“Dad says we have to talk to other people too.” I refused to look at my sister, focusing instead on the fat neighborhood cat that had wandered up to me in the yard. He purred and rubbed his orange head against my hand. I smiled, but it was a fleeting one. Leah sighed and took my hand, forcing my attention away from the cat and onto her face. “Ji-lalo,” she said softly after making sure Dad was nowhere to be seen. “Jo-lali.” I wasn’t afraid if he heard us. “We should try.” “Why?” I was being purposely ignorant, and Leah knew it. “You know why he took us away from the compound. We are human, Lalo. We are meant to be around others.” “All I need is you.” I said it in our secret words. “And you, me.” “We’ll always have each other. In the whole universe, there is nothing that could change that. But-” “But what? Mama always said we were born with everything we need.” “Mama wasn’t right in her head, Lalo. She kept us separate from everyone and everything.” “I miss the woods,” I said, ignoring what Leah said about Mama. Mama loved us more than anything. “Don’t you wish we could go home, Lali?” Leah opened her mouth to answer but a shadow fell over the doorstep where I was sitting. I cried out, a wordless sound from neither language, but it was only Dad. He had his arms crossed, and that meant he was angry. Leah immediately ducked her head, but I held mine high. There was nothing he could do to make us give up our secret words. “We *are* home,” he said, and I realized he hadn’t even noticed our special names for each other. “Listen to me, Rebekah. Leah.” He sat down beside me on the step. The orange cat wound around Dad’s ankles as Leah sat on my other side. I reached over and her hand was already there, ready for me to take it. “Your mother,” he began, and I groaned inwardly. Here came the same story he’d been telling us for weeks now. “Your mother had problems. A lot of them. She had a disease in her head that made her take us all away and hide in the forest. You girls remember our church?” Of course I remembered. It was always so scary going to church for the week. There were strangers there, strangers who didn’t understand Leah and me. “Mama protected us,” I said. I would not hear of her sickness. She didn’t seem sick to me. She was perfect. “She kept the others away from us. She let us be with each other. You don’t.” My hands were in balls, angry little fists that I had no memory of forming. “If you really loved us, you wouldn’t make us change!” Leah gasped, and I expected a scolding, but instead, tears began to fall from my father’s eyes. “Rebekah… I love you more than anything on this planet. You girls are my heart and soul. I took you away from that place *because* I love you. Someday, I hope you can see that.” “You took us away from everything!” I yelled, and a man on the other side of the street looked our way. His gaze was too prying, too curious. I stood up and ran inside the new house, back to our room. Without Leah there though, it felt empty. I sat on the floor and wrapped my arms around my chest. Footsteps came from the hallway, and I scooted around so Dad couldn’t see me cry. “I can’t do this anymore,” Dad said. “I thought you were getting better, but you’re not. I’m getting you two some help.” That was when the meetings started. Twice a week, they made us separate into different rooms while a lady talked to us. Her name was Doctor Saltmarsh, and she asked us weird questions about mom, the compound, the woods. Each other. I knew Leah wouldn’t share our secrets, and so I refused too. This woman was a stranger. She didn’t know us. She didn’t deserve to know us. But every week without fail, she was at the new house waiting for us. It took a long time, but one day, I felt something change. Leah changed. “Jo-lali,” I said when she came out of the living room. Doctor Saltmarsh walked out behind her, and I shut my mouth. She didn’t deserve to hear our language, our secret words. “Hello, Rebekah,” she said. “Are you ready for our session?” I looked at Leah. She had tears on her face. Doctor Saltmarsh had made my sister cry. I said nothing, but took Leah’s hands. She held them for a brief moment, but then she pulled away, and I was left alone with Doctor Saltmarsh as Leah walked to our room. Doctor Saltmarsh placed a hand on my shoulder and led me into the living room where Dad was already waiting. He had a pinched, nervous look on his face. I stood in the center of the room, my arms around myself. “Please sit, Rebekah.” I wouldn’t dignify that with a response. They would get nothing from me until I got what I wanted: Mama and Leah. Dad sighed and forced me down into a squishy armchair. I hated it. We never had anything like this in the compound. I couldn’t sit up straight in this chair. “Listen to the Doctor, Rebekah. She’s going to tell you something very important.” I stared straight ahead. My eyes were for my sister alone. They were the same as hers. Dead grass green. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Doctor Saltmarsh shoot Dad a look before turning back to me. “Rebekah,” she said again. My name sounded foreign and harsh on her tongue. She wasn’t saying it right. Leah said it right. So did Mama. “We’ve decided we need to take some more drastic steps in your recovery. Your progress isn’t where we would like it. We have decided, and Leah agrees: you will be sleeping in separate bedrooms from now on.” It took me a moment to process what she said. When it finally clicked, I laughed. Leah and I would never sleep apart. Most nights, we even shared the same bed. It was so comforting being close. When we slept, our breath would rise and fall in time with each other. Mama always said that we were one in her womb, and should do whatever we could to be one in life. Dad looked surprised at my reaction. “This is for real, Rebekah. It’s happening. Leah is upstairs moving her favorite things into her new room.” Leah would never do this. Not without being in complete agreement. But even as I thought it, I knew something wasn’t right. Leah had been crying. What if they had forced her? I uncurled my arms from around my chest and walked away towards our room. Leah wasn’t there. My heart racing, I rushed to the empty room beside ours. But it was empty no longer. There was a bed, a table, and a desk that hadn’t been there before. Leah sat on the edge of the bed, her eyes red and puffy. “Jo-Lali,” I said, shaking my head. “They can’t make us do it. We are meant to be together. We were born that way.” Leah sniffled and looked at me. It was like looking in the mirror, especially since I had begun to tear up too. “Rebekah,” she said, and I frowned. She never used that name for me. I was always Ji-lalo or just Lalo. “We have to try. I… I think Dad is right. I think we’re sick, Rebekah.” “Don’t call me that!” I cried. That was what *they* called me. “I am Ji-lalo! Ji-lalo!” Footsteps came from the hall and Doctor Saltmarsh and Dad entered the room. “What have you done?” I hurled myself at Doctor Saltmarsh. “You broke her, you did something!” My fists beat upon her stomach and chest, and she dropped her clipboard. I kicked it away, ready to attack again, but Dad pulled me away. He wrapped his arms around me, pinning mine to my side. “Rebekah, please, Rebekah!” I twisted and writhed, but I couldn’t get out of his grip. Leah was still sitting on the new bed, not looking at me. They ruined her. They made her believe their lies. A fear so overpowering came over me, I stopped struggling for a moment, and Dad was able to pull me back into the hallway. What if I couldn’t bring her back? What if now, I was alone? I had never been alone. Not for longer than it took to take a shower, and even then, sometimes we would talk through the door to each other when the loneliness got to be too strong. “We want you to have your own personality, Rebekah,” said Doctor Saltmarsh. “We need you to thrive and flourish on your own as a little girl, not as a part of a whole. We want to hear your voice.” They wanted my voice? Well, I would give it to them. Summoning all of the willpower I had, I screamed. I screamed and screamed until Leah began to scream too, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Leave them be,” I heard Dad say over my piercing wails. “When they get like this, only they can calm each other.” Doctor Saltmarsh shook her head. “No,” she said. “We must separate them. They are feeding off each other. Take Rebekah to her room please. I’d like to speak with Leah.” Dad nodded, and lifted me off my feet. I refused to stop screaming, no matter how much he begged after he set me down on the bed in mine and Leah’s bedroom. Eventually, he left, shutting the door behind him. I screamed until my throat felt raw and my voice started to fade. Once I was quiet, I could hear voices in the hall, and I slipped off the bed and pressed my ear to the door. A pang of deep sadness and loss shot through me. Leah should be beside me. She always was. Until now. “...working for Leah, the progress has been incredible, but Doctor, what about Rebekah?” It was Dad, his low gruff voice carrying through the silent house. “The medication isn’t working. She clings to her sister. You saw what just happened, surely there must be something we can do.” There was a pause, and I had to listen with all my might to hear what Doctor Saltmarsh said next. “You may not think they’re ready, but I think it’s time, Jeff.” Another long pause, and Doctor Saltmarsh spoke again. “Good. I’ll take care of all the paperwork. They’ll have some of the best care in the state, Dunmore has a wonderful school system.” “They can live a normal life?” “We will start them a grade below where they should be. That will help them acclimate. This is an important step. The girls need to socialize with children their own age. They need to learn proper social cues and how to interact with adults. I recommend separate classes. They depend on each other too much.” “Of course,” said Dad. “Whatever you think is best, you’re the expert.” “I must admit, Leah and Rebekah’s case fascinates me. I am wondering when you feel it appropriate to talk with the girls about their mother?” “Not yet.” Dad’s voice was firm. “Let them have their innocence a few years longer. Please.” Doctor Saltmarsh hesitated. “Do the girls know that their mother is dead? Do they know what you saved them from? They had the poison in their hands when you arrived, isn’t that right?” Dad’s voice was heavy with something I didn’t understand. “Yes. I saved them… but I couldn’t save Carol. She had already…” He cleared his throat. “You know, maybe I’m not ready yet either.” “That’s alright. Trauma like this can take a long time to process, let alone heal.” The conversation continued, but I wasn’t listening anymore. I stood rooted in place. Mama was dead? That couldn’t be true. If it was true, I would have known somehow. I would have felt it. No, Mama was still out there somewhere, waiting for us to come back to her. I rushed to the window and threw it open, half-expecting to see her standing there with her arms outstretched, but there was nothing but some freshly-cut grass and a chain fence. The smell of the grass made me think of summer at the compound. Mama would let us swim in the pond when no one else was around. The grass there was always cut short for us to play in. When Mama had long meetings in the church building, Leah and I would roll down the hills or play pretend in the woods. We played that we were warriors defending our forest kingdom, or that we were animals who could talk. Even now, I longed to run outside and scale the lonely tree in the back of the house. It was as close as I could get to Mama. But I wouldn’t go without Leah. I opened my door to find Dad and Doctor Saltmarsh were gone, and hurried to the other room. The emptiness I felt without Leah was all-consuming, but when I pushed open the door, I saw that the room too was void of my sister. “Lali?” I called, but there was no answer. I went downstairs, and to my displeasure, Doctor Saltmarsh was still here, talking to Dad in the hall. I hid behind a corner, listening. “I know it must be an adjustment having the girls full-time, but really, you are coping so well. I can tell you truly want the best for your children.” “Of course I do. They are my life. You can’t imagine what I went through when I thought they were gone too.” “I know. Here, I’m recommending you to speak to a therapist. He’s a friend of mine. I’ll personally make the call if you want me to.” Dad nodded. “I think that would be best.” They walked towards me, but I crouched down behind a long table, and neither of them noticed. “I will see you in three days,” Doctor Saltmarsh said, and exited the house. Once I was certain Dad was alone, I leapt out from behind the table. “What happened to Mama?” I demanded. Dad’s face turned white. “How long were you-” “What happened to Mama?” I shouted. “Where is she?” I started to cry again. I couldn’t help it. Fat tears splashed onto the scratched wooden floorboards. Dad gathered me in a hug, and for just a second, it felt like Mama was there too. But then Dad spoke. “She’s gone, Rebekah. