Inner Voice Rohan opened his eyes slowly to see himself in the mirror maze. He thinks, “How did I end up here”. He looks around and sees him surrounded by his own reflections. He tries to remember how he ended up here. He gets a glimpse of his chemistry class. He mildly remembers that he was in the chemistry lab doing some classwork. He can say by the look it is mirror maze, but this does not belong in the school. He slowly starts to walk forward and tries to find a way out of the maze. As he passes by many set of mirrors, he notices an odd thing. There were three mirrors that did not reflect him; instead, he saw his sixth-grade chemistry teacher “Mr. Rahul”, his crush “Riya” and his best friend “Rohit”. Rohan wonders why these three mirrors are not reflecting him. And why is it reflecting these three person in peculiar while the other mirrors are reflecting him. He moves towards those mirrors. And takes a glance at all three and he decides to first approach his Chemistry teacher’s mirror. So he first approaches to Mr. Rahul’s mirror and touches it. Soon a bright light blinds him. Then it fades away. He could see his sixth-grade chemistry lab and see his own childhood self, trying on some chemical combination. He then realizes that he is in the body of his chemistry teacher Mr. Rahul. Though Rohan was in Rahul’s body, he controlled neither his body nor mind. Rohan was able to hear Rahul’s inner voice. “Every year, I come across many new students. Though they remember me or not but I still remember each one of them” thinks Mr. Rahul. Then he looks at Rohan as the chemical apparatus slips Rohan’s hand and falls down. It shatters into pieces. Rahul approaches Rohan. “I know this part,” Rohan thinks. “This is where I get scolded like never before till now in my life”. Then Rohan hears Mr.Rahul’s inner voice. “Poor child is he ok, I scolded him very much. I feel sorry for that, but he has to be more careful. He reminds me of my son. That is why I had to scold him. I am not sure how he took it. If my son was alive he would be the same age of his.” “I thought him to be the worst teacher in my entire school life. I thought he never had a conscience and the rudest teacher. However, he considered me his son. I never knew he had a softer side. Moreover, I feel sorry for his son. After this my thought on him has changed”, thinks Rohan. The surroundings slowly fade away and he returns to the mirror maze. Next Rohan moves towards Riya’s mirror and touches it. He sees the same chemistry lab from Riya’s perspective. “Should I ask him for a group study? I am so afraid. What if he rejects me? But he studies better than me and has good grades. Only once, he had helped me with the chemistry lessons. I have not spoken to him other than that once. He is the only person that was kind to me.” Rohan listens to Riya’s inner voice. “Everybody thinks me as bad luck. If I am to speak with him, nobody will be his friend ever again. I know how it feels to be alone and would not let it to happen to anyone. Even my mother thinks of me as a curse and my father died because of me”. “I never knew Riya wanted to become my friend. I thought she only like the sportive boys, but never knew she had this bad luck idea in her mind and even her mother believes in it. She thinks me to be the kindest person in the entire world. But I have been mean by not understanding her feelings.” runs in Rohan’s mind. Riya makes up her mind to ask Rohan for a group study. She slowly approaches him. Then she sees Rohan dropping the apparatus and Mr. Rahul approaching him. Riya stands a few feet away from Rohan and watches everything happening. She feels sorry for what happened to Rohan. She thinks she is the reason for the things that happened to him because of her bad luck. She decides not to think of him ever again, for his own safety. Rohan slowly comes out of her inner voice and back to the mirror maze. Finally, he approaches Rohit’s mirror. Again, Rohan is back to the same chemistry lab but now in Rohit’s mind. Rohan sees Rohit applying some kind of lubricant to an apparatus and placing it unnoticed on Rohan’s table. Rohit thinks, “Rohan do you think you are so intelligent because every time I get a lower grade than you, my mother always scolds me when comparing me with you. Everyone wants to be your friend. So I have filled this apparatus with toxic gas, so when it falls down and breaks. Everyone in the class, including you will be affected by the gas. You have to take the entire blame.” Rohan returns to the mirror maze. He thought Rohit to be his best friend in the entire world but he has betrayed him. “Just because I am a bit better than you doesn’t make you worse. Your mother scolds you by comparing me to you, is to make you take the effort I take. But not to take a revenge on me”, thinks Rohan. Rohan finds himself in an ambulance, because of an accident in the chemistry lab. He asks the treating nurse if everyone is ok. She replies, “You are the only one who is most hurt, others are only mildly hurt”. Rohan thinks, “I am not hurt by the wound but I am hurt by the betrayal.” The entire world is seen from our perspective. However, once when we start seeing from other's perspectives, we will be astonished by the secrets that it holds.


