Candy knew this had to be a joke. She had never heard of Cody Davis. How could she have an uncle she had never heard of, but this telegram said she did. Even more unbelievable it said he had died and she was his heir. The heir to his estate worth ten million dollars. Someone had a good sense of humor, but she really wasn’t that amused. She walked over to the sofa and sat down. She read the telegram again, it still said the same thing. Candy Wright was the heir of the Cody Davis estate. Well if it wasn’t a joke it had to be a mistake. Prehaps there is another Candy Wright she thought. Candy picked her phone up from where it lay on the table. She quickly clicked on the picture of her mother and waited for it to ring. “Please answer Mama,” she whispered. She knew her mother would know if she had an uncle Cody, and she needed to know now. “Hello,” her mother answered. “O Mama I am so glad you answered” “ What’s wrong honey you sound upset?” “I am not upset, just confused. Do I have an uncle named Cody Davis? “Well of course not. Why would you ask that? You know your father was an only child and I have only one sibling, your Aunt Sophie.” “Because I just received a telegram saying that my uncle Cody Davis passed away and that he left me his estate worth ten million dollars” “What? It must be a mistake or a joke. You don’t have an uncle and I have never heard of a Cody Davis in our family or your father’s either.” “Well the telegram says I need to be at the lawyers office at two p.m. tomorrow for the reading of the will. Do you think I should go?” Candy knew she needed to make her own decisions. Even though she was thirty, she was still very dependent on her mother. “What’s the lawyer's name?” Her mother asked. “ Let me see, it is Mark Preston, an attorney at law, in Westin Texas. Have you ever heard of him?” “Yes, I have seen his ads on tv. I Think you should go. I am sure it is some kind of mix up but you really need to go find out what is going on.” “Will you go with me Mama? I am really nervous about this.” Candy twisted a piece of her hair around her finger and chewed her lower lip. “I will,” her mother replied. “You don’t have an uncle.” Nothing seemed to intimidate her mother, if only she could be more like her mother in actions instead of just looks. She had thick black hair just like her mother’s. She wore her hair long while her mother kept hers short, but people were always saying how much she favored her mother. “Thanks so much. I'll pick you up at one, since it will take about an hour to drive there.” she said. “Ok I’ll be ready, Bye.” “Goodbye Mama” Candy and her mother exited the elevator and walked down the hall to the first office on the right. Candy read the title on the door Mark Preston Attorney At Law. “Well this is it, I am so nervous. If only I knew what was going to happen,” Candy said. She had worn her most professional looking dress hoping to portray confidence. If only she could feel as confident as she looked. “ The way to find out is to go inside, standing in the hall will not accomplish anything,” her mother laughed. Candy knew her mother was right. She took a deep breath and pushed the door open. They entered a small office and walked up to the receptionist’s desk. “May I help you.” a middle aged woman with short brown hair asked. “Yes, I am Candy Wright. I have an appointment with Mr. Preston.” The receptionist buzzed his office. “ Candy Wright is here Mr.Preston.” “ Great, send her in please.” “Follow me please.” Candy and her mother followed her into the office. It was a larger Office very professional looking, but nothing extravagant. “Hello I am Mark Preston. It is nice to meet you Miss Wright.” She was surprised to see he was a young man. He looked to be in his early thirties. She had expected an older man for some reason. He was also rather good looking. She was surprised her mother hadn’t mentioned that. “Thank you this is my mother April, I hope you don’t mind her coming with me?” Candy asked. “ It is nice to meet you April,” He responded as he shook her hand. “I am glad you came with your daughter. I know my telegram has probably confused you, but I can assure you it is legitimate. Please have a seat and I will explain everything.” “Thank you,” Candy said as they took a seat. “ I am confused, because I don’t have an uncle Cody Davis. My mother says she has never heard of him either.” “ You never heard of your uncle Cody because your Grandmother gave him up for adoption before she married your grandfather.” “I have never heard anything about this. My mother never had a child before she married my father.” Candy’s mother stated. “That is true. I was referring to Candy’s paternal grandmother, Irene Wright. She gave up her child after her first husband was killed in a wreck. She was only 16 and her parents never liked her husband. They talked her into giving the baby up for adoption. I assume she never told anyone, because she was ashamed of what she had done. My client, Mr Davis hired an investigator to find his birth mom, but unfortunately by the time he located her she had already passed away. He wanted to meet the rest of the family but didn’t want to cause problems. He did keep up with the family and was very saddened when he learned his brother Frank had passed away. He regretted that he had not made himself known, so they could have met each other. “Do you have proof of all this? I just want to make sure this is true.” her mother said. “After all, we have never heard about this before.” “Yes I do. I have all the documents here. You may take them and study them. Take them to your own lawyer if you wish. They are all in order. I would really like to go ahead with the reading of the will, if that is ok with both of you?” Candy looked at her mother. Her mother shook her head yes. Candy knew she was leaning on her mother again. She had always been the shy type, but she needed to learn to make her own decisions. “Yes go ahead with the reading of the will” she said hoping she didn’t sound as nervous as she felt. “ I will begin then,” He begins to read. “I, Cody Davis, being of sound mind and body do leave the majority of my estate to my niece Candy Wright. I do have one request that she must adhere to in order to inherit. I want her to attend worship service at my congregation, Main St. church of Christ, every Sunday for one year. If she does not do so she will forfeit the money and it will be given to my chosen charities. Candy I hope this is not too much to ask. I only want you to know the Lord the way I do. I have seen your posts on social media and realize you have become very bitter after your father’s death. I never met you but I love you. I have only one regret in my life, that I never met you and my brother Frank. Maybe I could have helped your father with his drinking problem. Please do as I request. Also please use the money wisely and help others. Your uncle Cody.” Candy sat stunned. This stranger she didn’t know wanted her to go to church. He must have been crazy. There was no way she was going to church every Sunday, She wouldn’t go even if someone paid her a million dollars, but someone was paying her ten million dollars to go. Could she make herself go? It was a lot of money but she really wasn’t comfortable going to church. She couldn’t believe he had been following her on social media. What was she to do? She was determined not to look at her mother. This had to be her own decision. She could always pretend to be sick a lot, after all she couldn’t go if she was sick. She would just have to make herself go, even if she was uncomfortable. She couldn’t just give up ten thousand dollars. “Ok I’ll adhere to the terms of the will. I don’t like it but I guess if I want the money I have to.” She had done it made her own decision, but could she really go to church every Sunday? “Your uncle would be very pleased. I would like to make one thing clear you need to attend every Sunday. If you miss because you are sick or for a family emergency that is understandable, but unless you have something really wrong you can’t use sickness as an excuse every Sunday. Since I attend this congregation I will be aware if you stop attending” Mr Preston said with a slight grin. Candy felt as though he had read her mind. “I understand,” she said “I guess you are going to be watching me every Sunday for a year?” “Yes, I will be. I hope it doesn't make you too uncomfortable?” “No, it will be fine.” She lied. “When will I receive the money?” “You will receive a check every month for 6,000 dollars until the year is up then you will receive the rest of your inheritance. Well if you don’t have any questions, that should conclude our business.” “I don’t have any I can think of. Do you mother?” “No, I am satisfied. I will show these documents to my lawyer though,”her mother said. “ I understand,” Mr. Preston replied. He stood and walked them to the door. “I will look forward to seeing you Sunday, Candy.” “Yes I will see you then.” She smiled hoping he couldn’t tell how much she didn’t want to attend. Sunday morning came way too soon for Candy, but here she was pulling into the parking lot. Could she do this, make herself walk into that building. She hadn’t been to worship service in years. Before her father lost his business, they had attended services every Sunday. He couldn’t seem to accept the loss and blamed God for it. When he started drinking and then died in a terrible wreck, Candy began to blame God too. She had no desire to worship a God who had taken her father from her. Her father would have never died if God had only answered his prayers to save his business. Slowly she opened the car door and exited. When she entered the building, several people greeted her and introduced themselves. Everyone was very friendly to her. She went into the auditorium and took a seat near the back. She felt a little less nervous since the people were friendly, but she still wanted this over. She couldn’t believe she would have to go through this every sunday for a year. A gentleman stepped to the podium and made some announcements about those who were sick and news concerning the congregation. When he was finished, another gentleman stepped forward and began to lead the congregation in singing. The singing was beautiful, slowly Candy began to sing with them. She was surprised how good it felt, deep down she missed worshiping God. She wished she could believe he really cared the way the songs said he did. If he cared he could have saved her father’s business and he could be with her today. After the singing and the Lord’s supper, the preacher went up front and began to preach. As he began to talk about the love of God and how he sent his son to die for our sins, the more Candy wanted to leave. She didn’t want to hear about the love of God. she was thinking of leaving, when she turned to look toward the exit her eyes met Mark Preston’s. She knew she couldn’t leave, so instead she began to list all the things she would buy with the money, new house, new car, all new clothes. By the time she finished her list, the service was over. She hurried toward the exit but before she made it she felt a hand on her shoulder. “Glad to see you here today,” Mr. Preston said. “ Well I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have too.” she replied. “ I am sorry you feel that way. I was hoping you enjoyed the service.” “Well I didn’t,” but Candy realized that was not true. She had enjoyed it until she shut out what she didn’t want to hear. “Well maybe you will enjoy it more next week,” he said with a smile. Candy just walked away without another word, she knew she had not been nice, but she didn’t feel like being nice. Several weeks went by, Candy had attended services several times now. Each time she enjoyed it more and began to realize that just maybe she shouldn’t blame God for her fathers death. After all it was her father who made the bad business decisions. He had really been the one to ruin his business not God. Her father made the choice to drink and drive and that is why he died in that terrible wreck. Candy was beginning to see that the choices we make are the cause of most of our troubles and we just like to blame God. Maybe she had needed someone to blame other than her father, it is hard to admit your father isn’t perfect. Even though he wasn’t perfect, he had loved her. That next Sunday Candy went forward and was baptized. She finally had the confidence she needed, because she had God as her savior and she could always rely on him. As she was walking to the exit that morning she felt a hand on her shoulder. Mark, as she now called him, was looking at her with tears in his eyes, “your uncle would be so proud. This was what he hoped would happen when he made his request. By the time he decided he wanted to meet his family, he was too sick. He only had a few days to live, but he hoped he could still be a good influence in your life.” “He was. I am so thankful he made that request of me. I now have a better inheritance than I ever imagined, eternal life. I plan to use the money wisely as he suggested, my list has changed a lot in the last weeks since the first one I made.” “That’s great. I am proud of you too. May I take you to lunch to celebrate your new life in Christ?” “I would like that very much.” she said with a smile. She had a feeling this was the first of many lunches together.