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want you to find out like this. I-” The sound that came out of me was like nothing I had ever done before. I fell onto the floor, unable to stand any longer. So it was true. Or maybe they were lying to me, trying to get between me and Leah. They were forcing us apart in ways I never thought possible. Leah came rushing in to the hall when she heard my howl of grief. “He killed her!” I screamed. “She’s dead, he killed her! She’s gone! Mama’s gone!” Leah was dumbstruck, unable to speak as the truth of what I was saying washed over her. She fell too and we held each other for what felt like hours. Dad didn’t dare try and tear us apart this time. After a while of him standing over us awkwardly, he went to the kitchen. We heard him talking on the phone, but he shut the door so we couldn’t listen. When he returned, I couldn’t look at him. He had done this. I don’t know how or why, but he was there the last time we saw Mama. There had been so many people at the compound that day, and this time we weren’t allowed to go off and play in the grass like we usually did. Mama gave us each a cup of soda. We never got to have soda. It was a special treat, she had said, but we were not to drink it until she said so. We listened to a man talk for a while, but Leah and I were more interested in us than him. When he was through, though, Mama told us we could have our special sodas. She even showed us how to drink it, in one big gulp. But that was when Dad showed up. He ruined our special day and knocked the soda out of our hands. After that, I don’t remember much. There were lots of blue and red lights, and strangers. So many strangers. After that day, Dad said we had to live with him now. But I wasn’t going to let him come between me and Leah. Taking her by the hand, I led the way up to our room, and pulled her down onto the bed with me. We were wrapped in each other’s arms. It was how it was supposed to be. But soon enough, Leah disentangled herself from me and sat up. I looked up at her. “I’m going to go to my room,” she said. “I think I want to be alone.” “But we are alone,” I said, puzzled. “No Rebekah, really alone. By myself. Not you.” My eyes filled with tears when I finally realized what she meant. “Jo-lali,” I began, but she held up her hand. “Not Jo-lali,” she said, and her voice was sharp, cutting right through my heart. “I want you to call me Leah now.” She turned and left my room, closing the door behind her. Leah stayed away all night, even going so far as to lock her new bedroom door. I went back to our room and sobbed. I couldn’t sleep, not while this wall of wood and stone blocked me from my sister. She came back to me in the morning though, and her eyes were narrow from lack of sleep. We held each other for long moments, until Dad showed up and made everything worse. “You’re going to school this fall,” he said with no preamble. “I want you to be prepared to meet new kids, so today, we’re going to the park.” I had read about parks. They were places where children played with their parents keeping a watchful eye on their comings and goings. “We aren’t going,” I said immediately. But Leah gave me a sideways look and my mouth opened in shock. “Rebekah, please,” she whispered. “I want a normal life. I want to be a normal kid.” “But we aren’t normal,” I said. She needed to know this, she must see it. “We are us. You and me. We are all we need. Ji-lalo and Jo-lali.” When I said our special names. Leah’s eyes narrowed even more, and she looked at Dad. “I want to go,” she said. The park became a weekly ritual. I hated it. Leah went off and abandoned me to play with strangers. Strangers! Anything she said to them had to be said in everyone’s language. I heard her talking and scoffed. She and I had secrets together. Once, she was playing with two boys and their younger sister. Strangers make me nervous, but I was determined to remind her that I am all she needs. “Play with me, Lali,” I said in our language. Leah ignored me. My heart seemed to shatter into a million pieces. She had never ignored me, not once, not ever. I hid beneath a wooden structure for the rest of the time we were there, and I refused to come out, even when Dad begged. Eventually, Leah did exactly what I had hoped and crawled through the sand to get to me. “Come back with us, Rebekah.” She still wouldn’t call me by our special name. “No,” I said in our secret words. “I’m never coming out again.” Making a face I didn’t understand, Leah spoke our words. “Come home, Lalo. Please?” Satisfied, I nodded. But the next time, my plan didn’t work. Leah refused to crawl through the sand to bring me home, and I felt lost all over again. Dad had to huff and puff his way through the sand and drag me out. There were no more visits to the park after that. I had won. But Leah didn’t see it that way. She didn’t understand that I was doing this for her, for *us*! Days went by, I’m not sure how many, because Leah withdrew from my comfort. Sometimes, she couldn’t help herself and would come crawling back to me with a strange red-faced look about her. There were nights where she couldn’t sleep alone, and I would find her curled up beside me. Those were the only nights I slept. School began just as the leaves were beginning to change. It made me miss our compound and Leah and Mama even more than I already did. Dad bought us new clothes that fit strangely and made the back of my neck itch. We looked bizarre in these. Dad drove us to school on the first day. We were starting third grade. Doctor Saltmarsh was there to see us off too. I spoke to neither of them. The stink I had put up this morning had hardly done any good at all. We were still here. At least I was with Leah. She was holding my hand. Her fear was palpable, but I wasn’t scared. I had her. Once I stepped inside, it was another matter entirely. Endless tiles led in all directions, and the lights were harsh and cold. There were metal boxes covering the walls, each with a combination lock on it. This place seemed alien and inhospitable. A loud bell rang and I screamed, which made Leah scream. “Let’s go meet your class,” said Dad. I shook my head, and Dad looked like he was bracing himself. I decided to let it go, just this once. Strangers had begun to fill the halls, and I was growing more and more uncomfortable. Dad and Doctor Saltmarsh led us to a room. “This is your class, Leah,” said Dad. “Your teacher’s name is Mrs. Kimball. It’s okay. You can go on in.” I tugged on Leah’s hand, but she slipped it out of my grasp. “I’ll see you later, Rebekah.” She walked into the classroom without looking back. Now that I was alone, my panic was starting to set in. “Lali!” I cried. She ignored me, talking to the teacher and receiving a handful of papers. “This way, Rebekah,” Doctor Saltmarsh said firmly. “You have Ms. Emerson. I’ve worked with her in the past, she is very nice.” Dad was shaking his head as we drew nearer to the classroom. “She’s not ready for this.” “Sometimes dropping in full speed ahead is the only way to make progress. Nothing else seems to work, we’re running out of options. It’s possible she will thrive.” I refused to thrive. I wasn’t sure I knew what that meant, but I wouldn’t do it. I stood silent and unmoving as Dad and Doctor Saltmarsh talked to one of the strangers about me. They directed me to pick a desk, but I wouldn’t budge. I won’t let them manipulate us like this. Eventually, I was made to sit down right in the front of the classroom. “We’ll be available via phone if you need either of us,” said Doctor Saltmarsh. “Thank you, Lois.” They left me. Dad and Doctor Saltmarsh. They walked off and left me all alone in the classroom filled with twenty strangers. But I knew where Leah was. I stood up and walked out the door. The teacher, Ms. Emerson, grabbed my arm and shut the door. “Come on, Rebekah, we’re staying in our seats right now. I sat. And remained sitting. When they all stood up to look at the American Flag, I stayed in my seat. When they started playing some inane game with a plush toy, I scoffed and stared straight ahead. When Ms. Emerson placed sheets of paper in front of me, I ignored them. The only time I was myself was lunchtime. I could see Leah then. We sat together and shared our food. It felt normal. Maybe I could learn to survive at the school. So long as Leah was with me, I could get through anything. But then, the teachers sent us outside with all the strangers. Leah left me alone then, and played a ball game with a couple other girls. I stood by and frowned at her, but she didn’t seem to see me. After that, it was back inside, and I was left alone. Dad came to pick us up when it was finally over. “How was it?” he asked Leah, carefully avoiding looking me in the eye, and for good reason. I was livid. “I made some friends,” Leah said, and her voice sounded like it used to when we played together. Happy and carefree. But how could she feel that way when I was so miserable? “Carolina and Melodie! They want me to play four-square with them tomorrow!” “That’s great!” Dad exclaimed, and hugged Leah. Then, as if he was dreading it, he asked me. “How about you, Rebekah?” I didn’t bother responding to him, though I spoke to Leah, softly in our secret language so Dad couldn’t understand. “Play with me tonight, Lali,” I said. “I miss you.” Leah didn’t say anything. We got home, and she went straight to her room, closing the door in my face as I made to follow her in. I understood all too well what was going on. Dad was trying to split us up. Him and Doctor Saltmarsh. It wouldn’t be so bad if Leah wasn’t falling prey to their tactics. But she was acting like she wanted to be apart from me. They had gone too far. “Jo-lali!” I cried at her door. “You have to listen! They’re doing this to us! It’s like Mama always said: strangers are trying to hurt us! They all do!” The door flew open and Leah stood there before me. I was overjoyed for a split second. Then, she shoved me to the floor. “I am *not* Jo-lali!” she cried. “It was a stupid game we played when we were little! But we’re not babies anymore, Rebekah!” I stared up at her like I had never seen her before. Not once had Leah ever laid her hands on me in a threatening way. “I want friends and classmates, like we read about! We don’t have to be alone anymore, don’t you see?” “We were never alone,” I said from the floor. “Until now.” One of Leah’s eyes twitched and she stared at me wordlessly for a moment before spinning around and marching back into her room, slamming the door. Dad appeared and saw me on the floor. “Rebekah, what-” He looked at Leah’s closed door and sighed. “You have got to let this go. Do you understand? I just- I don’t know how to help you anymore. Go to your room. I’m going to call Doctor Saltmarsh.” I stayed in my room all night, ignoring when Dad called us down for dinner, and when he told us to get ready for bed. It wasn’t like I would sleep anyways. I couldn’t. Not without Leah. The next day was a Saturday, so there was no school. I stayed in my room. All I wanted was to be with Leah, but maybe if she saw how much she would miss me when I wasn’t around, she would come to me. She didn’t come all Saturday, or Sunday. She got up to go to church though, I could hear her moving around in her room. I wasn’t going. Too many strangers. At the end of the day, Dad came to yell at me again. “You need to eat, Rebekah. Or at least have some water. Come on.” He held out a glass of water to me, but I wouldn’t take it. I wasn’t hungry. Monday dawned and Dad drove us to school. He didn’t look like himself. His hair was messy and he had a beard. His arms were shaking too. Sometimes Mama used to shake like that. Today, I decided I was going to *make* Leah pay attention to me. She would have to. I went to my classroom without a fuss and even stood up when Ms. Emerson made us look at the flag. But the minute her back was turned, I was gone. I burst into Leah’s classroom. All the strangers turned to stare at me, but I didn’t care about them, despite the squirmy way they made my stomach feel. “Jo-lali,’’ I said. This was how much I cared, I would come to her even amidst my own fear and discomfort. “I love you, Jo-lali,” I said in our words. “I need you back. Please come back to me.” Everyone turned to stare at Leah now, and I knew something was wrong. She had never looked at me this way before. She plunged her hand into her backpack and pulled out one of Dad’s kitchen knives. Leah leapt at me and I put up my arms to cover my face, but the knife sliced through them like paper. Her blade found my neck and I choked on something hot and metallic. “No!” screamed the teacher, Mrs. Kimball, who until now had been frozen in shock. It was hard to breathe, and my arms and neck hurt so much. I started to cry. The tears stung my throat. Then the floor was rushing towards me, and everything went black. \ “They’re not fit to be around people,” someone said. Her voice was familiar. I opened my eyes and found myself in a white room with strangers surrounding me. Over in the corner was Doctor Saltmarsh. Beside her, Dad paced back and forth frantically. “There must be something,” he said. “I can keep them at home! Homeschool. Please!” “I’m sorry,” said Doctor Saltmarsh, and her voice seemed colder than I remembered. I tried to speak, and a horrible pain went through my throat. “But Rebekah cannot cope with the separation of her sister, and after what Leah did, I’m surprised you would even consider-” “She was just upset!” Dad cried. “She didn’t know any better.” “I think you need to look at this.” Doctor Saltmarsh pulled out a recording device and pressed play. I almost leapt for joy when I heard Leah’s voice, but quickly realized that something was very wrong. Leah was laughing in a crazed, manic way. “I’d do it again! I want her gone! Dead! She’s in my head you know. The only way to get her out is to cut her out. Cut cut slice slice. Lalo? Lalo Lalo Lalo, come here!” The recording stopped and Dad was staring at it in horror. “Is her mind totally gone? What happened?” “It seems that she had a psychotic break. We will treat her to the best of our abilities, but there is the chance that she may never recover.” Dad shook his head, his eyes wide and tear-filled. “What about Rebekah?” They turned to look at me and I smiled big. Hadn’t they heard the recording? Lali wants me! She wants me to come to her! I tried to tell them that everything would be okay, but no words would come out. “I’m sorry. Her vocal cords are permanently damaged. She can’t speak. Jeff, I am so sorry. But your only hope now is to admit them to our psychiatric facility. We are the foremost in New England.” “My daughters,” said Dad, and he looked at me. “This is all my fault. If I had just divorced Carol when I had the chance-” “Looking back on what could have been will help nothing,” Doctor Saltmarsh said. “If you’ll come with me, the admissions assistant will help you with the paperwork.” I didn’t care where Dad was going or where he would try to send me next. All that mattered was that Leah wanted me. She was my sister. She was my everything. And I would see her soon, I was sure of it.


