I woke up and I found myself submerged in a bathtub, with no idea of where I am or how I have come to be there. The bathtub is cold and my own reflection stares back at me from the water's surface. I look around the room, my gaze darting between the unfamiliar black and white tiles and the bright neon light vibrating on the ceiling. I desperately search for something that is familiar. Nothing. The only thing I can recognize is my body. My skin is pale and my frame is skinny, sunken in against the sides of the tub. Everywhere else, the strange tiles and stark white fixtures, illuminated by the ghostly vibrating white light, tells me I am far from home. I slowly emerge from the water, my body is shivering as the chilly air cascaded over my skin. I am dripping wet. I feel a sudden pang of panic in my chest, as I realize I have no recollection of the events that have transpired the night before. Where am I? What have I done? I step out of the tub, wrap myself in a towel, and step onto the cold tile floor. I begin to search through my clothes, looking for something that tells me who I am and where I am from. But I found nothing. Not even a trace of past memories or moments. Finally, I give up, resigned to the fact that I am completely alone in this unknown place. I dress quickly and quietly so as not to arouse suspicion, and then I open the door, stepping into a room outside the bathroom. I am ready to find out what is next. I look around the room and realise it does not have windows or doors. I ponder how this room was furnished. It seems impossible for the furniture to have been brought into this space. I do not know what is more unsettling: the question of how the room was built or the fact that there is no way out. The room on the other hand is well-equipped with a desk and chair, a small bookshelf, and a few paintings hung on the walls. The shelves in the cupboard are stocked with food that will last for a long time: various kinds of cured or smoked meat, salami, and canned goods. Whoever built this room, wants me to stay here for a very long time. The walls are a deep navy blue, and the floor is covered in plush white carpeting that makes me feel as if I am walking on clouds. The only source of light is an old-fashioned chandelier hanging from the ceiling—it gives off a dim glow that illuminates just enough of the room to make out some of its features. The desk is cluttered with knickknacks, trinkets, writing utensils, and various items of clothing; the bookshelf contains several volumes on philosophy and history; while the paintings are strange yet captivating images of situations and people. I feel as if this room has been specifically designed for me; as though I have stumbled upon my own personal library or study. I step over to one of the paintings and study it intently. It depicts a woman in an ornate dress standing atop an ancient tree with her arms outstretched towards a starry night sky—it reminded me of something but I can't quite put my finger on what it is. The woman's expression is one of unbearable grief. Her countenance is filled with deep pain and sorrow. It sends shivers down my spine. One painting depicts a man in a dark coat with his face contorted in rage, wielding a long-bladed kitchen knife towards a man cowering on the street corner. Another painting shows a young boy, with tears flowing down his cheeks, standing alone in a schoolyard. The paintings are eerie; the subjects' eyes are following me as I walk around the room. I start to have a hard time catching my breath. But the oddest part of it all is that the paintings are emanating such a profound sadness. I can't put into words the sorrow I feel as I am standing in front of them. Somehow, I know exactly how the people in these paintings feel and the emotion overwhelms me. I crumple to the floor in tears. Then, a few minutes later, as stand up, I continue to explore further through these mysterious artefacts, I still try to piece together fragments from my past life—flashes of memories in the hope that it slowly returns like forgotten dreams. Suddenly, my gaze falls upon a corner of the room and I notice something that makes my heart skip a beat—a DVD player and a TV. I walk over to the television set, turning it on with a trembling hand. First, an old pop song begins playing and memories flood into my mind—memories of when I used to be happy and carefree when life seemed so simple. Tears well up in my eyes as I realize how far away those days are for me now. Suddenly, images start appearing on the screen—images from my past life that have somehow been recorded onto this device without me knowing it. Watching these recordings feels like reliving moments from another lifetime; moments of joy, sorrows forgotten by time… It is both beautiful and heartbreaking at once. As the memories play out before me, one thought keeps ringing through my head: why has this happened? Why do these memories have to be hidden away? What secrets are they protecting me from? Finally, it comes back to me. I remember the woman in the painting. It's my wife, with her charming smile, lovely face, and captivating figure. Staring back at me from the canvases are the people I had treated terribly during my lifetime. One of them, a man, I threatened with a blade and coerced into giving me all his money, or else I would murder him. The boy was one of my schoolmate and I bullied him regularly until he committed suicide. I never confessed that it was my doing. I was a bad man. A monster. The record reveals a pattern of cruel behaviour, like the way I yelled at her in public or the way I once pushed her into a wall. Other times, I clenched my fists and unleashed them upon her, leaving deep bruise marks on her delicate skin. She whimpered in fear and pain, tears streaming down her face. On another record, the police officer opened a file and spread the contents in the front of me. There, on the desk, lay tangible evidence of my temper and cruelty - I had left bruises on her arms, shouted her down, and broken her prized possessions. I can not believe this is me. I can not believe I was capable of such things. Tears stream down my face as the truth slowly sink in — I was a monster, and no amount of excuses or rationalizations can ever change that. At this moment, a single thought fills my mind—I have to make amends for what I had done, for all the pain and hurt I have caused her. It will not be easy but it will be necessary if I want to move forward in life with any semblance of peace and happiness. With this newfound resolve, I switch off the television set, wipe away my tears and start walking back into the bathroom to wash my face with a new sense of purpose in my heart. But then, the television set flickers back to life. I realize there is still something but I am not sure I want to see it. In the video, I can be seen smiling at my partner as I pull out a map and point to an area just outside of town. My voice is full of excitement as I explain that the stars will be shining extra bright tonight, and I suggest we take a drive out to a hidden desert spot for a romantic night beneath the stars. At that moment, the sudden realisation comes to me: I did not want to spend the night with her but my real plan was to end her life there. I had never been able to love anyone, not even her, and I was not willing to risk financial loss if we were to part ways. I watch in horror as the scene unfolds before me—the anger, the hatred in my eyes. It is like looking into a mirror, only instead of seeing myself, I see a monster. We were arguing in the car, voices rising and tempers flaring. I didn't see the truck coming until its headlights blinded me - and then I felt the vehicle lurch as we smashed into each other. Now, at this moment, back in the room, something strange is happening. A wall starts to ripple and fade away, revealing a polished white door. I feel my heart pounding as I slowly reach for the handle and opened it to my fate. Ahead of me, a hospital corridor stretches out in front of me. I can see a ward and the doctors inside, rushing around though none of them notices me standing at the door. My physical body is lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to life support machines. I can see my wife beside my bed, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. She is holding my hand tightly, tears are streaming down her face while she is begging me not to go. Her eyes are red and puffy, their whites bloodshot, her cheeks are flushed and it is obvious she has been crying for a while. My chest tightened and I could feel my throat constricting. I wanted to take her into my arms and tell her everything would be okay, but my ghostly body just went through her body. She has some mild injuries like bruises and cuts but not so serious. How can she still love such a monster like me after all of this? She does not even know what I wanted to do to her! Do I deserve to live? Then suddenly, something is going awry. I feel an odd electrical current surge through my body. The medical personnel desperately attempts to resuscitate me but to no avail. 'Keep trying!' - one of the doctors shouts. The choice before me weighs heavily on my mind: do I deserve to live? I keep asking. The only door that leads back to life is still open. I do not have much time to hesitate. I need to make the decision that will alter everything. At this very moment, I am standing in front of the door right now. I know what I am going to do.


I’m so cold. The empty corridors echo my name in the hush of the darkness. Everywhere I walk, there is frost. It sticks to the walls and floors and everything I can bear to see like a parasite. It bites away at my skin and sinks its merciless teeth deeper into my flesh and soul. I’m so cold. I miss her. However many layers of sweaters and gloves I may have equipped, my mind slips still into the cold void of the night. I cannot bear it any longer. I want to see her. I step quietly through the corridors. Not a single sound comes from me. I am a ghost mourning their own death. I’m not alive, I know I’m not, yet I’m here. My feet move still. My thoughts string still. My breath visible still. I’m so cold. I need to meet her. I reached her office. Her computer still sparks brilliantly. It feels so warm on my ghostly skin. My fingers tap on her keyboard as if a puppeteer stood above my head. I can’t make out what I typed in. It came so naturally I did not wish to cease this involuntary action. The screen changes. It’s a girl. She looks so colorful and full of life. Those eyes. She's looking at me. "It's me again! Uh, so… You don’t have to… What I mean is-” starts the video file. All the while her eyes flashed with content, then spite, then gloom. She’s crying. I whisper something but I cannot make out what it is I said. Suddenly, her voice goes soft. She’s smiling despite the tears. “I tried really hard to go my own way without looking back. I started walking, but the truth is… I’m not… feeling lonely. There is no sadness here. I-I’m not alone. You’re still here with me… Somewhere. I can feel it!” My freezing throat is starting to choke. I cannot begin to cry here, not while I can still see her this last time. “I promise… Nothing will ever tear us apart. Among countless stars, the person I met… Was you! And I will stay by your side, as your guiding light in the dark. Upon endless days and endless nights.” She reaches out for a small crystal shard. It glows a warm amber. She takes it and holds it dearly. “No…” I mutter in the silent static of the cold. “Perhaps tomorrow we’ll find each other. Until then…” Her eyes slowly fall onto the shard. “If you keep your promise…” She holds onto the shard tightly. “I’ll keep mine too.” -page break- The video file cuts. The computer goes black. Complete darkness consumes me whole again. I can still feel the warmth of the screen. It doesn’t seem to stop. Then I see a faint glow from within her desk. My eyes grow wide at the sight of it. The Shard lays carefully wrapped in a cloth in one of her cabinets. As I unravel it, my heart begins to beat again. My fingers lose their solidity and I can feel textures again. As if a flame had erupted, the shard radiates with warmth and life within me awakens. The overwhelming feeling is too much for me to bare. My legs give in and I collapse in awe. The loud thud of me crashing doesn’t phase me. I’m breathing heavily as I mouth “I promise” repeatedly with every struggling breath. “I promise… I promise,” I whisper into the endless night. Disclaimer: I'm likely not going to make this into an official story. This was written shortly after I had awoken from a dream where I accidentally left my earphones on and heard the dialogue of a girl play as part of the song. Everything written here is what my mind imagined when the song played.


