Ch. 1 "Come on honey, you are going to be late for work." Oh that voice, that sweet tender voice of my wife, why must you disturb me from my sleep? I had fun last night, at her mother's celebrating my wife's 23rd birthday. Now it's wake up and be at work at a certain time. Time this, time that. It is frustrating, allow me to work when I want to work, and if I don't work, don't pay me. Simple as that. I drag myself out of the bed and get ready for work. I work as a networking engineer in Buffalo, New York, pays well enough and my wife also works so money is not that big of a deal. I kiss my beautiful wife goodbye she whispers, "Goodbye Peter." I whisper back, "Goodbye my darling, we will go out for dinner once I get back." Work was boring as usual, just the routine same old same old. I leave work and forgot my keys up 5 levels. Quickly go get them and I enter my red 06' Chevrolet Monte Carlo. Pull out of the car garage. God it is just all the same, everyday routine, routine, routine. Except as I pull out into the street I notice a little kid standing there on the sidewalk. Maybe 5 or 6 no parent near by, I assume there has to be a parent around and leave him be so if there is a parent, the parent doesn't accuse me of a child molester. I drive and look back, he just stares at me, my car, am I going too fast? I look at him curiously for some time. The screech, the screams and the smell of gasoline, oh no. Everything goes black. I fade in, I am loaded onto a stretcher, the paramedics are asking me questions but I cannot respond. Everything goes black, will I be fine? I don't know I let the darkness wash over me. Ch. 2 "I know, doctor, but it has been 11 years the medical improvements have been amazing, absolutely wonderful. Stop saying that he has a slim chance of waking up, he is strong enough to wait that long." Oh that voice, I suddenly say, "I know the truth." Suddenly my wife jumps up, she is full of tears and shouts, "Oh Peter! I knew you could!" She hugs me tight the doctor rushes back, absolutely astonished. The doctor says he will be back in a bit so I can be with my wife. It feels so good to have her in my embrace, she has aged a tiny bit but yet still astonishingly beautiful. "11 years, Peter. So much has happened it will be scary for you but I will always be here for you. What were you saying about truth? It was the first thing you said when you woke up." I respond, "I will tell you later, let's get out of this hospital for now. It is amazing to see you once again." The doctor says I am good to leave and I check out. I step outside, the doctor told me it is July 3, 2026. So much has changed, the Buffalo I used to know has undergone quite the change. There are more major skyscrapers now, though everything isn't white and clean as people might have thought back in 2015. The best I could describe is an updated Tokyo. My wife tells me to get in the car, I notice no steering wheel, guess automated cars really were the future. "It's almost curfew, honey let's just get home and I can tell you all about what has happened in these 11 years." Curfew? What? It is almost 10:00, last time I checked in 2015 there was never such thing as a curfew in Buffalo. I think my wife will be more shocked than I am right now when I tell her "The truth"... Author's Edit: First story I have sat down and actually created, there is huge plans for the short story. Probably plan on creating one a day, 2-3 chapters each for about 4 or 5 total parts. I will just have to see how it all turns out.


>*(Science fiction, mecha, escape, 613 words.)* > >*Again, this was inspired by a picture, but the words are all mine. It's never been on Reddit that I know of.* > >*Nothing here that should cause any problems. Hope somebody likes it. Any comments, votes etc. gratefully received.*  It's five in the morning, sky just lighting up and I'm heading home. Mouth still tastes of cheap, nasty coffee. I'm thinking about the rotten night shift I just had, wondering if I've got enough gas in the tank to make it back. Doing seventy down Franklin's Creek, trees on the left, old man Grissom's field on the right, mist hanging over the grass. Then the road starts to shake. First I'm guessing it's something wrong with the car, suspension acting out, and I'm thinking *oh, Jesus, how'm I gonna pay for this?* Nobody on the road. I brake, I stop the car, hit my hazard lights, and then I realize the whole world's going up and down. Bouncing when something punches the ground. *Wham. Wham. Wham.* Birds taking off over the woods in a panic. It's one of *them.* Can't see nothing but I know Christ *almighty* it's one of *them.* Wasn't supposed to be nothing going on round here today, news on the radio back at the plant didn't have no warning but what the hell else is it gonna be? The world shakes even harder. Telephone poles along the side of the road swaying, left, right, left, right. I'm opening the door. Not sure why. What'm I gonna do, exactly? Fingers shaking on the handle, damn near pissing myself I'm that scared. Door's open. The noise. It's moving so fast. Must be right on top of me. God damn it I'm pretty much deaf. Half way out of the car and - It's here. Jesus it's *huge.* Smashes through the woods. Trees crack and fold up either side of it, leaves going everywhere. Charges across the road in front of me. Doesn't stop, never mind look my way. Hits the telephone wires but they don't bother it none. Just keeps on going. Yanks the poles out of the ground and they go bouncing along the field behind it 'til the wires pop, whipping around in the mud. Musta been a hundred fifty foot high, easy. Creaking and grinding away. Yellow metal, no marks saying whose it was. Lights blinking on and off in its guts. Cables hanging loose. Looked half finished, you ask me. I'm thinking government boys gonna be *all* over this one any minute and I get back in the car, praying it starts. Engine turns over like nothing happened and I stamp on the gas, head off down Franklin, teeth rattling like it's the middle of winter. Got home, didn't say nothing to Grace. Hit the sack, slept like crap. Kept waking up every five minutes thinking the men in black were banging on the door. Never did, though. Never heard a word. Went back there two days later, stopped for a second on the exact same bend. Telephone poles were back up. No sign anything been through the woods. No prints in the field or nothing. I mean I didn't do nothing wrong, sure. I coulda reported it but - There was something about the whole thing. No warning. The way it *looked.* The way it just sprints across the road - talked to a few pilots and yeah, those boys can be real assholes, but even the assholes are pretty good at what they do. Wasn't drunk. I'd bet money on that. So what else was he gonna be doing? You ask me government want us to jump up and down when these things head out, shipped off to fight, helping out after a flood, a fire, a quake, doesn't matter. They want us to think they're god damn superheroes when they're just people. Sometimes people get scared. Sometimes they can't cope. Sometimes they run.


The white people It hurt my head the first time that the white people came. Shouts and screams were fizzing about my head ready to make it implode. That’s a word Jenny just taught me: it means when it goes into itself then becomes a little football. She also told me to write everything down when I have this cold. The white people say that it is a cold but every time that they do, Scary Woman starts crying so now they say nothing when she is around and when they think that I’m asleep they call it ‘cancer’. I like that the white people do not say anything about why I’m in this white room with tubes and metal beds. When they do Scary Woman goes outside screeching, which blurs my vision and means that I can’t write my thoughts and then I have nothing to do in this lonely forgotten cell. I like what Jenny does in our time together, she gives me fun colouring in tasks and that’s my favourite. The other person who used to do the thing that Jenny does with me now was not very nice. He used to scowl at anything I did wrong and he used to often make Scary Woman sad after she took me back. He called me severely artistic, which I really like but Scary Woman doesn’t, Scary Woman is weird like that. The white people took me to a room as white as their pearly aprons and everything in here is white, even the bed. The thing that the white people don’t notice, though, is the speck of blood at the bottom left corner of the white duvet on the white bed in the white room. It is very serious, so I’m not sure why they are not cleaning it. Scary Woman is holding my hand whilst I am writing this so my handwriting will not be as good as Jenny taught me. Scary woman came in screeching which is making my head hurt. She came from the mirror door, not the corridor. The one the white people use. She’s clinging on to me like a ragdoll which I don’t like. She is making my arm hurt like dad does with his late-night breath. But it’s fine now because I am always with someone so he can’t do that anymore. Before Scary Woman came in with a big screechy voice, I was having my daily time with Jenny and she was reading all of the work that I had done about my thoughts until she got the bit about the ‘cancer’ after which she denied it very quickly and told me to not ever think like that again and she then told me about real life cancer and how this is not cancer. She wasn’t stopping so I did what Scary Woman normally does to get Jenny to stop. Screeched. That was when Scary Woman came in and has been holding my hand for the last thirty minutes. The white people are packing up all my stationery except for the pencil I’m writing with right now and they are about to wheel me somewhere else. I like this room. I enjoyed finding all the little nooks and other bits the white people forgot to paint. Now I have to start all over again in a new room. They are now rolling my bed away and the Scary Woman has started wailing again which has put me into a cycle of blurry vision and headaches. My dad just turned up and smells of his late-night breath but all over. He nearly fell over my bed when he came in. I have just been told to go to sleep but I’m not sure how I am going to with the wailing of Scary Woman, the scuffs of dad and the quick beeps next to my head.


I tie the laces on my sneakers, making double knots and pulling hard to secure them. I reach up and grab my fleece jacket, zipping it halfway up and reaching up the sleeves to pull down the shirt sleeves underneath. I grab my keys off the hall table, open the front door. I take the step down onto my front porch, turn around and lock the door,  placing the key securely in the pocket of my jeans. I take the next three steps down to my driveway and then begin to count. It’s 26 steps to the end of my driveway, where I turn right and take another 136 steps to the corner stop sign.

As I walk, my pace slow and steady, I hear the Callahan’s dog barking. I don’t need to turn my head to know he’s standing on the couch in their living room, wagging his tail as he stares out the picture window and barks at every person who passes by. At the stop sign, I turn right, seeing the Johnson’s antique car parked covered in their driveway, hearing the thud of the Miller boys bouncing a basketball on a makeshift court outside their home. John Miller shoots from afar and scores and both boys cheer. Their joy seems like something foreign.

At the end of the road, I see Mrs. Stevens sitting on her front porch, knitting needles in hand. She looks up to watch me walk by, as she does every day, but I move past her. When I reach the park, I can feel the  shift from the concrete of the road to the soft dirt path that leads toward the lake. I am surrounded by large trees and hear the insistent chirping of birds. I walk toward the lake and the same bench I have come to every day since my husband walked away from our marriage 86 days ago. I sit down, staring at the lake, and the houses beyond on the other side. The vastness, the openness and the cool breeze all hit me at once and I breathe, feeling relief hit me for just a moment.