She woke up, in the middle of the night. She slowly reached out her hand to his side of the bed. His side was empty, and cold.

I want to wake up and feel his warmth, and listen to his slow, regular breathing. Now there is silence, horrible, cold silence. I had hoped it was just a bad dream, but now I know it really has happened, and that I am now truly on my own. He used to say that rest is almost as good as sleep, so at least lying awake now will not make me feel too tired in the morning. He used to tell me such interesting things, and funny stories about other people.

She felt a tear on her cheek.

We had been so careful. We always wore our face masks when we went outdoors, and we only went outdoors when we really needed to. We had both developed the coronavirus cough, an unusual, dry cough. I had got over mine but his became worse, and he had difficulty breathing. Then he had to go into hospital, then he was in intensive care, and then the hospital telephoned. We had always known that, somehow or other, the dreadful day of parting would come, but nothing prepares you for when it actually happens.

She tried to remember the good times.

We were lucky with our children. They have all turned out well, and they often come to visit. Now I will need them more than ever. Our grandchildren are either at university or starting their careers, but there are no great grandchildren, yet. We worked hard with our children. Some people say that raising a family is twenty years of hard work and worry. I would say it is more like twenty five, but it is still worth it. Seeing our children develop into good, responsible adults always made us proud, and also made us feel that we had at last earned our place in society, where we were no longer taking, but somehow we were now giving something back.

He had taught me that if you want to influence people, you have to encourage them in anything they want to do. This is because people always have doubts about doing anything new or different, and they will listen to whatever you say, and it is so useful to have this communication. We found that this is especially important with teenagers. He used to say that where youth sees opportunities, experience sees dangers, but it is no use telling teenagers what they should do, or not do, it just makes them more determined to do what they want. However, when they hear your encouragement, they will also listen when you ask, "Have you considered what will happen if..." and then they will realise possible dangers, and make changes which they think are their own ideas.

We were late teenagers when we met, and how we talked. I felt as if we had known each other all our lives, and yet we still had so many interesting things to say. What a thrill it is to discover how someone else thinks. Afterwards I felt as if I were dancing on air. I would remember all the things both of us had said. Then I would think where we would go and what we would do next time, and what we would talk about. I spent hours imagining what I would tell him, and then what he would say to me. I would day dream, a young woman's simple ideas of marriage, a home, and children calling him Daddy. I would idly write his name, drawing pictures with his initials, and then join them to mine. I practiced writing what my married name would be. I would keep looking at the clock, unable to wait to see him next. Sometimes we would meet somewhere and be some distance apart, separated by many other people, and we would slowly look towards each other, and then suddenly turn away, with a big smile, when we saw that we were both looking at each other. Ha, that was such fun. I was in love, and I knew for sure that it really was love.

We waited to get married until he had received his engineering degree. He later told me that when he first saw me, he knew that I would be his future wife. There were many temptations before we were married, but I am glad that neither of us had ever practised before our wedding night. It was so good, learning together, and putting it in its proper place by calling it "the pleasures of marriage". And what pleasure it was, when we both agreed, taking our time, each waiting until the other was ready, then watching him fall asleep afterwards, and laughing at how hungry it had made us both feel. We were free to do whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted and however we wanted. And also wherever we wanted, sometimes outdoors in the sun, or on a deserted beach, in a field or by a stream, and then lying together, naked, in the warm sunshine afterwards. That gave us a feeling of triumph, that somehow we had gained some advantage over the rest of the world. Of course, over the years, our desires faded a little. My female hormones had been telling me to, "Have a child", but after three children the calling was less. I know that the male hormones are completely different. They continually say, "Strengthen the species through genetic variety." This makes the man subconsciously think, "That means mating with as many different women as possible." It was inevitable that he would meet other women, and compare them with me, especially if they were single, younger and perhaps more physically attractive. He told me about one women who had said, "Divorce your wife and marry me". He said he had realised that things would be different, but not necessarily better, and that leaving me would make me very unhappy, and if I were unhappy, our children would be unhappy, and so for him it would simply never be worth it.

