Tarnished Note: this account is based on actual events in the lives of real people. Names have been changed to protect the memories of the innocent. October 17, 1905 - Tuesday My dearest James, Patience has been staring out the window for miles. We’re nearly a day into the journey, and there’s nothing much to see except for the endless prairie. I suspect she’s looking instead at mental imagery. What must she be thinking?... Feeling? It’s a tremendous change to make at her age, but I hope it will be for the best. Last night, in the sleeper, I had the hardest time settling myself! The incessant CLACKETY- clackety CLACKETY- clackety CLACKETY- clackety -- doesn’t do much for inducing sleep. In that case, Patience has the advantage. Although... surely the vibration affects her more than it does me. I don’t know what time it was when the monotony of it lulled me to sleep. The berth is as comfortable as a regular bed, although it does jiggle and jolt a bit and wake me from time to time. But, oh! The Overland Limited is just marvelous! We’re sitting in the observation car, in gorgeous upholstered chairs that I’d be proud to have in our parlor. The windows are large and clear, with a spectacular viewing area. Although, as I mentioned, there’s nothing notable to see at this point. You’ll come with me the next time, I hope! The accommodations are as luxurious as a fine hotel. There’s electric lighting throughout (isn’t that a marvel?), velvet upholstery, beautiful polished wood paneling, the best quality linens, sumptuous meals served on fine china. I will be quite spoiled! (I feel as if I’d just written a travel brochure.) I am so looking forward to seeing majestic mountains, such as I’ve never seen before. And at the end of our journey, the Pacific Ocean! I can’t imagine... Oh James, there’s that woman who buttonholed me this morning. She’s at the end of the car. She won’t look at me now, and I’m pretending not to notice her as well. I must tell you what happened. At breakfast, a couple with two half-grown children sat at the next table across from us. The woman was eyeing Patience all through the meal. She’s all gussied up in the very latest fashion, the sort of woman who wears her corsets too tight. She’ll suffer for it later, I’m sure. (I know you don’t approve of me using slang, but “gussied up” is the best way to describe her!) When her husband and the children got up from the table, she lingered. She must have said something to them about staying a bit longer, because they waved at her and left the dining car. Her wave back looked more like a shooing motion. She was clearly dismissing them. I had finished my second coffee (indulging myself, as it’s such good quality!), but Patience was still nibbling toast and sipping her tea. They have her favorite variety, such a treat for her. The woman at the next table whispered, “ Sssst!” and beckoned me to come to her. What could she want with me? With a quick glance at Patience, I got up and scooted into the chair across from her. “Yes?” “I must ask you,” (really, she ought not have), “Do you think it’s wise to take such a... person as that,” (and here she pointed at Patience. Pointed at her! So rude!) “on such a journey? My children shouldn’t have to spend their time looking at a defective!” James, my blood boiled! I could feel it rising! But you’d be proud of me - I know you would - because I managed to restrain myself and speak in a reasonable tone. Before replying, I took in a deep breath. I felt my own corset strain a bit, and you know I don’t wear it too tight. “Ma’am, let me tell you a story.” If you’d been here, you’d have known by my calmness just how very angry I was! My sister, I told the woman, was born a normal, healthy child. But when she was quite young, long before I was born, a devastating fever swept through the county. The doctor wasn’t sure Patience would live - and when she did, he wondered if she shouldn’t have. She was left profoundly deaf and unable to speak. (I’m not writing this for you, of course, dear; you know all this. I just want to tell you what I said to this woman. And I suppose it’s therapeutic for me.) By the time I was born, Patience was fifteen. She was away at a boarding school for deaf and dumb children. “And just in case you wonder,” I informed my unwilling listener, “our parents did not send her off because they didn’t want her. They sent her to give her the greatest opportunity for a normal education.” The woman was looking mightily uncomfortable by this time, no doubt wishing she’d kept as quiet as Patience does. She had begun fiddling with the clasp of her tiny mesh chatelaine: Snap! Snap! Snap! It irritated me. I looked at her (rather sternly, I suppose) and she stopped the snapping but moved to get up from the table. I put my hand on her arm. Gently. I promise, James, I was discreet. “Please, listen... My sister didn’t merely exist at the school, she thrived. She learned to read and write, and to communicate effectively using sign language. She is so much more than you perceive! “You called her defective. Patience is not defective. She’s bright, cheerful, curious, and capable. Except for the times she’s defenseless. And when I’m with her, I will defend her!” I nodded to the woman and returned to our table to collect Patience. My sister’s brow furrowed in puzzlement; I smiled at her and signed that I’d explain later. When I turned to look, the other table was vacant. Wednesday James! The mountains! They are simply indescribable, breathtakingly beautiful and dramatic. I don’t have the words -- you will have to see for yourself. You see? We haven’t reached our destination, and I’m already planning the next voyage. How does this sound? We’ll come out West next summer, and bring Maybelle and Johnny. Patience should be settled in by then, and I’ll be missing her dreadfully, I know! We’ll spend a week or perhaps two, visiting and sightseeing. Doesn’t that sound nice? We’re in the observation car again. Patience is just as enthralled with the scenery as I am. She’s smiling, gazing at those sharp peaks. So different from our plains! I’m in awe of my sister’s resilience. Here she is, over sixty years old, moving clear across the country to a new life. Watching her face now, lit up as it is, I don’t think she looks her age. Clear skin, lovely wavy brown hair with just a hint of silver at the temples. No one would suspect, just looking at her, that there’s anything out of the ordinary about her life. And yet -- I was thinking, last night, about the rest of her story. The part I didn’t tell. I was seventeen when my sister’s life changed forever -- for the second time. Patience had a large room at the back of the house, where there was plenty of space for her sewing. I so envy her talent for needlework. I can’t do half so well; my seams always end up bungled and the ruffles come out uneven. She made the dress I’m wearing, and it’s simply lovely. The bronzy one that you say matches my eyes. What am I going to do for dresses, with Patience so far away? I wonder... If she could hear, and if she could speak, would her other senses be so finely tuned? Especially her sense of touch. She has such deft fingers, and an attention to the tiniest detail. My train of thought has gone off track. Isn’t that an appropriate metaphor? Or is it a simile... No, it’s a metaphor, I’m sure. If you were here, James -- “Back to the story, Georgie!” you’d say. So I’ll pretend you’re here, and resume. The night that terrible thing happened to Patience, we were all asleep. It must have been well past midnight when the despicable worm (hardly a man!) crept into the house. He knew just where her room was, knew she wouldn’t hear him, knew she couldn’t cry out. Now, remembering all these years later, I feel the blood rising again when I think of the first newspaper article to report the crime. It described “a young gent accused of an attack upon a half-witted girl”. Oh, I was livid! As if, perhaps, the assault was justifiable for any reason at all! As if the accusation mightn’t have been valid, because the victim wasn’t a reliable source. I shudder to think how terrified Patience must have been when she realized there was a man in her room. She told us later, in writing and by signing, that she was awakened from the vibration of his footsteps. She could see the outline of him approaching, and she thought to defend herself. But before she could grab the candlestick from her night table, he was there. She knew who he was right away, she told us. She recognized the smell of his hair oil. That’s another sense she has highly refined. Patience has known him since he was born. She should have been able to trust him -- to depend on him for her defense, even. Instead, he betrayed her in the worst possible way. The actions of one human being caused another person’s life to be devastated. It brought about the severing of ties between two families, those having known one another down through several generations. I’m sorry for the blot, James. I didn’t realize that the tears were running down my face until the ink smeared. But I know you’ll understand. At least, when that vermin was captured, the papers reported him as guilty and described Patience plainly as “a deaf and dumb woman”. Still, their portrayal of her came across as someone undesirable to a man’s attentions. And what did he do? He tried another assault on her, this time on her character. He said absolutely untrue things about her, trying to suggest she’d invited him there. No one believed him, and he went to jail. Not for long enough, though. The whole community knew that Patience is a virtuous woman. Even so, her life was irrevocably tarnished. That reminds me of the proverb about silence being golden. How does it go? Speech is silver, silence is golden? Is that right? My thoughts are all tangled, just the way my sewing thread always gets. Patience cannot physically speak. She lives in silence. Sometimes that silence has not been golden; it’s been very dark. But her life shines despite it all! Thursday What a glorious day! We’ve come down from the mountains, and now there are gently rolling hills all around. I did expect them to be green, but they’re all golden brown. I’ve seen glimpses of water sparkling in the sun; we’re told they are the bays of the Pacific Ocean. So, so exciting! We’ve had our breakfast, spent the morning packing up, and just finished luncheon. Our last meal aboard. Arrival in San Francisco will be mid-afternoon. I do hope we find Theo straight off! As you know, he’s arranged for us to spend the night at the Palace Hotel, which surely can’t be any more exceptional than this train. However, it will be made better by his company! We are to dine at the hotel this evening, by way of a celebration for Theo’s 28th birthday tomorrow. Patience is looking a bit nervous, I think. She has every right to be. For me, this is an adventure and a holiday. For her, it’s another life-changing event. I hope that she will have many happy, healthy years in her new home! She managed to raise Theo into a fine young man I’m proud to call my nephew, and now he’ll be taking care of her. You know, James, here’s a bit of a conundrum. Patience has Theo in her life because of an unspeakable violation committed upon her, and yet -- he is a blessing in her old age. She has just let me know the train is slowing. I hadn’t realized it yet, but she’s right. We’re getting close! There’s fog surrounding San Francisco. It looks like a cozy blanket. I’d better finish up and be ready to disembark. In the morning, I will leave this letter for the hotel clerk to send off before we head north on the last leg of the journey -- up river on a steam boat! Expect lots of postcards in the coming days. Your loving wife, Georgina P.S. later Theo has met us, and he sends his greetings. The journey is over, and yet it has just begun!


