I sit down on the small upper platform, leaning myself towards the wall while keeping my hands holding the edges of the stepladder. My arms ache, and my back hurt but my heart feel satisfied. I caress my tummy and whisper, “For you and this family, mom did this.” I stretch the corner of my lips to brush off my guilt of the long kept truth that I did not tell Steve. “Mom finds it difficult to trust people, even your dad. Keep it as a secret between the two of us, baby. Now mom can keep an eye of your dad.” I pull out my phone from my pocket and tap the screen. Finally it shows the right angle. Now I can see my front door area from my phone. I wink at the surveillance security camera that I spent my last hour putting it in the right position. My phone rings. “Hi honey. Oh, I’m reaching home soon. I will prepare a dinner for us. Yeah, I was just talking to the baby. She seems quiet now, maybe she’s sleeping. See you. Love you.” I exhale a long breath before I step down and fold it. I look again where the camera sits. I hope it won’t be that obvious for Steve to realize what I put there as he walks in to home later. As I step down the ladder and fold it, I keep ensuring myself that it is fine to install a camera to watch over my property area. Who knows that our neighbors are busybodies who bothers to walk in to our home area randomly? “Hello there. It seems you are new in this neighbourhood,” a voice broke my wandering mind. Like her. A lady in orange polo shirt and white short smiles at me. Her short hair is covered by white baseball hat, although some short hair in silver is seen around her temple. Probably she is around sixty years old. “Yes, I am. I’m Emily Evans. My husband and I just moved in to this city early this year, but we didn’t have time yet to know our neighbours. And you are?” “Call me Mrs. Coleman. I live two doors from here. I usually jogs at this hour and finds your home quiet all the time. It’s the first time I see somebody in the house.” “I usually work and come home a little late. My husband works at home, but he is out today for a meeting.” “Is it your first?” she looks at the bump of my tummy. “Yes, our first baby. She’s around 12 weeks now.” “I hope she’s healthy, looking at how busy you work, even at home.” She glances over my tummy to the ladder that I’m holding.” “Oh, it’s just a simple fix. My husband, Steve, who does the repairing and more... labour work.” “Don’t overdo yourself. Young couple nowadays overestimate themselves in everything they do,” she rolls her eyes. “Just come by to our home if you need anything.” “Sure. Thanks, Mrs. Coleman. Have a good day.” I check my phone, and realized that I do not have much time. First thing first, I get to rush myself clearing the mess that I made with the drill and my wall’s debris. ***** It’s 7 PM and I’m almost ready with the dinner. As I turn off the stove and pour the slow cooked beef to a small bowl, I hear the beep sound from the garage. Perfect! In just a minute I can welcome Steve by the dinner table together with his favorite dishes. After waiting for five minutes by the dining area, I have not seen Steve walked in. The distance of our garage and dining area is less than a minute even if you decide to crawling instead of walking on your feet. I can’t sit still in curiosity, so I walk over to the garage. Steve was busy looking down to his phone when I found him. “Is everything okay?” He startled over my greeting. “You scared me. Yes, things are okay. I was texting with my friend. How is our little baby?” We exchange kisses and walk to the dining room. “Our sweet baby is excited to see Daddy coming home. She moves around.” “That’s the sweetest greeting ever! Love you, baby.” Steve kisses my tummy. “Your old friends?” I started digging while preparing his cutleries and getting himself a glass of water. “Hm... a new friend actually. Your stew looks so delicious,” he seems not interested to talk about his new friend. “Thank you. I left the meat in the slow cooker since morning, so it’s not only delicious but tender.” As I put the the glass of water on his side, his phone which sits next to him lights up. A message coming in. He grabs his phone quickly and keeps it in his pocket. That is unusual move from Steve. “Oh, I love to try it then!” “Let your friend wait until you finish your dinner.” I hate to sound like his mom, but I can’t pretend that I didn’t notice it. He clears his throat and grab his spoon to scoop out the stew. We have been married for almost nine months. We had our marriage counseling in our three monthsary, and had a couple of fights. I left this house for my parents’ house for weeks because he was wavering when I proposed starting our marriage all over again. When I thought that our marriage was over, he came to pick me up in my parents’ house. It was a rough start in the beginning, and now things are getting better. I learned to control my temper, and he started expressing his thoughts and feelings. Well, we learn to communicate better. This ask-do-not-assume communication exercise that he proposed is not working that well recently. Steve is not telling me why he has been easily distracted by text messages nowadays, even in the morning, and dinner time like this. I want him to be present mentally. I meet him in the morning and the evening only, so is it too much to ask for him to leave his friend for a couple hours with me? I believe he should be communicating this new friend to me also. He should know that surviving in ambiguity is not my forte. If he is not talking, then I will find out by myself who is Nat. Yes, it’s the name of his new friend that I managed to peek from his phone screen just now. ***** This morning, I was making a breakfast in the kitchen when Steve walked out to the laundry room with a basket of soiled clothes. I have been waiting for this chance, it’s Steve’s laundry schedule. Immediately, I turned off the stove and slunk over to the bedroom. I snatched Steve’s phone, opened the screen lock with my finger print and tap on the messaging app to see his chat with his new friend, Nat. No profile picture. ‘Are you free tomorrow?’ Steve sent the message yesterday. ’I’m at the usual place. Just come by anytime.’ ‘Great. I need to talk to you. I need some advice.’ ‘We meet over lunch at Lucie’s Diner.’ “Emily, I saw you in the kitchen just now.” I almost had a heart attack. Steve’s voice was heard from my back. Luckily I was sitting by the bed, so he did not see that I was tampering with his phone. I slipped his phone under the comforter, said that I lost one of my earring and found it on the nightdesk. Now it’s ten minutes before lunch time. My colleagues left for early lunch while I’m still on my desk, wondering if I need to be worry about Steve’s meeting. The voice in my mind to check out this Nat kills me. I don’t feel hungry now. My bulb lights up. I typed in the cloud service, and logged in to Steve’s phone account in a minute. His phone was my birthday present to him, so I set everything up including his account, password and all. His location pin shows that he is at Lucie’s Diner. I bit my fingers. This time I accessed his phone book and dialed Nat’s number from my phone. Nobody is picking up. I tried again. “Hello.” “Hi Nat. You may not...” I explained to the coarse voice from the other side. It’s hard to tell if it’s a girl or a guy’s voice. “Nat is not around. Just leave a message, okay?” Despite the unfriendliness of Nat’s friend, or whoever, it is obvious that Nat does not want to be disturbed this lunch time. ***** I turn off my car and look at the front door. Few days have passed since the day I called Nat’s number. I still cannot find peace of mind or resolution to this curiosity that kills me. I don’t even know how to ask to Steve, just to clear things away. I imagine another evening pretending that I am fine while brushing off million possibilities of what is happening with Steve, his friend Nat, and our marriage. Honestly I am tired thinking of all the possibilities. I wipe the warm flow from my eyes. Maybe it’s just my mind. Maybe there’s nothing really happened and I’m just mistaken with all the situation. Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormone that triggers the overly sensitive side of me. “I’m sorry to confuse you, Babe.” I mumble softly to my bump. “Daddy is a faithful man, and he has been working so hard for us. He works at home most of his time, even at night. There is nothing wrong with him meeting with his new friend once in a while.” I pulled out my phone and checking on today’s recording. “You see, he must have felt so lonely to be at home by himself most of the time.” I close my eyes and blink few times seeing the camera recording that Steve had a guest today. A brown hair lady in her blue navy cardigan covering white shirt and wearing red skirt walked to our home. Her face was covered with black sunglasses. She disappeared from the camera after Steve opened the door. I fast forwarded the record. She went out again after more than an hour in our home. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. It’s time to practice my anger management method. I said to myself, “I will speak to Steve calmly. We can talk things out like adults.” I walk out from my car and open the front door. The living room is as neat as I saw this morning. I walked slowly to Steve’s office room. He is on the phone on his reclining chair. “That’s a good idea. Yeah, I will talk about this to Emily. Hey, I will introduce her to you next time. Thanks for the surprise, Nat. The cookie is nice and the book seems interesting. I will read it.” Steve saw me walking in to his office and he hung up his call. “Hi, honey. I have something sweet for you.” I see the chocolate chip cookies that he offered to me. The one he mentioned from Nat. I cannot tell what my facial expression this time, I just feel tired fighting with my own thoughts. Steve can tell something is wrong. “Are you okay? Come sit in my chair. You look tired,” he got up and guided me to sit on his chair. I follow him. I look at the only book lying on his desk. ‘HOLD ME TIGHT’ says the title of the book. My mind is blank in finding explanation about receiving such book from a lady. “Who is Nat?” I tried to tone down my voice. I need to be calm. I need to make him speak or I’ll have another sleepless night. “Ah, you heard what I was talking about earlier? Nat is my new friend. I will introduce you to Nat next time.” “Who is Nat?” I repeated. “Who is Nat to you? Why are you not telling me about your new friend? Are we supposed to practice an open communication? Why did she come and give you cookies and book? What did you do at home with her?” I couldn’t resist the curiosity about Nat again. Steve nods. He senses that I am anxious about things that he keeps unknown to me. “I met Nat in one of the day when you left home to your parents. It was around four months ago. Nat gave me some marriage advices, one of them is to ask, do not assume. We are friends since then.” He picks the cookies and the book. “These are Nat’s first present. We don’t do gift exchange. I was not expecting this also. I wonder why did you know that it was a lady who came here.” “I put a camera in our front door.” He nods again. “I see... She is Nat’s wife. She baked the cookie today and was thinking to bring the book that Nat bought for me. So she came with her husband giving the address of our home.” “How did Nat know about our address? Wait.. you said, husband?” “Remember that before you left home the other time your car couldn’t start? Nat was the mechanic.” Steve reached his phone. “Give me a second.” In less than a minute, Steve and I are making a video call with Nat. It took a while to connect. “Steve, why the video call suddenly? You know I don’t do much stuff with my phone though I’m good with machine.” “My wife just want to say hi to you Nat. Nat, this is my wife, Emily. Emily, this is Nathan, my friend. His famous name is Nat. He fixed your car months ago.” Nat does not look like what I was imagining at all. He’s a silver haired guy, wearing a specs, and his black beard mixes with some white hair. “Hi Emily. You look so young. I hope the book that I gave you will be helpful.” “Hi Nat. Thanks for fixing my car and being Steve’s friend. But.. why the book?” “It’s a good communication book that may help your marriage. Don’t be misled by the title, like me.” He laughed so hard and called his wife to be on the call. I recognized her as the lady in the camera. “My wife wanted to meet Steve and gave him some insights about talking with a woman. Once she started speaking, her lecture is hard to stop.” Steve continued the talk for a little longer, knowing that I was not in the right state of mind to talk further. My mind was blank. It’s embarrasing. “Nat is revealed. No more mystery, Mrs. Detective.”