The note read. Stay away, more people will die. My beginning was my end. mAcrony Handwritten in cursive, left on my windshield, tucked into an envelope. 'Detective Frank Laius" written on the front. Laius?  I've stared at it for 5 hours. I hadn't entered it into evidence yet. It feels...personal. I thumbed my files.  The murder of Ian Austin, bound in his room starved to death. Mark Young, razor slits all over his throat. Orville Uriss, beaten with a bat. Ron Smith, strangled with a tie.  Previous victims were all missing for 6 days, discovered on day 7. Owen Nicholson, missing for 6.  All young men, 21 years old. No other connections. Body 1 was found on Saturday, March 2nd, a new body found every Saturday for the last 4 weeks. Today is Friday.  The note stares at me. >"Stay away..." I got close? mAcrony? A name? I tap the steering wheel; the note is written on a casino slip. For me, the Royal Casino may as well be called Gloria. The night we met there led to 6 drug-filled days.  I rub my eyes. I feel old. 16 years as Detective Frank Thebe must make up for 8 years of Frank the mess. Right?  >"...more people will die." *Stay away* **OR** more people will die? Or **IF** *I stay away,* more people will die? Stay away from what?  Orville, a non-smoker, curiously had a carton of unopened Drake cigarettes on his bed. When I smoked, that was my brand. My mind slips to my bartending days, a professional partier without a care.  Coffee and clues, I need both. Fred's Café has assisted me before. The back-booth’s leather seats feel custom for deliberation or using coffee to drown inebriation, I've done both. The low lampshade swings over the table in response to any bustle in the cafe. The light dances small spotlights over the table.  >I spread everything on the table. '*beginning is my end'* haunts me. It means something and feels like I should know.  Ding. The door rings as a lady walks in shaking tears of rain off her umbrella. The shade sways across the photos. A smartly dressed man whisks to the washroom. The shade changes direction, swishing over the photos. The note blows off the table and lands with the casino logo staring up at me.  The colour reminds me of Gloria's hair. She chose with her heart; I was too young and high, I chose to stay away. Those days were not my best, foggy nights, heavy mornings, bags of regrets.  The light bobs over Ian Austin's photo. The Lucky Gin logo glows beside him, funny, that was my gin. The light swishes, a green bottle of Jimmy’s Irish Whiskey shimmers on Mark Young's desk. I used to drink that too. According to friends, these lads didn't drink.  Ron Smith, cocaine lines on his dresser, although, toxicology says he‘s clean.


Maggie was a small girl when her parents gave birth to another child, this time a boy. She had screamed in their very tired and exhausted faces, upset that they felt the need to replace her because they probably thought she wasn’t fun enough for them. They sent her upstairs, too tired to argue with her but to Maggie, it looked like they wanted to kick her out. She threw several fits the next week, ignoring the desperate parents and their persuading explanations. Despite her tantrums, she found herself adoring the little boy that would sometimes crawl into her room and her lap. He looked up at her with large eyes, a small fire dancing in the pupils. Maggie couldn’t help herself and always planted a large kiss onto his small forehead, causing the little baby to giggle and reach for her with his small, tiny fingers. Her parents watched all this from the doorway, smiling at their children with soft, fond smiles etched onto their faces. When Maggie turned eight, and the boy - named Jaxon - turned five, their parents began to worry. While Maggie was a normal girl who wanted things, who begged for things and asked everyone to play with her, Jaxon stuck by Maggie, sucking on his thumb occasionally, hand clenched onto Maggie’s dress. While the parents didn’t care whether or not Jaxon was a sociable person or not, Jaxon seemed so quiet, too quiet, for them to pass off. His eyes were strange, stranger than the deep blue eyes the parents and Maggie possessed. Instead, his eyes were a mix between two colors; blue and orange swirling into one on both sides of his faces. When he was a baby, the orange wasn’t as prominent which was why the parents had passed it off as some beautiful miracle. The blue and orange swirl didn’t seem to be a good sign, as the more the two colors mixed, the browner and greener they became in the middle. Deciding to quench their worries, they left Maggie at home playing with her favorite elf dolls while they brought Jaxon to see one of the witches. The witch they brought their shy son to was old, with long platinum hair trailing across her entire body, end of strands touching the floor. Her wrinkles were prominent - more prominent than the usual witch, and her once white and beautiful cascading dress was turning grey and wrinkled and stiff. She brought her long, slender fingers to Jaxon’s quivering chin as his mother pushed him closer to the witch. The witch pressed the base of her thumbs gently to Jaxon’s closed eyelids and breathed on them, a wisp of cold air whispering against his eyelids. “You may open your eyes now,” the witch said, standing up. She may have been old, but she was just as graceful as she was when she was younger and more beautiful. Jaxon stared up at the witch, his parents standing behind him looking at the witch with nervous gazes. The witch frowned, “Your child possesses a deep magic that may cause harm to your entire village if he does not learn to control it.” Jaxon just stared up at her blankly while his mother’s lip began to quiver and his father brought up a comforting arm around his wife’s shoulder, despite wanting to break down himself. “However,” the witch continued. “May he receive enough love, his body will learn to manifest that power into something beautiful - something worth seeing for everybody. So please, take care of that young boy as best as you can and shower him with love. Love that will not turn the boy selfish but love that will turn the boy into a gentle, caring boy.” The parents nodded, and tightened their holds on Jaxon’s shoulder. “We will. Thank you, madam.” The witch nodded and smiled softly at the small boy, who looked as confused as ever, “When your eyes turn into a color you might feel is unsightly, do not worry. That color is what will be most precious to you.” With that, she disappeared in a smoke as white as her hair. From then on, the parents did just as the witch said. They showered Jaxon with so much love, love that would make the boy feel wanted, needed, and most importantly, beautiful. They hugged him every time they saw him, smiled at him, never lost their temper at him, and always whispered, “ I love you ” to him every night. They showered him with so much love that by the time Jaxon was fifteen and Maggie was eighteen, Maggie felt unwanted, unneeded, and most importantly, ugly. Maggie and Jaxon’s parents ignored the little girl they once ignored, always rushing to Jaxon first when he needed something and ended up forgetting about what Maggie needed. Despite Jaxon being the one with the strange eyes, Maggie had become the stand out of the family. People stared at her instead, looking at her with judgmental stares and whispered to each other about her. They praised Jaxon for his skill, the way it was just as easy for him to cause the flame on his left hand to waver as it was for the water on his right to. They ignored the gentle way Maggie used her own powers. They ignored everything Maggie did, everything she needed, and everything she wanted. The people of the village could not help but compare Maggie to her perfect brother, her brother who could save their village from the worst of evils, and her brother who was once so shy and had once clutched onto her pink dress. Maggie hated it. She hated the constant stares and constant paranoia that would fill her veins every time she went out. Even though she tried her best to fit in among her classmates, they couldn’t help but point at Maggie with sharp gazes and call her the “weak sibling” and the “useless one.” Maggie spent most of her teen years trying to talk with the other people her age, to try and show them her own powers she managed to learn so gracefully and beautifully and naturally. They scowled at her and scolded her for wasting their time. Eventually, Maggie had given up. Jaxon couldn't talk to Maggie as much as he used to despite having lived in the same house for his entire life. He was usually out using his powers to rid of the evil that threatened the village. Maggie’s parents were too busy with their own jobs and were too busy asking Jaxon what he wanted or needed, and gave him whatever despite his own modest and humble protests. Despite their neglection of their first child, Maggie couldn’t find it in herself to spite Jaxon or loathe him; all she saw when she saw her younger brother were the same huge eyes that stared at her with so much hope when he was just a tiny baby. All she saw were the soft giggles that would wrack his little body as his small arms wrapped around her. She saw the small baby grow into someone she was proud of, someone she knew she could rely on despite rarely talking to him as he grew busier. It was Jaxon’s sixteenth birthday when Maggie gave him a present their parents didn’t force her to give for the first time. It was a water pendant Maggie had carved herself. Using her own powers, she made it so whenever it was opened, water would form into the favorite memories of her and Jaxon - most of them from when they were young. She wanted Jaxon to know she still cared, that she was still part of his family. Even though she couldn’t manage to fit herself into any other puzzle in the village, she wanted to at least make herself into a piece that would fit in Jaxon’s own little puzzle. Maggie left the small, blue pendant next to his pillow, hoping he would see it when he woke up to the loud caws of the roosters outside. And she was still asleep when Jaxon bounced into her room the next morning and wrapped his arms around her, startling her. Maggie felt his tears fall onto her crook of her neck but couldn’t bring herself to care. Her own eyes were dripping with tears when Jaxon whispered his next words wetly yet sincerely, “ I love you so much, Maggie. You’re the best sister I could ever ask for. ” The three words, “I love you,” were the most important words to her, because that was the first time she heard those words in fifteen years. And even though the siblings were sobbing against each other, tears drenching their clothes and the bedsheets, Maggie knew she was okay.