The breeze picks up and the trees start to sway. A few leaves fly past me, followed by a large white clump. It appears to come from the sky, and lands with a bounce in front of my  bench. It’s a crumpled piece of paper, and I lean over and pick it up. I am intrigued by this intrusion into my unbreakable routine. I place the crumpled ball in my lap and open it,  smoothing out the creases.

There are just eight words on the page, written in neat cursive.

Take back your life while you still can I look up into the tree above, as if to find the source of these words. The branches above me spread out wide, reaching almost to the lake, but seem to hold no clues as to who sent this message. I look back down, re-reading and considering each words, and the insulated life I have built for myself. I work five days a week as an administrative assistant at Becker’s Insurance Agency. I arrive at 8:00 each morning and leave at 4:00 each afternoon. After work, I change and walk to the lake and sit for a while before I go home to eat dinner, watch TV and go to sleep. On Saturdays, like today, I walk to the lake after lunch and sit for an hour or two, staring at the still surface, looking for guidance on what my life means now that my marriage is over and my window to start a family is slowly closing.

I feel the stirrings of hope as I look at the message. I smooth out the paper further before folding it into quarters and putting it in the pocket of my fleece. I sit for over two hours, gusts of wind whipping through me every few minutes, followed by the stillness. I keep my hand on the paper in my pocket, hoping to absorb the meaning in its words. Once at home, I put the folded message in my bedside table drawer. On Sunday, I find myself anticipating my walk. But as I do a load of laundry and grocery shop for the week, I try not to give it more importance than it deserves. At 1:30 PM, I get ready to go, locking the door and walking the same route, possibly taking steps in the exact same spots on the pavement as I have all the days before this one. As I sit on the bench, the afternoon sun warm on skin, I look up at the tree, wondering if it will provide any offerings today. But of course, it doesn’t. I’m not sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed. On Monday morning, as I rummage through my closet, and the same bland pants and blouses I have worn to work for months, my eye catches a red skirt now pushed toward the back. I try it on, noticing it is a bit loose on me. I choose a matching blouse and eye myself in the mirror as if I am looking at a stranger.  I turn to the side, noticing for the first time that not just my face, but my mid-section, has thinned. I open the bathroom drawer and retrieve  my make up bag, long ago abandoned. I pull out just the blush and lip gloss and dab a bit on. My face lights up in the mirror, showing me the hint of a former version of myself. Is this taking my life back? Hardly, but it is a change, maybe the only one I can manage right now.

The week is uneventful, one day spilling into the next. At each late afternoon visit to the park, I sit and wait for another message – another sign.  The seven words repeat in my head as if on a loop, as I continue to absorb them, pulling them apart in my mind.  When I reach the park on  Saturday afternoon, I feel acutely aware that it has been a week since the crumpled paper came into my life. I feel a heightened sense of promise.

After about 20 minutes of trying not to look upward at the rustling trees, another crumpled paper floats down, the wind dropping it just beside the bench. I feel my heart rate speed up as I cautiously reach forward and grab the white paper ball. I open it, smoothing out the page so I can clearly read the eight words written in the same cursive right in the middle: Every great journey starts with a single step I read the message over and over, memorizing it before I finally smooth out the paper with my fingers, fold it into quarters and stash in my pocket. I think about the colorful skirts I wore to work a few days this week, and the blush and lip color I applied for the first time in months. A few people in my office complimented me, people who normally look at me with pity in their eyes. Is that taking a single step? Am I meant to take another step this week?

I decide to leave the park early today, to go home and clean out the clothes my husband left behind in the closet. I sift through the old sweaters and jackets he abandoned when he packed up his suitcases and announced he was moving in with a women I knew to be an associate at his law firm. I open the first few drawers and stuff the old t-shirts and socks he left behind in a large garbage bag. By the time his side of the closet is cleaned out, I have filled three more bags.

Then I head into the kitchen and open the cabinet, retrieving his favorite coffee mugs. I throw away the half-opened boxes of stale cereal that only he would eat. In the living room, I box up some of his old books, and the gaudy porcelain statuettes his mother gave me. I don’t know why I didn’t trash them the day he left.

Over the years he worked more and more late evenings, and I supported him, praised him for his ambition, for planning for our future. To think he was with her all those long nights while I sat waiting at home alone. Did he laugh at how naïve I was, never questioning him? I place the four bags of clothes and three boxes of household items in my car and drive them over to the donation center that afternoon.

The following Saturday, I have to keep myself from racing to the park. The Callahan’s dog barks furiously as I dash past their living room window. I notice the Johnson’s antique car is uncovered, and Mr. Johnson is washing it. He waves to me and I wave back – surprising myself as my hand goes up in greeting. The Miller boys are playing basketball again. As I walk past their driveway the ball rolls in front of me. I give it a kick with my right foot, doing a little skip.  They yell thanks to me as it rolls back toward them. My hand waves again, getting accustomed to the motion.

At the end of the road, I see Mrs. Stevens sitting out on her front porch. She puts down her knitting needles as I walk past.  “You look lovely today, Maddy. Enjoy your visit to the park.” I stop for a moment, stunned. Mrs. Stevens and I always used to exchange niceties about the weather and neighborhood gossip. We were even in a book group together several years ago, but it has been so long since we’ve said a word to each other. “Thank you, I will,” I say. The words feel strange in my throat, as I hear myself add “Have a good day.”  When I reach the park, switching from the concrete of the road to the soft dirt path, the birds greet me, their voices like a song. I sit down on the bench, hoping and praying for just one more message. I know it’s foolish, but still my senses are on high alert, desperate for just one more. I only have to wait for 20 minutes before the white paper blows past me in the wind. I reach out to catch it, just missing, and it lands by my feet.

I greedily grab it, unwrap it, and smooth out the paper. I read the seven cursive words: Friendship helps pave the road to healing As I stare at the words, water drips onto the paper. I look up at the sky to see if it’s raining, but the sun is shining through the tree branches. Then I feel it. Tears running down my cheeks, the first tears I’ve shed in 100 days. And once they start, they flow freely. I hear an anguished noise and realize it is coming from my own throat – a wail that goes on and on, disappearing into the large open space. I should feel embarrassed, but all I feel is relief as my body collapses in on itself. A few minutes later, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It feels comforting, but I don’t turn to see who it belongs to.  The hand begins to rub along my shoulder and back, gentle and soothing. “It’s okay, Maddie” says a voice. “Let it out.” I know that voice – it’s so familiar – and I turn to see Mrs. Stevens. She is holding a small towel in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. “Can I join you?” she asks. I nod numbly and she sits down beside me, handing me the two items. The towel is warm and damp, and I put my face in it, inhaling the scent of fresh laundry detergent and washing away the tears and grief. Then I open the lid of the cold water bottle and drink half of it in one gulp, an unquenchable thirst taking hold of me. When I’ve had enough I put the near-empty bottle aside. “How did you know?” I ask. She smiles, staring out over the expanse of the lake before looking back at me. “My husband walked out on me 25 years ago.”

I turn to her. “I’m so sorry....”

“I was lost after that. I thought I would never really live again.” A series of emotions flash across her face. “How did you start – take that first step?” My voice cracks as I speak. “Very cautiously.” She laughs. “But then over time a little less cautiously. I just looked for signs, for guidance. It can come to you in the oddest ways.” She winks and puts her hand on mine. The feel of it is warm and reassuring. I look into her eyes and see her kindness and compassion. I also see a hint of mischief, and I think of the three messages that seemed to fall from heaven. “I’m scared,” I realize for the first time. “Of course you are,” she says. “Anything worth doing in life is at least a little scary. But you don’t have to face this alone.” I nod, feeling her steady hand and her silent support. I turn to face the lake, which seems to go on forever, and see the whole world laid out in front of me.  All the unknown – and all the possibility. We sit side by side lost in our own thoughts and admire its beauty together.


There was once, on Earth, a land and a time around the Middle Ages, now lost to mankind. This is the story of that land and that time which has rediscovered in the dusty bowels of an ancient library of a long empty monastery deep in the Carpathian Mountains. The land was full of war between magic and knights, barbarians and samurai. Magic was and is real, and had thousands of followers. One of those was Richard Cotter. Chapter 1 Richard Cotter was born into a poor family in the countryside of England. He had many siblings who all died young. Not from diseases or infections such as Pneumonia, but rather from attacks by mythical creatures such as the werewolf and vampyr. Because of this his parents decided it would be best for him to train in sorcery, to protect them and himself. At the age of 10 he became an apprentice to the mysterious Mr.Yellard, he trained into combat using magic as a weapon but also using magic to heal. Richard hated his master for he was abusive to him, the only way he could practice fighting was to fight his much stronger master and the only time he could practice healing was to have his master hurt him. He rarely saw his family as he was only allowed one five day break from training in the whole year. He visited them every christmas. The Christmas of his fifteenth year was the last time he visited them. Walking the snow covered path through the wood to their farm Richard sensed there was something wrong. Stooping as he entered through the low door his eyes adjusted to the darkness inside, Richard found his parents lay dead on the floor with blood pooling around them. He immediately thought it to be the work of the local knight who hated all sorcerers and their families. He walked out with a sense of boiling anger and hatred. He hopped onto his horse Kelly, named after the famous 15th century sorcerer Edward Kelly, and rode off. His only thought was of death. After the long ride, Richard jumped off his horse and walked through the snow, muttering spells under his breath. Soon he reached the house of the knight. As he was walking closer, his mouth began to water at the smell of roasting beef . But he dismissed his hunger and walked in. He walked in to see the old knight, sitting in a crude leather chair, glugging down beer and attempting to cook beef. He felt his face burn when he saw how happy the knight was. Richard then proceeded to say the words of the strongest spell he knew, where he called upon Satan's seven strongest demons. He watched as the old knight screamed as the demons burned and ripped him apart alive until all that was left was a few pieces of burning flesh. Richard smiled when he got his revenge, but then his vision went black and he dropped down to the ground.