“ We welcome our viewers to this episode of ‘Unconventional Heroes’ and today we are in conversation with Cyril D’Souza from Durban. He recently climbed Kibo or the summit of Kilimanjaro at the age of 89, making him the oldest person alive to achieve this feat! Welcome Sir! ” The interviewer turns towards the second camera that closes in on Cyril. “I don’t understand why I am getting this coverage,” beamed Cyril “I was just doing this for her,” he said as he pointed to his heart. He blinked at the camera, the lights almost blinding him while the assistant adjusted his microphone. The crew exchanged looks of coyness and smiled amongst themselves. “Did she want you to climb the Kibo?” asked Natasha her interest piquing as she looked at Cyril. Cyril guffawed. “She knew nothing about my climbing. In fact, she despised my going out, as I would come back injured and with a lot of dirty laundry,” he smiled, “No pun intended,” he said as crowfeet appeared at the edges of his eyes. “My Nadia was a woman of letters. She only let me travel because I would tell her stories in return for all the inconvenience I caused.” “When did you feel like you should take up climbing? As in, were you always drawn to sports?” “I was always a very shy child. I used to like being outdoors for the fact that I could be alone with nature. I loved to listen to the birds sing, the rain and the river flowing. In fact, I doubt I ever interacted much with the human world,” he chuckled. “The only time I knew words were when I met Nadia,” his eyes sparkled with newly formed tears. “You speak a lot about Nadia. What would she have thought of your feat today?” “Being the oldest man to climb Kilimanjaro!” he exclaimed, bending slightly forward leaning towards the interviewer. “She would be very pleased. She always thought I looked like Hemingway anyway!” he winked. Cyril took on a more serious tone and said, “Hemingway was her favourite author and she loved that book by that bloke...something something Kilimanjaro’” “Snows of Kilimanjaro?” “Ah yes, yes. Snows of Kilimanjaro. In fact, Nadia made me read it as well. At first, I wondered what on earth Kilimanjaro was! I had not the faintest idea! But then I read all about it and was instantly taken by the place rather than the story. To me, I had to see it.” “Did you think you were going to make a record?” “Oh dear, no no! Not at all! I thought I just wanted to see the place for myself, and being the ignoramus that I am, I had no clue where it was or how to get there: but that was what made the whole thing more adventurous. While Nadia tried to show me the beauty of the story, I wanted to see the place, for what it was. I had no idea it would be such a climb. Of course, the boy in me was happy to see that there was such a beautiful place I had chanced upon because of my wife’s reading. You see, she died holding that book to her heart, and I had to live it. See it for myself before I could read it for her.” “It must have been very emotional for you?” Cyril stifled back tears and smiled through the pain as he gulped, “Of course. She was my life force and I thought only about her. Especially after I lost my leg, I actually thought I would never be able to walk again, but look, 2 years later, I am a grieving widower, old lame man holding the record for the oldest and what’s that word you used?” “Specially-abled?” “Yeah! Euphemism for lame you mean?” “Lame old man climbs Kilimanjaro for his wife, yes. I am whimsical like that!” “What is your next peak? Or next travel?” “I am saving up to see the Northern lights next.” “All the best Mr Cyril D’Souza, we hope you traverse the world and see all that you want to.” “For Nadia, I will.” ***** The interview had got over sooner than expected and now the crew had seized his house indulging on snacks and drinks he had arranged. “You went through too much trouble Mr D’Souza. The production would have taken care of this. Although I must admit the lemon cake is yummy!” Natasha spoke in her child-like demeanor, casting aside her stiffened pose in front of the camera. “Oh no, the pleasure is all mine. It’s not everyday that I get interviewed.” “How do you manage by yourself, Mr D’Souza?” “First of all, you can call me Cyril. No need to be so formal. And I had to, simple! When we are pushed to our limits, we learn to survive. That’s what happened when I lost my leg and when I thought things could not get worse, I lost my partner for life.” “I’m sorry...but how?” “My leg was an accident, and Nadia to a heart attack two years ago.” “Oh...” “It’s alright. She had lived well and when she had been wheeled to the hospital, she had told me that she would prefer to go now than leaving me forever straddled with her to a machine and me to an incapacitated version of her. I protested, of course, I know how the body and mind can be channelized when it has gone through something...” he tapped his artificial leg with a cane. “But she thought otherwise, she wanted me to never lose my freedom to see the world.” “Wow...” “So, I had to, for her. I’m sorry if I went on a rant and upset you, that was not my intention.” “Oh no! It’s perfectly fine! It is very touching,” Natasha said, while adding, “If I may...I have a question?” “Sure” “Why the Northern lights?” “Oh haha. Well, when I had proposed to Nadia fifty years ago, I had always wanted it to be under the Northern lights, but she hated traveling and we couldn’t afford it. When we got this computer, she would stare at the images of the places she read about, but she was always too scared. But now I feel, I must.”


Serafina Simon. Her name was on everyone’s lips. There wasn’t a mind left in America that could go very long without thinking of her. Her tall, curvaceous frame--the mile-long legs, the barely-there waist, the well-endowed chest pushed practically up to her chin. Her wardrobe, all slinky black silk and clingy black velvet, supplemented just enough with glittering diamonds. The matte dark red lips cocked into that bemused, tantalizing half-smile. The delicate beringed hands that the world longed to kiss, to hold, to marvel at the slenderness of...if Serafina would let them, of course. It was known all too well that she wouldn’t. She’d pull away with a gesture that was classy and feminine, yet completely and utterly dismissive. ‘Down, boy’, she’d say in that sultry voice that had all the dark smoothness of her heralded fashion taste. That was the idea of Serafina, and it was an idea the public adored. In fact, they adored it so much, they’d followed her home from her latest red carpet event, hounding her as they always had and would. A small army of press photographers crouched outside the gate to Serafina’s tasteful white mansion, their cameras poised and ready to fire. The cameras flashed, flashed, flashed as her limo glided to a subtle halt. The flashing intensified as the chauffeur rushed out and briskly opened the door. Serafina didn’t open doors, of course, Doors opened for her. “Serafina! Serafina, Serafina!” the blended voice of the countless photographers shouted. It was Serafina, alright. She seemed to tower over them all, like a reminder of just how above them she was. Her black silk gown clung to her voluptuous body for dear life, exposing just enough of her impressive bust to leave her adoring public drooling and howling without even approaching the borders of vulgarity. A high slit up the leg showed off the length and toning of the one Serafina so expertly, so casually stuck out, posing with the practice and poise only a professional could have. Every few well-timed moments, she’d adjust her grip and the positioning of the white fur wrap around her lean shoulders. Only Serafina Simon could so subtly change the entire look of an outfit without really changing anything at all. The trigger-happy press was loving it. As far as they could tell from that signature half-smile of hers, Serafina was loving it, too. Which, of course, meant it was time for the interrogation to began. “Serafina! Do you have any comments on your latest film?” one shouted. Serafina did not. Of course she did not. Serafina Simon didn’t disclose the film industry’s secrets. She was a real lady. “Serafina! Are you currently in a romantic relationship with KICKASS?” another chimed in. KICKASS, a true modern rapper, had been her date that oh-so-relevant evening. He, so heavily tattooed and so proud of his gangbanger past, had contrasted her in a way that was shocking and almost comical. Side by side, they looked as though a recently paroled drug dealer had time traveled to meet a Golden Age starlet. And yet...it had seemed perfectly right. The idea of Serafina could complement any man. “Serafina! Why did you choose KICKASS to be your date tonight?” another questioned. What a riveting question, Serafina thought. A less sophisticated individual might have sarcastically pointed out some obvious ones: She was attracted to him, she enjoyed his company, she knew it would make the headlines, she wanted to see them react like this...but Serafina would do no such thing. Serafina didn’t do sarcasm, and Serafina was sophistication in its purest form. “Serafina! What are your thoughts on the organization of tonight’s events?” yet another added on. ‘Tonight’s event’ had been just like all the others. Serafina had arrived, posed, networked with every fellow celebrity she could tolerate, and done her best to exit with minimal hindrance from the press. But she couldn’t say that, of course. The idea of Serafina having a repetitive life or flat, spiteful thoughts was unfeasible. Serafina lived a vibrant, fascinating, positively bustling life that her countless admirers could only imagine and long for. She thought in flowing, colorful rolls of high-quality silk and bursts of thorny dark red roses. And she knew when to keep her red-lipsticked mouth shut. “Serafina! What did you think of your fellow guests?” another photographer asked for the sake of the curious world. Serafina thought plenty about them. She could have told the photographer which actresses were vapid and which ones were great conversation partners, which powerful men were witty and which were downright boorish. She could have whipped out an extensive list of singers who weren’t half as charming as their lyrics...and she could have talked for hours about how KICKASS’s smile--his real smile, not the one he’d donned for these very vultures--made her weak at the knees, about how safe she’d felt in his tattooed arms, and how when she looked in his pale, pale green eyes, everything was alright in the world. But Serafina knew better. Serafina always knew better. The press, and the world they represented, didn’t want to hear about any of that. They didn’t really want to hear anything at all. They wanted to see. The ability to look at her and put their own words in her mouth was far more enjoyable than listening to anything she had to say. Serafina had learned that rather quickly. You could call her ‘clever’, ‘witty’, or ‘sly’, but Serafina Simon was downright intelligent. “Serafina! Serafina, Serafina, Serafina! Serafina!” the press squabbled, devolving abruptly to their true, frenzied state. Serafina held back a posh sigh. She’d given these hounds of hell more than enough to work with. She strutted to her mansion’s opulent main entrance with the seductive walking stride of that immortal screen siren, that unforgettable and beguiling Serafina. “Serafina! Serafina! SERAFINA!” the press howled after her. The rapid-fire camera attack didn’t slow. “Goodbye and goodnight, darlings,” Serafina called, her ever-alluring voice completely level. She opened the French doors with a darling flourish, swiftly closing them behind her with one smooth, practiced motion. The mansion’s inside was just like its outside, all tasteful decor and subtle but absolute luxury. Fresh cut flowers and natural light seemed