 Miraculously, I did NOT become a hoarder. From what I understand by watching hours of compelling reality television, hoarding is a condition that can manifest after a trauma, often by losing someone through death. Having lost my husband 2 yrs., 10 weeks, and 5 days ago, thankfully, it's safe to say, I didn't choose that route. There are no piles of newspapers, clutter, or rotting garbage, making it challenging to navigate through the rooms of my home. Instead, I became, what I like to call, a "selective collector" to help me process the grief and accept my new status as a widow. (That's what I tell myself anyway.)  	My compilation is relatively small in quantity, inexpensive to buy, but intriguing nonetheless. Especially if you know the mysterious background as to why I found myself drawn to these particular items. The unusual curios are confined to the shelves of a built-in wall bookcase amongst smooth-to-the-touch, wood-turned bowls, delicate pottery with leaf imprints embedded within the clay, and colorful hand-woven baskets created from natural grasses. Items that come from the earth and are rich in texture and soothing to gaze upon. Fully displayed, my collection has become an alter of sorts. Souvenirs of a memory that instantly transports me back to a fleeting moment when saying goodbye was a pleasant, heartfelt experience. One that has helped me cope with oncoming grief.

 	Unlike snow globes, kitschy salt and pepper shakers, baseball cards, or vintage toys in their original packaging, my unique procurements are not an obsession or bought to reap the financial rewards when their values increase. My collection is inspired by a personal encounter with a small bird during a difficult time. A friendship that brought new meaning to my life. As the caregiver to my then-terminal husband, I found joy in the most unexpected place - on my doorstep.  	Stepping outside my front door early one morning, just as the sun rose on a cool spring day, I was drawn to what appeared to be the beginnings of a nest being built on the wooden door frame ledge above my head. The dark mound of gnarly shoots, sprigs, and crude branches stood out against the pale ivory-painted woodwork, surprising me with its sudden appearance. Its size was hard to miss amongst the sticky, stringy cobwebs around the door jam, bits of grass cuttings, and dust that had flown through the air and settled on every surface from the previous day's mowing. Curiously, the nest had appeared overnight. Precariously perched there, half on, half off the ledge in the far left corner, teetering on a narrow wood plank with little to support it from behind. This crude nest could have been at risk from the unpredictable weather elements. One strong gust of wind would destroy it quickly. I assumed the bird chose that very spot to protect it from neighborhood cats, and with the exterior porch light's illumination, there might have been a gentle glow that assisted with building the nest in the dark hours of the night. I noted the nest briefly, then went on my way, leaving it be. Giving it little attention at that stage of development.  Gradually, other materials were added until they formed a solid structure of twigs, grasses, moss, mud, and leaves. A design that looked sturdy and deep enough to securely, yet gently, cup the precious eggs to be laid within. I watched with great curiosity as each day brought new developments. This was my first time witnessing a nest being built up close.   As time passed, the protective mother bird, a robin, finally showed herself to me. She was perched within her nest, possibly over eggs inside. Occasionally she'd swoop down on me as I left the confines of my home. Dive bombing me by flying within a couple feet of my body but not attacking. This was now her territory, and she wasn't about to let any harm come to her or the nest. She was guarding it, and she meant business. I came and went gingerly. Quietly entering and exiting my home. I'd gently close the door to avoid jarring the framework foundation. I had no intention of disturbing her or bringing on any mistrust. I was happy to share the space.

 Watching this feathered creature thrilled me. I reverted to being a curious small child, all wide-eyed with excitement and wonder, witnessing Mother Nature's magnificent glory through one of her winged creations. Each day, I captured the nesting progress on my cell phone by snapping a few quick photos from a safe distance, then running inside to share them with my ill husband. The time-lapse of images showed the progression of how new life was coming. It was fresh and exciting. Would I see any eggs? When might they be laid? Every day brought a new level of fascination and questions. I remembered my own human "nesting " experiences decades ago as an expectant mother. Getting everything ready in time was critical.

 	Feeling like Sir David Attenborough as I observed from a safe distance, I was drawn to this beautiful wonder of nature and could hear an imaginary narrative voice documenting the process. In my head, Sir David was beside me, describing how everything was unfolding as intended. At a time when I was feeling the anticipatory grief of my husband slipping away and the heaviness of being his caregiver, there was something extraordinary happening before me. This small act of nature was a glimmer of light for me. Being privy to something magical for a few minutes each day released me from all the complicated physical and emotional sorrow that I was going through. When the world felt cruel and unbearable, I was reminded that there was also beauty.

 Later that week, I stepped outside to see three small nestlings appearing to look over the edge of the twigs that made up their home. My heart swelled. Their featherless heads appeared like wrinkled, skinless grapes bobbing up and down. Their beaks were wide open as they made tiny chirping noises. The mother bird was nowhere to be seen. Possibly searching for worms and insects to feed them. Again, I remained at a safe distance to observe in silence, and with my trusty phone camera, I snapped the newest images, thoroughly fascinated by the progress made from the time the nest was created.  	As time progressed, the chicks grew, and dark-colored feathers formed. Little tufts of down that appeared slightly oily were now covering the bald patches. Again, they would look over the side of the nest and chirp at me. Their dark eyes, now open, were clearly visible, and their gaze was intent. Each day they would see me for a few minutes and seemed comfortable with my presence. I would speak to them in hushed quiet tones, fully confident that they were just as fascinated with me as I was with them. Their large baby bird eyes shone brightly, making me smile. Even Mama Bird grew to be unphased by my coming and goings. I was now accepted and trusted. She often flew into a nearby oak tree and watched me and her nest from afar. She knew I would do them no harm.

 With the passing days, feathers covered the babies, their wings fully formed, and seemingly, it was time they were on their way. I stepped outside the door to witness two birds jump at that very moment from the nest and fly off awkwardly into the nearby tree where their mother often perched. The third bird, however, gave me a spectacular parting gift. The little fledgling jumped out of the nest, awkwardly flopping about, and promptly landed at my feet. Standing on my jute fiber "welcome" doormat at the entrance of my home, it looked up at me with its shiny dark eyes. Its stare was intent. Gazing at me with great effort and focus, I felt an incredible connection. This tiny creature was saying goodbye. I realized what a special moment this was, and again, I grabbed my camera and snapped what would be my last photo - one of that baby bird looking up at me. It stayed with me for a few minutes. I talked to it in hushed tones, thanking it for bringing joy into my life. And with that, it flew off on its own. Never to be seen again. The nest was abandoned. Left deserted, so they could move forward with their lives and be free. Free to fly, free from any constraints. I was sad to no longer have the daily interactions, but I experienced something rare between myself and a wild animal I will never forget. As crazy as it sounds, I felt a kinship, an emotional bond with these creatures. The small daily interactions had such an important impact on my mental health. I would like to think I gave them something in return, even if it was just sharing the confines of my home and offering safety.  After my husband passed away several months later, I gravitated toward birdcages for unknown reasons. I had no desire to own or keep a bird as a pet - I would rather see them in their wild habitat. These birdcages were nothing that would hold a real bird; they were ornamental. Purely decorative Victorian, French, and Venetian reproductions with elaborate scrolled wrought iron bars and domes, Chinese pagoda varieties with several tiers, and square box wooden cages with miniature hatch doors that raised up and down. Some were purposely rusted to look vintage, others painted or given a blue-green patina for an aged appearance. I was drawn to the large ornate birdcages and the miniature versions- roughly the size of a small bird. All varieties of primitive, rustic, and shabby-chic decor styles. This became my "collection."  I started researching birdcages and birds and wondered what the significance might be. Why was I drawn to them? There had to have been some profound meaning. Something deep in my psyche, perhaps?  The answer seemed obvious. Christian, Hindu, Muslim, and Buddhist teachings accept the bird as a metaphor for the human soul. In Japan, the crane is believed to carry the soul to heaven and grant immortality. In Hiroshima, colorful origami folded paper cranes are made and gifted to bring peace, compassion, and healing. Birds symbolize freedom, hope, transformation, and new beginnings in indigenous, spiritual, and religious beliefs. Birds are seen as messengers of God, and flying birds are seen as a link between the spirit world and the earthly realm.   	Flying meant independence, being liberated, and not being held down by convention or restrictions. An empty birdcage represents freedom and making new choices in life. For me, the symbolism hit home. It was a reminder that one needs to evolve by "leaving the nest" or "cage." To take that leap of faith, to grow and soar. This could be a sign that I needed to live a spectacular life with my finite time on this planet. One that honored me and my husband (the experiences he couldn't have due to his early passing.)  My husband's soul was freed once he left this earthly realm, and drastic changes to my existence came with it. I was no longer living a life of constant foreboding and heavy round-the-clock caregiving duties. Like the baby bird, I had to start anew and face the scary world alone. Making myself the priority. Letting go of "what was," I could recognize the beauty, meaning, and purpose of life and death. This was my call to action to start living.  Observing this spectacular aspect of nature, I experienced many emotions and teachings. With these came hope, gratitude, and celebrating things differently. I had a new set of eyes and perspective.  I can either grieve, mourn and dwell on what is no longer my life, or I can see the beauty and understand the difficulties of letting go and coming to a place of acceptance. Grateful for the incredible ride, I now understand that the most significant growth comes from the darkest times.

