\  Even though it was Nunu who sat on top of Willump, the Notai boy’s head was so heavy with thought that he wondered if they’d switched places while walking along the small trail through the forest. He’d prepared himself to join Quinn on her mission, swallowed his fear and looked the ranger-knight in the eyes, even said that it was impossible without a legendary sword. The only thing he hadn’t done was say it outright that he would help her, but she should’ve been able to pick up his clues. When Jax and Quinn had been stumped on those pieces of black wood and he gave them the answer, he couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride swelling his heart, before it shrunk and tightened as he remembered his mother. Nunu shook off the headache like Willump shook water off his fur. His mission was to bring Darragh back to Uwendale, after that... There were so many things to do. Braum could still be alive, he must be. The mighty Iceborn might’ve escaped from the rebels and tended his wounds just like Jax had done. Perhaps Willump could track down Braum by scent. The mages in the mountain were preparing for battle, duped by Fareed and the man named Kynon. If what Quinn said was true, he should go back and tell Cara and the others the truth. The masks of Kindred also piqued Nunu’s curiosity. There’d been legendary artifacts in the Freljordian tales, like Ornn’s tools and Avarosa’s bow, but it’s the first time he’d heard of masks which mimicked the abilities of the Eternal Hunters, and not only two masks but three. The strange dream in the world of eternal winter resurfaced into his mind; the bird with the beaked mask, the still shape of Lamb, the leering grin of Wolf. *Where will you run?* He banged his head against one of Willump’s horns. His best friend let out a questioning grunt. “What should I do, Willump?” Nunu asked. The yeti crunched on a handful of pebbles on the road. His face was serious and his footsteps thumped heavy across the ground as he thought of the question. After what felt like an eternity, Willump shrugged. “Thanks,” Nunu said in a dry tone. He turned to the weaponsmith walking a few paces in front of them. Darragh had been quiet since they left the glade, striding ahead and occasionally rustling shrubs and leaves to warn the Freljordians of some inconveniences like low branches, tree roots, and slippery moss. “Aren’t you worried?” Nunu shouted. Darragh’s back replied with silence. Nunu ushered Willump to walk beside the man. “Don’t you want to help Quinn?” The man’s brown eyes flicked once towards the boy, before returning back to the trail. “I *am* helping her.” “But how do you *know* that you’re helping her?” Nunu insisted. “What if she’s way over her head?” He thought for a moment. “We can still turn around. Willump can find them, he already complained twice how much Jax smelled.” “No.” “That easy?” Nunu asked. “Who said it’s easy?” The weaponsmith’s hands were bundled into fists. “I’m torn by each choice. Nothing seems right.” “But you decided so quickly.” Darragh looked up at Nunu. “Do you know what it means when you struggle to make a decision?” The Notai boy scrunched his face in concentration. “That I’m indecisive?” “It means that you care, but also that you don’t know what you care about the most.” “I care about everything!” Nunu blurted out. “No one cares about everything.” The weaponsmith walked ahead, leaving Nunu with more questions than he started with. \*\*\*\*\* Fences welcomed them as the forest thinned out. The boards were old and weathered, and would probably crumble if Willump sneezed on them. Past it were fields of grass and wheat, swaying against the wind, and a road crammed with wagons and carriages, rolling away from a settlement blocked by wooden walls. Sheep grazed a sloped range of grass, extending to jagged bare stone peaks which looked like a miniature version of the giant mountain range towering behind. From this side, the mountain range looked like a towering wall separating Freljord and Demacia. It shimmered like gray ice against the setting sun and reminded Nunu of the bridge to the Frostguard citadel, where one misstep would lead to an endless fall. The looming cliffs hadn’t looked as daunting when he’d seen it from Thawing Glade in Freljord, where he’d met Braum after a howling night of cold. The crack of wood followed by a meek whine, pulled Nunu back to see Willump fail to climb over the fence. “It’s alright,” Darragh said, picking up the planks. “About time someone broke these old things. Gives us a reason to make something new and better.” “That’s just silly,” Nunu said. “If you know they’re no good, then why haven’t you done anything to it already?” Darragh patted the dirt off from the splintered boards, his eyes tracing the cracked grooves and rusted nails. “Because they’ve always been there.” A shout made them turn to see four armored men inching closer. Two had their swords drawn while the other pair had crossbows pointed at Willump. Their eyes stared nervously through helmets either too big or too small for their heads. “Easy now,” Darragh said, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m Darragh, a weaponsmith from Uwendale. These two here saved me from the mages.” “Name yourselves!” The bravest of them shouted at the Freljordians, a lanky man with a few missing teeths. The sight of the crossbows made Nunu squirm. He gripped the horns of of his friend to calm his nerves. “I’m Nunu,” he said slowly, “and this is Willump. Say hi, Willump.” The yeti grunted. One of the crossbowmen yelped and a bolt zipped past. Nunu screamed. “Don’t fire!” Darragh shouted. “Don’t fire! We’re friends!” A roar tore through the field, bending the grass and shaking the ground as Willump charged at the group of men, fangs bared and claws glimmering. They tried to run, but fear took hold of their legs and they stumbled to the ground. “Stop!” Another boy appeared, putting himself in front of the crumbled men. His face was round and pale with fright, matching his tousled hair in color. He had his hands raised, palms forward. “Stop, please. They’re sorry!” A gray animal poked out from the boy’s head, its paws mimicking the boy’s motion. The sight must’ve confused Willump, because the yeti dug his heels in the dirt and slid to a halt, staring at the small duo. “Thank you.” The boy breathed out a sigh of relief. His legs gave up and he plopped onto the grass. “What were you thinking?” He snapped at the armored men behind him. “That monster threatened me!” “No, that happened *after* you almost shot our friend here. Now go back and tell the others that all is good and we don’t need any reinforcement. Barrett, since you’re so awfully quick with pulling the trigger, you have the honor to report to the warden about this. Don’t forget to say that you almost shot her husband’s savior.” Nunu blinked. The boy was older, but still looked to be half the age of the meek adults. It was so strange seeing a youngster chew out grown men. He wasn’t wearing any armor either, only a simple tunic and leggings under a hooded cloak. “You’re a ranger?” Nunu asked. The boy turned to him with a smile and tugged on an emblem of a bird sewn into the hood. “Barely,” he said. “I’m Adam, and this is Dash.” The animal on top of the boy’s head squealed. “He’s a raccoon.” “I’m Nunu and this is Willump. He’s a yeti.” “Nice to meet you, Nunu and Willump. Can you help me up? My legs are still a bit wobbly.” Darragh came forward just as Nunu climbed down from Willump’s head. They both hefted the boy up from the ground. “Adam?” the weaponsmith said slowly. “You’re a bit... different.” “I think the ranger-knight might’ve had something to do with that.” Adam glanced around before leaning closer and whispered, “Is she... you know, tracking down her prey?” Darragh’s jaw clenched again, hesitating to say anything. Nunu on the other hand, had no problem. “She’s with Jax and searching for the bad guy.” “I knew it!” Adam said in a triumphant tone. “You don’t think she’s a criminal?” Darragh asked. “Criminal?” The fair-haired boy looked almost insulted by the notion. “I’m not that gullible, mister Darragh. Let’s go back to Uwendale, I’m sure you have a lot to tell the warden.” They patrolled alongside Adam to the main road packed with wagons and carts. Nunu could now see the people, all with weary faces and suspicious eyes, their gazes flickered from his snowcap with giant fox ears to the large white shape of Willump. He was glad that he hadn’t put on his orange cloak, that would’ve pulled even more attention. Instead, he’d rolled the cloak into a bundle together with his gloves and wrapped it around one of Willump’s horns. He followed the long trail of wagons with his sight and landed on Uwendale. The village wasn’t anything grand like the Frostguard citadel. The stockade seemed tall and sturdy and he noticed a few figures walking on top of the wall, but the open gates revealed simple huts of wood and straw, not as different to the homes back in Freljord. “Did all these people live here?” he asked. “Many came for the Slayer’s Festival.” A festival. In a land filled with greens and crops, where sheep could graze the fields without any worries of an eternal winter. From what Nunu had seen, Demacia was a beautiful land with verdant green and nice-smelling flowers. The sun was warm and the wind was kind. So why were all these people’s faces so sad and bleak as if their hearts were frozen? “You don’t look like them,” Nunu said bluntly. “Hmm?” Adam turned around with a quizzical expression. “Are you a hero?” Nunu continued, “Do you have a title like Quinn? Is that why the other soldiers listen to you?” “A hero? I wish.” The ranger chuckled. “Maybe if I was a hero, Demacia’s Wings would’ve told me about her secret plan. The warden said that the ranger-knight was on the run, but I knew it was just another lie.” There was something sad in Adam’s smile. “And the soldiers listen to the warden. They only bear with me because they know the warden likes to send me on errands.” “How is she?” Darragh asked in a low voice. Adam’s smile thinned for a moment, before turning gentle. “She’ll feel much better after she knows that you’re safe.” A horn sounded in the air, like a soft drawn out wail. All the civilians tilted their heads towards the sound. The horses flinched and flared their noses. The ranger’s expression froze. “No...” Soon, other horns joined, holding a continuous tone. Nunu looked down at the ground. He’d felt something. The forest rumbled. “Run!” Adam shouted. “Run back to Uwendale!” As the families jumped off their carts and ran through the grass, Nunu glimpsed movement from the forest opening in the distance. “Nunu move!” Willump hoisted the Notai boy up on his head and ran. Screams and cries surrounded him as a herd of animals tore through the old fences and rushed past the fields. Wolves sprinted alongside boars and elks, mowing down wagons and tackling armored guards to the ground. The yeti slowed his feet as leathery wingbeats flapped above. In the sky, a flock of wyverns passed through, casting long shadows over the fleeing civilians. Nunu stared at one particular wyvern, larger than the rest, where he spotted two figures on its back. One of them wore a green cloak. It was too soon. It hadn’t even been a full day. A snarl alerted him of a growling wolf, staring at him. He pulled out *Svellsongur* and wielded it as a sword, gritting his teeth. “Come on then.” Alongside him, the guards formed a line, facing the wild animals while giving the travelers time to retreat back to the settlement. The wolf bared its fang and seemed to leap, only to stop at the last moment. A noise to Nunu’s side made him turn to see another wolf, already in the air and about to strike him. Willump swatted the wolf like a fly, while Nunu dumped a pile of snow onto the first one. A scream made him turn to see Darragh with a family of three, flanked by two boars. The weaponsmith and the father made loud noises to draw the animals’ attention, while the mother and son tried to escape. But the sudden movement caught one of the boar’s attention and pursued the parent and child instead. The son tried to chuck a doll