“You never told me what you did before the draft,” Johnny said. The light from the flames danced over his face. “What does it matter, whoever that was I ain’t no more”. Charlie replied, biting off a piece of jerky, and stared into the fire. His eyes were distant. Johnny leaned back on his hands, crossed his legs, and looked up at the starry sky. Around them the Nevada desert engulfed them, dry, desolate yet inviting strangely. It attracted the dreamer, the lost, and the searching to its vast expanse. “Come, cross me and fortune awaits on the other side.” It called. They had gone off the Bloody Canyon Road, east of Star Peak of the Humboldt Range on a dirt road into the Coyote Canyon and stowed away their choppers, both riding Triumphs with gooseneck frames, narrow ape bars, and characteristic long forks. “I was about to become a teacher,” Johnny said. “I don’t know why really, it seemed reasonable, I guess. My parents were, or well they still are but my mother has retired now. 30 years she taught, imagine that; 30 years.” “Mmh” was the only reply that Charlie could muster. Lost in his own thoughts, his left-hand index finger running along the steel of his recently “gifted” Benelli B76 9mm. A unique piece that was newly produced that same year in 1976. His right-hand thumb fingered a 1% patch on the left side breast pocket. In his mind, there was a darkness blacker than space. “Come now, Charlie, who were you?” Charlie glanced at Johnny; the flames mirrored in his eyes. “A guy who died in that jungle. Just fucking died.” “Jesus man, you need to move on.” “We killed Johnny, and we died too, Jesus? He saw our souls and thought those ain’t lookin’ right and threw us in hell.” Johnny said nothing. A thick silence fell upon them, a thick angst that stole both hope and joy. “And they all died too, Big Ear, Bugs, Charlie Brown, Lazy, Grumpy, hell Johnny, even Junior Kid blew up two weeks in fucking rice field. Jesus, man, he was fixin’ them congress kids to join him in heaven and shoving us into ten years in hell.” Charlie’s eyes were wide, black with a mix of stern despair. “I’m a ghost Smiley, just a fuckin’ ghost.” Jonny sighed. “Smiley, yeah.. yeah, you are in a dark place Charlie, you should do like me. Just leave Vulture behind in that jungle as I did with Smiley, time to move on, and see life instead of death.” Charlie stared at him as if he was unable to comprehend the words that Johnny spoke. An alien language with words and meanings that were lost to him or forgotten. Words that had drowned in a knee-deep pool of blood in a wet jungle. “Anyway, I am down to my last twenty, what about you?” The question threw Charlie off his dark mental stride. “Uh, yeah, me too.” Johnny sighed as if he had an answer he didn’t want, got up, opened a saddle bag on his chopper, and pulled out a map. He sat down by the fire again and studied it for a few minutes. “There’s a small town, probably about an hour away, Lovelock, a liquor store or two there I bet.” Charlie took another bite of jerky. “And a casino I think.” “You want to hit up a casino? Man, you are in a dark place. You would do good with a bit of Jesus in your life.” Charlie shrugged. “Why not? In ‘n out, fast, grab all’s we can n’ ride off. I bet it got more cash for grabbin’ than a liquor store.” He took a firm grip of his gun. The rest of the evening was spent in silence and anticipation. Johnny, whilst still questioning the idea felt an ethical, almost duty-like responsibility to support Charlie. He looked at the man, Charlie’s face was untidy, rugged, and beardy. Someone should pick his eyebrows even. They both had endorsed the now classic biker outlaw look, jeans, t-shirts, wrong leather vests with patches, red and white bandanas and black leather motorcycle boots. They didn’t look mean but they sure as hell looked like they were up to no good. The following morning, they set off and the sun beat down mercilessly on the barren expanse as they first made their way north along the mountain range, turned west, and then down south along Route 80. In the distance, a patrol car emerged through the asphalt mirage and as they passed made a U-turn and wailed its siren for them to stop. Charlie and Johnny pulled over to the side of the highway and exchanged wary glances. The officer stepped out clad in a crisp uniform, he adjusted his hat and approached with a cautious gait, his hand resting near his holster. “Afternoon.. gentlemen,” the officer began. “Mind telling me what you’re doing out here?” His eyes darted between the two bikers. “Just passin’ through, Officer.” The officer’s gaze narrowed, “Texas boy huh?.. Passing through to where? This isn’t exactly a tourist route.” Charlie locked his eyes and pierced through the police officer aviators. A gust of wind swept over them. The officer slowly chewed on his gum. Johnny finally broke the silence, “Is there a problem officer?” The patrolman’s hand tightened on his belt. “Not yet,” he replied slowly, “but I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Stay out of trouble.” The weight of his words settled in the still air. The three men remained motionless exchanging a tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The vastness of the desert around them amplified the quiet standoff. “Aint’ no problem from us officer” Charlie replied. The officer gave a curt nod and turned back to his patrol car. The bikers remained still. Their eyes followed him until the patrol car pulled away, made another U-turn, and continued in its previous path. "Let's go," Charlie muttered. The engines of the choppers roared back to life, shattering the stillness as they tore back onto the highway. The officer's suspicion trailed behind them like a shadow, but their focus was ahead--toward the neon lights of the casino and the high stakes that awaited them. They rolled into Lovelock, the deep thundering noise of their engines and rugged faces turned the heads of law-abiding citizens. The casino was easy enough to find and they parked their choppers at the Royal Inn across the street and sat down in its outdoor seating area. Betty Sue, a petite brunette with bright, hopeful eyes and a warm smile, approached their table. Her hair, tied in a loose ponytail, bounced lightly with each step. “Hello gentlemen,” she said, her voice sweet and clear. “Name’s Betty Sue. What can I get you? Maybe something to eat?” She lingered by Johnny, her gaze lingering a bit too long. Johnny looked up, forcing a smile. "I don't know, Betty Sue. What do you recommend?" She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, leaning in just a bit closer. "Well, that depends. Are you looking for something strong and quick, or something that lasts a bit longer?" Johnny chuckled. "What would you suggest for a man just passing through?" Betty Sue’s smile widened, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Maybe something that lasts a bit longer?" “Alright then Betty Sue, how about you give us something that lasts a bit longer?” She winked and smiled. Her smile was warm and inviting, “Two beers and keep them coming? Two plates of bacon, eggs, and two pieces of steak?” Johnny’s gaze softened, “My kind of girl Betty Sue, you sure are my kind of girl.” Betty Sue giggled, drawn by their roughness. They came from somewhere and were probably going far away to a thrilling adventure. From behind her, the disapproving figure of her father appeared. “Betty Sue, leave these men alone. They’re not your type, they’re not anyone’s type,” he grumbled, his eyes narrowing at Johnny. Betty Sue rolled her eyes and retreated, throwing Johnny a wink as she left. Charlie raised his eyebrows. “Eyes on the prize Johnny, no distractions.” Johnny smiled innocently. They drank, ate, and observed the comings and goings of the patrons of the casino. Betty Sue had clearly been instructed to keep her distance from the two bikers and they were only served by her recalcitrant father. But in the background, she threw secret glances and winks at Johnny threw his winks and glances back, antagonizing Charlie's demand for restraint for lust and sinning in the process. They waited for a moment, that moment. That life-defining moment when a man chose a path that he can’t turn back on. When he either walks the path of the righteous or forever leaves that good man behind and becomes a true outcast of society. As the sun began to set over the horizon, a pause of movement at the casino emerged after more patrons had left the casino than had entered. “Now” Charlie stated. They finished their beers and got up and were about to exit the bar at the Royal Inn, and just as they were about to pull up their bandanas over their faces Charlie bumped into a man that was busy orchestrating the exit of his chattering wife and three children. The man looked up at Charlie who looked back. Charlie’s eyes were black as a wild death. The man’s eyes scanned Charlie's face, his eyes pondering as if he had seen Charlie before. “Hey, aren’t you Charles Cortlandt?” Charlie was clearly thrown off guard, he staggered back two steps and shook his head. “I don’t.. no I don’t know who you are talking about.” The man began to smile raised his hand up to the height of his chest and pointed at Charlie. “No no, sure you are! Charles Cortlandt! I saw you dancing on TV, oh man, that must have been what, ten, fifteen years ago?” Johnny looked perplexed, stunned. He looked at the man, and then Charlie, and then the man. Clearly, this man was not mistaken given the level of excitement. “The Vulture.. danced?” The man looked at Johnny, “Oh yeah, he did. The best twister there was, he won competitions you know. Twisted like no one else, magic it was. Charles Cortlandt, “The Twister” he was called. Yeah yeah, I know you, The Twister! What happened to you? Did you dance more?” Charlie's eyes fluctuated and stirred. “I.. dude you must be thinking of someone else” “I’m Bobby Robertsson” he pressed and shook Charlie's hand before he could withdraw it and Johnny too. “And this is my wife Brenda and those three wildlings are Bobby JR, Linda, and Paris, Brenda's mother always wanted to go to Paris but she was ill so we named her Paris..” Bobby Robertsson continued for a minute or two, elaborating on his family before he suddenly stopped mid-sentence. “Hey, you know what?” “No what?” Johnny replied. “There’s actually a Twister competition at the casino, like right now!” Bobby looked at his watch. “Five thousand for first place, me and the missus are going. Kids these days don’t appreciate the power of a good twist so this might be the last twist competition ever. You should come, Charles, I bet you’d win! Anyway, best we get going. Need to get these little monsters into bed, I hope I’ll see you later Charles Cortlandt!” Bobby scrambled together his family to the best of his ability, Paris, the youngest waved goodbye “See you later! See you later Charles!” “Imagine that honey, The Twister! Just out here!” was the last word they heard from them. Jonny smiled. Charles looked at him with defiance. “Look man, I don’t..” Johnny interrupted him simply with a shake of his head. “Charles Cortlandt, ‘The Twister’, the greatest twister there was.” He burst out laughing, smacked his leg,s and looked back up with the largest grin on his face from Nevada to Kansas. “Well look at that, the infamous ‘Vulture’ is ‘The Twister’, how good were you, really?” Charlie shifted his weight from one leg to the other, not sure of which path to go down, and which character he would play at this moment. Who was he? Really? A ghost from the jungle or a memory of an artistic expression. “I made a couple of dollars.” He replied. “Made a couple of dollars? From Bobby, it sounded like you made more than a couple of dollars.” Charlie had no words, somewhere inside a boy’s light voice echoed through the darkness. A whisper of innocence and silent words of sadness floated into his mind. He felt a wave of guilt and remorse fill him. But most of all, an overwhelming feeling of unfairness. That boy had been forced into war, forced to kill, and forced to walk through knee-deep puddles of blood, and where that boy drowned only for The Vulture to be born. His eyes became red and teary. “Charlie, my friend,” Johnny said. “You can win five thousand dollars from twisting, or a few hundred from violence and robbery. Two different paths brother. Chose the right one.” The air inside the remote casino crackled with anticipation as the Twist competition reached its peak. The room was filled with tidy, upstanding citizens, their polished shoes and crisp attire were a stark contrast to the rugged figure who strode onto the dance floor. Dressed in his worn leather, uncut beard, dirty biker boots, and his