Carl Jenkins felt his cheeks cracking at the points where his smile ended. He’d been autographing his books for hours, his fingers were cramped, and his throat was dry. “Fantastic work, Carl. We haven’t done this much business since Christmas.” Marty, the bookstore owner and Carl’s best friend, put another paper cup of water on the desk. Carl rubbed his eyes and sipped some water. “How much longer?” “Just another hour.” Marty ran his fingers through his red curls. “The line is still out the door. We can extend the signing for another day.” “Sorry, Marty. I’m supposed to go on Oprah in two days. I’m flying out tomorrow.” “You finally made the big time, buddy.” Marty slapped his friend on the shoulder. “Maybe I’ll be so lucky someday.” He adjusted his glasses. “Well, gotta go. The cash register is calling.”  “Gosh, Mr. Jenkins, I’m so thrilled to see you in person! I’ve read all your books!” Thank you so much—” Carl looked up at the woman. His eyes widened, and his mouth formed an o. “What’s wrong?” He pointed at her head. “Are my roots showing?” “No.” She felt her head. “Oh, that.” He nodded. “I didn’t choose my last boyfriend very wisely.” “I guess not.” “Of course, the cleaver was really your idea.” “What?” “Don’t you recognize me?” Carl blinked his eyes rapidly. Red hair, red nails, red dress, cleaver in the head…. “Ruby?” “Silly man, I thought you’d never figure it out!” “But, you’re dead!” She giggled. “I’m alive enough to take you to a cocktail party after this little shindig is over.” “I can’t—” “Oh, yes you can! Lots of people are anxious to meet you! Besides, would you rather go home to an empty house and an empty brain?” “How do you know about—” “I know all sorts of things about you, Carl. I know you haven’t been able to write anything for months. And I know why. You know too, don’t you, Fatty?” “Fatty?” Carl asked. A tall man unfolded himself from behind Ruby. “Don’t you remember me, Carl? I’m the one who’s always getting lost. But I’m not as lost as you.” “What are you talking about?” Carl asked. “We’ll explain it all to you at the cocktail party,” Fatty said. “So, pack up your stuff. It’s time to go.” “No, it’s not.” Carl folded his arms. “I have another hour.” “That’s real-world time, Carl.” Fatty smiled. “That doesn’t apply to creative types. Or to us.” Marty turned the sign on the door to CLOSED and shut off the overhead lights. Only a few reading lights remained on. “That’s it, Carl. I’d take you out for a victory drink, but my wife has other plans. We’ll celebrate some other time.” “Are you sure everyone else is gone?” Carl asked. “Yup, the only ones left are us two bookworms.” Ruby and Fatty grinned at Carl. Carl shook his head. “I must be really, really tired.” He gathered up his pens and his briefcase. The two men left the bookstore, and Marty locked up. “See you later, buddy.” Marty waved, got into his car, and drove off. The street was deserted. Carl sighed and shook his head. “Please smile, silly man, you have a party to go to!” Ruby chucked him under the chin. “So, why couldn’t Marty see you two?” Ruby and Fatty laughed. “You don’t understand, do you?” Fatty asked. “Let’s get the party going. Maybe it’ll light a candle in that dark mind of yours.” Ruby clapped her hands. Store lights turned on and street lights burned bright. Fairy lights twinkled above the road. The strains of a jazz tune wove through the clinking of glasses and conversations of people sitting around candle-lit tables in the street. “That’s better, isn’t it?” Ruby smiled. “Well, I’m going to find Joe. Fatty will introduce you around.” She kissed Carl on the cheek, and walked into the street. “Joe? Joe? There you are!” She threw herself into the open arms of a large man with part of his face missing Carl put both of his hands over his mouth to stop himself from gagging. “What’s wrong? It’s you who decided Joe should shoot himself in the head.” Fatty pulled Carl towards two men dressed in pin-striped suits and silk bowties. “Pull yourself together. It’s time to meet Randy and Wendell.” “So, you’re the famous author.” Wendell shook Carl’s hand. “And you’re…awfully blue.” “You would be, too, if you choked on a piece of fruitcake.” Wendell nudged Randy. “And you’re sopping wet, little brother.” “You would be, too, if you were dragged down to the bottom of the lake by a stack of fruitcakes,” Randy muttered. “Excuse me for interrupting this family reunion, but can you tell me why I’m here?” Carl asked. “Sorry, you’re absolutely right.” Wendell stood on a chair. In his best lawyer’s courtroom voice, he said, “I need your attention, everyone!” The music stopped playing, and the voices fell silent. “As you all know, we’re here to help Carl understand why, in the midst of great success—” Everybody clapped. Carl bowed. “He has a horrible case of writer’s block.” Wendell patted Carl’s head. “It could ruin his career.” Everybody tsk-tsked. “Before I continue, let’s make certain we’re all here.” Wendell tapped his head with his finger and looked at Carl. “It might give you a clue.” Wendell turned his attention back to the crowd. “Family first. Mom, Dad, Jasper?” They waved. “So glad you’re here – love you all.” He pulled a notepad out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Moving on. Jack, and Trish, are you here? How about everyone on that jet?” Everybody at the back of the crowd cheered. “My goodness, Carl. You know how to do it up.” Wendell crossed out a line in his notebook. “Hmmm, a whole den of feeders. Sorry, Carl, they weren’t invited. I was afraid they’d drool on everybody and spout nonsense. They would’ve ruined the party. I’m sure you understand.” Wendell crossed out another line. “We’re done with families and groups. How about individuals who—” “Look, Wendell, I’m not that dense,” Carl said. “I get that everyone here is one of my characters who died.” “Not just died,” Wendell said. “You’re quite the serial killer, you know. How many of us have you done in by murder, suicide, heart attacks and strokes, cannibalism, falling off a cliff, and automobile accidents, not to mention a plane that disintegrates in a storm? Do you know that you’ve written only two stories where all the characters survived until the end?’ Everybody booed. “Ok, folks, quiet down!” Wendell said. Randy rolled his eyes. “Really, Wendell, this is going to take forever.” “Patience, little brother. Carl here hasn’t been sleeping well, so he’s a little slow.” “How did you know?” Carl asked. “Why don’t you let me help out?” A short man approached, his dark hair greying at the sides, his suit spattered in blood. “Yes, please, Dr. Gerber,” Randy said. “You’re the therapist.” He pulled Wendell off the chair. “How did you get so bloody?” Carl asked. “Nita’s Uncle Otto finished me off with an axe,” Dr. Gerber said. “He didn’t like Nita talking about her mother.” Carl stared at Dr. Gerber. “Don’t you remember? Never mind, of course you don’t. I can set up an appointment with you after the party.” Dr. Gerber hoisted himself onto the chair. He coughed to get everybody’s attention. The chatter died down. “Tell me, Carl, do you find you’re more anxious than usual?” Dr. Gerber asked. “You’re having trouble sleeping, right?” “Right,” Carl said. “Maybe your appetite isn’t so good?” “Right.” “Maybe you’re having trouble concentrating?” “Right.” “Now tell me, Carl,” Dr. Gerber said. “What do dead folks do to their killers?”  “You’ve even written a story about it.” Randy handed an autographed book to Carl, with the story dog-eared. Carl scanned the story. “Well, they haunt their killers.” Everybody clapped. “And how did your haunted hero react?” Dr. Gerber asked. “He was anxious, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t—oh” Carl looked at all his characters. “You’re telling me I can’t write because you’re all haunting me?” Everybody laughed. “Anybody here want add anything?” Dr. Gerber asked. A muffled sound came from a shattered floor-length mirror leaning against a lamppost. “What?” Dr. Gerber asked. The muffled sound repeated itself. He turned to Carl. “That’s Mona. She’s a little hard to hear behind that glass. Why don’t you go ask her what she said?” Carl walked over to the mirror and faced the blond woman dressed in dirty sweats. “I couldn’t hear you. What did you say?” “Come a little closer. My voice is hoarse,” she said. Carl leaned in closer. Mona grabbed him. “Hey!” Carl yelled. “Let me go!”  She didn’t let go. She pulled him into the mirror. There was a loud pop. Mona stood in front of the mirror. Carl was trapped inside. Carl pounded on the glass. Mona laughed until she crumpled to the ground. “How does it feel to be one of your own characters, Carl?” She turned around and faced the crowd. “I say we bury this thing.” Ten passengers from the crashed jet grabbed shovels and the shattered mirror, and ran behind the bookstore. They were back moments later. This wasn’t real time, after all. All the store lights up and down the street turned off except for the bookstore. “What’s happening?” “I don’t know!” “Let’s go see!” Everybody crowded around the windows. All of Carl’s books dissolved with a poof. “What does this mean?” they all asked Dr. Gerber. Dr. Gerber looked at his clothes. “No blood! This must mean that Carl doesn’t exist, and we’re not dead anymore!” “Look at you, sweet man!” Ruby said to Joe. “Your face is whole again!” “And the cleaver is gone!” Joe said. Ruby and Joe hugged. Randy, Wendell, Jasper, Mom, and Dad laughed and hugged each other. “We’re all alive again!” “Mom,” Randy said, “No more fruitcake, please!” “I promise, Poo Bear,” Mom said. Randy blushed. Wendell stood on a chair. “Listen everybody! Listen!” All the characters hushed. “We may be alive now, but nobody will know who we are, unless we find another author.” Everybody booed. Wendell held up his hand. “Quiet now. Admittedly, we made a poor choice in Carl. He wrote horror. But there are authors who are much kinder to their characters.” “How about Marty?” Fatty yelled. “He writes romance.” “Marty! Marty! Marty! Marty!” everybody chanted. “Marty it is,” Wendell said. “Yay!” everybody cheered. The candles flickered out on the tables, and the jazz music faded out. The fairy lights, the tables, the liquor glasses disappeared. The street lights returned to their normal hue. The bookstore lights turned off. The characters smiled at one another as they evaporated into nothingness. Marty and his wife, Katy, strolled down the street after dinner. They stopped in front of the bookstore. “I had a great day,” Marty said. “I sold the entire stock of my latest romance books.” He shook his hand. “I’ll have to ice down these fingers. They’re cramped from signing.” “I’m so proud of you, sweetheart.” Katy caught his hand and kissed each finger. “And tomorrow morning you fly out for Oprah.” “Listen, darling, I just had a great idea.” He hugged his wife. “Imagine a jet plane, crash-landing on a deserted tropical island.” His hand swept through the air. “Love. Intrigue. Strangers falling in love. One couple is Trish and Jack. Another is Ruby and Joe.” Katy laughed as Marty swung her around in the air. “I could build a whole new series around it. What do you think?” “You’re brilliant, absolutely brilliant!”