to dominate every square inch, and the mansion had plenty of those to offer. Its owner strutted up the curving staircase with the same femme fatale stride she’d entered with. She kept it up as she strode through her well-decorated bedroom, and she entered her closet as flamboyantly as she’d entered her home. Said closet was exactly what one would have expected from Serafina Simon; all white marble, gold, and femininity. But more importantly, there were no windows. Nowhere for the insatiable press to see in. Serafina did one last look around the room, as though to make absolutely sure there were no particularly dedicated photographers lurking in it. Then, she took a deep breath. The first thing she did was kick off the heels. She didn’t need to be a towering six footer anymore; 5’7 was more than tall enough for the privacy of her home. The dress was the next thing to go, and Serafina would have shamelessly told the depraved press that her beauty in it was nothing compared to her relief out of it. But peeling off the shapewear and unhooking the pushup bra? That was where the fun really began. Serafina gasped for air and took her first full breaths of the evening. Of course, her joy wasn’t without its downsides. Her waist returned from an impossible twenty inches to a respectable twenty-four, and her chest, while still rather large, sat at a normal level instead of being forcibly raised to a sky-high one. Serafina couldn’t bring herself to mind. In its unguided form, her body was spectacular. But she knew by now that when there were cameras around, spectacular wouldn’t cut it. In the land of bright lights and brighter stars, it was perfect or nothing. She looked around the room once again, suddenly needing to remind herself that there were no cameras in here. Sure enough, there were no crouching photographers, no hovering drones, no tucked-away nanny cams. Serafina nodded vigorously, an odd sight. With the world watching, Serafina did nothing vigorously; her actions were completed gracefully and sensually. But here, with no one watching, she was allowed the rare luxury of being unable to help herself. No cameras, she reminded herself with each nod. No cameras, no cameras, no cameras, NO CAMERAS. On that optimistic note, she continued the long process of getting un-ready. The plain black g-string--Serafina Simon did not get panty lines--was next to go, and it certainly wasn’t missed. Serafina then walked over to one of her many drawers and pulled out a plain white wireless bra, a pair of plain white cotton briefs, and her ultimate guilty pleasure: a pair of sky-blue slipper socks with a pattern of cartoon dachshunds in hot dog buns and the meaningless caption, ‘Hang Loose, Buddy.’ She slipped them on with an eagerness she’d been trained not to show the public. Serafina Simon didn’t get eager, she got mildly interested in the most dignified way possible. But she certainly felt eager as she pulled on the other two items in the drawer, two items no one would ever associate with Serafina Simon. Serafina wore slinky dresses, ravishing gowns...but there she was in fleecy plaid pajama pants and an oversized KICKASS hoodie. She could only imagine the aneurysm the ever-loving public would have if they found out celebrities had their own celebrity crushes. Of course, they probably wouldn’t be surprised that Serafina Simon of all people had managed to get with hers. Of course, that news would get all its shock value back when the good citizens of the world realized KICKASS was Serafina’s type. Serafina savored that amusing thought as she took a seat at her vanity. She decided she could leave her hair as it was. It had been elaborately and painstakingly styled, of course, but considering it was down and free of pins, it wasn’t painful in any way. With that off the list, she reached for her makeup wipes. If there was one thing ingrained in the public eye about Serafina Simon, it was her face. Anyone who was anyone recognized those foxy eyes, those razor sharp cheekbones, that perfectly smooth skin, those dark red lips...and yet, they all came away with a few good swipes of a decent makeup remover. Her eyes were just eyes, with no bold dark outlines. Her cheekbones were still sharp and high, but she no longer had to worry about breaking a diamond on one. Her fabled glass skin had freckles, which were just about the last physical quality anyone would possibly connect to Seraphina Simon. And her lips were returned a subdued natural pink. Forget celebrities having crushes, the mere sight of Serafina Simon without her red lips would be enough to give any of her fans that aneurysm. But she knew the truth. It wasn’t Serafina Simon staring back at her at all. It was Ava McMurphy. Ava McMurphy, the girl from Illinois, who’d never in her wildest dreams thought she’d make it this far. The girl who loved wildflowers far more than roses, the girl who’d infinitely rather be at a NASCAR race than a cocktail party, the girl whose playlists consisted of a baffling mix of Metallica and Billy Joel, the girl who was obsessed with lattes in all of their various forms...the girl who swooned at the mere thought of a tall, heavily tattooed man with a face full of piercings, who just couldn’t seem to stay on the right side of the law. That, of course, was the biggest relief of all; the mere knowledge that she didn’t have to be Serafina Simon anymore. That Ava McMurphy would do just fine. Ava looked in the mirror and smiled her real smile. Unlike Serafina’s, Ava’s smile was unpolished and had no element of smugness or condescension. It was full-sized and genuine, especially right now. There was no better feeling than being herself again after Serafina had left for the night. BZZZT! Ava’s phone suddenly vibrated with a text. Her heart fluttered. Could it be who she hoped it was? She nervously checked, and sure enough, the notification was from none other than her lovely date, KICKASS. *Gonna pull up in two hours, ill sneak through the back door ;)* Ava giggled and immediately fired off a reply. *Can’t wait to see you, cutie!!!!! :))))))* Serafina never giggled. Serafina didn’t reply quickly; Serafina made everyone wait longingly for her. Serafina called no one ‘cutie’, and she certainly didn’t use childish things like exclamation points and smiley faces. And Serafina did not get excited over men. In fact, Serafina didn’t get excited at all. But Serafina had been put away until the next show, and Ava was very excited indeed.


By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. The setting sun picked out the brilliant autumn colors, which rapidly dimmed as the light faded. Despite the illusion of fiery radiance from the oranges, reds and yellows of the leaves, the air was crisp and cold. I cautiously opened the glass doors which led onto the terrace. I could say I was watching the sunset if anyone asked. As the night crept closer, the trees became lacy black silhouettes against the sapphire blue sky, punctuated by glittering specks of stars. The world merged into shades of gray, leaching the color from the chrysanthemums in the elegant urns. The moon appeared, illuminating the scene with icy white light. I had not bargained for that. I pondered whether to cross the expanse of lawn, where I’d be clearly visible, or to creep around the edge to the woods where I’d be out of sight but likely to stumble in the darkness. I couldn’t miss the opportunity to escape. The woods it would be. I crept down the shallow stone steps, pausing at the bottom, clutching my bag. I turned to glance back at the bulk of the house, trying to stop my teeth from chattering. No lights or movement in the blank, dark rectangles of the windows. I ducked to stay in the shadows of the balustrades and hurried in a semi-crouch towards the woods. The crunching of the driveway gravel under my feet seemed to echo off the house. I took a deep breath, ran around the building and plunged into the dark shadows of the wood. Things rustled around me. My breathing sounded loud. It had rained not long before and the leaf litter was slippery. At least that muffled my footsteps. My vision gradually adjusted so I could avoid bumping into tree trunks, though not the occasional low-hanging branches which raked my hair and threatened to poke me in the eye. Periodic cascades of rain fell on me from the foliage. I was out of breath and soaked, my shoes squelching and muddy by the time I reached the back gate with a sigh of relief. The rusty metal of the hinges creaked as I pushed it, screeching as I gave it a final, hard shove. I froze, my heart hammering as the sound echoed and died. The silence seemed overwhelming, but then the small nighttime woodland sounds resumed. I found myself on the back road behind the mansion. I rested against the wall for a moment to regain my breath. Creeping forward to the road, I glanced at my watch before retreating to the shadows again. I had made it at the time we had arranged. I hadn’t been off the grounds of the house alone since I arrived and hadn’t known how much time to allow to get this far. I shuddered to think of the consequences if this attempt failed. I waited for what seemed like forever. My watch recorded two minutes for every ten minutes that had surely passed. After the umpteenth time of glancing at it, I shoved it in my pocket. Finally, I heard a car. I leapt up, clutching the bag to my chest. I was afraid to leave my hiding place, but it had to be him. Vehicles were rare around here anytime, especially at night. The car slowed as I waved, leaping about like a maniac at the side of the road. The car pulled to a halt on the verge, the driver grinning at me. His smile faded as I yanked open the passenger door and collapsed on the seat. I must have looked half-deranged, bedraggled, wet and muddy. The driver looked at me in concern. It took me a moment to catch my breath and stop shaking. I turned on him. “Are you alright? You look like something the cat dragged in,” he said. “What’s going on?” “What the hell took you so long? I’m half frozen.” “Hey, I came as soon as I could, alright? Here, have some of this.” He passed me a flask. I took a big gulp, choking and coughing as the fiery heat burned down my throat. “What is that? Paint stripper?” I said, my eyes watering. He laughed and rumpled my hair. “It’ll cure what ails you. What’ve you got?” I passed him my bag. He opened it and shook it upside down, whistling appreciatively at the clinking as watches and jewelry cascaded onto his lap. “Nice. How’d you get out?” “I slipped a little something into his drink. I hope he’s okay. I felt kind of bad for doing it. He’s a nice old guy, lonely since his wife died.” “Serves him right for thinking a girl who could be his granddaughter was interested in him. Randy old fool.” “That’s mean. He never even tried anything, not that I think he could, at his age. He just wanted company. He’s alone in that mansion except for the housekeeper.” He looked closely at me. His smile was gone. I shivered at his narrow-eyed glance. “I hope you’re not getting sentimental on me. It’s a business, okay? Nothing personal. I find them, you hook them. He’s so rich that he’s not going to miss any of this. Anyway, we’d best get going. Ditch the wig. They’ll be looking for a blonde, not a brunette. I know the back roads. We’ll be long gone by the time they raise the alarm.” I pulled the bedraggled blonde wig off and smoothed my own hair. He nodded as I obeyed, smiling again. As the car moved off, I glanced back at the mansion, sitting in splendid isolation in its moon-drenched grounds, and thought for a moment of that lonely old man in his drugged sleep. He was as close as I’d ever have to a grandfather, or any kind of family, for that matter. I looked at the driver. He winked and tossed the flask back to me. I sighed and took another long drink. No chance of escape now.