 I can't think of a better animal interaction I could have had - and at a time when I needed it most. My ongoing fascination with birds gives me a new level of understanding, enlightenment, meaning, and purpose. Unexplainable and spiritual encounters with random feathered friends have continued to bring me ongoing joy. Feeding (and photographing) robins, chickadees, sparrows, wrens, tufted titmice, and even woodpeckers from my hand have become treasured moments in time that bring tears to my eyes. Being trusted and part of an animal's world is truly a gift. The birdcages I so lovingly collect will always remind me to be connected to nature, to delight in the little things in life, to be curious, and never let myself be held back or restricted from what I want to achieve. I will always aim to soar high like the birds that inspire me.


Ding! Ding! The scent of heaven pulls me in. I push the door completely open and take a step into CocoRiga. From the street view, the shop is practically invisible. It stands on the corner of Saints Avenue, smothered by corporate buildings, offices, and city giants. Inside the confectionary shop, an ambiance of sweet beginnings lingers, accompanied by timid, instrumental music in the background. It’s Valentine’s Day, and the number of couples I’ve seen continues to grow. Intertwined hands sway back and forth as another pair leaves the store, bouquet of roses and all. CocoRiga, owned by a lovely Anna Lyubov, is known for her simple yet surprising recipes. Small delicacies line her shelves, pink tarts and cakes are found in the front aisles. Bottles of Rosé stand lined up behind the register, their abundance of pink matching with the rich brown wood.              The only date for me today is the one I’ve planned with myself. A binge of chocolate desserts, a bubble bath in a tub of roses, champagne, some music, some reminiscence. I walk the aisles of the shop. There aren’t many, yet I can’t find the creation that calls, e at me… like it did with Alice in that book. I walk back to the register and am about to ask Anna what she would recommend, when I see him.              Positioned with his back facing me, stands my first real love. I’d recognize him anywhere. I’m motionless, my feet stop a pace away. Suddenly, the cocoa bean aroma, the reason I came in here, fades away, replaced by the familiar smell of his shampoo. Its faint--unless you knew him like I did, spent as much time with him, as I did, you wouldn’t catch it. A whiff of cedar sprinkled with some grains of sand.              And there he was. The same blonde hair that messed around his forehead. The same lean frame, the stance he always stood in. There’s no way to describe it. The stance of someone with a sense of humor. A man that’s never failed to make me laugh, to brighten up my day. The way of someone light and carefree and relaxed. A guy who doesn’t care what others say or think, who enjoys every moment of every day. A man who looks for interest in everything--there’s always been something to do, to explore, to create. His stance still holds his boyish playfulness. As if he’s just thought of something new and is fighting the restraint to do it. How do I translate his essence into words? It’s just…him.              He regards the confections displayed before us, considering the options. His eyes haven’t changed color. They’re still the same bright shade of green as I remember. They hold the color of spring grass, of emeralds sparkling by the sun. I can almost feel that summer breeze I felt the day I saw him sprawled in my backyard, his body shaking as laughter rolled through him. It was that moment when I thought, you’re perfect . The existence of him in front of me, set every atom of mine in motion. The goosebumps flared up in my skin, his laugh so energizing yet relaxing. That laugh, it urged so many things in me. To run, to play, to pick up my guitar and sing my heart out with every false note in my voice. That sound enticed me. It drew my body towards him, pulled by an invisible magnetic force. For him to be happy was for the vibrations of the universe to finally be balanced, to be right. The laugh of birdsong, the laugh of children running free, the laugh magnificent enough for me to want to sprout new roots. With him.              And yet he stands before me, and the roots that I thought spiraled through us are now dry, unwatered. Mine reach for his, as if he holds the only source of water. We stand a foot apart, and yet I see this canyon stretch between us. I wonder if he remembers. Remembers the way we spent our evenings, summers, days, and years. I know he felt something for me, there was a connection there. But it was brief. It lived in frequent bursts, a sudden flare of a bright flame, and just as quickly it’s put out. I think it’s still ablaze in me. Subconsciously I feel the need to be around him, to feel his warmth. One chilly eve, I stood in the shower and watched clear water rush down my body. I thought of what it’d feel to kiss him. With other boys, I’d worry about the circumstances. How would it happen? Where would it be? Where do I put my hands, or do I hold the neck, or cheek, or do I run my fingers in their hair or...? But when I thought of him, it was only the emotion that mattered. This homeliness I felt, the heat that comes from winter furnaces and burning wood. The warmth we only feel in cozy cottages, wrapped under blankets with a book. A love so deep it’d be enough to just be with him, be it platonic or romantic. And then, the softness of his lips to gently brush against mine.              In our old days of friendship, we were a little immature, a little foolish. What could a pair of teens know about love? A silly crush? A discreet glance or two? But no. For me, it was the waves of thrill. My heightened senses. I felt things clearer, brighter, better. I felt awake and there and living. He lit my heart, and when we went our separate ways, I began to think it was no longer flammable. For many months, no other person mattered. Not with the weight he used to hold on me.              I’ve often thought of what our paths would look like, intertwined. I longed for me to meet his family, for him to be a part of mine. I knew that beyond the playful look he carried, deep down inside was a responsible, thoughtful man. In certain moments of our days together, I’d see that inner character come out. His eyes would widen in concern, he’d sit up straighter and lean forward. There is a man inside that cares about his family. Who’d risk it all to help his friends, his loved ones. I admired it.              This tenderness, affection, turns out it never really went away. My love for him stayed settled at the bottom of my heart. It pooled together in a little puddle, and as I take him in, it grows. He’s grown himself, I mean, we’re both adults now. So much has changed and yet he’s still the same.

             He bends forward, closer to the quaint display. He chooses the heart-shaped cheesecake, topped with some cocoa flakes and truffles. As Anna packs it up for him, his long, thin fingers reach for his card. He swipes, says thank you. When turns to leave, he finally sees me. “Oh, hey!” he smiles, waves. I barely get a whisper in before I hear the doorbell chime, and then he’s gone.


Septembers are beautiful in some places- all the bright fall colors mixed with greens that haven’t yet faded, crisp cool winds, and even gray skies seem comfortable somehow. Not here. Here there are few trees and little grass, the winds are biting, and the clouds above exuded more anger than wistful melancholy. It was the gloom that helped me spot him that day, though. I had gotten off work half an hour or so earlier, and my phone had died on the train home. Not having music to listen to while my mind wandered forced me to focus on other senses instead to take my mind off the cold wind and rain getting through my umbrella and the old jacket I’d thrown over my uniform. There wasn’t much to taste, and the smells of the city were less than pleasant. The sights were boring- the same buildings, unremarkable cars, a few other pedestrians who avoided eye contact- but inoffensive. It must have been the red sneakers that caught my eye, because God knows nothing else stood out. But seeing those, I did a double take realizing they were attached to a pair of legs. I hesitated for a moment, not knowing what to do. Should I leave? Yell for help?Call the police? After weighing my options and deeming every other one unwise or impossible (damn phone battery never lasts a full day when it’s below 50 degrees) I decided to investigate further and make a choice afterwards. It was kind of exciting, after all- bodies show up semi-regularly here, and everyone knows someone whose cousin found one once, but I’d never seen one up close before. It was only when I got within a few feet that I realized that the ‘body’, curled up in the fetal position against a corner, was breathing. This was unusual. Living homeless people were unheard of- between the crime and the food shortages and the climate and a million other things, most are dead in days if not hours. But I couldn’t see any other reason why he’d be shivering in a dirty, rainy alley. “Hey.” I paused. This seemed like a bad idea. But a voice in my head told me to do it anyway. “I’m Sam. What’s your name?” The dark mop on top of his head turned upwards to reveal a boyish, pale face and steel-blue eyes. When his eyes met mine, they grew wide, his back straightened, and his hands and feet scrabbled against the concrete, almost as though he were trying to push through the wall behind him. After a second or so without progress, he froze. The look on his face was nearly panic. I smiled softly and took a step and a half to the side. “I won’t hurt you. You can leave if you’d like.” I cocked my head. “Or you can tell me to leave? You were here first, after all.” That got him to crack a bit of a smile. Just a bit. It was cute, though. “Speaking of which, what are you doing here?” He dropped his gaze from mine and drew in his legs again, his knees poking through the tears in his jeans. His lips fluttered, but I couldn’t make what he said. I squatted down to be closer to his level. “Pardon? I didn’t catch that.” “Was gonna nap.” His voice was pleasant despite his ragged appearance. “That... seems ill-advised.” “‘Sbest place I got.” He shrugged halfheartedly. “‘Less you got a better idea.” It sounded disdainful, almost as though he thought the notion that I would was ridiculous. I don’t know what possessed me to offer. Maybe it was those eyes, maybe it was just how pitiful he looked curled up in the rain. But I stuck my hand out and smiled anyway. “I might.


Sorrow is like snow. Cold molecules that fall from the sky. And flow into your soul. Then slowly melt and dissipate, Only to return and chill you again. And again.

From Canada, A cold front had migrated south, Leaving the earth under a soft quilt of snow.

It was the edge of seasons, Near the end of winter. Around two on a Sunday afternoon. The sun had warmed the land and the pavement was dry, But it was still icy in the shadows and you had to keep an eye out. I was on a two-lane road, a winding route mostly empty of travelers this time of year.

My mind was drifting when my phone buzzed. I pulled it from my pocket. It was Jasmine. This time I decided to answer. Slowing down, I began looking for a safe place to pull over. I’d taken off about two weeks earlier. Left Portland to get some air, And give Jasmine Some space. She was driving me crazy – and I her.

“Uh, hello?” I said. “Dad, where are you? When are you coming home?” Right to the point, as always. I like that about her. Take no prisoners. I looked over at the map spread out on the passenger seat. “Well, dear, I’m in eastern Oregon.” “Where exactly in eastern Oregon?” In my mind I saw her roll her eyes. “Just a minute.” I turned onto a snowy road That led down to a lake and stopped By a gate that blocked a closed campground.