ravaged face, Charlie stood out like filth on a crisp white wall. Whispers and raised eyebrows followed his every step, but his eyes were fixed on the center of the room. He knew this moment was more than just a dance--it was a chance to choose the path of reclamation and find that stolen boy again. As the first notes of Let’s Twist Again filled the air, his body came alive with a fluidity that seemed impossible for someone so hardened by life. Come on let's twist again like we did last summer Yeah, let's twist again like we did last year Do you remember when things were really hummin'? Yeah, let's twist again, twistin' time is here And he danced. His movements were a mesmerizing blend of precision and passion, each step with a grace that belied his rugged appearance. The crowd, watched in silent awe as he spun and twisted with an energy that transcended the boundaries of time and space. He moved as if the dance floor were his domain, a place where the past's shadows held no sway over the lost and now-found boy. With every twist of his hips and swing of his arms, Charlie painted a story of resilience and rebirth. He looked up at the disco ball's reflective colorful lights-covered ceiling and broke out in tears that ran down his cheeks and flooded his beard. His feet tapped out a rhythm that echoed the heartbeat of a man rediscovering his lost joy. The judgmental gazes, now held their breath, captivated by the sheer artistry unfolding before them. There was no need for applause or cheers; just a collective recognition of the extraordinary that unfolded among them. As the final notes lingered in the air, he came to a breathless halt, standing tall amidst the quiet reverence of the onlookers. At that moment, he was no longer the biker and the soldier haunted by memories of war. He was the dancer, The Twister. A boy with a dream that dared to dream. The boy that had captivated Bobby all those years ago. He was a man who had found a way to weave beauty and grace from the threads of his past. The competition was won, not through the points of the judges, but through the transformation of a phoenix rising from the ashes of a haunted ghost. Epilogue. Charles Cortlandt left Charlie behind on the dancefloor of the C Punch Inn & Casino. He won that competition and went on to become one of the greatest dancers in the United States of his time, reaching far beyond just the Twist. Rumba, Flamenco, Experimental Dance, and much more. He never got married but much to the detriment of his sister he overwhelmed her two children with all the love and gifts an uncle with a seemingly unlimited amount of prize money can give, spoiling them beyond her control. He retired from competitive dancing in his fifties and opened a legendary dance school. Johnny married Betty Sue her father’s protests and they both became teachers just like his own parents were and they taught at the same high school for more than 30 years until retirement. He died peacefully in his sleep after a period of slowly evolving pancreatic cancer, leaving behind his wife and three children. Betty Sue’s father eventually succumbed and eventually, one of his grandchildren took over the inn. Bobby continued managing his family and saw his three children grow up into healthy young adults. He and his wife retired in Boca and enjoyed a long retirement in the sun where she learned to play the piano and Bobby explored a newfound passion of constantly demanding that he and his wife should take care of at least one of their 10 grandchildren. The patrol officer never needed to keep an eye out for the two bikers, he continued to patrol Highway 80 keeping the lawful safe and criminals and boys that were up to no good unsafe, chewing his gum. Charlie and Johnny kept in touch and exchanged letters weekly. Charlie spent the first years writing about the war with Johnny, the only one he felt that could truly understand but eventually let it go and wrote about his dance career. They made several trips to Vietnam to visit old battlegrounds and reunited with Vietnamese veterans, burying hatchets and ghosts from the past.


Many time cycles in a different notion of our galaxy, Gitfangula was born. Wait, that really is not fair. How could I possibly begin the story of those two that way? In the celestial voids of Marnus and Minuous, there was a plan (oh, yes, that’s much better). In the minds of the elders of those sacred spaces, there was an urgent need to create a place where their thoughts could meander and grow without causing too much of a headache. At first, this idea, like all great ideas, was considered controversial and silly, so no more was said about it, until one day when one elder made the terrible mistake of using more than the mindlinks they had developed over the centuries. Instead, he did something that many thought to be impossible in such a gaseous and insubstantial region. He actually made a sound. There were rumours that such things could be done with their physical presences, but this had been strictly forbidden since the Poor Times. There had been so much conflict and pain that it had been decided that everyone should just shut up...and keep their thoughts to themselves. And it worked. And then it did not work. Rumours flew fast and hard between the different mindlinks that something from the past had invaded the present. The idea that someone would actually forget how peace was created seemed so ridiculous that they had to laugh in Marnus while many other guffawed in Minuous. No, this was not the truth. But there were others who did believe it could have actually happened. An elder who had not spent much time crossing through the different nebula and quasars out in his dull part of the universe knew that sound was a very powerful quantity. Without giving the creator a name, he had to trace back through the mental messaging and thought patterns of all the other elders until it was clear who it was that spoke (even the word sounded unusual). And then he responded. It is very rare for someone to receive a psychic punch. The last recorded episode occurred in the history of the elders when they were still vocal. But this was something quite planned and difficult to make real. But it worked. It worked very well. Soon, the victim once again became vocal, cursing his state in the only way he knew how with the only word that he knew: “Gitfangula!” There are many theories as to how or why the word existed. Some believe that it was the name of the elder who decided to punch out the other near the Marnus border; others believe that it was a particular patch of nebula near the Minuous territory; either way, it was the first word spoken out loud in a generation and it was shared with every elder who was connected to the Great Consciousness*. *[Oh, the Great Consciousness was not spoken of during the Silent Era. It was a term that only existed when certain members of Gitfangula tried to understand their origins. Many terms were first put forward and tried: the Mental Meandering, the Unspoken Speakables, even the Hard-to-Say-It-with-Just-One-Phrase Spot. It was certainly less of a mouthful than these others; it was much more useful when people knew what a mouthful was.] And then things proceeded very quickly. The first timegates opened up in the dust and heat of the elders’ once sacred place, allowing life that was still quite primitive and raw to grow. With time, there came moments. With moments, there came incidents. With incidents, there came remembering. Now, there are many in Gitfangula who believe that this was truly a worse moment in their history than the first sound. Despite their deep respect and awe for The Great Consciousness, they often felt that things would have been easier without sounds, timegates, or even their fabulous market, Tectonia. Maybe there would have been less wars, less problems, fewer batarchs attempting to rip out their guts if they travelled through the wrong gate. But that is all speculation. What is past is past. Until...well, the arrival of those two. Their parental entities were so proud when their birthing chambers announced the arrival of the entities that would be known psychically as Gork and Slarb. Arriving within the same time frame, the announcement on the mental feed was loud and spontaneous: “Hear me, oh citizens of Gitfangula! The arrival of two noble births has taken place, and I am sure that all Gitfangs are proud to share in this moment of great importance. Let us celebrate!” A wild intercranial cheer went out as the new life forms grew and accumulated all the necessary knowledge needed to become citizens. Their parental units did expect something like this and had stored plenty of food units and other goodies to revel in their good fortune.* * [One more note: both Gork and Slarb, with different parental units, were what could be considered the high nobility of Gitfangula, with entities in their past linked to the first sound, the founding of Tectonia, and the establishment of controls over the timegates; they even had one named after them. This does matter.] It was a propitious start to their careers. Both Gork and Slarb attended their education sensorials on the same dates; both Gork and Slarb used the same timegates when their parental units - okay, families - made trips to other realms for education and restorative reasons; both Gork and Slarb made long trips to Techtonia to buy things, gossip about other dimensions, and boast about all the batarchs they were going to hunt and fight. But they never met. It was only by accident that they became a duo that the citizens of Gitfangula would detest, hate, love and finally admire. It was a neural newsflash that no one could have ignored. “Citizens of Gitfangula, we are under attack!” Both Gork and Slarb felt the fear on the neural network, and they were themselves also a little scared by the news. “We have a new enemy on our borders and they wish to use the timegates to invade and destroy what we have created! We need to watch these portals and make sure that there are no alien entities among us. Who will join us in this great battle?” The psychic roar was above what anyone expected - a few days would be needed for a complete recovery - and the citizens of Gitfangula prepared themselves for battle. And Gork and Slarb? They both looked for a ship. Now, there is some debate whether it was outright cowardice or strong practicality that led them to the outer edge of Tectonia. That was where the newest and best vehicles for time jumps and the like. The owner, a large entity who refused to vocalize his name - it was Dode, so you can understand why - wanted to clear out his lot before the worst of the coming war touched his business. Seeing that Gork and Slarb had both arrived at the exact moment that the announcement was made, he felt overjoyed at his luck. “And to what do I owe this shared honour?” Gork saw Slarb; Slarb saw Gork. They both saw the vehicle. “We want the Nectar!” Many moments later, they would debate about who first said that they both wanted the car, but for Dode, it was a sale, and he refused to confirm anything for any of his customers (not good for repeat business, even in the case of war). So, Gork met Slarb. And then they met the Nectar. When they pooled their credits, they found that they had exactly the right amount to purchase it (an equal split between the both of them). And Dode knew that he was done for the day. Gork and Slarb did a simple tour of the inner consoles, rest chambers and the power sources and fell deeply, totally, and cripplingly in love. “We are not fighting any invaders, are we?” “No, we certainly will not.” Again, there was a debate after events about who began the conversation - it was on the psychic feed - and who drove into the timegate. But most of the discussion ended when the citizens of Gitfangula realized that the war was over. The Nectar, as it passed into the nearest gate, collided with the invading army, killing the entire armada and making their deaths vivid and clear through the neural connections all Gitfangulans could access. The fact that the invading army was small enough to be crushed and burnt to death by one of the exhaust ports on their ship was not discussed. Celebrations were long, psychic and vivid; from Marnus to Minuous, the leaders heaped praise on the families of Gork and Slarb; the Nectar became their favourite ride; and the timegates were considered safe and reliable. Gitfangula was now known as a tough, stable and important port of call for travelers, all thanks to an accident of both combustion and dumb luck. And Gork and Slarb would continue to have many adventures together. And those tales will be told on another day...