Douglas Reiche                                                Approx. 3,000 words 108 Bluffview Drive, Troy MO 618-317-6014 douglasreiche@gmail.com MR. MORE-PH by Douglas Reiche Mr. More-ph could not be late for his appointment, so he tossed his briefcase in the back seat and got into the rental car. Beautiful day for a trip, he thought, looking around. He was a short man of 121.925 centimeters, or 129.54 centimeters, dressed in his pork pie hat that almost touched his ears. He was dapper: light gray suit, light blue button-down shirt, and large brown tie shoes. Mr. More-ph was stout with short legs, so he walked with small, quick steps, slapping the pavement with the sole of his shoe. His eyes were round, eyebrows thin, with a dominant large nose under which he modeled a neatly trimmed mustache.

           When he turned the key, the car started with a bang and a puff of blue smoke. He checked his watch, a frequent habit. The on ramp to the interstate was, ah! – Where? There, to his right, he pointed, quickly crossing over an empty lane. With the pedal down, the car leaped ahead a few miles per hour faster. An 18-wheeler blew its air horn, which shook the car, and quickly dove around him as he merged with the traffic. It brought little concern to this road enthusiast. Besides, there were three lanes on this interstate. “I only took one. Is there a problem?” he shouted.

           There was a sign ahead: Mudpatch 207 miles. It would be an enjoyable day. “Beep! Beep!” Now what! He looked in the mirror. Is this guy going to try to pass me? In that thing? “Let me show you,” he said as he pushed on the accelerator. The car from behind shot around him in a flash. What kind of car was that anyway? It was just a speck going down the road. Even so, interstates were very convenient, he thought, much better than those two-lane highways. Sometime later, there were flashing red and blue lights ahead, “Shame! Speeding!” he shouted, pointing out the side window. “Ticket. Ticket. Who’s getting a ticket? Not me,” he said out loud, pointing to himself.            Traffic zoomed past. Mr. More-ph was oblivious to what was going on. A red light was on as he looked down at the dashboard. Almost out of gas? Are you kidding me? The needle flipped back and forth. Where was the next exit? “What! Thirty-three miles?” he cried. “Who made these roads anyhow?” Suddenly, a bell rang, ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding. First, a light, then a bell. The bell should ring before you run out of gas, he cried.            It felt like he had driven a hundred miles before the next sign appeared: 22A Mountain City, 3 miles. Ding-ding-ding-ding. He pounded on the dashboard. “Oh, shut up!” The tank was almost empty as he pulled into the station. He pumped the gas. Wow! $7.83. “What is this world coming to?” he remarked. Putting the hose back, he saw the small hole in the right fender, The rental agent said it might come in handy in a pinch. Whatever that meant?            Ahead was the interstate sign with an arrow pointing straight. It went under an overpass, and now there were only two lanes. “What happened to the third lane?” he yelled, throwing his hands in the air. He almost looked around, but lucky for the people behind, he kept driving. When he settled in, he decided that a two-lane interstate was fine. So, he whistled for a while, nothing anybody would know. Sometime later, he looked at his watch: 10:46. Almost time for lunch. The next sign ahead read, Corkscrew, 45 miles. He laughed profusely. Who would name their city Corkscrew?            Traffic was getting heavier now. More people honked their horn and drove past. Some even waived. “Look at that. He’s waving with his fist in the air.” He waived back. Later, his head nodded, so he turned on the radio, but it only made a lot of static noises even when he turned the knob. Nothing! How could that be? You never know about those AM stations anymore. He turned it off.            The traffic slowed down. Everyone was driving at the same speed as he was. There were orange cones on the road. Traffic slowed down even slower. There were trucks ahead, striping the road. When he was maybe in kindergarten, there was a man striping a parking lot. It seemed like a fun thing to do. But now he thought it might be even more fun to drive the big orange truck that painted the strips on the highway. So, what if you turned to the left or the right a little while you were driving? “Whoops!” he cried. He found himself turning the steering wheel.            He almost hit the lady in the car next to him. Will you look at that? She is waving at me just like the guy. “All right! All right!” he cried. “I only crossed the line a little.” It was getting warm so he rolled down the windows and sniffed. Now it smelled like paint. It was 11:17. The road striping ended, and the traffic picked up speed.            Oh, look, Corkscrew 20 miles. At 50, he would be there before lunch. As more mile markers passed, his foot got heavy on the accelerator, so he drove close to 60. Later, another sign, Corkscrew 5 miles. The countdown had begun: 4 miles, 3 miles. The city caught his attention. He leaned forward in the seat. “This place is crazy. All the streets are curved.” Main Street went up a hill and across a bridge. It turned to the right and went under a bridge.            A burger sign reminded him of lunch. Where to eat? There was the Cork & Cleaver, but it was closed. Another one was the Corner Restaurant. There were a few cars there. That is a dumb name for that restaurant. It isn’t even on a corner. Down the street on Circle Drive was a food truck with a sizable hotdog painted on the side. It was right next to a large park. There was a line of people, a good sign for any restaurant. The first parking place was down the street. Finally, he got in line. It would be his luck that they would run out of food before he could order. The line moved and then moved again.            On the marquee was the Special of the day, Twins-in-a-Bed: two dogs in a bun, curly fries, and a drink. What was so special about two hotdogs in a bun, he thought? Like most everyone, he ordered the Special. However, he had trouble seeing over the counter to pay, so he had to use The Box. It was for kids to stand on to order. It had clown faces painted on it. When he ordered, he thought Twins-in-a-Bed was unique, but when he got his order, the dogs were skinny and shorter than the bun. The condiments were hard to reach. The line backed up. The mustard was stuck – oh! It squirted. No! – on the lady’s sleeve. There was a place at the end of a park bench, so he ate there. This entire thing about Twins-in-a-Bed was a gimmick. It made you stop and order something, he complained to himself. He hated gimmicks. His watch said: 12:09.            The car started with a bang and a puff of blue smoke. Where was the interstate? He looked. It was impossible to find. The signs took him around the park and down several streets. The interstate went to the left, but Mr. More-ph went straight and got on the highway. It was nothing more than a two-lane road. The sign read, Mudpatch 73 miles, so he continued driving. If you are going in the same direction, you will eventually get to the same destination, he speculated.

           It was only a mile further, and he saw trucks ahead of him. The speedometer said forty-five. “Move it!” he cried, clutching the steering wheel. The road was bumpy and in need of repair. The car bounced around. I thought there was an interstate to Mudpatch. I guess not. How could he have made a mistake like that? He rarely did. Well, two lanes will do, he concluded. Calico 23 miles, the sign read. That might be as funny of a name for a city as Corkscrew.