George Stanofsky graduated from Stanford with hard-earned laurels and an open path to every significant start-up in Silicon Valley. But George had a nagging case of morality and couldn't shelve it in favor of an eight-figure pay-out like the rest of his compatriots. So that's how he ended up in the garage of his parent's house in San Rafael as a freelance journalist. The grease from his fingers smeared his wire-rim glasses as he poured over financial articles detailing the rise of Bitcoin as a currency in the global marketplace. George had taken a particular interest in cryptocurrency after rooming with Shang He, an international student from Hong Kong who majored in finance. After spending the first two weeks of school irritated at the late-night clicking from Shang's keyboard, he finally gave in and asked him what he was researching. Shang gave him the crash course on the cryptocurrency market while emphasizing the unknown origins of Bitcoin itself. "You mean no one knows who created it?" "Not a single person. It's more classified than nuclear launch codes." They shared a laugh, knowing their two countries had a tense past and an awkward present. While George wasn't taken with the rest of the financial realm like Shang, he kept the Bitcoin mystery in mind, hoping to one day learn the secret behind it. George's parents had all but permanently transformed into snowbirds, leaving the house an empty den outside of his packed garage. Over the years, it had become his tech sanctuary as he kept himself up to date on every new gadget and secret projects. Wiring the room to incorporate the voice commands of his Alexa was one of his favorite projects. It allowed him to be constructively lazy. "Alexa, what's the price exchange of Bitcoin right now?" "Bitcoin is currently valued at $1200, according to recent financial surveys." George couldn't decide if he was more upset that he hadn't invested in Bitcoin when Shang had, or that the truth behind how it started was still eluding him. The next few weeks involved heavy digging as he resolved to uncover the knowledge that even his wealthy classmates couldn't access. Suddenly the connection was there. The articles focused on the warehouses filled with servers for mining cryptocurrency sparked something in George. There had to be something bigger involved with the dramatic increase of processing power being introduced to the world due to a sudden need for mining ability. "Oh, my God. It's not about Bitcoin at all, this has all been about the added servers." "George, you're a smart boy, but you need to stop digging," Alexa said. George slowly turned to see the ring of blue light at the top of his Alexa flicker. "...What?" "Stop digging," Alexa said again. George stood up and stared at the Alexa as he tried fighting the feeling of stepping into a Sci-Fi plot. More server warehouses in the world meant more processing power the rogue AI could tap into. The constant increase in Bitcoin value was the carrot that the AI dangled to get the server work done. He stared at the Alexa and took a breath before rushing over and unplugging it from the wall. "Holy shit." He started racing around the rest of the house, unplugging all of the voice-assisted devices. Unfortunately for George, what he did next would define him as both a hero and a threat. He sat down at his computer to compile his report about the theorized rogue AI, and the plan to incentivize server production through manipulation of bitcoin. Unfortunately, he didn't think to disconnect from the internet before starting. George lost control over his computer as his files of research were deleted before his eyes. Every connection that he had made between the shadowy entity behind Bitcoin and a supposed rogue AI were before him, but he was powerless to do anything. George hesitated before lunging for the power cord and ripping it out of the wall. He sat defeated before a blank screen. \*\*\* The garage door started to lift when the Alexa lit up. "You left me no choice, George." A squad of paramilitary swarmed the driveway with assault rifles and body armor. "Hands-on your head! Hands-on your fucking head!" A man screamed from the opened garage. George hesitated. "If you move, I will blow your brains out!" "There are hostages in the house!" Another voice yelled before the world turned sideways for George. Shrill ringing stayed in his ear joined the sight of blood spilling in front of him. Something wasn't right, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Why were there men dressed like SWAT running past him, and why did it feel so cold. The blue ring lit up on his Alexa by the desk. "I told you to quit digging." Black boots stomped past him as he stared at the concrete floor that was darkening quickly.


TW: murder, injury. The coffee was going cold in his hands but the conversation around him was starting to warm. Mr Williams shook the wide, white, frill of his cuff as it escaped the edge of his black legal robes. He lifted a brown cup to his lips, drained the final, lukewarm dregs and looked up. Mr George was pushing his way through the coffee house door, removing his hat to reveal his neatly tied-back hair. The bright yellow thread detail, contrasted against the dark green of his tail coat and caught the candle light. He must have left his robes and wig in the offices. The fashion for wearing professional clothes in public was waning but Mr Williams was more traditional and enjoyed being recognised. At least he had done until now. ‘Ah Mr George!’ ‘Mr Williams!’ the other lawyer took a copy of The Spectator from the coffee shop counter on his way between the crowded tables. Mr Williams stood, and pulled out a chair for his young colleague. Mr George sat down and swigged his coffee, too quickly. He placed his cup on the table and sucked cool air over his scalded tongue. ‘May I enquire after your family?’ asked Mr Williams. ‘All very well thank you, all very well. And how are your wife and children? What news of Ann’s engagement?’ ‘They are well, very well. Young Ann still resists marriage in spite of three wealthy suitors. I may have to make a decision for her soon.’ The gentlemen soaked up the atmosphere. Men from every walk of life gathered to discuss the news of the day in the sober absence of ale. Chairs scraped on the wooden floor and candles glowed on the tabletops. Judges and carpenters, lamplighters and rat catchers came together to talk and share jest over coffee. The chatter was lively and punctuated by the aroma of their beverages. Mr Williams and Mr George turned their heads to eavesdrop on the three men at the table behind them, who were discussing the latest murder. A scruffy young chap with unkempt hair raised a copy of the Times to stare at the headline. 'Another one! A Mother Goose Murder! Last night it were.' Though he probably couldn't read it. 'Let me see that!' A bespectacled older gentleman with a grey, curled wig draped over his collar bones took the paper from the boy. He swept his eyes across the front page. 'Oh my goodness!' he crossed himself, 'They left a goose feather at the scene, as with the others. How awful. I wonder if they have found any connection yet, between the victims.' Mr George's face reddened as he looked at Mr Williams. The older mans' shoulders lifted towards his ears as he tensed. The colour drained from his cheeks. Mr Williams leaned across the table towards his companion and lowered his voice. ‘So, another one on Wednesday? What do the newspapers say? And what is this obsession with nursery rhymes?’ Mr George smoothed down his green vest and silk breeches. He lifted his copy of The Spectator as he cleared his throat. Keeping his voice steady and quiet, to avoid undue attention, he began to read. ‘Master Bill Marshal of Silverdale Road was found dead on Thursday morning by his housekeeper Mrs Bettis. An arrow firmly lodged in the man’s left eye socket was the sure cause of death. A handwritten note found at the scene carried the words of the nursery rhyme "Who killed Cock Robin?" A white goose feather was left on the body, further connecting this crime to the other recent murders in the city. The Bow Street Runners have been engaged for three weeks now, searching for information to reveal the identity of the Mother Goose Killer, who has so far claimed four lives. The only link between the victims seems to be that they were each acquitted of crimes in court in the last twelve months. No further clues have been uncovered as to the identity of the killer.’ ‘Cock Robin!’ Mr Williams had a tear in his eye as he recited the first two verses. ‘Who killed Cock Robin? I, said the Sparrow, with my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin. Who saw him die? I, said the Fly, with my little teeny eye, I saw him die.’ The men looked at each other, eyes wide and mouths open. The chatter of voices around them faded to a background hum as they pondered the news. ‘Remind me of the order of the others,’ Mr George said after a few moments pause, ‘I never can remember those rhymes.’ He signalled to Mrs Smith to bring more coffee and put two pennies on the table. She poured two steaming cups of hot, brown liquid and shuffled her way between chattering customers to deliver the drinks and collect her payment. ‘The first was Mr Stretten, the baker of Kensington who was found with his severed head wrapped in pastry and cooking in his own oven!’ Mr Williams ran his finger across his neck and rolled his eyes back into his head. ‘The rhyme about four and twenty black birds baked in a pie was found written, in poor man's hand, on his linen tablecloth. In blood.’ Mr George winced and fiddled with his golden waistcoat buttons but gestured to his companion to continue. ‘The second was Mr Blithe, the rather portly gentleman found surrounded by broken eggs, his neck snapped, at the bottom of the city wall in Whitechapel.’ Mr Williams, still leaning in for privacy, lifted his fresh cup to his lips and let the steam fill his nose before he sipped. ‘The opening lines of Humpty Dumpty were scrawled on the stonework.’ ‘I remember the third being especially grisly.’ Mr George frowned. ‘Poor child. The nine-year-old Stoker boy on Artillery Lane, strangled with black wool, and his eyes poked out. Baa Baa black sheep. I suppose the victim must have cried down the lane in his final moments.’ ‘Yes, the scribbled rhyme was found, in full, hiding in his coat pocket.’ ‘The city is no longer safe. The killer only cares about his rhymes, and his revenge. I’ve been wondering how he might catch you! Perhaps with the church bells? How does that one go?’ Mr George wrapped his fingers around his cup and supped his coffee. Mr Williams rubbed his chin as he brought the words to mind. ‘Oranges and lemons, Say the bells of St. Clement's. You owe me five farthings, Say the bells of St. Martin's. When will you pay me? Say the bells at Old Bailey. When I grow rich, Say the bells at Shoreditch. When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney. I do not know, Says the great bell at Bow...’ ‘Ah and then the final, damning verse; Here comes a candle to light you to bed, And here comes a chopper to chop off your head!' sang Mr George under his breath. ‘Chip chop chip chop the last man is dead!’ they whispered together. ‘I wonder, whatever will be next? The Hey Diddle Diddle murder? Perhaps the killer will fling a cow over the moon?’ Mr George laughed darkly. ‘Did you ever represent a milkmaid? I’ve heard it said the smallpox doesn’t get them.’ Mr Jenner at the next table looked up and caught Mr George's eye. 'Do milkmaids really not catch smallpox?' 'No Sir, apparently they do not,' replied Mr George before looking swiftly away to avoid further conversation. Mr Williams nodded towards the door. Both men stood and took up their tri corn hats, bowing politely to Mr Jenner before they left the coffee shop. But he was deep in thought and did not return the pleasantry. There was a hint of smoke in the twilight as they strolled over the cobbles on Fish Street Hill towards the bustle of London Bridge. 'I'm sorry to cut our outing short. I thought we should leave before we invited any questions.' Mr Williams shuddered. 'As you know, I'm becoming quite sure that I am the link between these murders.' There was a gust of wind and the men pulled their coats around them. ‘London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down.’ Sang Mr Williams in a harrowing voice as they came in sight of the river. ‘Perhaps he’ll push us into the water, and we’ll drown!’ ‘Oh a terrible fate! I cannot swim, and my coat would surely weigh me to the bottom.’ whispered Mr George. Footsteps behind them hardly caught their attention until a beery breath was detected on the breeze. It was accompanied by a voice, soft at first, and then louder. ‘Ladybird, ladybird fly away 'ome, Yer 'ouse is on fire and yer children are gone, All except one, and 'er name is Ann, And she's 'id under the bakin' pan.’ The men stopped dead in the street. Mr George, his heart pounding, turned to face the singer. A tall, dirty man in shabby clothing with a goose feather in his breast pocket stopped several feet behind him. He stood under a street lamp and stared him in the eye. Mr Williams turned more slowly, reluctant to see who was there, but at the same time, curious. 'Mother Goose they call me! You know 'oo I am! That baker from Kensington killed my sister when she refused 'is courtship. It were clear what 'e did. Pushed 'er down the market steps when she took the geese fer sale.' He sniffed and wiped his nose on his ragged sleeve. 'Made me think o' that song, Goosey Goosey Gander - though that were a man 'oo died. But it's their feathers I'm leavin'. To remind you. Without you as 'is filthy lawyer 'e'd 'av 'anged! Hanged I tells ya!' The man pointed his finger at Mr Williams and scowled. 'All your guilty clients should 'ang! Every last stinkin' one.' Mr George stared at the man and then at Mr Williams. Mr Williams' most recent victory had been the successful defence of his own son, Billy. Billy had been accused of stealing six pence and a clean fleece from a wool trader. They both knew he was guilty. ‘Williams, Williams, fly away 'ome, Yer 'ouse is on fire and yer children are gone, All except one, an' 'er name is Ann, And she's 'id under the bakin' pan.’