“Okay, at the moment, I’m driving around a lake north of Baker City, East of the Wallowa Mountains. And I don’t know when I’m coming home.” “I wish you’d let me know where you are. Why haven’t you answered my messages?” “I’ve been on some back roads. Cell service is spotty out here.” In truth, I just didn’t feel like talking to her. Or anyone. I craved silence. Open spaces. Anonymity.

“Where you staying tonight?” she said. I had the location circled On the map.

“I’ve rented a cabin at Brownlee Reservoir near Hells Canyon. I’m headed there now. You’d love it out here, Jas.” It was all true, except the last part. She would’ve hated it. Jas is a creature of the city, born and bred. In Montana years ago she said, “I don’t get it. What’s go great about the outdoors? There’s bugs and bears and bees … and I’m not goin’ on your stupid hike!” It dumbfounded me. “Whose daughter are you?” I inquired.

I remember her mother didn’t like my joke. I couldn’t understand Jasmine. But I’d long ago Given up trying to open Her eyes and make her realize What incredible wonders are all around outside. “Where’d you stay last night?” she asked. For a moment, I couldn’t remember. I’m not good at answering Questions under the gun. I made something up.

“Burns.”

“And before that?” “Bandon.” Another name plucked from the map. “And the night before that I was at Fort Rock. Slept in the car.” I knew Jasmine wouldn’t call me on it. She had no idea where these spots were.

“You know you shouldn’t be driving out there alone,” she said. “I’m fine. This cabin I’m going to is supposed to be nice.” “Could you find a more isolated place?” “It's peaceful. Nobody around. The snow on The trees and lake. It’s beautiful. Good place to get away from it all.” “Get away? From what?” You have nothing to get away from, Dad. You have to accept that mom is gone. It’s been over a year.” The familiar ache returned. How I miss her. Like a limb removed. Her incomprehensible death had knocked me around the bend and made me resent People who take life, and love, for granted. Like I did. “Get away from what, dad?” Jasmine kept on, cornering me. I didn’t answer. To be honest, what I was getting away from was myself. I was tired of what I’d become. A lifeless loser, watching TV all day, wanting to be left alone.

“Dad, please come home.” “I will, dear. Don’t worry.”

“You’re getting really forgetful. You know that, right? Ever since mom … you’ve gone downhill.” “I know, but I’m okay. Really. How are you?” “Are you even listening to me?” Her tone was an octave higher. It reminded me of her mother.

“Yes, Jasmine, I’m listening to you.” “You’re getting worse, Dad.” “No, I’m not. I just don’t understand you, and it drives me crazy.”

“That’s right – you don’t understand me! I wish you would.” I felt my ire rise but clenched my jaw and kept quiet. Jasmine is a worrier. It’s her nature. She can’t help it and I know the feeling. I’m worried, too – about her. The choices she’s making. We’re flipsides of the same coin. It’s unfathomable to me how your own blood Can be so much like you – and yet so different.

She wants me to stay close to home, Instead of road-tripping around. I fight her on it. That and other things. Like her job, which I think she should quit. I know she could get a better one. We’re a lot alike when We argue and I hate to admit, it often feels good to get into it with her.

“I want this to be your last road trip,” she said. “I’m taking the keys when you get back.” “Well, I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Nope. I am fine and I am NOT giving up Driving and I will go anywhere I goddamn please, understand?” There was a long pause and then a sniff and I wondered If she was crying. That didn’t stop me.

“Knock if off, Jasmine. You are gonna have to TRUST me And let ME be the judge of what I can and cannot do! I’m telling you I am fine! Now quit worrying and get off my back.” I heard her breathing in a broken pattern and I wanted to reach out and hug her.

And then, through the frosted car window, I saw some dark figures moving out on the lake. Stark shapes on a brilliant white blanket of downy snow. I rolled down the window. It was a herd of elk. About thirty it seemed, Including several young ones With their mothers. They were huddled together, Walking slowly across the frozen lake.

“You’re gonna get lost, you know,” Jasmine said. “Die on some dead-end road out of gas or something. Mom was right. You’re reckless.”

Leading the herd was a bull with a candelabra of a rack that spread like the branches of an oak. “Wow, you should see this,” I said. The herd followed closely as the bull steadily moved forward, Nose down as if smelling the water, or fish, beneath the ice. I reached behind my seat and grabbed my binoculars. One hand held the phone to my ear, The other brought the binocs to my eyes. I got out of the car and began walking through the snow toward the lake. The air was crystalline and smelled of pine. “See what?” she said. “What is it?” I didn’t say anything. “Dad!” Suddenly, the bull stopped, Threw his head back, and looked at the rest of the herd.

In a snap came a sharp crack, like an ice tray. At first I thought – rifle shot. But I saw no one anywhere. No elk had been hit. And then I saw the ice under the middle of the Herd buckle, and I saw a dark fissure open in the snow. One of the smallest elk slipped And its forelegs went into the crevice. Its mother bent down to her young one And the ice broke beneath her, and in a second the mama was

Into the breach, ice chunks around her, Eyes frantic as she struggled to Keep her head up. Jasmine spoke. “Dad, dad, Would you please say something?”

All I could muster was, “Oh my god, no.”

I looked up and down the bank but nobody was around. Not a bird made a sound. The bull elk reversed course and started Running back toward the elk that had fallen through, and as he got to the hole, The ice under the herd split and the snow parted and each animal, One by one, sunk into the dark. Gutteral sounds I’ve never heard

Reverberated across the lake. I took my binocs from my eyes To see for real. I couldn’t comprehend what I saw. An entire herd of elk was sinking Into a snowy lake on a Peaceful, glorious, Sunday afternoon. Raising the binocs, I tightened the focus.

“Dad, I need you to come back. I’m moving. I found an apartment. I can’t live at home anymore.” I could barely hear what she was saying. The elk all tried to swim but there was nowhere to go. Hemmed in by the ice, up to their necks, they couldn’t get out. “Can you please say something?”

“I can’t,” I said, and hung up. I was speechless. Thunderstruck by the sight of the

Lake swallowing the herd in front of me.

The bull was the last to succumb. He thrashed his regal, Antlered head back and forth in the dark water, kicking his legs to stay above the surface. A fog of hot air rose from his flaring nostrils. Then, he turned in my direction, and I felt he could See me. My knees buckled. I yelled, “Help! The elk are drowning!” But my words dissolved in the air like bubbles.

In minutes, the whole herd was gone. Young and old, An extended family, A tribal community, wiped out, Leaving nothing but ripples and a memory that will someday fade away.

Moments later I got back in the car. On my phone I looked up Oregon Fish and Wildlife. I called and left a brief account of what I’d witnessed – thirty some elk falling into a frozen lake and vanishing. Then I backed up onto the highway, And drove on in the direction of the cabin.

At the first bend of the road, In a shadow, I hit Some black ice And slid into the oncoming lane, headed toward the lake. My heart skipped, but I was able to turn into the skid and stay on the blacktop. As I emerged back into the sun and picked up speed, I rolled down all the windows and let the indifferent molecules of life flow through. I shivered and felt a crack somewhere inside. I thought, I need to remember this. Because this was something. A moment of clarity.

I looked at the lake, to the dark hollow where all the elk had disappeared. The black hole was almost covered over by ice and snow. It dawned on me that you never know When life will no longer hold. You sense it before You see it.

Before I had gone a mile, I slowed to the side of the road, Checked the rearview, and made a u-turn. By midnight I was at our door, hugging Jasmine, Drowning in sorrow no more. Or at least until the Next snow.


February 16:

Dear Diary, I love Wednesdays. That’s because it’s drama and literature day at school. For this term, Mr Kozak has challenged us to write about a topic that he selects each week. Assignments must be handed in every Tuesday for grading on Wednesdays. He says I have the aptitude and talent to go to university, but I still have many things to learn about the world. Being a 17-year-old girl in a small city is not always eventful, so I’ll try to write about what I see on the street, in school, and home life. Thank goodness we have a week between assignments to hand in our work, as I sometimes just stare out the window without any idea of what to write. Mr Kozak says a good writer will always observe the world and their surroundings – but not necessarily through a classroom window, so he encourages us to get outside, smell the sunflowers, taste the air, listen to the noise, and immerse ourselves into life. He says writers need to be true only to themselves and have a flair for the dramatic. Telling a compelling story that captures your reader, is the key. Keeping a notebook to jot down ideas, is a necessity, he says. That way, they won’t be forgotten, so I’ve chosen you - Diary, to be the first to hear my thoughts. You will be my bestie this term, keeping all my secrets in until I choose to share them. I’m still waiting for inspiration, but I’ve been distracted by the news telling us the Russians are planning to invade us. This is very distressing, and it’s made me feel anxious about life. I need to clear my head, so I can begin to write, but it’s all over the news.

February 24:          A week has gone by and I’ve not written a word. Is this what writer’s block is? I’m still distracted because for several months now, the news has talked about our Russian neighbours gathering troops at our border. The fear was that we were going to be attacked, but Russian TV says it’s a special military operation. By the sound of the explosions, my city is getting pummelled, and I’m worried we’re going to get blown up. What kind of special military operation is that? Putin is using some lame excuse about getting rid of our Nazis. I’ve not seen any Nazis. Where are the Nazis? Just come out with it and say you want our country to be part of Russia again. Reminds me of that song by the Beatles, ‘Back in the USSR.’ I’m renaming it to, ‘Back in the NEW-SSR.’