Hot coffee glugged from the emerald thermos into the two styrofoam cups, the weight of the fluid anchoring the drinks as the boat rocked and dipped. The fisherman handed him a cup and the steam fogged his glasses. “Do you fish out here often?” “From time to time. I fish all over the world.” The coffee was excellent. Hot and not too bitter and not too acidic and bold and earthy. “It’s my first time out here.” “Oh, I know.” “It’s that obvious?” No answer. “Are you a guide?” “I’ve been called that.” The fisherman refilled his coffee. It was quiet except for the splashes on the side of the boat. The fisherman’s line went taut. He reeled in a bass. “What did you use as bait?” “No live bait.” “A lure then?” “Are you hungry for breakfast?” the fisherman asked, releasing the bass back into the lake. He thought for a minute. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Probably last evening. He had cooked steak and a sweet potato foil pack the afternoon before. Before he went out on his boat with a six pack and a second six pack. “Yeah, I guess I am. Thanks.” The fisherman produced two large blue enamelware bowls and plastic spoons. From the thermos, the fisherman served large servings of venison chili. A rare treat for him. “This is really good.” “Do you remember how you got here, Steven?” “I got in Friday night, came in from the north on FF.” “I mean today. Do you remember getting up this morning?” He was confused. The fisherman, took out his thermos and topped off his coffee. “Do you remember last night?” “Not too much too it. Had some beers. Fished a bit. Beefsteak dinner.” “And after that?” He laughed. “I must’ve had a beer too many. Honestly sort of blanking.” His smile slowly vanished. His face a bit white. He coughed a bit. Some chili down the wrong tube. The fisherman gently took back the styrofoam cup, dumping the coffee off the side of the boat. He again furnished the emerald green thermos. It was worn and dented. It looked like it came from the museum of worn, good old stuff. It looked like an artifact from the inaugural fishing trip, from the Bass Pro Shop of Babylon. From its threaded steel mouth, the fisherman decanted cool ice water. “Did I fall from the boat?” “Steven, do you remember when you were eleven at Boy Scout Camp? You and your buddy Nate went fishing with a line and a hook and some hot dogs.” “Yeah, we fished all day at the side of the lake. Near the hydroelectric plant.” “Do you remember what happened?” “We caught one fish. Pan fried it over a camping stove.” “What else?” “We cut off its head, and tried using it as bait because we didn’t have any more hot dogs because we had eaten them with the fish but we were still hungry.” “And then what happened?” “The line, it got snagged on a log. And Nate waded out to try to pull it out, but it was really stuck in that mess.” “And then what happened?” “I pulled hard on the line.” “And then what happened?” “It whiplashed. “And then what happened?” “It caught Nate’s cheek and he screamed and I ran in to help him and then I used my pliers to pull the hook out of his cheek.” “And then what happened?” “What do you mean? And then I got it out. And we went back and he put on a bandaid.” “And then what happened?” “Nothing else happened.” “That was 27 years ago. A lot has happened.” “You mean, what happened between then and now?” “I asked what then happened. Chronologically after then and, unstated, chronologically before now, as was implied by my tense.” The fisherman poured some hot sauce and melted cheese from his thermos onto his chili. “I can’t.” He stood, unstable and uneasy. A large pond. A small lake. The body of water produced a wave of unnatural provenance, tossing the startled man head over shoulders over ass over knees over feet over the aluminum lip of the bow of the bass boat. The fisherman leapt to his feet, and plunged his open palms into the lakewater, guide and scout and harvester.


“Hey, Carla” a gravelly voice greets from behind. As she finishes swiping her card through the time clock, Carla turns toward the direction of her name and sees Vicki digging through the bag barely hanging onto her shoulder, her keys jangling wildly, as she stood in the middle of the hallway, blocking Carla’s path toward the elevator. “Shit, I do this every morning” she says as she coughs. “Can’t find your badge?” Carla asks. “Fuck no! Even though it was right here when I tossed the damn bag in the car.” “You don’t think it fell out in your car, do you?” “I don’t fucking know but I don’t have time for this. I’ll walk up with you and go look for my badge after report or something” she says decidedly and hefts her tote bag filled with who-knows-what back on her shoulder. Vicki’s movements from readjusting her work luggage created a nearly imperceptible breeze but Carla catches the sharp whiff of bittersweet aroma that tells her Vicki probably smoked four cigarettes on her way to work. Vicki claims she has to “store up nicotine” because it’s impossible to find time for a decent break after getting to the floor. Carla inhales a little longer before walking past Vicki and pushing the button to call the elevator. As the women cross the threshold, one after the other, Carla holds her badge up to the black square with the blinking light near the numbers. The badge reader beeps and Carla selects “3” before the doors close in order to transport the nurses to the employee entrance for the ICU. Vicki could have ridden the visitors’ elevator up to the ICU but then she would have been required to check in with security since she was without her hospital badge. Here in the capital city, the hospital takes security very seriously, especially the ICU, and she would have had a hard time getting in without her badge. The doors were not even halfway open before Carla and Vicki could hear various cardiac monitors alarming, complaining of some disagreeable heart rhythm or misalignment of connections. Somewhere down the hall, a call bell dinged incessantly; the night shift was ready to go home and the day shift had not yet received report. It was the secretary that finally answered the call bell and told the patient “Your nurse will be right in.” Nearly everyone on the unit could hear the patient’s response as he yelled “THEY’VE BEEN SAYING THAT ALL DAMN NIGHT!” Vicki and Carla step off the elevator and narrowly miss colliding into another nurse walking as fast as he can to not officially be running. “That kind of night, huh?” Carla asked Elijah as she followed him to the main nurse’s station to check her assignment. Looking harried and exhausted, Elijah simultaneously shook his head, rolled his eyes and let out a deep breath. “You don’t even want to know, girlfriend. Thankfully, that piece of work has transfer orders to go upstairs today” he says, waving his arm in the general direction of the bellowing voice. “Well, aren’t you sweet?” Carla winked at him as she picked up the assignment clipboard. The back of her neck tingled when she saw that she had two sedated patients. Immediately she started fidgeting with her left hand: popping her knuckles, twisting her wrist to spin her bracelet around and around, and finally grabbing a pen that she started clicking every two seconds before she noticed Elijah looking at her. “Look, I don’t know how you get yourself going in the morning but if I were your partner and had to listen to all that popping and clicking, I’d shove that pen right through your trachea and give you a new airway” Elijah said without even blinking. “Geez! We know who has decided to chose violence today!” Carla said, laughing it off. “Remind me to request a different nurse if anything ever happens to me, okay?” “Gladly” says Elijah with his best customer service smile. “Now, are you going to make me wait all day or can I give you report so I can get my ass home, drink whiskey in the bathtub and try to sleep a little before coming back to this hell hole for one more night.” “Oh! You have my people? I didn’t even notice! I just assumed you had Mr. Sweet Cheeks down there with how ummm ... good you look this morning!” Carla tried to stop the last few words from coming out of her mouth, as she sat the clipboard down, but was unsuccessful. Thankfully, Elijah didn’t seem to take offense, maybe he had reached the state of exhaustion where he was numb to everything ... except her pen clicking. “Oh, you can thank me later when all you have to do is make sure the med don’t run dry. Both of our lovely ladies decided last night was a good night to buck their sedation, try to pull out their breathing tubes, and the doctors were NOT ready to try them off the ventilator. I mean, I have to stay up working all night so I don’t know why they have a problem bringing in the calvary at dark-thirty a.m. but who am I to judge?” Carla chose to just nod her head in agreement as they walked toward the station nearest beds 3 and 4 where she would be working today. She caught that sharp, bittersweet smell again before she saw Vicki’s bag next to the other computer at her station. “Dear God, doesn’t she know we can smell her from a mile away?” Elijah said as he made a face of disgust. “It’s a hard habit to break” Carla said quietly. “Well, hopefully she airs out a little so you don’t have to smell that all day.” I need to smell it all day , Carla thinks. It keeps me grounded and keeps the other demons away . “Here,” Elijah said as he pulled out a seat at the computers, “None of the families are here yet so let’s just do report at the station and then we’ll go check sedation settings before I sprint out of here.” As Elijah reviewed the admission notes, doctors’ orders, recent blood work, and meds for the patients, Carla felt like the thermostat had been increased by 30 degrees. She was hot, sweating, and knew she was going to leave sweat marks on the chair when she stood up. “Bed 3,” said Elijah “was the worst of them last night. 21-year-old female admitted as the driver of a single car accident, ejected from the vehicle, unresponsive at the scene, and, on top of everything being broken, her drug screen lit up like a Christmas tree.” They reviewed the lab results together and Carla saw that this patient was positive for nearly everything on the toxicology screen except marijuana. “I guess they haven’t figured out how to inject marijuana yet so” Elijah trailed off with a shrug. He continued to review the current orders for the patient’s sedation meds, ventilator settings, the last time the patient had been bathed, turned and whatever else he said ... Carla couldn’t hear him. As she glanced at the patient’s name, Carla felt her heart jump into her throat, momentarily suffocating her, and threatening to make her vomit her very life source right there onto the nurse’s station. Destiny Williams. It can’t be , Carla thought. “Okay?” she finally heard Elijah say. “Yeah, sure” Carla nodded and shook her head, coming back to the conversation. “Our other friend is an 84-year-old grandma, with a history of smoking about ten packs a day. Ms. Ethel decided to just sit around when she had the flu last month which then turned into pneumonia and now, she’s lucky enough to have a machine breathing for her” Elijah reported. “She got agitated last night and started pulling at her tubes but we caught her before she extubated herself. We gave her a little more ‘sleepy juice’ to keep her happy ass still until they can give ‘er a chance to show off her breathing skills on her own.” “Got it” Carla said as she watched Elijah click through the orders screen, the lab results and the plan of care, just like he did with Destiny’s chart. But all she could think about was Destiny. “So, you said the families have been by?” she asked. “Oh, well, just Ms. Ethel’s. This other one hasn’t had any visitors yet.” “How long has she been here?” “I think 2 nights” he said as he clicked back on Destiny’s chart to find her date of admission. “Yeah, 2 nights” Carla confirmed as she pointed to the screen. Carla knows they walked into the patients’ rooms. She knows Elijah showed her the settings on the pumps that were controlling the