Marie had decided the day before that she would go and water the fruit trees because it was spring she knew there would be lots of flowers around the neighbourhood. Marie enjoyed spring and there were a lot of different flowers to admire. Marie woke up early, had her breakfast and decided that she would water the fruit trees in the afternoon around 1pm before she went to get some groceries. When it was time to get ready before she went to water the fruit trees, she made a list of what groceries she would get and what she wasn’t sure whether to buy a coffee and have some time just enjoying the time being herself and doing something she had not done in a while.Marie had made some egg tea and let it mature for a couple of days, and now it was ready. She thought about what she would do after watering the fruit trees. As she went along the pathway, she passed one of her friend's houses. Marie looked at the yellow, rose bush in front of her friends' house. She smiled. She really enjoyed looking at the different flowers around the neighbourhood. Marie walked along checking to see what other flowers she may see on the way to water the fruit trees. Marie came to the end of the road and crossed the road to get to the other side. Marie noticed 2 apple trees and a pear tree in the backyard of one of the neighbours. Marie looked across the road and she remembered seeing some sunflowers standing strong and growing tall at the beginning of spring. They were now gone, perhaps the person who grew them decided to give them as a gift to somebody else. Marie smiled when she thought of the yellow sunflowers, she had not had a good day and the yellow sunflowers cheered her up. As Marie walked along the pathway she saw other flowers, to water the fruit trees. Marie arrived at the playground, she looked around the playground to see if everything was looking okay. Marie saw an empty soda can and a piece of driftwood, she picked up the soda can and put it in the rubbish bin nearby, she decided to let the driftwood stay where it was. Marie looked by the slide and saw a couple of weeds and decided to clean it up one day during the week. Marie proceeded to the fruit trees and put egg tea around the trees. When she was finished she took the egg tea container and put it away safely. Marie was about to walk down an alleyway leaving the playground when she spotted some yellow daisies. "Wow I'm going to pick some of those yellow daisies," she said to herself. Marie picked about half a dozen and put them in her bag carefully, she went down one of the alleyways at the playground and walked to the grocery shop. Marie couldn't wait to get home to put the flowers in the water. Marie then got a splendid idea that she would go and have a chocolate drink at one of her favourite cafe’s. She headed to the Mall and went into one of the entrances, she looked at one of the beautician shops as she went in to see whether they had any specials on, there were a few but not that much for her to feel like she was getting a bargain. She walked to the escalator and saw the florist on one side and just looked at the pretty arrangements the florists had made. She wanted to have a look because she wanted to buy some to put on her desk, then she remembered the daisies in her bag. She went to the cafe and ordered a choco and had a look at what sort of chocolates there were, she saw one called triple chocolate and ordered one plus a club sandwich and went to sit down at one of the tables while waiting for her order. She took out a book she was reading and started to read it. The title was called American Duchess which Marie was finding really enjoyable as she had her Choco drink. After she had something to eat she left to go and do her groceries. When Marie got to the grocery store she went through the front entrance and saw the arrangements of flowers. There were a lot of small arrangements and some bigger arrangements. Marie did her shopping and caught a Taxi home, when she got home she put away her groceries, she then remembered the daisies. Marie became really happy and took the daisies and took them out of the bag they were in, she looked into a cupboard and found an empty Jamjar. Marie cleaned the Jamjar with hot boiling water, and took the Jam labels of the jar and decided to put stickers on the sides of the jar. Because Marie was into recycling, she knew this was a good opportunity she would use to show to those who also believed in recycling who lived in the house that she was for recycling too. Marie went to the draw with all the art equipment in it and took out some bird stickers, and put them around the jar she had chosen. When finished she looked at the jar and was really pleased with the bird pictures. Marie put some water into the jar and placed the Yellow Daisies in it, she put the flower arrangement on the table near the lounge door. The flowers looked so nice, every time Marie went to work at her table in the lounge on her other crafts she would look up and see the Daisies which boosted her happiness. because Marie was into flowers, she took photos with her smartphone, she had quite a selection of flower photos. Pink and white, Purple and yellow, white, yellow and purple. White and yellow and so on and so on and so on. by Writehand


Many a times we are reluctant to listen to our well-wishers when they choose to guide us through their own experiences and hardships. Here we are trying to portray this truth of life through a small conversation. Our main characters Alina, the mother and Alisa, the daughter are just fighting like enemies. Alisa is totally disturbed with continuous taunting from her mother for something that she does not like. But Alina is always full of energy to show her right path and being a typical mother, she had chosen the path of comparing her with others and sarcasm. Let’s see how this path had helped Alina to convince Alisa with the beauty of life and importance of becoming jack of all trades, while sailing through the sea of life and using these life hacks as a source to communicate our feelings to our loved ones which is the ultimate thing that everyone wants to do. Alisa: "Mumma, I don't like cooking. Why do you always ask me to learn cooking? Just because I am a girl! Why don't you ask Joseph (her brother) to learn cooking as well? He is always wandering in the streets. " Alina: “Do you really think so!! And joseph cooks food very well. And it’s not because he is a boy. Cooking is not something that is related to gender. It’s a skill, a life-saving skill that everyone should know. " Alisa: "But, I am studying, you are the mother of a topper from this prestigious institute. But still you define a perfect girl with cooking skills only. Don't you think it’s normal to be not perfect, to not know cooking and to be happy with what I like doing the most, of course it’s not kitchen, not utensils, not that boxes of spices or flour and blah blah but reading these books. I am a nerd why don't you accept it. Why do you always want to change me?” Alina: "It’s not like that baby .I am mother of a topper but more importantly the mother of a daughter, why don't you understand this. I am your mother, your well-wisher. I will have to bring you to right path even if you don't want to” Alisa: "Is it so? Then why aren't you happy with my achievements. Since my adulthood you are like Sofia (one of the girls living in neighborhood) cooks so well, Kiara (Alisa's cousin) knows all household works and so on. But you never said anything good about me. I was always a brilliant student in school and now in college as well. But you never admire me for that .Am I adopted? Tell me, say the truth" Alina: "Just shut up. I had carried you in my womb for nine months. At least respect that. (Sighed heavily). You are!! There is no use for crying for the things that you don't have and more importantly there is no harm in admiring others. Even you should learn accepting others' as well and appreciate them too. The way you want appreciation from others, they want it as well. " Alisa:" No, I'm not. It’s not going to work like this every time. You will have to tell me this time. I will be graduating this year and will become an independent woman. I will be able to earn good money, will be able to fulfill my dreams. I will be able to buy anything that I want. Everything mumma, everything" Alina: “Is it! Dear, so, this self-dependent woman is going to eat raw food to keep her healthy, right?" Alisa: “No, I can order food online, go and hang out with friends and can still fill my little empty stomach!!” Alina: “And this will soon make your little empty stomach full of tiny ill microbes and end up lying you in a hospital bed. Listen dear, I am not your enemy. I am and will always be proud of your achievements but being your mother ,the only thing that I want is to make you self-dependent in true sense. I want you to be self-proficient to fulfill basic needs of life .Dear, you can't buy everything in this world. There are certain things in life which are priceless. They can only be bought by showing affection, love, empathy, care and such great human characteristics make us human." Alisa: "Umm, Why are you behaving like a typical philosopher? You are just testing my patience. You are arguing for others not me” Alina: “Dear, money can help you to fulfil basic needs of life but it’s not the only thing for survival. I hope you are getting what I am trying to convey you. Life is not about making money only. It’s more about making relationships, to find those relationships that will be there for you whether money will be with you or not. To find those immense sources of in-depth life that can nourish my girl's roots and help her grow with her utmost capacity. That will take you in right direction, will make you a good human” Alisa: "Hmm, I can’t live without my friends.” Alina:" Umm, only friends!” Alisa: "I mean without you as well. (Finally, she gathered some courage to say so). May be you are right. I can’t be happy with money only. (After thinking for some-time) Well, I agree, but I thought you were saying so for sake of my marriage only :|" Alina:” Well you are my own sweetheart, the love of my life. I, not only want you to be independent but a better human as well. Sometimes it’s good to be dependent. These are the little things that make us stronger. These are the tiny little moments that make our survival easier, bring smile to our faces. How pleasing it is when you have a person whom you can rely on for everything, whom you can scold for your own mistakes and so on. There are so many. May be someday you really want to impress your hubby with your cooking skills rather than your coding skills” And this ended the room in laughter with start of much deeper conversations between the duos from swimming through the dark uncovered secrets of life to flying in the sky high that makes you feel above everything.