If we had divorced I would have to raise the children on my own, but it is not like a cat bringing up kittens. Humans have a complication. A girl needs a mother as a role model, and a father to show her what to look for in the man who will be the father of her children. She wants to have good babies, so she needs a good man to be the father. But how can she tell if a man is good or not ? Just because he looks like a pop star or has lots of money is no help. She needs to compare him with a man she knows, and the man she knows best is the one she has seen all her life, her father. She knows the good things about her father, especially how he treats his wife, and can use this for comparison. But without knowing her father, she cannot make any comparisons, and a few hours every other weekend, away from her mother, is hardly enough. If I were head of the government I would make a law that people could not divorce if there were children, under 18's, involved. Also, often a girl who has been raised without a father, will fall for the first man she meets, to get what she missed by not having a father to look up to. But people who marry to get something, rather than for giving or sharing, are rarely happy. This is why children of divorced parents often end up getting divorced themselves, and how divorce seems to go from one generation to the next. Similarly a boy needs a mother to see the sort of woman to marry, and a father as a role model. A boy raised without a father may find male leadership in a gang, where the gang leader takes the place of the father he should have been looking up to. A gang can be attractive for teaching a boy qualities such as loyalty and a code of honour, but which we women rarely feel as being important. If I were a single parent I could make sure that the children brushed their teeth and did their homework, but this hardly prepares them to become emotionally stable adults. All children need the security of their parents' marriage, and to know that their mother and father will always stay together.

"We did well," she thought, "but I am going to miss him so much." We tried to avoid talking about one day being parted, although we gradually made plans, like arranging things in joint names. I was never as strong as him, and I told him that if he were left on his own, I would want him to marry again, as I didn't want him to be lonely for the rest of his life. Now it will be me who will miss the laughter, the jokes and the old songs we used to sing together. Our lives had become so joined together, mainly because of the children, and running the home. We still liked doing some things together, like holidays, but we had also developed our own separate interests. Yet we also depended on each other, more and more as the years went by. We had discovered who was best at doing what, just as I had seen with my parents. We assumed that we could always rely on each other to do these things. We shared our things, even our shoes, which were the same size, and our money of course, although most of that went into paying the bills and the mortgage. Will he and I meet again ? If you go to church you are supposed to believe that we will all be reunited in Heaven, but the priest at the graveside didn't sound as if he believed it. Churches have changed. People used to say that churches were unfriendly, just you and God, but in those days you could at least go there, take part in the service, and leave without anyone bothering you. Now they all try to be so friendly, and you have to endure everyone welcoming each other. But it isn't friendly at all. "Lovely to meet you. What's your name ? Where do you live ? What does your husband do ?" All they really want is to make sure that they are socially superior. Such hypocrites. "... and everyone please stay behind after the service for tea and biscuits." More probing questions. If I go to church I want answers, not questions.

She finally fell asleep.

In the morning she woke, and she felt the warm sun on her face.


The Peace Revivors were down to their last soldier, but anybody still alive would agree it was a lost cause. Even he himself knew that the hopeful were fools. It wasn’t the total anarchy that killed their leader, but the excessive pollution. The former leader, a strong woman from what used to be Australia, was weakened by her asthma and inability to breathe from the waste in the air that the wars had caused, ironically. How she survived so long with asthma while those with stronger lungs perished, those who believed in God may have said it was His work. But, if alive, they certainly don’t believe anymore. But he tried, if only to give him the strength to not lay in the open clearing, with lead fire raining upon it. Instead, he ran from the bullets, narrowly escaping into a dead woods, a cave nearby. He knew it was only a temporary rest. He knew full well that they would come for him soon. That he shouldn’t be in a cave with no other escape besides the one behind him, but he stayed nonetheless. As he sat against a cave wall, he sobbed quietly into his hands. Well, tried to. His tears wouldn’t even fall anymore; he was too dehydrated. Nevertheless, his chest heaved, his body ached, and his throat and eyes yearned for clean water that he hadn’t had in a very long time. He cursed God as he pulled his head up, looking at the ceiling, to find spikes, dripping filthy water down onto the cave floor. Upon further inspection, those weren’t spikes. And that wasn’t water. They were bodies, corpses somehow suspended by their throats, thick ropes hanging from the stone, wrapping around their necks like snakes. Blood came from open wounds on their skin; he knew some were recent. He turned his head away from the gruesome sight. He groaned in frustrating grief, wondering how many of his old teammates, friends, family were hanging from the top of the cave. “If they were killed by anyone but their own hand, they would be full of lead.” The sickening thought struck his brain like the bullets he wished would have pierced him in the field. He looked back up, but it looked a little different, as one may say. The sight before was truly sickening, yes, but this was infinitely more terrifying. They were no longer lifeless, not even emotionally; far from it. They were grinning, bright, blue eyes boring into his cold, dead ones, bloodshot from lack of sleep and hydration. “Come die with us.” It sounded like a thousand voices, and yet none of their mouths moved. They just kept staring, grinning, almost cartoonishly. “I… Can’t.” He croaked. He hadn’t spoken in a while; his voice came out hoarse. “I have responsibilities, a world to save.” He knew that was a lie, the world was taken long ago. The animals were dead, and the plants were brown and dry. Deserts littered what used to be rainforests. He swallowed, his throat looking for something, anything to relieve the pain it felt. None was given; it felt like he was swallowing sand, the taste of metal between his cheeks. Never moved, their pupils turned into black birds, flying from their widening eyes, like the silhouettes of fowl, free against the sun and beautiful, blue sky he missed so much. They darted between trees, soaring almost idly, like it was something they’ve always done. Like something they’ll always do. The voices spoke again, this time sounding much more soothing, like a mother’s heartbeat against her newborn’s ear. It was water against his parched throat. “Come fly with us.


(Name of the story and of name of the story chapter are inspired by Three Days Grace and their album Human) In the distant space, among stars, floated trough space one gigantic space ship. Those inside it evacuated their former planet of origin. Why they left you might ask yourself. They asked themselves the same question, but the truth only remained hidden, generation after generation, none knew the reason. These beings on this ship lived up to around 100-150 earth years. And only the first generation of them knew why they evacuated. After many thousands of years, these beings, they lived in a "cage". Leaders and commanders of this ship were in cryonics chambers, but, their thoughts, their whole brains were recorded. This way if they want to tell something, they could. One day, at year 862 by the calendar of "The new rebirth", a boy was born. The part of the ship he was born at was where every poor families would come. His family was no exception, they were poor too, but when the boy was born, they were full of happiness. Boy's name, was Yiro. Yiro enjoyed playing with broken robots that were thrown away, also he lived pretty much close to the main junkyard where he could find some crazy robots. He loved to play with them in a way that few of them started working again, one of those robots that started working had some type of AI inside of it. When he found that out, Yiro immediately looked at robot's left foot. "The date, where is the date" -He said in panic as he was trying to clean of some rust and dust from robot's foot. When he found the date, it said 295. He was shocked, he never thought that he would find something this old. But there was also one strange rule here, everything found that was made before 600 NR needed to be reported to the main sheriff of the town. He could not do it, so he hid the robot and he named it Furui. Yiro and Furui played every day, together. Until one day, they wandered away from their parents' property. They accidentally entered land owned by the head sheriff. That sheriff was impatient man, he was very angry person. When he was Yiro and Furui enter his property, he grabbed them both. He threw Furui to the ground and he saw the label on Furui's foot. Sheriff put both of them to his car and he drove them to the station, he planned to put Yiro to the children's care center and his parents inside the prison. But to everyone's suprise, Furui, a small robot with old AI installed in it corrupted the main communication network. Sheriff tried to destroy it, but it was too late. Furui already installed a virus inside other robots that were used like police officers. Robots attacked the sheriff and other human officers. Pure chaos at the station. Yiro and Furui escaped, they ran and ran to their parents house. But when they came, they saw many officers there, they shot his parents already. Somehow, they knew about this even tough Furui corrupted the network. It was too late, they could do nothing now. When police saw them, they started chasing them, the duo (Furui and Yiro for short) lured the police away from their house. They waited till the night at nearby farm. Police later put their guard down and the duo went in trough the window, they packed most essentials, food, water, and other robots Yiro found. After the sneak in, they went inside the secret passage hidden inside Yiro's room. Passage went underground to the junkyard. After arriving at the junkyard, they had to make something for transportation. Furui had a great idea, they would collect parts of other broken robots, and they would make a "car". They got tires, seats, motors, electronics, everything they needed. Yiro was in charge of screwing things in and Furui was the designer. After hours of work, they made something. A "car" you could call it. They sat inside and they went to a secret place very far away, 50 miles atleast. That place was his dad's small junkyard, a workplace, where he made tons of things but never revealed them. Only Yiro knew where that place was. Duo drove there, they made a camp there. Yiro put some oxygen motors that could convert oxygen into energy. His dad made that device, but he knew that making something like that would put him into jail so he kept it secret. On the outside, that junkyard looked normal, but it had underground basement which was much bigger than the outside. Yiro and Furui spent few days there making devices and planning for the future. End of chapter 1. Please point out some mistakes, or suggest me what could I do to make this better. IMO I think I could have made this a lot better, but it is what it is. I am open to ideas, suggestions and critics! Thank you for reading.