           Suddenly, he burped. The Twins-in-a-Bed was a mistake. Then, quicker than he realized, Calico appeared as he rounded a curve in the road. There was a big sign: See the Calico Cat at the Country Village Museum. Calico was a small town. The sign read, Pop. 162. “They may have had to count everyone in the cemetery,” he said out loud with a chuckle.            A block into Calico, there was a big white two-story house. There was a sign in the front yard: Country Village Museum. After he drove past, he stopped at the edge of town. He liked museums. He had stopped at many of them. Would he really like this museum? A Cat? Still, he had some time, and besides, what else could you do in a place like this.            So, he turns around and went back. There were only three parking places. All three were empty. The sign on the door read, Come In. The screen door squeaked as he opened it, but the wooden door was stuck shut. He turned the big doorknob again and pushed hard with his shoulder. It gave way. A lady entered the room. She was 40-something, or maybe even 50, brown hair in a bun on her head. She was wearing a flower dress with a tan-laced apron. “Won’t you come in?”            The place was full of – things: lamps, tables, knickknacks, quilts, dolls, an ornate dollhouse, a latte and a cappuccino machine, and the smell of fudge. Where were all the people who drank lattes, he wondered? It seemed like this whole house was misplaced. It was like it had moved from a different place to here. He looked around. One minute the lady was here. The next minute she was gone. He looked here and there. She was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she had gone to another room. Maybe she went – somewhere else. In one corner, several shelves had old trains. He was delighted that he had stopped now. Train shows didn’t have old trains like these. He examined them.            Suddenly, the lady appeared again. She took him to the other side of the room and showed him to the Calico Cat. It was large, about 6 feet tall, and stitched together from orange, black, brown, and calico cloth. The double stitching was perfect. Without the patches, it just might have been alive. Mr. More-ph was dwarfed by it sitting on its hind legs. But he was mesmerized by its life-like eyes. It seemed to be staring back at him and – might it move about at any second? “Did it – no, it couldn’t have – there, see, it smiled, didn’t it?” Suddenly, he forgot about the trains. He had lost all track of time.            The large grandfather clock chimed slowly twice. Bang, bang, it echoed in the room and brought him to his senses. He hurriedly paid for the latte and two pieces of chocolate almond bark, leaving the Calico Cat and everything else behind. He would have to hurry now to get to his destination on time. A block away from the museum, he was out of town again. The highway sign was ahead, so he kept driving. The piece of almond bark was great. Then he tried the latte. “Whatever happened to regular coffee?”            There was another sign: Narrow Road Ahead. He drove about half a mile. There ahead of him was an old wooden plank one-lane bridge. He slowed down to go over the bridge when suddenly a speeding car raced across the bridge toward him; “B-e-e-p!” It left a plume of dust in its tracks. He saw nothing, but he rubbed his eyes. In a few moments, the dust had cleared. Had he been on the bridge – splat! Something not to think about. Apprehensively, he drove across the bridge. The planks were lengthways across the bridge. It creaked as he slowly crept across. The car wanted to slip off the planks.            On the other side, he stopped the car, got out, and walked around. He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. The road on this side of the bridge was much narrower. The sign ahead read, Mudpatch 51 miles. It was still a long way to go. It seems he had left all civilization. The car started with a bang and a puff of blue smoke. The pace was much slower now. A small creek ran through a culvert buried under the road. A house and barn near the creek had long since been abandoned. Only a shell of each remained. They were something left over from another time.            The next sign appeared: Narrower Road. “How much narrower could this road get.” he complained. Within half-mile, another sign read: Narrower Bridge. “This is silly,” he said, slowing down as he approached the bridge. Again, he stopped and got out to look. No one was coming, he made sure. Still, the situation seemed hopeless. The bridge was too narrow.            He went back and opened the trunk. To his surprise, he found the antenna that had broken off the car roof and a brass-plated key like you might use to wind up a clock, but much larger. This key must be what the rental agent was talking about. Maybe this is what the hole in the fender is for. After several attempts to pick it up, he slid it out of the trunk and rested it against the bumper. Then getting his breath, he tried again.            He walked around to the right side of the car, and after some effort, he put the key into the mysterious hole in the fender. Which much effort, he began to crank the key clockwise, and to his amazement, the car slowly got narrower with each crank. Had he been taller and less stout, that might have helped some. He cranked the key again. Then he stood at the back of the car and analyzed the situation. He took his hat off and scratched his bald, shiny head. The car would make it now. But when he tried to put the key in the trunk, he realized the trunk had shrunk, but the key was still the same size. It stuck out of the back of the trunk. So, he tied the trunk lid down with a piece of rope.            The car hesitated but then started with a puff of blue smoke. He clutched the steering wheel and drove across the bridge. This bridge was worse than the one before, and he noticed the car was driving funny. The road on this side was unpaved with a rock surface and weeds in the middle. If he went far enough, he thought, there might not be any road at all. The car leaned one way and then another as it climbed over one rock at a time. It seemed like it might tip over. Mr. More-ph bobbled up and down and bumped his head, but he was determined.            A narrow place appeared in the road with large boulders on both sides. The key might work again. Untying the rope, he got out the key. To his surprise, it worked once again. The car was now no more than 4 feet wide. He checked the measurement between the rocks and then the width of the car and was confident the car would fit. However, the key was too big for the trunk. So, he left it beside the roadway, intending to pick it up on the way back.            The car was much smaller, he realized. The front seat was way too narrow. So, he put the seat back, squeezed under the steering wheel, and jerked the door closed. The car made a funny noise, but there was a puff of blue smoke. The trees were taller now and came close to the road. They blocked out the sunlight. So, he turned on the headlights. Instantly, he thought he saw something in the woods. Maybe it was – or maybe not. He would keep an eye out for it. The road was curvy with deep ruts. There was a chance the car could bottom out and get stuck. There was no one within miles to pull him out.            After much ado, Mr. More-ph saw another sign: Mudpatch 3 miles. He was elated. Mission accomplished: almost. He would have jumped up and down in the car, but he had wedged himself in on all sides. However, beyond that sign was a second sign, Interstate 5, 4 miles. “Do you believe that?” But there was nothing he could do about it now.            Again, Mr. More-ph carefully drove down the road until it went up a steep hill. At the top, the road looked like a narrow point. To reach Mudpatch, he would have to drive up that hill. With resolve he started up the road. But the car banged and struggled. Blue smoke filled the air. Rocks kicked out from under the tires. “Come on,” he yelled, as if the car would do better. The road steadily narrowed. The tires wanted to slip off the roadway.            He put the pedal down. The car suddenly lunged forward faster than he had ever expected, throwing rocks and dust everywhere. It shot up the hill and leaped into the air. A moment later, Poof! It burst into a million pieces of dust. Everything disappeared into Mudpatch.            When Mr. More-ph was late, the town sent out a search party. Mr. More-ph was never found, nor his car. Only two things remain. They are his pork pie hat, found a bit soiled, and the large brass key left beside the roadway.

