something close to her. Reba fell down in her own urine, before even trying to make a sound. When she told the story, nobody wanted to listen. Especially her grieving mother. 9 years later, Reba entered the same house that made her run away. With her heart skipping beats, Reba held to her chest while hoping no Floating Woman would visit again. “Bunu?... It’s me, Reba...” One shy step in front of the other, Reba went from one dark room to the next. No living soul around. The only sound she heard, led her to the back room of the house. Bunu was lying on a short-legged bed, with his face to the wall, struggling to release the cough that burden old, sick men. Only light source came from a TV that nobody paid attention to. He looked so fragile, one strong cough and he would break into a million pieces. This was a pale image of the man that danced with his wife in the garden, waiting for supper to cook. Was it the same man who gave his time and shoulder to Reba, to cry on? The one that told Reba the door was always going to be opened for her? It was. Reba covered her mouth, to hide her crying. It wouldn’t make any difference to him, his drugs twisted reality and fantasy too well by now, to understand she was really there. “I am here, Bunu... I came back...” The burning sensation that filled her chest was new to Reba. Her scared childish fears gave space for a different feeing: guilt. Of wasted time and stupid dreads, that kept her away. Floating Woman or not. She sat down by his side, kissing his hand that couldn’t feel a thing. “I’m so sorry... I am so sorry...” “It was never... about you... Reba”, a voice challenged her. The raspy voice was coming from the room she has just come from. As Reba lifted her eyes, an enormous shadow filled the room. A hooved, hairy creature tried to pass through the door, eyeing the person lying in bed. Reba stared in disbelieve at its horns and long dark fur, thinking this can’t be real. Bunu saw it, too; he greeted him with a smile and collapsed back on he pillow. Those ruby-red eyes made Reba dizzy... “You... saw me once... And thought I’d... take you. It was never... about you, Reba” “You are... the Floating Woman ? ! ” “In a way. My... good friend here... searched for me. We must go” “You are Death...’ “I am... his faith now”. The human-like hands of the creature caressed the old man’s bony cheeks, touching him like the last spring sun rays had done. The girl tried to push it back, but that was nothing to push; its presence was not there for her. She tried grabbing the sick man instead, holding him tight to her heart, hoping it will make a difference. That Bunu will wake up and embrace her back. She needed to bring him back. The tears she cried fell on the man’s pale face. “Let him know he is not alone! Please, just let me tell him how sorry I am! Please! Don’t take him yet!” Before disappearing as sudden as it came, the creature took what it came from and held it tight. “It was never... about you”.


“Psst”. “Vincento?” He was like a cat, from the back alley to the dimly lit sidewalk beside her, he was suddenly there, holding her hand. “How is my Ethel?” said Vincento. They caressed, her curly blonde locks spilling back from her eager face as she succumbed to his embrace and his exploring hands. “Vincento! Not here. Not now. Someone might see us”. Ethel grabbed his wandering hand and clasped it in hers, and they stood grinning at each other in the dim glow of the gas light at the Italian end of the street where the row houses crammed closely together. The twilight stick-ball game dwindled to an end, little boys and girls were shuffling back to their homes. “When then?” said Ethel, “when can we be together?” “When I have enough money,” he said, sighing. Ethel spotted her little sister Helen peeping at them from behind a plane tree. The girl took off like a jack rabbit toward their home at the far end of Cleveland Street. “Give me a week and I will get the money, I promise”, said Ethel. She kissed him on the cheek, then raced after Helen, intent on intercepting her before she tattled. Ethel’s petticoat and skirt flounced about her legs, and her boot heels clacked on the sidewalk. Vincento returned to the shadows, thinking on his prospects with the mercurial girl from the big house near the park. +++ Ethel was called to account in the dining room, where Erskine Gordon and his wife, Dorothy, sat in judgment at one end of the table, while the two youngest children, Hazel and Mildred, clawed at their distracted mother. Helen, arms crossed in a righteous way, breathlessly related how she’d seen Helen throw herself - half naked - into the arms of a swarthy brute in an alleyway, where biblical things of an unspecified nature took place under cover of the night. “I will not stand your dallying with that Italian boy”, said Dorothy, alarmed at Ethel’s descent from grace as reported over the course of several weeks by the inscrutable Helen. A chance encounter, forgiven; chit-chat