Beyond the seventh summit of the seven ranges stands an empty needlemaker’s hut. Many years ago, a poor needlemaker lived there--back bowed low from long nights bent over his workbench. He smithed by the light of a single taper, ignorant of the stars that traded places with the sun. One evening, a song floated through his window. “Good sir or serf, please let me in My sight is gone, my eyes are dim, I’m broken shards split limb from limb; Good sir or serf, please let me in.” Outside lay a porcelain owl covered in sheathes of copper feathers and shattered in three pieces. Cracks hewed each wing from her body, while a jagged hole gaped above her beak. The needlemaker scooped up the pieces and rushed inside. He bathed the porcelain in cold water and untangled her copper feathers. He mixed clay and water to seal the wings against her body. He pasted canvas over the hole and painted two glossy eyes. That night it snowed, the first of many storms. “Lady Owl,” said the needlemaker, “The snow will bleed ink from your eyes until you turn blind. The clay on your wings grows brittle with cold, and will snap in the wind. I am a poor needlemaker, but I urge you to winter here.” The porcelain owl weighed his words. She bowed her head. “You must never touch my feathers. My home is a long journey eastward, and I will never make it back without all intact.” The needlemaker agreed, certain that her copper feathers would hold no temptation. He offered to share his repast and they feasted together on bread and cheese. Every clear morning, the needlemaker trudged into town to sell needles, and every stormy day he smithed. He worked on longer needles, sharper needles, thinner needles, and needles that were easier to thread. As he worked, the porcelain owl preened and arranged her copper feathers. They glinted and shone until the owl was radiant and the needlemaker could think of nothing but her quills. Through the winter, his temptation grew and he longed to mend her loose quill. If it fell, could he keep it? Trade it? A single quill would buy a room full of lamps and oil to keep them alight year-round. Imagine how she would shine! He dreamed of using copper quills for the finest needles, of becoming court needlemaker, of trading delicate feathers for unworn tools. All day and night his thoughts rang with desire. Spring came, and the porcelain owl flew away, blazing like a sun in the sky. The needlemaker removed cotton from his ears, where it had dimmed the taunting noise of her feathers. He took cotton from his eyes, where it had blocked the gleaming copper. He took cotton from his mouth, where it had stifled every urge to ask the owl for her quills. The next fall, the needlemaker was again at his bench when he heard a voice. “Good sir or serf, I have returned Remembering each night you yearned And now I bear your riches earned; Good sir or serf, I have returned.” The window was ajar, the porcelain owl perched on its ledge. “In return for your hospitality, I give seven needles from our finest birds. Keep them or sell them, but know they contain the magic to give them life. Press a single needle into the taper that lights your workbench and keep it near while you smith. When it finishes burning, swaddle it in soft cotton away from the light for one hundred days and one hundred nights. When you unwrap the cloth, no person on this earth will work silk as well as the magic needle.” The porcelain owl issued one last caution. “You may only forge one needle at a time.” The needlemaker thanked the owl and they feasted on bread and cheese and reminiscences until the owl took her leave. The next evening, the needlemaker pressed a needle into the bottom of a new taper. He smithed through the night and into the early morning, when the candle sputtered into darkness. He covered it in cotton and placed it in a wooden box above his hearth. After one hundred days and one hundred nights, a humming noise emerged from the box, wherein an ebony needle glowed. When the needlemaker picked up the needle it sang with the crystalline voice of a winter night. He jabbed the needle in its cotton swaddling and delicate embroidery bloomed in his unskilled hands. The needlemaker brought the magic needle as a gift to the Queen. Pleased, the Queen ordered enough wares to keep her ladies-in-waiting in thimbles for a year. The lampmaker’s daughter, enamored by this rapid ascent, pumped the needlemaker for his secret throughout a hasty courtship until the very hour of their vows. “Pooh!” she said, “Why haven’t you started another magic needle? Lamplight is mine as a dowry. What about a larger home? A carriage?” The needlemaker reluctantly wedged another needle into his taper. All night he tried to ignore his wife’s idle chatter, but his thoughts were jumbled worse than a stewpot; he mixed suet, sewing, finery, filing, poultry, poultices and polishing until the candle sputtered out. He yearned for the porcelain owl, who never minded when he stopped his ears with cotton. His wife complained for one hundred days and one hundred nights, but a faint hum still emerged. The needlemaker’s wife offered it as a gift to the Marchioness, who knew of the Queen’s singing needle and long coveted her own. She rewarded the needlemaker’s wife with a carriage horse. The needlemaker’s wife rode back to the cottage, certain that riches lay ahead. “We must not squander our gift,” protested the needlemaker; his wife, incensed, refused to speak until their daughter was born. “What about now?” she said, “Think of our baby, you lout. Surely, the Marchioness is expecting us--her needle is nothing compared to the Queen’s, you know.” “Our fealty is not to the Marchioness,” said the needlemaker. Still, he prepared another taper backed by the endless squalls of his infant daughter. She cried for one hundred days and one hundred nights, only drawing breath at the magic needle’s hum. Its voice whispered like the smoothest silk, soothing the child’s wails into a broken chorus of soft hiccoughs. For the first time in weeks, there was peace. The needlemaker’s wife carried the third needle to the Marchioness, who eagerly traded a simple carriage for having more magic needles than the Queen herself. By now, word of the singing needles filled the country and the needlemaker’s wife was worried... they only had four needles left. She pushed and prodded until, come winter, the needlemaker agreed to prepare another if she would stifle her words. She prepared the taper and pressed a needle into the base of a taper, then quickly wedged in the other three. The needlemaker saw his wife’s deception when the candle sputtered out. “Swaddle them anyways,” she encouraged, “perhaps the owl lied.” One hundred days and one hundred nights passed with little notice, save for a sickly scent permeating the house. The box, once filled with needles, became blackened, rotting flesh. The needlemaker’s wife threw the box away. “You promised to provide in thick and thin.” she scolded. “You must find your owl and explain--call it an accident. Bring her back. You saved her life--she can hardly refuse.” “I haven’t seen the porcelain owl in many years,” he protested, “I only know that her country lies far to the east. It may take months to find her, perhaps a lifetime.” “Then go eastward. Our life is nothing but poverty,” said his wife. The needlemaker took nothing but a mending kit for his shoes and a loaf of bread for his mouth before he kissed his daughter goodbye. “Goodbye, Leya--remember me.” In the first year the needlemaker’s wife built a perch where the owl could watch clouds dapple the village with shadows. A crisp wind blew into the room, and the needlemaker’s wife shivered. “It wouldn’t be right to let the owl sleep in a draught, would it? I’ll build something to keep out the breeze.” In the second year she constructed a shelter where neither breath of wind nor band of sun could crack the darkness. Leya stood on one foot to peer over the window and wobbled. Her small hand caught the door latch and sprung it open. The needlemaker’s wife needed certainty against her daughter’s clumsy fingers--a higher latch and a barred window. She installed a lock on the outer door. The owl could call them if she needed anything. In the third year, funds dwindled, so she sold her husband’s leftover wares and traded his needles for their future. Customers asked for singing needles and she placated them, saying they took time. She sang the needle’s song every night until her daughter mumbled it back in her sleep. In the fourth year, the needlemaker’s wife stopped expecting the needlemaker’s return. Only tin needles remained and the cheap metal warped and sold poorly at market. For the first time, the needlemaker’s wife saw bare boards line her pantry shelves, poverty hovering a breath away. She dragged her daughter to the next market, clutching the girl’s scrawny wrist. Leya stumbled as she tried to keep pace with her mother, their basket of wares hugged close to her small body. They swept out their stall and draped an old, embroidered cloth over their table, hem cascading towards the dusty ground. Leya huddled in the dark space beneath and hummed the needle’s song in her thin, reedy voice. “Singing needles! Singing needles for sale!” “Show us how they work--” “These ones... shy... they go quiet over time--” “... how much?” “Samples... beautiful work--” All the while, Leya’s voice grew fainter. She coughed, breaking the needle’s now-threadbare tune. The table shuddered with her mother’s boot and a thin card of needles fell beneath the fabric’s shifting folds. “Thank you, Sir, I just caught my foot. I know these needles aren’t full strength, but times are tough.” “You ask too much for a trinket.” “Stop! Thief! How dare you steal the little I have left?” “You forget yourself... an accident--” “Lout-faced, lying--” “Perhaps it fell...” The cloth rippled. “ LEAVE IT. ” The man swept back the fabric to reveal the card of needles and Leya’s shrinking form. A hand pulled her into the glaring light. “So what? I can’t help having the brat.” The needlemaker’s wife said. She frowned at the stranger. “But I was mistaken, forgive me.” “You forget something.” The man raised an eyebrow. “What about the singing?” They were thrown out of the market, pushed by jeering voices and ugly laughter. “That bird ruined your lousy father, but you ruined us,” said the needlemaker’s wife. “I’m going to wring the neck of that hollow-hearted owl.” She traded their carriage for casks of bird lime, slathering every tree in their woods. Many were shoved in the owl’s hut, but others became meat in her evening stew. Leya ate with the horse--watery bowls of tasteless gruel. In the fifth year, the bird shelter--now an aviary--risked overflowing. The boards bowed outwards and their cries pierced the air. One afternoon, she left the house only to have white spatter hit her arm, followed quickly by a second drop and a third. She stomped to the aviary and pounded the warping wood, hoping to quell the squalling birds. Their cries grew thricefold and the onslaught of droppings turned too many to count, coating her arms and streaking her legs. “I’ll give you something to cry about,” she yelled. Rather than sending Leya to make a poor bargain, the needlemaker’s wife rode