            A wave of fog gently crashed onto the cobblestone streets of Cortland, New Hampshire. The weather had just begun to turn towards autumn and the inhabitants of the tiny town were tucked into bed. The brick road beneath a flickering streetlight subtly changed color from orange to gray and back again, over and over with no discernible pattern. It was the dead of night yet a single figure lumbered down the middle of the street.

            The silhouette was tall but not wide. They were built like a wire hanger ripped from its functional shape. They even bent haphazardly to the left as if their profile had been snapped over someone’s knee. A slight wave at the edges of the figure revealed baggy clothing. No sound came from them, not even the echoes of their feet against the ground.

            The figure finally lurched into the blinking light and more details became clear. He was a man. Was being the operative word as he was clearly dead. His skin glowed a sickly, greenish-white with the texture of slightly melted Play-Doh. He was mostly bald but it was unclear how much of that occurred during his life versus after his death. His clothing, which he was assumedly buried in, was caked with fresh dirt.

            The man stared up at the lamp with unblinking eyes. It seemed as if he was trying to absorb as much radiation as he could from the quivering light. He reached into his open shirt and fingered a long, diagonal wound running along his chest. The slash was closed with the precise stitches only a trained hand could make. However, some of the stitches had broken, opening a window into the man’s hollow chest. After a few minutes, the light flickered to blackness and the dead kept walking.

            If one were to witness the man, well they would likely run away screaming. But if they were able to keep their composure long enough to study his movement, they would see something very odd. The man’s face was a mask that showed no sign of expression, yet his body language was that of a prisoner. He trudged along as if being pushed; moving in quick increments only to slow to a crawl and then stumble forward once again. At times it also seemed like he was being pulled. His body leaned forward into a dangerously unbalanced position and moved with small, shuffling steps. As far as an average person could see, there was nothing in front of or behind him.

            The push and pull of the dead man stopped again when he was much further down the road. He was far past the village now and surrounded by the forest’s coarse hair of pine trees. A fog soaked winded turned the man towards a drainage ditch. Even through the haze, the dead stared pointedly at one spot in front of him. The glaze on his eyes dissolved and two black pupils circled by maple rings became clear. He blinked for the first time since death.

Another gust of wind blew the fog from the ditch and for a few moments, it was not immediately replaced by more. At the bottom of the slope was a bundle of pictures, flowers, cards, and stuffed animals. The pictures captured the luminous smile of an elementary-age girl. The man lurched forward and seemed to take in the light of her smile in the same way he took in the lamp’s energy. Most of the cards had lost all legibility to the weather, but a dry patch on one revealed a single phrase.             “We’re Praying for You!”             A deeply unnatural sound emanated from the man upon seeing this. A boiling broth gurgle in his throat like bile being emptied from a stomach. The sound had an indescribable tone of sadness to it. The trees were the only ones listening, however, and they showed no remorse for the depressed. The gurgling ceased and a blanket of fog was once again laid over the bundle. The man scratched at his wound again, tearing open several more stitches.             Instead of continuing down the road, the dead slid into the ditch and climbed back out the other side, entering the looming forest. His eyes remained human as he navigated his way through the puzzle of pines. There was a new sense of purpose to the way he moved. He stood mostly straight and no longer constantly changed speeds. Something from that bundle had embedded itself into the dead matter of his brain. From a distance, one may have even mistaken him for the living.

At times it seemed like there was a force trying to pull him away from his destination. He would suddenly jerk to the side, or his leg would become stuck mid-step. The man fought through these battles until he passed the barrier of the tree line. From then on, he was undisturbed in his quest. A strong north wind blew the smell of burning wood into his nose. It was only then that he realized he could smell again. In front of him was a grassy valley. At the bottom of the valley was a wooden cabin with small puffs of smoke exhaling from its chimney. The man tumbled down the hill, soundlessly. He landed only a few feet from the inhabitants’ chocolate Labrador. The dog tilted its head but made no sound. It only watched as the dead attempted to get up. The creature somehow knew that he was no threat. The man rose like a broken Jack exploding from his box in slow motion. Parts of his body that weren’t meant to hang, hung, Parts that weren’t meant to be stiff, hardened. One of his legs had become permanently straightened. He could now only move by pivoting. The dead traversed the circumference of the house in small, half-circles until he was in front of a window on the opposite side. Cozy, orange light glistening on the glass beckoned the man forward. As he grew closer, he could see inside the room. The girl from the photos slept on the bed. A tube running from her arm led to a stalwart IV stand next to her bed. There was an arrangement of chairs facing the girl, implying frequent visitors who needed somewhere to sit as they cared for and cooed after her. A pink blanket, with a unicorn emblazoned on the front, covered the girl up to her waist. Above that she wore a gray knit shirt that covered the majority of a long, crooked scar running along her chest.

The dead man couldn’t look away. He reached again for his wound, parallel to hers, but this time his fingers came away wet. The scarlet stick of blood was unmistakable, and it was oozing from his chest. His fingers were no longer the gray-green of death. He refocused on his reflection in the window and saw the face that had died a few weeks ago. His skin had regained its life. His lips were once again rosy. Even his thick, black hair had returned. All he was missing was a heart. That rested just past the window, under a unicorn blanket, inside the chest of the girl he almost killed. The cavity inside his chest was flooded with molten guilt that blistered his lungs and burnt his ribs. Memories popped into his mind like firecrackers. The bachelor party, the bouncer he fought for his keys, the blinding light refracted through the windshield. After that was darkness for him, but his own memories were not the only ones drifting through his mind.

He became a father waking up with his car in a drainage ditch, finding his little girl ten feet away with her chest caved in. He became a mother paralyzed by fear after receiving the worst call of her life in the dead of night. He became a doctor carving open a chest, his chest, to retrieve a still viable heart. He finally became the girl herself, floating in and out of consciousness for days as her body tried to kill the foreign organ behind her ribs.

The dead man felt like Atlas holding up the grief of the world. But he was not a Titan. He collapsed under the weight and sunk into the dew-covered grass. The man knew that he was not truly alive again. There is a feeling to life that no living thing can discern because they haven’t had experiences without it. This man knew that feeling and he knew he didn’t have it. It was like being carried to bed as a child, rediscovering a memory of a late loved one, or realizing happiness in the moment and choosing to savor it. Even those were only partial definitions. In truth, even though many have tried, life is indescribable.

The man felt his body giving way, not into the dead form he was before, but into the earth itself. He was sinking. Not to Hell or anything that easy. He was being pulled in to be used again. The idea of renewed life in many forms satisfied the man deeply in his final moments. Just like the idea that his love would remain on Earth in the heart of a young girl.


The hospital is packed. On one end of the building, the hospital has cordoned off a section to allow recovered patients to donate plasma. The opposite annex houses the pathology lab for testing. Thousands of people pour in on both of these wings, meaning the ground floor is constantly a swarm of people filtering in and out. As the warnings to wear masks, stay home and socially distance go unheeded, the number of cases are on an exponential rise. It is no wonder that the health systems are struggling to cope. As a result, the hospitals are taking in more patients than they can accommodate - and have become home to several well-meaning family members who insist on visiting despite the health risks. Dr. Song, however, is operating on a loophole.

As a doctor employed here, he isn’t violating any health codes by being present in the hospital. However, as a plastic surgeon with fewer than 3 (minor) surgeries in a day, he isn’t actually needed on-call either. He claims he uses his hospital privileges to volunteer on the sixth floor of one of the many newly converted COVID-19 wards and help lighten the load. Coincidentally, two of his family members are currently admitted to a room on that floor. Right now, he is rushing into the pathology wing, taking a shortcut through the plasma donation center, to check the results on his family’s most recent blood test. The blood had been collected a few hours before he had entered the hospital premises, and he wants to request the lab technician to analyze the sample from Room 615 urgently. He is nearly out the door, when he hears a name he hadn’t heard in a long time. ‘Ms. Rebecca Singh? You left your purse on counter 4.’ Somehow the impact of distant memories flooding his head causes him to stop in his tracks. He has vague recollections of his childhood home and friends but unable to place exactly when he knew that name. Why does it feel so impossibly familiar? However, he does not have to wonder for long because his mental fog clears the moment she enters the room.

The moment their eyes lock, he is transported back to 1983.

In a flash, he can feel the hormones rush back into his 54 year old body as if he was 17 again.

They were standing over his parent’s balcony when he first dared to cover her hand with his, his heart hammering against his barely-pubescent chest. She had pulled her hand away, slowly. Carefully, she extracted it from his grip. Though she continued to focus her stare directly beyond the balcony, over the horizon, he let his gaze drop for a moment to look at her hand. She was softly wiping it on the front of her dress. She was being kind, trying not to hurt him. She was trying to be as gracious as possible about his unwelcome advance.He could feel his heart sink to the deepest pits of his stomach, his cheeks burning red. He turns his gaze away from her, towards the peeling wall, wishing he had never invited her to study in the first place. ‘Rebecca, hi.’