at the stoop, admonished; a walk in the park, condemned; but a tryst under cover of the night was a worrying progression. “You are too young to be talking to a man of that kind, alone, at night, and a man of unknown intentions!” Erskine explored his well-ordered mind in search of wisdom regarding the management of a fourteen-year-old girl but came out of the search empty-handed. He therefore took his cue from the disposition of his wife. “Ethel, you will be assigned additional chores for the next week”, he pronounced. “It’s unfair!” said Ethel, stamping a heel on the wooden floor, which rattled the Welsh dresser, and caused their small dog to run yapping into the hall, “You treat me worse than the cook or the maid!” “Would you prefer we treat you as a child?” said Erskine. Ethel’s life was one of drudgery, and constraint. While her father - a man of consequence - toiled daily at his office at the Knickerbocker Coffee Company, and her mother - a woman of solemn virtue - visited churches and women’s groups in pursuit of good causes, Ethel was confined within the well-appointed town house on Cleveland Street, neither woman nor child, tasked with endless chores. +++ It was another warm sunny day, which added to Ethel’s misery. She threaded a corner of the sodden sheet into the mechanical mangle, turned the handle, and gray water sluiced onto the ground as the wrung sheet snaked toward the basket. She cared naught for the sun, the breeze rustling through the locust tree, the yapping mutt or the whining siblings. She dreamed of dark-haired vagabonds in the streets of Palermo, of dusty olive groves on the baking slopes of Momma Etna, of blood-money, cutthroats and deadly feuds. How she yearned to be a veiled bride, on a boat, heading across the turquoise water to Sicily with Vincento, the Black Hand capo, by her side. “You’re making it dirty, all over again!” said Helen, pointing at where the damp sheet was piling up on the dirt in the back yard, “I’m telling mother”. +++ Ethel offered to deliver the gooseberry jam to her aunt who lived on the far side of the park, and, to her surprise, her mother agreed, apparently tired of her sullen behavior. So, Ethel set out cheerfully in the direction of her aunt’s house until out of sight, then turned in a different direction, toward Rockaway. “Vincento!” cried Ethel. Vincento took the woven basket from Ethel and walked beside her along the bustling sidewalk. Chest out, swaggering, he doffed his hat at passers-by, many of whom acknowledged him with a nod. He was a fresh-faced man of growing importance, well-known by the local tradesmen, though barely eighteen. He made Ethel feel important too. “Mia Bella”, he said, waving his cloth cap gaily in the air, “the day seemed dull, but now it is ablaze”. Ethel was wearing a red velvet bolero jacket, a bright white blouse, and a high-waisted blue skirt. Vincento examined her like found treasure: red, white and blue, through and through, and the prettiest girl in Brooklyn. Ethel was quick to business; she had a plan. They stepped into the afternoon quiet of Levy’s Bakery, where the owner effusively handed Vincento two prune pastries - free of charge. They sat at a small table, where they might speak freely. She was a top-notch dame, smart as a whip, his ticket to the top. “Vincento. It is time”, she said in a low voice. “I cannot bear the waiting. You will have the money before the weekend, and we can elope”. A puzzled look flickered across Vincento’s face, “you think it is not - a bit sudden? I have business...”. He paused. “What kind of business?”, said Ethel, impatient. Vincent looked uncomfortable and checked they were not being overheard, “It is family business. You know I cannot tell you more”. “Well, it will soon be my business too”, she said. Beneath the good looks and the easy charm, there was a hard-minded man who meted out threats and their consequences, like sour candies to children at a parade. This girl, soon to be woman, was telling him what to do and it sat uncomfortably with him. “Do you think there’s another way? Perhaps I should pay your father my respects?” said Vincento, who was confident in his ability to persuade others, though mindful of the hurdles that stood between him and respectable society. “It’s no use Vincento. My father suspects the Italians of corrupting the neighborhood. He would kick you to the curb like a dog," she leaned close, "and you would be forced to do something... terrible, I think.” She was rushing action at him faster than he liked. Vincento learned early that a man never runs toward danger. +++ Busybody Helen discovered the envelope on the doormat in the hallway. She rushed it to her father, who was about to leave for work. He opened it, blanched, tucked it into his jacket pocket and grabbed his hat. Helen understood that she had discovered something important, but he left without explanation. Later, sitting at his big oak desk at his office at the Knickerbocker