“So, is it true?” Lia’s voice carried to me over my shoulder as I headed out the door of the lecture hall, backpack slung across one shoulder and a half-eaten apple in my hand. Dread filled me as I stopped with my back to her and my mouth full, trying to figure out how to answer. I knew what “it” was, even though Lia hadn’t specified. It was the same “it” as always. It wasn’t that the question itself was so bad, or even the answer. It was that it always led to more questions, the *same* questions, all ending with the one they had really wanted to ask from the start. And *that* was the question I was dreading as she caught up to me, all smiling blue eyes and bouncing red curls. I swallowed the half-chewed apple, feeling it stick uncomfortably in my throat as it went. “Is what true?” I stalled, beginning to walk towards the main door of the building. Lia fell into step beside me and we joined the herd of students moving out to the courtyard. She grinned, a look of excitement on her pretty face. “Is your grandpa really Jack Forrester?” I sighed internally. Truthfully, I had been expecting her to ask for weeks now -- ever since I went over to her apartment to study for our philosophy midterm and found a shelf lined with Grandpa’s albums. He was a local legend and most of my family was very active in the town's musical community so she was bound to find out we were related sooner or later. Not seeing any way to avoid it, I answered her. “Yes, it’s really true.” She immediately began squealing with excitement and I took advantage of the pause to finish my apple. “Ohmygod I have so many questions! You probably don’t know this but he is one of my *favourite* musicians! I have every single one of his albums! It must have been *so amazing* to have such an incredible musical influence ...” Lia trailed off as she took in my expression. She frowned, her mood immediately dampened, and I felt guilty for squashing her excitement. “I’m sorry.” I sighed, tossing my apple core into a trash can as we passed through the first set of doors to outside. “It’s not that I don’t love him or want to talk about him, it’s just ... not that good of a story.” “What does that mean?” Lia watched me curiously as we stepped out into the afternoon sun. The courtyard was bright and open with a large lawn in the centre, ringed with flagstone and dotted with benches and picnic tables. The pack of students exiting the building began to disperse and we followed the crowd, keeping left towards the main bus stop. I contemplated running through all the usual questions with her but decided that I would skip right to the part she really wanted to know. “Grandpa Jack doesn’t play anymore.” She gaped at me, as expected. “Never? Not even just for himself?” I shook my head at her question. “Not even for himself. Don’t get me wrong - he still loves music. He taught my mother and sister how to play and he writes extensively, but he never plays anymore. I’ve only ever heard him in recordings. My mom heard him in-person a few times but she was so young she says it’s hard to remember.” A crease appeared between Lia’s brows as she absorbed my words. “But ... why? He was so talented! They said he was the one of the best to ever play, that his music could make you \*feel\* things like no one else’s. Even the recordings are amazing - I can’t imagine how incredible it would be to hear live. They say he never played the same song twice! To think it hasn’t existed in almost sixty years is ... heart-breaking.” I nodded, sympathizing with her reaction. It was the same response for anyone who had heard Grandpa’s music - there was something about it that *moved* you in such a unique and inexplicable way that it made you immediately hungry for more. Like the sound was a drug, delivering concentrated emotion directly to your soul. To find out that the supply was limited, never to be expanded or renewed, brought a sense of desperate loss to most of his fans. It was probably why the legend of *The Tapes* had remained such a stubborn presence in the history of my grandfather’s musical career. Hell, even I had felt the same way once, before I had asked him myself and seen the pain in his eyes. “I don’t really know. No one does. My mom says it’s heartbreak - after his wife died, the part of him that made that music died too. My uncle says it was just the stress of raising two kids alone while still mourning. That he just didn’t have time and eventually he lost the taste for it.” I shrugged, head down as I dug in my pocket for my bus pass. I felt a twinge of sadness as I thought about how my grandfather must have felt after receiving the news that his wife had been killed in a fatal car accident, leaving him the single father of a six-year old daughter and a two-year old son. “What do you think?” Lia’s voice was soft, her expression curious. I thought back to when I was nine; watching Grandpa lean over Lyric, helping to place her tiny fingers on the piano keys. *My sister’s legs swung from the bench, sparkly blue shoes catching the sunlight. I sat on the couch opposite them, a juice box in one hand and a dark green pencil in the other.* *Unlike my mother and sister, I had no interest in music. I took more after my father and preferred to draw rather than play. After months of torturous music lessons in my grandfather’s study, he had finally sat my mom down and told her that one musical child was enough. I was released from the hated lessons and now I got to eat snacks and draw instead of suffering through scales and songs.* *“Grandpa, why don’t you play piano anymore?” I regretted the question immediately as I watched a flicker of pain pass over Grandpa’s face. He was silent for a moment, seeming to consider my question. Lyric and I were quiet too, waiting for him to speak.* *“I loved playing very much. But it took me away from things and it took things away from me. When your Grandma died, I realized that it took too much. So now I teach. I pass on my knowledge so that something pure and new can be born. Now I give something without losing something.”* I blinked and turned my eyes back to Lia, standing next to me under the shelter. The bus stop was crowded; students pushing against each other to get into already-packed buses, the smell of exhaust heavy in the air. I shrugged and she leaned in to hear me over the cacophony of the platform. “I think that after his wife died, he decided to go in a different direction. We don’t push him on it out of respect, but I can guarantee you there’s no secret tapes. No extra recordings or unreleased songs. If you want to hear his music, it’s going to be through other people.” Lia’s disappointment was palpable as I destroyed the last of her hopes in the rumours that circulated online. *The Secret Tapes of Jack Forrester* was a cult legend that insisted my grandfather had continued recording music all these years but no longer released it to the public. It was the most long-lived, but far from the only rumour about him. Some believed he had never really played to begin with and the refusal was just a way to protect his scam. Others swore he had sold his soul to the Devil to learn how to play and had stopped to keep the beast at bay. That was the problem with a local musical icon suddenly and mysteriously vowing never to play again - people talked until gossip became legend. And now in the age of the internet, they shared their crazy theory online. I sighed, running my hand through my hair as I looked down at Lia. “Look, I’m sorry to dash your hopes like that. But the truth is that despite what you may have read online, he’s just a sweet old man who likes to teach music and leave the past where it lies. He used to be Jack Forrester but that was a long time ago. Now he’s just a composer and a grandpa of three.” I smiled ruefully at her and she returned it, though it was nowhere near as bright as when we began our walk. “It’s okay, I probably shouldn’t have jumped down your throat like that. I was just so excited! I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or sad.” I brushed off her apology with a wave of my hand, a light flush spreading across my cheeks. She smiled at me then leaned out of the shelter, scanning the line of buses pulling in. “Well that’s me - number 77. I’ll see you tomorrow?” I nodded and offered her a wave as she pushed out of the shelter. Elbowing her way across the platform, she scrambled up into the bus just as the doors shut. I stared out into the road long after it pulled away, my mind on my grandfather and his infamous past. I was so distracted that I missed my bus pulling into the station and had to run and flag them down before they left without me. Panting slightly, I picked a seat in the middle of bus and dropped down next to the window, backpack flopped across my lap. The bus ride home was uneventful and fifteen minutes later I was walking into the kitchen of my grandfather’s house. The narrow two-storey had stood there for almost a hundred years and my grandfather had been there for more than half of them. Even though my mother lived twenty minutes away and visited three times a week, she worried about Grandpa being alone in the house. So, after my acceptance to our local college I had moved in with him. I hadn’t complained - Grandpa’s house was way closer to school and far quieter. Plus, I loved him. As the only male grandchild in the family, Grandpa and I had always shared a special bond. I was as happy to be there as he was to have me. “Grandpa, I’m home!” I called out as I dropped my backpack down on the kitchen table. Grandpa’s steaming mug sat at his favorite spot, completely forgotten and rapidly cooling. I grinned and rolled my eyes, grabbing the drink and heading down to his music room, where I knew he would be. He stood with his back to the door, rifling through an ancient music book. Its pages were yellowed with age and wear, infused with years of loving use. He hummed softly under his breath; the closest he ever came to singing nowadays. He looked up when he heard me knock against the door frame, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Coda! I didn’t hear you come in. How was class?” He beamed at me from across the study and motioned for me to give him his mug. I rolled my eyes again and laughed, handing it over to him. He was always leaving his coffee cup in strange places. I would have worried if it hadn’t been happening for as long as I could remember. Relaxing, I dropped down onto the weathered couch and lost myself in the familiar safety of Grandpa’s house. \~\~\~ A few weeks later I woke up thirsty and too hot, my clothes sticking to me uncomfortably. It was dark out and a quick glance at my phone confirmed it was 1 AM. I needed water desperately - like I’d eaten a whole bag of chips in my sleep. Happy to feel the cool air on my skin, I kicked off the covers and stood up unsteadily, lumbering towards the hall. I opened my bedroom door and turned right, headed down the narrow staircase. The house was dark and still. I had heard Grandpa go to bed when I still studying and knew he wouldn’t be up for hours. It was around the bottom step when I suddenly heard it. A soft, gentle sound with a distinct melody. I stopped in my tracks, thirst forgotten, and focused all my attention on listening. After a moment I realized it was a piano - coming from Grandpa’s music room. In disbelief, I began to walk towards the sound. It was no song I had ever heard before and it was *beautiful.* As I got closer and the song became clearer, I felt a warmness within and my heart was filled with calm. The song made me think of the beach and I felt as relaxed as if I’d sat next to the ocean all day. By the time I got to the doorway, I swore I could feel sand under my feet, a soft breeze on my face. That’s when I saw the impossible - Grandpa, sitting at his piano in the dimly lit room. His eyes were closed and an expression of bittersweet joy painted his face. He swayed in time with the music, his fingers hitting the keys without hesitation despite years of disuse. This close to the music, to its source, my mind was filled with thoughts of a sunset on a tropical beach, the wind warm and the air salty. It felt strangely familiar to me, like a place I had been to with my family when I was twelve. We had visited Mexico for a family reunion and had stood on the beach to watch the sunset together the first night we arrived. The music reminded me of that memory, filling me with love and warmth even as I stared at my grandfather in shock. This wasn’t one of his old songs - this was something new, something I had never heard before. Something *no one* had ever heard before. As the final notes of the song drifted off into the night, I stood rooted to the spot, unable to speak. Grandpa opened his eyes and his gaze found mine. He didn’t seem surprised or embarrassed to see me. He simply watched me with an unreadable expression in his ancient eyes. At length, he sighed and motioned me into the room as he had a thousand times before. “Come in Coda, we need to talk.” My movements felt stiff and jerky as I came to sit on the couch across from the piano, in the same spot I always chose. As I had every time before, I ran my hand over the worn cloth, feeling the softness under my palm. It brought back memories of years past, replaying in my mind as I waited to hear what he would say. Grandpa stared down at the piano keys, his fingers brushing the smooth surface as gently as you’d stroke a beloved pet. His face was etched with sadness, his eyes lost to the past. For a moment I wasn’t sure he would say anything