to town through the barrage and threatened the stonemason to take the dilapidated horse on her terms. The stonemason built new walls around the aviary until it stood larger than the hut they lived in. He mounded earth until the enclosure was muffled by the weight of an entire hill. Finally, silence reigned and the circling birds dispersed. Without their horse, she could no longer afford the endless trips back and forth to collect the birds. She hauled Leya along on her outings, forcing her daughter to peel the birds from the sticky sap and carry crate after crate back to the aviary. “Forgive me,” Leya pleaded to the birds. Lime stuck to her fingers and stained her clothes, yet she pitied the undeserving creatures. “I wish the magic owl pitied us, too.” Her mother snorted. “Maybe she’ll see what we had to resort to.” In the sixth year, birds were scarce. Rumor mills turned until all knew of the woman who buried birds alive in her hill. Still, the needlemaker’s wife knew how to snatch at opportunity. She demanded an audience with the castle gamemaster and offered a trade: her finest game in exchange for guards around the hill’s locked door. Her collection would be the crown of the kingdom; they would have their pick of fowl. The Queen, who disapproved of any who stole songbirds from their mornings and gamebirds from their tables, refused. The Marchioness, however, agreed, becoming renowned for elaborate hunting parties that disgusted the Queen as much as they were favoured by her court. In the seventh year, the needlemaker’s daughter found a golden raven in the traps, gilded feathers glittering and dancing as it picked at the lime. She hummed the needle’s song, soothing the raven’s frenzied motion, and cleaned its beak. “Oh daughter who has set me free From bondage, caught in yonder tree, What reward shall laurel thee, Oh daughter who has set me free?” “Good Raven,” Leya began, “My father once journeyed east in search of the porcelain owl, who wintered with him many years before. How does he fare?” The raven looked solemnly at the girl. “Daughter,” he said, “I have not seen any man reach the eastern lands, but for your service, I will ask among my peers.” The needlemaker’s daughter thanked the raven and offered to share her meager lunch. Over the meal, Leya told the golden raven about the aviary in the hill and warned him to be careful, and the golden raven promised to spread word. Hardly a week passed before the woods were barren. Leya returned empty-handed for three days before her mother intervened. She took over the rounds and saw the traps caught nothing--perhaps she had truly caught all the birds in the world. The owl was fragile; surely it had withered away since then. Then she heard a distant caw. Caught in the centremost tree in the wood, feet bound by day-old lime, was a golden raven. “Let no one enter but me,” she declared to the guards, pushing away her eager daughter, “and you will each receive a golden feather. This bag is for the golden raven’s feathers and the stewpot is for his body.” “And the rest?” Leya asked, eyeing the buckets piled beside the door. “To pluck down from every bird--a feather or two each--which you will make into a tick. A mattress from the feathers of every bird in the world.” When the needlemaker’s wife entered the locked hill, her shriek, despite the thick earthen walls, echoed long over the countryside. Her daughter waited as the sun crept from the horizon and arced above the trees. She waited as cool morning turned into the glaring beat of midday sun. She waited as the guards shuffled and yawned and planned for their pending reward. Come noon, she was worried. “Perhaps something is wrong.” The younger guard shook his head. “I won’t be chancing my feather on a girl.” So she waited some more. In mid-afternoon, a servant from court arrived. “Game collection: three quail, nine grouse, and twelve pheasants.” “The aviary is closed,” the older guard said. “There’s a golden raven inside.” “The Marchioness sent word yesterday.” “Orders are orders.” Then, the Marchioness came. She swept past Leya, straight toward the door in the hill. “Where are my birds?” “My Lady,” the guards bowed deeply. “The goodwife insists that, on no condition can the hill be opened today.” “Where is she?” The Marchioness frowned at Leya and fixed her eyes back on the guards. “In the hill, my Lady; there’s a golden raven.” “Finally, something worthwhile. Open up.” “My Lady, with all respect--” “I do not repeat myself.” The older guard handed the younger guard the key. He nodded towards the iron-clad door. The lock clicked and the door cracked open. All was silent--not a single birdsong or squawk or screech, no beating of wings or rustle of feathers. “Allow me.” The Marchioness stepped into a flock of birds bursting from the aviary doors. Out flew the grouse, the storks, the pigeons, the pheasants, the swallows and larks, the doves and the nightingales. At last, the Marchioness swayed alone--shredded gown, torn skin, and bare patches where hair had been. She fainted. When Leya approached, only the golden raven remained. “Oh daughter, do not mourn tonight For I have set your wishes right; The time is near to reunite-- Oh daughter, do not mourn tonight.” “Fear not, for you have remained steadfast and true. Weave a large basket of rushes. We will fly you to our homeland on the same winds that will finally carry your father there.” In three days, the basket was completed and a flock a hundred strong carried her into the sky. They flew over the castle, where the Queen rejoiced at the return of birds to her lands. They flew over the countryside, where the Marchioness shuddered and ordered for her drapes to be drawn. They flew over distant kingdoms and far-off oceans until they reached the eastern lands, where--in return for their good deeds--the needlemaker and his daughter were reunited. So it is that, beyond the seventh summit of the seven ranges, stands an empty needlemaker’s hut. It stands alone, brushing the heavens, and listens to the nearby woods filled once again with song.


I ran. I promised myself I’d be fast enough this time, but I wasn’t. It was raining ants again. My breath caught in my throat as fear washed over me. I sped up, the wind blowing hard with the smell of ants dancing on the air. Thunder rumbled hotly above me, making the hair on the back of my neck start to prick up. I cursed under my breath from the sidewalk where I was, feeling the sprinkle of the first couple of them in my hair and on my shoulders. I tried to shake them off as I kept running along, my house nearly in sight from here. It started to rain harder, and I could feel dozens of little legs itching their ways up the back of my neck and down my legs, tickling almost. I finally lunged up onto the rickety porch under the roof, rubbing my reddened face as I panted. I shook out my legs and arms desperately, running my hands through my hair to get the ants all out. Several of them fell to the chipped wood below my feet, squirming before disappearing below the porch. I could feel more of them though, my fingers curling in fear. I kept trying, but I knew it was too late. I felt wriggling all over, their little red bodies clinging onto my skin and follicles and whatever else they could latch onto. They had started to burrow into my skin, sealing their path behind themselves. Fuck. I run my nails through my hair again, trying to stay calm. I study the little white dots where they had just dug under my skin, like little inverted freckles all over me. Before I can think of anything else, my mother opens up the front door with a funny look on her face. “Hun? What’re you doing? Get in here, it’s storming out there.” I looked up at her with a swallow, slowly coming closer to step after her into the house. The ants inside me twitched. They flicked their little antenna, and it itched. They kept burrowing and digging deeper until they reached my veins. Then they itched those, too. I was steadily going pale, nearly tearing a hole into my cheek with my canines. My mother paid me no mind, going back to the living room. I tried to calm my breathing, leaving against the kitchen island. The ants were still going, little legs prickling against my capillaries as they made their way inside of my heart. They felt over my flesh, nuzzled into the muscles. I didn’t realize tears were blurring my eyes until it was too late. My heart felt heavy, and so did my lungs when they managed to find their way there, too. It’s when I felt them coming up along my brainstem that I whimpered, and went into the living room. “Mom..” I said, getting her to turn around. She cooed a soft sound out. “Honey, what’s wrong?” I cried harder, wiping at my eyes with my wrist. “I.. you know how I told you about how I don’t like the ants?” I said. She sighed a little then. “Love.. we talked about this. Just brush them off, like everyone else. Everyone has to deal with them.” I shake my head back at her. “No, mom.. I can’t brush them off. They dig in.. they crawl all over. I don’t know what to do anymore.” She shakes her head, and then kisses the top of mine. “I’m sorry hun, I can’t help you. Maybe go lie down for a bit, yeah?” She steps away from me, and leaves me alone in the living room. I don’t know how long I stood there staring at the floor. I hated it when it rained. When she was younger, it only rained a couple times a year. Now it was almost everyday, with the itching and crawling and burrowing. I had tried to look it up in the past, or ask my friends. But they didn’t get it. They told me to try to ignore the ants. One of them tried to buy me an ant brush to get them off. It helped a little, but they still burrowed in. After a while, I didn’t want to leave the house anymore, in case it rained that day and more ants got in. I wiped my face once more before running up to my room. I needed them out, and I’d do it myself if I had to. They were feeling heavier with each minute, tugging my lungs down and making it hard to breathe. I went to my room and locked the door. From under my pillow, I pulled the switchblade I’d stolen from my Dad’s tools in the garage. I sat myself at my desk, fingers shaking a little from around the blade. The ants bumped their ways back and forth through my veins, stretching them. They started their way into my skull, bumping along the sides of the bone and making little imprints on my brain. The only thing I could focus on was the sensation of them inside me, and how my whole body screamed that this was wrong. They didn’t even hurt, they didn’t bite down or have venom or sting me at all. But they wouldn’t stop digging, and the fact that others could just brush them away drove me insane. The ants danced their little legs against my temples and skull, a rhythmic little marching over my whole body like a heartbeat from under the floorboards. Glancing down to my hands, the knife was held stiff between my whitened knuckles. I gritted my teeth, and brought the blade to my arm. With numb fingers, I slid it across my skin, pressing deep. Red spilled out and smeared over my arm. None of it was ants, but the itching still stopped. The digging, the tunneling, the marching. It all went quiet. Hands shaking, I slump onto my desk with a relieved sigh.