medication delivery to each patient. She also knows that they looked at the ventilator settings together and all of the mouth care supplies. But, as she said goodbye to Elijah and watched him walk away, she couldn’t recall any of the numbers for the various settings nor which side of the bed the vents were set up on. All she saw was Destiny. The unit was quiet now. Carla couldn’t hear any of the cardiac alarms. Mr. Sweet Cheeks was apparently satisfied (or did somebody already transfer him? No, it was too early for transfers.) And the last few night shift nurses were congregated around the elevator to ride to freedom together. Carla had to know. She slipped back into room 3 where she appraised Destiny not as a patient. What Carla saw as she looked at Destiny was somebody’s daughter, somebody’s dream, somebody’s reason to get clean. But had somebody failed her? What caused Destiny to have track marks up and down both arms? What led to Destiny thinking it was a good idea to combine so many drugs at once and then get behind the wheel of a car!? What happened to her mom? Where was Amanda? Knowing she had a little time before Vicki started looking for her, Carla sat on the edge of Destiny’s bed and held Destiny’s hand. Destiny didn’t move when Carla touched her. She couldn’t move. Destiny was sedated and paralyzed in order to keep her safe while she had a breathing tube down her throat, the machine breathing for her, because she was unable to effectively oxygenate on her own. As Carla felt Destiny’s limp hand in her own, she was transported back to the night that she and Amanda promised each other they would get clean. They would pursue better lives for themselves because they were too young to die but, mostly, because of the secret Amanda shared with Carla that night. “I’m pregnant.” Carla had barely heard Amanda’s whispered confession. “Are you sure” Carla asked. “I bought 5 tests from the Dollar Store the other day and they all came back positive.” “Oh, Amanda” Carla said as she pulled her friend in for a hug. “And before you ask, no, I don’t know who the daddy is but I don’t care. I’m keeping this baby and I’m going to get clean so she can have a better life than the one I’ve been livin’ out here on the streets.” “Okay! I’m here for you and we’ll do it together” Carla exclaimed. “See ...” Amanda stalled “that’s the thing.” She looked away, not able to make eye contact as she continued “I’ve been talking to some social workers and they said there’s rehab facilities or somethin’ like that for pregnant women like me who want to get clean but, unless you plan to go get knocked up, they don’t have no room for anybody on their own.” “That’s ridiculous! They won’t turn me away.” Shaking her head, Amanda said, “I don’t know, Babe. The lady said they make you pee in a cup every week to make sure you’re still pregnant and ain’t been sneakin’ no drugs. As long as I stay clean, they help make sure I get to the doctor visits and everything.” Trying to be happy for her friend, Carla put on her best smile, grabbed Amanda’s other hand, looked her in the eye and said “It sounds like a good chance for you and your baby. I’m happy for you, the both of you, Amanda.” The two women looked at each other a little longer, wrapped in the embrace of the familiar darkness, before Carla broke the silence saying “You better not forget about me” as she gave Amanda’s hands a squeeze to punctuate each word. Throwing her arms around her friend’s neck, Amanda whispered “Never.” That was nearly 26 years ago. Amanda stayed clean throughout her pregnancy and delivered a healthy baby girl that she named Destiny. Carla had eaten humble pie and moved back in with her parents where she went through a painful detox alone and refused to go out of the house if the sun was about to set. The darkness was her demise and she knew that she was too weak to avoid the corners and houses that used to feed her habits or help her make the money to afford them. To scratch the itch of stopping the drugs she used to do cold turkey (never as heavy as Amanda’s vices), Carla took up smoking. On days she was particularly pining for a bump, Carla would make a game with herself to see how slowly she could smoke a cigarette, sometimes just lighting one and not even putting it to her lips. When she and Amanda met up after the birth of Destiny, Amanda told her “You can’t be smokin’ around my baby. I’ve been doin’ real good not putting her around any of that old mess we used to do.” So, Carla would leave the cigarettes in her car and not even bring them around her friend. One day, when Destiny was about 4 years old, they met at the park and Carla looked at Amanda before blurting out “I’m thinking about doing something crazy.” “Crazier than stopping drugs cold turkey and having a baby on your own?” “Well,” Carla chuckled, “You might have me there but it’s a close second.” “Hit me with it” Amanda said as she playfully met her friend’s shoulder with a closed fist. “I’m thinking about going to nursing school.” As serious as a heart attack, Amanda returned the same genuine excitement and support that Carla had shared with her five years before. “Carla! You go girl! You’ve always been such a good friend. You’ll be the best nurse.” “I have to take a few classes before I can apply but my parents said I could live with them as long as I have a plan to better myself. I figured being a nurse could help me afford to eventually live on my own.” “Hell, we’ll come live with you” Amanda exclaimed before she thought better of it. Both women’s faces grew solemn as they understood, without having to discuss it together, that it was too risky for them to live together again. “But, for real, Carla, I’m proud of you. Just like you believed in me, I believe in you” Amanda recovered. Classes started for Carla two months later. It took her three years to get her prerequisites completed since she had to space out classes enough to allow her to carry a job without working any night shifts or taking evening classes. Once in nursing school, Carla focused on her studies and clinical rotations and finally finished her associates degree 2 years later without having to repeat any semesters. She passed the licensing exam on the first try and found a job that allowed her to work in exchange for tuition reimbursement as she pursued her bachelor’s degree and finished that in another 2.5 years. During the pursuit of her dream to become a nurse, Carla lost touch with Amanda and had no idea how to get back in contact with her. She often thought of her friend from so many years ago when they had patients come in with the most devastating stories, preceded by drug use and decisions made while impaired. Carla was so thankful that she and Amanda found their reasons to get and stay clean so many years ago and always sent up a silent petition on Amanda’s behalf that she was still doing well, too. But, today, as she looked at the daughter of a friend she hadn’t heard from in over a decade, Carla’s heart shattered just like Destiny’s body. Yes, Carla maintained a healthy fear and respect of the drugs she used to encounter on the street, specifically the Fentanyl they used to help sedate their patients. But seeing Destiny’s bruised and battered body, hearing the machine’s rhythmic breathing for her, and steady beeping as the heart monitor provided feedback for Destiny’s pulse, Carla couldn’t hear the drugs calling her name. She heard Amanda’s voice telling Carla she believes in her. Though the situation appeared dire and Destiny had a long road ahead of her, Carla knew this wasn’t the end for Destiny. As she had so many other days, Carla renewed her vow to stay clean and help nurse Amanda’s daughter back to health. Vicki poked her head in and said she was going to look for her badge in her car. Carla gave Destiny’s hand one more squeeze before standing up and getting to work, continuing to fulfill the dream she strove to achieve each and every day.


If there is a world where days of the week are human, Monday is an evil man. Bad to the bone. But at least he doesn’t hide it. You can notice it straight away. Right of the bat, you know what you are dealing with. Monday has issues and bullies others to compensate. Of course, that’s not the way he would describe it. In his world, he is the one who runs this show. Surrounded by timid sheep that can’t stand up for themselves. That is probably the most tragic part of his story. In his world, he is the hero. Poor Tuesday really got the short end of the stick. I like to think Monday and Tuesday are married. When they first met, Monday was a hardworking young gentleman with a head full of dreams. But he never pulled through and so today he is just a violent drunkard working a dead-end job. Tuesday’s reaction? Instead of kicking him out and looking for someone who keeps his word, she stays with Monday and tolerates his sorry existence. Quietly, becaue she would never complain to anybody. She sees him as a burden that she has to bear until the end of her days. She deserves the pain, everything is the way it has to be. Isn’t that how it works; Monday brings the bread to feed the family and that gives him the right to vent his frustration on his spouse? Thank God the children spend most of their time away from home. Wednesday is a strange one. Monday’s younger brother. He grew up with him, or better put, he grew up in his shadow, constantly being teased and picked on. He grew up and promised never to be like Monday. Ever. After finishing school he got a comfy job and... And that’s about all he has done really. He is not bullying anyone, true, but he isn’t doing much else either. Wake up, get to work, go home, wake up, get to work, go home. Rinse and repeat. But to be completely fair, there is one other thing he does. He daydreams about Tuesday all day long. About how with him she could finally be happy. About how he would never hurt her. He can’t understand how she is still married to that bum. But he isn’t going to do anything about it, no. Monday terrifies him. At the end of the day, it is not worth leaving his warm bed and risking a broken nose or tooth or even both. The truth is, he can’t even fight. He grew up a phlegmatic and a pacifist. The worst combination. It’s a shame. Tuesday would leave with him in a heartbeat, if she even knew what he felt towards her. Now, the eldest son of our couple is Thursday. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. On top of that he also got his mother's wits. That makes him maybe even worse than Monday. His pretty face allows him to talk his way out of any trouble. Nobody would suspect him to do anything. Meanwhile, he is stealing money from his mother's purse and seducing young girls that don’t know any better. He feels like he can get away with anything and he is getting bolder and bolder. He is friends with all and he ends up betraying most. That little bastard. One day it will all catch up to him. One day soon. Hopefully. Friday has got it figured out. The second son ran away from home as soon as he could. He is a good kid and he treats everyone, himself included, well. Sadly, not even he could escape his father’s lousy curse. Friday never knows when to stop. He always takes it too far, and that includes his drinking habits. So when he is not wasted, he is a good kid. But usually, he is wasted. Maybe that’s the reason he is buried in debt. He is tired of it all. And who wouldn’t be tired with such a family behind them? Time to time he is toying with the thought of ending it all. The best our calendar family has to offer is Saturday. Kind, open and fearless. She knows what she wants and she goes and gets it. But that also means she is never satisfied with anything. She thinks she could do better, she thinks everyone could do better. I just hope she settles down and finds peace of mind before the obsession with flawlessness sends her to an early grave. The only one left is Sunday, but I don’t feel like talking about Sunday. I don’t like it, I don’t want to think about it. Let’s just say that Sunday is a bitch. That has to be enough. \ H.