THE END


The Japanese concept of Ma has been described as a pause in time, an interval or emptiness in space. Ma is the time and space life needs to breath, to feel and connect. If we have no time, if our space is restricted, we cannot grow. This universal principle applies to every aspect of life. It was the first town since the bus had crossed the border. The small and provincial town that lies in the middle of a valley, surrounded by farms and the mountains in the distance. It arrived at 7:30 pm when the sun was still up and it would be until 10 pm as usual for these far lands. Mundo stepped out of the bus and looked around. He had no money left since he had bought a ticket to get across the border. A new country with a new language against Mundos' backpack and his spirit. Meanwhile, the evening streets were almost empty, only few people were going up and down minding their own business but it looked all right, no crowds were needed at this place. After a long ride Mundo was starving and all he could think about was food, so he decided to have his dinner at the park. Some nutritious cereals with strawberry jam should satisfy the emptiness of his stomach. While he was crossing the road, a motorcycle crossed his way. Out of blue a driver had slipped in front of him and then turned back to Mundo. They were looking at each other for a few seconds, then the driver lost his interest. "It was so quiet, I couldn't even hear the sound of his moto, it probably was an electric one" thought Mundo. While he was eating in the park he made a sign using his marker. "Ride for free". Usually, it helped him in his previous adventures. He had finished the dinner and started off going down the streets to the end of the city. There was a place where he wanted to hitchhike. It was supposed to be his first hitchhike in this country and he had no idea how it should work here. In an hour of walking, he ended up on the outskirts, close to a gasoline station. It had been a while since he started trying to stop a car and the sun was wrapping up the whole valley and its town however no cars had stopped. Mundos' plan was to stand here for twenty or more minutes and then go to camp but like always life had its own plan for him tonight and someone honked him behind. Mundo turned around. "Hello," a voice said. "Hi!" Mundo answered politely trying to see the face of a stranger. The guy was sitting on his electrical motorcycle smiling. He had driven a little bit closer to Mundo and turned off the engine, so the barely audible sound of the moto had ceased at all. He put out a phone and opened some kind of translator that Mundo had never seen before in other countries. The stranger started to write something and then a translator voiced words that explouded the silence of an inevitably upcoming night. "I saw you a few hours ago at the bus station. Who are you?" He passed to Mundo his phone. "Yes, I saw you too," Mundo said and blew his nose. The voice started to utter words that neither of them knew. "No, no," answered the boy rapidly and started to switch something in his phone, then passed it to Mundo one more time. "Yes... I also saw you there," repeated Mundo. The lovely voice started to voice an unknown language and the boy took his phone back and leaned against his ear, after he nodded and then smiled. He started to write a new message but it always took some time of him, meanwhile, Mundo was trying to stop cars but it didn't do any good. The vehicles of any kind as though they were soulless mechanisms with no living, home-hurrying, and warmhearted creatures at the steering wheels were passing by and didn't pay any attention to him. "What are you doing? May I ask?" the mechanical voice said and gained Mundos' attention off of the road again. "I am a traveler," Mundo said into the telephone and showed his sign to the boy "Now I am trying to stop a car" The boy looked at the sign and nodded a few times. Then he said by himself: "I anderstend" and smiled. Mundo smiled back timidly and reached out his pocket to take some clean tissues for his nose but they had ran out. The guy got off the moto, stepped ahead to Mundo, and continued to write a new message. Now his appearance was more clear to Mundo. He had a short haircut that looked quite neat compared to Mundos' long and tree-days-unwashed hairs, old, rather dirty than white sneakers and sports pants with some dull hoodie. His clean and shaved face looked young and he probably was the same age as Mundo. "No cars would stop here. It is getting dark. Can I help you? I want to take you to a hostel where you can sleep." Mundo finished reading the message and looked at him closely. The boy switched the languages and leaned forward the phone for Mundo to speak. A few seconds there was silence and the translator turned himself off unexpecting to record anyone's voice, so the boy looked at Mundo questioningly. Mundo looked at the road hesitantly, then at the boy. His thoughts and the situation were slink and uncertain. Again he looked at the boy and again at the road, then he sighed and said: "Thanks a lot, but I do not go to a hostel right now. I want to go to the next city. Thank you." The robotic voice started to utter it all over again. Then a car stopped by. It was driving out of a gas station. Mundo smiled at the driver, full of hope, and pointed out at himself then at the car, suggesting to the boy translate the story of Mundo. The boy nodded and they started to speak their language. In a minute the driver looked at Mundo and negatively shook her head. She was sorry. The opposite direction. No luck. "Okay, thank you," said Mundo sadly in English. The car went forward and dissolved into the evening lights of the city. It had become dark and even Mundo had already realized it was pointless to continue. He asked for the phone and the boy opened up the translator one more time. "Well, thank you for help! I think I will go now," said Mundo and sniffed his nose. "Will you go to a hostel?" asked the boy "Probably I will." answered Mundo, trying to finish it as soon as possible. In a minute Mundo had disappeared into bushes where he started his way to some peaceful and quiet place for a tent even though he didn't know any particular ones. He was quickly walking along some fields with plants and seeds, hoping to get over them as soon as possible and find a good spot for his tent. Twice he looked back and after hurrying up more and more. One more night and again he would be camping in the sticks where only the Moon is a witness. The moon is always a witness. For all of the night ramblers and Mundo as well. Some Mundo. He had made only a few hundred meters when he heard the sound from the side where the bushes were. Mundo looked back and saw that boy who was running wildly towards him. He was caught off-guards. Nor any knives or running with his heavy backpack would save him. Standing there in the middle of the fields, far from the main road and still away from another side of the fields. Too late to make his move. On his way to Mundo, not stopping, the boy started putting out something out of his pocket. Mundo, eyes wide-opened trying to predict any motions of his follower, was ready to protect himself. Just in a second before the boy would come closer to Mundo, Mundo noticed that it was just a phone in his hand and nothing else. The boy had slowed down his speed just in front of Mundo, gaspingly, showing him a new message that had turned their meeting into something incredibly different from now on. "Wait please, let's go with me, I have a place to stay." The silence of the moment was being bothered only by the inconsistent breathing of the boy. Mundo looked at the bright screen of the phone which lightened the darkness. He breathed out and slightly smiled with the corner of his mouth. "Is it far?" asked Mundo The boy looked at the phone to read the words of Mundo and said: "No, no no, no far." Mundo gladly nodded. * They were driving out of the city, from the highway along some rural road, and in 15 minutes they had reached a farm. He invited Mundo to the farm, at the control post. "I work here! I am on my night shift. I am a security guard." Then another guy stepped out of the room. The boy showed Mundo the room with cameras and one with beds where they sleep and after he started to talk with his colleague. Soon it had become a real quarrel between them. Mundo understood it. The situation was speaking for itself. "I am so sorry we cannot be here. He is afraid of you. You are a stranger," wrote the boy. "No worries. I understand you and him, no worries," said Mundo They were looking at each other for a moment and then the boy went to the control room and came back in a second with a toilet paper. He pointed out to his nose. "This is for you!" "Oh!" smiled Mundo and said, "Thank you a lot!" He blew his nose again. Clean and proper, having now heaps of paper now. "Let me buy you a room in a hostel," he wrote and started off turning on the moto. "No no no, it's not necessary! Thank you a lot," said Mundo and waved his hands negatively. "OK, what are going to do right now?" "If you know a place where I can set up my tent. I cannot camp here, the solid is riddled with stones and rubbles," said Mundo. The boy nodded, wrote a new message, and taped the button on the screen. "Follow me, I know the spot you want." They were riding for five minutes then left the moto on the road and went along the fence of the farm. The number of rubbles was increasing, at some moment it was hard to step but then all the stones started to disappear, in twenty meters only few left. Finally, they came to a meadow with a gurgling cold river. It was so unexpected to see such a good place after farms, dusty roads, and stony surfaces. Only the Moon was shining on them and lightening the place. "Do you like this spot?" asked the boy "Well thanks a lot, it's perfect. I am going to set up my tent here." "Do you need anything else?" asked the boy, using his phone. "Thank you a lot, from now on I will handle it by myself," said Mundo directly on the phone. "Okay, so I should go back to work. Have a good night! Bye!" said the boy and started walking back into the pitch darkness, back to his work. Mundo was looking at the disappearing silloute of the boy for a while and then started setting up his tent but the power of the wind that reigns among these open spaces was against it and threw a severe fight into Mundo, which he couldn't resist well. A canopy of his tent had been carried away up in the air and he couldn't catch on account of handing the other side of the tent. Every time he wanted to handle the second edge, the first one was being carried away. It had taken almost 10 minutes until the moment when out of nowhere the boy had appeared. He had caught the second side of the tent, killing the darkness with his flashlight like some kind of star warrior. They had sat up the tent in a few minutes together. The fight in which Mundo was about to be defeated unexpectedly had turned out into their victory. "Do you need something else?" asked the boy again and smiled. It seemed like he understood everything. "No, thank you so much! I am gonna brush my teeth and go to sleep." Mundo started his way to a creek, but it was too dark to not step into it, so the boy flashlights his way, and there it was. Mundo was brushing his teeth while the boy looked at him and lit the surface of a creek. Only the gurgling of the creek was breaking the silence or just making it even more natural. "What is your name?" asked Mundo, having interrupted the moment. "A?" the boy said and started putting out his phone. "Wat iz yor naem?" said slowly Mundo. "May..may naim is" he was slurring and trying to write something down at the same time but then stopped, hid away the phone, and said: "Ma. My name is Ma" "Ma?" Mundo smiled with his mouth full of toothpaste. "Mundo." "Mundo," repeated Ma "Mundo, right," said Mundo and rinsed the mouth then added "Okay, gonna sleep now." "I understand, Mundo. Good night!" wrote Ma "Thank you, Ma! Thank you for your help!" Ma nodded shyly and ran away to his control post. That night was dark and cold, even the defeated wind had fled off of these lands and only cold remained there until the morning. Mundo was freezing to the bones, half asleep he looked forward to the first sun glimpses but when he looked at the time on his phone it was 7:03 am and there was no Sun at all. He unzipped his tent and went outside. He noticed the warm air coming from his mouth. Mundo started jumping to warm up his body. That was quite the morning.  He was cooking his breakfast and waiting for the Sun that was slowly coming to his spot. At night they had sat up the tent on the opposite side of the valley, so the Sun reached his place at the last moment before the whole valley would be swimming in sunlight. "Helooo!" someone screamed from the side of the farm. "Oh, hi! Good morning!" said Mundo sitting near the creek with his gas stove. Yolks of delicious fried eggs were seen in his saucer. The boy ran towards him and started to write a message, his breath inconstant, cheeks red with a natural smile. Mundo smiled at him even though Ma was occupied with an upcoming message and didn't notice it. The boy was standing in front of him, looking so simple and friendly. Mundo liked the way how the boy looked. "It has been such a cold night are you okay?" "Yes, yes," Mundo agreed and started shaking to show how he was feeling during the night. They burst out laughing. The sun had finally arrived at their place, warming the boys and the tea was giving away the steam all right. Mundo pointed out to the food. "Do you want some?" "No no no, thank u," said Ma himself without his phone. "Okay, as you wish." "I will take you to the highway, okay?" asked Ma with his phone. "Oh, thank you, no need, I will go there by myself, you have already done a lot for me, thank you, Ma." "You are welcome, Mundo, please, be careful." "And I will, Ma. Please, be careful too," said Mundo and started eating his meal. The boy was looking at him and his tent in complete silence for a while but now it didn't look strange and Mundo was peacefully enjoying his fried eggs with hot tea. In a few minutes, the boy ran in the direction of his farm. He hadn't broken the silence of the moment, so Mundo continued eating his breakfast, calmly, warming up his body with the tea, thinking about the upcoming day as though nothing had happened. They have never seen each other again.


So most days she doesn't even recognize me. And most days that's fine. It's fine because as hard as all this is, it only gets harder if she sees me as who I am—her son— and she's made aware of the fact that the person laboring over her, feeding her, wiping away the spare soup from the corner of her mouth, listening to her mad ravings, and having to hold her and rock her in his arms until she finally calms enough to sleep, is someone she cares about; someone she loves. And other days, on the good days, I am nothing short of destroyed when she fails to recognize me; when her eyes look directly into mine while she's telling me some happy story from my *own* childhood and I think I see in her a spark of recognition only to be let down when she calls me by my father's name or, worse yet, asks me who I am. She needs more help than what I give her. She needs help dressing herself, washing herself, going to the bathroom, and I cannot help her in these ways so she has a live-in nurse to do these things for her. But in all the areas that I am qualified and capable and emotionally able to care for her, I do. I do because those exceedingly rare moments when she is both in a good mood and able to remember me make the other shitty times mostly worth it. *Mostly*. But if I don't help her as often as possible, even through the awful, gut-wrenching and heart-breaking moments, then I'll miss those rare good moments, and I know she has a very limited supply of good moments left. And in this fact there is a strange and uncomfortable reversal of life. When we're young, our parents spend as much time as they can spare watching us and interacting with us so that they can catch all of our joyous first moments. They lose their minds at our first steps, they shed tears of elation when we utter our first 'momma' or 'dadda,' they clap and cheer the first time we ride a bike without training wheels, and they cry along with us when the world first breaks our heart. We mark all of these firsts in life because as a species we value people entering the world and coming to experience all that it has to offer. We find our joy in watching a new life become a thriving member of our shared world, and we all aspire to leave our own marks in that virgin clay, to help shape a child into an adult so that some small part of who we are will live on in them. But what we almost never acknowledge is that for every first there is a last. And we never mark these events because it’s too depressing to think about. And even if we wanted to mark these occasions, we can’t because we can never know which otherwise routine moment will be the last of its kind. Still, you’ll experience exactly as many lasts as firsts in your life. It’s an unavoidable, mathematical certainty. There will be a last time you'll ride a bike, a last time you'll fall in love and a last time your heart will break. There will be a last time you'll use the words 'mom' or 'dad' out loud, a last time you talk to the people to whom those labels apply. And as I approach the limit of my mother's ability to share any sort of meaningful moments with me or anyone else, and realizing that all of her firsts are behind her, I do my best to celebrate her lasts with her in a grim and depressing way. Maybe celebrate isn't the right word ... commemorate maybe? Or simply to commiserate. I never got to share my father's lasts with him, and he hardly got to share in any of my firsts. He was taken by cancer when I was only four years old. In the many years since, everyone in my life has asked me if I remember him. All I can say is that I've always tried to. I have memories that I'm almost sure are real, but I can never be truly certain if I'm remembering events as they actually occurred or if I'm just creating an image of them based on stories that my mom has told me. But in any case, almost everything I know about my father comes from other people. I'm told he was a good man. I'm told he loved my mother and me more than anything in the world. I'm told by some people that he's watching over me from heaven. I’ve never been sure if I believe this last thing. At any rate, my mother was the only one who shared all of the firsts of my childhood with me. And together we shared many last moments, too. I actually remember the last time she ever picked me up and carried me around. I remember distinctly that she told me I was getting too heavy for her, and that soon I’d have to walk everywhere on my own, and she was right. And that was it; a last moment that no one marked or recognized or even realized until after the fact. "Daniel," her voice calls me, feebly. I look up, torn from the endless and self sustaining cycle of cynical thought that pervades my day to day existence and for a moment a smile cracks my lips. "Hey, mom," I say, "How are you feeling?" "Oh, I'm fine. How are you?" she asks, as if we're just two old friends catching up, as if this is all routine, and in a way it kind of is. I can tell she's only about halfway here, but then, so preoccupied am I with my musings and reflections on the ancient past and the near future, I'm not much more than halfway here either, I guess. Her eyes look into mine and there is a connection there. Some part of her understands that this lucidity she's experiencing is only a temporary state. There is a darkness etched into the shadows of her face by this understanding, and I can tell she longs to make some deeper connection before the ephemeral awareness passes. I know what the look on her face right now means because this has happened several times before, and it will probably happen again. But I can't *know* that. I can't know this won't be the last time she’ll be here and aware enough to know who I am. "Daniel, my baby, my boy. I love you so, so much." She has said these words or some variation of them many times before in these fleeting moments of near consciousness. "I'm going to see your father soon, you know," she says, wisely, smiling. These words she has never spoken before. At least not out loud. At least not to me. I wasn't planning on telling her that Jamie is pregnant. I couldn't see the point in it. But her mentioning my father has brought a completely unexpected emotion to the surface. "I know, mom," I say, "You know I'm going to be a dad soon, too? You're going to be a grandma." She smiles at me warmly as the recognition and the lucidity fade from her face and once again her mind recedes behind that curtain of fog beyond which I cannot hope to reach it. If this is the last time she's ever truly awake and aware again, I'm glad to have left her with something to smile about. And at the thought of never speaking to my mother again, I am suddenly and undeniably broken. I pick myself up and get all the way to the front hallway before I cannot contain the tears any longer and I let them flow. And flow. And flow. I have had endless arguments with Jamie lately about how much time I'm spending with my mom while I have a pregnant girlfriend to look after. It's not that Jamie is unsympathetic, but she grew up in foster care and has never really felt towards anyone what I feel towards my mother. And she's not wrong, either. If I'm being truly honest with myself, my mom has been gone for months already. She's still breathing, but she isn't living. I am trading feeling my child's first kicks from within my girlfriend's womb for watching my mother shed her last tears in a home she no longer knows. I am trading being a father to a child for trying to parent a parent. But this is my obligation, I tell myself, this is my duty. But now I am choosing to interpret my mother's smile as her consciousness fades away as a blessing. I believe if she could, she would say "go and be a father, you've already been a good son." But I'll never hear her say that. I'll never know if she really feels that way. I just have to trust that I knew her well enough to guess what she would want. And I suppose my guesses as to how she might interpret any given situation is all I’ll have of her going forward. I leave my mother in the nurse's care and I drive home to my girlfriend and my future child. I am leaving behind a few last moments with my mother to ensure that I don't miss too many with my child.