against the beast, before the mother picked him up and ran. Nunu steered Willump towards them, when the world turned upside down and the yeti crashed onto the grass with a groan. His bundle with his cloak and gloves plopped next to him. A beast almost twice the size of a cart towered over them. It was like a giant bull, with long razor-horns crowning its head. Darragh had called it a tuskvore. A clatter of bolts thumped onto the beast but its hide was too thick. Reinforcement from the village hurried forward, bolstering the line of defense. Nunu looked back to see how far the civilians had run, but they were standing in the field, staring at the wyverns circling around Uwendale. To make things worse, masked undead had joined the fray, fighting against Uwendale’s troops. Their moves weren’t as rabid either, instead they were coordinated and drove back the soldiers with maces, axes, and swords. Willump stumbled back on his legs. This time, Nunu decided to stand next to his friend as the enemies came crashing in waves. His heart thumped hard against his chest. His mind raced, unable to keep up with his hands, swinging at a wolf, then a masked man, then to a boar. Each strike with *Svellsongur* brought out howls of pain. He was doing it, he was saving people. A large masked undead clashed swords against Adam. Nunu took the opportunity to swing *Svellsongur* at the undead’s head, but it noticed at the last moment and tilted its head, merely catching a glancing blow. It was still enough for *Svellsongur*, as ice began to form, spreading past the wood and latching onto hair and skin. Kynon must’ve upgraded the undead, because it retreated with a yell and tore the mask off, stopping the ice from spreading. Nunu braced himself for a second attack when the undead looked at him. He stopped. “Alby?” The rebel squinted his eyes, his bulbous nose flaring with a hard exhale. “Nunu?” An arrow hit Alby on the chest and the man fell to the grass. Nunu screamed. He hurried to his friend, kneeling beside and staring in disbelief at the rising and sinking chest, the warm-hued flesh, the eyes blinking with life. Alby wasn’t an undead. Alby was alive. Adam was about to sink his sword into the mage rebel, when Nunu threw his own body atop. “Stop!” Nunu pleaded. “Please, he’s a friend!” “They’re enemies, Nunu,” Adam said. “They attacked us first.” Alby spat a bloody clump on the grass and glared at the ranger. “Demacia’s council attack’d us long before we made our move.” Hearing his slurred voice again, Nunu was certain that it was Alby, the real Alby, not someone mind-controlled by a cursed mask. Realization dawned on him as he looked around at the other masked undead fighting against Uwendale’s troops. They didn’t move with beast-like movements like those who chased him across the forest. They were like the soldiers, swinging weapons at their opponents while doing their best to protect their vital parts. They could all be hurt. They could all die. The earth thundered underneath Nunu’s feet. He turned to see the tuskvore plowing through the wagons, sending carts flying and wheels rolling. His heart stopped when he saw the mother and son hiding underneath one of the carts, holding each other with their eyes closed. It sounded like a tree came crashing down when the tuskvore clashed with the yeti. The two beasts pushed each other and wrestled for dominance. The tuskvore distracted Adam and Alby took the opportunity to grab the dropped sword and stab the ranger-boy, but Nunu was faster with *Svellsongur*. The legendary weapon broke the no-name blade. “Stop!” Nunu screamed, pointing his weapon at Alby. “Just stop!” “I dun’ wan’ to hurt you, Nunu.” “I don’t want to hurt *you,* Alby!” “How can you side with them?” The man’s face was twisted in anger. “The mageseekers would’ve thrown me into their cellars and forced me to swallow poison, jus’ ‘cus of *this*.” He snapped his fingers and sparks flickered in the air. “Am I evil ‘cus I don’t need a tinderbox to light a fire?” Nunu bit his tongue. He didn’t have the answer to Demacia’s problem, he was from Freljord. He didn’t have any profound wisdom to share, he was just a boy. In the distance, the wyvern swarmed Uwendale’s walls, rising high up in the sky to avoid the arrows, then diving for attacks. Around Nunu, the militia fought against the rebels with the same ferocity as the wild beasts next to them. Their motivations might’ve been different but their screams of pain sounded the same. *Svellsongur* felt cold in his palm. With one swing, he could defeat an enemy. Adam brushed off Nunu and charged at the larger mage. The ranger and the rebel grappled each other, rolling on the grass for advantage. At the end, Alby gained the upper hand with his size and with a strong right, he glazed over Adam’s eyes. He was about to punch another when a raccoon bit him on the nose. He yelled and grabbed the animal by the tail, about to slam it to the ground, when Nunu charged him with a shoulder, sending them both tumbling. The mage drew a ragged breath as he crawled up on his legs. His eyes locked onto the trembling Notai. “Go on then. Swing tha’ weapon of yours.” Nunu shook his head. Blood dribbled out from the lips of Alby, his face softening into a hopeless smile. “Then run away. It’s alright to run.” Nunu shook his head again. Something whistled past Nunu. Alby’s smile stiffened as another bolt punctured the man’s chest. A dozen paces away, a crossbowman reloaded his crossbow while another took aim at Alby. The crossbows fired. The bolt struck ice. The wall glittered like glass, separating the soldiers from Nunu and Alby. The Notai hurried to his fallen friend, clutching a cold hand, shaking a still body, calling a name no one claimed. He didn’t know what he should do, which choice was the best. He didn’t want anyone to be hurt but he had to swing *Svellsongur* to defeat his enemy. How else was he going to win? *Depends on what your goal is*. The ranger-knight with the scowling face had said it as if it had been the most obvious thing in the world. She didn’t have any legendary sword, her fists couldn’t shatter stone. She said that she won not by killing Kynon but by stopping the war. “Willump!” His shrill voice was a faint sliver amidst the cacophony of battle. But the yeti would’ve heard the call from a mile away. Willump roared, summoning his strength to push away the tuskvore, before rushing to the Notai’s aid, sweeping the boy up on his head. The wind chilled the wet stains on Nunu’s cheeks. He wiped his eyes and stared across the battlefield, of men and women falling, and lives seeping into the soil. He grabbed onto Willump’s horns, noticing that his friend had his own set of battle scars with the tuskvore, from broken horn parts, gashes of red across the white fur, and a panting breath fogging up the air. *No one cares about everything.* There might've been some truth in what Darragh had said, but when it came to tell a story, truth would always play the second fiddle. He steered Willump to pick up his bundle of clothes. The bright orange cloak fluttered as the yeti ran through the battlefield. The gloves squeezed his hands and stopped his fingers from trembling. He looked at *Svellsongur,* his named weapon which had broken several times over their adventures. A sword to cleave foes down the middle. *The hero doesn’t make the story. It’s the story that makes the hero.* He could see the Iceborn glinting eyes and smiling mustache. *And what kind of tale is this, story-teller?* One where a sword would be useless because there were no enemies to cleave. Nunu drew a deep breath and placed his lips on the end of *Svellsongur*. He breathed life into the reed and the flute sang out. The heavy thumps from Willump turned to muffled as his feet stepped on snow, piling higher and higher, covering the grass and reaching up to the knees. When Willump passed some masked mages, Nunu played another tune and ice suddenly appeared underneath and the mages slipped and fell into powder snow. The animals found themselves attacking snowmen and staring up at the white dust fluttering down from the sky. The song wasn’t one from his mother’s wide collection, but one he’d thought up when he’d been nestled in Willump’s fur while the harsh wind howled outside. It was one he’d polished when a weathered village in north Freljord had welcomed him and Willump to their home, even offering the last of their grains to hear some stories over a crackling fire. A song he’d finished when Braum comforted him even though the Iceborn had been beaten down by all the different kinds of hardships they’d encountered over the journey. The landscape changed to one Nunu had known all his life. He could see the white lands of Freljord and taste the fresh air just by closing his eyes. He could hear his mother’s laughter, feel her hands ruffling his hair and see the glistening stars against the blackest skies. He could remember the rush of excitement as a bald Iceborn, a furry monster, and a small boy rode on a shield-turned-sled down the mountains. This was his song to Freljord, where one could walk through the coldest nights and meet people with the warmest hearts. As the song swelled, Willump began to laugh, humming along to Nunu’s tune with a deep booming voice. The yeti rolled up a snowball, making it bigger and bigger, steering it towards the warriors who were still fighting and flattening some to the ground while mashing others into the growing white sphere. It was good that Willump had so many hands, while he used a pair to roll the snowball, he used the other pair to fling snowballs across the field, splattering onto Uwendale’s crossbowmen who tried to aim at the mages. A roar challenged the boy and his yeti. The tuskvore knocked down snowmen blocking its path. It crushed the walls of ice Nunu had erected. The beast reared its front leg and aimed its horns. Nunu continued playing, almost in a teasing manner, while Willump released the growing snowball and turned his attention to the new playmate. The yeti clapped his hands and smiled widely. The tuskvore trampled across, spewing snow to the sides. Its horns gleamed with sharpness. It didn’t expect the boy to jump off and the yeti to ram back with massive reindeer horns. They slammed their crowns against each other. Once, twice. The clash like thunder in the dark sky. As Nunu’s song reached its climax, Willump bellowed a deafening roar and dove under the tuskvore, flinging the beast into the largest pile of snow. The Notai boy dropped his flute and fell to his knees. With it, the landscape of Freljord began to thaw. Melting and revealing still green grass, budding wheat, and brown soil. Bodies lay scattered on the ground. Some in armor, others wearing masks. There were corpses of animals too, felled by arrows and spears. But they were few compared to the ones who still stood. The rebels and Uwendale’s citizens had stopped fighting. Their eyes locked onto the Notai boy, their jaws slack and arms limp. He found Darragh’s face among the crowd, with bulging eyes and open mouth as if he’d just heard an outrageous story. A new weariness pulled over Nunu. His eyelids felt leaden and his knees begged him to fold. He almost listened to them if it weren’t for Willump’s wet nose nustling his cheek and rough tongue licking him all over the face. “You stink, Willump,” Nunu groaned. The yeti scoffed and then burst into a big smile. Nunu searched on the ground and found *Svellsongur* once again broken. He picked up the pieces and closed his eyes, but when he opened it again, the pieces remained apart. His best friend grunted in a worried tone. “Not yet, Willump.” Nunu looked towards Uwendale, at the wyverns picking apart the village like vultures on a carcass. “There’s still some adventure left to do.”  \ ***DISCLAIMER*** ***‘The Tales We Tell’ is a non-profit work of fan fiction, based on the game League of Legends.*** ***I do not own League of Legends or any of its material. League of Legends is created and owned by Riot Games Inc. This story is intended for entertainment purposes only. I am not making any profit from this story. All rights of League of Legends belong to Riot Games Inc.