No one noticed the screens, they were the very essence of life in Nova Londres. The city knew you, cared for you, provided your every need. It was a great gift, it really was, thought Marril as she shuffled by the chemist’s screen at the corner of Abbey Rd. “Time to refill your prescription Citizen M22736,” said the genderless, ageless face on the screen, “Please approve for immediate delivery.” Marrill tapped the underside of her wrist where the chip was embedded, approving delivery. How very nice that she would not find herself without her appetite suppressant medication at this time of year. How very comforting. Marril continued toward home. As she passed the cleaners, their screen showed a soothing scene of white linen flapping from a line in a green field. Lovely. Marril had never seen a field but the screen assured her it was a clean and lovely place. The screen changed and another face smiled and said, “Citizen M22736, your grey suit has been altered and is ready for pick up inside. Congratulations on trimming two sizes!” Marril nodded to herself and went inside. She tapped on her chip, paid and left with the smaller suit. How nice. The gymnasium screen had been very attentive that year, kindly reminding her of her weight gain each time she passed. In fact, it had been attentively reporting a steady gain for a few years but last Spring, when the mercantile denied her a new suit to fit, she knew she had to make a change. Citizens were discouraged from varying from the approved sizes. Target BMI was set to prevent the people from unduly impacting the environment and it must be met. How thoughtful. So she’d joined the gym, went once a day on her way to work. The screens told her her calories were dropping, her arteries were healthy, her impact was reducing. She was given free credit for a second visit a day. She was an asset, a lesser burden on the country’s resources. She was appreciated. How satisfying. Marril entered the grocers and filled her basket. She planned a fine meal of proteins and vegetable products. The screen in the produce section asked her to confirm that she was preparing a meal for two. She tapped her chip to confirm. Her shopping was appropriate for two, it agreed. “What a nice salad that will be,” said the smiling face. Yes, it will be. Marril also thought a nice pudding seemed like the excellent end to the meal. The screen above the sweets section reminded her that her current, approved, BMI would be difficult to maintain if she chose the pudding. Marril replaced in on the shelf. So good to be looked after. Of course, thought Marill, as she hung her rather meager grocery bag over her shoulder, she’d felt a little insubstantial of late, a little invisible. But the screen at the pub gave her a thumbs up. “You’ve added two friends to your contacts recently, Citizen M22736. Congratulations. You look good and you feel good. People notice.” It was true. She’d met two women at the gym. Pansy and Ishu were both at the target BMI. They encouraged her, they were good roll models. They were friends. How wonderful. Marril arrived at home and shed her coat. Her reflection in the window, against the now-dark sky outside, was insubstantial. Her flat was small, but not as small now that she herself had grown smaller. She was lucky to have this room to call her own. At 7:00 Caleb requested access, she tapped her chip to approve. Caleb, Citizen C88912, was a friend. Maybe more than a friend. Marril wasn’t certain. She liked him but she had rather preferred Talek, from work. However, the screen by her bed had kindly reminded her that Talek had not been following advice at the market and had even frequented an unlicensed restaurant in the East End, without a screen. Marril thought he was sort of exciting, but he was a risk to attaining her BMI, her minimal impact. Caleb helped her prepare the meal they shared. He was very very close to ideal BMI. He told her it was nice to meet someone equally efficient, equally minimal. When Caleb had left, the screen on her door agreed that it was nice. The screen reminded her how much nicer it would be to reach ultimate minimal impact by sharing her room. Marill smiled. It must indeed be nice. Fall rolled into winter, Marril noted that she was chillier now that she was less impactful. In November the city-wide screens announced a new reduction in ideal BMI. Marril sighed and signed up for lunch-time sessions at the gym. She saw Pansy and Ishu once, they were very close to attaining the new goals. She did not see them again. How sad. Marill saw Talek once, crossing Finchley Rd. He waved and smiled. Marill waved and though that Talek looked somehow substantial, like he meant something. She thought that seemed nice but the crosswalk screen flashed Talek’s number, T110902, in red and his BMI. Marill’s eyes widened; that had been her number in June. It seemed a very long time ago and she wondered if she had also felt substantial in June. Mid-way through February it snowed. This was a treat and Marill was delighted. When it snowed the city was calmed under the white weight of the powder. Half of the city disappeared leaving only the smiling faces from the screens and narrow shadows, people maybe, cutting trails through the snow. Marill passed the market and the screen flashed to a face, beaming with eyes filled with pride and joy, “Congratulations Citizen M22736, you have reached the new target BMI. Please give yourself a pat on the back for your minimal impact.” “Yes, I think I will,” said Marill to the screen. She reached back to give herself a pat and regarded the street behind. The snow sparkled smooth in an unbroken blanket reflecting the lights from the screens on the market, the crosswalk, the cleaner, the pub. Marill had left no footsteps in the snow.


The mood on the busy street of Escondido felt cruel and harsh with the sun beating down, making the concrete feel like it was the base of an oven, meant to cook all of California. As soon as Amelia walked through the bakery door, the world felt comforting and kind. She took in the warm scents of cinnamon and nutmeg that seemed distinct to Dylan's pastries. In a dream world, those smells would have indicated that she was home. Now, standing in a small crowd, swooning over their choices of treats, Amelia stood in the background needing to make this moment last. This sweet moment when there was still hope, she closed her eyes, stayed very still, and tried to... "You're still trying to make time stop," a familiar voice caused her to snap her eyes wide open. "Dylan," Amelia's voice shook with guilt and embarrassment, "I...I..." She took in his features, trying to tell if he was annoyed at her intrusion? "You picked a hell of a time to stop by, during the lunch rush," he pointed out. "Lunch rush? You serve desserts," she commented. Dylan gave an unexpected chuckle, "I thought you took psychology at that fancy university. Don't you understand how precious a person's sweets are to them? This is sometimes the only time people have to get their fix." Amelia sighed and smiled with understanding. "So, as you can see, I'm a bit busy right now," he gestured to the door and Amelia's expression sank in defeat. "Oh, of course," she was torn between her tendency to be accommodating and her need to say what she had been working herself up to say for the last week. She couldn't live like this anymore. She had to speak up, "I just had to...I had to." Dylan's face softened a bit and Amelia thought maybe it was possible to get through this. She was about to try again when a crash came from behind the counter, "Dylan, we can't keep up and Sally is beginning to crumble." "I'm not," a timid voice spoke up with a nervous waiver. "Sally's new," Dylan explained, "Um, why don't you sit in our breakroom and enjoy a cinnamon bun. You still like those?" "I, I do," Amelia stumbled over the words, just relieved to not be thrown out. "Good. It might take a while but as soon as the crowd dwindles, I'll come back and we can talk," Dylan said with the kindness Amelia remembered from three years ago. "That sounds great," Amelia wondered if her voice sounded too excited but stopped caring when she remembered how badly she needed to finally get everything out. She started to walk to the back and Dylan called out, "Also, when you get to the breakroom and you notice that it looks like it might be a closet, don't think I'm trying to get back at you by making you sit in a closet. We just have a really sad, tiny breakroom." Amelia responded with nervous laughter and noticed a tightening in her chest at the thought of how much she missed his sense of humor. She watched him go back to work and saw him put his hand on the back of a beautiful woman packing cupcakes into a box. Was that Sally and he was reassuring her from earlier? Or was it something more and Amelia was too late? Maybe she should go but leaving would not take away this ache. It didn't change a thing. She needed to be strong for once. For two hours, Amelia listened to the sounds of a busy bakery with the added bonus of listening to Dylan interact with his customers, whom he seemed to know well. There was Jenny, who had a weakness for red velvet cupcakes, a man in a hard hat who apparently always got his treats wrapped with extra paper to avoid the stickiness on his fingers, and an elderly lady named Mrs. Perez who got the special treatment of her own chair and table so she could "relax her old bones" while she enjoyed a coffee with some strudel. Dylan's questions were more about their days instead of what they wanted. Amelia knew that he was talented with an oven, but this was a whole new talent she was witnessing. It made her miss him even more. Amelia had a couple of issues of Taste of Home magazine from five years ago to keep her company. She savored her cinnamon bun to the point that there were still a few bites left. The last half hour though, all she could do was look at the letter her father gave her before he died, three years ago. She ached over this letter for years and a month ago, she read it with new eyes and realized she had messed everything up. The letter was practically falling apart now with the number of times she read it. She closed her eyes and took another bite of the cinnamon bun, trying to make this moment last forever too. Dylan finally came to the breakroom which was more the size of the tiny kitchen in her apartment rather than a closet, not horrible at all. He took a deep breath as he took a moment to watch her with his eyes closed. He remembered trying to join her in these moments, trying to feel what she felt. He broke the silence, "So, my cinnamon buns are worth stopping time for too?" Amelia opened her eyes slowly, trying to finish making the mental notes. "I was certain that your baked goods were the key to stopping time. This cinnamon bun confirms it." Dylan laughed at the compliment, "You know, when I first saw you sitting with your eyes closed, I thought you were praying. It fascinated me and concerned me at the same time." "And now?" Amelia asked. "Now," Dylan searched for the right words, "It makes me a little sad. Knowing that you started this when you found out that your dad was dying. Watching you try to not take any good moment for granted is beautiful, but it also seems exhausting too. To always be thinking about death seems exhausting." "Yeah, it is," Amelia agreed. Amelia was tempted to stall but Dylan knew her too well and kept her on track, "Why are you here?" Amelia waved the letter in her hand, fumbling when it almost fell apart. Dylan peered over and noticed the top which read, "My Dearest Daughter," and then looked away to honor her privacy. He sat down, "The letter your dad left you? You look like you're still in a lot of pain. I thought you had healed, was healing from his death." "I was. I am. This pain is new," Amelia confessed. "New? Did someone hurt you? Are you okay?" Dylan immediately sounded protective and it warmed Amelia's heart. "I think I hurt myself. I was trying to follow my dad's advice and I messed it up," she confessed. "Your dad was a kind, smart man. I can't imagine him giving you bad advice," Dylan commented. Amelia took a deep breath and asked, "Do you remember...do you know...why do you think we broke up?" Dylan's face turned stern again. He scoffed, "This is what you want to talk about? You just came by to open up old wounds? You know, I was having a good day until this moment." "I know and I'm sorry. It's wrong