but then he spoke. “Do you remember when you were a kid, how I told you that playing music took something from me?” I nodded, the echo of his voice whispering to me from long ago. He sighed. “Well I meant that literally. Sixty-two years ago, I was a young man with a pregnant wife, no steady job, barely making ends meet. I could play music but while I was good, I had no prospects. I was playing gigs every night I could. I had the soul, the desire, but lacked that crucial last step between “good” and “great”. I wanted to provide for your grandmother and our unborn daughter, your mother, but we could barely afford food as it was, let alone with another mouth to feed. I was desperate and sad, filled with a crushing despair that I was failing the ones I loved most.” Grandpa sighed again, running his hand over what was left of his hair. He took a sip from a tumbler I hadn’t noticed before; crystal filled with amber liquid. Another unusual move - Grandpa didn’t drink anymore. He said it reminded him of bad decisions from long ago. “I was drinking. Trying to numb the panic, the choking desperation, the pressure of failure that accompanied my every waking moment. One night, after a particularly nasty fight with your grandma, I took a walk down by the river and found myself following an old road. It was overgrown and hidden behind shrubbery, almost fully reclaimed by nature. I don’t know how long I walked but suddenly I became aware that it was quiet. Too quiet - the way it gets when a predator passes by. When all of nature holds it breath and waits for the scary thing to go away ... and then I saw him. Leaning against a fence at the crossroads, smoking a cigarette. He was handsome, though its hard to recall his face. In the moment it was clear but the memory has always been ... hazy. His eyes though - those have haunted me since that night. They were a deep red-orange that I knew was inhuman the moment I saw it.” Another pause, another sip of whiskey as Grandpa collected his thoughts. Mine, on the other hand, were scattered beyond collection. What was he saying? The setup was too perfect - a tale as old as time. Was he trying to tell me the legend really was true? When had his mental health taken such a sudden turn? “I know what you’re thinking.” He said, his fingers idly playing notes on the piano. “You think I’m senile now, that I’m confused about the past ... but it’s the truth.” His eyes raised to mine, steady and lucid as I’d ever seen them. “I made a deal with the devil - though I knew it was a mistake even as I made it.” Grandpa’s confession hung in the air as I grasped futilely for something to say. “So... what? The stories are true? You sold your soul for fame?” I laughed weakly, hoping to hear him say something, *anything*, that made sense. To my relief, he shook his head. It was short-lived though, as he corrected me. “Not my soul. Something infinitely more precious and utterly irreplaceable. He said as much when he made me the offer. He promised my soul would remain intact, and that I would live to see myself successful, my wife and daughter cared for, and a son to carry on my name. And in exchange ... something that I would not miss. Something of my choosing, precious and irreplaceable, but infinite in source.” An aura of bitter regret filled the air around him as he recounted the devil’s offer. “I knew it was too good to be true, but I was drunk and desperate and more than half-mad and I ... said yes. The next thing I knew, I was in my own bed. Your grandma woke me up with coffee and a message from the most prestigious club in town, inviting me to play that evening. I accepted of course, though I was filled with fear that I would fail. I didn’t feel any different since the deal had been struck and I had myself convinced it had all been a dream.” Grandpa’s head lifted, his eyes distant as he remembered that night long ago. There was an almost wistful look on his face now, though it was still tinged with the sadness that suffused the room. “But it wasn’t a dream and when I sat down that night to play, I looked out into the crowd and saw a woman with eyes like those of my first love. And in that moment, as I remembered all the heartbreak that gaze had brought me, I felt a song growing in my soul. Though I had never written anything down, never composed the melody, never penned the words, I began to play. And as I did, I felt those memories of that first heartbreak flowing through me, becoming the music in a way I had always strived for but could never reach before. I felt her presence enter the room, brought to life through the keys of the piano, the tenor of my voice. So vibrant, so alive, so *real*. And as those last notes faded away, the memory of her did too. I felt our last moments together slipping away, taking with it the heartbreak that had been so palpable only moments ago. It was only then that I understood the price of the devil’s bargain. I could finally play the way I wanted to - to make people *feel* with my art the way I had always ached to - but at the price of the memory that birthed the music.” Grandpa lifted his whiskey to his lips as an expression of self-loathing crossed his wizened features. “But Lord, the applause was thunderous and the recognition was instant - from that night on, I never struggled to pay the bills again. I turned down more gigs than I’d ever dreamed of. And like a fool, I convinced myself I didn’t need those memories anyway. After all, what was the memory of an old flame in exchange for greatness?” He laughed bitterly, chasing it with another swallow of whiskey. I sat frozen on the couch, wanting to deny his story but already half-convinced. Having heard his music in person, it held a ring of truth that couldn’t be denied. He looked up at me and smiled sadly. “You’ve felt it, you know it’s true. That song I was just playing - it was the family trip to Mexico. That sunset on the first night, you remember. The effect is even stronger when you share the memories too.” I was speechless, unable to make a single sound. But Grandpa either didn’t notice or didn’t care. He went on with his story, as if now that he had begun to tell it, he could not stop. “I had to make some adjustments to my act of course. I never played the same songs twice, I did more recordings and fewer live performances. But the restrictions only added to my appeal, my intrigue. People lapped it up and my “eccentricities” became associated with my “genius” and my fame grew and grew. Just like the devil had said, I was able to provide for your grandmother and mother. But my art was a greedy mistress. My memories were many, but the ones I was willing to lose were a much smaller number. I knew that even careful use couldn’t sustain my music forever. Slowly, I lost all of my past flames, my old loves and heartbreaks. My childhood memories - first kisses and sneaking out to meet girlfriends. Fights and friendships lost, guilt for mistakes long past - all of it went into my music. Drained from me, lost to me; only the emotion of the memory left behind as a song. Over time I got better at using them, at drawing the sentiment out and wringing the memory dry so I could make the most of what I was sacrificing. Even still, by the time your grandma got pregnant with your uncle I had nothing left - only memories I wanted to keep. But there was another life on the way, relying on me, and I couldn’t walk away ... so I started chipping away at those memories too.” He shook his head and I caught the gleam of unshed tears in his eyes. “At first it was small things - doing the shopping with her, our morning coffee, stupid fights over nothing at all. Things that seemed replaceable or better off forgotten anyway. But eventually, more important memories began to creep in. Birthdays, dinners with friends or family members. I’ll keep the really important ones, I thought. After all, you want to remember your first kiss, maybe even your second or third, but do you really need the thirtieth? Do you need the fourteenth date you went on? Or the one dinner you had with your wife’s second cousin? Slowly, I began to forget things - things that your grandma remembered.” He paused to take a sip of his drink, staring down into the liquid pensively. I was quiet, held prisoner by his tale. After a moment he spoke again, his voice rough with emotion. “I was drinking heavily by then. The stress of the curse, my family, my fame - it was all so overwhelming. And when I drank, I wasn’t so careful with my precious memories ... it’s hard to learn from mistakes you don’t remember. In a way, it’s worse. I wonder what memories I may have drained away in my reckless, inebriated state. But I’ll never know - they are forever lost to me.” His sadness was a tangible presence in the air and I felt choked by it, my throat tight with sorrow to see someone I loved in so much pain. “Your grandma, she was worried about me. I had never been able to bring myself to tell her about the deal and I fought her on seeing doctors and resting more. We would argue before performances and I would leave, angry and anxious. Straight to the bar, to drink and play those memories away. A vicious, bitter cycle. And then one morning I was woken up by banging on the front door. I stumbled down still half-drunk, yelling at them to quiet down .... it was the police. They had come to tell me that your grandma had been in an accident. She was stopped in her car and someone hit her from behind, going far too fast. She was thrown free of the driver’s seat, right through the windshield - no seat belts back then. She died on impact. Massive head trauma, they told me. At least it was quick. Just like that, the woman I loved was gone. And I had traded away most of my memories of her.” Grandpa was crying freely now, tears rolling down his face to land on the ivory of the piano, in the amber of his whiskey. “I vowed that day that I would never play again. The price was too high, my memories too precious. Like a miser, I have hoarded them all these years, refusing to use my “gift” and wishing desperately that I had been a smarter man in my youth. But now ... I am ready to play again.” “What changed your mind?” The sound of my own voice, strangled with sadness, seemed too loud in the quiet of the room. After the story he had just told me, I couldn’t shake the terrible feeling that I knew what he would say. Grandpa’s gaze met mine, sadness and love radiating from the watery depths. “I’m dying, Coda. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week or next month, but soon. I am old and I have lived a long, full life. Now it is almost over and I want to share it with people like I did long ago, before I’m too far gone to play anymore.” I tried to protest, to tell him that he had many good years left. He waved me off, clearly in no mood for my objections. “That brings me to the reason for this talk - I want you to help me. I want to record my songs, my memories. Help me distribute them, share them with people. I don’t know how much time I have but I want to make it count.” I swallowed past the lump in my throat. Tears streaked my face as I absorbed my grandfather’s request. “But ... will you forget me? Or Lyric or Mom?” My voice shook, tears salty in my mouth. “No, never!” Grandpa’s voice was sharp and I drew back in surprise. His face softened and he added “I will keep those memories safe. Those are just for me, to carry me to the Lord. But I have a lifetime of experience to share and a gift that has been a curse for far too long.” I was silent as I sat and processed what he was saying, the task he was asking of me. And I knew that I could never refuse. It was his dying wish and after hearing his story, kept secret for all these years, it was clear that he needed it. Wiping my tears away on my sleeve, I nodded to him. “Ok Grandpa, I’ll help you. I would be honoured to.” \~\~\~ The last few months of Jack Forrester’s life were spent in his home with his family. A few nights every week, we would go to his music room and record his songs, each one unique and perfect on the first try. I had tried to convince him to go to a studio but he insisted he would play in his room, in his house - “where the memories lived”. So, we invested in some fairly high-end recording equipment and barely a week after his late-night confession, he was playing once again. I sat with him through it all, experiencing memories that spanned the range of human emotion - the product of a life well-lived. Anger, joy, love, fear, wonder, grief - all of it went into the music and away from the man who had spawned it. It is hard to explain how valuable it was for me to soak up that lifetime of knowledge, to hear and experience his memories. I learned more from those last few months than any education could ever give me. As the memories left him, so too did the vibrancy and vitality his form had once held. What he had said was true - he was dying. But he kept his promise and even at the very end, he held my hand and called me by name. And in his eyes, I saw the same love and familiarity that had always been there. Now, he has been gone for months and at last, I have completed his final wish. All his memories, recorded and uploaded where people will be able to hear them. The emotions of a lifetime, free to experience. That is why I have written this story - to spread the word. *The Secret Tapes of Jack Forrester* are real, and he would want you to listen to them. \~\~\~ This story is my personal property and I do not consent for it to be shared, duplicated or used in any manner without my express permission.