I dedicate this story to my partner and to everyone who has carried or is carrying the burden of grief. Sitting by the bed, holding my hand, you think my mind is fighting against the decision of my body to quit life’s game. My eyes are closed, but I sense your will through the fingers laced tightly around my own. Tenderness is a force and you stake my claim to life through the insistent pressure of your hand. How it has grown over these long years from its immaculate small perfection to this manifestation of adult capability: greeting strangers, shaking on deals, carrying children of your own. From the first moment, holding tight to my little finger in the hush of the darkened hospital room, it wanted to latch onto me and the world. You needed reassuring then; you do now.

Beloved child, my hand rests peacefully in your own. Let it speak to you with the words I can no longer form: I am ready, so let me go.

Quitting seems such a nasty word. I used to think so too. Lying here, I remember telling you not to give up; to keep trying at those school projects, at winning over the sour-faced teacher, at striving to do your best in the world of work and family. So, it is no surprise that you desperately want me to go another round; you aren’t ready for me to hang up the boots and to let this be the final whistle.

Doctors speak in plain language of their expectations for this last round of play. You are resigned, seeming to concur with their prognosis; yet, when they are gone to the next ward, I feel the pulse of rage in the heartbeat of your hand. It troubles the peace I feel begin to slip about me like the blanket I wrapped you in, our blessed first night together. Beloved child, tuck me into this long sleep.

Strength is sometimes a burden. I sense your head bowed with the weight of this demand: to fight on for my life. You are a pillar of strength threatened by tides of emotion. Let them come; lay down the boulder of your mighty will and trust me that there is no wrong or shame in this. It is ok to feel as small as a pebble, waves washing over it, again and again, caught up in the pounding tides of life; but there is also so much strength, even in the smallest stone.

If the doctor’s words have lit a fighting fire in you, they have quenched my last longings. I have been delivered from the exhausting expectation to struggle and soldier on. My body has long known the relief of a lie-down, now my mind can too. At the end of this illness, I can finally embrace myself once more, body and mind hugging each other tight. Nurses come, those kind attendees with their needles and bottles to help ease the passing of my days. Quietly and efficiently they dismantle the apparatus that has helped me cling to life. Monitors and machines are disconnected and wheeled away; drips suspend their drops and beeps are silenced. Life lines are hauled out and I am my own net, catching my life’s dreams and memories. Holding them safe inside me, I am ready to let go.

Deep within you, I wish for a long-lost memory to stir. Do you think you can remember our first night together? There was noise, so much! The bustle of nurses, the instructions of doctors; machines robotically noted key data while I gasped my ragged breath and blew blast after blast on the trumpet of pain. Everything was labouring and then you shuddered into this world on a wave of love.

You added your noise, of course you did, roaring in a way that silenced everything else. I knew I had never heard a more beautiful sound than your first-born cry. There must have been other noises: temperatures read and recorded, pens scribbling on charts; your armband identification filled in and the blue plastic snapped onto your little wrist; sheets rustling as they were changed and freshly laid; casters clicking on the floor as we were wheeled to another ward, but I was deaf to it all. The only thing that returns to me, in the serenity of now, is the silence we shared as the rest of the world seemed to sleep; those first hours together when it was just us two, with eyes only for each other. Eventually you closed yours and drifted off to sleep. I was beyond exhaustion and yet, watching your little chest rise and fall in a rhythm so wonderfully familiar and new, I pushed tiredness away as I held you closer to me. I wanted that night to never end; to put off that moment when we would be parted for the first time, even if you were just in a crib a few feet from my bed. My will was strong but eventually the night nurse came by and laughed at my stoic fight to stay awake and keep guard.

“He’ll be alright, he knows his mum is right beside him. Remember, there’s plenty of time for tiredness in the nights to come!” She was right. When she lifted you from my arms and placed you in the crib at my side, you never stirred. The last thing I remember before sleep claimed me, was stroking your little hand with the tips of my fingers, realising that you knew I was there, and I knew you were there for me too. Silence cups us as it did that night eighty years ago. Yours was the small hand then, now it is mine. Things seem different, but nothing really changes at all. Our hands will always reach out to each other across time and space; but in the circle of your memory, you'll reach me and we'll hold each other once more. Beloved child, my hand rests peacefully in your own. Let it speak to you with the words I can no longer form. Tuck me into this long sleep. I am ready, and you are too, so let me go.


“Mum,” I paused and checked the time, “Mum?” Another pause, “Listen, I would really love to keep chatting, but I have to go.” The voice on the other end kept going on and on about the weather for the weekend and her garden. “That’s great mum, but I’m going to go now. I love you.” Before she could respond I hung up the phone as the front door swung open. I quickly dropped the phone face down on the couch and pretended to be focused on the television. A news broadcaster discussed new evidence in a case against a man accused of murdering his pregnant wife and their two small children. I listened to the footsteps behind me as my heart raced, I silently prayed he had missed me place my phone down. “Who were you talking to?” His voice whispered in my ear making the hair on my arms stand on end. My heart sank as I noticed his hand placed closely next to the phone. It was a simple question that had a simple answer, but in his mind, the simple answer would still be wrong. It didn’t matter who it was, he would turn nothing into something. “No one.” I quickly replied keeping my eyes on the phone. Before I could react, he had the phone in his hand and was trying to unlock it. “Don’t lie to me. Tell me your fucking passcode.” “No.” My voice was quiet as I got to my feet. “I said, give me your passcode.” He spat keeping the phone in one hand and his other gripped the front of my shirt. “Give me my phone.” My voice grew louder as I held his gaze. My focus became retrieving the phone and not what could happen in the process. A devilish grin spread across his face. “Give me the fucking passcode, you whore.” Forgetting his grip on my shirt, I lunged for the phone. He dodged the movement and in one swift motion shoved me backward and snapped the phone over his knee. I watched as he hurled it onto the tile floor in the kitchen. I stared at the device on the floor unable to move. The screen on one end was black and the other was lit faintly. A sick feeling overcame me, and tears threatened to fall from my eyes. The one piece of freedom I had was broken, and now I would need to come up with an explanation as to why. He knelt in front of me and whispered in my ear, “Remember this when you want to be a sneaky whore. You think someone will treat you better than me? No one, and I mean no one, will ever love you like me. Remember that.” He stepped over me and made his way into the other room. The tears streamed down my face as I quickly crawled to the phone. There was no one to call, no one I could tell the truth to. All of me felt broken, too broken to be loved. *** The car pulled in; I looked out the window. “Mum?” I watched as he got out of the car, “Yeah, it was great to talk to you, but I will talk to you later.” I said hurriedly. “Oh, okay sweetheart! I’ll talk to-,” I cut her off, “I love you too, bye.” I hung up before she could respond and quickly placed the phone on the counter as the door shut behind me. My heart raced as I stared at the phone, “Hi, honey.” I turned slightly and flashed a smile at him. My eyes remained low as he made his way towards where I stood, “Is everything okay?” He asked. I gestured towards the food cooking on the stove, “I’ve been cooking away. I’m making this Italian chicken pasta dish I found on the internet, and I think it’s going to be amazing. At least I hope.” My mind was racing, I knew he caught me placing the phone down. I waited for the altercation. He nodded slowly and kissed the back of my head before picking up the phone. “Can we talk about this?” He put it back on the counter. “What about it?” This was the moment I had been preparing for since the door shut. I kept thinking of all the ways to get the phone closer to me. I started to feel like a cornered animal and my heart began to race. He sighed and shook his head. “I’m not him.” He paused and pushed the phone closer to me, “All I ask is for honesty. If there is someone else, please tell me. Don’t keep it from me.” I stood dumbfounded as I had expected a fight, to be told I was in the wrong. All I could say was, “I know.” I paused for a moment, “I know you’re not him, and I’m sorry. I’m still learning.” My voice cracked as I tried to hold back tears. He pulled me in for a hug. I was engulfed in his warm and loving embrace and could no longer contain my emotions. I sobbed into his chest, soaking his shirt. “You’re a grown woman, you’re allowed to talk to whoever you want to. You don’t need to be afraid that I’m going to catch you, or that I’m going to be mad that you were talking to someone other than me.” My vision was blurred as I looked up at him, “Thank you. I needed to hear that.” It was the truth. There were many parts of me still broken from the past, and I needed to face them to heal and move forward. I was no longer trapped in a situation of constant pain and suffering. This, the here and now, was what it felt like to be loved how I deserved to be loved. “We will work on it together.” He smiled at me and wiped my tears. I smiled back and then swatted his hand to keep him from tasting the food on the stove. “It’s not ready!” I laughed. *** I stood by the stove preparing dinner when he walked in. A pile of mail left his hands and landed on the table. “Anything good come in the mail?” I asked. He shook his head. “Looks like just some bills and you got a piece of mail from some university. Probably a scam.” I watched as he walked into the bathroom and shut the door. I stood still listening closely for the sound of the shower running, and once I heard it, I rummaged through the mail on the table. The letter he was talking about was at the bottom of the pile. There in the corner of the envelope was the logo for South End University. I tore open the envelope and pulled the letter out. My eyes scanned the page and a smile spread across my face. “What is it?” His voice startled me. I hadn’t noticed the shower stop or heard the bathroom door open.