Jerome loves his bee hives. He works almost as diligently as the workers that stay busy all the time making sure the hive is full of honey and pollen while drones attend to the queen bee. Hives are very sociable places and the bees communicate so well it sometimes makes him jealous because humans do not communicate as well. He knows the main reason bees are so important is because they pollinate plants that are so vital to the survival of the plants. The plants are vital to the survival of all animals including humans. It breaks his heart every time he hears the bees are endangered. He protects his hives with everything he can so at least his hives will not become extinct. Every morning he checks the hives and takes just enough honey to fill the number of jars he knows he can sell in one day with one jar a week for himself. Living alone now he does not need the amount his family required before they were killed by the government during the pandemic a few years ago. The old government by the people and for the people ended early in the pandemic. The new government saw fit to punish those who refused to obey the new laws of complete social isolation with only one family member allowed to shop. The members could rotate who could go at any time but only one at a time could leave their forced isolation. He did most of the grocery shopping from a list approved by the government. Once a month his wife shopped for clothes or shoes for the children because she was better at knowing what would fit the older ones. The younger ones inherited what had been outgrown whether the clothes or shoes actually fit them or not. In isolation, how anyone looks does not matter. Selling the honey had taken some trial and error. Since no one outside the family could come closer than twelve feet, he had to think of a way his customers could get the honey and he could get the payment for it. His wife suggested they set up a system of ropes and pulleys that would send the honey on one set and the money could be sent to them in the other set. She made small baskets by hand that were attached and the system worked perfectly. The honey and the payment passed each other at six feet so neither side could reach the baskets to interfere with the transaction. She had always been handy with crafts and was really smart. God, how he missed her! Except the day she decided she had to take the children with her to try on clothes since their sizes were so different now. The older boy had shot up that last year as sixteen year old boys are known to do. The middle girl just turned fourteen and needed bras but it is difficult to know what size without trying them on. The youngest was just out of diapers but all the toddler clothes were too small for him. He had to try on some clothes so his mother would know what size to buy. The store was only half a block from their farm and as long as they each kept twelve feet from outsiders, she thought it would be okay for all of them to go together. She had not heard if more than one family member went out at once, all of them would be executed. When they did not return by dusk he went to the store to find out what was taking them so long. When he was within sight of the store he saw a small crowd gathered in front of it. Making sure to keep the legal distance, he started for the door. Something made him look up at the huge tree on the side of the building. What he saw sent him to his knees. His wife and three children were all hanging from limbs of that tree with signs proclaiming that was the fate of anyone who broke the law.He can’t remember how long he knelt there. He vaguely remembered finally getting up and going back home where he could no longer hold back the tears. Now the only thing he had were his bees. For days he could not force himself to even go outside. Then he decided he had to keep his hives going but only for himself and a few families in the area. Knowing the government routinely sent aircraft to spray insecticides to kill all insects whether beneficial or not, he built a shelter around his hives and painted it to look like the surrounding vegetation from the air.The front and back were draped with plastic he had slit just enough for the workers to go in and out and large fans mounted on the side walls pushed any insecticide out of the shelter. He remembered an old army trick they had used while he served his country. They could lay out a set of wires around the perimeter of their camp then attach a series of batteries to them. Anyone who tried to cross the perimeter would be electrocuted on the spot. He carefully bought the series of batteries saying they were for his various vehicles on the farm that he was setting up to use again. Everyone knew he had not farmed for years even before he lost his family so they believed him. The wires were easier. He went to the hardware store and bought a couple of reels of wire then did the same at the electric supply store and the discount store. He talked to an electrician and told him someone had been coming onto his property at night and stole all his supplies to put up an electric fence. He asked if there was any store he could replace all the wire and connectors that had been stolen? The electrician offered to sell them from his supply since he wasn’t able to do much work now. Soon his property was totally protected from outsiders. The wires were well hidden under normal leaves and plants. It would take at least one hundred pounds of weight to cause the wires to contact enough to do harm. Next he planted some of the bees favorite flowers in an area close to the shelter and covered them with a camouflage canopy dense enough to prevent insecticide from harming the bees. He started up his old tractor and plowed a field to plant other plants necessary to the bees. It would look like he was planting a crop for human consumption and the planes would not spray it. He plowed and planted another field closer to the house with routine vegetables for his table. His wife had taught him to preserve foods so he could can what he could not eat in a season. They had planted apple trees when the first son was born then cherry trees for the girl. By the time the last one was born, they had planted pear trees in the small orchard. Now all but the pear trees were mature enough to bare fruit. Next he bought a cow and a half grown bull. As soon as their pasture fence was up he turned them loose from the barn. Hr built a chicken coup and added the chickens. Beside the barn he built a pig sty for a few young pigs. Lastly he bought a stallion young enough to start working with but old enough to breed. For the sire fees he asked for a colt here and there but in money he only asked as much as the mare’s owner could afford. His farm had been going good for about five years when business began dropping off as he knew it would. In a hundred mile radius, his was the only operating farm now. Crops had failed year after year Wildlife continually decreased as well until none were to be found. In the last year most herds of cattle and horses had died along with large numbers of humans. People from town were flocking to his farm offering all they owned for a jar of vegetables or fruit or a cow or pig from his stock. No one could understand how he could grow all the crops and feed all the livestock when everyone else lost theirs. No crops could grow except on his land. No livestock could be fed except for his. He looked fit and well fed while everyone else was starved and emaciated. Did he have some sort of magic spell allowing him to prosper while everyone else went without all he had and especially without food? He assured them it was not magic. He farmed as he always had. His livestock were well fed from the fruits of his land and continued to produce offspring as well. He had plenty of honey from his bee hives and the bees pollinated his crops that fed him and his animals. One woman from town came with her Border Collie. She gave him the dog so it could live even if she could not. Jerome did not want to separate her from an obviously loved pet so he invited her to live with him and he would feed both of them. Then he asked her name and was surprised she was just a few years older than his oldest son would have been. He remembered her from all of her warnings to the townspeople that they needed to save the bees or they would die. She had aged unnaturally because of starvation but she was still the attractive woman she had always been. He invited her to have lunch with him and was more than welcome to bring her dog in as well. He fed the dog first with a bowl full of scrap meat and placed a fresh bowl of water beside the feast. He found out its name was Frieden. Frieden had come from a German family whose grandparents survived the Second World War. He had been a gift for her efforts to save the current world from death. His second name was Hoffnung. How fitting she had been given Peace and Hope as her reward. Over lunch he commended her on her foresight to speak out about saving the bees. His hives had tripled now and that is why he prospered while everyone else did not. He no longer worried about insecticides being sprayed but he did worry about people seeing bees flying around and trying to kill them. Most people blamed the bees for the destruction of all they used to have when it was actually they, themselves, who had caused the destruction by killing the bees.The government had become too small to be any further threat. The dictator called president had succumbed to the disease. Most of his cabinet had either fled or died at the hands of patriots trying to return the country to what it had originally been. A few had joined the patriots but none of them recognized killing the bees had destroyed humanity and the world. They did not live long enough to remember his little farm with its protected hives working tirelessly to keep that small farm alive and thriving. The next day Jerome went into the town that was now empty of life except for a few cats and dogs looking for food. He looked in the grocery store and saw a few cans of cat and dog food on the shelves. He took out the well used canvas sack and took all the cans that would help until he processed some scrap meat for them. He selected a few other items he knew they would need then remembered seeing animal treats still on the shelf so he went back for those. He stopped at the pet shop for some birdseed and to make sure no live animals were still caged. He saw a Border Collie puppy still alive and took it from its cage. Cradled in his arms and given some treats, the puppy gratefully gave his cheek a weak lick as if to thank him. He named her Liebe for the love she showed him. None of the other animals had survived but Frieden would have a mate in a few months. The stray animals had followed him so once out of the store, he put down a trail of treats. That would lead the poor hungry little ones to his farm where they would be fed. Day after day wildlife appeared and were fed as well. Since there were no more churches and ministers or judges, a month later Celeste and Jerome said their wedding vows to each other in the garden where his hives happily worked to bring back the world before the great extinction of bees that brought on the extinction of man except in a small corner of paradise where a wise man foresaw salvation by saving his bees.