A cat has been born. Its frail cries came from behind the dumpster, only noticeable to those who managed to pierce through the city’s cacophony - so, naturally, no one would ever hear them, for the loud traffic and the small talk of strangers had long become background noise, the sort one’s brain is programmed to ignore as a safety measure to keep one’s sanity intact. People passed by on their way to underpaid office jobs. Street vendors shouted out the price of counterfeit sunglasses. Parents screamed at their disobedient toddlers. Buses honked at cars attempting to cut them off. Businesses went on as usual. This newborn’s whispered pleas didn’t stand a chance, indeed. There wouldn’t be a rescue party. One can only imagine what would happen if someone stumbled upon it. This person would most likely be repulsed by such an ugly creature. Its eyes were still closed. Its short paws could barely reach the ground. Its precarious body was just partially covered by thin fur of uncertain color. Yes, it was ugly. But it was alive - defiantly alive, with no mother around, no blanket to lie on, no notion of warmth, comfort, and nurture. This person might be moved by a sense of pity or compassion, but those feelings would soon turn into something different: admiration. Respect for this poor soul’s struggle to stick around - a pathetic struggle, sure, yet even more heroic for its futility. For this tiny being, the world had been limited to that sidewalk’s rough concrete, to the smell of rotten food and dirty diapers in trash bags, to the menacing sounds of heavy machines and overstressed citizens. Why fight to stay? Why was it so determined to get a shot in life? And, most importantly, how did it know to hope for more? For an act of kindness, for someone to come, for someone to care. This person wouldn’t understand it, but those were the kinds of questions didn’t need an answer to hit deep; they were powerful precisely because they were doomed to remain a mystery. This person would tell all strangers nearby that a cat had been born. A crowd would gather around the dumpster and stare at this ugly form. They, too, would feel repulse, and then pity, and then admiration. They would want others to share the same profound experience. They would stop traffic. Drivers would leave their cars. Commuters, for once, wouldn’t mind being late to work. Tedium, indifference, and rage would become a distant memory, for there was a cat, and it was alive. \* The cat let out its final cry twenty-one minutes before the garbage collectors, who were over an hour behind schedule due to a mechanical problem with their truck, finally got to that dumpster. They were the first to lay eyes on this ugly creature, but it was lifeless now, so all the workers felt was repulse. Maybe some of them could feel a hint of pity on a normal day, if they weren't running late and had a few seconds to spare. But it would be impossible for them - for anyone, really - to reach a state of admiration. The cat couldn't plead anymore. It couldn’t hope for salvation, it couldn't show its instinctive faith in the human spirit. The garbage truck went on its route. Moments later, the police came for the sunglass vendor. A heated discussion followed after the officers decided to confiscate the merchandise. A distracted motorist, entertained by the public commotion, crashed into the bumper of a Minivan. There was shouting, and kids crying, and some more shouting. The noise one grows so accustomed to that nobody can say when a cat has been born.


Space travel seemed so simple after we settled on mars. We thought we had it all figured out after setting a space station in orbit around Jupiter, and started mining asteroids. It all seemed to click. It became common for intersystem travel to become a seemingly daily thing. By no means was it fast; It still took almost a month to get to mars, and close to 4 to reach the Jupiter stations, but we were just happy to have been able to make these technological advances in our lifetime. To be able to explore our system just like our ancestors explored the earth. It may have took us the same amount of time to cross the expanse between planets as it did for European settlers to cross the Atlantic, but that's and amazing feat nonetheless. Not only have we made such a leap technology, but as a society, we are more advanced than ever before. Countries had come together in the name of Earth to conquer the expanse as one group; as Humankind. We may still have our differences on earth, but outside of the atmosphere of Earth, we weren't distracted by race, religion, political views, upbringing, or anything of that nature, because there is none of that in space. Nobody can draw a line in the sand on Mars and claim one side, because no matter how advanced we get, no matter how hospitable we make space, it's a constant battle against the odds. Making divisions in human settlers only leads to the failure of the group, as we experienced the first time we settled mars. It is through our ingenuity and hardiness that we had made it this far as a species. Coming together as a group and thinking our way into the future that we had made it this far. It is through our desire to explore that we had made our decision to attempt to travel outside our home system. Through years of observation, we found our ticket to discovery. We had uncovered a Wormhole of sorts sitting just beyond our solar system, right in front of the Oort Cloud, and just behind Pluto. That was our ticket. We had sent a probe through it before, about 16 months back, 2 months after its discovery, and within a month after it crossed the threshold of the spacial rift, we had received radio transmissions from the probe coming from a nearby system with hospitable planets. We were overjoyed. The chance to settle outside the system, to make a new colony on a planet that we didn't even have a name for. It was a breakthrough. After another successful probe test to ensure that the target planet was hospitable for a colony, we set the wheels in motion to get an expeditionary team of 50 people to begin the setup of what would soon be the greatest jump in human history. After some testing and another probe or two, the spaceship "Small Step" had set off with its pre settlement crew. They had reached the edge of the wormhole, and begun playing the most famous recording in the history of space travel, and the origin of their namesake. They passed through the threshold of the fold on space and it was as if they had been erased from the universe. They just popped out of existence. A month later, the other end of their message was received, and indeed it was a giant leap for mankind. Upon hearing the news from the Small Step, we had learned many things about the planet. Its atmosphere was much like our own, the now dubbed colony planet "Horizon" had a small ring and 4 moons, the system had 13 planets, and most of them were rocky. All of this information had us on the edge of our seats waiting to get a new settlement ship running. And that we did. Over a year after the initial discovery of the Trans-System Wormhole, we were ready to send a ship of 10,000 volunteers into the rift and begin our new lives on Horizon. The Settlement Ship "Giant Leap" made its way through the threshold of the wormhole, just as many spacecraft before it had, and the mission was underway. But something was different this time. Nobody could have predicted it. Nobody even knew it was possible. The wormhole had closed before we could reach the other side. I'm documenting this in case... well... a miracle I guess... We've been in here for 4 Earth months. The Navigator killed herself last week in her bunk room. Used a pocket knife to cut open her forearms. The rest of the bridge crew were understandably effected, but nobody blamed her. We all think about it now. We have no reason not to. I guess its a hope for the rift to open again. Maybe some of us think this is some dream, and we can't seem to wake up... I don't know... The Capitan isn't sure if he wants to wake up the passengers and let them know what's happened, or just shit down life support to the passengers and let them die happy. We are all leaning towards the second option. Humanity wasn't prepared for this. We weren't prepared at all... We weren't ready to face the possibility of a disaster. Nobody was ready... I know I wasn't ready. I especially wasn't ready to look out the bridge windows at my new reality. The pitch black, starless, infinite void of my new reality...