for me to ask for any more help but please, tell me. I tried to reach out to you a month ago and you ignored my texts. The only reason I can think of is the way we ended things. So please, I'm begging you, tell me what I'm missing," Amelia pleaded. "It was pretty clear to me," Dylan began, "You were hurting from your father's death and about to go away to that fancy university. So, instead of letting me help by being the person you could lean on, the person who would love you through all of it, you decided to make a clean break. No one to hold you back and a bunch of new, smart people to meet. And that's the reason why you broke up with me." Amelia could not fight the tears that crashed through like waves with each cutting word. Not only because she realized that he loved her just like she loved him, but because she realized that her attempt to do the right thing had hurt them both. Dylan's expression sank. He spoke with anger and frustration, but he didn't want to hurt her, not to the point of tears. "Look, I'm sorry. That was all a bit harsh." "No, I'm sorry,” Amelia hated that Dylan carried this cruel story with him for so long. She wished he understood how amazing he was and how wonderful she thought he was. “I've always seen you as smart and strong and talented. You are an artist at baking, and you are so wonderful with people. You are perfect, just like this. I messed up my goodbye so badly and hurt us both. This is all my fault," Amelia confided. She slid the note to Dylan, "This is the advice my dad gave me, and I agreed with him, but I should have done things differently. I should have at least shown you the note." My Dearest Daughter Amelia, I hope that you have the most amazing life, with no regrets. Dylan has become a wonderful man and I am confident that if you follow your heart, whoever you end up with will make you extremely happy. The saying is true, "If you love someone, set them free." You have your whole life ahead of you. Accomplish your goals and become the person you want to be. Look around and learn what makes you happy. Go towards the people and experiences that will give you a complete and fulfilling life. I am confident that if Dylan is your one true love, then you will find your way back to each other after you find out who you are deep down inside. You will always be in my heart, even when it stops beating. Dylan placed the letter back on the table with reverence. "You agreed and felt like you needed to know yourself before we could have a life together?" "Yes," Amelia timidly admitted. "You did a shitty job of telling me that before you left," Dylan pointed out. "Yes." "And why are you back?" Dylan asked hopefully. "To tell you, I know that I want to use my psychology degree to help children. I've discovered I love jazz music and I'm learning how to paint. And to tell you that every day I worked on getting to know myself, I thought of you and how much you make me smile. I know it would be crazy for me to think that you haven't found someone else but..." "I haven't," Dylan interjected. Amelia paused, “I thought the woman up front was...” “Sally’s having a rough day and dropping most of our profits. I was just trying to be supportive and convince her to take a break before she breaks something,” Dylan informed her. “So, you’re not with anyone?” Amelia asked as she got up and began to pace in the small area. When she realized she could hardly move around, she stopped, hugged herself and closed her eyes. She felt a broad chest lean into her back and two strong hands stroke her arms. She felt his breath before she heard him whisper, “This is not the moment you want to stop time for.” “I don’t,” she whispered back, “Then when.” “The moment when I tell you, ‘I love you and I have never stopped loving you,’ and then you let me kiss you. That’s when you want to stop time,” he confessed. Amelia turned around and looked into his warm dark eyes, “Yes, but not until I tell you, just in case you haven’t figured it out yet, that I love you too.” Dylan let out a sigh of relief as he pulled her close to him and gave her a kiss worth stopping time for.


Last week I was driving to an office party for the holidays and my GPS decided the quickest route to the destination was through a part of downtown I didn’t know. That’s what I get for blindly following computer software. It may calculate the drive time and the shortest distance between two points but it doesn’t factor in the relative safety of the neighborhood. Once I realized what was going on, I was already too far into a really bad area, to just turn around. I decided to play it cool and hope for the best. With any luck, the route would soon lead me away from the urban blight. Then I was stopped by a traffic light. A homeless man was standing on the curb holding his cardboard sign. They always seem to pick a spot where it’s too difficult to avoid eye contact. As a general rule, I don’t roll down the window or open my door in places like that. I’ve seen too many mugging and robbery videos to risk giving away a few bucks. For that reason, I tend to avoid reading the depressing messages scrawled on their signs. Strangely enough, I felt compelled to read his. It seemed like it might be prudent. “You’ll be dead very soon.” I actually snorted. If he was hungry or jonesing for a fix, he sure wasn’t going to score any pity cash from me with that ‘uplifting message’. The naysayer of doom on the sidewalk would definitely benefit from less caustic signage, I thought to myself. The light changed and I eased off the brake. Frankly, I was anxious to get out of there. His message was downright creepy and foreboding. Perhaps he hoped to be arrested for making malicious threats and receive ‘three hots and a cot’ at the nearest police precinct. At that point, I didn’t care. I was happy to witness him fade away in my rearview mirror. I don’t know if it’s deliberate or not, but once you get stopped by one light, they all seem to catch you. Maybe they’re programmed to make it impossible to drive through them without having to stop constantly. If so, it’s a gas tax conspiracy. I can’t prove any of that of course, but it never seems to fail. When I pulled up to the next four-way intersection to wait on the light, another street person was standing there. With recent economic downturns, the neighborhood appeared to be overrun with vagrants and ‘lost souls’. This guy was just as nondescript as the previous one. At least he wasn’t holding a threatening sign to freak out passing motorists. I studied his layered clothes and grizzly features. For the briefest moment I thought he might be the same individual I’d saw four blocks earlier (but I knew that couldn’t be). Logistically there was no way he could’ve traveled that distance as fast as my car. To be perfectly honest, I only remembered a few details about him. It was his sign I couldn’t ignore or forget. Beyond that, they could have been identical twins, or nothing alike. Before the light changed, the guy reached down to the ground and picked up his very own cardboard note. While somewhat different in wording, it’s message was no less startling. Honestly, it was more so for one specific reason. “The end is near for you Bill Holland. Repent.” I don’t mind telling you that I was stunned, and in utter disbelief. As you might have guessed, my name IS ‘Bill Holland’ and I had no idea who that guy was; or how he came to expect me to see it! It’s not like I regularly drive through that area or that anyone knew I was going to be stopped by the traffic lights there. The dark details of his sign were incredibly startling and specific. They were tailored just for me. I was so shocked that I didn’t notice when the light changed to green. The car behind me honked in impatience. I managed to put my focus back to the task at hand of driving through the ‘hood’. I squealed my tires and roared out of there like I was in a death race. Despite my accelerated pace, I only made it past a couple more intersections before the next signal turned red. I debated blowing through it and going full throttle until I made it to a safer place but there was too much cross traffic. I had to stop. I was greatly relieved to see the whole block was vacant. There was no one visible on the street corner at all. No pimps. No drug dealers. No prostitutes. Regardless, there was still an ominous message waiting for me, just the same. An unattended cardboard sign was propped up against the brick wall of a nearby building. I tried to resist reading it but my curious eyes betrayed me. “You took a wrong turn. Go back.” That was the LAST thing I’d ever do. I had no intention of driving back past the previous two sign holders. I wanted to put as much distance between myself and them as I could. I cursed the phone app for taking me on such a bizarre journey but when the light changed, I impulsively diverted from the specified GPS directions. I took an immediate left turn away from the planned route. As soon as I did, the phone started ‘redirecting’. “Shut up!”; I shouted at the damned inanimate object making my life a living hell. (of course it told me to take the next three right turns to rejoin my original path). I didn’t care at that point. I was anxious to avoid any more threatening messages by strangers holding up handwritten signs. Despite my best efforts to avoid falling any deeper into the twilight-zone like conspiracy, that’s exactly what happened. I was feeling mildly rebellious by defying the cheerfully-voiced GPS directions when my car headlights fell upon a number of reflective street barricades. The road was completely blocked! My premature smugness was replaced with frustration and dismay. I had to turn around but nothing said I had to return the same way I’d came. As I arrived back at the intersection, I could hardly believe my eyes. The other two directional choices were also barricaded! They were NOT blocked before. I was sure of that. Someone was messing with me. The sinister author of the last sign was going to get his way after all. I had no choice but to drive back toward the unknown sidewalk provocateurs. My heart raced as I felt like I was falling into their well-laid trap. The unattended sign was no longer there. That made sense I suppose. I was now headed back where it had directed me to go. One by one, all of the cross streets were now blocked off. I was on a one-way trip, headed toward an uncertain fate. I thought about stopping the car but there was a certain measure of artificial security in being inside a locked vehicle. Slowly I crept back toward the source of my tension. I was tempted to call 9-1-1 but what would I have said? That some creepy homeless people with cardboard signs were menacing me in an ‘urban barricade conspiracy’? It would have sounded as crazy as it actually was; and I didn’t even know what road I was on anymore. I’d long since shut off the GPS device and all the street signs were either missing or covered with spray paint. Drums were on fire in the alleys. Cars were up on blocks. The shell of buildings all around looked as dangerous from a structural standpoint as from the desperate individuals inside. The confines of the car was my safety blanket. The second sign holder was still there on the corner; waiting. When he saw me, he changed position to align with my vantage point in the car. His sign now warned that I was about to ‘meet my doom’. I checked to confirm my doors were locked for the 20th time. I scanned the streets for the unexpected. I was alarmed to witness him drop his sign and start walking directly toward me! Slowly he faded from view in my mirror. I was only one sign holder away from making it out of the area; or possibly approaching the cunning trap they had waiting for me. The first guy was leaned up against a building near the spot where I’d originally saw him. It was the end of the line. I knew it and they knew it. The barricades were across the road and I had nowhere left to go. The homeless guy started pulling off his knit hat and overcoat in some gesture I didn’t understand. Then he stepped out of the filthy coveralls he wore. I honestly didn’t know what to expect next. I had my foot on the gas pedal and was about to gun right through the road barrier if he came toward me when he started peeling off a fake beard and wig. I thought me eyes were playing tricks on me. It was one of my managers from work! He held up a brand new cardboard note: “Welcome to the party, Bill! Surprise...