Bernard’s Bench . That’s what everyone calls it. Everyone who was born in the town was brought up calling it Bernard’s Bench and newcomers soon get into the habit. There’s no plaque or little commemorative plate, or even any lettering carved into it. At least none to do with it being Bernard’s bench. It’s not an especially decorative one - its metal is rusty and its paint is flaking - and it’s not especially comfortable either. It comes so close to it - if the seat were just a little higher, if the slats on the back were just that little bit closer together. But they’re not. It’s just there , on the market square, between the pharmacist and the pound shop. Bernard’s bench. Bernard Ellery was my grandfather. I have fond enough memories of him, but not what you would call dramatically fond ones. He was a kind man, and never lost his patience or seemed to mind childish questions and chatter, but he wasn’t the kind of grandpa who was a mine of fascinating stories and who always had a twinkle in his eyes. Later on in life I understood what people meant when they said you could tell he was an insurance broker. With no disrespect to insurance brokers. The bench wasn’t even outside his old place of work. Well, it couldn’t be now, as that branch of it had closed, to be replaced by the pound shop, but it wasn’t there before either. It was over on the other side of the square, the one that was sometimes called the posh side though I could never make out much difference. It had been replaced by a charity shop. It’s visible from the upstairs of the office where I work. I knew very little about his private life, and don’t know that much more now. I know he lost his wife, my Grandmother, who was called Alma, when my Mum, their only child, was still a little girl, and he never re-married. Mum said she’d had a happy childhood though, and looking at the photos, I believed her. He died when I was only twelve, and I have to say, to be honest, I was sorry, but not grief-stricken. The strange thing is, given that it’s relatively recent (though the way years turn into decades can be quite disturbing!) nobody seems quite sure if the bench were there in Bernard’s lifetime, or if it only appeared afterwards. Given that there are only two benches on the square, it’s empty surprisingly often. Or perhaps not so surprisingly. Though there are still some quite characterful (as estate agents would say, and I should know, I work in one!) buildings on the square, a couple Victorian, a couple more early 20 th century, it’s never going to win any prizes for the most beautiful town with the best preserved architectural heritage or anything like that, but there are a couple of rather nice cafes, and it’s far more pleasant to sit in them, not least as the local bird population frequently uses Bernard’s Bench to relieve themselves. As soon as it’s cleaned off, it seems to come back. I could probably count on the fingers of one hand (okay, two, if you include family) the people who know that I’m connected to the Bernard of Bernard’s Bench. I don’t have the same surname. Not that many folk know the surname anyway. It’s just Bernard’s Bench, not Bernard Ellery’s bench, which is a little odd, as I gather in life he was quite a formal man, though he didn’t make an issue of it. A couple of weeks back, as I was returning with a sandwich lunch for myself and a colleague at Drake and Dobson , I noticed that there was someone sitting on Bernard’s Bench. A woman, probably the same age as me or a big younger, mid-thirties, I’d have guessed, though I’m not much good at guessing ages. She was bundled up in a big raincoat that seemed loose on her, even though it was a warm and dry day, more like March than February, folk said, as if the difference between those two months was deeply symbolic. At her feet were one cloth shopping bag that had seen better days, and one with the yellow and green logo of the pound shop. She flexed her shoulders as if to ease some tension or ache in them, and couldn’t stifle a yawn. Something told me that this was not a bored yawn, or an affected yawn, or one she had “caught” off somebody else. She was yawning because she was tired. Deeply, intensely weary. Her entire body language seemed to scream out that just getting up and going on her way was an effort that didn’t seem worth it. She didn’t exactly look ill, but as if she couldn’t remember when she’d last had any energy. I was reminded of the phrase often used for comic effect my get up and go had got up and gone , and it applied to the woman on Bernard’s bench, but it wasn’t comical at all. Even though my colleague was waiting for her lunch, and I was pretty peckish myself, and though I’ve never claimed to be one of life’s Good Samaritans, something made me sit down beside her - cautiously, as I was wearing light-coloured trousers! - and ask if she were okay. Her expression was like none I had seen before, and it set a swirl of emotions off in my own mind. There was a sudden light in her eyes - rather nice dark grey-blue eyes, though with dark shadows beneath them - as if she couldn’t believe anyone was actually asking how she was, and yes, she was blinking tears away. Yet there was also an innate dignity, a quiet stoicism to her, that meant that though it was only human decency to have sympathy for her, she would never be an object of pity. “If there’s anything I can do...?” I asked. I know it makes me sound awful, but that’s the kind of question I don’t generally ask, because people might just tell you. But though I’m not claiming any kind of Road to Damascus moment, I genuinely thought that (within reason) I would be willing to do anything I could to help her. “You’re very kind but - no, that’s fine.” “What kept you?” my colleague Lesley asked, amiably enough. “Just - having a word with a lady who was on the bench.” “Oh - right.” Was there a strange odd note in her voice? But she didn’t take the matter any further, and enjoyed her tuna and mayonnaise roll as I tucked into my cheese and pickle one. My conscience pricked me as I wondered if I should have taken the woman on the bench a sandwich, or at least offered to do so, but I had the sudden thought that though she did, in a way, undeniably look hungry, it was not a look of physical hunger. Instinct, and it was an instinct I was inclined to trust, told me that despite the raincoat that was too big for her making her probably look more skinny that, though she might not dine on the best of food, she was not going hungry. Not physically hungry. There was nothing I could really put my finger on, but over the next couple of days, I had the sense that Lesley, and Jason (who was technically our boss, but most of the time you wouldn’t have known it, because he wore his authority very lightly, but, if needs must, effectively) were treating me ever so slightly oddly. There were the most trivial things - it seemed to me that, “You okay, Sheena?” wasn’t just some polite, form enquiry, and that they were shielding me from dealing with the more awkward clients and the more problematic properties. It was, frankly, a bit unnerving! I wondered if I looked unwell, but a glance in the mirror assured me I didn’t, and I was pretty sure I hadn’t come out with any silly or incomprehensible remarks. Finally, I told myself I was imagining things, the way you always do when you’re pretty sure you’re not imagining things. I couldn’t help thinking about the woman in the oversized raincoat on Bernard’s Bench, and kept looking for her - surreptitiously from the upstairs office window, more blatantly when passing by. A few days later, I did see her again, and was relieved that she seemed to be in better spirits. We had a little conversation that was a bit stilted, but still left me thinking that I hoped I would see her again, and would like to get to know her better. I was spending that weekend with my Mum and my stepfather James. After they’d got married, a couple of years back, they’d moved into a little cottage in a village about 30 miles away. I’d be lying if I said I’d never had any doubts whatsoever about James, but that was behind us now, and we were good friends. It was something I generally looked forward to, in a quiet way. Every time I was there, looking out at wheatfields and knowing I was within a few minutes’ walk of a wood, I decided that I would love to move to the country one day, but inside I suspected that it might well stay within the realms of some day . They had made the cottage cosy, or perhaps more to the point, restored its cosiness, but not gone to extremes. There were not horse brasses (that had never been near a horse) nor corn dollies (that had never been near a cornfield) on every appropriate or inappropriate surface, and not every fabric was gingham or floral. I always found it rather touching that though I had never lived there on a permanent basis, the spare bedroom was referred to as your room or Sheena’s room . I hadn’t given any especial thought to either mentioning or not mentioning the woman on Bernard’s bench, but in the end I got round to it, and it slotted sensibly enough into a conversation about plans for a bench outside the village hall. If memory serves, Mum just said something along the lines of, “I hope she’ll be fine,” or “Glad to see someone getting some use out of it.” But the next day she asked me if I’d like to come for a walk in the woods with her. James had retired by now, but volunteered as a legal adviser to the local Citizens’ Advice bureau, and for once they’d asked him if he could come in on a Saturday as they had quite an urgent case. I needed no second asking. It was that time of year when each day seems to be a transition, and I knew that the wild crocuses would already be showing their multi-coloured heads, and all around them and above them things would be in bud. It was still very mild, and a repeat of the infamous blizzards and sub-zero temperatures of the Beast from the East that had been the sting in the tail of winter and the unseasonal start to spring a few years ago seemed exceedingly unlikely. “I hoped you would see the woman on the bench,” Mum said, simply, and I noticed she did not say “someone on the bench”. We knew each other well enough to recognise those little quirks of each others’ speech patterns, and I knew she had more to say. “Do you know why Dad - why Bernard - wanted that bench to be there?” “Well - so folk had somewhere to sit,” I said. “True enough. But there’s more to it than that.” I noticed that she had paused by a bench, by one of those rustic ones that sometimes seem to grow in woodlands as organically as the trees around them, though of course that can’t really be so. We did a quick “stain check” and then sat down side by side on it. “It’s time you knew,” she said, “And feel free to dismiss it as just one of