For the longest time, my life was not fun anymore. God knows I tried, and believe me, I did ask Him. In return, He confirmed that I had given life all I could, but still, I lost almost all relevance I once had in this world. For a very long time, I lived in that kind of house that every mortal soul would try to avoid. You know the type, broken windows, squeaking doors, an old tree in front of it with huge sweeping branches. The wind howling through the cracks in the walls as if the yeti himself was living there. Whether it was winter or summer, old leaves would be flying around, a single broken streetlamp decorating the sidewalk. You’d think people would be afraid to enter this kind of ruin, that they’d be scared because they thought I would be waiting for them. Of course, I would be, but you’d better think twice if you believe that will scare anybody off in this day and age. People don’t believe in the likes of me anymore. It was hard at first, that is true, and for a long time, I had forbidden myself to believe it, trying to ignore that cold reality that my time was over, but I have come to accept there is no way around it anymore. I just do not exist in their world. Period. They come, their phones held upright, ready to film whatever I might do without giving me any credit for it. A window that closes because I slam it shut, they film it and think it was the wind. Every creak, every shifting object within this house, they claim as the work of mother nature. An abandoned chair with three legs falling over, they record every damn little detail, but still, it is not me that caused this. It is the missing leg and gravity that did it. It’s NOT! Some weeks ago, a couple of them even got mad because I did not wait long enough for their cameras to focus. ‘What kind of ghost are you?’ they shouted and laughed. ‘How on earth can you expect us to make a perfect TikTok video if you just don’t wait for us to be ready before you do whatever you want.’ For a moment, I was completely startled by their reaction. I froze. I did not know I still could do that. That thought froze me again. It had been a while since I last experienced that state of immobility that prohibited my body from moving. Nowadays, those very feelings make me smile, but back then, I had no urge to put something that used to resemble a smile on whatever remains of that once good-looking face. And I was pretty handsome. Sorry to say it myself, but no one else is around anymore to confirm this. When I finally recovered from my state of paralysis, I had a closer look at the couple that had entered that house. They did not look afraid at all. A GoPro in one hand, the man holding the latest iPhone in the other, the woman holding the most fancy Samsung, equipped with cameras I had never seen before. Multiple lenses pointing at me, it gave me the shivers. They both had that look in their eyes that I have never come to terms with. Not in my former life, not since I have moved to the other side and people come and visit me less often, but still, I’m pretty allergic to that kind of people. You have seen the type. They know everything. Just every single thing. They rule the world. At least, that is what they think they do. Most importantly, they don’t believe in anything they have not invented themselves or for which they have not found any proof in the pool of information they consider to be the truth. And nothing but the truth. I don’t exist; I’m not there. They say. They honestly believe. Whatever happens in this house is the consequence of a natural action. Action and reaction. Newton’s law. Plain physics. That is what they believe. It makes their remark that I had to wait for them to get their cameras out a bit strange, but I have learned that there is no logic in this kind of people anymore, having lost every connection with the real world. They will say whatever fits their reason. No need to be ... well, logic. That makes it very hard for me. Because I’m not to be explained by any law of physics. I’m ... No, later. As I was saying, we were in one of the almost destroyed rooms, where I had done my best to convince them that it was high time to be scared, but to no avail. So, I decided it was time for something new. Next-level shit, as some people like to say. I don’t say that. I never did. Not back then, not now. I don’t believe in swear words. I was brought up to be nice to everyone. That’s how I always lived, but now I have decided that this does not apply anymore to those who came to visit me. So I took a deep breath or something that came the closest to that physical action I used to perform on a somewhat regular basis, and stepped in front of them. I have been quite reluctant to show myself in the form and shape that these days is mine, but they gave me no choice, the anger coursing through me taking hold. You must know, anger has become a rare emotion since this house has become my home, all the more reason why it hurt. I am not supposed to become angry anymore. I have earned my rest and peace. I am not supposed to be bugged so much by those infidels who think they can barge in and ruin my peace of mind. So, I stepped in front of them and did what I had been practicing for a long time but had not shared with any living soul yet. I showed myself. For a moment the man and the woman stood still in the middle of the room. For a very brief period, something that - at least that is how it looked in my mind - came close to being scared was visible on their faces. Their breathing stopped. A sensation I vaguely remember. But then they restarted gasping for air. A good fortune I was never granted, but I have come to terms with that. They beamed with joy and excitement, a sight only further fuelling my anger. ‘This is it! We have found one. Yes, they are real! Told you so!’ he shouted. ‘Film it. Film it!’ What? It? Why do they refer to me as ‘it’? I’m not an it! I’m not that character from Stephen King! That is a whole other level of what is roaming around these places, and I don’t like those types. They are not nice. And when I say not nice, I mean really not nice. Once I saw an it-like type, it gave me shivers. I ran as quickly as I could. It was not exactly running I did, but you know what I mean. But back to the story at hand. So they were thrilled to their ... I don’t know what. They were laughing and clapping their hand with joy. Like little children, only they were old. Not as old as I am, but way past childish behaviour. They kept on going until suddenly they stopped. As if they had agreed to laugh for two minutes and then had to start doing something else. By that time, I regretted so much I had shown myself to them, but I did not think of disappearing again. At least not yet. They stopped laughing, and before I could even say boo, they had pointed all of their devices at me. When I was still roaming around on the floors of this world, the cameras I knew could never make any clear picture of the likes of me. What evolution they have made! I could see myself on the screens when I flew around the place; it scared me. That was not what I wanted to do. My plan completely backfired. I know I said earlier that I used to be quite good-looking, but the image I saw on their tiny screens did not make me happy or impress me with its beauty. That was not the worst of it, however. I’m beyond being vain and feeling the need to worry about my looks, but what did bring quite some discomfort to my mind was that they still were not scared of me. At all. They could not care less that some white, transparent ... thing was floating around above their heads. And I did try to make my way around their stupid heads multiple times, but it had zero effect. They laughed and filmed. I floated around until I could not take it anymore. I was exhausted and hid myself from them. And you know what? They did not even notice! They were doing things on their devices, tapping on the screen, writing, and drawing. I heard them shouting that this was the best TikTok they had ever made. What the ... is TikTok? They laughed this reel would bring them thousands of views and make them famous. I have no idea what a reel is, nor who would be viewing them. I only know by now that many people did get to see me in some form and that this news spread far too fast and wide. As said before, I’m not that vain anymore, but to be honest and without feeling the need to take any or too much credit for this, how could they say this without giving me any recognition for it? They weren’t even interested in me anymore. I just sat there, watching them, looking overly excited as I had never seen any soul in my entire existence. Look, I don’t want to be childish about any of this, but still, that is not the worst. I know it is my fault, I should have known better than to show myself to this kind of people, but now the house I have lived in for ... I think over a hundred years, is not mine anymore. It is constantly swamped with others who want to see me. It is haunted by men and women who want to experience firsthand what it feels like to see a ghost come to life. Once or twice I have been tempted to do it again when some mortals who seemed okay came by and patiently waited. Especially when they genuinely looked scared. Those rare times, I wanted to go out in the open again for a moment. But then I thought to myself: don’t do this. They will film you like the others did, like those two zombies that started all this! Then, it will only get worse. Then, this house will be haunted forever, there will be no place for me anymore; only mortals will occupy every single spot. No. It is over for me. I give up. I have to stop; I want to retire, although I do not know how. I did ask Him one of the last times we met. He just shrugged and smiled. He silently looked at me for a long time, and then, with a voice that was filled with pain, He said: ‘Now you know how I feel.’ I did not understand; I asked Him what He meant. He sighed and pointed over His shoulder to a man sitting in the chair to the right of His throne. ‘Once I showed myself to those people, not in person but through my son, and now those humans keep on haunting me and want to see me again. They will do whatever they can to achieve that. They start bloody wars and kill each other because they believe those actions will bring them closer to me.’ He shook his head; a sad look was showing on His face I had never seen before. ‘You should have known better than to show yourself,’ He continued. ‘Just as I should have known better. If I had stopped after having created this world and had left those humans to do their own thing without that constant urge to please me, everything would have been so much better. I did not understand that at the time, and maybe I have been subject to a little vanity as well when I created those humans in my image, but if I had known back then what I know now, I never would have let them know I existed. They would have been on their own, and I would have been at peace.’ He sighed and looked away. I wanted to ask more, but He clearly did not want to talk anymore. I felt sorry for Him. But then I thought: He really should have known better. After all, He is the creator of this all. If He can make this kind of mistake, why should I feel bad for doing the same but on such a small scale that it just does not matter in the bigger scheme of things? Not even a piece of dust in His story. Suddenly, I felt better. If someone of His character and skills can make the same mistake as me, then I must not be that dumb after all. I felt relieved, but the house I had called home for a very long time was not mine to live in anymore. It hurt, but I left the house and moved to another ruin in another town. It took a little while to get used to, but now I’m pretty happy, and I can tell you, I will never show myself anymore to anyone being so dumb to come in. I don’t regret my stupidity anymore; I’m pretty happy again and live an easy ... well, sort of life. It is good the way it is. I remember the look on His face when I told Him that I had moved on. I felt surprised at the look of regret He showed; even a little jealousy was visible, I thought. ‘If only I could do this as well,’ He said. ‘But I made a promise to those folks.’ He grunted. ‘I would take care of them forever.’ He looked at me with a strange look in his eyes. ‘Forever is such a ... long time.’ He banged his fists against each other, a lightning bolt landed on earth. ‘If only I knew someone who could change that.’