You’ve heard it, I’ve heard it, I think it’s safe to say that most of us have been told this at one point or another in our lives. It seems to be the solution to fights, arguments, bullying, and pretty much everything that frequently ruins the lives of teenagers. “Walk away”. I’d like to focus on just that last one for now: bullying. I fancy my chances when I say that you’ve probably fallen victim to, been close to someone who has fallen victim to, or have witnessed bullying (after all, roughly 20% of people were bullied as teenagers). As only the closest people to me will be able to tell you, I was bullied (this would be a pretty boring thing to read if I were to just throw facts at you for a few pages of Walbaum Display in size 11). Therefore, I have a lot of stories I could tell you about the effects it has had on me, my family, and my perception of the world around me. But I’d like to tell you one story today. Just one. It was the one that changed my life. Before we begin, I should clear some things up. The bullying in question was both physical and emotional, and occurred late into my years in primary school (emotional bullying continued slightly into year 7 but faded away eventually). It happened for several reasons: I was physically weak (some sick people saw me, therefore, as easy prey), I was fat, and I spoke like I though I was smarter than everyone (this wasn’t what I was thinking and I was actually doing terribly in school, but I’ll elaborate on that later). My primary school was also one of those schools that has some years past six (usually for those who couldn’t find a better school that would accept them). Now that we have the background out of the way, we can begin. I wasn’t the only person getting bullied at that school, there were three or four others who all fit the criteria (weak, nerdy, etc.), and we had all come up with several plans over the years to avoid being picked on. My personal favourite (in retrospect, of course) was, and this is hilarious,... “stand up to them”. We can laugh about it now, but that little trick sent all four of us home with a thick lip and visible limp, so... maybe it wasn’t the best plan. Of course, there were other plans, for example, “ignore them”, but it’s quite hard to ignore someone pulling your chair out from underneath you in the middle of a test. We soon realised that no strategies were going to work. There was no “dealing with bullies 101” class, no “12 neat tricks to overcome a bully”. Nothing. So, we had no option other than “knuckle under and stop whining” (which was actually a piece of advice I received more often than was necessary). Then, as usual in a story, there was a plot twist. It’s normally an wise old man or a travelling monk, but mine came in a pretty mundane form: another child. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to any adults to find someone my age who has dealt with bullying to speak to me. You’d think it would be simple. Blatantly obvious, perhaps? You adults do it for careers, choosing A-levels, choosing GCSEs. In fact, I’m positive that almost every other aspect of school uses the “bring someone who has gone through this in” method, yet, somehow, the people who are supposed to guide us through childhood (adults) hadn’t thought of just asking someone with experience. Nevertheless, I found someone roughly my age who could help me. Her name was Jenny and she was actually a friend of my older brother, Sam. We only met because I came home in tears and her mum was giving Sam a ride home and popped in for a cup of tea. Sam asked Jenny to come round and speak to me, and she did. The next time her mum came round, Jenny saw me doing my homework in the study and came in. She sat cross-legged on the floor (looking up at me, as I was on a dining chair that had been moved because my step-dad needed the desk chair) and greeted me. “Hey, Charlie”. She seemed upbeat, not too upbeat, but enough to make me start feeling a little better already. “Hello”, I mumbled (I wasn’t in a good mood, because I’d just had an argument about the chair). “So, I hear you’re having some trouble with the older kids at school?”. I nodded. She asked “when did it start?”, and I instantaneously burst into tears. My speech was incoherent, my mind refused to control my body, and my chest began to ache. I wanted to calm down (I didn’t want Sam to be embarrassed of me, after all), but the more I tried to breathe, the more my throat closed up. It was a horrible feeling that is unique to extreme weeping. Jenny didn’t expect me to talk, instead, she stood me up and hugged me. We must have sat there for hours, me bawling, her rubbing the back of my head. It took me a while, but I eventually ran out of tears, and my throat stopped trying to strangle me. Jenny had forced me to lower my defences and I ultimately trusted her more than anyone who had ever tried to help me. After all that crying and the countless stones I must have lost in tears, I had no choice but to give Jenny’s idea a shot. She hit me with that all-too-familiar phrase: Walk away. Call it vulnerability, call it a female’s comforting presence, call it whatever you want, but this time it hit differently. “Walk away” went from being some impossible thing said by adults who just don’t get it to the easiest step in a one-step guide to fixing your life. She wiped the tears from my eyes and off my cheeks with her sleeve, and squeezed me tightly one more time. “You’ve got this, Charlie!”, she whispered as she left. I sat for a bit and planned out what I was going to do (it didn’t take long as the game-plan was about three words long), before getting back to my homework. Then, something weird happened. The work was just easier. It’s like people had been telling me to walk with a boulder on each shoulder for my entire life and then Jenny just put them on the ground and now I could run. Cringey as it seems now, I genuinely felt as if a burden had been lifted. Whether it was the endorphins from crying or the after-taste of being hugged, I got the best sleep of my life that night. The next day came and my mum was worried. Not because I was frightened or because I didn’t have the energy to get out of bed (like normal), but because I was calm. Finally. I had longed for that feeling of “I’m going to have a day today that won’t be cut short by a fist to the back of the spine and a 5-minute struggle to pick my books up off the muck-coated floor” for far too long (it’s a feeling you don’t realise you have until it’s gone). I grabbed my bag (I had packed it the night before, in my temporary, tear-triggered enlightenment), brushed my teeth, got changed, and hopped on the bus (all in record-time). My day was going brilliantly. I got an A for a test I thought I’d failed, I managed to eat my snack at break in peace, and I had a positive expectation for lunchtime. I walked out of the classroom happily with my head held high and began to make my way to the playground. Instinctively, like a gazelle steering clear of lions, I scanned my hunted-grounds and gave the all-clear to my pack (given that this pack consisted of... me, it was a very brief conversation) and made my way outside. I began to walk, holding my cereal bar nonchalantly, when I was thrust into a wall. I felt like I was getting beaten up by an out-of-control freight train. My head collided with the wooden handrail and ricocheted onto the concrete floor. My brain began pumping adrenaline throughout my body, filling my limbs with an instinct to react to the pain. It began to overwhelm me. I could feel myself being stripped of all control. But then, I remembered Jenny. “Walk away” I looked the bully dead in the eye and breathed. Having caught my breath, I turned and walked. I didn’t run, nor did I flee. I walked away. He screamed obscenities and insults at me. “You ******* coward! Get back here!”. I just walked. No destination, no adult behind whom I was going to hide, I just walked. I felt serene. After that day, things started to look up. My fellow victims of bullying began trying the technique, I started being able to concentrate and sleep, and I started to regain confidence. Of course, the journey still wasn’t easy, but I can tell you that my life would be a lot worse today if I hadn’t met Jenny. “Walk away”--every adult.


The sensation of cold water on her head awakened Fiona from her already inconsistent sleep. It had rained through the whole night, and so she had fled into an old ruin of a building. It was still cold but the crumbling walls protected her from wind and rain. Now however, the water was dripping from somewhere down on her. Drip, drip, drip. Okay enough, annoyed Fiona got up. Drying her pelt with professional determination, the tabby cat heard a noise followed by the chattering of birds. She went to the next opening and peeked into the direction of the clacking noise. There were two crows quarrelling over a snail, which had hidden in her shell. Taking the shell in its beak the one crow tried to shatter it on a stone. But the house was hard and so it jumped up again into a new direction, where the other crow would catch it and repeat the process. Croaking in excitement and anger because of the task they had. Fiona felt her stomach rumbling, she too was hungry. The thought of catching one of the crows crossed her mind. But it would be dangerous, sharp talons and deadly beaks could be the last thing she saw. Fiona was not fully grown, not too long ago her mother had chased her away. She had not caught much since then, mice and hummingbirds. But never a prey as big and dangerous as a fully grown crow. The black feathers glittered in the sunlight, and again the shell was thrown against the rock. This time the house shattered, revealing the snail inside. Its feelers were searching for shelter, in the suddenly cold world. Yet the crow already plucked it from the ground, swallowing it whole. Fiona felt sorry for the snail, but crows needed to eat too. Which reminded her of the empty stomach inside of her own body. The crows flew away after concluding that there were no more snails around. Fiona’s gaze followed them; they had a nest not far from the building. Fiona thought, when there was a nest then there was prey as well. Young hatchlings not as dangerous as their parents. Hesitantly she followed, stalking through the thicket sneaking to the giant tree trunk. The tree was not very high, the greatest danger would be to get up and down out of sight before the parents would return. Patiently she waited until the two pitch-black birds set out again in search for new prey, they could feed to the hungry throats. Swiftly she climbed up, using her claws to get a hold at the uncompromising wood. The smell of young birds filled her nose and soon she could hear the twittering hatchlings. Not too long ago she herself had cried after her mother like this. Pity came over her, encouraging her conscience. Perhaps she should leave, searching for another prey. The short-haired cat looked at the sky, their parents were nowhere to be seen. Food was not always easy to find; it could go a day or two without anything to feast upon. Again, Fiona could feel the emptiness of her belly. She ignored her heart’s voice and broke the neck of one of the four little crows. Swiftly as she had climbed up, she got down again. Hiding under the next best bush. When the crows returned, she could hear their cries of losing one of their dearest ones. They flew around searching and croaking in fear of never seeing their child again. Fiona left the scene after the meal, a dark cloud hanging over her. In the morning her heart was full and her belly empty. Now her belly was full and a hole had opened up in her heart. Everyone needs to eat and everyone needs to die someday. Everyone wants to live, but not everyone survives the struggle of life.