building, Erskine opened the envelope. The letter was abundantly decorated with crossbones, skulls, a dagger-pierced heart, and an outstretched hand, all rendered in black ink. “ Black Hand order Mr. and Mrs, Please you leve $1,000 under the doghouse or if not you biggest girl will be stole outrite. If you notify the police or anybody we will beat to death. There is fore in our gang and we knows you and yours. C.G. the leader ” Erskine Gordon was a tolerant man who ran a business that employed dozens of men from diverse backgrounds and races, including Irish, Italian, Jews and Blacks; and he conducted business with the honest intent of betterment for all, but he was also prudent, a man of tradition, who favored a salad bowl of peoples over that of the faddish melting pot. Foremost and forever, he was a red-blooded capitalist and a law-and-order man. News of the Black Hand Society were all over the papers. A reign of terror, that started in Manhattan’s Little Italy and the West Village spread across the East River, facilitated by venal politicians and ineffectual police, depicted variously as corrupt, cowardly, or stupid. There were kidnappings and extortion in Flatbush, dead men in Red Hook gutters, and a taxi driver stabbed through the neck on Cleveland Street! Erskine Gordon weighed his options like sacks of coffee in his warehouse, and it was the law-and-order man that proceeded to the Liberty Avenue Station, where he would instill into the police the right combination of moral clarity, courage, and intelligence. The queer note was greeted with skepticism by Detective O’Brien, a tall, lugubrious man. It did not accord with O’Brien’s understanding of the criminal mind. “The method of the Black Hand is to operate within the silent walls of their own kind. It is most unusual for their racket to touch upon the everyday citizen” said Detective O’Brien, “or the pillars of the community, so to speak”. Sergeant Walsh, a squat, burly fellow, was more responsive to Erskine’s concern. “We will place an additional patrolman on the ground for a few days”, he said, “with instructions to confront any group of four men that cannot provide a sensible account of their intentions”. “In the meantime, you should take precautions”, suggested Detective O’Brien. “And we will interview the young Italian man you say she met recently”, said Walsh, cracking his knuckles. Erskine resolved to lay a trap. +++ Erskine shuttered the windows and double-locked the doors. It was not yet dark outside, but the gaslit house was gloomy inside. The family were gathered in the dining room again. “I don’t understand! Why don’t you just pay the ransom?” said Ethel. “It is the principle of the thing”, said Erskine. “These Black Handers are dangerous” said Ethel, “I’ve heard that they never forgive, and they never forget. They are cruel and heartless, and their vendettas pass from one generation to the next and are inescapable”. “I wonder where you heard that?” said Helen, trilling at her sister’s illicit knowledge of things Italian, happy to stir things up. “Can’t we just give them the money and not miss a thing?” said Ethel, “after all, it is my life that is at risk! Surely, I should have a say in the matter?” Erskine handed Ethel a wad of railroad stock certificates that he’d retrieved from the filing cabinet in his study. “Go into the garden, make sure nobody is looking, and place these papers beneath the doghouse as instructed”. Ethel was placated by this unexpected turn of events. “I have a plan”, said Erskine, and from the small closet in the corner of the room he withdrew a canvass-wrapped shotgun. “If the Black Handers come, it will be bad for them, because I will be camped out in the Kitchen, ready to blow them to smithereens”, he said. Ethel had much to consider. +++ Two days passed and the mood soured inside the barricaded house. The girls languished in boredom, tensions escalated, and a dispute over care of the dog led to a ferocious catfight between Ethel and Helen. Dorothy, exasperated, implored her husband to put away the gun and end the lockdown, which he agreed to, readily. He had acquitted himself in an upright way, had scared away the Hand, and he was keen to resume work at the office. Dorothy unshuttered the windows, the children resumed their activities, including play in the back yard, where Ethel was unusually attentive to her youngest sisters and the dog. It was in this more relaxed atmosphere that Ethel offered to visit her aunt again, to which Dorothy agreed enthusiastically, though against the objections of Helen on whom the burden of tea-time chores would fall exclusively in Ethel’s absence. Erskine left for work with his mind at peace. He happily attended to his affairs, and returned home in a good state of mind, only to find the house in turmoil. Dorothy was barely able to string a sentence, consumed by worry and dark thoughts. The two youngest girls were weeping. “It is the Black Hand!”, said