“Daddy, can you tell me a bedtime story?” The father chuckled. “Of course! There’s one I’ve been waiting to share with you, and I think you’re just about big enough.” The father needed nothing more than the night light to see his son’s lips curling into a smile; the type of weak grin that could only be created by someone blissfully leaving the Earth, although only temporarily. And as sure as escape brings bliss, the father began to lull his son to sleep. “Amid a flurry of snow, a fire crackled, somewhere deep in the mountains where the howling winds could deafen and silence you all at once. The men that stood around it talked about rumors of death; a culling, brought down from the guards who overlooked them.” “You see, outside of this encampment, a war had been fought, and the prisoners’ side had finally lost. They had lived on hope, hope they would win the war and finally go home to their loved ones. Or a hope they would live, when they had signed up to die. But this hope left the men weak, and they reveled in it. Stories of mothers and girlfriends, of childhood activities and life before the war. Only one prisoner rejected this hope, as he understood he existed to die.” “By rejecting this hope, the man gave himself life, even if only to spite death. And this life gave him strength, which allowed him to fight. Whether it was spitting on a guard’s shoe or destroying the products of his own slave labor, the man existed now for two reasons: to fight firstly, and to die secondly. He embraced his death, but at the same time ran from it, because giving himself to death would require him to stop his fight.” “When this prisoner heard of the slaughter, he shook his head, and cursed the men who held him. But inside he felt nothing but indifference, a peace in the knowledge that it doesn’t matter who kills him, or how he dies: the result is the same either way. Some of the men cried, while some outright refused to believe it. But our prisoner continued to fight on anyway.” The father looked over at his son, who was listening intently with his eyes firmly shut. The man thought his son to be sleeping, so he continued on: “Five days, the men said. Five days until they were all executed. Some killed themselves, so they could die on their own terms. But this was even crazier, as they simply admitted that their life was not worth fighting for, when all they had done prior to internment was fighting for their life. Our prisoner decided instead that he had five days to make his tormentors' lives just a bit worse.” “And so he continued his pointless rebellion by not making his bed and by staring at the ground when a guard commanded him to look him in his eyes. He was chastised for his misdeeds; harsher labors and crueler physical punishment. The rumor said the execution was in three day now, and the man grew bolder, empowered by the coming of his end. He figured out a way out of their prison: in two days, a supply ship would come in. It would take a ton of luck, but they would smuggle themselves home. The plan was perfect. Either they died as was intended, or they made it home in one piece.” “But alas, it turned out to all be for naught, as the next morning a special order came into the communications bunker. Due to the need for secrecy, the captors’ government decided they were going to transform the prisoner camp into a top-secret weapons development facility. This would require that all the prisoners be slaughtered, the government said. No one could know what went on here, and they decided there was no point sending the men home to the rubble their country was left in. There would be no hope for the soldiers, and that same day the guards lined up the men and shot them in the head one at a time. All but one of the men died the way they lived. Without any purpose.” “The exception being our prisoner, of course. He died fighting, and as he stared down the barrel, he smiled, for he knew he could finally end his fighting.” And with the conclusion of his story, the father kissed his sleeping son on the forehead. He then went to sleep himself, where he dreamed of a fictional world in which there was no need for anyone to fight.


Bick pushed the hatch closed on the back of his beat up Jeep Cherokee, sending up a little prayer that he hadn’t overloaded his old friend as the latch clasped shut with a satisfying snap. He walked around the front and pushed the keys into the ignition, giving the car a little gas to bring it to life. As the engine purred, or rather rattled, he let go of the keys and the breath he had been holding hesitantly as if doing either too quickly would kill the Jeep’s drive for life. “Are you ready to go yet?” Bick shouts out the window. Across the yard, Amber is holding up a camera pointing at herself. She looks over at the loaded car with a scowl. “Seriously Bicky? You can see I’m still vlogging right?” Amber yells back as she lowers the camera and turns it over to check the footage. “Ugh, I am going to have to record that again now. Thanks I didn’t want to put in a ton of cuts but the sound quality is going to be ass now thanks to your car.” “Sorry babe, just film the outro inside...”Bick started to suggest but his words were apparently just for himself as the front door slammed closed before he could finish. Bick leaned back in his seat and knowingly turns the car back off. He had become used to Amber’s constant vlogging of her life, tolerated her “off brand” outbursts of anger, and had become a costume to the major personality change he had seen from her since her Youtube channel had started trending. Her attitude today was nothing new but he had hoped her happy face would have kept up a bit longer through the day as they prepared to move in together. He chalked it up to stress since it certainly couldn’t be exhaustion as she didn’t help pack or lift a single thing even though they were only moving *her* stuff into the new apartment today. Twenty minutes later, Amber appears at the door again holding her camera up on a selfie stick as she walks down the sidewalk with a small box propped up on her hip. Bick could tell from the car she had taken off some of her makeup and redid her hair to make it look like she had been doing more than sitting on the computer and looking at Instagram while he cleared out her whole room himself. Her room mates, fellow bloggers, were all dutifully gathered at the door waving goodbye and looking like they might cry. Bick waited until Amber was in the car and the camera was down before he dared to start it back up again. This time the cold engine gave a bit more of a whine then it did the first time. “Looks like they are all going to miss you,” Bick comments cautiously as the girls all immediately disappear and slam the door closed again before they had even left the driveway. “They’ll miss doing colabs with me all the time trying to skim my viewers,” Amber said as she threw her camera down into her purse and pulled down the mirror to check her makeup. “Freaking Gabi even asked for me to do a video for her snapchat story before I left. She’s never going to break a million followers.” “I don’t know, Gabi’s channel is a little niche but I like that she does crafting videos instead of just makeup or vlogs or whatever like all of the other channels do...What?” Bick asks as he catches Amber’s gaze out of the corner of his eye as he maneuvers the trailer out into traffic. “Nothing, it doesn’t even matter,” Amber says as she looks back down at her phone. A pregnant pause grows between them as they drive down the road. “It’s just that I can’t believe you think her content is good. She repaints dolls. It’s weird not artsy or whatever. She acts like she’s a makeup channel because she redoes eye shadow or dyes doll hair.” “I didn’t say I would watch it all the time, I just said I thought it was cool her channel is so unique.” “M’kay,” Amber responses before she flips her camera back on to get some driving footage. Bick breathed a sigh of relief as they pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex. The parking lot was a lot tighter here than the driveway they had just pulled out of and he creeped through the parking lot slowly, giving Amber time to point her camera at him again. “Are you ready to see the place?” Amber says behind the camera. “Bick. Answer.” “Yeah,” he says absent mindedly. “Ok, I am going to need you to sound way more excited,” Amber explained hurriedly, a tint of annoyance hitting her voice. “Do it again.” “I am trying to concentrate on not hitting any of these cars....” The red light starts blinking in the corner of his eye. “Oh man I am so excited to get unloaded! It’s a dream babe.” As they pull up in front of the building with the single units, Bick notices a small crowd waiting around in the parking lot. He recognized them as some of the guys from a big prank channel that Amber had colabed with a few times in the past. They were all immature assholes but at least they would have some help moving all of the furniture upstairs. “Did you invite the guys from the Crew 10 channel to come over?” “Yeah, I figured I’d need some help getting all my stuff moved in,” Amber said with a shrug. “Stay in the car while I give them the camera, okay?” Bick shrugged as Amber rang out with her purse, and handed the camera over. She stood talking to the guys who were all named something like Chad or Paul or something equally douchey before they walked over to the bottom unit and unlock the door. Bick frowns and throws the car door open. “Hey, wait guys. I think the landlord must have given us the wrong keys. We rented out the top unit right there,” Bick explained as he jogged over to the group. Behind him the rest of the guys descended on his car, pulling boxes and pillows out of the back. “No, YOU rented out the top unit. I rented out this bottom one,” Amber said with a laugh. “What are you talking about?” Bick said, stopping short of her, still in the parking lot. “I’m not moving in with you Bick. Why would I need to? Do you know how much money I make from ads and sponsorships?” Amber said walking towards him. Chad or whatever followed her with the camera and stopped so she could turn and look at it. “I am a strong independent woman and I don’t need you to take care of me. We are over.” The Crew 10 guys busted out into a chorus of ooooos behind them, stopping their frantic unpacking to jump around like idiots. Bick clutched his hands into fists at his side as a cold sweat broke over him. “Why are you doing this?” Bick asked quietly, the burning in his stomach quickly becoming a river of ice through his veins, turning his blind rage into calm disdain. “I don’t want you riding on the coattails of my success anymore, honestly it’s sad,” Amber said. “Riding on the...Girl you need a major reality check. I supported you for two years while you sat unemployed talking to your camera,” Bick said as he started taking steps back away from her, acutely aware of why the Crew 10 guys were now unloading her stuff so fast. She was afraid he would drive off with her things, like he wanted any of her shit. “Petty talk like that just makes you look like a dick. You need to grow a pair and get your own dreams. I think you’ll be a happier person for it,” Amber said as she started walking over to check on the growing pile of stuff, apparently dismissing him. “You were my dream,” Bick muttered as he stalked back to the driver’s side of his Jeep. Chad followed him around with the camera, causing his anger to bubble up all at once to the surface. “KEEP THAT SHIT OUT OF MY FACE AND GET HER SHIT OUT OF MY CAR NOW,” he yelled at no one in particular as he got into the front seat, starting the car and slamming it into gear. Twelve days later Bick is lying in bed when his phone lights up with a text. Randal \[Have you seen the video?\] \[Yeah when she put it up last week\] Bick Randal \[No. The one CueStar just put up\] \[No. I’m trying not to watch that crap\]Bick Randal \[Amber lost all of her sponsors!\] \[youtube.link\] \[What? I’ll watch it now. Hold Up.\] Bick He smashes the link and turns the volume up on his phone. “Hey Cueballs, it’s your guy with the news, Cuestar. Today all of the internet has their eyes set on former beauty guru and all around shit person Amber Beck. It seems we have an update to the story I covered last week. For those of you not in the know, Amber put up a ‘prank video’ titled TRICKED MY BF INTO THINKING WE WERE MOVING IN TOGETHER THEN DUMPED HIM...EPIC FREAK OUT. Well she apologized for it saying it was “all in joke everyone was in on” but sources close to her have confirmed that her boyfriend shown in the video in fact had no idea. The big news today ladies and gents though is that along with losing her channel for promoting bullying, she has also lost all of her sponsors on Instagram and is seeing the largest unfollowing ever. That’s right Amber Beck has been canceled! Her ex roommate Gabi also put up a video....” \[Don’t tell me karma doesn’t exist\]Bick Randal \[Yeah, it is pretty hilarious\] \[I’m guessing this is why she texted me wanting to get back together. Always tryingto use me for something...\]Bick Randal \[Oh man! What did you say back?\] \[I just ignored it. I have a date tonight\] Bick   This post was a special request. Love you Bicky.