“Where’s the last box?” “I... I already thew it away.” Kelsey squinted at me. “Nyla, where’s the last box.” I opened my mouth, ready to lie again, then sighed. “It’s under my bed.” Lying wouldn’t get us anywhere but back to the beginning. “I’ll go get it.” Kelsey disappeared around the corner, and I slumped onto the couch. The last box, I thought. The last box of Oliver’s things. I forced a fresh wave of tears down as I reminded myself that this was not a form of erasing him, but instead a physical display of moving on. I was giving myself a chance to start fresh, starting with removing my dead boyfriend’s things from my apartment. I glanced at the photo on the table beside the couch, the only picture of him I’d decided to keep. In it, he was smiling at me as I screamed at the top of my lungs, terrified of the roller coaster we were riding. His auburn hair was wild in the wind, while my black frizz of hair seemed to barely move. I wiped a rogue tear from my cheek and turned to see Kelsey standing over me. She held the last cardboard box -- marked “misc.” -- in her hands and stared down at me with the saddest expression I’d ever seen her wear. “Ready?” she asked, balancing the box on her hip and lending her other hand to me. I nodded and took her hand. “Ready.” Together, we took the stairs down to the first floor of my apartment building, then stepped through the door, out of the lobby. We were immediately assaulted with the typical noises of Manhattan: car horns and angry people and happy people, going on as if my life hadn’t just been shattered into a thousand pieces. We slipped into an alleyway with a Dumpster, where we’d disposed of the previous boxes, one by one. Kelsey and I stopped in front of the large green bin and did nothing but stare at it for a few moments. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Kelsey asked for the tenth time in the past hour. I nodded weakly, eyeing the box in her hands. “Do I really have a choice?” “Of course, Nyla. You shouldn’t do this until you’re absolutely ready.” “But it’s been five months,” I sighed. “Five months since brain cancer took Oliver away from me. Five months of staring at his stuff, hoping there was somehow still a part of him -- or his essence -- lingering in his things. I just... I can’t do it anymore,” I sobbed, my voice quivering. I looked up at my best friend, forcing a small smile. “Besides, if I don’t do this now, I don’t think I ever will.” Kelsey handed the final box to me. “I understand. Or, well, I don’t -- I can’t -- but I understand what you’re saying.” She nodded at the box in my hand. “Whenever you’re ready.” I took a deep breath and raised the box above the open top of the Dumpster. “Okay.” I counted to three in my head, preparing myself to drop the box. “Here I go.” I spread my fingers -- My hands wouldn’t let go. Kelsey smiled encouragingly, but the box still didn’t fall. I’m not ready to say goodbye, I thought, then shook off the idea. No. I am ready. I am. I smiled, and my mind immediately flashed back to one bad night in the hospital when Oliver, already bald and losing weight, begged me to stay by his side. Nope, still not. “Are we sure this is a trash box?” I asked Kelsey, my voice rising an octave. “How do we know this isn’t a donate one?” “We gave away all of the donate ones yesterday, remember?” She stepped forward to rub circles on my back. I nodded. “Okay. All right. I can do this,” I murmured. I counted to three again, then spread my hands -- “Can I look through it one last time?” Kelsey grinned, shaking her head. “It’s your decision, not mine.” I quickly sat on the ground in the alley, setting the box on my lap. I opened the flaps and took out the first thing I saw: one of Oliver’s old toothbrushes. I grinned at its mangled bristles and fingered the peeling rubber before gently setting it aside. Next, I took out a course completion certificate. Looking closer, I realized it was a cooking class he’d taken a few years ago. One we’d taken together . I faintly remembered Oliver’s slim fingers slipping, the blood spilling all over our shared cutting board. He’d yelled for a medic, like we were on some TV show, making me laugh despite my shock at seeing the blood. I blinked back a few tears and reached for the next item in the box, squished between a broken viedo game console and a punctured basketball. Slowly, I brought a small, cracked cell phone into the light. This time, I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. Kelsey crouched beside me. “Was that his phone?” she asked softly. I nodded, sniffling. Tentatively, I pressed the power button, and the device miraculously brightened. “I thought I’d lost it,” I gasped. I swiped to unlock it, then clicked into the camera roll, figuring scrolling through his pictures was the best way to use whatever charge the phone had left. An ambulance whizzed by us on the street, sirens blaring, but I barely noticed. Instead, I was focused on the most recent picture he’d taken, dated a year and a half ago. In the selfie, I was passed out on the couch in the background, while Oliver grinned evilly from the bottom corner of the screen. I released an involuntary sob, and Kelsey leaned forward to hug me. “I remember that night,” I rasped, my eyes trained on the screen. “Oliver had just taken me ice skating, despite my pleas for him to stay home and rest. He’d... he’d just gotten sick when this was taken.” “I’m... I don’t even know what to say,” Kelsey said, by way of apologizing. After a few moments, I responded with: “Don’t say anything. Just be there for me, and that’s enough.” I carefully packed the toothbrush and the certificate back into the box and closed the flaps. Tucking the cell phone into my back pocket, I stood before the Dumpster. Kelsey handed me the box and asked if I was ready for the eleventh time, and this time, I wasn’t lying when I said I was. I missed Oliver -- I knew I always would -- but it was time to move on. As our ice skating adventure had proven, his first interest was always making sure I was happy. If he could see me now, I was sure he’d wouldn’t want me crying over him; he’d want me to live my best life and remember our good times, not the bad. So, with one final goodbye to the toothbrush and the certificate and the other various items in the box, I spread my hands and held my breath until I heard the clunk at the bottom of the Dumpster that meant I’d finally let Oliver go. I’d finally moved on. The walk back up to my apartment took a million years. I kept second-guessing myself, wondering if I should go back to the Dumpster and fish the box back out. I feared I'd gotten rid of it too soon, and now I'd never heal properly. "He seems like such a great guy, Nyla," Kelsey was saying from beside me in the stairwell. "I really wish I could have met him." "Yeah," I whispered. "I wish you could have, too." Back in my apartment, I immediately slumped onto my couch, desperately hoping I'd done the right thing. Kelsey noticed the photo beside the couch and picked it up to examine it. "He was cute," she observed. "Really cute." "Like, he could have been a model cute." "He could have been anything," I added, rolling off the couch onto the floor. "But he was just a college student." Kelsey lied down beside me. "No, he was more than that. He was... he was a boyfriend -- a great one, I hear -- he was a son, a friend, an amateur chef..." She turned her head to look at me. "He was all of those, Nyla." I shook my head, ignoring the tears streaming freely down my face. "But he could have been more. " "We all could be more. You could be more, I could be more... but it doesn't matter. What matters is who we are now ." Kelsey scrunched up her nose, thinking. "If you keep worrying about who you could be, you won't actually... well, you'll never become anything. But if you live in the present and appreciate who you are, you can accept yourself and actually grow to be... more ." I chuckled softly. "When did you become so wise?" I asked. She grabbed my hand and gave it a quick squeeze. "When you started needing me." "I've always needed you." "You know what I mean." Exhausted from crying, thinking, and "moving on," I allowed my eyes to flutter close. Kelsey continued talking next to me, and I soon found myself drifting off to the sound of her voice. A few hours later, I woke to find myself alone in my apartment. Kelsey was gone, but a yellow Post-it lay on the floor in her spot. So, so sorry to leave like this, it read, but I really have to get back home. You know, seven hour drive and all. I'll call you when I get home, promise. ~K I stood and carefully set the note beside the picture of Oliver and me. Still groggy from my nap, I shuffled into my bedroom and collapsed into my bed, jeans and all. I'd barely pulled the covers up to my chin, already missing my best friend, when sleep reclaimed me. “Don’t let go of me,” I begged. “I won’t. I won’t, okay? I promise,” Oliver laughed as I clutched his arm for dear life. “If you let go, I will kick you with my skates. I swear, I’ll do it.” “I believe you.” Oliver practically dragged me around the rink, careful to stay close to the edge so I could grab the rail if I needed to. “How are you... How is this so natural for you?” “I took skating lessons as a kid. I guess there are some things you never forget,” he said, smiling down at me. “And some people you never forget, too.” I matched his grin. “I hope I’m included in that. You wouldn’t dare forget me, would you, Nyla?” “Never.” I squeezed his arm. “I’ll never forget you, Oliver.” I woke from my dream, panting and sweating. I pulled back my sheets and swung my legs over the bed, ready to open my window and attempt to fall back asleep to the sounds of the city. But, no. I desperately needed to talk to someone, to hear someone else’s voice. Oliver’s voice had haunted me for long enough. I grabbed my phone from my nightstand and scrolled through my contacts. Who can I call? I needed someone who could relate to my grief for Oliver, but no one was coming to mind. He wasn’t close to any family members, so I couldn’t call any of them. My parents had never been good sympathizers; they wouldn’t console me the way I needed them to. I’d already bothered Kelsey enough over the past few days; she deserved to rest. Giving up, I tossed my phone back onto my bedside table and started toward my window, but something else caught my eye. I’d left Oliver’s phone on my windowsill to charge, and it dimly glowed there, calling out to me. I sat on the floor in front of my window and opened up to his camera roll again. I scrolled through until I found the video I faintly remembered him filming. “Wait, I have to start the video.” The camera view jostled, then finally settled on me, sitting at the kitchen table with a lopsided blue cake before me. “Is the button red?” I asked, grinning and shaking my head. “Oh. Yeah, it is. Okay, you can start now.” The sound of Oliver’s voice made me think back to my dream, but I forced myself to stay in the present. I squeezed my eyes shut, then blew out the candles one by one. Oliver cheered from behind the camera, then zoomed in on my nostrils. “What did you wish for?” “For you to not ask what I wished for,” I joked, my left eyebrow now visible. “Obviously, it didn’t come true.” “Wow. What a waste of a wish.” Now Oliver zoomed out, and you could see my entire face again. “I’m kidding. I wished that you didn’t accidentally switch the salt and sugar in my cake again!” “No promises on that one,” he replied, and we laughed as the video faded to black. I set his phone back on the sill, careful not to damage it more than it already was. I dropped my head into my hands, praying that my tears wouldn’t make another appearance today, but unfortunately, my eyes had other plans. I raised my head after a few moments and stared out of my window. I watched miniature cars go by below me, spending a second wondering where each one was going, as Oliver and I used to. I opened my window, letting in the nightly sounds of the Big Apple. For a moment, I let myself imagine Oliver was beside me, his arm slung around my shoulders. Then I shook off the thought, realizing that pretending he was here with me wasn’t a very efficient way to help me move on. I needed to open my mind to new possibilities, not cling to old habits. “I’ll never forget you, Oliver.” The words echoed in my head as I cried. I’d actually said them, the night of the photo on Oliver’s phone. I didn’t know at the time, but that one conversation would replay in my dreams for months to come. “I’ll never forget you, Oliver,” I whispered out loud. I gazed down at the pinpricks of light in the beautiful city, wondering how, surrounded by over eight million people, I could feel so lonely. I turned my gaze onto the navy sky above me. A few helicopters flew by, flashing their bright red and white lights through the darkness. My tears blurred my vision, and for a moment, the lights resembled shooting stars, streaking through the atmosphere. “I miss you,” I whispered to one of the “stars.” “I miss you every day. You were my light, my everything, and now, you’re... now, you’re gone.” I wiped away the tears. “But you’re not really, are you? You’re still here with me. I know it. You’ll always be here with me. Won’t you?” No response. But yet, somehow, I knew Oliver had heard me. “I’m trying to move on,” I continued. “I want to try to get my life back together, and soon. I made some progress with that this week by moving your things from the apartment. All I kept was your phone.” I glanced at the cracked cell on the sill beside me. “Maybe I’ll try to get a new roommate, finish up school. Maybe I’ll even stop ordering takeout every night and pull out my old cookbooks! But please, just know I’m not trying to forget you. I’ll -- I’ll never forget you, Oliver.” I smiled up at the sky. “No, I’ll never forget you.”