It’s almost time for reunion parties. There is excitement and fear for anyone whose time it is to reunite with former classmates. My 20-year High School Reunion is the best reunion story out there. I attended my 20 Year High School Reunion. I had mixed feelings. First off, it was extremely over-priced. One of my classmates scored the “big time,” took out a membership at the ritzy country club and took advantage of the rest of us! Secondly, I tried to squeeze in as much as I could during those years. I loved high school. Well, except for how this particular story started. It was Sadie Hawkins. The dance where the girl asks the guy... buys the cute matching shirt/sweater and plays divine goddess host for the evening. My first pick didn’t get back to me... so, I asked the Student Body President. I spent days making this enormous poster of butcher paper, magic marker, paint and, of course, writing some cheesy poem, which, now, escapes my memory. My mom, whom I hadn’t seen in two years, flew out to visit, and it was a moment of bonding. My mom and I drove to his house and she delivered the giant, rolled “invitation”. Mr. SB Pres. was not at home, so we left it with his brother. It took a couple days, but he said, “Yes.” I don’t recall the details of that moment either. I saved my weekend Nanny money and bought these crimson and gray sweaters. They were my school’s colors and I thought they were perfect! · Quirky invitation... check · Answer... affirmative · Matching tacky shirts: check I made the plans for dinner and the hair appointment to look “foxy.” I bought the tickets and had money set aside for pictures. It was going to be amazing. I was so giddy. The Wednesday before the dance, Mr. Pres. said he would rather go with this “other” girl who had recently asked him and “would that be okay?” I know what you’re thinking. I was, however, polite and concerned about other’s feelings and so I smiled and said, “Sure. I think that would be great! I hope you have a good time.” I suppose I sincerely meant it. I mean, why would I want to go with someone who didn’t want to be there with me? He gave me back the sweater; I canceled my dinner plans and hair appointment. He went to the dance. I stayed home. Life went on. Fast forward. Twenty years later I’m going to the reunion. There is no other reason aside from the fact I have decided I’m going to tell Mr. Pres. just what a schmuck he was. His rejection haunted me. I drilled into my boys’ head that if they say, “Yes” to a girl for a dance, they take her. There is no discussion. No second thought. They grew up hearing me tell them this story over and over. At the reunion, I sit through the uneventful night looking for him, but cannot seem to identify him. I tell my husband, “Maybe he didn’t come?” There is a drawing for prizes and they call his name... wait... ah, yes! There he is! I excuse myself and go up to the front of the reunion and wait as someone else has acquired his attention. I wait, and wait, and finally, I decide I look, perhaps, desperate standing there alone and so I go and sit back down. A little while later, I see he has returned to his table and so I excuse myself again. I rehearse what I’m going to say on my walk to his table. With a big grin I say, “Mr. President (okay, I used his real name, but you get the picture), how the heck are you?” He turned and said, “Hello, Julee” Women And Power A weekly exploration of women and power. “I’m surprised you remember my name.” There may have been a tad bit of bitterness in my voice. “I remember you. I have thought about you through the years and what I did to you. It is the one thing I regret. It’s not that I thought about it every minute, every day, every week or every month, but I thought about it. I am very sorry for what I did.” Tears started to swell and I choked up. He continued, “I told my family; my children. I am sorry.” I replied, “I told my children too. They know that even if the fat, ugly girl asks them first and they say, “Yes”, they are taking her.” He introduced me to his wife. She said, “Oh, memories! Good or bad?” He answered, “This is Julee.” “Oh, bad memories!” she winced, “He told me the story and he is so sorry. Tell her you’re sorry.” “I already did. I AM sorry.” I asked his wife, “Would you mind taking that Sadie Hawkins picture for me now?” She smiled and he stepped closer, put his arm around me and we took our picture. Upon leaving him I said, “Mr. President, I knew you as a boy; I will remember you as a man.” I went back to my table and my husband asked, “Well? What happened?” I told him, what I have just told you. My husband said to me, “You’re lying.” “I’m not,” I answered as my eyes filled with tears and, slowly, one by one, they fell to my cheek. I was ready to go home. I came and that apology put me at peace. When I got home, the first question my boys asked was, “Did you see Mr. President?” “Yes” and told them this story. My 18-year-old replied, “I’m so glad I always took the girl; that would be a terrible thing to have to carry around for 20 years!” Indeed, it would. It should be noted a week later, I sent Mr. President an email and told him “Thank You” that his apology meant a lot. His reply: Julee; You should be very proud of yourself for having the willpower and fortitude to do the things that you were able to do at such a young age. I am very sorry for what I did to you in high school. That is the only thing that I did that has bothered me through the years. Thank You for the opportunity to say that I am sorry at the reunion. It was a great load off of my shoulders; I hope that you can truly forgive me. I’m happy to know that you are doing well and have such a big family. I’m sure that you have a great husband and kids and a wonderful life. You mentioned at the reunion you were surprised that I remembered you after all these years; I just want to let you know that I will never forget you. You are a wonderful person. It was very nice to see you at the reunion. Thank you, Mr. President I keep that letter, almost ten years later, folded in my purse. I take it out on occasion to remind me that I deserve great things. That even after 20 years, I am someone remembered and I have value.


Far into a great wooden corridor a sickly man was led to a pair of large, ornate metal doors. The soft burning candles framed the entire area in a calming and warm light. It was hard to not notice how immaculately the wax of the candles were tended to. So perfectly burning without a drop out of place. Great care was taken to ensure a welcoming feeling. This sickly man was given notice that his end was near. Every person in this land is given the opportunity to observe last rites with the Silver Sider should they wish. A gratitude given freely and dearly. The maidens and lads of the Silver Spider give nothing but the utmost respect and care to those who seek communion. “Are you ready, sir?” A young woman asked the man. “Yes, please.” The man returned. Slowly the doors were opened with a silent hush. Within the next room a frail young man sat on the floor in a relaxed manner. This was the Silver Spider. His skin was ash white. His hair was long and thin. Surrounding him were many spiders of different sizes and shapes. The young man was whispering to cupped hands. The sickly man was left alone with him. “Welcome, please come closer. You shouldn’t give any mind to my comrades. They mean no harm to you.” The Silver Spider spoke with a gentle and easy voice. The sickly man shuffled closer, careful not to step on any of the tiny legs of the spiders walking on the floor. The Silver Spider motioned the man to sit next to him on the floor. The spiders gave generous space for him to maneuver in his creaking flesh. The man could clearly see the face of this frail being. It was thin and dull with a warm smile. HIs eyes were glazed over in a milky film, obscuring his green irises. “Your lord, I am sorry for the state of my looks while addressing you. I haven’t the energy to-” the man was cut off by a single thin finger placed on his lips by the Spider. “It is all without worry, my friend. I cannot see anymore. Such things have never bothered me and they surely do not now. I want you here just as you are. Please relax.” The Spider grabbed the back of the man’s neck gently and lowered his head into his lap. Slowly stroking the man’s hair, The spider continued. “My friends tell me you are very sick and near death. I am so very sorry you have to feel any suffering. Humble me for a moment, what is your fondest memory from when you were a child?” The man thought for a moment. “My mother’s singing. If she was cooking, she was singing. If I was restless at night, she would sing me to sleep. All of my worries seemed to melt when she sang. That is my most precious memory.” The Spider looked down at the man in his lap, feeling the trembles of his fragile mortal coil. “Sing her song for me” The Spider requested as he continued to coddle the man. The man began to hum a very joyful tune to his best ability. Half way between the memory of his mother and the words he has forgotten, he coughed roughly before falling silent. “What a beautiful thing to remember and hold with you through your life-” This spider said warmly. “Your mother must have loved you dearly.” “She did, so very much.” “You know, something off topic but I wish to know. The spiders make me a new robe of their silk every year with a new design. I am told that each one has been very precious and beautiful. Could you please tell me what the one I am wearing looks like? You are the first person to see it.” The man craned his neck up from the lap of the Spider and studied the intricate lace and shimmer of the cloth. Dazzled by the complex designs and motifs, the man was lost for words. “Your lord, It is beyond exquisite.” The man relayed. “I am so thankful you think so. I can no longer appreciate their work, but I can feel their needle thin legs crawl over my skin. They remind me that I am not alone in my blank world. As do you, in this moment. Thank you for spending this time with me. I wish you a painless and peaceful death.” The man began sobbing as the pain in his body melted into the webs that hung around him. Gently and somberly, the man could feel his soul being unstitched from his bones. The Spider ran his fingers through the man’s hair and hummed a tune ghostly similar to the man’s mother’s tune. “May I lay with you a little longer? I have not been so at peace with my own body in a long time.” The man requested. “You may lay with me as long as needed. You are so very soft and gentle in this world. Please be with me as long as you wish” The Spider responded.