         I saw a few burnt-out cars on the way home from school today and an apartment block on fire, so we have been advised to barricade our windows at night. Why at night? Why not in the day as well? It’s all so frightening. I can’t visit my friends as there is a curfew in place, and anyway, I heard about people getting shot just waiting in line at the bus stop. I fear we will be overrun by the Russians, but Papa says our military is ready for invasion and will repulse them. Papa fought them back in 2014, so I guess he knows what he’s talking about. I have no idea why we have been attacked. What have we done?          The stress is making me feel sick and I can’t think of anything else to say. I’ll try again tomorrow.

February 28:

OMG! We are at war! People are dying in their homes, in their cars, on the street, and I haven’t written anything in days because of the Russians attacking us!

Now my boyfriend Andrei has volunteered for the civilian army. I don’t want him to go, but he’s doing it to defend all of us. Please, please don’t get hurt, Andrei.          Today, I saw on the news that the Russians used a vacuum bomb that sucks all the surrounding oxygen from the air to generate a very high-temperature explosion. Those poor people caught in the middle of that. To have the air sucked out of your lungs is terrible to imagine. I hate the Russians!

Papa says we should try leaving the city and head west to the Polish border, so we’re packing up everything we might need such as food, water, medicine, clothes. Mummah says it will be difficult because we’re surrounded by Russian forces. It’s like they’re trying to keep us in as hostages. Mr Kozak has urged us to just write about anything – no matter how difficult it is to find inspiration. He says that we should channel our emotions and use them to create powerful voices loud enough for the world to hear of our plight. However, everything is so upsetting right now that it’s difficult for me to concentrate.          March 1:

We’re still at home. We tried to drive out of the city but got turned back when the Russians fired at some cars in our convoy. It was so scary. A bullet hit the car in front of us, so Papa quickly turned back towards home. We may be trapped with nowhere to go.

Whatever remaining gas and electricity we had got cut off, so we’re living under candlelight, and cooking with camping stoves. Water supplies are low, so we’re restricted to using water for just brushing our teeth and washing our faces and hands for a while. The teachers at school are organising a shelter for me and Mummah to stay safe in. Papa has been called up to defend Ukraine. He’s commanding Andrei’s unit, so at least they’ll look out for each other. Mr Kozak says our new shelter will be exciting. I can’t see how that will be so thrilling, jammed in with lots of people, but if it’s safe, then I’m okay with that. I handed in a couple of pages about what is happening in Ukraine. It’s all gibberish with no structure and no defined beginning, middle, or end. It’s so bad that I’m not even going to show you, Diary. I’m so worried about everything. Mummah says that I should think about nice things, like flowers in the springtime. Bless her. She’s trying to keep me distracted, but I can see the worry in her face. Her and Papa don’t like being apart very much.          March 3:          I got a C on my first writing review. I knew it wasn’t very good. Mr Kozak encouraged me to think like a conjurer of words – a magician of the blank page, and not like an everyday journalist, repeating verbatim what they see and hear. He wants me to put myself into the story and feel what I write. I told him that was easier said than done, because the noise is so loud and frequent with bombs and missiles and gunfire, it’s hard to concentrate. Mr Kozak told me to use the noise and write about how it makes me feel. Because living at home is not safe anymore, he arranged for me and Mummah to permanently shelter in the local theatre, where he can continue to conduct his classes in person. It is helping me to write better as I now have a support group of students to discuss writing, so the noise outside is a little less worrying. There are still distractions in the theatre, but it is good to hear all the young kids running around playing as if nothing was wrong. We’ve set up a classroom on the stage to provide some creative inspiration. This week’s task is to describe in poetic prose, the plight of our country – either before the invasion or as it is currently. My piece is a tribute to our brave soldiers resisting the might of Russia, so here goes:

“Shake the ground, you Moscovian blast of metal          It will remain to reclaim long after you’ve left          Arise the cloud of smoke-filled inferno          In the end it is you who’ll live bereft          Of sons and husbands, uncles, and brothers          Whose leaders blatantly lied to their mothers          Our defenders return your wounded and slain          Then say a short prayer for those that remain          For we are the civil, but if you continue to attack          We’ll send your boys home to never come back.”

         March 8:          Another attempt to evacuate us was once again prevented by the Russians bombing the so-called evacuation corridor . Like skittles toppled in a bowling alley, cars littered the highway of no escape. It was a horrible scene with the dead laying where they were slain. We tried to pick up some supplies from our apartment, but there was nothing left of our home. It’s gone, reduced to ashes and twisted metal. I cried so hard when I saw the ruins. My Mummah cradled me like a baby, as I was inconsolable. Where will we live now? We can’t stay in this theatre for very long.          To soothe my anxieties, I have immersed myself deeply into writing. It helps me deal with all this unholy destruction that surrounds us. All we have left now are the clothes we wear, plus a few items of food. The shelter has provided daily meals, toilets, and drinking water, so we’re surviving. But the truth is, we need to escape, but that, for now, seems impossible.          The good news is that I got a B-Plus for my poetry piece. Mr Kozak was very impressed by my poem and said it probably deserved a higher grade, but he knows there is something greater in me ready to come out and did not want me to get ahead of myself – whatever that means; however, he did add that when all this madness has stopped, he would get the local newspaper to publish my poem. I was so happy to hear that.          As a precursor to our next task, we’ve been studying Shakespeare all week, namely his Henry the Fifth play. Not sure how it must have sounded in its original English context; however, according to Mr Kozak (who speaks English), the Ukrainian translation was fairly accurate with its depiction of the way people talked six hundred years ago. It’s a little weird but poetic - in its own right. This week’s assignment is to write something patriotic in the style of Shakespeare’s Henry V, so here go-eth. Imagine me addressing Putin’s army on the field of battle, trying to dissuade them from attacking.

“What hath caused such wrath upon our noble lands.          Have we not been the good neighbour since our bittersweet parting?          To live in peace, one must abide by the rules of civility and not succumb to temptations of nationalistic majesty.          Doth the god of war have nothing else to do but seek out the meek, and unleash a tempest upon unsuspecting victims? A blood lust to quench hath no inhibition of conscience. It hath but a red cloud of stubbornness blinding their prudence from hindsight.          Indeed, oh Warlord, it appears your ambitions outweigh your sensibility.          That a leader of nations must tread on the necks of similar ilk of common blood, exhibits nothing more than a petty schoolyard bully afraid to reveal their vulnerability – in the event the truth shall ring out, exposing a nature as docile as a lamb and weak as a coward.”          Rise up! I cry to your followers, and smite the emperor of nought!          Let him rot in exile as did our own fallen, disgraced son, Viktor Yanukovych.          Let there be a place in the underworld for the Dealers of Death, where armies of soldiers of guilt invade their daily thoughts, endlessly tormenting them in perpetuity, with the names, faces, and souls they so cruelly vanished.          Let not the servants of the people be swayed by ambiguous ambition, but by the modest needs of the people – for that is true freedom – a notion altogether deceptive to an outmoded murder nation.          Hear our warning loud and clear. Strike camp, oh despot of doom, before rivers of blue turn the blood-red colour of your forces fiery fate. If war is to die as love is to live, then let it be widely known and understood… we are prepared for both, faithfully reciting the following oath…          Death may rain from the sky,          nay… we will not burn,          famine may bloat our bellies,          nay… we will not starve,          strike us down, yea… perhaps,          and we will rise,          our unified spirit soaring high above your most foul stench,          and should you in your misguided wisdom, once again invade our lands,          we will repel and return you to your mother’s grief.          For we are Ukraine, the flowers of the sun.”

         March 15:          Such a famous date, The Ides of March. In 44BC, Roman Senators plotted and assassinated one of Rome’s greatest leaders. Perhaps this will be the day of downfall for the Madman of Moscow. Will his inner circle come to their senses and rid the world of this modern-day Caesar? That is probably wishful thinking. The war does not look like ending very soon. The shelter in the theatre has taken in more people, so the war is definitely continuing. We heard today that there is a Russian fleet with landing ships approaching Odessa. We are truly surrounded now. There seems to be no way out. I think the Russians are hoping we’ll starve to death. That may be the case, as food has almost run out at the shelter. How I would love a nice chunk of bread and butter to eat and a fizzy orange drink.          We all had a good laugh last night when news arrived of a new evacuation corridor the Russians would not attack. Turns out the corridor led over the border to Russia – LMFHO (excuse my text speak). Unfortunately, some people accepted the offer; however, I think they’re just heading towards some type of concentration camps.          It looks like Ukraine is on its own. Sure, NATO will supply weapons, but no troops will be offered. That will be up to individuals to come and fight for our freedom, and some have done just that. If I was leader, I’d make them honorary citizens.          Can’t wait for tomorrow to see what grade I got. See you then, Diary.          March 16:          I am so excited! Mr Kozak gave me an A-Plus for my crude attempt at Shakespeare. I so want to be a writer. There is much material being generated by this war, and I am going to dedicate my first book to telling the world what happened at ground level.          Our stage has been taken over by some new families, so Mr Kozak has moved most of us to the basement. He says it will provide more protection for us, but I’m not so sure. The ceiling above us is the wooden floor of the theatre upstairs, but we’re at one end and there are concrete walls we can press ourselves up against. Anyway, it’s a big building. Bombs would have to be very large to penetrate down here. Plus, it’s not a military target and the words “Children” have been painted on the parking lot ground, so pilots will know there are no soldiers here.          I want to write so much today. I’m thrilled by my top grade and I’m ever so chatty. I feel like I’m riding on a cloud with so much energy and there are so many ideas swimming around my head. This week’s assignment is to write about what your perfect world would look like after the war. We can use our own style and voice. Mr Kozak said to just let the words flow out of us, not to think too deeply but just follow our hearts. Just write truthfully, he says. So, here are my thoughts:

“My perfect world includes my mummah and Papa,          and a house surrounded by trees, fields,          and a lake to swim in.          Where freedom of choice is a given thing,          as freedom should not be something that needs to be won,          it should be a simple human right to live without repression,          without tyranny, and without fear.          In my perfect world,          hunger is something you experience between meals          and never between days.          Loneliness will be replaced with friendship, caring,          and love of your neighbour.          My perfect world will stretch out a helping hand to those that fall          and a comforting shoulder for those that grieve.          Love will be encouraged,          and hate will be convinced to see otherwise.          My perfect world would be heaven on Earth          with row upon row of Sunflowers to cheer the saddest of hearts,          All, in my perfect world…”

I’ll call that my first draft. It needs improving in places and could possibly be a little longer, but I’m getting a bit tired. Sleep deprivation has been daily. Too much noise here to sleep for very long. Anyway, I’m full of writing energy and looking forward to becoming a magician of the blank page later - after I lay down for a while.          ** Note to self: **          Sleep well Nadiya and when you awake, remember to write true… Oh daughter of Ukraine…

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The story you have just read is purely a work of fiction; however, the event is true. On March 16, 2022 , Russian artillery struck the Mariupol Theatre, destroying the building and killing over three hundred men, women, and children, sheltering in the basement. Who knows how many hopes, dreams, and aspirations were extinguished on that fateful day when many flowers of Ukraine perished? Rescue efforts were hampered by continued attacks on the area, delaying much needed medical treatment. Ukrainian authorities described it as a war crime. The Russians denied responsibility and simply blamed Ukrainian Neo-Nazis for the attack… In the words of Nadiya, “Where are the Nazis?” In this author’s opinion, when the invaders act like Nazis themselves, then it is time for thorough introspection of leadership… Hopefully soon, that day of reckoning will come…


>"Weebubadubawumpabumb-baby-weebubadumpawumpawump," an ethereal voice flowed over thumping bass drum beats. Jacki was three glasses into a bottle of five-dollar pinot noir -- she'd promised herself she'd stop at two glasses after last weekend -- but tonight was no normal night. Tonight she'd tell her. She grabbed her phone to shut off the music. Her thumb hovered over the pause button while her favorite part played. >Joy was oblivious; she lay in bed with eyes closed, arms wrapped just under Jacki's breasts, and ears enthralled with the tinny voice coming from Jacki's phone. >The music stopped. "Dweeeeeeb," Joy squealed her favorite pet name for Jacki, "I keep telling you to get a new phone." A few seconds passed in silence. "That's my favorite part, girl, turn it back on." >A moment passed before Joy realized it wasn't the phone that stopped the music. Her eyes opened and her shoulders slid up the wall behind the bed. >"What's up?" >Tonight Jacki would count her wine consumption in bottles. Sorry I'm not sure how to properly format this post. This is not really a full story exactly, but I'd love to hear feedback on the writing style, particularly with respect to clarity.


I don’t smoke. But during my four weeks in Primrose Lodge , I spent many hours in the smokers’ hut. It was a small area, overhung by a tired and twisted oak, with some rustic benches and two or three smelly containers for stubbing out fags. Although I was one of a small minority of non-smoking, non-vaping addicts, “the hut” was (fumes notwithstanding) the best place to enjoy some decent company. It was always the spot where the conversation was most entertaining and where we could debrief after some heavy sessions of varied forms of therapy. It was in the hut, on my third day in rehab, that I met Helen. She had just arrived and was clearly struggling with the early effects of some pretty bad withdrawals. Apparently, she wasn’t yet on the full program, and she had not been in morning therapy.  With attractive dark hair, striking green eyes, and high cheekbones she should have been a beautiful woman. But, at that moment, she wasn’t. Dressed in a drab, grey tracksuit, life hung heavy on her and she looked tired and defeated. She sat, a cigarette between in her fingers, listening vaguely to an animated conversation between old Anna and a pale young man, about Anna’s cats.

Anna, I knew, had been in rehab at least three times. Clearly a rehab groupie, I had found her highly intelligent and surprisingly insightful. The young man I did not know. Opposite them sat a young woman, Nadia, who was in the facility for treatment of some kind of severe personality disorder. She was looking now, with some interest, at Helen.

“Hello,” said Nadia in her usual intense and sporadic fashion, “What’s your name? What are you here for?” Helen turned to her in surprise. The others stopped speaking and, with friendly curiosity, waited for Helen to answer. This was typical smokers’ hut form, and I was interested to hear her story. “Umm,” Helen began, the colour rising in her face. “I’m Helen. I’m not sure I want to say anything about why I’m here right now.” “Come on,” said Nadia, “Of course you can tell us. Everyone here is addicted to something, so you’re not special. And we’ll find out in ‘group therapy’ anyway.” Taken aback, Helen was silent for a moment. She looked nervously around at the smiling, friendly group. “I have come for a detox,” she said defiantly. “I had a little too much to drink over the weekend.” With that, she stubbed out her cigarette, and left. “She’ll come round in a day or two,” said Nigel, a friendly, middle-aged man with a bright red nose. He’d been in the facility for a couple of weeks already and seemed to have had a kind of spiritual re-awakening.

“They don’t all have the same journey as you, Nigel,” answered Linda, a young woman with very heavy make-up who sat on his left. “But I hope you’re right. It looks like she needs some help.” And, before long, it appeared that Nigel had been right. It was a day or so later when Helen, like the rest of us, began to declare at the start of our sessions, clearly and forthrightly, “Hello, my name is Helen. I am an alcoholic.”

Maybe, I hoped, she was going to start dealing with her denial. I began to hear some of her stories. It was clear that drinking a little too much on the weekend was only a small part of the problem. Often drunk, she revealed how she spent most of her life trapped in a kind of emotional cage and behaved accordingly. The addiction, like for all of us, held her in a zombie state, deteriorating all that could have made her great. Helen’s life and marriage were both falling apart. And as far as Helen was concerned, it was because her abusive husband made her life a living hell. I kept wondering what we would hear if he could tell his side of the story. One morning, the counselor asked Helen to share with the group some of the ‘icons’ from her life in addictive alcoholism; moments that demonstrated the damage she had caused to herself and to others. “I kinda remember one evening,” Helen began at length, “although not very clearly. Tommy was away on business. He doesn’t give a s*** about me, you know. I was supposed to be home so the babysitter could get somewhere. But I stopped in with some friends for a drink, and had a couple too many.” “A couple too many?” prompted the counselor. “Oh I don’t know,” Helen said. She became flustered and impatient.

“I drank too much, anyway. I was late home and the babysitter had to rush out. I went to my room to get changed, but I really needed another drink. I took the bottle from where I always keep some vodka hidden in my drawer and drank what was left in it. I don’t remember much of what happened then, but I think my daughter came in to show me a picture.” There were tears in Helen’s eyes. But I couldn’t place the look. Hardness. Defiance. Anger. Frustration. But not, I was pretty sure, contrition. “What happened then?” asked the counselor. “I think I slapped her. Hard. Because she had bad bruising on her face and a cut from my ring. I told her to f*** off, and to show somebody else. I was totally f**** myself. Why did Tommy leave me to look after the kids?” We sat in silence, waiting for her to go on. The pain and sadness in the room were palpable. “What finally brought you to Primrose Lodge ?” somebody asked. Helen looked at the floor. After a long silence, she continued. “I had a drink before I picked up Chloe from school. I crashed the car on the way home. Hit a traffic light. Chloe broke her arm, and I got some pretty bad bruising. We weren’t strapped in.” Helen looked around the room, anger in her eyes again. “It was my husband who made me check in here. But it also him who made me drink that day. He is such a bastard to me. It’s all I can do to cope.” Days in the rehab became weeks. And finally it was time for me to leave. The day before I went home, Helen was in my last group session.

“Forgiveness is the key to freedom,” shared Lenny, a feisty old man who had come into Primrose kicking and screaming. What a change we had seen in him.

“Resentment is the 'number one' offender. It destroys more alcoholics than anything else,” he quoted from the AA ‘Big Book’. Several people nodded. We all knew it was true.

And then, in that moment, I noticed the look on Helen’s face. She looked furious. Grim, with a fierce determination. I felt a deep sadness for this woman. Why did she refuse to embrace the obvious and miraculous truth that forgiveness would finally set her free. To cling to her resentments would be the end of her. It was three weeks later when I was able to join the first of the regular sessions held for those of us addicts released back into the wider world. Outpatient agony clinics, I guess you might call them. It was a lovely reunion between friends, after the intense time we’d had together “inside”.

Anna was there, and I asked her if she knew much about what the others were doing. Nadia was still in therapy, she said, obnoxious as ever. Nigel was apparently doing well, on a good track, and regularly attending 12-step meetings. She said she hadn’t heard from Linda.

“And Helen?” I asked. “Any news?” Anna looked at me sadly. “Back on the bottle,” she said.

“Her husband kicked her out and is going for a divorce with full custody of their girls.” I was new to this journey. But the terrible and confronting words of the AA Big Book came forcefully to my mind: “Rarely have we seen a person fail who has thoroughly followed our path. Those who do not recover are people who cannot or will not completely give themselves to this simple program, usually men and women who are constitutionally incapable of being honest with themselves. There are such unfortunates. They are not at fault; they seem to have been born that way. They are naturally incapable of grasping and developing a manner of living which demands rigorous honesty. Their chances are less than average.” Was Helen one of these? Did she have the capacity to be honest? I didn’t know. But this journey was not one I felt I could take in any other way.