Monsieur LeBlanc, the most famous food critic in all of France, had a dirty secret. It was a guilty and greasy pleasure that he could never resist. Despite the fact that he had spent years cultivating his sophisticated tastes, Monsieur LeBlanc loved the simple and unrefined meal of fried chicken. And after this especially difficult week, when his eyes fell upon it as a special on the menu, he surrendered to its crispy temptation. Of course, Monsieur LeBlanc knew that if such a secret was discovered, it could irreparably tarnish his career. But in the divine theater of life, filled with mystery, impending tragedy, and relentless joy, of what consequence could a single portion of fried chicken be? Monsieur LeBlanc had no way of knowing that this simple meal would soon become the catalyst for a series of events that would forever alter his very existence. Monsieur LeBlanc felt a pang of embarrassment when he ordered the dish with his young waiter. But when the plate of golden-fried chicken arrived and the fragrant aroma of its juicy flesh wafted up to his nose, Monsieur LeBlanc was absolutely intoxicated. His mouth began to water uncontrollably as he picked up his fork and knife, ready to savor the first bite. But just as Monsieur LeBlanc was about to take a mouthful, his eyes darted to the other side of the restaurant, and his heart sank. There, sitting at a nearby table, was his arch-nemesis, the renowned Italian food critic Mario De La Fantissimo. If De La Fantissimo caught him indulging in such a humble dish, his days as the most famous food critic in France would be over. With a heavy heart, Monsieur LeBlanc set down his fork and knife, quietly pushed the plate of fried chicken away, and tried to act nonchalantly. He knew that he had to avoid detection if his reputation was to be preserved. The waiter noticed that Monsieur LeBlanc was not eating his food, and with concern etched on his face, he approached the table. "Excusez-moi, monsieur," he said in a soft voice, "Is everything alright with your meal?" Monsieur LeBlanc, trying to remain calm and composed, assured the waiter that everything was fine. He didn't want to cause a scene. “Non, non, tout va bien.” He said softly, “I am just not hungry.” But as Monsieur LeBlanc tried to dismiss the waiter, he noticed that the young man was becoming increasingly distraught. His eyes welled up with tears, and his voice began to shake. "Please, monsieur," the waiter said, "if there is anything wrong with the food, I must know. I cannot bear the thought of you leaving here dissatisfied." Monsieur LeBlanc realized that the waiter knew who he was. His reputation as a food critic preceded him, even in this modest restaurant. Monsieur LeBlanc tried to reassure the young man, telling him that the food was delicious and that there was nothing wrong with it. But the waiter's anxiety continued to grow, and he began to cry loudly, causing other diners to turn and stare. Monsieur LeBlanc felt his face flush with embarrassment. Suddenly, the waiter stopped crying and looked up at Monsieur LeBlanc with a wild look in his eye. "Oh, woe is me!" he exclaimed, his baritone voice rising in a dramatic crescendo. "What is the meaning of life? Is it all for naught? Do we live, and love, and suffer, only to be cast aside by the fickle winds of fate?" Monsieur LeBlanc could hardly believe his ears. The waiter had transformed from a concerned young man into a Shakespearean actor, delivering an impassioned soliloquy on the meaninglessness of existence. "Is this all there is?" the waiter continued, his arms outstretched. "A few brief moments of pleasure, followed by a lifetime of toil and sorrow? Is this the grand design of the universe, or merely a cruel joke played by a capricious god?" Monsieur LeBlanc was at a loss for words. He had never encountered such an outburst before, especially not in a restaurant. He wondered if the waiter was perhaps suffering from a mental breakdown or some other ailment. As the waiter continued his speech, other diners began to murmur and whisper. Monsieur LeBlanc's heart stopped as he noticed Mario De La Fantissimo staring at him with a mocking smile. De La Fantissimo had been out to get him for years and now fate had provided him with the perfect opportunity. A bead of sweat rolled down Monsieur LeBlanc’s forehead. He was desperately thinking of a way to salvage the situation. The waiter collapsed onto the floor, now sobbing again and wailing about the meaning of life. The other diners gasped in shock. Mario De La Fantissimo looked at Monsieur LeBlanc with a mixture of cruelty and disgust before taking out his pen and notepad and starting to write a review. “Je dois agir,” Monsieur LeBlanc said as he leaped onto the stage next to his table which was sometimes used for performances to entertain the diners. Suddenly there is silence and everyone is staring at LeBlanc. "Mes amis,” LeBlanc says in a clear and commanding voice, “despite all the struggles and hardships that we may face, the human spirit remains unrelenting, unyielding in the face of adversité. We are a people of résilience, of fortitude, of hope. And it is this unwavering spirit that imbues all of existence with such beauté and wonder." The diners start to look at each other and slowly nod in agreement, caught up in Monsieur LeBlanc's impassioned words. The aroma of fried chicken fills the air, mingling with the scent of wine and spices. Somehow a dramatic and hopeful cello begins to play as if from nowhere. For a moment, all is right with the world. "As we sit here today, enjoying this simple yet délicieus meal, let us remember to savor each and every moment of this precious life. Let us celebrate the joy of existence in all its forms, from the grandest feats to the humblest of pleasures. For in the end, it is these moments that make life truly worth living." As his speech finishes, he notices that the diners have tears in their eyes. They begin applauding and cheering and throwing flowers onto the stage at Monsieur LeBlanc’s feet. He glances at Mario De La Fantissimo and sees his face has twisted into an expression of jealousy and hatred. As LeBlanc takes his bow the curtain at the back of the stage rises revealing a full orchestra dressed in tuxedos gathered behind him. They begin playing a triumphant melody and the clapping and cheering gets louder. But as Monsieur LeBlanc rises from his bow, he is surprised at the sight of Mario De La Fantissimo approaching him. De La Fantissimo has a formidable appearance: tall and burly, wearing a top hat and a long, black greatcoat. The audience and the musicians become silent as he takes the stage right next to Monsieur LeBlanc. “The problema with this world," Mario declares, rolling his r’s "is that people have a become complacent. They are contenuto with da mundane, da mediocre. They settle for da second best, when they should be striving for da perfezione in all-a-things. This is why we needa da harsh critiques, to remind people that there is always da room for improvement.” He flashes a toothy grin at the crowd, some of whom are nodding in agreement with him. “Mediocrity” De La Fantissimo says, gesturing toward LeBlanc, “shoulda never be accepted!" Monsieur LeBlanc recoils as if he has been struck. He and Mario De La Fantissimo lock eyes. They both are aware that things have progressed well past the point where this can end peaceably. The Shakespearean waiter must have understood this as well because he approached the stage with a silver tray. On the tray are two steak knives. Monsieur LeBlanc and Mario De La Fantissimo take the knives and face off. The orchestra begins to play a haunting melody. The mournful notes of the strings underscore the gravity of the situation, the brass section adding an air of tension and drama. Monsieur LeBlanc and Mario De La Fantissimo begin their deadly dance, their movements perfectly timed to the ebb and flow of the music. De La Fantissimo lunges forward with his knife, but Monsieur LeBlanc is quick to parry the attack. The diners watch in stunned silence as the fight rages on, the music swelling and ebbing in time with the battle. It is as if the orchestra is telling a story with its music, a tale of passion, betrayal, and ultimate tragedy. The blades flash in the dim light of the restaurant. Each of them tried to gain the upper hand, but they were evenly matched in their skills. The battle continued for what seemed like hours, each combatant pushing themselves to the limit. Sweat poured down their faces as they slashed and parried. The only sound in the room was the clashing of their knives and their heavy breathing. That, and the full orchestra. After an eternity, Monsieur LeBlanc saw an opening. With a swift movement, he disarms Mario whose knife flew high into the air and stuck in the ceiling with a twang. Mario De La Fantissimo is at his mercy. But instead of delivering the final blow, Monsieur LeBlanc looked down at his defeated opponent with pity. "You may have lost this battle, De La Fantissimo, but there is more to life than just critique. Food is meant to be enjoyed, not analyzed to the death," Monsieur LeBlanc said, before turning to walk away. But as he did, Mario pulled a butter knife from his boot and lunged forward, aiming for Monsieur LeBlanc's back. With lightning-fast reflexes, Monsieur LeBlanc turned and caught Mario's arm in mid-air. The two men locked eyes once more, each of them knowing that this was the final moment. With a swift motion, Monsieur LeBlanc thrusts his knife with all his might. The blade pierces through De La Fantissimo’s defenses, sinking deep into his chest. Mario’s eyes widen in shock as he staggers backward, grasping at the hilt of the knife. Monsieur LeBlanc steps forward and with a final shove, he sends Mario flying off the stage, crashing onto the table where he had been eating his fried chicken only minutes before. The table shatters under the weight of Mario's body, sending the chicken flying into the air in a burst of crumbs and grease. The once-lively orchestra comes to a sudden halt, and the entire restaurant falls silent. All eyes are on the chicken. It seems to freeze at the apex of its flight. Then it descends, almost as if in slow motion until it lands with a soft thud on Mario's chest. In Mario De La Fantissimo’s final moment, he looks at the fried chicken on his chest, then back at Monsieur DeBlanc, his eyes glimmering as he gives one last mocking smile. Then the life disappears from his eyes, but the smile remains. Monsieur LeBlanc feels a deep sense of shame. How could he have been so careless, so thoughtless as to order something as unrefined as fried chicken? The weight of his mistake bears down on him as the rest of the restaurant looks on in astonishment. For a long moment, nobody moves or speaks. The only sound is the chicken slowly sliding off of Mario De La Fantissimo’s lifeless body and plopping to the floor. Monsieur LeBlanc wished he had been brave enough to enjoy the food he loved without shame. He drops his knife and walks off the stage. He picks up the fallen chicken and places it on a plate, setting it on the remains of the table next to Mario's body. Inside of him, something finally clicks. He then turns to the crowd, raising his hands in the air. The orchestra takes the cue and begins playing something soft and inspiring as LeBlanc addresses the crowd for the final time. "This meal, this simple fried chicken, has taught me something today. It has taught me that we should never be ashamed of enjoying the simple pleasures in life. That we should always be true to ourselves and our own tastes, and not let the opinions of others dictate our choices." The crowd listens intently, nodding in agreement. They have been moved by Monsieur LeBlanc's words, and they feel a sense of connection with him that they had not felt before. Monsieur LeBlanc smiles at the crowd, feeling a sense of liberation wash over him. He has let go of his fear of judgment and has embraced the simple joys of life. He takes a bite of the fried chicken, savoring the flavors and textures that had once embarrassed him. The crowd erupts into cheers. The waiter who was crying before lifts his gaze to the heavens and a dove inexplicably lands on his shoulder. Monsieur LeBlanc finishes his meal, and he realizes that he has won a different kind of battle, one that is fought within oneself. Days later, the news of the incident spread across France and the world. Monsieur LeBlanc is now known not just for his exquisite taste in food, but also for his deadly skills in combat, cementing his legacy as the greatest food critic of all time. But most importantly, he is no longer ashamed to enjoy the simple and unrefined meal of fried chicken.