My Fair Lady It happened at the fair. Our eyes locked, our hearts entwined and our lives tumbled. Sir Carlton Winslow, my good chum from university and myself, Sir Riley Fenwick, decided to take in the ever popular local market fair to delve into delectable street fare hawked out by costermongers and imbibe in some hardy ale dispensed by wanton wrenches. The bawdy sights and cacophony of sounds would provide a good diversion from our unending pressures of the late season of concerts, ballroom galas and afternoon teas we young blades were expected to grace our presence at or be forever outcasts in the high-society realms. What a boring and unproductive season this had turned out to be! The current crop of debutantes proved to be mousy, over-zealous gold diggers without an incomparable beauty among them. Unfortunately, we young eligible bachelors were obligated to play along if we were ever going to make a suitable marriage match made in heaven or in the history of banking for that matter. With our country being embroiled in war after war it is taking a toll on landed gentry. Dowries have been shrinking and more of us Corinthian types are being sent off to battle. Having a wife and heirs may reduce those odds. Still I would rather marry for love than for money or station in life. “What do you say, Ole Chum, we find some street eats and see what kind of entertainment we can find. Look, vendors of all goods line the promenade with colorful drapes of fabric tents. I can smell the roasted pig and sweet breads.” First we feasted on roasted meats and had a tipple or two then headed on down the cobblestones. We gravitated towards sounds of a harpsichord and found street musicians and dancers engaging the crowd. “Come dance with me.” A gaily clad gypsy pulled Carlton into her arms and swung him around clouding him in veils with zills clanging merrily. He laughed as he tripped the light fantastic. Then she spun him back out to me to catch before he fell flat on his face still giggling. We were almost run over by a dancing bear with a monkey on his back parading behind us. The red-vested monkey hopped down and sailed over the beast as he did a somersault. They joined the other performers including a contortionist, a dwarf, and a bearded lady. On another stage a magician was amazing the public with his illusions. Down the mall a puppet show was presented. I do believe that was the infamous Punch performing a routine. Children laughed uproariously. Nearby a strongman exhibition drew us closer. The burly fellow wielded a heavy mallet and took a swing at a metal plate attached to an upright huge scale. The ball on the scale soared to the top ringing a bell. Then he challenged the gentlemen assembled to give it a try. One white-haired macaroni stepped up no doubt to impress the fanning debutante on his arm of his manliness. Their chaperon tut-tutted behind them. Naturally, even with all his might thrown at the target the ball barely climbed the obstacle. Embarrassed the fool insisted the whole thing was rigged. I volunteered to rectify the argument and took a turn. The bell rang out true. Then Carlton, good chap, did the same. We tipped our top hats and carried on a midst the cheering. Amid the art displays sculptors were demonstrating their craft. One could step right up and get their hands dirty creating their own masterpiece. Further along we were tempted to enter the eating contests by the aromatic assault of funnel cakes and corn on the cob. But our bellies were still full of pulled pork. We did come away with small token trophies for our archery feats. Then we watched a rowing contest on the river. Some rogue convinced us to enter the amateur boxing match. So here we stood, best friends, bare-chested and bare-knuckled facing each other in a ring sparring off putting up our dukes. We would much rather be fencing one another. But we did what we could trying not to cause too much damage. “Okay, Riley, get ready. You asked for this.” “I'm not even the least bit angry with you. How am I supposed to knock your block off?” Thus we sparred and volleyed back and forth. He threw a jab and I ducked, I flung an uppercut and he backed away. Jab, hook, cross, counter-punch, clinch. Suddenly, I was dazzled. No, he hadn't landed a serious punch but I could only see stars. Stars in her eyes. The most beautiful smile in the world gazing up at me. Where had she come from? Then, POW! Carlton threw an upper cut that gobsmacked me silly and down I went. When I had my wits about me again she was still there her brow knitted with concern, her petite gloved hands clasped in front of her. I was sure I saw a vision of an angel in a white flowing gown with gold accents bestowing her grace upon me. Even through the sweat I could detect her delicate floral scent wafting towards me. “Oh, how horrible! Are you okay?” A sweeter than honey voice cried out. Do I prove how macho I am and jump up unscathed or play the helpless buffoon and let her care for me? “This is all play acting! Let's get away from this mayhem, My Dear, Lady Charity.” And she was led away by that white-haired dandy followed by an older woman in drab garb. “No, no. I can't lose you now.” I call after her but they are swallowed up in the revelry. “Come, Carlton, let's get dressed. I must find her. She is the Incomparable I have been yearning for.” “Don't be a fool. She is obviously spoken for. Banns may already have been announced this late in the season. Besides, he is dripping in old money. You wouldn't stand a chance. Let it rest.” “But she doesn't love him! I could tell by the way she looked at me. I must find her. There's been a crime! She stole my heart! My Fair Lady, Charity.”


Mrs. Harriet Beaufort was not sure when she started hearing them. The muffled voices that seemed to come from nowhere. The odd sounds that were unlike any bird or bell she had ever heard. The footsteps and banging that were sometimes right against her great room wall and sometimes so far away that she had to strain to hear them. But she knew it had been for quite some time, at least since her dear Edgar had passed. When it had first begun to happen, she’d been sure it was the war returned to her doorstep. Those awful soldiers in their gray uniforms, setting fire to what they saw to keep the more-awful soldiers in their blue uniforms from getting their hands on it. Somehow, surely by the sacrifice of her dearly departed Edgar, her home had been the only one to survive the fires. But it hadn’t been without great cost, of course. And, when the noises had begun, the wife of the late Mr. Edgar Beaufort had been sure that her dear husband had taken her sanity to heaven with him. It was squirrels, she reasoned at first. Squirrels who had escaped the fires had taken refuge in her attic. But the attic only went so far, and she could hear the sounds even when she paced the grounds looking for where squirrels could have gotten in. Then, perhaps, a family of birds. If it weren’t squirrels, then surely it was birds, hidden somewhere in the eaves. Woodpeckers drilling into the wood. Hundreds of them. But it was no bird she knew that made sounds like what kept her awake at night, and there were no holes to be found left by pecking beaks. She had half a mind to call for someone in town, but the idea of a man in her home without her beloved Edgar there was far too much for her delicate sensibilities. Then there was the sound of people. Men with their women. Conversations in the walls. Those, at first, had terrified Mrs. Beaufort. The soldiers returned, hiding in her home. Or the soldiers she’d been warned about, come to take what her lovely Edgar had left. She’d thought of leaving the house, but travel wasn’t something she could do on her own. Oh, how she wished her dear Edgar had still been there at her side. Then they could leave together. Or maybe he’d have held her hand, told her she was simply being silly, and she could have slept easier at night without the thought of men in her home without her husband there. But when she began hearing the sounds of children, when there were certainly no children to be found, she thought she ought to make an exception. A priest, after all, was not the same as a handyman or a soldier. A priest was a man of God, and certainly whatever was in her home and making the noises that mimicked humans and rang unholy bells was something that the Lord was needed to take care of. And she thought very hard about calling for the priest, about heading into town, but every time she tried in her best skirts and bonnet she was overcome with fear. She had never been to town without her darling Edgar. And so, she resolved to share her home with the demon in her walls. It had been several months at that point, if not longer, when she began to see them. Figures in odd clothes passing through her walls. The first time it had happened, she’d fainted cold on the floor with a scream. When her eyes had opened she’d taken her favorite kitchen knife and scoured her house, trying to have even half of her dear husband’s bravery. But there was neither hide nor hair of demons, no footprints left behind from the strange hooded figures with their long skinny legs and their horrible pointed white toes like a horse’s hoof flat on the ground. She slowly became used to her madness, accepting it as her fate for not following her darling Edgar into death. The figures walking in and out of her walls like whispers, floating through the air and disappearing into her high ceilings were soon nothing more than the mosquitoes that came with the summer. Commonplace. Normal. And though they sometimes, on exceedingly rare occasion, seemed to look at her, she could never make out a face, human or otherwise. But she knew what she saw weren’t humans. Not when their hands sometimes ended in rectangles instead of fingers, when they had terrible dangling ears hardly the width of her embroidery floss that would connect into flaps on their bodies, when some of the words they said were little more than nonsensical sounds or screaming into their horrible hands. But then one day, a voice said her beloved husband’s name. And Mrs. Harriet Beaufort nearly passed out cold again. “Edgar Beaufort?” The voice, a man’s voice, clearly called again. “Who are you?” Mrs. Beaufort said back, a shake in her voice and her skirt balled in her trembling fingers. “Who are you, and what business have you with my husband?” “Edgar Beaufort, are you here with us?” She crossed her home immediately to the front door, throwing it wide. But there was no one on her porch. “What business do you have with my husband, you monster? Don’t you know he died in the war?” The door shut a little harder than she meant it. Immediately the first voice was joined with a second. “Holy crap, dude, did you hear that?” “Holy shit. Oh my God.” “How dare you take the Lord’s name in vain, you demon!” Mrs. Beaufort’s voice raised. “Ask it again, man, ask it again.” “Edgar Beaufort, if you can hear us, please say your name.” “This is Mrs. Edgar Beaufort, and you have been trespassing in my home for-” “Edgar Beaufort, did you die here?” Not only had the demon interrupted her, but it’d had the gall to ask so crassly about her darling’s death. “How dare you!” She gathered her skirt, stamping a foot. “How old were you when you died?” Mrs. Harriet Beaufort, a proper Carolinian woman through and through, was absolutely beside herself. “I beg your pardon? The nerve of you, asking a lady-” “Why are you in this apartment building?” “I’m not a part of building anything!” She answered, flabbergasted. “Is that what you horrific things are doing? Building something here? A portal to hell? Not in this house, you’re not! Oh, no, oh no no no,” and she began to stamp off, to retrieve her favorite knife from the kitchen. “ “Yo, G, did you hear that?” “Yeah, man, play it back, play it back...” She whipped around, screaming, “I’m through playing any games with you, Mr. Huger, is that your name? Who do you answer to? The devil? You’ll be answering to Mrs. Edgar Beaufort, you mark my words!” As she turned, her elbow caught a vase on an endtable, but she paid no mind to the shouts that followed from her walls. No, she was getting that knife, and she’d be giving these whatever-they-were a piece of her mind. And as she held her knife in her hands, she waited. Waited for another rude question. But there wasn’t one. She waited and waited, shouting into the empty halls when the demons wouldn’t answer her as the hours dragged on. Oh how she wished her dear Edgar were still there. She wished she hadn’t lost sight of him in the fire. She wished she’d been more flammable, that the flames that licked at her skirt had taken her with her husband instead of left her behind to rot so. She took her favorite knife to her walls, carving her beloved’s name so she could see it everywhere she turned. She would find whatever the demons were a part of building if she had to tear her home apart with her own delicate sensibilities. Every wall a figure walked through, she began to mark. Every spot they disappeared, she ripped the floorboards up to find them. Every sound she heard was written in ink directly onto walls once she’d run out of paper. She would find them. She would find those demons. And once she did, and she finally had the courage to leave home and fetch the priest, she would leave her house to them and join her darling Edgar. And, unknown to Mrs. Harriet Beaufort, a landlord was making an incredibly lucrative deal with an overnight ghost tour to make use of the empty rooms left behind when the supposed Mr. Beaufort began writing his name into whatever seemed to be the old burned down walls that once had stood where the complex did.