Ms Singh, who has clearly returned in search of her purse, drops her gaze to his hand to see if he had it. When over his shoulder, she spots her purse. She breaks into an awkward smile as she prepares to cut around him to pick up her forgotten bag. At that moment, the doctor makes a (somewhat) calculated decision to pull down his mask for a brief second. In her surprise, she pauses. ‘It’s Robert... Robert Song. From Sainsbury High School…’ Then, suddenly, he felt a light brush against his fingers. He turned his head so fast, he got whiplash from his hair. Her hand hovered ominously close to his, palm up. Her gaze is still fixed in the far distance, but she had a shy smile teasing the corners of her lips. He thought he saw her eyes dart towards him peripherally, but they shifted back forward so fast that it could have been his imagination. Slowly - even though his whole body felt alive with nervous energy - he inched his hand closer to hers. He placed his palm atop hers, and immediately she intertwined their fingers. Recognition floods her eyes, as she stares

at him in awe. ‘Oh my God! Robert!’ She remembers him, and for some reason this brings a giddy smile to his lips. The warmth of his smile extends to his voice.

‘It’s so good to see you - you haven’t changed at all!’ ‘Flatterer!’ she says with a tone of surprise. Even though she runs a hand to smooth over her greying hair, a blush creeps across her cheeks. ‘How - I mean, what are you doing here?’ He must have eaten fireworks for lunch that day, because his stomach felt like an explosion. Yet, the only thing he could process was the sensation of her hand in his. He felt electric currents wherever his skin met hers. His heart was beating faster than ever and he could feel her pulse match his. They must have spent hours there, hand in hand, experimenting with pressure and strokes.

Dr Song glances down at his white coat, ‘I work here. 16 years now.’

Her smile is warm and genuine. ‘A doctor, of course’ She chuckles, ‘Your father must be pleased, I remember that’s what he had wanted.’

He waited on the floor of her bedroom as she put finishing touches on her hair. He was impatient to see her, and hold her. He kept trying to peer into her bathroom, but was keenly aware that her father was carefully pacing right outside her open (as was strictly instructed) door. The wait felt like agony - each cell in his body felt like tiny magnets being pulled towards her. Yet he had to wait until she was ready, and safely in the front seat of his old beat-up sedan. While he waited, his stomachs turned to knots at the anxiety of being apart. Over the months following the first time they held hands, the touch evolved to hugs and pecks on the cheeks, and then on the lips and beyond. They had become inseparable. Every waking moment was spent lost in each other’s thoughts, or in each other’s eyes. Together they felt invincible. Their love burned bright and hot, and it was easy for the world to fall apart when they were alone. He was just about to get up and poke his head into the bathroom, when her father walked in. They exchanged general pleasantries. In contrast with his father’s relationship with Rebecca, her father was usually friendly. They talked a little about some game that had recently transpired, and then Mr Singh asked what Robert’s plans were after highschool. Aiming to impress, Robert rattled off a section of his college essay to Mr Singh explaining how he wanted to study pre-med to become a doctor like his own father. Mid-conversation, Rebecca finally stepped out, glowing with her big coiffed hair and glossy lips. She jokingly reprimanded her father for interrogating her boyfriend (a word that still caused somersaults in Rob’s stomach) and then held out her hand to leave.

He laughs back, awkwardly, ‘Yeah, I suppose. What about you?’ ‘Oh, I’m in real estate! Let me give you my card -’ She reaches near her hip where her purse would hang and laughs out loud again. ‘Oh, right. My purse - I should… I left it on the counter. Let me just go get it.’ He hears her words but doesn't quite comprehend them. Instead, he stands there, transfixed. Rebecca Singh, whom he had known and loved at the tender age of 17 going on 18. They had lost touch so long ago. There is so much he wants to ask her - there is so much he could say. The woman in front of him is one he knew better than anyone else, and yet is a complete stranger now. He is grateful for his mask, which hides his attempts to find the words to say something to her. All he knows is that he doesn’t quite want the conversation to end just yet. He doesn’t want her to leave just yet. ‘My purse?’ She tries again. Her voice breaks his trance, and he is pulled back into reality.

‘Right, yes! Please -’ Robert says, as he steps out of her way. He is angry - seething - as he blocks her path. He refused to let her go without finishing their conversation first, and he let her know this. Some part of him must have known that he was aggravating the situation, but he was hurting. Anger was much easier to express than vulnerability. He was afraid of losing her. Sadly, his attempts to keep her close only drove her further away. Then, of course, as quickly as it had started, the romance had run its course. It appeared that they argued more than they spoke, fought more than they kissed and spent more time apart than together. Like caramel heated beyond its burning point, what was once sweet began to taste bitter. One particularly vicious fight, two nights before their senior prom, resulted in a break-up. Words were said that they did not quite mean, but it was already too late to take back.

Robert is waiting by the door as she returns. She holds up her purse at him as she crosses over. He holds the door open for her. As they stand at the reception area, they have both suddenly gone quiet. Rebecca looks down at her purse, fiddling at the strap.

‘Well, I should go.’ ‘It was lovely meeting you again.’ ‘Yes, you too.’ The moment hangs and he wishes he could give her a hug. Anything, to mark this strange moment, to give it an appropriate sense of closure. However, even without the pandemic, he feels that perhaps it would not have been possible. He moves to offer her a hand to shake, and realizes that too is not a sensible option. In the end, he raises his hand to give her a short wave. She smiles and responds in kind. Then, she turns to walk away. They both had taken different dates to the dance. Her date was quite a bore and wanted to sit at the table and joke with friends instead of dancing. His date wouldn’t give him a moment’s rest - she wanted to remain in perpetual motion. Still, they made a real show of having fun even though they felt miserable inside. They spent the whole evening looking over their shoulder at each other. What should have been a warm and happy memory became tainted with jealousy and rage.

He had tried to talk to her once that night, but she purposely turned away when she saw him. It felt like a knife to his gut. Filled with wounded pride, he responded by declaring war on her. The last few months in school, spread some unkind rumours about her. She was strong, and denied them. He felt awed and angry, in unison, at her calm and grace. Then, with graduation, they went their separate paths and managed to avoid crossing them… until now. ‘Wait!’ Rebecca stops as Robert calls after her. ‘Sorry, I just never asked. What brings you to the hospital?’ Rebecca looks down, then sighs, ‘I had come to donate plasma - we recently recovered from the virus. I wanted to do what I could to those who were still suffering...’

Robert takes a deep breath. He knows better than to ask who the other part of ‘we’ was. He can feel the rush fade, and all at once he feels very much his current age. Coming out of this sudden, unexpected rollercoaster tires him out. He can feel the years that separates Dr Song from the 17 year old Robert who passionately loved Rebecca the way only a teenager can. The emotions were wild and fierce, and as invigorating as it was destructive. He has experienced a lot since then, and changed even more.

‘I’m glad you’re better Rebecca. It really was lovely to run into you after so long.’ This time he fishes out his card and hands it to her. ‘If you ever need any cosmetic work done, give me a call. I better get going too. Take care.’ With that, they part ways again. He feels a weight lift off his shoulders. It is as if some latent guilt he had been carrying about his behaviours in the past dissipates. He isn’t that Robert any more. As he watches her leave, so do the residual feelings or chemistry or sparks. He doesn’t love Rebecca any more. He has known this for a long time, and he chuckles at the visceral reaction that made him question it momentarily. As he tries to clear his daze, Dr Song finally reaches the pathologist’s room where he has come to find out about his wife and son’s health.


“Well, fuck you in the eye with a skewer then,” Jane quietly muttered. Whether her comment was heard or not wasn’t totally apparent, but the conversation continued. “I’m just reminding you that it’s always been this way. Every being has a purpose and this is yours. We all have to come to terms with our lot in life, although you do seem to have more trouble than most accepting this.” The priestess looked at Jane for what seemed like a long time, and then when there was no response, she went on. “You can call it Fate, or Destiny, or whatever you wish, but it is the will of the Gods and it cannot be changed. The Gods can be harsh but they can also be kind. Remember that everything we have, we have only because they have provided it, so we can not, we MUST NOT go against their will. Some would tell you that your place in the grand scheme of things is actually quite an honour, you know, “ the priestess patiently, and not unkindly, replied. Jane had heard the news earlier that day, and come to the hut of the priestesses for… guidance? Advice? Maybe a glimmer of hope or even a hint at another way? “I understand how it all works, I really do. Yes, I’ve heard it my whole life, but I just can’t wrap my head around it. I am not trying to ruffle anyone’s feathers, I just don’t understand why you have this life and I have a different life, and other races have other lives and our purposes are all so defined but also so different… Who decided it all, and why? I just don’t believe that this could possibly be everything there is…” The priestess let out an exasperated sigh. “It is the will of the Gods, my dear, and that is ABSOLUTE. Of course it is not entirely unusual to have misgivings in your position, and especially the closer you get to your time, to feel at least some measure of fear. The sacrifice is a great thing, but it can be frightening. However, you must accept it anyway. Continue to meditate on the very important part that you will play, and remind yourself that it is for the good of the whole flock. If nothing else, try to find some comfort in knowing that not only is this all necessary to keep our entire universe in balance, but also it is widely accepted that through this act, you will have earned a very exalted place in paradise.” Jane kicked and scratched at the ground nervously, unable to truly articulate what she was feeling. She knew she shouldn’t be arguing, and that so many others before her had gone through the same thing with acceptance, sometimes even with dignity, but to her it just all felt so wrong. Maybe she was just afraid, but she just couldn’t come to terms with the fact that her whole existence came down to this one thing and one thing only.