“I got in,” I said softly. “Got in?” He looked confused. He made his way toward me and took the letter out of my hands. I watched as his eyes scanned the letter and a fire was ignited within them. “What the fuck is this?” He met my gaze as I went to grab the letter from him, and he gripped my wrist to stop me. “I applied to college. I told you that was my plan, remember?” His grip tightened around my wrist, and I winced in pain. He crumpled the paper and tossed it to the floor. “Oh, you told me. You told me? You don’t get to tell me what it is you’re doing. You ask me. This decision isn’t just about you. Do you even care about me at all?” “What are you talking about? How does me wanting to better myself make it so I don’t care about you?” I said confused. He laughed and threw his arms up. “You’re so stupid. This means we will never have anything nice because your dumbass just put us hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. So inconsiderate, and it’s a waste of your time. You don’t need to be busy with school when there is shit to be done around here.” I pulled my arm away from his grasp. “I don’t need your permission to do anything. I am going back to school, period.” I tried to stand taller to show I wasn’t going to back down to him this time but flinched as soon as he stepped forward. “We’ll see how long I allow you to take these classes.” He said through clenched teeth. When he walked away, I picked up the crumpled letter on the floor and stuffed it into my purse. *** I stared at the typed-up email in front of me, contemplating whether to hit send or not. The longer I thought about it the more I thought about when I had originally applied. All of me wanted to hit send and take the leap to better myself, but his voice played in the back of my mind; This means we will never have anything nice. “Hey, can I talk to you?” I asked. The television played the basketball finals which were very important to him, and part of me felt horrible for interrupting. Within seconds of me asking he paused the television and turned to me, “You can talk to me about anything.” He said. I shifted nervously in my seat. The words evaded me. I was embarrassed for even bringing it up, inside I knew he would support me. I still couldn’t help but feel I would be ruining his life if I didn’t talk to him first. I finally broke the silence, “I want to go back to school and finish earning my degree.” He caressed my hand in his and smiled. “Do it.” I searched his eyes looking for any sign of doubt, anger, or discontent. It was the answer I was looking for, but I still felt like it wasn’t the answer I was meant to receive. “You don’t think I would be ruining your life by making that big of a decision?”

He stared at me for a moment, knowing the reason behind my question. “You want to know what I think?” I nodded in response. “I think, you should never feel as though you are ruining my life by bettering yourself.” He paused for a moment tracing my hand with his fingers, “I also think, if I ever make you feel as though you’re ruining my life by doing something for yourself then I’m a horrible person.” “Okay.” I squeezed his hand and pressed send on my email. I watched him out of the corner of my eye as he went back to watching the game. I noticed my heart rate slow and felt at ease. He is not him, I thought to myself, he will never be him . I am free to be me. *** “What do you think?” I asked. “I can’t believe you chopped all your hair; you look like a completely different person! I love it. It looks so good!” My best friend shrieked in excitement. “It is a change I’ve been needing. I’m so happy with how it turned out!” I said with a smile. “Has he seen it yet?” It was a dreaded question that I wasn’t sure how to answer. “Not yet.” I said, “He’s going to hate it though.” “What do you mean? You look good, why would he hate it?” She asked. There was a long list of reasons. I hadn’t told him about my hair appointment would be the first, the second would be the length, and the third would be because I was gone all day, and nothing got done in the house before he got home. “He just doesn’t love short hair on me. That’s all.” I shrugged. My mind wandered as I considered every scenario that could occur once he sees my hair. My best friend's voice started to fade into the background as I became lost in thought. When I pulled into the driveway his car was already there. I took a deep breath as I slipped my phone into my pocket to keep it as close to me as possible and slid my hood up. The door creaked open, and only one light was on in the corner of the room. He was sitting in front of his computer. His hands were moving erratically as they pressed and pushed buttons on a controller and a headset covered his ears. I crept towards the kitchen watching him waiting to see if he would notice me. When I made it to the kitchen, I let out a sigh of relief and let my hood fall.

“What the hell did you do?” His voice boomed startling me. I spun around to face him. “You scared me.” I held his gaze and could see he was expecting more of a response. “I got my hair done today,” I said. “When did you tell me you were getting your hair done?” He questioned. “I told you a couple of days ago when I made the appointment,” I said as I backed further into the kitchen.

“Oh, you told me. You TOLD me. I forgot we don’t ask about things anymore we just tell.” He looked at me with disgust as he reached out and touched my hair, “What the fuck did you do? Do you like looking like someone took a chainsaw to your hair? That’s what it looks like. You are supposed to ask me before you do anything to your hair, do you understand?” His voice grew louder as he spoke, and I continued to retreat further back into the kitchen. “I thought it looked nice,” I whispered and bit down on my lip to keep from crying. “I thought it looked nice,” he mimicked. “It looks awful. Women with short hair are ugly. You are ugly to me now, does that make you happy?” I shook my head still trying to hold back tears and was now trapped between him and the counter. “One day you will listen to me.” He quickly grabbed my hood and yanked it back over my head. He pushed down causing my leg to give out underneath me. I cried out in pain as my knee connected with the tile floor. Without looking back, he went back to his game. I slowly and quietly crawled into the other room and shut and locked the door. The pain from my knee was radiating down to my ankle. I sobbed and pulled my phone out of my pocket. When the screen lit up my eyes grew wide. I put the phone up to my ear, “Mum?” I said. “Pack your bags. I’m coming to get you right now.” *** The radio played softly in the background, and I fixed my hair in the mirror. “Thank you so much mum, I love it.” I smiled brightly. “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Happy Birthday.” We pulled into the driveway of my home and his truck was parked outside. “He’s going to love it. I’m sure he’s even planned the most romantic evening for the two of you.” My mother gushed. “He always plans the best evenings; I’m not sure he’ll want to go out anywhere with me if he hates my hair though.” My smile slowly faded. I was filled with worry and doubt. It had been years since I had last done anything to my hair, and I could still hear his voice whenever I thought about changing it. You are ugly to me now. My mother took my hand and squeezed it. “Do you like it?” She asked. “Yes,” I said. “Then so will he.” She released my hand and looked toward the front door. “That man in there loves you the way you have always deserved to be loved. I thank God every day for that.” Tears were forming in her eyes. She embraced me and rushed me out of the car to keep herself from crying. I entered the home, and the lights were dimmed, candles were lit, and there was a small gift on the table. He came around the corner and stood in the doorway. “There’s the birthday girl!” I flipped the switch to the kitchen light and pointed to my hair, “Do you like it?” I asked. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. The longer he stared at me the more I wished I had on a hoodie to hide in. I started to feel insecure when he finally said, “Is that the color you wanted? It doesn’t look like the picture you showed me.” I could feel myself going numb, even though the words didn’t come directly from his mouth I knew he hated it. All I could think about was how my hair didn’t resemble the picture and how he must think I’m a liar. My mind began to race, and I felt the urge to run away. “Are you okay?” He asked breaking my train of thought. “I’m sorry I even dyed it, and it seems like I lied when I showed you the picture. I buy box dye to fix it.” The words fell from my mouth. I wanted to hide but had nowhere to go. He took my face in his hands and I focused on his deep green eyes, “Listen to me,” he said, “I never said you were a liar, and I don’t care if it doesn’t look like the picture. I don’t even care if you hate it. I think you’re beautiful, no matter what. Do you understand?” I nodded. “You are beautiful, and deserving of my love, of all love. I am not him; seeing you happy is what makes me happy. Do you understand?” I nodded.