Prompt: Write your story against the backdrop of a storm. Storms a brewin’ My joints really ache today more than the typical soreness I feel in my older age. A lot more than any other day. I think I may have slept like a pretzel twist. Then again, when the weather changes all holy hell breaks out in my body. From my bedroom window I checked the skies. Not a single cloud; the sun was brilliant and hot. To confirm my amateur weather interpretations, I listened to the radio forecast. The weatherman was so confident that for the next seventy-two hours our town would be basking and roasting in ninety-degree heat. I was relieved to hear that second opinion. There is a lot going on today and it would be a disaster if the weather was unkind to me; actually, to all of us. Time was catching up on me. I paid the price for eating a leisurely breakfast, consequently I had to quickly dress. I could not be late for the opening ceremonies. It would be horrid if I missed them since I was the new president of our local Chapter for the Special Olympics. Dozens of special needs kids, teens, and adults from surrounding communities were meeting today for a variety of trial competitions. Winning participants would compete in the state finals in two weeks. The body of officials, participants and spectators took their respective areas. One could feel a tempest of excitement brewing. The athletes paraded onto the field holding their respective local town flags waving and smiling ear to ear. The spectators, although few in number were raucously loud with cheers of support. The warmth of the day complemented the intense enthusiasm. It would soon be time for these athletes to shine after much preparation and training. There would be several sprint and long run races today; teams and individuals would compete in volleyball, softball, tennis, badminton and even cycling. This was my first year as president of the Special Olympics for my Chapter. Previously, I was involved in collegiate prep high school sports and was well aware of the expressions of elation for winning and the disappointment of defeat when losing an event. Winning was paramount to further success in sport, at college and life in general. But I had my doubts about these Olympics. I had little faith that these participants would really grasp the value of the competitive spirit. I had a heavy heart for those participants who would not win today. I was concerned how the losers would take it personally. I was troubled that most of game time would be spent in consoling the losers. The races began. I was flabbergasted to see that after each race the winner was swarmed with congratulations by the other participants. It was more than a simple pat on the back or handshake. There were smiles, deep hugs and serious embraces by the losers. Amazingly, I saw no signs of defeat or disappointment expressed by the losers. They were genuinely happy for each other. Similar emotional responses occurred from the other events whether it was jumping, throwing or any other sport. I was overwhelmed that the athletes thought more about each other’s efforts than just winning the event. I asked myself was this the goal of winning a sport? To celebrate victory no matter who takes the crown? Then, a vile thought occurred to me. I whispered, “might as well give them all participation trophies. Winning then is inconsequential. Why bother with competitive sport?” I was really uncomfortable with these cynical thoughts. Now, I sensed a change in the weather. The humidity in the air became oppressive. I was sweating profusely. Although the skies were still clear blue, I could smell the oncoming rain. A storm was brewing. I knew it would not be long before a deluge of water would fall upon us. I was concerned about lightning strikes and the athletes’ safety. There was a storm brewing but where? I actually began to be fearful that a disastrous situation might happen. My anxious and doubting thoughts made me wonder was there another storm? One that was brewing inside of me? A few lazy clouds hovered above our heads blocking out the hot sun. Unexpectedly, those clouds gave up their moisture falling down upon the athletes. It was a welcomed relief from the intensity of the hot day. All of the competitions stopped momentarily. The participants danced in jubilation with one another. I was so taken back by the simplicity of the moment that my tears blended in with the rain falling upon my cheeks. As quickly as it had started it ended. The athletes stopped dancing. All heads were turned toward the sky as an incredible double rainbow appeared. The field resonated with voices crying out in a delightful and joyous crescendo. In my days in athletic sports, I had never witnessed such a scene. I had to swallow my heart as I filled up with intense emotion. These athletes were amazing. They displayed such a zest for life and a genuine respect for competitiveness. I was sullen about my earlier attitude. But after the rainbows, I felt something different. These disabled athletes displayed a zest for life and camaraderie more so than any high school team I had ever been associated with. Our local Chapter offered a small copper medallion to the winners of each event. Presentations were done on a trilevel platform. First place on the highest tier, with second and third place taking their respective places on the raised platform. No sooner when the medallion winners would accept their prize, they jumped off the platform to gather around all the participants for the event. Each medallion winner would share their medal with the others. They took turns wearing the medallion smiling for pictures and celebrating as though each of them had won the prize. That day of the trials left an indelible mark on my thinking and most importantly on my heart. I left the field with a new perspective on what it means to win. It was given to me from people who knew and respected the value of hard work to compete. It was these special Olympian athletes who never considered themselves disabled. They had and continue to experience huge struggles which began at the beginning of their lives. They were not envious of the winners but celebrated jubilantly in victory whether it was theirs or not. I still can “smell the rain” just before the storm clouds come. I watch for the warning signs. And now I am carefully watching for those storms in my faith that are a brewin’ deep in my heart that may cause me to be judgmental, to be cynical, and skeptical of other people. One day Jesus said to his disciples, “Let us go over to the other side of the lake.” So they got into a boat and set out. As they sailed, he fell asleep. A squall came down on the lake, so that the boat was being swamped, and they were in great danger. The disciples went and woke him, saying, “Master, Master, we’re going to drown!” He got up and rebuked the wind and the raging waters; the storm subsided, and all was calm. “Where is your faith?” he asked his disciples. (Luke 8:22-25, NIV) Author: Pete Gautchier Acknowledgement: Reedsy Prompts


“What Sallinger most demonstrates here is, Caulfield’s fear of adulthood and phoniness, it was this idea of adult phoniness that lead Mark Chapman to shoot John Lennon citing the Catcher In The Rye as his statement...” I wish she’d shut up, I don’t care, I don’t even know who John Lennon is or Mark Chapman or Caulfield or this Sallinger bloke either, nor do I care, it’s twenty to three on a Friday afternoon, it feels like it’s been twenty to three for the last 35 minutes, it’s the last lesson of the day and the sun is shining through the scratched perspex windows casting the strangest of shadows across the desks and all I want to do is jump out of them and run until I can’t run anymore. It’s not that I don’t like school, if anything I quite enjoy it, it’s just the lessons I don’t like. Ben leans over to me and whispers quietly in my ear, well as quietly as any 15 year old boy can whisper to another, “pub tonight, bruv?” what stupid question, it’s not that I really liked the pub if i’m honest it’s probably no better than school, but you just don’t say no when somebody asks you to the pub. “Alright then mate” I reply as if the decision was my own. It was at that moment the bell rang and the entire class stood up in unison and rushed for the door in a mad exodus of hurried conversations, swear words and swinging handbags, pushing out of the doors and into the world. Nobody stops to think about the doors, nobody except me, all the doors in this school tell a story, they’re covered in layers of paint, each one of the many different colours the school has fruitlessly adopted over the years to try and change its image, each layer with its’ scars showing the layer beneath, each scar inflicted by generations of use and vandalism. Reminding us that no amount of paint, no new colours will ever change the school or the pupils. Once me and Ben finally make it out of the school we’re straight onto the estate, from one jungle to another, nothing changes here either, there's the same kids running round on the same bikes, harassing the same motorists, there's an old phone box on the corner, not one of the quint red ones that you see on the tele, but one of the purpley grey ones from the 90s that stinks of piss, with only half the glass left in it, most of which is covered in torn posters for nights out of town from years gone by. Me and Ben head back to his, it’s not even on my way home but I follow him anyway because his sister might be there and everyone knows she’s the prettiest girl in school, probably in the whole of town. We burst into his house, kick our shoes off, say hello to his mum and run upstairs to play playstation and plan our weekly trip down the pub. “We always go to the Rose and Crown” Says Ben, “The only girls in there are from school, why don’t we try the Dragon?” I’m not sure if I admire his confidence or detest his stupidity. Ben is way more confident than me, but a lot more stupid. “It’s the only pub that will serve us” I reply, “We never try and get served anywhere else, besides it’s full of school kids” I think the irony was definitely lost on Ben at this point. “What if we wore suits geez?” Ben said eagerly. “Why don’t we start at the Rose and Crown and then try The Dragon after?” I reply in an attempt to finish the conversation. “Ok” Ben reluctantly agrees. After walking all that way to discover his sister wasn’t in and to lose two games of FIFA on the trot I make my excuses and get up to leave, “Right, now tonights sorted I better get going then. See ya mate” with this I spring up from the edge of his bed where I was sitting, hurtle down the stairs, kick my feet into my shoes and walk out of Ben’s front door slamming it behind me. Don’t ask me why but I started walking home the long way, the very long way, so long in fact that most people would call it the wrong way. I don’t know why I did it but I did. I don’t know why I do a lot of things, for somebody so I clever I don’t know a lot. I did know that I didn’t like Ben his confidence annoys me, besides why should I like him he doesn’t really like me, he just pretends he does, probably to make himself feel better or because it's become a habit of his he can’t seem to change. I carried on walking the wrong way, choosing to walk round the back of the shops and through the alley ways, dusted with broken bottles, fly tipped furniture and tufts of grass that had made their way through the cracked concrete. It wasn’t the most scenic of routes in fact to most people it was probably pretty ugly, but I liked it. The litter might blow away, the damp abbonadend mattresses might come and go but the ugliness had a constant it had always been that way and it always would it was this reliability which gave it its beauty, you can keep your coastal paths and flowers, they all erode away into nothing or dry up and die eventually anyway. As I got towards the edge of the estate and into the woods the decay continued but it was more camouflaged than before, the carcasses of stolen hatchbacks and mopeds abandoned on the side of the track in their deep burnt orange and powdery white colour schemes sat on a plinth of scorched earth and melted plastic, they still smelt of burning even after all this time. Now they played the perfect host to plants looking for fertile ground to grow, reclaiming what was once theirs. It was probably time to turn round and head home in the right direction now, I was getting pretty tired and besides I was supposed to be at the pub in a few hours, before all of that though I decided to sit down and take the weight off my feet I found an ash tree, laying on its side, torn from the ground in last October’s high winds, I clambered up onto the horizontal trunk and sat there, my feet dangling loose in the air, looking at the woods that sat