The original Monkey’s Paw. That was truly a classic, and Azimut was a freaking genius. Also, you know, right place/right time. 1523 was a great year. No Monkey’s Paws today though. We’re necessarily more subtle now, but that doesn’t mean we’re not effective. I like to think it’s no coincidence that our department awards come out the week after Mother’s Day. Second highest rate of suicide attempts of the year! Go team! The awards really should be coming out today, and to be totally honest, I feel like my chances are better this year than ever. I almost had it last year, but *of course* Thalimeth that giant kiss ass took it home. Was *a step stool that causes you to lose half a centimeter in height every time you use it* really award-worthy? Grow up. I’m in early, just like I have been every day for the last month, and I’ve got a feeling that in the current more politicized environment that carries a lot of weight. Not even Thalimeth is here yet. Minute after minute, the rest of them trickle in. I’m just sitting here, sipping my coffee. I wonder idly if they already have the award email written? Are they waiting for the day to officially start to send it? I have two nominations this year. The *glove that flawlessly grips a hammer but that causes every seventh nail to bend,* and, my personal favorite, the *glasses that grant perfect vision but that subtly change the meaning of the text*. So many arguments! So much anxiety! Ah. Phezizael lumbers in last, and while I love the guy, he is just not cut out for this. He’s built like a fourth circle demon, and the cubicles here are clearly made for second circles. But he’s in, every day, cramming his wings and hilariously thick tail into his chair, and coming up with, let’s be honest, pretty pedestrian cursed objects by today’s standards. Trying to be something he just isn't. Nice guy, but wouldn’t want to piss him off. Look at those shoulders! That’s everybody now. Well, almost everybody. A few minutes later, I hear hoofsteps in the hallway, and there he is. “Hail, everybody,” he says. “Hail, Megalesius.” Phezizael’s giant knuckles barely scrape the ceiling when he raises his hand. Honestly, his heart just isn’t in it. I try to put some extra pep into it today, just in case. It can’t hurt. Here’s the trajectory. If I can pull the department award today, next quarter it’s promotion season, and maybe instead of Hailing Megalesius from the floor like the rest of these chumps, I end up with a private Hail in the manager’s lounge. First step into manager territory doesn’t get you the sweet sweet office overlooking the Pools of Tyranny like Megalesius, but you *do* get a window, and if you open it on a good day after lunch you can sometimes hear the screams of the damned wafting over the sulfur flats. Megalesius takes his time settling into his office and eventually closes the door. I have emails stacking up, but I’m not reading them. I’m just watching the subject lines and waiting for the announcement. It has to be today. It has to be me. Twenty minutes tick by, and I’m starting to get nervous. I have a meeting with Production in ten, and I really don’t want to be out of the loop for the next two hours, and especially not with those losers. *We're* the designers here. The creatives. They just follow orders. Four more minutes, and then *bing*. **Subject: An update on the Office of Cursed Objects** Okay, that’s not the way they usually announce it. *Effective immediately, upper management has decided to close the Office of Cursed Objects. It was a hard decision, and we value the input of all of you over the last four millenia. You are like family to us. Rest assured that this has nothing to do with your personal performance, and is part of a larger re-organization. In order to focus more closely on our mission we have decided to put “more thrust behind fewer pitchforks.”* *This action has been cleared with Demons Local 533. Please consult with your union representative for retraining and/or reassignment.* *Thank you, and Hail Satan* “Those sons of bitches!” shouts Phezizael, and his cubicle erupts. He grabs his monitor, throws it right through the wall, and makes a beeline for Megalesius’ office. He’s met by two seventh levels who materialize to block the way, their gray smokey hands wrapping around his arms. “Hey hey ladies,” says Phezizael. “I was just kidding. Just... yeah.” His wings slump, and he casts a baleful look into Megalesius’ window. Nobody wants to mess with the seventh levels. They lead him back to his desk. No award. There will be no award. No promotion. No eventual second promotion when Megalesius gets bored and moves on, leaving the view of the Pools of Tyranny to me. *I* want to throw my monitor too, but I’m not stupid. I’m also not strong enough. Fine. Fine, if this is how they want to play it. One of the seventh levels is gliding around, handing out boxes, one at each desk. “Fill and leave,” she hisses. No use fighting it. I start to pack my things. My hands stop a moment at the little picture frame. It’s me and a bunch of the guys out after last year’s awards, and Megalesius is right next to me. I kept it here, thinking that maybe it would have some subtle effect on him when he would walk by my desk every day. That’s right. We’re friends. Pals. A wild whim takes me, and I pick up the picture. I was never that great at Production, but it doesn’t mean that I can’t whip something up on a moment’s notice if I have to. Kid’s stuff, really. I say a brief prayer and trace the correct symbols on the back of the picture with my finger. A pulse of power flows into it. I take the picture and walk slowly toward Megalesius’ office door. One of the sevens slides into my way. “Hey,” I say. “I, uh, just want to give the big guy something. You know...” She hisses in response, and I blanch. “It’s okay,” says Megalesius, and the door opens. “Let him in.” I look around, and it seems that his office is already bare. He knew. And he doesn’t look upset. I play a hunch. “You moving... down?” I say, suggestively. “So may it be,” he says. “The new Director of Sacrileges and Defilements.” Damn. “How long have you known?” I say. It would have been nice to have been given a friend a heads up. To have let your top performer know so he wouldn’t have to go getting in line in the union shop with the likes of Phezizael. What will Bekorith think? Oh sure, she said she was in it for the long haul, but if I get reassigned to something like cinder duty, or worse, Bone Removal... that wasn’t going to support her lifestyle. “Long enough,” he says. I waited. This was his chance to invite me along. I’d spent my entire post-pupal life in Cursed Objects, but I felt like my skills were more generalized. I’d grown. Surely he could see that. There had to be a place for me in Defilements. “Is there something you wanted,” he says. I feel something inside of me snap. “This is *bullshit*,” I say, and as soon as it's out of my mouth I regret it. But maybe he’s been looking for a show of strength and aggression from me all along, and *that’s* what has kept me in that cubicle for the last four thousand years. I hear the hiss of the seventh level behind me, but see Megalesius shoo her away with a subtle move of his finger. Maybe I *am* on the right track. “Four thousand years!” I say. “We’ve been stealing souls for you for four thousand years, and this is how you tell us? How you tell *me!* Come on, Meg. This is a chump move.” He appears to be slightly smiling. Yes. This is what he’s been waiting for me to do. I let a little smoke seep from behind my ears, to show that I know how the game is played. “We both know that I deserve a shot on your new team. Think about it! You’ve seen me work! I’m a damned genius!” And here his face falls a little. “Yes,” he says. “About that.” He strides the four steps between us, and puts his face right up against mine. “Ideas are a shilling a filling,” he says. “Production is where the real artistry lies.” “Production?” I say. “They’re just a bunch of hacks! Anybody can do it! You don’t even need a fourth degree horn to get on that team.” “And yet,” says Megalesius, “they are the ones who are following me to Sacrileges and Defilements.” Ah ha. Ah hahaha. He backs away and strikes a pose that is both effortlessly evil and nonchalant at the same time. That was rich. Well, that settles it then. He gets the picture. His very own personally cursed object, courtesy of the guy who apparently isn't good enough to come along on his trip to sulfur town. “Hail, Megalesius,” I say. “Hail.” “I get it,” I say. “Makes sense. You gotta do what you gotta do, right? Hey, before I go, I wanted to give you this...” I hold the picture toward him. “It’s, you know, us...” “Ah,” says Megalsius, and he reaches toward it. His hand stops inches away. “Why, Uriolanus,” he says, “there appears to be a charm on that gift.” Shit. I feel the presence of the seventh level right behind me. “And...” -- he squints -- “it appears that you were going to give me an object that made the bearer have uncontrollable... what is it?" He sniffs at the picture. "Ah, diarrhea.” Megalesius shakes his head slowly. I want to run, but that’s not an option now. What was I thinking? A thousand things blaze through my head, not the least of which is the actual skill that the Production demons have when it comes to concealing the charms on the things that we design. “Put that away before you hurt yourself,” he says. “Feces? Please. You need to grow up. A thousand years in Bone Removal seems like it would be just the thing for you. Correct those airs you always put on.” I feel the fingers of the seventh level start to wrap around my shoulders. “Hail,” I say. It was all about to be gone. Bekorith. The nice cave down in Hazimath. The two weeks every year on the Styx. “Hail *what*?” says Megalesius. “Hail, Megalesius,” I say. I know when I’m beaten. The seventh level pulls me back through the door, and I don’t bother resisting. She guides me back toward my desk. “Oh!” says Megalsius. “Just a second. Please.” He walks from his office, and is swiftly by my side. “You weren’t without talent,” he says. “Thank you, sir.” Was it maybe not too late? “Before all of this happened,” he says, waving his arm broadly about, “we *had* decided on the department awards. Felt it was tacky to deliver them, then, pull this on you all.” “That’s kind of you, sir.” “Anyway, you won.” I won. “Yes,” says Megalesius. “It was the glasses. That was truly inspired. I know it won’t mean much in Bone Removal, but I feel like you should have this. It belongs to you.” He holds out the award. Its coal black, faceted surface reflects only eyes and fire, no matter where you look. It’s beautiful. “Hail, Megalesius,” I say. Despite what has just happened, what was about to happen, I am truly grateful. I know that I’m talented. I’ll go to Bone Removal, and start over, and soon I’ll be supervising instead of actually pulling bones, and then I’ll be noticed, and eventually... “Hail,” he says. I take the award. It is cold and beautiful in my hands. Cleaning up my desk won’t be quite so bad now. “Oh, and Uriolanus,” he says. I try to put the award in the box, but it won’t leave my hand. There is a pulse of power from it, and I feel a deep rumbling in my bowels, like flaming eels at war. Megalesius laughs, as only a senior Director of Sacrileges and Defilements can laugh. “The bathroom is on the left.