August 4, 1892 Dear diary, I have awoken this morning with the very same cold that has haunted me for nearly a week now, and I am starting to wonder if I have brought this unending ailment upon myself through my own hubris. The light cuts through the shades and stabs my eyes with a precision I long thought improbable of nature alone. How could this illness possibly prove the result of a weak constitution when my heart always beat so strong? For a while, I was convinced that my suffering could only be the result of a man’s meddling, though who the man behind the meddling might be, to this day I could not say. But I have always known my sheer determination to see me through any trial of nature, so the only possibility that seemed to remain was that of an attacker intent on concealing himself among friends. But now I think to myself, has the world not proven itself a force beyond measure? Nature has taken down many a soul far kinder and more generous than myself. Perhaps this sickness is not the vengeance of a man wronged by my family, but of a vindictive light snuffed when I let myself walk into the darkness. Did I let myself wander into the dark? Have I grown weak hiding from the light for too long? Am I now suffering for my grave misdeeds? I am no longer sure of my conviction. My pain continues, and the light will not relent. I’ve danced with the devil for some time now, I suppose. I can no longer deny the truth of the matter. Every penny in the bank, every prayer around the table, I’ve descended further and further from the nature of who I was intended to be. The light embraces those who rejoice in the natural order, and yet I continue to stand by my family that finds fortune in their artificial shade. Perhaps I let my hope for the material surpass the nature of the immaterial that dictates this world. I could have walked away. But I let the dim become my new norm. I believe it is too late for me to turn back the wheels of fate. Though I write with an energy I’ve not felt since my illness began, I am further convinced with each passing day that I will never recover. Just as the sun never ceases to shine, the world will not let up it’s torment of my shaded, jaded heart. Yes, I feel that my end is near. I fear that my soul shall never find justice or peace. It’s far too late for that now. If I am doomed for eternity, though, let it not be said that I let my fear diminish my final moments of solace. I will bask not in the light that burns me so, but in the life that I have chosen for myself. Family, friendship and fortune are my comforts. I could not have ever pursued another path. My child is here now, and she brings with her a reminder of why I’ve let my soul wander from its nature - as she draws the shades closed and blocks out the sun, I know I would sooner die in the embrace of love than live a spinster life without. The short time with my family was worth any torment that might lay ahead of me now. I wonder what will become of my dearest kin when I am long gone and buried beneath a growing collection of moments past. My love always promised that, without me, he could not go on another day; the words now seem a threat if these are, in fact, my final hours. I fear that he will prove himself to be a man of his word come day’s end. But will the children grow healthy and strong when I am no longer able to demonstrate those very same qualities? They have endured loss before, and I’ve no doubt they’ll endure again. Still, I wonder if these days they have shared with my doomed soul will bring them in turn to the dark. Will they overcome the shadow that my imminent demise is sure to cast on their future? No one is ever free of their past. Not entirely. Try as I might, I know I have never come close to healing their hurts. I know, going forward, my fate will always have a hold over their hearts. I hope that, with time, they will find a way to fill this space I am destined to leave in their home with laughter, with love, and with all the gifts I’ve been lucky enough to find in them. Might they even find their way back to the light to overcome the shadows of legacy and legend. The past will always be there, but I must believe that they can thrive nonetheless. I am beginning to feel drowsy once again - perhaps that is how it feels to come to terms with one’s own mortality - but my child continues to tend to me in my weakened state. I am certain now that I am richer than any of those living in their mansions, flaunting their toys for all to admire. She does not know the illness of a soul corrupt; she could be in the garden, planting and playing and savoring in the sunlight. But she stays by my side. She says she would rather be by my side. I think that she knows my death is at hand as well. If walking in the darkness has brought me to my deathbed, then I am grateful it has not brought me here alone. How strange it is to be here like this, though - for the longest time, I did not even know if she wanted me in her life; now, it is she that tends to me in my loneliest hour. These quiet moments of togetherness make my long descent from grace worthwhile. Even Icarus would have welcomed the fall if she had waited below with arms wide. She is stronger than I had thought she would be. Not a single tear escapes from those ghostly gray eyes as I scribble my final ruminations, and for that I am grateful. I know she will not be broken by my passing - a girl that strong is certain to overcome all of the odds. She will leave her mark on the world. Even nature itself will learn my sweet Lizbeth’s name. But for now, her strength is intended for me and me alone. I hope that, when the end does come, she might find it in her heart to extend to her father that very same strength she’s shown me. Heaven knows that this family will need it when darkness strikes them down once again. From your truly, Abby Bor-


Day 1 ‘Start a gratitude journal’ they said, Well, here it is, started. It’s purposely not credited with any dates, because I don’t expect to be making consecutive entries. But the fact that it is started should qualify as gratitude on some count. Gratitude on their part that I’ve agreed to do it, for a start. I mean, what good is it supposed to do? I’ve certainly not got anything to be grateful for with this burden lobbed on me Day 2 Today started off well. I knocked a saucepan of boiling milk over. It was the last of the milk in the fridge so guess who had no breakfast? The fact that it didn’t go all over me is a saving grace, I suppose, but it tipped over the other way and was nowhere near me. And I had to clean up, which meant I was late for work. The lyrics from that old Blues song by Albert King says it all really: ‘if it wasn’t for bad luck I wouldn’t have any luck at all.’ Born under a Bad Sign: thanks Albert! Does that count? Day 3 That was a week ago now, and nothing much has happened since. Unless, of course, you count my having checked my lottery ticket to see that I had apparently won 10 grand - only to later discover that I'd checked last week's ticket? And I'd accidentally chucked this week's out with the trash anyway so I couldn't have claimed anything if I had won. Still, I expect it would have stopped my knobhead mates bumming off me, so there is that. Day 4 Here’s one to pass by the psychotherapist. There’s this cafe. It's a new place up in the weirdo quarter where everyone goes barefoot, wears rope bracelets, leaves the smell of questionable substances behind, and eats vegetation that even rabbits would wrinkle their noses at. But they do a decent coffee, and the cakes are out of this world. I suspect that some of them would actually send you out of this world, temporarily at least. But I was only there for coffee, so I flolloped up to the counter. It’s the sort of place where you automatically flollop rather than walk. The atmosphere is so laid back it’s almost comatose. Anyway, up I flolloped up the counter to order and stood marvelling at the array of cakes laid out behind the glass topped counter whilst I waited for the drink to be conjured up. The server brought it and I handed over the cash to pay. But my hand was so laid back as to be comatose itself - as was the server’s - and the cash, deciding to have nothing to do with either of these witless appendages, immediately flew into the air, to land with a series of ‘plops’ right in the middle of the dreamiest looking cream cake laid out behind the counter. Where it slowly sank, as we both watched dumbfounded. Throwing me a tight little smile, the server whisked the cake away for a practised shave and lathering of another layer and brought it back, resplendent. This time, rather than risk the same thing happening, she put the cash in a glass dish on the counter top ... well, you can guess the rest. This time the same cake exploded, spreading cream everywhere. The server - and me - gasped simultaneously, and throwing me an even tighter little smile, she stormed off into the kitchen to retrieve the money and left the cake in there. It must have been a major scaffolding job. When I did actually get my change, I put it in the Famine Relief Box.. I thought it best. Well, I didn’t get thrown out - or charged for the cake either. So there is that. Day 5 These psycho-babble people are all the same. The clue is in the ‘psycho’. I mean, you can be ‘grateful’ that you’re not dead or that someone else has got this awful disease and not you - but that’s just life. Or death. It’s nothing you can change. It just happens. It does tend to happen more to some people than others, though, And the psychotherapist can wrap his notepad around this one. I was late for work today for an important set-up meeting because (a) the alarm hadn’t gone off and (b) because I was late, I’d decided to drag the bike out of retirement to make up for lost time (traffic at this time of day is ludicrous so the car was bound to get stuck - a bike would make better sense). The bike hadn’t been used for some time, so I don’t know what I was expecting. The tyres were flat, and after I had eventually found the pump, wheeling it down the lawn the chain fell off. Mechanic I am not. It’s one of these complicated gear sprockets with the chain going all ways but which. Anyway, I finally got it threaded and set off freewheeling downhill. Then I put it into gear ... and everything stopped - except the rider, who absorbed all the considerable momentum of the bike via the handlebars crushing the nether regions. With everything locked, the bike - and me - fell over and were obviously going nowhere. So, I threw it on my shoulder and limped back up the hill to throw it back in the shed. Halfway up the steps the bike snagged on a clematis plant, which got uprooted and the bike fell off my shoulder. Bending to pick it up, the seat of my trousers ripped. Trudging up the lawn with the bike, my feet slipped in the mud - I forgot to say it had been raining solidly for the past three days - and I sat down heaviy on the lawn, in the mud, with my backside hanging out. When I threw the bike in the shed, I also threw a savage punch at the saddlebag. And was rewarded by the merry tinkle of breaking glass as my lunchtime thermos shattered. Now, psycho, where’s the gratitude in that? Day 6 I’ve been reading all this stuff back over the past few days and, you know what? I’ve actually found myself appreciating it. Who knew that I had a talent for depicting real events? Despite the aggravation at the time, viewed in retrospect, how things turned out were quite amusing. I mean, no-one would believe them, but isn’t that what writing is supposed to challenge? I reckon I might do a bit more of this. Day ... God knows when I stopped writing this journal ages ago, for a very good reason. As my last entry suggested, I had a bit of an epiphany so I started exploring an otherwise unsuspected talent. And, you know what? I pulled together all the crazy things that have happened to me over the years, put them in an article and the local regional magazine has only just gone and published it! One hundred and fifty smackeroonies right into the inky fingers of this rookie writer! Thank you psycho. There - you got it!