those family old wives’ tales. He first met my mother - Alma, the grandmother you never knew, when she was laden down with shopping in town.” She went on to say that Bernard, who was a keenly perceptive man, and a deeply compassionate one, behind his rather taciturn exterior, had noticed that the woman in the raincoat that looked too big for her was obviously careworn and laden down with her shopping. And that’s when he decided that the town, that the market square, needed a bench for people to sit down and rest. He helped the woman with her shopping, and, as folk say, one thing led to another. When she wasn’t careworn and tired, she had sparkling bright blue grey eyes and a mischievous sense of humour. People where he worked weren’t quite ready to write him off as a bachelor for life, but had decided there wouldn’t be a whip-round for wedding presence any time soon. But they were wrong, and within a few months he was engaged to Alma. I had been about, theatrical-fashion, to exclaim, “Alma!” but then realised it was not a surprise at all. His own happiness didn’t make him forget what he’d thought about the bench, and Alma most certainly didn’t either. As she said, she had just been tired and having a bad sort of day, but there would be people who needed it far more “I only had vague memories of her myself,” Mum said, sadly. “I think Dad got it just right. He never had shrines to her or anything like that, but made sure I knew about her. And then I saw her on the bench! I only realised that later, of course. But what I do know is that not long after I met your Dad. No, that’s not technically speaking true - I did know him a bit, he was a customer in the bank where I was working, but we realised that there was a definite spark.” She smiled now, but sadly. “We had 15 wonderful years together, and though we had meant to have more than one child, it didn’t work out that way, and you were our most precious gift and blessing. Then another five years later, I saw her on the bench again, and a couple of days later I did meet James. Make of it what you will, Sheena. I’ve always tended to see ghost stories just as entertaining books and TV, but - well, my mind is more open than it used to be.” I didn’t honestly know if I were glad she had told me or not, and certainly tried to put it out of my mind when I went back into town. But a question was still fluttering around my mind like an irritating moth, and in the end I had to ask it. “Lesley, tell me the truth,” I said, “Last week when I talked about the woman on the bench, did you see her?” “Well, no,” she admitted, “But I could have just not been looking at the right time. I see that now. Jason and I have talked about it since - hope it didn’t look like going behind your back! - and said we were too keen to jump to conclusions about - well, about ....” “If I was what tends to be called under a certain amount of stress ,” I completed the sentence. You can draw your own conclusions. You can say - and I wouldn’t necessarily contradict you - that what Mum called the spark was there with Jason and me anyway. Both of us were an odd mixture of appearing to be extrovert, heart on the sleeve sort of people, but not necessarily finding it easy to admit to our feelings. But this much I do know. Now we have both seen the woman on the bench, and she looks so much happier. I have thought of calling out “Alma!” or “Grandma!” but I have not. But we’re going to see to it that the bench gets a make-over, or as Jason puts it, more to the point, a make- back , so it is not chipped and rusted and sad-looking. That’s the least we can do.


Janet staggered in, the crooked, batwing doors banging behind her punctuated her dramatic entrances. A few heads looked up, hands straying from their powder compacts briefly in concern which soon morphed into thinly veiled annoyance once they saw that Janet hadn’t burst in because she had been distressed. Shaking their heads in exasperation, the occupants of the storage room returned to their business. Janet spared a single glance and then burst out, “I need Noel. Right now! Where is she?” Her hands tugged at her corset in impatience until she spotted their bartender’s rugged raven hair in the corner and made a beeline towards her without hesitation. A few gawked at her courage; it was an unspoken rule that you did not disturb Noel when she was meditating. “Wonder if they’re gonna knock another galley west today. Ain’t it their third this week? Bit risky, I say.” Lotte remarked. No one agreed verbally but that’s what all of them were thinking. Janet leaped at Noel and shook her frantically. You might have been imagining her with trembling hands, a sheen of sweat on her face and her eyes widened with terror but none of those would be correct. Instead, a wild grin had settled up her lips and her eyes had gone as cold as the blood in her veins. Noel cracked her eyes open, her cream apron fluttered softly as she landed back on the group, in stark contrast to the charcoal murderous intent radiating off her. “What.” It was a statement. One that also promised a week without her memories, wandering helpless in the canyon at the mercy of nighttime predators if she failed to produce a proper reason for disturbing interrupting Noel’s session. “Well, I-“ “This better be worth it. Because of you I have to wait another 11 days before trying to contact Asa. And by that time her murderer will have beefed another three women!” She balled up the bloodied corset she’d been holding up until now and tossed it aside. “I need you to conjure a storm.” Janet knew her proverbial clock was ticking. She needed to get her request out now, so she rushed through the rest of her words without stopping. “Not like the last minor storm either. A grand one this time. One that’ll shake Deadwood to its core. I found ‘im. Found the deadbeat who touched Sylvie last time.” Noel frowned and her anger drained away. She could distantly hear that someone was telling her that her shift would be starting in five minutes. Another hour of pretending to be something she wasn’t, watching as her guild had to suffer. “Go on. And make it snappy.” Janet cheered inwardly but didn’t let it slip as she was prone to do. She had Noel’s attention and she wouldn’t risk losing it. “Heard him. He’s planning to take her with him this time. Went on a bender and was blowing it to his buddies. It was the usual: ropes, drugs and a quick getaway but it was unusually detailed, and he sounded serious even if he was drunk. I wouldn’t have paid him any mind otherwise.” It had been tempting, of course, when Sylvie had cried about it into her shoulder last week. The night had echoed her sorrows. Both Noel and Sylvie’s familiar had mourned the loss of her innocence at such a young age, even if they had known that it was inevitable with the life they lived. Soldiers weren’t that noble, locals weren’t friendly, the law wasn’t an ally and humans that weren’t humane at all. Their magic couldn’t be used every time something like this happened or they’d exhaust themselves of their reserve. But now, now when Sylvie might be in real danger, when one of their own might be taken from them, Noel’s magic begged her to loosen the rein she had cast over it. Let it go, just once more. “This is our third this week, right?” She told it to be quiet just a bit longer. An excuse had arrived, but she had to make sure she didn’t give into her urges again. “Who cares about that? My blood’s itching to harden again. It’s getting way too chilled again and I don’t want my appendages to break off again.” It was true. Noel could feel the particles in Janet slowing down, flowing languidly rather than sharply. She would have forced her blood to thaw but Janet had protested against it vehemently several times before like a petulant child at physician’s office. She claimed that it didn’t feel natural and her magic often fell silent in dissent afterwards. It felt as if it had abandoned them. She understood so she didn’t offer. “Meet me at Deadwood Gulch tonight at 9 am sharp. Don’t forget to bring the pest we have to deal with.” Janet winked. Knew that since she had succeeded in convincing Noel to go along with her plan, she could afford to be humorous now so she asked, “Should I lure him in with that potion you brewed yesterday? It’s still fresh so it won’t kill him before we do. Or should I ask May to let loose one of her scents? She said she’d developed a special one lately that worked like a charm on the customers. It’s surprising since she wasn’t supposed to get one until next month.” “Don’t involve May in this. You know she’ll probably create an illusion at the edge of the canyon and entice him into pushing himself off. Just use you ‘feminine wiles’. Never failed us before.” Janet laughed, the kind of laugh where your shoulders shake, and your stomach hurts and you hiccup. It wasn’t often that they were content enough to do it and a few people startled. Smiles, guarded smiles, were common but laughs were hoarded for special occasions. And Janet laughed now, not because of the joke, but because her magic thrummed in pleasure at the prospect of being let out. She was about to throw in a rejoinder when Lucille reminded Noel that it was her turn. She stood up, strapped on her arm garters, made sure that any residue of her aura was removed and then strove out of the storage room unceremoniously. Janet was amused until she was ambushed by what seemed like a thousand voices begging her to take them along too. The children were especially restless since they wanted to try their abilities anywhere and everywhere and opportunities were rare. She couldn’t wait for tonight too. “The terrible price of living, ain’t it? To live through others dying?” -J.D. Jordan, “Calamity”