on the edge of my estate. I pulled my school tie loose and slung it into my backpack. While I was sat on that tree I started thinking about all the people I’ve ever known and how now I don’t know hardly know any of them, all my friends from little school, the lads I used to play football with in the street, my mum, my dad. I still see the lads in the street sometimes and most of the kids from little school are still in my classes now and I see my mum everyday and my dad every weekend, well mostly. But I don’t know them anymore, not like I used to and they don’t know me either. It sounds crazy and it probably is. After a little while stuck on the same thought I pull my phone from my pocket, after punching in my passcode I open up my contacts and scroll through them slowly, looking for somebody to ring, I could ring Ben about tonight, but it couldn’t be more than an hour since we saw each other and I remembered that I didn’t like him much anyway. I stop scrolling when I see Emily’s name, we met last year while we were both on holiday at a caravan park, she had the prettiest long dark hair and the biggest brown eyes, which reflected the lights of the arcade around the room a million times like a kaleidoscope powered by 2 penny pieces, I was too scared to speak to her when I first noticed her but our mums got chatting over their love of vodka and Eastenders. I was both pretty embarrassed and secretly pleased when mum suggested we hang out together. We hit it off straight away and although nothing happened, well nothing like the boys at school talk about - we held hands and when it was time to go she kissed me on my cheek - she’s stayed on my mind all this time, I should have tried to kiss her properly you know spontaneously like they do in Eastenders, but I didn’t. I wanted to call her but decided against it, I didn’t want her thinking I was weird, I guess I am weird but I didn’t want her to think that, anyway what would I say? I pressed to lock button on my phone watched the screen go black and slipped it back in my pocket, slipped off the trunk of the tree and started to head back into town. I wish I hadn’t agreed to go to the pub, me and ben just sat in the corner looking at the same faces we looked at all week at school, too scared to talk to the girls, besides all the pretty ones were getting plenty of attention from the older guys. Ben turned up in his suit, he looked about as out of place as I felt. If the pub was empty it would have had some charm I guess it had the same sense of decay as the alleys on the estate the garish wallpaper was peeling away to show more garish wallpaper underneath, the carpets were saturated with years of spilt drinks, tears and blood and were obviously worn into tracks between the front door, the bar and the back door by decades of footsteps. Nobody had been allowed to smoke in here for years but the ceiling was still yellow from the nicotine of years gone by and the smell still lingered in the air, trapped in the curtains and upholstery. Me and Ben were on our fourth pint now, Ben insisted on ordering IPA even though it was horrible because he was convinced it made him look older. After I finished my fourth the pub started to seem a lot better, I still couldn’t muster up anything more than a mumbled “alright” for the girls from school but I was worrying about less and started to think maybe Ben didn’t dislike me as much as I thought. I wondered if I should tell him about Emily but I decided against it, I didn’t think he’d believe me and I didn’t want him to think I was a lier. So we carried on talking about football and school watching what seemed like the entire world go by from the corner of the pub back and forth, back and forth, in the front door, to the bar, to the back door into the smoking shelter, in the front door, to the bar, to the back door into the smoking shelter again and again all night long. I woke up the next morning fully clothed laying on top of my duvet, everytime I moved my head I was in agony, all I could remember from last night was that Ben had that stupid suit on, I bet I’ve upset him last night and can’t remember, he definitely doesn’t like me now I reached for my phone but it wasn’t there, my stomach wrenched knowing that I’d lost it, trying to work out who else I was rude to and upset last night from school, I couldn’t remember a thing but definitely Ben and the girls at the bar, I remember seeing them so I must have said something under the influence.


I was half joking about stashing that PopEyes sandwich by my bed before leaving to go to the company Christmas party. But the truth is I really did leave it there. I'm not sure what Super Drunk TWoN did with it when he got back but still semi-drunk TWoN woke up to a bunch of dirty wrappers stuck to his face. I got up to use the bathroom in the morning feeling disgusted at the pathetic human who had eaten that cold sticky sandwich at 3 in the morning. That was until I made my way back to the bed and notice something... The last piece. The final bite of the sandwich was there sitting in my bed. I must of forgotten it in my intoxication. The perfect shaped last morsel of goodness... Just the right proportion of bread to chicken. You could tell I had been surgical in my drunken state because it was all breast; plump, breaded, bulging. I had purposely ate around the sandwich to leave this perfect piece. Maybe I had even spotted it first and laid out my plan of attack from the second I opened the wrapper. It was in this moment, when I was faced with a perfect last bite laying alone in a dirty cum stained sheet, that I realized something... I'm going to die alone. I could of left the piece. I could have carried on the facade that those moments of disgust are only perpetrated by me at my most drunken vulnerable state. It was a test. Not a test for anyone else, but a test for myself. Would I eat that disgustingly beautiful spicy chicken piece, the one my drunken twin had forgotten and then have to admit to myself that there is no differentiating between the inebriated human who fills his life with gluttony and sin, and the one who judges him for it, or would I leave it and save the last bit of dignity I had in exchange for the last piece of chicken that I saw....? The truth is... I actually thought about it. I honestly looked at it and made the mental calculations of if I should. I weighed the consequences of scooping up that tiny shimmering succulent poultry. I mean no one is watching... I could eat it and pretend like it never happened. But I would know. I would know what I did and I couldn't blame it on the drink, and now that I've acknowledged and weighed the consequences I could never pretend like I didn't know the low depths of patheticness I was willing to stoop to. My reflection lasted about half a second, though it felt like a lifetime, before I lifted up the that perfect piece of chicken.... slapped it back on the waging stale pieces of bread which had found themselves on opposite ends of the bed, and ate it. I had a choice... I could have spared my soul.... I could have been disgusted... I could have not told anyone... but the shame is my penance...


Author's note: This is based on a real life situation. Names have been changed to protect people in the story. As Jade brushed her long dark silky black hair out, her phone buzzed. She put down her hairbrush to pick it up. She stared at the text the came through, shocked and a little unsure. Hi, it’s mom. Call me when you can. I’d love to try to reconnect with you, and I thought we could hang out sometime this weekend and maybe see a movie or do some shopping together. Jade put her phone down and thought about this for awhile. Since she was four, Jade had lived with her Aunt Mimi and Uncle Ashton. Her mom had been around off and on, but Jade had always felt estranged from her real mother due to the fact she had been raised by her aunt and uncle. She appreciated the thought of her mother reaching out to her and wanting to get to know her better, but she wasn’t quite sure she was ready yet to hang out and try to reconnect a relationship with her. She picked her brush back up and started brushing her thick black hair again. Her little “sister” Starla ran into her room. Starla was Mimi and Ashton’s daughter and Jade’s cousin. Starla ran up and gave Jade a big hug. “I love you, Jade,” she said to her big “sister”. Jade looked down at Starla and smiled. She loved her little sister, but she also missed her half-sister and brother on her mom’s side -- Ophelia and James -- a lot. “Starla, is your dad here?” Jade asked. Jade had grown really close to Ashton in the days of her youth. He had taken her into his arms and accepted her as his own daughter. Unfortunately, Mimi and Ashton had decided not to stay together, which saddened Jade. Starla shook her head no. When Jade felt sad, she often went downstairs to visit Grandma Nan. Grandma Nan was always there to listen. “What’s the matter, Jade?” Her grandmother made a cup of tea for her and sat down at the table next to her. “My mom texted me. She wants to spend some time with me.” Grandma’s face brightened. “That’s a good thing, Jade” -- looking at Jade’s downcast face -- “isn’t it?” Jade looked thoughtful, mulling it over for a minute. “Well, I do want to spend time with my half-siblings...” Jade began. “Ophelia loves you a lot.” Grandma Nan smiled at Jade. “So does your mom.” Jade’s mom was her Aunt Mimi’s sister, and Grandma Nan was mother to Mimi and Kathryn both. Jade sipped her tea, thinking again. She set her cup down. “I’m 14. I haven’t really lived with my mom since I was 4. I don’t know how to reconnect with her!” Jade put her head in her hands. Grandma Nan lifted her chin up with a gentle finger. A single tear rolled down Jade’s cheek. “Does that make me a bad person?” Jade asked quietly. “No, absolutely not.” Her grandmother pulled her in close for a hug. “You’re a wonderful person, Jade, and your mother knows this. That’s why she would like to reconnect with you. She does love you -- a lot.” “But sometimes it seems like she loves Ophelia and James better than me. I mean, she gave me up, but still raises those two.” Grandma Nan held Jade close to her. “Jade, your mother loves you very much. She would so like to be a part of your life. She probably misses you, sees you’re growing up so beautifully, and wants to get to know you better.” Jade again mulled over what her grandmother was saying to her. The more she thought about it, the more she knew her grandmother was right, but it still hurt that her mother would give her up and raise two more children. Grandma Nan watched Jade closely. “Jade, your mother does love you very much. She wanted to raise you, but she just wasn’t ready at the time. By the time your half-siblings were born, she was in a more secure place.” “I don’t even know my mom’s husband!” Jade cried out, hot tears spilling down her cheeks. “Jade, honey, it’s okay”-- Jade stood up abruptly. “You know what? You’re right.” Grandma Nan blinked at this rapid change in Jade. Jade sat back down. “Maybe she just didn’t know how to love me, but one question: Why did it take her this long to reach out to me?” Grandma Nan stroked Jade’s hair and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Maybe she just had a hard time figuring out how to fit you back into her life -- a life that is totally different than how it was when you were born, Jade. She’s changed a lot, and so has her life. She's trying to raise your siblings now and still have you as part of her life. It’s hard. She doesn’t know where to start with the reconnection. So much has changed since you were born, Jade. I know one thing for sure, though -- she does love you and always has.” Jade smiled through her tears, hugged her grandma, and replied back, “I’m going to go call her now. I would love a shopping date and to see a movie -- with my mom. My real mom.” Grandma Nan beamed at her granddaughter. “Go bond with her. You need it.” Kathryn’s ringtone went off. She picked up her phone. Jade flashed across the caller ID screen. She smiled. “Hello?” she answered as she lifted her cell to her ear. “Mom, I want to hang out with you and get to know you better.” Kathryn was so happy, tears of joy streamed down her face. “Oh, Jade! I’m so happy you called!” she gushed. “What would you like to do?” “Well, there is there are these really cool jeans at the mall I really like, and I would love to see The Croods: A New Age with you, Mom.” Kathryn felt a huge grin working the corners of her mouth. She loved to hear her first-born daughter calling her “mom”. It felt great. This was the beginning of a newfound relationship she hoped would last forever. Jade felt a warm glow after hanging up. She was going to see her mom, her real mom for the first time in a long time. She was excited.