Helen, somewhat merrily. Erskine administered smelling salt and a tincture of Paregoric to his prone wife, and she was soon restored just enough to explain that Ethel had gone to visit his sister and had not returned. It was nearly 9.00 pm. and dark. Erskine set off for the Police Station, via Cypress Hills, where he soon discovered that his sister had no idea of the whereabouts of her niece and hadn’t seen Ethel in weeks. “I blame myself”, said Erskine to Sergeant Walsh as the Liberty Avenue Station, “I have let down my guard, and my family too. They have kidnapped the poor child”. Sergeant Walsh was a hardened man, witness to the worst of humanity, but the sobbing father elicited from him a gentle attentiveness. “Mr. Gordon, have faith, we will pursue every lead, hunt down these Black Handers, bring them out of their hole, dead or alive,” said Walsh, shooting from the hip, “We will fight their terror with that of our own”. “But what of my daughter?” said Erskine, who could see Walsh’s heavy-handed approach ending badly. The sergeant needed neither moral clarity nor courage, but perhaps he lacked the intellect Erskine had intended to instill on his prior visit. Detective O’Brien hurried into the interview room, hatless, collarless, and disheveled, having been called from home to deal with this emergency. Unlike Walsh, O’Brien led with the mind, not with the gut. It soon came out that the doghouse had been moved, the stock certificates - relating to a bankrupt railroad, and therefore worthless - had been removed by an unseen hand, and that Ethel had voluntarily left the house, carrying a covered basket on her way to her aunt’s. “It is as clear as day, she has been kidnapped”, exclaimed Walsh. “Is it possible”, said Detective O’Brien as delicately as his irritation would allow, “that the Black Hand that wrote the note may have been that of your daughter?” +++ Vincento and Ethel were sitting on the wharf on the South Shore, overlooking Sheepshead Bay. They were watching clammers at work in the stinking mud, and oystermen on their skiffs, shunting in the deep with their poles. Ethel thrilled at this close proximity to the ocean, the same body of water that kissed the sandy shores of Sicily a thousand or more miles away, and which might soon carry her away. He took the sheath of papers from her, wincing at the pain in his chest. They had the engraved appearance of the dollar bill, and an imprinted face value that made Vincento’s eyes pop. These stock certificates belonged in a world of which Vincento could only dream. He had visited that world once. he’d wandered along Wall Street with other boys from the borough, he’d gawped at the bunting, the flags, the Hansom cabs, the men in spats and toppers, until shooed away by a burly beat cop. Vincento didn’t stop running until China Town, fearing that the establishment was on his neck. “I have seen my father looking over them at his desk. He says their value goes up with the Market”, said Ethel. Vincento flinched again. The squat policeman who’d jumped him on Cleveland Street had drummed him hard about the ribs, threatening worse if he didn't wise up. The establishment was onto Vincento and knew exactly where he lived. This girl was top-notch, his ticket, but out of his league. “Surely the Black Hand can help us?” said Ethel, for whom the secret society was another kind of ticket, not up, but out...out of Brooklyn. There was no going back now. Vincento rolled the stock certificates into a scroll and tucked them into his waistcoat. “I will cash them in, and we will leave for a better place tomorrow”. “But how long will you be? Where should I go? What should I do?” she said, alarmed, frightened. “Wait here, I will be back soon enough”, he said. +++ Two days passed. Sergeant Walsh came by each day and reassured Mr. Gordon that Ethel would soon be found, his team would visit every house at the Italian end of the street. They had leads, they were closing in. Dorothy was bed-ridden, incapacitated by the ebb of denial and flow of grief. Erskine sat in his office, unable to work; he wondered at fatherhood and the uncommon wisdom required in the understanding and management of daughters, and womenfolk in general; because, clearly, he was lacking. Meanwhile, Helen, burdened by her older sister’s chores, seethed with discontent and jealousy. On the third day, with the Gordon home in the grip of a new reality, there was a loud rapping on the front door. Helen was there in a flash, and opened the door expecting Sergeant Walsh, but it was the lank figure of Detective O’Brien instead, accompanied by a uniformed cop. O’Brien removed his hat and enquired about her father’s whereabouts and availability in the most solemn way. Erskine appeared in the hallway, blinking at the light that shone from behind the Detective. “It is Ethel. We have found her”, said O’Brien. The black mud on O'Brien's shoes and about his pant legs smelled of rotting shellfish and the putrid ocean.