Two figures walked among the ruins of a town, the rubble still smoking and, in some cases, burning. The air was hazy and gray, thick with a wide assortment of highly unpleasant smells. The figure at the front had an odd lightness to her step, the short-haired blonde meandering down the ruined streets almost as if a tourist. She was dressed in the bright red of an Arturian officer’s dress uniform, a decorated saber at one hip and a polished revolver at the other - though, her chest was conspicuously absent of any medals despite her markings on her collar and cuffs denoting her position as Knight-General. Behind her walked a much more sensibly dressed lieutenant, clad in a professionally-maintained gray field uniform. He seemed far less comfortable than the woman in front of him, having trouble navigating the debris that his superior traversed so effortlessly. “Wonderful, isn’t it?” the woman sighed, a smile on her face. “All these buildings, once standing proud and tall, now collapsed around us, no two buildings fallen the same way... The neat and still aftermath of utter chaos.” “It certainly is a... unique sight,” her aide replied diplomatically. “Oh, no need to hide it if it’s not to your taste,” the woman replied, tucking some hair behind her ear as she bent over to examine a picture frame, the glass front shattered and the picture behind smoke-stained beyond recognition. “Not everyone appreciates every form of art, that’s just the way it goes. Personally, I don’t like reliefs. It’s like someone couldn’t decide if they wanted to make a painting or a statue and made some sort of awful compromise.” “Well, I didn’t want to insult your work,” the aide replied, carefully stepping over a charred arm sticking out from under what seems to have been a tavern. “It’s as much the gunnery teams’ work as mine,” the woman said, standing back up. “All theirs, really. Telling someone to make art is a far cry from making it yourself.” “I suppose that’s very true-” the aide began, before a crumbling and shifting of rubble caught both of their attention. Some dozen feet away, someone coughed, and started clawing their way out from under the rubble. “A survivor?” the woman gasped, her eyebrows rising... before they scrunched back down in annoyance and she started stalking over towards him. “Ugh, it’s like sneezing on a Pordeaux.” The aide watched awkwardly as Knight-General Violet McLochlan pulled out her pistol. He winced a little as the gunshot rang out, and the man fell limp. She sighed, and put her revolver back into its holster. “And it was looking so well, too.” “You know, my father kept a Pordeaux in his study,” the aide offered. “Really?” Violet replied, turning back towards him with slightly-lifted spirits. “Which one?” “Untitled Number Sixteen, I believe.” “Ah, I’ve always been fond of that one,” Violet replied, running a hand through her hair as she contemplated the rest of the destruction around her. “Wonderful interplay of colors.” “Me, too. It always reminded me of summers, for some reason.” “Really?” Violet mused on that, her head lilting to the side as she placed a hand on her hip. “I hadn’t thought of it like that, but I can see it. That’s a beautiful interpretation.” “It wasn’t the original, sadly. Just a reproduction,” the aide shrugged. “Oh, pffft,” Violet dismissed, waving a hand. “Art is art, copied or not. You don’t need to see every individual line from each brush hair to appreciate it. Not everyone can travel around the world to see the originals in museums or in the halls of whatever rich jerk decided to keep it to themselves, so reproductions are a necessary thing! Art that isn’t shared is a tragic loss to society. Partly why I brought you along on this little inspection, if I’m honest.” “Ah,” the aide said awkwardly. “It’s no matter than it’s not to your taste, or even if you don’t consider it art,” Violet shrugged. “I told you before, every person’s interpretations and tastes are different and valid. I think art would profoundly boring if everyone agreed on what art is. Pordeaux himself was criticized for painting abstractions instead of nature scenes, you know.” “Really?” the aide replied, carefully stepping through the rubble to close the distance between himself and the knight-general. “I didn’t know that.” “It happens more often than you think. Art is like fashion, in a way. Tastes change with the times, and sometimes something that people initially hate becomes the next big style. Personally, though, I think certain kinds of art never go out of style. Nature scenes, for example. Not a lot of people make them anymore, but there are a few who make truly beautiful ones. Have you seen Franleist’s work?” “I’m afraid not, ma’am.” “I’ll show you some next time we’re back at the capital, then. There’s a few galleries in Arturia with some of his work. I’m especially fond of the paintings he does of old pre-godwar ruins. There’s something... nostalgic about them,” Violet mused, staring upwards in thought. “I think I’d like that, ma’am,” the aide nodded, re-evaluating what he initially thought would be an awful assignment, destruction tours notwithstanding. “That said, I think we’ve seen enough here. Let’s head back to the transport, and I’ll file my report." “Yes, ma’am." The two turned, walking back the way they came. Behind them, the survivor’s blood trickled down the rubble and soaked into the ash-covered dirt.


The sister was shaking as her hand tremulously unlocked the front door using the key on the small key ring with a miniature slipper. She let herself into the familiar flat and looked around. The light shone in and threw dappled shadows of the tall Parlour Palms gently onto the cream walls. She turned the salt lamp on in the corner and a soft, hazy orange glow diffused through the room. The flat exuded style and taste. She was sure she had left the boots by the entrance- yet there they were by the window: slim, tall, polished and proudly standing. Beautiful brown heeled, leather boots, much like the black stylish panama which was hanging off the coat stand behind the front door. She walked over and slipped off her shoes and then stood in the long brown boots, feeling tall. She then perched herself on the edge of the luxuriously snug sofa and peered down to the river below, sitting on her hands. In a moment, she would get up and make an elegant lunch, perhaps add smoked salmon to a crispy salad, with crusty baguette on the side. Long, dreary prayers a week later were still being chanted at the house, and her family had looked at her wild eyed self; mad they supposed with grief, too restless to remain amongst friends and family in calm supplication for her deceased sister. She had cried, yes. Genuine tears. But it was a week now. And in actual fact, she had had to leave when she caught her Mum’s face smiling at a neighbour who had dropped by to pay her respects, and then instantaneously turn to distress and potential tears when her Mum’s sister-in-law walked over to hug her. That smile and then instantaneous wail had been hilarious! She kept her head concealed, hidden into her scarf to muffle her laughter. 'I need to be alone' she managed to get out, and then fled the family home, face covered and down. Such a deep love between the sisters, mourners were mumbling as she put her plain, black, flat shoes on in the corridor. The chanting of prayers continued, and she left the house to find the Volkswagen. She had not allowed for the notion or the space of being able to mourn for long. While her sister had lain in hospital, she had aggressively been seeing to her poor sister’s every wish and need. ‘She doesn’t want to talk, she’s feeling unwell. She says thank you for coming. She wants to be left in quiet- she’s not feeling up to visitors’. Her sister had been quite touched with such tender devotion at the end as she rapidly wasted away from the illness which had now clamped down upon her. How her darling sister had lovingly handled all of her correspondence and letters, outstanding bills, unfinished obligations. She had sat over her, brushing her hair away from her dying sister’s eyes, stroking her cheek, moisturising her sister’s skin as it grew more wan and pale; it was like gazing into a mirror. The flush and rose hint to her cheeks had been reduced to tired browning blossom, its colour turning sallow and fading away. Her poor sister didn’t even have the energy to speak or recognise anyone before long, but must have felt cherished to the end. Delicate flower that she was. Her erratic written requests had promptly been scrunched up and carefully thrown into the waste bins outside the room. She wondered, sinisterly, if her sister was hovering above her now, watching her, observing her, noting her actions, her intentions, her motivations; eyes narrowed and regarding her with the same suspicious wariness she always used to. A rook landed outside on a branch and she stood up promptly to shoo it away. She could taste the grilling baguette as it browned nicely in the oven, and swallowed back a mouthful of nauseous, bilious unease. She stopped, and supposed, and surmised. Her sister had always forgiven her so much, as any loving, three minute older sister should. Like the time they had been 8, and Yazmin had told Rainie when they had been walking home with their Mum from school, how the shattered glass at the bus stop looked like sugar. Silly observation. And so that evening Rainie had taken a clear glass bangle and crushed it with a rolling pin she had taken from the kitchen. Quietly, on a sheet of newspaper while she kept the bath tap running so it wouldn’t be heard, she had then taken the crushed glass remains and delicately, with diligence poured it from the fold of the newspaper, discreetly into the sugar bowl from the kitchen cupboard, meticulously and with great care. Of course the screams the next morning had been horribly horrendous. She had looked interestedly on as blood had poured from her parents’ and sister’s tongue, and had then smoothly rolled the blame onto her sister. ‘She told me the broken glass at the bus stop looked like sugar. Isn’t that funny?’ with an earnest expression. In the end the weekly cleaner had borne the brunt - a new girl who scowled behind their Mum’s back, Rainie said. But Yazmin had never looked at Rainie with fond eyes since - though she never said anything openly to her. Neither, thought Rainie, had their Mum looked very fondly upon her again. Since then, Rainie wore her envy for her sister around her like a tightly intact, steel armour, from which she silently judged, examined, and critiqued her. They both had long, wavy black hair that cascaded down their backs, and slim, defined figures, straight teeth and pleasing smiles. But if one looked closely, a very tiny, unseemly wrinkle appeared under Rainie’s eye at odd moments, such as when she frowned or looked worried, which Yazmin never had. Yazmin was practically perfect. The relationship was fast dissipating between the two sisters by the time they had reached their A levels; the casual acts of careless cruelty from younger sister to older were getting easier and easier. Yazmin almost lined up the high points or joys of her life like dominoes; so easy were they to knock down. When Sammie, the son of their father’s friend who also happened to be in their A level Maths class had been messaging Yazmin, and was obviously, magnetically drawn to her like a bee to the honeycomb, the way he gazed at her incessantly and accompanied her to the bus stop and around college had irked Rainie no end. As though he needed to be in the canteen when she was, or discuss the same programmes on TV as she watched, like he watched exactly the same programmes and with as much zeal as Yazmin. Huh. Therefore it had been easy to take her phone, which Yazmin left unlocked, and message Sammie back one day and then delete: ‘I think I need a break from our time together. I’m too occupied with stuff. I’ll let you know when I have more time.’ Sammie had glared at Yazmin and been gruff and cold with her from then on. Yazmin shrank from the rejection and became inadvertently hurt and injured to her core. Moped for days, didn’t comb her hair - dishevelled and dismal. Common looking for once, like a trampled daisy. All for a guy? Yet Sammie had never turned to Rainie with a smile or a chat when there was a perfect window for her. What was the difference? They looked the same. Perhaps Rainie dressed worse, or wasn’t as amusing or entertaining as Yazmin. Perhaps she didn’t think of the right retorts at the right moments. To Yazmin’s delicate floral notes, she knew she was wilted and dry. Try as she might with offhand greetings and anecdotes, Rainie could not charm him. The phone suddenly rang and she looked down at it as she fished it out of her bag- their Dad. ‘Dad?’ ‘You left so early.’ ‘I wasn’t feeling too well.’ ‘My poor daughter’ his voice caught as he sobbed. She wanted to reassure him, everything would be okay eventually. She would give him the love of both of his girls. So many years left for him-he was only in his 50s, far too young to lose a daughter. She would make it up to him. This was her purpose now. She felt herself fused into a strange, intertwined, unnatural identity. So much upon her shoulders- she was the powerful Janus, bestower of love and comfort to her parents. Now her cunning competence and capability would save the family. She would be the provider of security, love and dependability. She would be masterful in her silver - tongued eloquence. ‘See you tomorrow Dad’. Her verbal skills and confidence in them already waned. Rainie felt most unexpectedly now this current boyfriend made her skin crawl; his kisses and over eager arms spread all over her, his encircling, suffocating presence always requiring her to talk, or just sit in comfortable silence while he was just there. She had imagined the warmth and closeness of the boyfriend would have been richly satisfying; instead it all felt soulless and empty, dull and dreary, like a pair of little gold earrings that had lost their shine. His startled expression now hung in front of her eyes, the drained, face depleted of any warmth when he had said to her the other afternoon, while kneading the back of her head as though it were a hunk of dough, : ‘What a falling off was there, hmm?' Something so random and odd! Rainie just smiled back weakly, murmuring: ‘hmm’, and had somehow wrongly responded. ‘Well?’ Oh. I’m not feeling well.’ He had blanched at her explanation, and looked painfully puzzled. * Anyway, it had all started out as a twisted joke, because when Mum came and looked down at her sister in the hospital room, all love and tenderness in her eyes: ‘Rainie?’ Rainie had simply answered: 'Yes she's resting Mum’ . That’s how the idea had dawned upon her. It was planted - it hadn’t been her idea.


Matthew, do you recognize this photo? Should I? Yes. After all, you took it! I didn’t take that! Why would I take a photo of what looks like a small bowl of half-eaten raspberry jello? Because you often take photos of food or other things I’ve never thought worth the effort. I’ve always found that a tad weird. Oh I know. I know. Don’t say it. You’re a photographer and see photos where others, like me, just see objects. But that said, how do you know it’s raspberry if you don’t even remember taking it? Like, maybe it’s strawberry jello? Well, whatever. Still, if I took that photo, when did I take it? 44 years ago today, Matthew. On a very important day: March 31, 1980. Er...you mean the night before Addie was born? Correct! I was in labour and labouring. I’d been in labour over 40 hours and they kept giving me epidurals for the pain which slowed everything down even more. Remember that? Well yes, but I don’t remember taking the photo. I’m guessing the nurse had brought you the jello but you didn’t feel like eating it? Exactly! Actually, I was surprised you photographed it instead of eating it. You said something about it being a way for us to remember everything about a day as important as the birth of our first child. Besides, you were having trouble staying awake through so many hours of labour so you had to do something besides listen to me moaning and groaning. Ringing any bells now? Sort of. But after all, Martha, what do you expect from an 82-year-old man? That was 44 years ago! And many thousands of photos later. You know, after you proposed, you told me you wanted to record our entire life in pictures, and you weren’t kidding. That’s why we still have boxes and shelves filled with enough photos to wallpaper this 2800 square foot house! And here we are needing to get rid of stuff so the kids aren’t left with a monumental job when we’re gone. Now, which of them will get the significance of a bowl of red jello? They weren’t even born yet! Well, Martha. Think of the photo as still life. Not every photo has to be of beautiful scenery or people or... Of course Matthew, but I have to say that in the 50 plus years we’ve been married, I’ve often been amazed as to how you see a photo in say, a bowl of jello, or mushrooms growing out of a bathroom ceiling in some old hotel in Maine, or a greasy trailer hitch, or... What trailer hitch? When did I photograph a trailer hitch? When we travelled down the California coast in the second year of our marriage. We were camping. You’d had several beers on an empty stomach while pitching the tent and you tripped over the hitch. I can still hear the expletives. You slammed your shin good and properly. When you settled down you grabbed one of your several cameras and took a photo of the hitch to record “another important event worth remembering”. Ha ha. Yes, I do remember that now you mention it. See, that’s the beauty of always having a camera handy. Photos help us remember. Even when they don’t, right? Sorry for laughing. Do you recognize this photo? Of course! I took that one of you sitting on those rocks looking at the Atlantic in Newfoundland. Gee, you looked hot in that red string bikini. I couldn’t stop posing you. How well I remember! My backside was so sore from the jagged edges of the rock sticking into it every time you made me change position till you got the angle you wanted. And it wasn’t enough to take several photos with one Nikon. No. You then grabbed your other one loaded with black & white film and took several more, before you decided you wanted some slides as well and grabbed your third Nikon...all while I was trying not to slip off the bloody rock into the ocean! I wanted to throttle you. Oh Martha...stop being so dramatic and making me feel bad. I’d just get carried away when I was taking photos...especially when the photo was of my beautiful new bride. There you go sweet-talking me again Matthew. Was that the day we started to drive back to the main road and those young kids were pointing at our car and shouting, trying to tell you that you had left all three cameras on top of the car? Yep. I nearly had heart failure. You weren’t the only one knowing how much those cameras cost! But, there was one other time on that honeymoon trip that I really wanted to grab your camera and hurl it into the sea. Let me guess. Prince Edward Island, right? Right! Different bikini... Blue with polka-dots? Yep. It was more than my bikini that had polka dots that day after you kept me standing up to my waist in the water while darn sand flies and sea lice feasted on my legs, belly and buttocks for 20 minutes! I’ll never forget the red dots that appeared everywhere that night and itched for weeks! Well, I was standing in the water too and had a few nips myself if I remember correctly. Yes, but you were standing in water up to your ankles and not to your waist! But just like these days, you never notice mosquitos while I’m being eaten alive, you don’t suffer with allergies like I do. Talk about suffering for art’s sake...except I was the one who always ended up suffering! Oh, it wasn’t always you suffering Martha! Do you remember when we had the studio and I had to cover this huge wedding in the country and I had constipation for three days before the wedding? Oh shoot, yeah! Well “shoot” isn’t quite the right word. I’ll never forget when the urge finally got me just before dinner and I ran for the toilets. Oh the blessed relief when the blockage released. But then it wouldn’t stop coming. I was sweating and ready to hurl with nausea as well, and the smell! I’ll never forget it. Then I made the mistake of trying to flush...and it flushed...all over the top of the toilet, down the sides, all over the floors and was heading for the doors to the reception hall. Worse yet, members of the wedding party along with guests were waiting to use the toilets. Some were cracking up laughing. Others were disgusted and I was embarrassed to hell and back. Now THAT was suffering for my art...and our livelihood! Well, fortunately, the bride and groom were very understanding and it didn’t lose us any business. Yes, but there was one other time we did lose business. Oh, when was that? When these two well-dressed couples came into the studio for a portrait just after I’d purchased a lovely long posing bench...and I hadn’t finished tightening the back legs on the bench. Do you remember what happened? Remind me. Well, both the ladies were rather big women so I got the ladies to sit on the bench and their husbands to stand just behind them. Then just as I said “Ok folks. Give me your best” , the darn back legs on the bench gave way. All I saw was two ladies going backwards and two pairs of chubby legs fly up in the air. OMG! Did you snap the photo at the moment they were giving you “their best”? No. Nor did we ever see them again. They left in a huff. Well, I can’t imagine why. That was a “snapped” moment in more ways than one, Matthew. Yeah...and even though I was mortified both times, I still burst out laughing whenever I remember them. Oh, BTW, speaking of remembering, you do know what tomorrow is, right? Ummm...oh, of course. April 1st. Addie’s birthday! Right. And trust Martha Banter to be the one to give birth on April 1st. Our poor Addie has had to live with that Banter Blooper for 44 years now!