“Satan help us brothers for the world is all but a mess and we are truly fucked” - His words rung out upon the cold stone walls of the candle quilted church. The screams never grew silent, Just stronger. We all stood in erratic circle as we had before, the 12 members stood in unity. Unity not in words but panic. Sheer fucking panic. I and Elise had seen when the broadcast, the one that brought the brainless cannibalistic shells of humans that wandered the cracked, dry earth outside our haven. I can remember the monotone words as clear as yesterday; “The state regrets to inform you that all has been lost, God help us” God couldn't help us now, he never could, the world grew tired of his dismay of human fortune and many turned to us, who praise the god below, Lucifer. But holy fuck we screwed up, we said things, did things, we grew strong but with a plywood structure, They were all here for the safety of a group not our god. He grew angry and so did the rest of the people. The flash of light tore to the back of my eyes, my bones became ash, my heart all but in the past. Everything but my memories flew to each corner of the earth. I was all but a speck in the mess we call home, my real self was with our lord. Lucifer.


Oct. 22 A bead of sweat drips from my forehead as I run. I wonder how I’m still going. A small breeze is blowing now. A small mercy. I just have to take one more step. Just one more. Don’t stop yet. The sun is beating down on me as I run. I wonder how the prehistoric men did this kind of stuff. I don't know why I signed up for this. Oct.20 It is a surprisingly hot day to be fall. The air smells richly of fallen leaves and cut grass. I am wearing a bright yellow t-shirt and blue jeans. I zone out trying to remember what I had for lunch today. “Earth to Rielly!” I jump being drawn from my thoughts. My BFF Katie is walking beside me “what” I grumble, tired from the long school day. “I just thought that you would like to sign up for this race.” “ oh yes, I would love it if I could go outside and run around in the sun sweating to death wearing tank tops and short-shorts.” I say in a high-pitched sarcastic voice. We both break down laughing at that knowing that I would never wear short shorts with a tank top in public much less even own any pairs of shorts shorts. “Yeah, well I can't go to it because I will be busy that day. Plus if you go,” she says it was a stupid looking grin, “You might just get a giant trophy for your effort.” I laugh as if a trophy can sway me. “ it would look perfect on my empty walls trophies.” I answer showing out how likely I would be to actually get the trophy. “ well if you wanted to sign up it is in the gym after school tomorrow.” She says as we go in opposite directions. once I get home I decide I would contemplate signing up for the race knowing Katie wouldn't be there so I just might be able to do it. I decided I might as well while trying to fall asleep in bed.  Oct. 21 It's 8th period right Now and I'm so hungry I’m surprised my ribs aren't showing. I think I'm hallucinating because it smells like pizza rolls in here. I’m in math. My favorite class if only it wasn't at the end of the day. I struggle with my 8's in multiplication and I I just don't feel like doing math right now so I just fiddle with my pencil. Finally I hear a loud annoying high-pitched tone showing the end of class. I get up and leave happily. I meet up with Katie at my locker. “So, you going to the gym?” she askes me when she gets to my locker. I start to wonder what she means but after a minute I remember. “ lead the way Madam.” I say bowing to her. After I finished shoving my books in my backpack I follow Katie to where she leads. We enter the large poorly lit room we call the gym. There is a line leading to a paper taped to the wall. The line is very short. As expected. There is only 5 people in front of me. I’m the 6th to sign up. Looking at the other names I might just have a chance at winning. When I get home I searched the cupboards for a plastic water bottle. The race is tomorrow so I might as well prepare. I stick my water bottle now full with light blue Gatorade ( my favorite flavor) in the fridge door. I lay out a pair of clothes for the next day, a pink T-shirt and black Caprice. I get ready for bed and soon fall asleep. Oct.22  I feel groggy getting up. I get dressed for the day and in the process almost fell asleep. I hastily eat breakfast, brush my teeth, do my hair. I tie my hair up into a ponytail. I grabbed my Gatorade and a granola bar for the drive to the race. I jump into the car with my mom. we arrive soon at the place where the races being held. I get out as I bend and stretch my muscles. There's not much I can do to prepare for a race. It's almost time to start and I make my way to the line. I wait for three little words as everyone lines up with me. Ready. I set my stance ready to Leap Forward. Set. I take one quick but deep breath. Go! I burst into a Sprint.  I sprint trying to get ahead. I slow a little to be on par with the second place personal the moment. After few minutes I speed up to a semi Sprint till I get a few feet from the person first at the moment. I Pace myself to stay in between first and second. I go between sprinting in jogging every few minutes trying to save my energy. I time my breathing was my steps. I feel my feet hit the ground hard. Already tired I have ran one fourth of a mile. my heart thumps heard in my chest and my back is covered in sweat. I take a swish at my Gatorade gladly. My chest Rises and Falls as I pound my feet to the ground. I made it to the 1/2 of a mile mark. Feels like I've been running for hours. I almost trip and sweat drips into my eyes. It stings but I can't slow down. I speed up to now keep par with the runner in first. There is7 people here racing with me. There would have been more but the cross-country couldn't come for this race because they were busy. Again, I Stumble. My limbs tired I take a drink. I’m at 3/4 of a mile as I Sprint towards the finish line outpacing the person that was at first place keeping a distance of a foot between us as I sprint. I can't let her catch up with me. Again I try to force my self to speed up. A bead of sweat drips down my forehead as I run. I wonder how I'm still going. A small breeze is blowing now. A small Mercy. I just have to take one more step. Just one more. Don't stop yet. The sun is beating down on me. I wonder how the prehistoric men did this kind of stuff. I don't know why I signed up for this. The Finish Line is only 10ft. away now.9,8,7,6,5. I Sprint towards the Finish Line hoping to leave my opponents in the dust. 4,3,2. I take one more sleep towards the Finish Line. One more foot. I step across the line. Slowing, I feel like I could collapse. The others filters through the gap called me finish line. I won. I actually won. I Collapse to the ground chugging my Gatorade in a heaving pile of sweat. I did it. I smiled goofily but exhausted. I sit up and try to wipe the sweat off my brow. I laugh. “I did it,” I say it in a whisper, “I actually did it.” I earn a gold medal and brag to my family and friends on the way home. The moment I get in bed I actually passed out and peacefully sleep in for the weekend.


Disclaimer** This story was originally written by my grandmother. There's a link in the comments to photo's of the original piece. All spelling and grammatical errors are as written on the original version. **FIFTEEN MINUTES IN THE TWILIGHT ZONE** It was one of those temporary Army hospitals, at a temporary Army base, and temporarily, half of the hospital staff had been recruited to assist at a local train disaster. My inflamed appendix, sizzled dangerously, as they wheeled me along the assembly line, to the operating room. I only hoped George would remember to do a diaper-wash first thing in the morning. It had been the technician, checking my blood count, that reminded me how calamitous a diaper shortage might become. But George Davis was defanitely the competent sort, so perhaps I was worrying needlessly. In the twenty minutes it took the Doctor to make the necessary hospital arrangements, my George, had with his usual proficiency, appropriated a housekeeper, prepared Ginny’s formula, and packed an adequate suit-case for me. Perhaps I would take his advice after-all and enjoy the advantages afforded to hospital patients. The anesthesia was taking effect and I was beginning to appreciate this unexpected reprieve, away from formulas, diapers, and cod-liver oil. A week’s rest would be a most welcome luxury indeed! In this buoyant frame of mind, I eagerly slipped away and awoke on the morrow, still under the investigating influence of Pentothal (that exhilarating new wonder-drug combination that erased all sense of depression.) I gazed about me lazily, examining my new surroundings. It must have been quite an accident, I thought. For lack of space they seemed to have emptied a conference room which now served as a sizable ward. The warm tea they gave me was nice, but I was beginning to feel a mite hungry when they started rolling the carts through the hall. I propped myself up slowly against the pillows and waited contendtedly, to see what they were serving. I was still a bit drowsy, and dozed periodically, for just seconds. From this delicious state, a soft, professional voice roused me. “Mrs. David, wake up and see what we have here for you.” I couldn’t tell by smelling what we were having, and I certainly didn’t want to miss the thrill of being served in bed, so I forced myself awake and smiled at the lovely young nurse. She deposited a soft squirming bundle, majestically, into my arms, and shoved a leaky milk bottle into my palm. Without any more ado, she departed. I couldn’t even scream!......I was totally paralyzed! Speachless, voiceless, and motionless, I lay there aghast! I automatically stuck the bottle into the gaping mouth, and sat in a frozen stuper, appalled and numb, suspended in my own private twilight zone. Frantically, I tried to assemble in my mind, the chronological events of the last ‘yesterday’ I could remember. My little Ginny was only five months old….George had brought me here to have my appendix removed. It was my ‘appendix’!...I distinctly remembered my Doctor saying “Appendix”. This baby just couldn’t be! Somebody made a mistake. Yes, that was it! It was just a simple mistake. The nurse must have thought I was someone else. That’s all there was to it! The relief was overwhelming. Weak and limp, I leaned back against the now clammy pillows, trembling from exhaustion, but still clutching in my arms a loudly sucking infant. Suddenly, I could picture George coming blithely through that door. My George, with his calm, efficient exterior, who always had a very logical, scientific answer for everything. I giggled rapturously, at the thought of George explaining this one to me. The moments ticked on and I wondered where all the nurses had disappeared to. Probably under-staffed today, I mused, with all the casualties from the train wreck to tend. The baby had drained the bottle, and I turned ‘It’ automatically, sunny side up. I had become quite adept in five month of motherhood. But when was that nurse coming back for the baby? It’s Mother must be getting anxious by now. I was starting to feel a nervous tremor in the pit of my stomach again. My eyes strained at the door for the pretty young nurse, who had said, “Mrs. Davis, see what we have here for you. “Mrs. Davis, she had called me! I felt my pulses begin to throb. I lifted my trembling, ivy fingers to my hammering brow, while the baby lay peacefully oblivious, across my lap. Waves of nausea were sweeping over me again. “No”, I sternly reprimanded myself. “Don’t panic… think coherently”, I tried to steel myself to reason it all out, the way George often did in a crisis. I fumbled awkwardly with the baby’s blanket and found the beaded bracelet on it’s wrist. I starred hard in disbelief at the name tag which read “Baby Davis”! I closed my eyes against the sheer, mad nightmare engulfing me. “Mrs. Davis”, a cool, familiar voice, spoke quietly. “I’m sorry to have troubled you, but the ‘other’ Mrs. Davis was moved to the maternity floor, only this morning. There wasn’t time to correct the nursery charts…We’ve been a little short-handed here today…I hope this hasn’t been too exhausting for you”. She smiled apologetically, and with the sleeping babe in the crook of her arm, she weaved her way around the maze of beds and disappeared down the corridor.