Community service sucks. Community service sucks even more when you're sixteen and this was supposed to be your spring break. Community service sucks, even more, when you're assigned to slaving away in some random old woman's garden all day while your friends get to do things like chill out on the beach and stay up all night. But the part that sucks the most? Knowing I'm only having to do it because of my own mother, to begin with. Apparently, I smoke too much for her to handle anymore (which I think is a little bit dramatic, but whatever). I'm not sure how rebuilding an old widow's garden for the majority of my spring break is going to fix what I don't even consider a problem, but it's not like I really got to say much in the final decision-making process. It turns out, that when you're under suspicion of being a so-called 'addict', nobody really cares what defenses you have to give. When you're a low-life, you're going to be treated like one. Even though you're not actually one; people in Crestview just don't get it. And thanks to that, now I don't get to enjoy my spring break. Well, that's what my mom and probation officer want, anyway. Of course, I'm still going to spend my break the way I want to, I'm just kind of limited to hours after 7 p.m. now; that's why tonight my plans start at 7:01 and don't stop until I say they do. Screw whatever chance of a curfew my mom thought she had left. "Jay! You gotta go!", Mom's voice cuts through the house like a shrill and I roll my eyes. "Yeah.", I yell back down. Today's the day my service starts and I couldn't be more ready for something to be over. I slipped on my "VOLUNTEER" vest and give myself one last look in the mirror and think to myself "t his orange is so vibrant I might be able to be convinced that I'm high right now". As soon as my feet hit the hallway carpet outside of my bedroom, I immediately felt Mom's gaze on me from the bottom of the stairs. I turn to her and notice a couple tears welling up in her eyes. Apart from me wanting to feel bad because I know that she really is just worried about me, I can't. Instead, all I feel is an annoyance. I mean, come on . It really isn't this serious for me to smoke a little weed. "Mom. Chill out.", I say as I brush past her in the stairway. She takes a deep sigh and I immediately regret what I said. Not because it's untrue-- she does need to chill out-- but because I don't want to deal with the conversation I'm about to cause. I know I'm in for it. "I'm so sorry that I never wanted to send my child to be rehabilitated.", she finally says. She's kidding, right? "Rehabilitated?!", I yell in genuine disbelief. "Mom, I'm going down the street to help Ms. Glen plant her garden, not to a fuckin' rehab center. And yes you did want to! You're the reason why I'm even going anyway!" My heartbeat was so heavy that I'm sure even she could hear it from the outside. Mom puts her hands up in surrender and takes another of her characterizing deep sighs. " You are the reason why you are going. When my only two options as a mother are to either bail you out and sign in court that you'll do some community service or let you stay caught on a simple possession charge, I really think I did you a favor in what I chose. I am so sorry you have to sacrifice some of your time now to save yourself in the long run. There's a difference between doing what I want and doing what's necessary, Jay. One day, I really hope you realize that." With that, she was back in the kitchen cleaning and I was out on the front lawn estimating that the walk to Ms. Glen's would take me about four minutes from my porch to hers. It's the second house to the last on the left side of the street, and all stark white besides the red shutters. Her nephew still power-washed the exterior for her and knowing that made me wonder why he couldn't have just been the one to come rebuild this garden for her. I'm pretty sure the only reason Mom even chose me to do it for my supposed 'rehabilitation' was that she expected me to enjoy giving back so much that I would start volunteering on my own and bringing her fruits and vegetables once they grew or get inspired and start my own at home or something. She loved putting unrealistic standards like that on me and saying it was just her 'seeing all of my potentials'. Up until her husband had died almost eight months ago, the Glens' garden had been the pride of the south end of our cul-de-sac. Every summer the vegetables would grow in surplus and we'd all take trips down to their house for watermelons, carrots, tomatoes, you name it. This summer was going to be the first without Mr. Glen's green thumb to get us through the heat, but luckily my mom got way too involved in my life just in time to force me into being the one to take his place. I just hope Ms. Glen's not too much of the talkative type now that she doesn't have anyone else to riff off of. I just wanna get what I have to do done and go catch up on the fun I should have all day, every day of the next two weeks to have. I mean, really how fair is it that the same people I "smoke too much" with are still all together at Nathan's right now doing exactly that, but I'm stuck here walking up an old woman's front porch steps to clock in for the day. I'm greeted with a "Well, hey honey." when I walk through the banisters and when I look to where it came from I see Ms. Glen sitting in a rocking chair in the right corner of the porch. "Uh... hey.", I stumble. "I'm supposed to be here to help you start this season's garden?" She gives me a squint and I took that as my chance to wish she would've said she had no idea what I was talking about. She didn't, though. Instead, she pried on me over what I'd done to "wind up" in my "position". I might not be able to feel guilty about my mom's overreacting, but what I do feel guilty about is having to tell a seventy-three-year-old woman whose husband just died from lung cancer that I'm only here to help her with her garden because my neighbor caught me smoking and couldn't keep his mouth shut. Seriously, who calls the cops on a kid for doing something literally every kid does? That was literally all the justification Mom needed to criminalize it, and she wasted no time in doing it. Speaking of wasting no time, that's exactly what Ms. Glen did when she put me out the back door with an illegible but long list of things to get done. When Mom said "help Ms. Glen", I didn't know she meant to do everything for her. I understand she's old and whatever, but she isn't dead--because if she were, I'd be at Nathan's. The only words I could make out from her elderly chicken scratch were 'tomato cages', 'fertilizer', and 'squash', so those were the only things I was even going to bother getting done. If I could drag things out long enough, I'd be able to finish maybe one of those three by tomorrow. Realistically, for every eight hours of work I was supposed to be doing for the next ten days, I was only going to do about an hour. That should have been plenty for Ms. Glen to be thankful for, and as long as the eighty hours technically were accounted for Mom couldn't even argue anything over it. Besides, it's not like I was actually being supervised. Ms. Glen could barely walk, let alone have the energy to even stand and watch me from her window all day. I began to think that maybe this wouldn't be so bad if I could actually get away with sitting around outside all day and just pretending to work. Unfortunately, my deep thinking was interrupted by a familiar voice coming over the Glen house's fence. "Jay? What you doin' down here?", was what it said and I knew exactly who I'd be met with once I turned around-- Carter Venice, aka the worst person to have possibly seen me here. Still, I turned around. Carter and I were friends, it's just that you can imagine how annoying having to explain the situation to him was. "Damn, so you not gonna be over at Nate's any this week then?", Carter asked me and I rolled my eyes hard. "Not 'til after 7. But by then I'm sure everyone will have moved on to something else for the night, ya know.", was my reply. Carter did know because he was a part of the 'everyone' who couldn't sit still for too long and constantly needed the next thrill. That's how I wanted to be spending my whole spring break too but now I couldn't even take a trip overnight since I had to be at Ms. Glen's by noon every day. As we were wrapping the conversation up, I noticed Carter's eyes start to wander to the far right corner of the fenced-in backyard behind me. "Bro, what are you looking at", I finally asked him and he just pointed and asked me a question back. "What is that over there?". I followed his finger's direction until my eyes met with a flourishing green plant tucked over into the side of the yard, but I didn't have an answer for him. "I don't know? I haven't done anything yet and I have no idea what she wrote on the to-do list she gave me. Why?" "Dude, no. Look at the leaves." I readjusted my eyes and looked again. Holy shit. My silence must have given my reaction away because Carter was the next to speak again. "There's no way that's what I think it is, right?", was what he said, and I didn't even know how to respond. "I don't think so? It's gotta be something else." There was just no way Ms. Glen was growing marijuana in her backyard. "Well go dig it up and let me take it home and find out." I turned around to face him again. "What?", I laughed, but he didn't. "Oh. You're serious?" "Why wouldn't I be serious?" "Bro, why would you? You actually want me to go pull that whole plant up for you right now?" "Nah, bro. I want you to go pull that whole plant up for us. Us and Nathan and everyone else bro. Come on. You're already the bummer of spring break, you might as well bring some good with you when you can finally show up. Ya know." I hated how easily he convinced me, but he was right. I was going to be the one missing out on what everyone else was doing, so I might as well make the best of it and get something good out of this. Stealing an old woman's weed plant would definitely make everyone forget I ever had this stupid restriction anyway. The next thing I knew, I was behind a shovel hacking away at roots and ripping the soil from under the plant. The leaves were pointy and spread out, and the whole thing was practically growing green. If this wasn't weed, it sure was a good imposter. I grabbed a spare terracotta pot from inside the shed and placed the plant inside before delicately handing it over the fence to Carter. "Take care of it. I'm serious. That's about to get us through high school." I joked as he walked away. For the next seven hours, all I could think about was whether or not Carter had told anybody or done anything with it yet. Finally, my eight hours of bullshitting were officially allowed to be over and I could go hang out with everyone, but when I walked through the back door my hastiness to leave was halted by Ms. Glen who was standing at her kitchen island with her walker waiting for me. "Did you get a lot finished for me?", she asked. "Oh yeah. Tons.", I lied and turned to finish exiting her home. "Did you see the Japanese maple I wrote down about?" The what? Oh. That must have been what 'Vopamese naple' on the list meant. "I did.", I lied again. "Doesn't it look nice over in that shaded corner? Bill planted that years ago for me, and now that he's gone it's my favorite. That's why I put it first on your list. I want extra good care taken of that one." I froze. The shaded corner? That's where... * * * "Carter?", my voice floats through the phone. "Google green Japanese maple and then meet me at Starkey's flower shop."