She walked back across the dirty street to the hut that she shared with others who would share the same fate, some at dawn, (as she was), and some another day. She knew that her life had not been unpleasant. She had a warm place to sleep, plenty of food to eat, lots of friends around. She spent her days strolling about in the sunshine, talking with her friends, looking for something to do. Every now and then some new cock of the walk would come through and maybe provide an exciting distraction for a time. She could do what she liked for the most part, nothing was really prohibited and nothing was really expected of her. But if, from the moment of your birth, your fate was decided for you, do you really ever have free will? She had never lived anywhere else and she knew that each race had a purpose, all of which were decided by the Gods. She had known her purpose for as long as she could remember - this was not a new idea or a shock to hear about it. She had never known anything else. She was born and raised to eventually become sustenance for the Gods. Nothing else mattered. Still, her stubborn inner voice whispered, what if? What if there was a way to escape your fate? What if there was a way to just ESCAPE? She knew there just had to be more out there somewhere. Sometimes she snuck out at night and sat on the roof of the hut to watch the sun rise and she could see that the horizon went on way beyond their borders. It seemed to go on forever. She often wondered if there were other races, other whole worlds or even other Gods out there? She had asked a priestess this once and was told, not for the first (or the last) time, that it was very dangerous to daydream about such things. And even if there were other Gods and other worlds, they could be so very much worse. Out of the frying pan and into the fire as the saying went. It was better to just accept and enjoy what the Gods have given you for as long as you could. Maybe life being so short was part of what made it so precious. There was some wisdom on the priestess’s words, but still…? What if? That damned inner voice would not give up. She walked past her hut and just kept walking. Soon she was past her hut and long past the priestesses’ hut, and to the green space on the edge of the village. She walked through the grass, thinking for a moment of how cool the grass was on her feet, and how nice it might be to stop and sit and listen to the quiet of the evening, maybe poke her toes around in the grass and disturb a few insects and watch them scurry or slither for a while. Her thoughts roamed. The Gods came through her small village at dawn every day, sometimes there was one of them, sometimes more. They would stop first in the hut of the priestesses with their baskets to receive their offerings. Then they provided the day’s food to all. Other than that, there had been no real contact. Where did they go? Were there other villages with other purposes? She could not stop thinking about whether it was possible to escape her fate. If she accepted with grace and dignity, as hundreds (thousands?) before her had, then in the morning, she would be sacrificed. The gods would kill her and they would eat her flesh.

So she kept walking. Soon she was further away from the huts then she ever went. With every step her inner voice repeated what if. Soon she wasn’t really thinking at all, it was just step, step, step, step, what if what if what if what if. She kept walking. Soon she was feeling the creeping cold of the night. She shrugged it off and kept walking. At some point, it dawned on her that if she kept going, she had no idea how to find food or shelter or care for herself. She decided she didn’t care and she kept walking. She had no idea how much time passed. Suddenly, she fell back with a startled gasp as she realized she’d run into something. She backed up and squinted. Wire? She eyed it slowly. She looked to her right and then left. Some sort of wire mesh that seemed to extend for miles, and was higher than her eyes could focus in the dark. She saw that there was a gap in the bottom between the mesh and the dirt so she scrunched down as low as she could and wriggled under. There was a point when she thought it might be too tight but she forced her way through and with barely a scratch or two realized she was on the other side. She saw a thicket not far away and felt the exhaustion inside her screaming at her to stop, even just for a few minutes. She had never really experienced the darkness so it was easy to convince herself how much she needed to rest for a time. She got down low and maneuvered herself into a well hidden spot in the dense foliage and closed her eyes. *	*	*	*	*	* “Here she is!” Jane was startled awake by a shrill voice and a very large shadow looming over her. Before she had shaken the sleep away, a God reached into the bush and wrapped her within its massive hands. Jane could do nothing except let out one scared little squawk. She was walked past her village, where, from the dizzying height of the God’s hands, she could see her friends waiting for their daily rations and watching her go by with their eyes wide. The God who carried her passed her to another one, who seemed to be twice the size of the first. It took her by the feet and swinging her upside down, slammed her down onto a wooden block. It happened too fast for her to be anything but stunned. The God raised a stick with something on the end that glinted in the morning sunlight. She felt a sense of awe come over her. As the axe came down, her last thought was, “It is the will of the Gods.”