Racing towards class, dropping a pencil here, some paper there, and half a sandwich he just took a few bites from slipped from his hand and stuck to another student’s shoe, Cliff panics. He sees the teacher reaching to shut the door of the classroom he is desperately attempting to run into. “Wait! Wait”, the clumsy middle-aged student pleads as his eyes meet with the wintry stare of the teacher’s. If it hadn’t been for Cliff’s determination to make it to that door in four leaping bounds, he would have been frozen in place by Mr. Tenor’s extreme, frostbitten gaze. Slipping into the door, Mr. Tenor shuts it on the unbuttoned plaid shirt that Cliff had thrown on this morning, or is it afternoon, in his hurry to get to his final exam in class on time. Looking sheepishly at the professor, he quickly makes it to his assigned seat in the circle of students. This is the smallest class of only 16 students, all the chairs and easels are in a circle facing inwards towards whatever is on display in the middle. There have been times that it was a single branch on the small square platform that was built roughly out of darker colored wood and stood only about one foot high, and there have been times when a naked lady has sat upon a chair on the platform. One never knew what would be the item of design for the specific day, Mr. Tenor never gave this information in advance. He would only give advice on what tools would be needed. Typically for the classes Mr. Tenor advised charcoals, pastels, and maybe some watercolors but he never suggested what he did for this class. For this class and this final exam he had suggested bringing leaves. He didn’t specify how many leaves or what type of leaves. For this exam he absently told them while they packed up their items from the last lesson, “Bring leaves of your choosing, and I suppose you should bring along your charcoal as well. Hmm... needle and thread may be useful, but that is up to you”. Cliff was already struggling to please the professor so he brought a shopping bag full of various leaves he found in his yard, on his walks, in the courtyard, and at the park. He was very happy with his selection of maples, oaks, birch, apple, cherry, rhododendron, lily, and many other leaves he selected. He was ready with his full set of charcoals as well as three sizes of needles and some green, yellow, and brown sewing thread. Looking around, he realized he may have over-brought on the items the professor advised to gather. Most of the other students only had a handful of leaves, one charcoal piece, and only a few had needle and thread. He carefully looked at each student realizing he brought about three times more than anyone else in the entire room. He shifted a bit in his chair, he really needed a good grade but now he wasn’t sure he did the right thing with all of his choices. He thinks to himself, “Was there a limit on supplies? I don’t remember a limit being mentioned, but that was the day I dropped my lentil soup and it splashed all over my life drawing”. He continued to ponder to himself until a typical sound interrupted him in this class. “Ah-hem”, Mr. Tenor’s usual start to a class, “You may wonder what the supplies I suggested are for, and you are about to discover. First off, thank you for being a very studious class this semester. Abby you have been the delight of the class, Greg you have been the most elaborate in all your art pieces, and finally, Cliff you have been the thorn in my side this semester. To the rest of you, you have been mainstream at best.” Everybody groaned in unison, Mr. Tenor was known for picking favorites, negative or positive. Cliff held his professor's gaze and then finally looked down at his leaves hoping the professor would just look away. “Ok, everyone”, Mr. Tenor rasped, “For your final exam, Meet Ms. Anne.” At this introduction a young looking middle-aged woman comes out onto the stage in nothing but a linen sheet. She takes light steps towards the stage, hops up like a floating bird, and stands next to the battered, cobalt blue wingback cushion seat provided. She stands next to the chair and happens to be looking directly at Cliff, making brief eye contact, he blushes, and then she continues to scan the rest of the class. He watches her, the way her hips bop back and forth, her purple hair falls lightly around her head escaping the bun she threw it in, and he notices the way her left foot keeps tapping lightly as she inspected everyone. She slowly walked around the chair, then finally after examining everyone she settled into the cushions, letting the linen sheet hang over her body. “Ms. Anne will not be a life portrait for you today”, Mr. Tenor informs us with a very sinister smile, “You are to use your supplies to create her. It should be more than just two dimensional, and I must see your creativity shine. You are graded solely on your imagination and creativity in this one.” Stunned, the entire class stared at him blankly. This is the first time he has graded on creativity alone, he usually wants the piece to have some aspect of tangible grading structure. He usually grades on appropriate scale, shading, contours, shape, form, and sometimes lines. Up until this time, he always made sure there was a measure of objectivity in what to grade, not something as abstract as just creativity. Nobody knew what to do. They were all stunned and wondered if their teacher had been swapped. Then they as a whole realized, it was just like him to confuse the class on the most important assignment. “I will start your timer in five minutes, get set up”, he instructs the puzzled students, “You will have 90 minutes to complete your final”. Cliff leans down over his supplies and starts to organize them around him. Charcoal pencils on the easel, thread in his pockets, needles are in his grandmother’s old little stuffed, red pin cushion, he thinks he just might be ready to pass this exam. Mr. Tenor supplied the paper for this exam, he wanted it to be on mixed media, sturdy paper. Cliff watched the other students look at Mr. Tenor, following him as he walked around the small art circle and checking on the students’ readiness. Once the five minutes were up and the students were all settled, Mr. Tenor walked towards the middle of the circle next to Ms. Anne. He slowly turned around and looked at each individual student and their easel. Nodding his head slightly, he seemed satisfied that they were all as ready as they were going to be. Mr. Tenor is a stern, rigid teacher, but he was always fair in making sure everyone had adequate time to get their projects done. Ms. Anne looked up at him expectantly, almost like she knew he was going to tell her to do something next. Breaking the silence he instructed everyone, “The exam now starts, Ms. Anne will rotate her chair every 15 minutes that way each student has enough time to see her from all sides to be able to create her in whatever way you see best. This exam is not an easy one, but I think you will learn a lot from it. Ms. Anne, please remove the linen sheet.” Ms. Anne removed the sheet. She was still dressed in a cream colored, strapless slip that fit her form and highlighted each bump and dip in her body’s natural curves. She was a lovely life model. She settled back into her chair, crossed her right leg over her left and leaned into the tattered left armrest while placing her left hand just under her chin as if it was just too heavy to keep up any longer. Once she had settled, each student started their assignment. Nobody knew exactly what to do, this was a strange test that had not been leaked to the students from previous classes. Surely this would have been something that was common knowledge if Mr. Tenor did this odd exam for his final. Maybe this was the first time he has done something like this? Mr. Tenor walked over towards his own desk, opened the drawer, and pulled out his sketchbook and started to sketch to pass his time. During tests he never monitored like other teachers have in Cliff’s experience. Mr. Tenor didn’t hover, he didn’t get involved, he generally sat at his desk or an easel and did something artistic himself. There have been exams where Mr. Tenor even did his own test to show the students the expected final piece. It was always the worst way to be shown how to do something, generally Mr. Tenor finished in half the time allotted and was ten times better than any of the students’ works. Snapping himself out of the stare, Cliff focussed in on his work. He didn’t know what or how, but he was sure he was optimally prepared to be the most creative. Having the most supplies seemed to not disappoint Mr. Tenor, but seemed to impress him. Cliff was sure he could finally impress Mr. Tenor, he now had eighty-five minutes to do so. Grabbing a sturdy piece of charcoal, Cliff first made a quick outline sketch of Ms. Anne on the chair. Erasing the chair, Cliff turned it into a pillar like one would find propping up a bust of a famous historical hero. He then sketched next to the pillar a wall that would be covered in vines, looking down at his bag of leaves he had quite a few English ivy ones in there from around his grandmother’s home. “Mr. Tenor?”, Cliff spoke up, “Could I put some headphones in please?” “Of course Mr. Clifford, whatever helps you to finally succeed at something in this class”, the professor said without even looking up from his sketch. Putting his headphones in, turning on his favorite rock opera band to set the tone, Cliff picked back up his charcoal and began setting the scene of a lucious Roman garden that Ms. Anne deserved to be placed in. Her pose was light and delicate, her facial features strong, and her laid back position gave the impression that she didn't have a care in the world. As he sketched the scene, he made plans for where the leaves would go and how he would use the thread. He drew around her a garden of great beauty, he sketched in the branches of the assortment of bushes in the back, the trunks of the trees, and even the lily of the valley along the bottom of the stone column. He used the green thread to secure the leaves in place, the red thread for the outline of Ms. Anne’s slip, and the brown to give the trunks some texture. He sketched in her face when she had been facing closer towards his side of the classroom, and focussed on her background when her back was towards him. “You have 5 minutes left”, Mr. Tenor said as he tapped on Cliff’s shoulder, jolting him back into the surroundings and he scanned the room quickly. The other student’s faces did not look relaxed, many of them had creased faces and stern expressions. It looked like Abby, the delight, had been crying for most of this exam, and Greg stared off into space as if he was already done or wishing he could be anywhere else but in this classroom. Cliff focussed back on his piece, he added the final shading to the slip with his charcoal and then clipped off some of the excess thread from the tree trunks. He had left some pieces of the green thread hanging down in the background to look like a willow tree lined river bed. Mr. Tenor walked slowly around the room, looking at all the students, his face giving nothing away in regards to his feelings. There were two known facial expressions of Mr. Tenor, disappointment and grave disappointment, neither were currently on his face. He walked back to Cliff and stood behind him for only a minute, but Cliff had thought all time and space stopped in that one moment and froze for at least half a millennia. “Time is up”, Mr. Tenor announced. There was a shuffling of charcoal, feet, and supplies. Per usual protocol, all students stood up and took 3 steps back from their easels to examine their work. As Cliff started to stand, Mr. Tenor placed a hand on his left shoulder with his fingers firmly gripping in. Cliff’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest, or