I hate smoking! And yet, there’s nothing quite like it in the world. I always know that it’s going to make me sick, and despite this, I always crave another cigarette. Why is that? What urge drives me to do this? Do I want to make myself sick? Do I want to feel unhinged, uneased, unsafe? The moment I put a cigarette to my lips and feel that sweetly taste, or is it the smell that’s sweet? The moment when I inhale that first puff, the smoke filling my mouth with that disgusting taste of burnt paper and weeds... I pause for a nanosecond and I inhale again, this time the smoke runs through my throat burning it as it goes down to my lungs. Sometimes I even feel it in my stomach. My lips are dry, I lick them and feel the taste of the cigarette butt on them. Such a sickly taste, it makes me want to vomit. And, exhale! My mouth is dry and the smoke makes it even more so. I’m starting to feel woozy, I always feel like this when I smoke. Every damn time! Maybe this is why I do it, for this mini feeling of elation, this quasi-break from the shit-show that is my life. For this one moment of feeling something good, of feeling in control. Inhale, pause, exhale, repeat! Sometimes I like to play with the cigarette between my fingers, gripping it between my thumb and index finger, using the middle one to complete this delicate balancing act between practicality and showmanship. I look like Rodin’s ‘The Thinker’ when I smoke like this. Is this why I do it? Neah! Or is it. I think grizzled old sailors smoke like this, you know them?, the ones that have that look in their eyes, like nothing can move them anymore. As if they’ve seen it all. You know them, right? Have I seen it all? Do you actually need to see everything, to see it all? Or, maybe you just need to see enough of it to get fed up with the rest and be done with it. Forever. I have an acrid taste in my mouth and my stomach’s churning. Damn, I hate smoking! “You look ridiculous!” he startles me. How long has he been there? I try to find words but I’m all chocked out. The queasiness climbs up a note. “What are you looking at?” he insists. I’m looking at him. He’s all teeth and no smile. Sitting across the table from me, cigarette at the corner of his mouth. He looks so confident, so full of self. Is it this? Is this why I smoke? A half-assed attempt to be more like him? “Did you grow some extra teeth?” I try to look confident but I can feel the blood rushing from my brain. He lets out a chortle, exposing more of his teeth. He always did look more hyena than man when he laughed. “Why? Did you lose yours?” How can he be so sure of himself? What does he have that I don’t? I bring the cigarette to my lips and pull on it as I look him in the eyes. I need to put it out or I’ll end up puking. I use this as an excuse and break away from his gaze and search for the ashtray. Exhale! I crush the cigarette, chasing down any stray embers. “What do you want?” I ask him, striving to regain my composure just a bit. “To help you, of course!” he answers, smiling benevolently. As I look at him I realize that his face looks like one of those Japanese Noh Masks, if I shift a bit to the left all his benevolence turns into something else. “Hmmm, why?” I can’t take my eyes off of him, it’s like I’m expecting for the mask to crack if I stare long enough, to allow me to see into his soul. “Come now, why must you always treat me like I’m your enemy?” he asks. “Because you never treated me as a friend!” bile rises in me as I utter that word: friend. Once I thought he was my only friend, he chose to be by my side when no one else would. Through thick and thin we carried each other. When I got bullied he toughened me up, when Mom humiliated me he reassured me, when Dad beat me up he stood up for me. He had always been there for me, and yet, somehow, as I look back on it, it feels as if he was always there for himself. It seems that my words found the tiny gap in his act, a geyser of hate shoots from his eyes as he bends closer to look at me, to frighten me. “You insolent wretch! If it wasn’t for me you wouldn’t have survived so long in this world.” “Yes, yes! I know the story too well to have you chew my ear off with it right now.” “You ...” spittle shoots from his mouth as he finishes his sentence “weakling!” As I look at him I see only rage, his mouth wide open, predatorial, telling me that he would like nothing more than to rip out my throat. “I am what you made me!” I shout convulsively. And at that moment everything fades and a hysterical laugh spews out from his clenched jaws. As I stare in amazement I can feel the pressure of time flowing through me, his laughter unceasing, unending, its point to break me in ridicule, to bring about ceaseless memories of moments such as this that I was forced to endure throughout my life. Moments that broke me, no, shattered me to my core, until I couldn’t make heads or tails of what I was anymore. Like all great artists, he ends his performance on a high note, tilting his head to one side and says: “If only!” widening his grin into a rictus. “No!” flatly “You are what you’ve made yourself to be. Every inch of the fabulous victim that you’ve become has been handcrafted into perfection by your spineless and stubborn self.” As he finishes his sentence I am left hollow. The echo of his words resound in me, bouncing from the walls of my being, faster, stronger, until their truth becomes one with who I am. I feel tears starting to well up at the corner of my eyes. I feel completely, utterly broken. “As I was saying” he continues “now that Mom and Dad are finally gone, good riddance for that” as he makes a mocking cross gesture “and you are all alone in this big bad world, I’ve decided to come and help you!” smiling benevolently once more in emphasis. That’s right! I am all alone now... I... am... all... alone! “I was thinking that we should sell their apartment and go to the beach for the summer. Drown our sorrows into whatever we can drown them over there... " he goes on. I am all alone! As the words sink deeper and deeper into my being my hand goes out towards the cigarette pack. With trembling fingers I pull out another cigarette and bring it to my lips. The taste doesn’t bother me anymore. I search for a light, feeling my pockets in a clockwork fashion, first the right pocket from my jeans, then the one from my shirt, finishing with the left jeans pocket. It’s not there. I am all alone! “We can stay at that hostel by ...” and on. It was behind the ashtray. I light up the cigarette and I pull on it purposefully. It goes straight to my brain, relaxing me. As I do so I take a closer look at the lighter. It’s the most ridiculous kind of pink and it has the image of a black cat on it. Sarah bought it for me. I really loved Sarah! and I am all alone! ripple inside. “We’ll spend all day at the bar, the one right on the beach ...” and on. “The one where we met Sarah?” my sight is glazed over at this point and I’m staring into nothingness. “Yes! that one” venomously, “hopefully there will be fewer shrews hanging around this time,” he straightened up at this. “In any case, we first need to get rid of the apartment.” I am truly, deeply alone! I remember now. I started smoking in order to fit in. “We should start by...” “No!” I calmly bring the cigarette to the corner of my lips. We stare at each other through the mirror one last time. I raise my arm and squeeze. “I’ve always been alone!” softly. Click!


It was a whisper, brushing against my brain like sandpaper. *I freed you* I opened my eyes to nothing but darkness. *I freed you from their misery* I was laying on grass. I felt the blades tickling my palms as I pushed myself up and swept my head from side to side. Darkness still. *From their filth* It practically spat that last word. I stood and tried to get my bearings, but it was impossible in the blackness. *Let there be light* Like the dawn of a new day, light spread from the horizon and bathed the world in a warm glow. I looked around in awe. There were hundreds - no thousands - of us. Hundreds of thousands. All standing in the largest field of the greenest grass and the bluest waters I had ever seen. It spread from horizon to horizon, and standing on it were more people than I could possibly imagine. *Look to your brothers and sisters* I made eye contact with the closest person to me, an overweight woman with greasy hair and nervous hands. I saw the same fear and confusion on her face that must have been painted on my own and I knew that she could hear the same voice I heard. Or rather, that the same voice was intruding her thoughts and she was hearing what I was hearing. *You are the chosen ones* *The righteous few* *The worthy* I felt shivers run through me and a cold sweat take hold. What was happening? And then I heard a gasp, and then another one, and then a wave of sharp inhales swept the land. People were all looking up and pointing. I tilted my head back and choked on my own breath as vertigo took hold. I felt nauseous. *They're like ants* They looked like ants. I felt like I was standing on the belly of a 747 at 30,000 feet over New York. The city sprawled above us, skyscrapers hanging over us like stalactites in a cave of steel and concrete, people and cars racing across its inverted surface. *Scurrying about without purpose* *Without meaning* *Trapped in a prison of their own arrogance* I felt the disgust in the voice. The anger. I felt sick to my stomach. *I saved you* *I brought you here* *To my creation* I looked back at the spectacular beauty that surrounded us and realized that this land felt alien. It was too pure, too clean. Too manufactured. *To build a new world* *A better world* *And like a phoenix* *Rising from the ashes* Fire engulfed the sky and the city was instantly ablaze. Their screams rose in a deathly wail and filled our silence. I looked away, trying to shut them out. I looked at the lady with the nervous hands. She had them clasped in front of her as she looked up, a wicked grin spread across her face, her wide eyes glimmering hungrily in the dancing flames. *So too will you* *Cleanse your past* *In the fire of their sin* I looked back up at the sky and felt the heat wash over my face. Sweat ran from my brow and mixed with my tears as I watched in silent agony as the old world burned.


Part 5 The next morning at the headquarters finds Dexter, and Adrian training in the backyard with Kim looking on. Upstairs, Teagan has sequestered herself in her room with a stack of books on natural medicine. Across town, Chrys and Kelly chow down on a cheap microwaveable breakfast while making sure Lex eats as well. It’s a quiet peaceful morning except for one Red X who currently finds himself stuck in the ventilation system of a Wayne Tech factory. **Humans greatest rival is themselves. Everyday we struggle against our own ego, own confidence, hubris as it was has been the one to defeat many men and women once thought unbeatable. We constantly find ourselves at odds with what we can and can’t do. We tell ourselves that nothing is impossible if we just try. There’s no such thing as a stupid question and all that. In plain English...I fucked up.** **How did I manage to convince myself to break into a Wayne Tech factory of all places. My grandfather was a Robin, my great grandfather was Batman, multiple relatives have also been Robins and Batgirls and at least one was a trained assassin. Yet here I am. My dumb overconfident ass is stuck in a vent. My great grandfather, the fricking Batman, is below doing an inspection of the place, my grandfather and great uncle are providing extra security, and I’m not 100% sure but I’m pretty I smelled my Aunt Barbs perfume. Maybe I’ll just make a nest in here like a rodent...** **Finally, Great Grandpa Bruce is moving on. That’s one problem down, now I have to worry about Grandpa and Uncle Damian. Let’s see, there’s reports of highly skilled thief out there, they’re working security, and are both trained Robins...one of them is definitely already in these vents and I need to scram as quietly as possible.** He quietly makes his way through the vents until he’s above his destination. He silently works the vent cover off and slips into a storage closet. (Red X) “Smaller then I expected...” (Barbra) “Well I never thought I’d be face-to-face with my own great nephew so soon... Red X tenses and turns around. He straightens up and snickers. (Red X) “Misses Gordon I assure you I have no idea what you’re talking about. So how about we compromise, I grab what I need from this closet, and you look the other way and don’t get hurt. Sound good?” (Barbra) “I know about the rift Aleister. I know about you and the others too.” (Red X) “Others? Those three I saw at the scrapyard?” (Barbra) “Indeed, themselves grand children of former heroes. What you’re looking for is in the box on the top shelf. I’ll let you walk out of here scot free with it...as long as you promise to do the right thing.” (Red X) “Get everyone home?” Barbra smiles and nods with a small tear in her eye. Aleister almost goes over and hugs her but resists long enough to grab what he needs and split... Back at their headquarters, Adrian, Dexter, and Kim are returning inside after a productive training session. They find Teagan standing in the kitchen in front of a ball of physic energy. They rush over and find that the ball contains Red X.