*********************************************** Hey all, this has been a crazy week and I couldn't write until Friday, so this was a quick one. There isn't a lot of action, it is just a simple idea, but my goal with these prompts is to hit the deadline, much like the real world. :) Thank you to the Reedsy community for all the support we all get here every week! *********************************************** The thing about flowers is, they are blissful exuberance, even if it is only for a moment. They remind you to enjoy the small things because life is a fragile thread. My grandmother was the green thumb of our family. She filled her gardens with lilies, orchids, roses and so much more. Every summer it was a beautiful array of chaos. As a child, I remember thinking, everything is out of order. It’s like she just threw the seeds and let nature decide. If I planted a garden, I thought, I would organize it into seasons, color, and set boundaries accordingly. I guess I still approach everything that way. After years of study and research in Botany, they granted me my Ph.D. I suppose it came naturally to me. I still can’t remember to water my own plants, but the science of life just fascinates me. It had been 20 years since I spent summers with my grandmother; I was too busy to keep in touch. My job was demanding. My team was working to solve hunger in the most affected areas. We needed hearty plants that could grow in unique environments. Then the news came in a message; my grandmother had passed at home, on a Wednesday. It seemed too black and white for a person whose life brought so much vibrant color. The emotions hit me harder than I expected. “I need a couple days to take care of some family matters,” I announced to my team. “But Abbie, we are about to conduct field tests.” a technician named William says, wringing his hands, looking exhausted, like we all do. “This is our ony chance to get this right, our raw materials have run out." “I know Will, I’ll take tomorrow morning, and be back in the afternoon. I promise” I reply. That seems to ease the tension. -------------------------------------- I wake to the usual breakfast, oatmeal, or something close to that. We are substituting a lot these days. An hour passes. Why am I dragging my feet? I just need to get in the car and get this done. I doubt Gram had anything of actual value, but the authorities will only guarantee security for several more days, then her home will be fair game for looters. I slide into my car and stare at the words on the screen ‘Where would you like to go?’ it flashes. “Another planet,” I mumble. “Auto-drive?” I say, “Take me to 386 Mulberry Rd., in Easton.” I fasten my seatbelt, darken the windows and close my eyes as the car begins its descent out of the parking garage. “Call mom,” I say. My connection barely rings before she appears on the screen. “Abbie, thank God you are ok, I’ve been trying to call you. Where have you been?” “Mom, I’ve been working night and day, we have been taking shifts, I barely have time to eat and sleep these days. Don’t worry, I'm going to Grandma’s now. I’ll get anything that has value to us.” “Are you sure that is a good idea, honey?” she responds, “with the rampant drought people are getting crazy, they are telling us to stay in our homes” “I’ll be quick, the escalation hasn’t reached here yet,” I reply. The conversation continues about her friend’s son or something; I tune it out until Auto-drive announces I am approaching the destination. “Ok, mom I need to go. I'm here.” I say. “Be safe,” she says as I end the call. -------------------------------------- I remove the window darkening and the sunlight floods the compartment, I can feel the heat even inside the car, it’s bad today. Stepping outside, looking over my Grandmother's home, it is a stark contrast to my memories. The front yard used to be overflowing with life, it is now a snarl of plant stocks, dried and bent. It reminds me of a makeshift graveyard from some old movie. The dust blows and swirls in the yard. Nature definitely gave up the ghost here. The front door passcode is still the same after all these years. Entering the house, everything is dark; it was never dark when I was a child. She loved the sunlight, but she drew the shades and curtains to keep the heat out. The lovely smell of lavender is familiar, her essence still lingers in the air. I thumb through papers, look over a few pictures, and smile at photos of me in pigtails. That seems like a hundred lifetimes ago. “I better get this done,” I mutter. I look through closets and in her bedroom; taking handwritten letters and notes. She had drawn so many of her flowers; the details are stunning. I didn’t even know she was an artist; I was just too self-absorbed as a kid to care. Finally, I have a collection of belongings and mementos, now I just need a box. The basement, maybe? I try the handle, but it is locked. That’s odd. Grabbing a key I found in her nightstand, I slide it into the lock and turn, and the bolt releases. The door opens hard; it had been shut for a while. Stepping down the stairs, the cool air is welcoming. I search in the dark for a light switch, finding it, hoping the power is on, then a single bulb illuminates the basement. The basement is a series of stacked boxes with labels on each one. She meticulously organized this area, for a woman who seemed to have no rhyme or reason to how she planted things this is quite coordinated. I look in each box; and find they are full of vacuum-sealed plants and seeds, categorized and labeled. I step back in awe, I just uncovered the holy grail. There are thousands of specimens here, roots and stems, vegetables, fruits and flowers of many kinds, things I haven’t seen in 10 years, preserved in all their airtight glory. I literally hop up and down with excitement. The genetic material alone, stored away in this basement, is more than we have found in years. “I love you, Grammy,” I whisper, “You didn’t just randomly throw the seeds in your garden, you really had a method to everything you did." "You and I are not so different, and you may have just saved us all.”