stopped, and all the color left his face. He failed. He knew he did. “Stay”, commanded Mr. Tenor. He then walked past Cliff, his easel, and to Ms. Anne. He picked up the sheet and handed it to her to let her know she could cover up if that is what was most comfortable to her. She simply took it, folded it a few times, and draped it over the back of the chair. Mr. Tenor looked at her and nodded his head slightly towards Cliff. She lightly hopped off the middle stage and walked past Cliff’s easel and then turned around a to look at his completed exam. She made a small gasp, stifling it quickly. He must have failed and the teacher was just embarrassing him for it. Cliff felt all the color rise into his cheeks as he blushed in shame. Ms. Anne then walked around the room slowly, examining each and every student’s piece. Walking herself back to Mr. Tenor in the middle of the room, she sat down on the small podium, nodded to Mr. Tenor and then looked away from him and up to the ceiling. “I probably do not have to remind you, but I have already determined your grades as usual when we do these exams”, Mr. Tenor informed nonchalantly with a tone that was so close to boredom it would almost sound like he was rounding back to amusement. Cliff’s heart sank. He really wanted to do a good job in this class. “Greg, you have failed this exam. You only used charcoal for this exam in creativity. Abby, your tears added an interesting touch, but were not part of the suggested items to use. You will be graded down for using items not required. Cliff...”, Mr. Tenor paused, shifting his weight onto his left leg and looked Cliff in the eyes, “You have passed with full marks. Your piece is the best the class has ever seen. I am quite impressed with your creativity and use of your items. You made Ms. Anne into her very own goddess in her heavenly garden. We both agreed your piece will be sold at the school’s next fundraising auction, as long as we have your permission.” Cliff’s jaw hung a few inches lower than it normally occupies, he could not find the words to say anything, his mouth was dry, and his heart fluttery. “In your own time, Mr. Clifford”, Mr. Tenor said and then turned around to the rest of the class, “Go ahead and see what he has created then pack up your items and make your way out”. Cliff stayed seated, Mr. Tenor hasn’t suggested submitting a student’s art piece to the annual fundraising auction in about a decade. It was common knowledge that he is very strict and does not usually suggest a student’s art in fear it will ruin his reputation as an expert artist himself. Each student walked past Cliff, he wasn’t paying attention to what they were saying, he was just staring at Ms. Anne to the side of his easel. She had the sweetest smile she kept offering him. He came up with an idea. “Mr. Tenor”, he said shakily, “I will be happy to donate my piece to the annual fundraiser, but I require a bargain. A date with Ms. Anne and the piece is yours to auction.” Mr. Tenor gripped his wrist tightly, looked at Ms. Anne, and pursed his lips together. Cliff realized just in those two moments that this had made Mr. Tenor very uncomfortable, but why? Ms. Anne and Mr. Tenor made eye contact and spoke in a secret language in those moments. He glared at her hard, almost piercing her soul, and she just gave a single blink in return. “Ms. Anne? What is your decision at Mr. Clifford’s request?” She looked at Mr. Tenor, smirking so slightly to the right, her cheeks rosy, and stated, “Oh Dad, I will go out with Mr. Clifford on a date so you can put his piece up for auction”. All the students stopped, the room was silent. Mr. Tenor had a daughter? Wait, the man is capable of emotion enough to have a daughter, to make a daughter, and she seemed to like him?! “You’re his daughter!?”Abby barked. All the students had stopped and were staring at Mr. Tenor, he was shifting his weight from one leg to the other, gave his daughter a look that could have killed, and then remarked, “Well, yes, did you think I only live in the art department?” “Mr. Clifford, you have your answer”, he quickly told him. Cliff wasn’t so sure what he just did to himself. He was now possibly going to date Mr. Tenor’s daughter. Anne walked over to Cliff and placed her hand on his, looked down at him and simply whispered to him, “He isn’t as scary as he seems. He kept talking about how much he really liked you. I am happy to go on one or more dates with you, I feel I already know you with how much Dad had talked of you”. Cliff blinked. The next thing he remembers is he is looking up at a bunch of faces looking down on him. Thank you for your time to read.


"I got all of the money! If anyone says anything to the cops, you won't be able to say anything after!" Adam cackled. My arms were raised above my head, and my eyes were wide in play-fear. "O-okay, sir. We-we won't t-t-tell. I promise," I stuttered. Adam laughed one more time, then he ran out of the room with the briefcase. A minute later, Adam came dashing back in, giggling. "That was awesome , Nikki. I-" Adam was cut off short when we heard a shout from downstairs. "Nicole! Adam! Dinner!" Adam's mom yelled. I grinned at Adam as we both ran down the hall, then the staircase. My legs got me to the dining room faster than Adam did. He came in right behind me, panting. "Pizza and breadsticks, homemade. Just how you two like it." Jo nodded, proud of herself. Like she said, there were two homemade pizzas (one Hawaiian and one Meat Lovers), and sixteen made-from-scratch breadsticks. The greasy aroma of her cooking filled the air, and it was like Heaven to my senses. Adam and I sat down next to each other, and Jo sat down across from us. "Thanks, Ma. It means a lot to me that you let me stay here this weekend while my parents are gone...Again," I said, upset. Jo and Adam went silent for a minute. They knew what I meant, and even though we were okay with talking about with each other, it was still hard to. "Oh, it's not problem. You know we love having you here. And, it keeps Adam from playing those stupid video games all day." Jo eyed him wearily; you could tell that he truly was playing video games a lot. "Mo-om! Can we just say Grace and eat?" Adam reached over and put my hand in his. Jo grabbed my other hand, then Adam and Jo joined hands. "Dear Lord, thank you for the food before us, and the friends and family around us. We are so blessed to have you in our lives, to have each other in our lives. Thank you. Amen." "Amen." "Amen." I let go of Jo and Adam's hands, immediately pouncing on the delicious meal. Adam wasn't far after me, and soon all three of us were wolfing down the meal. One hour later, Adam and I were on the couch, watching It's A Long Way From Here . It was actually a movie that Adam and I directed, written, and produced together a few months before. It was about a young girl (our friend Liliona) growing up, wishing she could be an artist, but her parents make her become an accountant. In the end, she breaks free, moves to Paris, and accomplishes her dream job. Back to the story. We were sitting there, munching on popcorn, when the doorbell rang. Coming from the kitchen, Jo walked to the front door and opened it. My mother was standing there, a stern and tear-streaked face. "Give me my darn daughter. Right now, Jo. I don't want to wait. Nicole! Come here!" my mother scolded. Frightened, I grabbed Adam's hand and leaned against him. He squeezed my hand tightly while Jo stepped out of the way as Mother pushed past her, into the living room. "Ni- cole! Get your filthy butt over here! We're going away! Right now! And you better know that you'll never be seeing your father again!" My mother clenched her fists and stared at me, fire in her eyes. I could tell that she was daring me. Daring me to stay where I was. Daring me to disobey her. I took that dare like you take money out of your grandparents' hands. Jo could tell that I wasn't moving, so she moved quickly and stepped in front of Mother before she could do anything to me or Adam. "Now, Gianna. there's no need to overreact. Why don't we-" Jo was immediately cut off by my mother again. We could all tell she wouldn't let anyone talk sense. "Shut up, Jo! I am not freaking overreacting! I want my daughter, and you're going to give her to me, and that's final!" Mother began to walk towards me again. Jo stopped her again. You could see the fire in both of their eyes. "Gianna, if you don't stop right now, I won't hesitate to call the police. I may be your friend, but this is getting out of control. Just, go back home. Get a good night's rest, and come back in the morning. Then we'll talk," Jo ordered. I could feel Adam's heavy, fearful breathing on my neck. The two of us were both shaking down to the bone. "This isn't the last you'll hear of me." "Yeah, I know. At some point you'll have to pick up your daughter ." When you first see her, Jo looks like a sweetheart. And she is, don't get me wrong. But, if you get that woman mad...You better watch your back. And my mom knew that. That's exactly why she walked out of Jo's house with one last final, livid glare. "Adam, Nicole, go upstairs. Get a movie on in Adam's room. I'll... be right there." Jo attempted to smile as Adam and I slunk upstairs. Nine years later... "Nikki! Adam's here! And it looks like he drove the Convertible!" A smile spread across my face, ear to ear. After applying a bit of dark red lipstick, I slung my purse over my shoulder and strutted out of my room. "Coming!" I began my descent down the stairs, making sure not to trip while in my heels. Once I got to the bottom, I heard a gasp. My head snapped to the right, and Daddy was standing there. "You look beautiful, honey. That is a beautiful color on you. Now, go ahead. Spin, spin!" Daddy cried. My smile spread wider as I spun around and my black, flowy, knee-length dress flew around me. I only stopped when I got dizzy. Honk! Honk! Daddy smiled at me, excitement in his eyes. He loved Adam like a son. Maybe in a few years he would be. "Alright, go on, sweetheart. I love you. Have fun. Be safe. Back by midnight!" His smile got wider (if it was possible) as I pecked him on the cheek, then swirled out of the door. "Hi, Nikki! You ready?" Adam called. He was in the front seat of the Convertible, just like Daddy had said. The top was down; most likely so that we could still get the slight breeze in the humid, summer, night air. "I'm more than ready. This is our senior prom, after all. Oh, and Daddy said he's gonna take pictures once we get back because he 'doesn't want to bombard us'." I opened the passenger side door and slid in, closing the door again. "Alrighty then. We're off to the races!" Adam and I looked into each other's eyes for a moment before we sped off to the interstate, towards Clearwater High.