My creation was one solely for the purpose of death, and my soul will not move on until the greatest one. When my eyes opened, and my consciousness of this world began, it was with others, those that became my closest comrades, my kin of soul and matter. All my kin are gone now, lost to this realm long ago. We were the first souls in this realm, and the creatures of the world followed soon after, we were there with the very simplest of those able to be considered truly living. We ferried them quite easily to the next realm, with time, the souls learned to travel, when they were forced from their physical forms they were scared, and we were there to calm them and help them to their next path. There were four of us. Once humans came into being, we decided that one would preside over the creatures of the land, one the creatures of the sea, one the air, and me, humanity. It was peaceful, and we were happy. It did not last. One day, the world shook. Its source was the death of one who should not die, one of my kin. That was the first time emotions came into my mind. A rush of emotions filled me, anger, fear, sadness, all unfamiliar to me in the past. Humanity, my children, had left a mark on me. I took flight to the source, and there, ripped to shreds, laid a shell of a God. No longer alive, the glossy surface of their form without the energy they once held. The keeper of the land was gone. I screamed my rage and heartbreak to the heavens, ruptured the skies with the force of my sorrow, and rain fell from the sky, lachrymose of the heavens. What could have done this? Why? The answers to both of those questions came in the form of violence, as so much else has. The errant soul of a creature ran into the clearing before me, followed close behind by something that shouldn’t exist. A dark, lithe form streaked into the clearing and pounced, extending towards the soul, but it met a wing batting it aside instead as I strode forward. The heap before me wasn’t anything meant to exist in this plane, it was shaped like a slender feline, with the only difference being the spawn before me was made of hellfire. This was the first of many Hell-Beasts that met my wrath, for the scent of a god’s death was on it. This creature was responsible for my kin being lost to the realm. It felt my wrath, and the beast responded in kind. It charged me, but was too slow, all of them are. Not a single one is unable to outdo the wrath fueling my every action. My hand shot out as it jumped for me, grabbing it by what could pass as its throat and squeezed. My hand burned but that didn’t bother me. I beat it with my other hand until the fire fizzled away to nothing. Looking down at my hands, they were bone now, charred and blackened. My job wasn’t done. I had time to ponder this later, for now, my work called. It felt like I was a passenger in my vessel. Watching it kneel, lay a hand on the soul before us, watching it dissolve from this realm as it went on to the next. The vessel stayed kneeling. I took on the duty of guiding all of the lands after that, but I never forgot what happened. No matter where the beasts went, the beating of wings followed them. They learned to fear the sound, and to fear me. Hundreds of the beasts were wiped from this plane, thousands maybe. All by my hand. The wrath of a god knew no mercy, and the hell-beasts got the full force of it, up until the very last of my wards, by then all the land and sea and sky were under my domain, left the earth. Then, I longed for a companion of any kind, but none came. For all that were left feared me. This, the final tragedy of my wrath. I am alone, and there is none to blame for it except myself.


“Tim, I wish I could just tell you everything I already know. I can’t. Please, don’t be offended when I say this... You are not ready. You would just get utterly confused. Besides, I can’t because there is a lot to know, I couldn’t just give it to you in a nutshell. Patience. Everything in due time. And time, we have plenty.” “That was my next question.” Tim said. “I know my love, and the answer is yes. Yes, we’ll be together. I’ll be guiding you… just as I did in the past.” “In the past?” Tim asked puzzled. “You want to hear more about that, right?” “Yes, of course, please tell me!” Mag paused. “All right,” she said then. “For example, remember that car accident of yours on the Nevada highway one Thanksgiving night?” “The one where my car started spinning and sliding on the wet asphalt, changing direction twice, first to get out of the way of that speeding big rig, and then not to slide off the road and start rolling which would have surely been fatal not having the seat belt on?” “Why did you have to drive at hundred miles an hour in the rain?” “Well,” Tim replied, “that was really something! After the accident, the only conclusion I could come to was that a tractor beam controlled the motion of my car.” “Exactly,” Mag said, “and I was the one controlling that beam.” “You were my Guardian Angel?!” Tim shouted with excitement. “You could put it that way,” Mag said quietly. “Now, let me add that I was not your only Guardian Angel. It works a little differently. Those who had hurt you in some ways before they passed away and arrived here also joined in guarding you, and guarding others as well, of course. They did not join because they loved you, they did it out of obligation. You’ll understand later.” “I’m already overwhelmed.” Tim said shaking his head. “A lot more coming,” Mag added with a smile. “Now, you talked about the Supremes,” Tim continued. “Do you know them well?” “We don’t… In fact, we just believe that they exist. I have never seen any of them, and I don’t think anybody else has, either. However, their effect is all around us. For example, we feel we receive directives. These directives don’t just pop out of nothing. Besides, this Island must be controlled, managed and navigated. We have no idea how it functions. Of course, we don’t think it’s just an intelligent mechanism that controls itself.” “Wait!” Tim interrupted. “Let’s talk about this… this Island.” “Well, we call it the Island but it could be called this world, this home of ours or... we could call it this place, this vessel. Whatever this chamber we stand in is a part of.” “All right,” Tim said, “how about this chamber?” “Nothing special,” Mag replied. “It’s just one of the many reception chambers. This is where newcomers arrive.” “So, does everyone who dies on Earth arrive here?” “No, as far as I know only a fraction of them come. Mainly those who want to come, those who believe they can come, mainly those who can free themselves from their material possessions.” “What happens to the rest?” “Not sure,” Mag replied, “but we think they perish without a trace. I mean their soul, their mind, their identity.” “Oh, so is that what survived my earthy life, too, my soul, my mind, my identity?” “That’s about it. Although, here we do get a new almost invisible body. We don’t fully understand how it works. We only think it’s some kind of an energy body. Your person lives on not in organic flesh but rather in a bunch of photons and who knows what else. We think the Supremes made this possible.” “Sounds very high tech,” Tim said. “I wonder how much more evolved the Supremes are.” “Much more than we are, I’d bet,” Mag replied. “We think…” “Wait!” Tim interrupted. “You keep saying we. How many of you are you referring to?” “Quite a few. Of course, I don’t know everyone here, so I wouldn’t know the number, either. And there must be a lot more of us than what I’m aware of. As time goes on, you’ll get to meet more and more of us.” “Another question about our soul, mind and identity,” Tim said. “Did all my knowledge come with me during this transition? I mean… will I remember everything I used to know on Earth?” “As far as I know, yes,” replied Mag. “At least that seems to be the case with me. Of course, I can’t talk for you or for anybody else when it comes to memory. I think if some of your memories did not arrive with you here, you won’t miss them because you won’t know they are missing.” “Yeah, that makes sense,” Tim nodded. “Now, back to this Island, this place or whatever we call it. Can you tell me more?” “I will eventually tell you everything I know. Of course, if you have specific questions, go ahead and ask. I’ll answer if I can.” “For example, where are we? I mean where is this place, this… this Island? Are we out somewhere in space?” “That’s exactly where we are. And you might be glad to know that we are not that far from where we came from.” “Not far from Earth?!” Tim asked in surprise. “That’s right.” Mag extended her arm or whatever it was that Tim could see. “Come,” she said. “It’s time to leave this chamber anyway.” Tim followed the woman who then stopped when they reached the door. “As you can see,” Mag explained, “this door is now closed. It closed after I entered. Every door functions the same way, they are all sliding doors and they all close automatically. However, they don’t open unless you give a mental command. If you have no intention of passing through or if you don’t think it should open for you, you may stand here forever and it will remain closed… So, go ahead, open it.” Tim had no difficulty giving that mental command. After they passed through, the door silently closed behind them. “Wow!” Tim said. “It looks like now we’re in some kind of a corridor.” “That’s exactly what it is, a corridor. A very, very long corridor. A circular one. It goes around the Island.” “The walls…Are the walls the same everywhere?” Tim asked. “Yes, exactly the same.” “And no difference if I look down or look up? Floor, ceiling, all the same?” “Exactly.” “Wait a second!” Tim said. He stepped closer to the wall. “May I touch it?” “Of course,” Mag replied. Tim expected his hand to go through the wall but that did not happen. Mag laughed. “Why do you think we had to use the door? Those walls are impenetrable. So is everything else in the Island.” “Except us,” added Tim. “Right?” Mag nodded. “Except us, and I mean all the rest of us as well.” “I'm wondering what the walls are made of,” Tim said after a short pause. “That we don’t know.” “And what color would you say they are? I think they are gray but perhaps you perceive it differently.” “Good word you used Tim. Yes, we perceive things here. If you think it is gray, then it is gray. Basically, there are no colors in the Island, and there is no light, either.” “No light?! How can I see you then? How can I see everything around me? True, right now I can only see walls but it appears to me that we are in a well lit corridor.” “Perception, Tim, perception. However, pretty soon you’ll see real colors as well as real light, and that will be more than just perception.” Mag stopped close to the wall. Tim thought he saw the outline of a frame that did not reach down to the floor. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this was a window,” he said. “You got it. Now, open it.” “You mean…” “Exactly, just like the door.” Tim’s thought activated the window and it began to slide open. “No way,” Tim whispered in amazement. “Our home, planet Earth.” “Our previous home you mean,” Mag corrected.