Hugo- Day one, the hottest day in July. The kind of hot that makes the neighbors forgo underwear and plant themselves in front of oscillating fans. Feet planted in small kiddie pools filled with tepid tap water, topped off with bagged ice from the corner market. The breeze from the fan casting across the iced pools does nothing to diminish the warmth from their radiating bodies. Instead it pushes the sweat further across their faces and thighs until they are all shiny with sweat. It’s nearly impossible to forget day one. You try, yet day one is the day you’ll scramble for breath. You’ll put on the bravest of faces to give your daughter Thea oxygen as you hold the side of her head to your chest. She will appreciate the firm pressure you apply to her quivering body. The grief inundating from her youthful frame, forcing you back- one, two, three, steps until you both collapse onto the couch. Sweat and tears, they’re all the same. How can a girl live without her mother? How will I breathe without her modeling what a strong exhale looks like? It will be all she can say. You wonder in your emotional greed, Where does she keep all of the passwords? Thea’s birth certificate? Is she allergic to anything? Raeann- Their day one is polar opposite of your day one. The body that carried you through life for the past four decades decided the narrative of living a nice long life is a lie. To find out that you’re going to die is far less painful than hearing that you are dead. The dead don’t hear pain. The dead don’t feel it either. It’s terminal, you have weeks at best Raeann. I’m so sorry. You are sent home with instructions of getting your affairs in order. Pamphlets titled, “How to tell your loved ones that you are dying,” as if there is a simple bullet point plan to button up all of your affairs before you go. Step 1 , I’m dying. But I left a few lasagnas in the freezer for busy nights. Hugo- Planning a funeral is foreboding. The weatherman says to expect more heat hazes. You don’t know exactly what that is, but you’ve already spent hours on the internet searching for a cure. What's another few minutes? Heat haze: also called heat shimmer, refers to the inferior mirage observed when viewing objects through a mass of heated air. Relief floods your body, panic eases up. This isn’t the end, it’s all a mirage. It has to be. Raeann- Everything after the first day is now called the in between, and that’s just how you’ve come to accept it. Call your mother more, but not so much that she suspects that there is something to be worried about. Mothers know. Revel in the fact that the word hug happens to be the first three letters of your husband's name, as he is the best hugger you’ve ever met. Hugging him a little bit longer feels like a possible cure for the incurable. Forget the pamphlets, your family deserves a better send off than that. The blogs online say to leave a video diary for your daughter because she might forget the way the dimples tucked into your cheeks are deep enough to hold a cat's eye marble in each of them. Don’t let her forget. The idea of a camera taping your face not looking like your face is unsettling. It is then you decide on cassettes, they’re the happy medium. Even if cassette tapes are “so out of style,” they might be even more treasured due to the rarity of them. Nothing screams a mothers legacy like antiquated methods of communication. Might as well break out the typewriter and ribbon of ink. Hugo- In-laws, they’re a mixed bag. Naturally they have known your beloved Raeann for the longest. They created her so there is ownership there. Let them visit and call and video chat. It’s all that they will get of her. You’ll be left with the daughter you share, and the smell of her lilac shampoo on the bed linens you agreed to buy at the big box store. The in-laws won’t get to smell her again, but you will, at least a little longer before the next load goes in the wash. Raeann- To make a mixed tape you have to consider two things: Who you’re making the tape for and the occasion. Remind yourself that this isn’t a John Hughes movie, and Thea won’t be walking away with the love of her life but rather losing you. Of course there are times when you hear a little melody on the radio and think to yourself, Thea would love this song . Then, add bits of wisdom and sayings to the playlists, for days when she needs advice but you aren’t there to give it. A mother knows exactly what kind of music will make her daughters eyes sparkle, even if it is followed by a tiny eye roll. It’s some kind of magic to possess this kind of knowing about a teenager even if she is your child. You wonder if anyone else will ever know your daughter this way. Hugo- She told you that there’d be tapes. That you’d have to give them to Thea, maybe one morning as you sip your coffee black and dark roasted the way that you like it. It’s important Hugo, it’s all I have left to give her. Well, and you of course. Those dimples, you won’t be able to say no to her and so you agree with a gentle head nod and deep hug. Through sickness and health was the vow? What about death and grief, what’s the vow look like after that? More haziness. Raeann- Your last day comes twenty-nine days after your first. Cliche, that’s what the last thirty days will be. Like a film reel, memories click and spin for one last viewing in your mind's eye. Not in black and white, but in vibrant colors of finger painted construction paper and alabaster hydrangeas in wedding centerpieces. Wait until Thea nods off in the corner chair of your room, wrapped in the blanket you both sewed together out of your old shirts. Absorb the tiny bit of warmth from Hugo’s hand wrapped around the frail fingers on yours. These hands spent many hours laced together over the years and now his hands will spend hours pressing play for Thea. It’s time for your strong exhale. Hugo- Pull the old cassette player down from the attic, blow off the decades of dust. Imagine the look on your daughter’s face when the carefully curated tapes are placed in her young hands with three freckles alongside the edge of her knuckles. The freckles lightly kiss her milky skin, and you breathe out a little in relief knowing that they look ordinary. She won’t want the tapes. Her eyes might brim with orbs of salted water. A sense of begging will slip past her lips, Please daddy I’m not ready yet . You stare at the dimples she inherited from her mother, pressing your warm thumb into one of them as you hold gently to her chin. Picturing the future, you wonder who will take her wedding dress shopping, and who will take her phone calls if she loses a baby. It will be you of course. Press play.