Breathe Breathe, in and out. Just take another breath. You risk breaking the seal of your eyelids to glance around. The room's walls are stacked logs supported by metal posts. Their dancing shadows play out across the room, choreographed by the licking flame of a candle resting on the makeshift table at the center of the room. Boom! Another round lands close to the bunker, dislodging another avalanche of dust and dirt from the roof above. This is the 9th straight hour of bombardment. No matter how long you stay on the front, you cannot get used to it. The sound alone becomes a physical force. Fear blends into terror as screams accent the crescendo. You just want it to stop. Worse yet, you don't. When it stops, the real war starts. There is not a lot to do during the bombardment. You did what you could for the patients you have. Such young men. Most of them have never felt the cold bite of a shaving razor, yet here they lie. Bodies irreparably mangled by war. Their war is over but this fight will last the rest of their lives. All you can do is provide what little comfort you can in the form of unconsciousness. You will most likely not see another living soul until it stops. Then the trickle of broken bodies will start back up. A trickle becomes a wave, a wave a flood. You have long since passed the point of wondering why. Why do we hate? Why do we kill? Why am I here? Why me? Now you sit, almost in a state of meditation, not thinking, barely feeling. Hunger and fatigue are mere suggestions of sensations. But something feels amiss. Suddenly, silence. An eerie calm settles over the bunker. The absence of sound is more unsettling than the relentless bombardment. You strain your ears, waiting for the familiar rumble of explosions, the distant cries of pain, but there is nothing. The sudden quiet suffocates, pressing in from all sides. With caution, you rose to your feet, muscles stiff from hours of crouching in the cramped space. The candle flickered weakly, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch and sway with a life of their own. Your steps echoed softly as you approached the entrance, heart pounding in your chest. As you peered outside, your breath caught in your throat. The landscape was shrouded in a thick blanket of smoke and dust, the air acrid and heavy. The once-familiar sounds of war had been replaced by an eerie stillness, broken only by the distant whimper of a wounded soldier. Something had changed. The world outside felt different. The smoke nearest the ground rolled towards your feet, creeping along, almost in search of something, anything, to cling onto. As the smoke envelops your boots, it pulls back ever so slightly. It was only a little and you could have passed it off as nothing. But then it came, flowing much faster. Climbing your legs reaching further with a sickening desperation. It overtakes your legs, waist, arms, and head. With one sharp breath in, the smoke finds its mark. You feel the smoke flow down your throat, with an unnatural force it pushes its way in. Like one drawn-out inhalation, it fills your lungs. As suddenly as it came on it stops. With nothing but the lingering silence and distant whimpering. Your head feels heavy, lungs sting, with a deep aching. You are not sure what just happened, or if it happened at all. So you trudge on, walking the trench line. The bunker next to yours is empty, as is the next. You look around in confusion, wondering where everyone has disappeared to. The emptiness of the surroundings sends a shiver down your spine. Suddenly, a voice whispers in your ear, "You're not alone." You can't tell if it's real or just a figment of your imagination. The uncertainty and fear take hold as you try to make sense of what is happening. You cannot recall where you are going, or what you wanted to see. You know the silence is wrong but not why or how. You stumble as you walk, catching your balance just as you thought you were going down. With your next step, it's as if the floor is gone. You are in freefall! Darkness surrounds you, engulfing your vision until it's nothing but black. The only light comes from the faint glow of stars in the distance, but they are quickly disappearing as you fall deeper into the abyss. The darkness makes it impossible to see anything but the void below you. Your eyes strain to adjust, but all you can make out are faint glimpses of your body and the turbulent air rushing past you. The air is musty and stale, with a hint of burning and charred wood. It's suffocatingly thick, making it hard to catch a breath. Your mouth is dry, as if all the moisture has been sucked out of it. The taste of fear lingers on your tongue, a metallic tang that makes you want to retch. It is like being suspended in a void, surrounded by a silence so profound it seemed to echo. Everything was dark and cold, like being wrapped in a shroud of emptiness that stretched on forever. The air rushed by, swift and noiseless, as you plummeted into an unknown abyss. You can feel pulling... As if you are being manipulated or directed. The darkness murmurs at you, unintelligible and non-distinct. The redirection becomes more palpable, forceful, and angry. You find yourself moving down a corridor. The darkness becomes light, and you are not alone. “Just breathe,” you tell yourself. “Just take another breath.” Have you lost your mind? Were you hit? What is going on? You realize there are others, they are directing you, pushing you, not so lovingly guiding you. They are speaking, or at least you think they are. You cannot understand what is being said, it's as if they are speaking another language, or not a language but incoherent sounds. Who are these people? They look wrong. Arms and legs extended, almost spider-like. Hollow faces with black pits for eyes. They are misshapen, not so human. The way they move is wrong too. Jerky and uncontrolled, unsteady but determined. After losing yourself in awe, not sure how much time passed. You find yourself in a room. The room is dimly lit, shadows dancing on the walls from an unknown source. The bed is old and worn, with faded patterns on the sheets and a lumpy mattress. The chair is simple and plain, but its edges are sharp and seem to blend into the darkness of the room. The heavy door looms before you, the only exit from this strange place. You spend hours. No, days, or is it weeks, locked in the room. Your mind is mush, it's as if all logical thought patterns are beyond you. You struggle to understand the situation and events that lead up to it. After an instant, or was it an eternity, one of them opens the door and grabs you. They lead you down a white hallway. You try to talk to him, plead with him, anything, but to no avail. They won't listen or respond to you. Stopping suddenly and without warning in front of a door, you look up at the thing, or whatever it is, incredulity plastered on your face. With a whine, the door opens and you are brought before a group of them. You are forced into a rickety old chair and restrained. They seem to talk to you, or at you. You plead and beg them to return you. You just want to go home. The non-distinct murmuring continues. You can almost make out words. It sounds like coward, or covered. In pain, or insane. At this point, the things look familiar. You feel like you should know them or at least what they are. Are you high? You didn't drink... “What the fuck!” you say, again, and again. With a rough shove, they forcefully toss you out into the blinding daylight. The harsh sun instantly assaults your senses, searing your skin and blinding your eyes. As you struggle to adjust, a light breeze carries the scent of freshly cut grass, a cruel reminder of the world outside. You are brutally expelled from the darkness, left vulnerable under the scorching heat and merciless winds of reality. After walking for some time you come to an opening, a stone pillar in the center. In a moment of clarity, you recognize this place. You have been here before, but when? Where? Why? You find yourself tied to the stone pillar. But it's not stone, it's wood. “What the fuck?” The things are all around, their non-faces glaring at you. But they are not all around, just in front. Rather off to the sides in front, and a line of them twenty paces away. They seem to be pointing at you. Why are they so familiar? They are wearing uniforms, you think. Holding sticks, rods? All goes quiet again. One steps forward and the murmuring starts back up. Those words again, Cowardice... Insanity... Firing squad... “What the fuck?” you ask. You hear a crack and feel the weight of a truck on your chest. The first one is followed by several more. Your gut cramps and the sun dims. You feel something cold and wet on your face and taste copper in your mouth. “Just breathe,” you tell yourself. “Just take another breath.” But the air gurgles, pulled in from an unspace in your chest. You gasp , but are too weak to get the air in. The lights fade, and you feel calm for the first time in ages. Close your eyes and breathe. \*\*Prologue\*\* “Major! I have the report, it is ready to be sent to the family. Would you like to read it over first?” The young Lt asks as he hands over the folder. Opening up the folder, the Major skims over the report. “We regret to inform you,” it starts off. “Your son John S. Green was in a bunker when it was struck by an artillery round. Your son survived, but the enemy was on the move and was storming the defenses. In an incredible act of cowardice, your son ran from his hole and left his comrades to die alone. He was seemingly insane and not able to follow directions. After a short period of incarceration and a trial, your son was found guilty of cowardice. Immediately after the verdict, your son was executed by firing squad. His remains will not be returned home. He will be buried on site with his brothers in arms.” “Looks about right,” the Officer said.