Change is inevitable “What is it about parties that intrigue and excite people? And why are those people considered boring who do not attend parties?” Deepa, debating with her office colleagues during lunch hours. Deepa held an esteemed position in a bank in Bangalore and admired and respected by her colleagues for her cordial attitude and kind personality. An introvert who preferred her own space and privacy and looked for excuses to stay at home whenever any friend called her for an outing. She liked her own company. She watched movies alone, even eating out all alone, and was a solo traveler too. The office staff was planning a farewell celebration for Nitish, who had got transferred to Jaipur from Bangalore and was leaving this weekend. Nitish and Deepa have worked together for 2 years and had turned into good friends. Their personality was just contrary to each other, yet they always backed each other on the personal and professional front. Deepa was extremely sentimental when she heard about his transfer, but tried not to reveal it on her face. Nitish asked her, “Hey Deepa, you seem thrilled on hearing the news about my transfer. Are you so fed up with my antics?” Deepa, confused, thought about how and what to respond to. She hesitated and replied, “No, my friend, nothing like that. But I am happy for you as you always wished this and this is an opportunity for you to grow.” Nitish seemed annoyed with her reply. And he just left her cabin saying nothing. During lunch hours that day, Nitish did not accompany her for lunch. Deepa thought maybe he requires some privacy, so she too did not call him. The staff discussing with each other “Hey Deepa, why don’t we organize an adieu for Nitish this Friday. Suggest some good joints where we all can spend time with each other and also have wonderful food.” Deepa was silent, and everyone looked stunned. Archana, her colleague, and friend, exclaimed, “Why are you quiet? I realize you are unhappy that Nitish is leaving us but we should send him off with pleasant remembrances, isn’t it? And since you are one of his good friends, you recommend what should be gifted and which place he would like?” “You guys choose. See, I am not into parties and all, so I cannot suggest anything. I mean, the last party I attended was in school.” Deepa, in an unsettled tone, left without finishing her lunch and went back to work. The next morning, both Deepa and Nitish just wished each other and went to their respective cabins. None of them uttered a word to each other. She was constantly thinking about what to tell him and how to console him, as she was not good at communicating emotions. She could not concentrate on her work. They did not have lunch together that day. Deepa called Archana to her cabin and asked, “Tomorrow is Friday. You were saying something regarding the farewell party, na. Anything decided?” Archana said “No Deepa. If you also suggest it would be much better” Deepa then offered the option of a good rooftop cafe which was Nitish's favorite. “What about the present?” Archana exclaimed. “That I will take care”. Deepa said. Archana, grinning “Oh, so someone is completely eager to attend a party, it seems” “No no. Not at all. You know I hate parties. Anyway, I am not attending,” Deepa, still in a confused state of mind. Archana, shocked, “What are you saying! He will be really disappointed if you don’t attend. And it is his last day in the office tomorrow.” Deepa kept quiet. Then she prepared a list of the cuisine to be served at the party and asked Archana to call the cafe and make the arrangements. “Please ensure that Nitish is not informed of all this. Let it be a surprise for him.” That evening, after office, Deepa drove down to the cafe, which was fairly far from her residence, and had a discussion with the manager regarding how the place is to be done up and which flowers, etc to be used. She had taken utmost care that everything should be as per Nitish's liking. Then she ordered a beautiful big heart-shaped cake and asked the shop to deliver to the cafe at 8 pm the next day. She was just concerned about the gift, as she didn’t even have an entire day to get that designed. It was Friday. Nitish's last day in office. Both Deepa and Nitish were avoiding each other for the past 2 days. Nitish looked sad, and he came to Deepa's cabin to wish her. She wasn't there. He loudly asked the staff, “Where is your Madam Deepa?” “We don't know, sir. She has informed nothing,” they exclaimed. Nitish wanted to call her and shout at her furiously for her behavior. In his mind, “Today is my last day in the office and she has disappeared without even uttering a word? Now I won’t speak to her ever.” He decided not to call her. Archana saw Nitish was really upset. She went to his cabin and tried to console him, but he was not in a mood to listen to anything. Meanwhile, Deepa had taken an off just to arrange the best gift for her best friend so that this day becomes memorable for him. She called Archana and before she could say anything Archana interrupted, “Where are you? Don't you today is his last day in office and he is really upset. Are you coming to the party or not? And what about his gift?” Deepa asked her to calm down “Archana, I am on leave. I had some personal work and I am feeling sick too. I won’t be able to attend the party. Please ensure that all arrangements are made in the cafe. And yes, I have ordered the cake and gift. This is the cake shop number. Please call them and confirm. The gift part will be taken care of before Nitish arrives.” Archana, totally astonished, “Why you are doing all this when you can’t even attend one party for your friend's sake. Do you have to be so adamant every time? And there are only known faces at the party, so you won’t feel out of place, I promise you.” Archana tried to persuade her somehow but Deepa had decided not to attend the party as she was feeling sad and distressed at the same time in attending a party after so long. It was evening and as the party time was nearing, Deepa was getting calls from all her office staff, but she did not pick any calls. She knew that her behavior was strange. All kinds of concerns were making her anxious- Will Nitish call me? Will he ever talk to me again? Will I lose one more good friend? She also tried to console herself at the same time. “No, nothing can affect our friendship. Even if I don’t attend his party, he will understand as he knows I detest going to functions and parties.” It was 8 pm and one by one, all the attendees were arriving. “Who is informing Nitish?” one colleague asked. Then they were gossiping “Deepa is there na, she will take care.” To everybody's shock, Archana told them that Deepa is not attending the party, and she suddenly realized that Deepa had told her to arrange a cab to pick Nitish. She had totally forgotten about it. When she was about to call the cab, she saw a message from Deepa which read, “I have arranged the cab. Don't worry.” Archana thanked her and again requested to come to the party. Meanwhile, Nitish was packing his things, unaware of the party. Suddenly, the doorbell rang, and he saw Deepa standing at the door with a big and beautiful bouquet and a sorry message card. Nitish got really emotional and couldn’t contain his tears. He just hugged Deepa and cried a lot. Deepa consoling him “Nitish, stop sobbing. It does not suit you. First, get dressed and please wear something nice. We have to go somewhere.” “Where?” He asked. “Don't ask any more questions, We don’t have time. Just come along with me. I am waiting outside in the car.” Till they approached the cafe, Nitish kept asking her that what is all this about but she kept absolutely quiet. He mentioned “Hey this is my favorite cafe. Why have we halted here?” Come with me. Deepa, holding his hand, took him to the rooftop where everybody was looking forward to the party to start. “Hey, guys. See who’s here.” Deepa, totally enthusiastic. Nitish couldn’t believe his eyes. Such beautiful decorations all around and a huge poster with his name and photo saying “We will miss you.” “Thank you all.” He said. Archana came running to Deepa and stated, “You are such a devil. And all this time you were constructing a drama saying you don’t like parties, etc.” “Archana, I had decided actually not to come to the party. You know how antisocial I am. But when I thought about all the memories we have shared, a thought crossed my mind- that I will repent this moment forever if I cannot be with my best friend on the last day.” Archana was in tears. All of them enjoyed their food and drinks and had a good time together. “Ok people. All of you please leave your food and drinks aside and join me to present a beautiful gift for Mr. Nitish, who will leave us in a few hours’ time but will not be leaving our hearts.” Deepa presented the gift which she had specially made for Nitish. She herself had prepared a beautiful photo frame hand-painted and with a collage of all the photos comprising lovely times in office with all the colleagues- happy, sad and all emotions just flashed as they relived the moments. Nitish. spellbound, “I am not in a situation to say anything. This is one of the best days of my life and I will never forget all of you, ever. Deepa, this is so thoughtful of you. You have made my stay worthwhile.” It overjoyed Deepa to see Nitish's reaction and was fully emotional. “See, because of you, an anti-social element like me attended a party after so many years. You always used to tease me, isn’t it? Frankly, I really don't know whether I will attend more parties but anything for my best friend and colleague. I hope you get what you deserve and we will always be there for you.” The party ended with everyone posing for selfies and smiling and hugging each other. Deepa was dropping Nitish back home, and she said “I am really sorry for my behavior for the past few days. I was just totally confused about my feelings and just did not know how to tell you I will miss you a lot. You have given me so much happiness in such a brief span of time.” Both of them hugged each other and bid goodbye. Deepa, on the way back home, thought “Attending parties is not that bad like I had believed all these years.” She kept looking at all the photos repeatedly and dozed off weeping and thinking about how the next morning will be without Nitish in the office.