Once, when I was very young, my mother told me the story of a place called Hamathy. Now, Hamathy was a small town, more of a village, really, nestled deep in a faraway mountain range where the snow shone pure as starlight and sharp white peaks stood stark against the blinding blue of the sky. Hamathy's few streets were lined with fine wood houses, and though their windows sparkled with frost, inside each fireplace flames burned hot and high, and the people of the town were warm and safe and in the company of those that they loved. One day, though no one knows what caused it, an avalanche began on the mountain where Hamathy stood. What seemed to be an ocean of snow crashed down its picturesque slopes, and when all was once more still and quiet, the town was miraculously untouched, but the one road that passed through Hamathy and out into the world was blocked in both directions. The people of Hamathy were smart--they knew that something like this could happen one day, and they had taken precautions. Stacks of firewood and shelves of food, water, and anything else they might need filled every shed and basement. There were enough supplies to last weeks, perhaps even months, and so, after diligently checking to ensure that each of their neighbors were safe and sound, the people of Hamathy went home and settled in to wait, secure in the knowledge that help would arrive long before they were in any danger. But as days went by, then weeks, and no sign of rescuers appeared on the horizon, the people began to realize that perhaps their town, their refuge from the noise and chaos of the larger world, was perhaps just a little too far from all that hustle and bustle. And when a full month had passed, and still no one came for them, it seemed all too certain that no one beyond the mountains was aware of their predicament, much less coming to help. The people of Hamathy, however, were not afraid of a little labor. So on the first day of the second month after the avalanche, a meeting was called, and they all bundled into the town hall to work out how they would rescue themselves. Hamathy didn't have a snow plow, but what it had in abundance were shovels and the hands to wield them, and so it was decided that they would dig their way out. A work schedule was arranged, people volunteered for shifts, and it seemed that everything was going smoothly. Only near the end of the meeting did someone raise a very important point--they had neglected to discuss the direction in which they would dig. A simple issue, it would seem, and yet it turned out to be the most contentious one of all. Before long, the whole hall had erupted in arguments between those who wanted to excavate the road to the north and those who preferred to head south. Some had family on one side or the other, others were concerned about the steepness of the south road, and still others worried that the closest town to the north was much farther away, but nearly everyone, it seemed, had a strong opinion on the matter. When the sun began to set, and no progress had been made on reaching a decision, it was suggested that everyone go home before the deadly cold of night set in, and they could come back the next day, when tempers were cooler and the air was warmer. This, at least, was agreed by all to be a sensible idea, and so the people of Hamathy put their coats back on and dispersed in the fading light. For two more days, the debate raged on inside the town hall. But when the third sunset came, and still they could not agree on north or south, they decided instead to dig in both directions, and each person could choose for themselves where to work. By this time, it seemed clear to everyone that there simply was no agreement to be had, and after all, it made no sense to delay the beginning of work for a consensus that was never going to come. The next morning, the first shifts of workers set out in each direction, nodding tersely in greeting as they passed one another in the street. The work was hard and the wind was blistering, but at the end of the day, everyone was much happier than the night before. At least now they were doing something, instead of sitting around and waiting. A week went by, and spirits were higher than ever. Progress was speeding along in both directions, and the greetings had upgraded from stern-faced nods to waves and smiles. It took another month and a half after that for the supplies to run out. It was actually the firewood that was used up first, and with no way to heat their homes, the people of Hamathy piled once more into the town hall and kept each other alive as best they could with the warmth of their bodies. That worked well enough, but there was also no way to melt their now-frozen water or thaw, much less cook, their now-frozen food, and soon enough, people began to die, one after another after another. Still, every day, the workers went out to the north and the south and dug and dug until they could dig no more, hoping and praying with every breath that today would be the day that they made it through to the other side and help was at last in reach. And every day, fewer and fewer of them trudged back into town with heavy hearts, those hopes and prayers yet unanswered. It was on the final day of their fourth month in isolation that the last of them finally died, shovel still in hand as he drew his last breath. Here's the funny thing--well, perhaps funny isn't exactly the right word, but--either way would have worked. When the last citizen of Hamathy succumbed to the cold, both of the paths were well over halfway to completion. If only they could have set aside their differences and agreed on a direction to take, every person in Hamathy would likely have survived--though "if only," I imagine, would be of little comfort to the people who mourned them. You may be wondering why, in the name of all that's holy, my mother chose to tell a young child such a disturbing story. I think the lesson she wanted me to take from it was about the folly of pride and the virtue of cooperation--when my brother and I would fight, for instance, over what game to play, she would say, "Remember Hamathy," and I would quickly decide that it was better to play hide-and-seek for the eighteenth time that day than to be saddled with extra chores and not get to play at all. And, to be fair to her, it was a valuable lesson, and I certainly did learn it. The problem, I think, is that I was the only one who knew about Hamathy. My brother never had the dubious pleasure of hearing that particular story, and so it was always I who gave in. The lesson my mother didn't mean to teach me, but that I nevertheless learned all too well, was that it was my job, my duty to sacrifice, and that if I didn't, my selfishness would be to blame for the conflict or catastrophe that followed. I'm sure you'll all be shocked to hear that, at the tender age of twenty-three, I burned out. Lost my job, lost most of my friends. Lost myself for a little while, too. I'm doing much better now, but the road to where I am today was a long and hard one. So, in the hope of passing on my mother's wisdom but not repeating her mistakes, here's a lesson from Hamathy that I learned a little early, and one from me that I learned a little late: don't fight with people you care about over things that don't matter, and stand up for yourself over things that do.


At the height of the pandemic, I quit my job, packed up my life, and moved back in with my parents. Moving back into my childhood home came with many conflicting emotions--while it was something nostalgic and familiar, I also felt like a stranger in my own home. Luckily, my parents welcomed me and my puppy Brownie with open arms; after the death of our beloved family dog 2 years ago, it was clear that they enjoyed having some companionship around the house again. It was a good change for Brownie as well--I could tell he preferred living in an actual house versus our cramped studio apartment in the big city. He loved having so much more space around him and enjoyed exploring all the new smells in the neighborhood. On our walks, I would usually take Brownie to a small park near our home as most dogwalkers in our neighborhood frequented that area. I had also befriended some of the regulars there, so it was a good opportunity for both the dog and I to socialize within our new community as well. There was a larger park located outside our neighborhood that was more quiet and serene that I had never taken Brownie. Our late dog Samson had loved this park but we hardly ever took him there because it was farther away (~20 minute walk each way). So for Brownie’s first birthday, I decided to take the long trek to this park to kickstart his big day with a new adventure. As a former street dog, Brownie had very strong instincts; sometimes it seemed like he had a built-in GPS. He had never even been to this park but as we got closer to it, the harder he started pulling towards it. He knew all the turns and paths to turn to get there--even I had to navigate our way there with Google Maps. Without a beat, he dashed past the playground, swing set, and benches to a fenced off area that I had never noticed before. It was the size of a dog park enclosure, although it didn’t seem like it was one as the grass looked pristine and unused. There wasn’t any signage that indicated what this area was either. Right in the center of the garden was a patch of beautiful flowers, arranged in a rainbow-like gradient. Brownie sat in front of the open gate begging to go in. I was hesitant because I didn’t want him to mess up the garden as it looked like private property. He absolutely refused to move so I relented, “Fine, just five minutes.” I looked around to make sure no one was watching us and went in, closing the gate behind us and taking off his leash. As usual, Brownie sniffed and galloped all over the garden. I was worried that he would make a mess but thankfully, it didn’t seem like he had left any marks. This place seemed like a paradise for him and he didn’t want to leave, but I stuck to my guns and enforced the five-minute rule. After some whining on his end, I had to carry him out and walk him home. The rest of Brownie’s birthday went well. We got him a doggy cake and invited some friends and their dogs over for a party. He got all his favorite treats and all the love from his favorite people (and me). As I was getting ready for bed at 11pm, I noticed Brownie sitting by his leash. Once he saw me looking at him, he started to whine, indicating that he wanted to go for a walk. It was strange because we never walked him this late at night so he had never asked to go out at night. “Sorry boy but it’s late, I promise you’ll get a longer walk tomorrow morning,” I said. He didn’t seem happy with my response and started crying loudly, borderline howling. Not wanting him to wake up the entire family, I gave in and started putting on his harness and leash. The second we were out of the door, he started running in the direction of the large park. “Brownie, slow down boy,” I wheezed. “I can’t keep up at this speed for 20 minutes.” He stopped and sat, looking around as if to re-evaluate his surroundings. He spent the next couple of minutes sniffing the ground and after that, he took a different direction, leading me through a series of unfamiliar alleys. As we were still new-ish to the neighborhood, I had absolutely no idea where we were going and honestly, I was a little afraid of what we were getting into. However, no more than 5 minutes later, we arrived the large park. Somehow, Brownie had found a shortcut to this park--which was very impressive. Thankfully, the park was brightly lit by streetlamps so I felt more at ease, although there wasn’t a soul in sight. Once again, Brownie begged to enter the fenced garden. “Five minutes,” I said, and we went inside. As I closed the gate and bent down to unhook the leash, I heard something footsteps and panting coming towards us from a distance. I looked up to see a white schnauzer running towards us, its tongue sticking out and looking overjoyed to have found us. The dog completely ignored Brownie and came right up to me, rubbing his face all over my leg and licking me all over. This poor baby had probably been lost in here without its owner and was dying to be let out. He looked just like Samson and reminded me of him as well, because he would also nuzzle & lick me every time I came home for the holidays. “Aww hi baby,” I cooed as I squatted down to pet him. “Are you here all by yourself? Where is your family?” He looked at me with longing eyes and licked my face. “Aww you’re so adorable, you look just like my Samson,” I said as I looked into his beautiful brown eyes. His ears perked up as he got even more excited and started running around me in circles. Meanwhile, Brownie seemed elated to have found a new friend; he followed the dog trying to sniff his butt. Upon