Warning - >!This story contains a scene involving high stress and danger with extreme heights!< ©2022 JAMES LEE AARWEN LLC All Rights Reserved “Father, why do we have to go hunting today?” complained the young white dragon as she sat examining the new streak of copper scales that had surfaced on top of her front leg. “Couldn’t we wait until the weather clears? I don’t want my first hunt to be in a storm.” It was a discussion she had held with her father many times. Not that she feared flying in a storm; she just had no desire to risk her life in one. A deep sigh echoed through the air as the dull, cloud-covered rays of sunrise shone through the newly budding tree canopies and fell on the moist cave walls. The sparse sun reflected off of the metallic copper scales of the colossal dragon lying at the mouth of the cave, peppering the dark cavern with soft orange lights. The copper dragon’s tired reply echoed through the cave as he turned his head to look at her. Her white scales contrasting starkly with the cold, dark cave walls. His crimson eyes met hers. “Kehfre, you will come of age in a few years. It will not be long before you will need to fend for yourself. You have delayed your flight practice long enough. Besides, every male wants a mate to hunt with, rather than having to do everything himself.” It was a jest pointed at her mother, who often opted to stay in the cave, watching her unhatched eggs. Kehfre conceded to her father as he stood and began strutting out of the cave, his large tail scraping against the cavern wall as he stretched his four legs out, arching his back as he released a yawn. Kehfre snorted as a few pebbles fell on her head, scraped from the ceiling by the spines on his back. She ducked, his tail swinging over Kehfre’s head as he walked through the cave entrance. It was no use arguing with him again; he was set on her practicing this day in this storm. Kehfre sighed as she rose to her feet. *\[like anyone would want to perform the dance with a mix breed like myself,\]* this notion she kept to herself. She wasn’t necessarily happy about it, but it was something she accepted. No male had ever even considered her as more than an abomination. It wasn’t just that her parents were of different colors. Her father was a pure metallic dragon, while her mother was a chromatic. The union itself had been enough to get them exiled from their respective clans. “All the more reason for you to learn to hunt, and to be comfortable with\*--\*” started her father. “I told you I don’t like it when you read my thoughts,” Kehfre growled. It was an annoying trait of the metallic dragons, the ability to read the minds of others, hear their thoughts, and speak into their minds. She pictured a giant rainbow bear making the craziest face possible to close her mind. The sweet song of her father’s laughter filled the air, reverberating through the ground and knocking loose leaves from trees as they walked out of the cave and between the gargantuan red-wood trees towering from the forest floor. Sometime later, they emerged from the sea of trees into a large clearing. The scales on her father’s side moved and rippled like the grass on a windy day. He was loosening his muscles, preparing to take flight. It was a necessary procedure she had practiced many times. Kehfre stopped to do the same. She thought through the steps carefully, stretching her copper wing membranes to their fullest, working out the soreness from a long night’s chill. Her wing joints extended and locked into place as her muscles tightened around them. The air was thick with the coming rain; it would be an exhausting flight. A soft roar reached them from the cave, a final call from her mother to be careful. Her father turned, the aging flap of scales under his jaw vibrating as he responded, assuring her mother they would return. Kehfre thought a single word loudly in her head: *\[read*y.*\]* She pictured herself in the most perfect stance possible. Her wings were now held partially folded by her sides, appearing nearly twice the size as before. Her father moved over to her. He examined her back, pressing his massive paw against her to feel the muscles beneath her white scales. “Well done, child! That is a great flight stance.” His voice was that of an affectionate mentor, congratulating his pupil. “Shall we go?” Kehfre surged forward, getting a running start before spreading her wings, giving her a silhouette nearly twice as wide as it was long. “Great take off! But your right shoulder was a little loose.” The loud, amused voice of her father was clearly audible over the rush of air that surrounded Kehfre as she continued to climb. She turned, looking back at her father with her left eye while she tightened the muscles of her right shoulder. Her father stretched his wings, nearly blanketing the clearing with their brilliant sheen that dwarfed Kehfre’s wingspan. With a single surge, he was high in the air. The trees below bent and swayed away as a few flaps brought him to the same altitude as Kehfre. “We’ll start our hunt in the foothills; we may even get there before the storm hits.” Kehfre’s father pushed ahead of her, leading the way away from the mountains. Kehfre flew hard, flapping her wings at nearly twice the pace of her father just to keep up. She thought back to her early flight lessons, how she couldn’t fly more than a few minutes without becoming exhausted. Now she wasn’t even tired, and they had been flying for nearly an hour. Kehfre loved the roar of the wind against her ears, blotting out all but the loudest of worrisome thoughts. Her father’s voice brushed against the wall of her consciousness. *\[Do you remember your lessons on flying through storms?\]* This was an unwelcome reminder that today’s practice would be in a storm. *\[Only that I should loosen my shoulder and wing muscles when I enter one, to prepare for the high winds.\]* Kehfre could hardly hear her father over the whirlwind of emotions swimming in her own mind. *\[You also want to gain as much altitude as you can before entry, and you must remember to let the goddess Naqam guide you. Never fight her storms.\]* Her father paused for a moment. *\[There’s a rainstorm ahead. Do you see it? It’s small, but will make a good first experience.\]* Kehfre looked ahead of her father. His thoughts echoed in her head, fostering a foreboding sense of dread within her. Just over a mile away, there was a column of slightly darker air where a light rain had begun. The clouds above were shallow and there appeared to be very little wind. The sight of the apparently calm storm eased her fears slightly. *\[We’ll need to enter it as far up as we can, just to be safe. Be ready; looks can deceive in miniscule storms such as this.\]* Her father’s thoughts were a warning not to become overconfident, and to remember her lessons. *\[Why can’t I start storm training when I’m older?\]* Kehfre’s thoughts were more a plea for mercy than a complaint, as she blocked out an image from a recent nightmare of her falling helplessly through a storm. She knew the answer he would give. *\[You are older, and the sooner you learn, the better. Weather in these mountains is unpredictable, and you may one day find yourself in the middle of a storm on your way home. It is better that you know what to expect and how to react before that happens.\]* The tone of her father’s thoughts betrayed his irritation at her hesitance. *\[As you wish,\]* Kehfre responded, her body already tightening in anxiety. Both Kehfre and her father steered toward the small section of rain, gaining altitude as they flew. It did not take them long to reach the downdraft. Kehfre braced herself, slightly relaxing the muscles on her shoulders and wings to allow for the wind they were about to encounter. The force of the downdraft was much greater than she expected. The immediate impact caused Kehfre to fall significantly. She grunted in pain as the muscles along her chest stretched. A crosswind seized hold of Kehfre, causing her to roll onto her back. Instinct took over; she folded her wings before righting herself. Kehfre used the fall to gain speed before extending her wings, attempting to glide upward. But the downdraft forced her into a dive. Her muscles screamed with fatigue. She flapped her wings vigorously, trying to push away from the rapidly approaching ground below. But no matter how hard she tried, her wings failed to catch enough air to pull her up. She was making out the details of the ground below when she collided with another crosswind. This one turned her on her side, increasing the speed of her fall. Panic set in as she continued to fight, to struggle against the storm. Then it was over. Kehfre was panting, her heart racing as she emerged from the torrent of air. She had fallen dangerously close to the ground, just barely clearing a tree that passed beneath her. A great shadow engulfed Kehfre as her father halted his dive towards her. She immediately felt the need to land and settled atop a small hill. She was shaking uncontrollably, unsure how to feel about what had just happened. Her muscles collapsed, her sore wings laying out of the ground, still joints still locked in their flight position. She struggled to close them, but was met with pain as her muscles refused to cooperate. “Are you injured?” Kehfre’s father asked her as he landed at the base of the hill. Kehfre did not answer. “That storm was a little more severe than I thought.” Her father’s concerned eyes met hers. She didn’t know if she was hurt. She couldn’t move her wings. Everything was soar. Her chest heaved. Her mind was blank as she again tried to move her wings. She whimpered in pain as the bones locking her wings out finally gave way; her swollen muscles contracting to pulling her wings in. Kehfre sighed as she pulled them tight to her body, the painful and likely torn muscles in as relaxed a position as they could be in. An image flashed through her mind, rain, lightning everywhere. She was falling uncontrollably, unable to right her wings. She winced, her heart racing as she saw herself hitting the ground or being impaled by a small tree. The thought was interrupted by her father lying down next to her. He spread his wing over Kehfre as he spoke aloud. “You know, I was less than a second away from catching you. You would not have hit the ground.” The warmth of his belly stopped her tremors as she pushed her small body against his. He was not even winded. His strong heartbeat was steady and even, while hers raced wildly, skipping beats here and there as it struggled to keep up with the adrenaline still pumping through her. “This time.” She replied, as she pictured herself as a crumpled corpse on the ground. “How are you not tired?” She looked towards him. His head was turned towards the minor storm that now moved away from them. “I have told you many times, Kehfre; you must not fight the wind. The Goddess of Storms is a fickle one. Sometimes her winds aid us, other times, they work against us. You must read her chaotic currents and flow with them. Once you do, you will find that you can fly through nearly any storm. More importantly, you will be able to defend yourself in any storm.” Her father’s calm voice pierced Kehfre. She recalled many lectures about these very teachings, but when the time came to put her lessons into practice, she had forgotten them entirely. “We will rest here for a while. Come close, relax your muscles and let your inner flame heal you.” Kehfre nuzzled her father in response. She snuggled against her father as she closed her eyes, drifting on the edge of sleep. Kehfre stretched, opening her eyes as the rumble of hunger graced her ears. Vibrating through every inch of her body. “We had better head back. We can hunt in the forest.” Kehfre’s father chuckled as he looked at her, motioning back toward their home. The minor storm they had flown through had joined a mass of clouds obscuring the mountain tops, the floor of which was already darkening with rain. “We will have to walk once we get closer to that storm. Are you good to fly back?” This was more of a command than a question. He would make her fly, even until her wings failed her. “I don’t know,” replied Kehfre, unsure if her exhausted wings would even hold her aloft. “You will become stronger, my child. In time, you may surpass even me.” Her father rose to his feet, preparing to take flight. Kehfre’s trembling resumed as she prepared herself for the pain that would accompany opening her exhausted wings. She sighed as a dull ache accompanied their movement. Kehfre undertook the practiced motions of preparing for flight before rising into the air behind her father. She again welcomed the rush of the wind as she anxiously awaited the excitement of a grounded hunt on the forest floor.