The silver armor of the approaching order of knights gleams with menace as they advance toward King Quentin Kaloric’s castle. Four knights detach themselves from the order, their metal shoes clanking loudly as they cross the drawbridge. Still standing at attention outside of the castle, their battle flags flying, the figures of the other hundred knights appear to fade into the moonlit night. Despite the warmth of his oversized robe, King Quentin shivers as he watches the four knights get closer, their metal shoes leaving a trail of blood. “They must be stopped,” King Quentin says. Julian Hammersmith, the King’s chancellor, smiles confidently, his pointy features giving him a wily appearance. “My best men are at the gate. They will cut them down like barley.” The silver knights march up to the gate. Eight of the King’s guards descend upon them, but they are cut to ribbons in a matter of seconds. The sliver knights march through the locked gate. Sitting on his throne, the diminutive fifteen-year-old king squeezes his jeweled scepter, hoping he won’t have to use it to protect himself. “Like barley, eh, counselor?” “They walked right through the gate as if they were invisible, leaving nothing but the torn bodies of the guards, and a trail of bloody footprints. They are obviously enchanted, or some sort of devils.” “Or ghosts,” King Quentin says. Quentin Kaloric has been King of Zaragoza for five tumultuous years, having ascended to the throne following the death of his beloved father, King Justin. Many of his countrymen felt Quentin was too young, too inexperienced, and too skittish to rule. They supported his uncle, Prince Thomas Blessing, as the rightful ruler. Quentin and his supporters acted quickly, executing his detractors as rebels, and imprisoning Blessing’s family. Quentin went on to sanction several unpopular wars against Tortosa and the much larger province of Kirwan, which have served to isolate Zaragoza and crippled its economy. A former soldier who attained his position through guile and the untimely deaths of his rivals, forty-six-year-old Julian Hammersmith has been at King Quentin’s side serving as his advisor for the duration of his reign, guiding him, some say, by the nose. The loud clamor of the silver knights marching down the hallway draws closer. The dozen guards summoned by Chancellor Hammersmith to protect the king timidly draw their swords. The knights march into the throne room, marring the stone floor with bloody footprints. Standing side by side, they draw their swords, pointing them at King Quentin. “They are acting the way they did the last time they appeared,” King Quentin notes. “Let us hope it stays that way.” They watch as the knights’ bodies begin to fade away and disappear. “They are our men, yet they threaten us,” Chancellor Hammersmith says. “I wonder what they want?” “Me,” King Quentin sniffles, struggling to hold back his tears. Magnus, Zaragoza’s most revered sorcerer, bows to the king. “The past five years have been kind to you, Magnus,” King Quentin says. “You look exactly the same. Not even a grey hair and you still carry the same air of mystery in your indigo eyes. Perhaps it is the freedom of not having a wife or children that brightens your appearance.” “My wife and daughter were killed by your soldiers. That did not serve to improve my health.” Chancellor Hammersmith leans over the sorcerer like a vulture circling its prey, his eyes lifeless and uncaring. “Yes, you look incredibly well for a man of what, a hundred and fifty? Have you forgotten we spared your life? A few more comments like that and you will not see a hundred and fifty-one.” “We have all lost loved ones in the struggle between myself and my uncle for the throne,” King Quentin says. “But that time is past us.” “As I told your emissary, your majesty, I have ceased practicing my former profession.” Chancellor Hammersmith’s sharp features knot together as if he’s tasted something sour. “You willingly served the six kings who sat on the throne prior to King Quentin.” “Which I hope has earned me the right to have a long rest, and to refuse your request.” “I understand that you agreed to leave court because you believed my uncle was the rightful ruler….” “Who was proven to be a traitor to Zaragoza,” Chancellor Hammersmith says, intervening. “He wanted to form an alliance with our enemies, the Valencians. When his treachery was revealed, he fled, joining them.” “And now we are at war with Valencia,” Magnus replies. “And we are losing. Our soldiers on the front are dying from hunger and disease, while others have thrown down their weapons and deserted.” A pop-eyed King Quentin looks to Chancellor Hammersmith for an explanation. “Is what he says true?” “Of course not, your majesty. Our troops are massing for a decisive offensive as we speak. But you were not summoned to spread political lies, sorcerer. Your task is to rid the castle of spirits.” “Your messenger said there are at least ten of them.” The king anxiously leans forward on his throne, his oversized crown slipping over his eyes. “Yes, four knights, two noblemen, and a woman with a baby.” “You fear a woman and a baby?” Magnus asks. “It is obvious they mean your king great harm,” Chancellor Hammersmith retorts. “Have they appeared before?” “Every night for the past two weeks. Their forms seem to linger a bit longer each time they appear.” “I will rid you or your apparitions for twelve hundred gold pieces.” Chancellor Hammersmith’s pasty face reddens. “That is robbery!” “You can always try to exorcise them yourself, Chancellor.” “I am losing sleep as well as my sanity,” King Quentin whimpers. “I cannot stand it another night. We will meet your price.” “I will need an assistant. Someone who is familiar with herbs, perhaps a cook or a scullery maid.” Chancellor Hammersmith is about to argue when King Quentin raises his hand, saying, “Fine. But you must begin immediately.” Chancellor Hammersmith smiles maliciously. “And if you fail, sorcerer, I will use your severed head to scare the spirits away.” Magnus and Opal, his assistant, lean over the castle’s turret, watching the troop of silver knights approach the castle. The raven-haired, eighteen-year-old maid’s violet eyes widen. “Why do they leave bloody tracks behind themselves?” “Perhaps it is a sign of guilt; not necessarily their own. We need to go to the throne room in order to put their souls to rest. Did you mix the herbs together as instructed?” “Yes,” she says, showing him a pouch. “Good. Our lives depend on the strength of our magic.” A horrified King Quentin slumps in his seat as the silver knights enter the throne room leaving behind them a gory, blood-stained trail. Raising their swords, they point them at King Quentin. The king’s trumpeters fidget nearby, inching away from the throne. “I ultionem habebo,” says the first knight. Magnus translates: “He speaks in an ancient tongue used by the Badajoz, who inhabit the farthest realms of the kingdom.” “What did he say?” King Quentin asks. “I will have my vengeance.” Turning to his assistant, he says, “Now, Opal.” “Are you certain they will not hurt me?” “I have cast a spell on them. They cannot see you.” Opening the pouch, Opal draws a line in front of the knights in white powder. “What is that?” King Quentin asks. “The powder will provide a barrier to keep you safe. The apparitions cannot move beyond that line.” Tuning to the King’s trumpeters, Magnus instructs them to begin playing a funeral march. Magnus and Opal salute the knights. Magnus says, “You fought for your king and your country. You sacrificed yourselves so that others could remain free. Your service is at an end. We will remember and celebrate your courageousness for all time.” Chancellor Hammersmith, his expression riddled with doubt, remains still. “This will not work if you do not follow my instructions,” Magnus says. Groaning, Chancellor Hammersmith salutes the knights. Sheathing their swords, the knights return the salute. “…I can’t…,” King Quentin says, his body shaking. “You must, or they will continue to haunt your castle.” Chancellor Hammersmith hands King Quentin a sword. King Quentin’s knees knock together as he walks toward the knights. The knights drop to a knee. Raising his sword, King Quentin says, “You men are heroes of our realm. Every citizen of Zaragoza owes you a debt of gratitude for the ultimate sacrifice you made to protect us. I dub thee The Duke of Virtue, The Duke of Wisdom, The Duke of Courage, and the Duke of Fortitude.” King Quentin backs away as the four knights rise. Saluting, the knights disappear. Shivering as he stands in the courtyard, King Quentin pulls his massive robe around his boyish body. “Can you feel their presence?” he asks. “All I feel is the chill of a fall night,” Chancellor Hammersmith snipes. Opal tightens her grip around the pouch as the figures of two men begin to coalesce. The two noblemen are well-dressed, wearing colorful jackets with hose, leggings, and breeches. They hold their heads in the crooks of their arms. The bearded men cackle at King Quentin. “Fop,” says the first one. “Fool,” says the second. The second nobleman throws his head at the petrified king, who reacts by catching it. Looking down at the laughing head, King Quentin faints. King Quentin falls backward, flopping onto the dusty ground. Chancellor Hammersmith grabs the head as its launched in the air. He angrily tosses it back at the decapitated nobleman, who deftly catches it. “Now, Opal,” Magnus says. Opal stares at the headless men, frozen. “Now, Opal!” Opening the pouch, Opal grabs a handful of powder, blowing it in the direction of the noblemen. The heads stop cackling and their expressions turn somber. “You have given something that cannot be measured by silver or gold – your lives,” Magnus says. “ You sacrificed yourselves so that others could be free. Your wisdom and selflessness will not be forgotten.” Placing their heads back on their torsos, the noblemen fade away. Chancellor Hammersmith leads the group through the dank, torch-lit hallways heading to the tower. King Quentin lags behind, whimpering. “Only the most nefarious enemies of the king are housed in the tower,” Chancellor Hammersmith says. The chancellor’s determined gait slows when the sound of a crying baby permeates the air. Offended, Opal says sharply, “You have imprisoned a baby in the tower? How cruel!” “Hush, girl!” Chancellor Hammersmith replies. “Presently, we are not holding any children prisoner.” They pass by a locked cell door with a black cross nailed to its center. Magnus and Opal glance at the cross, recognizing its symbolism. The crying becomes louder as they approach the cell. Chancellor Hammersmith unlocks the door. He and King Quentin hesitate to go inside the cell. Magnus enters, bowing to the apparition in front of him. Opal clings to his cloak, peeking out from behind his shoulder. A well-dressed woman, her amber hair arranged in elaborate ringlets, sits in a simple wooden chair, cradling a baby girl. “The child is blue,” Opal whispers. “She is as dead as m’lady,” Magnus replies. The woman looks up at them, tears welling in her gentle eyes. “…Help him… Help my daughter…” Magnus raises his hand, making the sign of the cross. “You are the mother of all that is innocent, pure, and righteous. You sacrificed yourself for love. Rest now, m’lady, knowing all will be made right.” The woman and the baby slowly dissolve. “Well, we made short work of them, did we not, Magnus,” Chancellor Hammersmith says. “We?” Opal counters. King Quentin and Chancellor Hammersmith enter the room looking around for other spirits, as Magnus and Opal back toward the door. “They are gone! I am free!” King Quentin exults. Magnus closes the door. Locking it, he tosses the key aside. Chancellor Hammersmith presses his crimson features against the door’s small, barred window. “Open this door, now! Your treachery will cost both of you your heads!” “Just as it cost Pierre Alsace and Georges St. Lorraine theirs?” Magnus asks. “What are you talking about, Magnus?” Opal asks. “The two noblemen, Alsace, and St. Lorraine were ardent supporters of Prince Thomas Blessing. King Quentin and Chancellor Hammersmith took their lands and their money, then had them executed in the palace courtyard. They told the public Prince Blessing had fled to help the Valencians. Then they imprisoned his wife Madelyn, and baby daughter, Katelyn, in the tower. King Quentin was too cowardly to kill his uncle’s wife and daughter, but Chancellor Hammersmith had no such qualms. He wanted to solidify his hold on the throne. He had Madelyn poisoned, and then drowned Katelyn.” “…Water…That is why the child appeared blue to us.” “Yes.” “And the knights?” Opal asks. “Four devoted commanders from Badajoz who supported Prince Thomas’ efforts to negotiate peace with the Valencians. When the King and Chancellor Hammersmith learned of their plans, he promised them they would become Dukes if they could bring peace. Then they sent them and a hundred men into Valencian territory thinking they were there for peace talks. They were slaughtered by a thousand waiting soldiers.” Sitting in the chair, King Quentin rocks back and forth crying, “I didn’t want to do it… I didn’t want to do it…” “This treasonous act will be your last!” Chancellor Hammersmith shouts. “When the guards make their rounds, we will be freed, and I will have the pleasure of seeing your heads roll off the chopping block!” “The guards are with us. They believe Thomas Blessing is the true sovereign,” Magnus replies. “Give me the pouch, Opal.” Opal hands him the pouch. Reaching inside of it, Magnus grabs a handful of powder, blowing it in Chancellor Hammersmith’s face. Chancellor Hammersmith backs away, sneezing. “The guillotine is too quick a death for you, sorcerer! I will starve you, then before you are about to die, I will have you tied to two horses and torn apart!” “Are you sure this is the right thing to do?” Opal asks apprehensively. “Do you believe Prince Thomas is the true king and not that simpering boy?” “Yes.” “King Quentin is the true king!” Chancellor Hammersmith shouts between sneezes. “Tell them, boy, you are the true king!” “…I didn’t want to do it… Hammersmith made me do it.” “Coward! I will stand by what I have done. I did it for his majesty, the King, and for Zaragoza.” “Then we feel the same,” Magnus says, backing away from the door. “Where are you going! Let us out!” Magnus turns to face Chancellor Hammersmith. “Thank you for sparing my life You gave me the opportunity to put it to good use.” Chancellor Hammersmith turns to admonish the blubbering king. “If you had the slightest hint of a backbone, we could have sat on the throne for decades to come!” Chancellor Hammersmith’s anger fades as the surrounding shadows turn into figures. Pierre Alsace and Georges St. Lorraine appear with their heads firmly on their shoulders and daggers in their hands. The four knights materialize, their gleaming, sharp swords drawn. Opal grimaces when she hears King Quentin and Chancellor Hammersmith’s screams, but she doesn’t look back, grabbing Magnus’ hand. “May I ask you a question, Magnus? Why did you pick me? Anyone in the kitchen could have assisted you.” “A man can trust his daughter.” The two of them walk to the door with the black cross. Magnus pulls the cross off the door, turning it to dust in his hand. “You conjured up those spirits to frighten King Quentin, then pretended to make them disappear.” “Yes. The powder you mixed together is useless, although it would make a superb chocolate cake.” “So, this was all to avenge the rightful king,” Opal says. Magnus unlocks the door, opening it. Thomas Blessing rises from the corner of his cell. “No, it was done to free him.”