noticing Brownie, he stopped, sat, and stared at me with sad eyes. “Oh I forgot to introduce you two! This is Brownie, today is his first birthday so go easy on him,” I joked. “He may look scary but he’s a sweet boy just like you so you will get along great!” Brownie tried to nuzzle up to him, licking him all over his face but the dog looked devastated for some reason. After a few moments of petting him and trying to get them acquainted, the dog started to perk up and reciprocated Brownie’s licks and butt sniffs. They got along great, chasing each other around the garden and rolling around in the flowers. After about 10 minutes of playtime, both dogs came back exhausted and laid down on either side of me. I took this opportunity to search the lost dog for any ID tags but he didn’t have a collar or anything on him at all. I reached for my phone to take a picture of him but realized that I left it at home as I thought we were just taking a quick walk around the neighborhood for Brownie to potty before bedtime. The dog crawled into my lap and looked up at me with his big sad puppy eyes. He was such a sweet, adorable dog and I felt bad for how sad he must have felt being all alone here. I was glad he was having a good time with us. As I got Brownie ready to leave, I realized I couldn’t just leave this dog alone in the middle of the night. I didn’t have an extra leash with me so I tried scooping him up into my arms. He happily obliged, but once we walked towards the exit, he jumped out of my arms, ran towards the flower patch, and laid down there. “No it’s okay sweetie, I just want to give you a nice warm bed to sleep in tonight. We’ll find your family tomorrow, okay?” I told him. He still refused to budge. I tried carrying him out of the gates a few more times but each time, he would leap out of my arm and lay in the flower patch. Even if I didn’t carry him, he would refuse to follow me out of the gate. For a dog that looked at me with so much love in his big eyes, he sure did not want to go home with me. I checked my watch and it was close to midnight. Brownie seemed exhausted and I had to let him go home to take care of him. “Fine, you can stay here tonight,” I told him. “But we will be back here first thing in the morning to help you find your family, okay?” He just stared right back at me. I felt my heart crumple with guilt as I turned around and left the park with Brownie. I had only known this dog for less than an hour but it felt like I had abandoned him. Brownie looked sad to leave as well, but I couldn’t keep him out there all night either. The next morning, I recapped the events of our night-time adventure to my mom over breakfast. “I’ve never seen a fenced-up area at that park, it must be some kind of construction work,” she said, sounding quite surprised. “Maybe, but it didn’t look like there was any kind of work going on there at all,” I responded. “The garden seemed quite tranquil and well-maintained as if it were someone’s lawn.” “Who even leaves a dog at the park in the middle of the night?” “No idea, I know I felt awful leaving him behind but I had no other choice, he completely refused to come with me. He was a white schnauzer that looked like Samson and he seemed to like me while I was there.” Mom gave me a hard time, saying I should have tried to take the dog home with us and that there was no excuse to leave him behind to fend for himself. I know it was wrong of me to do so, but I had genuinely tried all that I could to lure him out. Annoyed with my bad decision, she decided to come with us to the park to help check on the dog. “Come on boy, take us through the shortcut again,” I told Brownie. Again, he sniffed around to find his bearings, but he looked back at me with confusion in his eyes. I sighed. “Fine, I guess we’ll have to take the long route.” 20 minutes of walking, sweating, and panting later, we finally made it back to the large park. My eyes searched all over for the fenced garden, but it was nowhere to be found. We walked around the park whistling, trying to catch the attention of the dog that was there the night before. A couple of passersby gave us judgmental stares, but we ignored them and focused on our search. I walked my mom over to the spot where the garden had been. The fencing was gone but the rainbow flower patch was still there. Mom walked towards the flowers and gently ran over them with her fingers. “Pretty, aren’t they?” she remarked. I nodded my head in agreement while Brownie started sniffing and licking the flowers. “When we buried Samson here, we planted these flowers to add a nice touch to his grave. I’m surprised they’ve lasted this long considering they were planted 2 years ago,” she said. My jaw dropped. “Th-this was where Samson was buried?” I stammered in shock. She nodded her head in sadness. “Yeah, we wanted him to have somewhere to run about and play in the afterlife... if it exists, of course.” I stood there in silence. “So where was the garden where you found the dog last night?” Mom asked, looking around the park. I slowly lifted my finger and pointed to the flower patch, “Right here.” Mom’s face went pale as we stared at each other in disbelief. I had always felt guilty over not being a good owner to Samson. I had moved across the country for college when he was only 4 years old; even though I’d come back to visit over breaks, I still felt like I had missed out on most of his life. Despite this, he was never angry with me and he was always ecstatic to see me every time I came home to visit. When he was diagnosed with cancer at just 8 years old, I immediately traveled home to see him. Even while he was ill and could barely walk, he was still upbeat, energetic, and over the moon to spend time with me. When I left a few days later, I held him for hours, crying because I knew that it would be the last time that I ever got to see him. Weeks later, my parents texted me that Samson had passed away peacefully in his sleep. The guilt of leaving him behind pained me every time I left, but it weighed heavily on me especially hard that last time. Even when I adopted Brownie over a year later, I still felt guilty about loving another dog. Somehow, maybe Samson’s spirit had held onto our world just to see me again one last time. If that were true, I finally understood why he was happy to see me but sad when he saw Brownie. I felt a tap on my shoulder breaking me out of my thoughts. “Look over there,” my mom pointed to the left. I turned my head to see a rainbow lighting up the sky and smiled. I’ve never really cared for rainbows, but this one filled my heart with warmth and love.


Did you know, in some species of spiders, after mating, the female will cannibalize the male? Funny isn't it? How betrayal seems to lurk even beyond the human race. The library is empty, it feels dead. A place once occupied with breathing and beauty now filled with existential dread. My phone continuously buzzes in my pocket. I don’t need to check it to know who’s desperately trying to reach me, or maybe I’m just too scared to check. The librarian scowls at me as I pull my phone out to silence the device. I can’t help but glance at some of the words on the messages sent to me. “PLEASE” “HURT” “ANSWER” “SORRY” I push each message bubble back into my brain, but the word ‘hurt’ plagues my mind. I pull out my phone and decided to finally check what was said. 11:59 pm “I’LL HURT YOU” I feel vomit creeping up my throat, desperate to kiss my lips. 12:01 pm “RESPOND. IT’S NOT WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE.” 12:03 pm “I HAVE YOUR LOCATION.” My heart stops beating. I quickly click the contact, the silence doesn’t feel so quiet now. ⇨ ‘David <3’ “Stop Sharing Location?” I quickly click the button, stopping him from seeing my location. The silence mocks me, leaving dead echoes asking ‘were you quick enough?’ 12:05 pm “DID YOU REALLY THINK TURNING THAT OFF WOULD STOP ME?” I throw my head in frantic circles, like an owl who can’t get its head to turn 360. The librarian is gone, I’m too scared to check behind her desk. I never thought he’d be capable of something like this. My mind takes a moment to escape to the past, clutching each decision I've made through time as if it would bring me back. 9:30 pm 3 HOURS PRIOR. The air outside was cold, crisp even. The air in itself simply felt like the crunching of fall leaves. I walked up the steps to a big door, bringing my fist down to knock. A few seconds later, a friendly familiar smile welcomes me in. “Hey Dana! I’m so glad you could make it. Welcome in!” The tall man in front of me ushers me in. He takes my coat as I nervously walk further into the giant house. “You failed to mention you live in a castle” I exclaim jokingly. He lets out a phony laugh and leads me to his dining room. “Hey guys this is Dana. She’s not like us so you play nice now you hear?” He lets out another one of his fake laughs and so do the rest of the people sitting at the table. “It’s nice to meet you Dana.” A woman, with dark brown hair and piercing eyes says to me coldly. “It’s nice to meet you too.” I almost whisper back. “And you are?” The look on her face shows me she isn’t too happy I don’t know who she is. “You don’t know me? Really?” There’s silence before she answers. “In that case, my name is Marie De Chevalier. I’m David’s girlfriend.” I smile at her, ignoring her obviously ply to make me jealous. “That’s a beautiful name.” She gives me a reluctant smile back, the same way a butcher smiles at a pig. “Okay well you’ve met Marie, let me give you an introduction to everyone else.” The tall man speaks. “You already know me from work... but in case you forgot, my name’s David.” I let out a giggle and Marie gives me a soul piercing glare. “This is Tom, Becca, Ray, and Claire.” They wave one by one as David goes down the line. Each person looking more rich and bitchy than the one prior. Six snobs sitting at the table in front of me. My parents always taught me to never judge a book by its cover, but that’s hard when the cover is wearing Gucci and smells like Coco Channel. Silence fills the air and David leaves to get the food. A blonde girl who goes by the name of Claire wearing a white flowy shirt and a black formal skirt speaks up. “So, Dana, where do you work?” I try to relax into my chair and decide maybe I’ll try to get into this book, even if it does have a Louis Vuitton bag attached to it. “I’m currently employed at a restaurant.” They all make, what they think to be, sly glances at each other. My face goes red as I speak again. “I-I get to make my own hours, and the tips dare really good!” Another girl with red hair and the shortest green dress I've ever seen, snickers. “No, no, that's really good. Maybe one day I can hire you at my dads car company. We always need more cleaners.” My head scrambles as I try to find a way to quickly change the conversation. “I thought there was supposed to be six of you?” I say. They all fall silent. A boy with slicked back brown hair, and an outfit that resembles something you’d see Leonardo DiCaprio wear clears his throat. “Yes, unfortunately Aaron was not able to attend our gathering tonight.” He pauses and nibbles on his lip. “I’m afraid he’s feeling rather, ill.” The silence that lingers is clearly filled with lies. I don’t push for answers. “Will you give him my regards? I hope he feels better.” Each word bounces off the dart of an eye. No one makes eye contact with me. The room feels empty, suffocating, until finally David comes back with drinks and food. “Whoah who died in here” he laughs, but this time his friends don’t laugh back with him. “Aaron clearly” I joke. David’s hand slips, sliding over the glass martini. His hand gushes blood as the drink leaks all over the carpet. “David!? Are you okay?” I yell. Quickly standing up trying to find something to clean the blood. His friends stay seated, and David looked frozen in the air. A man with black hair, beady eyes, and a freshly shaved beard speaks. “David, it’s okay. We told her he was sick .” The emphasis on sick almost makes me puke. What did he mean? David lets out a breath I didn’t know he was holding. “Oh.” He quickly clutches his hand, the pain seeming to have just now hit his nervous system. “Shit this hurts.” I pick up the broken glass shards, and place them into the trash. “Where’s your bathroom? I’ll go get you a towel.” His once friendly demeanor is eaten by a demon of anxiety and irritation. “Down the hall to the left.” His friends still don’t meet their eyes with mine. The hall is dimly lit, there seems to be rooms with every turn of my head. I walk into the first room I see on my left. Red light hit my eyes hard. Photographs hung on a line, I had entered a dark room. My feet turned to leave, but my mind inclined me to stay. I walk around, looking at the different locations and faces on each photograph. “I wonder who took these” I thought to myself, admiring the photography skills of this very skilled artist. I turn each photo around and see a date and time each piece was taken. I hang the photographs back up and finally decide to leave, that is until I catch a glimpse of thick black liquid. “What the fuck is this” I whisper to the strangers in each photos. Inside the liquid seems to be photographs of some sort. My mind attempts to rationalize with me. Telling me it’s just the substance that processes the photos, but I know better. I’m smarter than myself. “Oh fuck here I go.” I take a deep breath and grab the photographs out of the black sludge. It’s cold, cold in the same way organs are when they die. The mysterious black ooze slides off the photographs. “What the fuck.” my breaths come out shakily. A little white photograph sits in my hand. The girl in the photo isn’t a stranger at all, in fact, she’s me. I quickly reach for the other photographs and pull them out. Me going into work, me working at my restaurant, me smoking a cigarette outside. My breaths get heavy as I hear a voice call for me coming from the other room. “Hey Dana, you okay? Do you need some help?” I throw the photographs back into the sludge, some of it sticks to my hands. I take a minute to breathe before I give him my reply. “Y-yeah sorry. I was just looking for some, uh, antibiotics.” I hold my breath, listening for the sounds of expensive shoes coming down the hall. I close the door to the dark room, and pinch my fingers as I walk back to the dining room table. Confirming this isn’t a dream. “There you are!” David smiles. “We thought you ended up like Aaron for a sec!” he and the rest of his friends let out a phony laugh. I laugh nervously, sweat creeps down my back. “H-hey so, my mom actually called me and she- she’s not feeling very well so I- I need to go back and make sure she’s okay.” My hands stay planted behind my back as I talk. “Oh okay I get it. Do you need a ride home?” He takes a step closer to me, I fight every urge to take a step back. “It’s okay, I can get a cab.” I grab my bag and hurry out the door quicker than I should have. I wave down a yellow taxi. “Take me to the downtown library please.” The driver nods his head and I look out the window up at the giant house. Through the window, I swear my eyes see bony, pointy hands peeking through the silk curtains. Marie’s hands. 12:06 pm “I KNOW WHERE YOU ARE.” My hands race to his contact again. “Block This Caller?” I click the button and shut off my phone. I take a deep breath that gets sucked into my chest when I hear the creak of a library door. I quickly, but quietly stand up and run behind a shelf surrounded by murder mystery books. Great. “Dana? I know you’re in here.” Each foot step mimicke the sound of my racing heart. I whip my head around looking for a way to exit the building. All the way to my right, straight across the library, is a void filled room. It’s pitch black, and it seems to be my only option. “Dana?” His voice calls again. We play a game of cat and mouse and I go behind each library shelf filled with different genres of books. He goes to the very back of the library, and I pull my shoes off to creep across the open war ground, i’ve got a red target painted on my back. One step. No sound. Two steps. A creak, no David. Three steps. I rush behind a bookcase and hear the sound of shoes still creeping along. I enter the room, my hands feeling around for a light switch. “SURPRISEEEE!!!” “AH WHAT THE FUCK” I scream and flail my arms around, fighting the air and bullying the wind. “DON’T HURT ME, DON’T HURT ME.” Face around turn into a frown. I crouch down throwing my face into my knees. “D-Dana?” A soft, familiar voice speaks. “Dana it’s me, what’s the matter?” I stand up and spin around. My eyes meet Davids as he stands in the doorway holding a chocolatey cake in his hand. “Please don’t hurt me!” I shout again. He has a look of confusion on his face, genuine confusion. “Dana no one’s gonna hurt you, this is a surprise party.” He speaks sadly. I finally look around noticing what I hadn’t before, the face of all my friends. “But, but the photos.” David cocks his head. “What photos?” “When I went to get you a bandage, I saw photos of me.” I say breathily, still shaken up. “Oh Dana, thats for your present. I knew it was creepy guys!” Everyone shakes their head assuredly. “No, no David just wait until she sees it!” I turn in every direction, scared and confused. “What about Aaron? You got all shaken up when I said he was dead?” David takes a breath, that’s because we planned a murder mystery for your birthday. I thought Marie had snitched. I whip my head around making eye contact with Marie. “Why was she scowling at me then? And being so mean?” Marie walks up and takes my hand in hers. “I’m so sorry about that Dana, I’m really bad at keeping surprises. That was just the face I made trying to contain my excitement. If I had talked to you any other way I knew I would burst!” I pull my hands away from hers and rip my phone out of my pockets. “But the messages! What about the messages!” David pulls out his phone to see what was sent. “When I saw you went to the library, I thought you had figured out the surprise. Hence when you turned your location off, I sent” “Did you really think that would stop me?” I say, cutting him off and finishing his sentence for him. He nods. “And as for the “I’ll hurt you” it was autocorrect. I meant to say “I’ll coerce you” and before I could finish saying “coerce you into leaving the library, you had... blocked me?” He began to speak again. “I thought when you had entered the library, you would have seen Aaron with his murder mystery makeup on. Hence the “it’s not what it looks like.” My eyes meet David’s until the shame I feel forces me to look at the tips of his shoes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry everyone.” There’s silence, until David pulls a lighter out from his pocket. One candle, two candles, three candles lit. “Happy birthday to you.” David begins. “Happy birthday to you.” Soon, the rest begin to follow. “Happy birthday dear Dana, happy birthday to you.” David laughs and adds “Anddd many more where you won’t think i’m a killer!” Everyone laughs, including me, and David smiles. Thank You guys. This was an interesting birthday for sure, but a great one now nonetheless. The rest of the night is filled with laughing, cake, and games. And even a dumb blanket, custom made, filled with the silliest candid photos of me in my most special moments.


Grow up, she said in her letter. Her words cut deep and upset me. I thought she was my best, my one and only friend. I thought she was the person I could turn to when I needed someone. There was nobody at work I could talk to or even wanted to talk to. Granny, Auntie, Uncle and Cousin Bob who I was living with at the time were not the conversational type and so I could not turn to them either. I felt lost and alone. I wrote to Daphne and told her I felt like a bird with a broken wing . In my mind, I imagined a Blackbird with one wing dangling limply by its side. That's how I felt. When I was younger, Dad often came home with a bird that had fallen out of its nest or that had hit the windscreen of his Jeep and we would hand rear the birds and then send them on their way. If a bird had a broken wing, then it could not fly and invariably it died no matter how hard we tried to save it. This is exactly how I was feeling--lifeless and forlorn, somehow, as if a bit of me was missing, helpless too. I was sixteen working at my first job and living with my Granny and I’d just heard that my dad had left my mum. It was a shock. The thing is, now I think about it, Granny had been acting a bit odd lately. She came into my bedroom and began making my bed. I like to make my own bed and even if someone else makes it, then I strip it and do it again myself. Don’t ask me why. I told Granny I could make my own bed. I even had to pull the covers out of her hands. She said nothing and went back downstairs. The following day she said we should send some flowers to Mum. I thought it was an odd thing to do as it was not Mum’s birthday, but went along with the idea and sent the flowers via Interflora. I asked Granny what I should put in the note with the flowers, and she said to just put, From Hastings. Hastings was Mum’s place of birth, and she loved it. I went along with this idea as well. I found out later that when Mum saw the flowers and read the note; she burst into tears because she thought the flowers were from Dad and that he wasn’t leaving her after all, and he was saying sorry. Well, that news upset me even more--sending flowers to Mum and then Mum crying over them. They were meant to make her happy. Then a few days after that, Granny was reading a letter, and she turned to me and told me Dad had left Mum. I was just about to go to work and that is all Granny said and as I could not think of anything to say back; I went to my office job at the huge departmental store on the seafront. People in the office asked me if I was all right and I said yes, I was just tired, that’s all, and maybe going down with a cold. I made excuses for how I thought I looked and never told anyone anything. I didn’t think anyone would be interested. People at work only ever spoke about--work. I did not know how to put what had happened to my parents and how I felt into words. The only words I could think of were those I used when writing to my friend Daphne. My dad has left my mum and I feel like a bird with a broken wing. Grow up. She replied in her letter. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. I never wrote back and Daphne never wrote to me again. I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself at all. I was wondering what on earth I could do to help Mum? Should I stay with Granny at Hastings and continue with my job? Should I go back to Bedford and move back in with Mum and then have to find work? The reason I had moved to Hastings in the first place was because I was able to get a job there after leaving school. I applied for many jobs back at Bedford, but nothing materialised. I felt terribly disorientated. I didn’t know how Mum was feeling. No-one told me where Dad was. I learned later that Dad had moved in with his secretary and her three children. One of whom had the same name as my brother--David. So now I had two brothers, and they were both called David. That was even more confusing. Was David my stepbrother, or did that only happen if Maria and Dad married? More muddling stuff to clutter up my already scrambled mind. I developed a permanent headache and often felt sick and dizzy. I also learned almost by chance that Dad and Maria and her three children were planning on moving to South Africa. They did eventually move there, and it would be thirty years before I saw Dad again. Soon after moving to South Africa, my brother heard that Dad and Maria had got divorced. Maria went off to Australia with her lover, leaving her three children behind in South Africa. Then Dad moved to Botswana and married a Motswana woman, who he later divorced and married another Motswana woman. I lost track, and I only heard about all this via third parties. Each year, Dad would send me a birthday card. It would arrive several weeks after my birthday and be signed, Dad. No love or kisses and no address or phone number either, so that I could write to him or telephone him. But at least it was some kind of communication and at least I knew, each year Dad was still alive. *** About five years after my parents broke up, I was travelling back to Bedford by train. I was at the railway station waiting for my connection when I noticed Daphne. I hardly recognised her. She was with a man of a similar age, and I assumed it was her boyfriend as by now I too had a boyfriend, but he was not travelling with me that day. I went over to her, and we spoke, though coldly. I asked her what she was doing at the station. Was she going on holiday? It was a lovely warm sunny day. Daphne told me she was going to London to see her newborn baby. The little girl had arrived early with all its organs in the wrong place and some on the outside of its body, and she was very sick. I told her how sorry I was at her sad news. Daphne looked and spoke like a little lost child that day. But she also spoke as if without feeling, as if she had steeled herself and was taking everything in her stride. I didn’t tell her to grow up. I didn’t tell her to stop feeling sorry for herself. In fact, I think she did not feel sorry for herself at all. I got the impression that she had no feelings whatsoever--numb. We didn’t hug. I don’t think either of us smiled at each other. Then her train came in, and we lifted our hands to wave a small goodbye. I think over those five years between receiving her condescending letter and seeing her at the railway station I had grown up and now Daphne, with her sick baby, was having to grow up fast as well.