# (FINISHED) # # How can I help you? I am lost. I can't tell if I'm in a desert, or a forest, or even an urban environment. # Do you know how you got there? No. I woke up blind and with strange sounds and smells around me. # What kind of sounds and smells? Loud sounds, yet quiet at the same time. Ugly smells, yet ones that I could grow to like. # What else can you sense? I think I feel hard ground beneath me, the kind of hard that gives way over time and can become soft. # Are you sitting or standing? I am sitting on the hard ground. I trust it will become more comfortable. # Is there anything else you can touch? I think there are large objects around me, warm to the touch yet harder than the ground beneath me. I think I shall stand, see if the large objects are bigger than I. # What did you find? They are not as large as I thought; half the height of a man. They are very warm. They are all around me. # How is the air? I can breathe fairly well, the air is cool but the ugly smells already seeming less ugly make the air seem warm. It is thick, the air. I can feel it. # Have you sorted out the sounds? They are growing louder yet quieter as I stand. They are like no sounds I have ever heard. High-pitched, with a low undertone that makes it seem the whole sound is meant to be low. Nothing alive could make such a sound, I am certain. # Can you move? I am able to move. # Could you move in a forward direction? I am trying to get past the large objects that surround me on all sides. I am trying to step over them, and they seem to be much wider than they are tall. # Are they flat on top? They are mostly round on top, but flat enough that I can walk across. # Can you make your way over them? I am attempting to cross on the tops. The warmth is heating me and the smell and sounds seem to be coming from the objects. It is difficult to walk across without seeing my path. # Is the object continuous? As of yet, it is, like a platform. I find I can appreciate the smell more now. It is easier to breathe. # Does this worry you? Not in the least. My fears are fading with the cool air made warmer with each step I take. # Is the smell toxic? I’m not dead, am I? # Does it seem like a drug? If drugs make the air around you a mixture of temperatures that clash without mixing, a symphony of contradictory noises, and a plethora of smell that is unpleasant yet you long to smell it. If this is a drug, I am most likely far from home. # Can you tell anything else about your surroundings? Not at the moment. I am still blind. How I’m not sure. I cannot reach my arms to my head. # Are your arms broken? No, just held to my sides as if by magnets. # Do you have any other impairments? My neck aches and I cannot feel my ears, but that is all. # Is there any pain? No, and I can hear fine. Other than my neck, I am growing quite comfortable. # Are you still moving? No, I have sat down for a rest. The objects are warm and no longer hard. I shall sleep for a while and perhaps wake in safety once more. # NO! DO NOT FALL ASLEEP! Why not? Don’t you wish you could rest those weary eyes? It’s warm and soft here. I’d like to stay. Who needs vision when you can have this symphony, this aroma…? # STAY AWAKE! You were supposed to help me. They told me you would help. Let me sleep. It’s all I need now. That’s how you can help me. # Who told you we would help you? They did. Voices. Before I woke up. I had this device in my hand and your number on the screen. I was told you would help. Now let me sleep. # Ask them where you are. Ask whom? # The voices. Whomever. They only answer in dreams. Let me sleep, and I’ll tell you. # Use caution. Sweet dreams. # Are you there? # Are you still there? # Hello?  I am here. # What happened? I know not what you speak of. # Why didn’t you answer right away? I am governed no longer by time; cease your complaints. # What are you talking about? Something marvelous has occurred, and I am free. # Did you fall asleep? For one thousand years, then I was woken and all hindrances were gone. # Do you have your sight back? I need not mere sight from physical eyes, no, but I know now where I am. # So you don’t need my help anymore? No, but I have enjoyed conversing with you. Would you like to know where I am? # Where are you? I am deep in the quantum realm and the Quantum governors gave me a deep quantum communicator to get in touch with you. They said you would help me, at first. I no longer need your help, of course, since I am now one with quantum energy and am far superior to anyone, anywhere, and anything I have ever been or done. # Really? No! I’m in my backyard! Psyche! Now you can hang up, helpline. You guys need more practice. Bye now. \~LINE DISCONECTS\~ What dumbos. You can get anyone to believe anything nowadays. ☻║-▌¢Ñ¿┘⌂æ¿┬ën↓$↓♫2û┴b∟Ω£δ╖≈≈¬↑ What was that? It sounded like...now that I think about it, a high-pitched sound that has a low undertone that makes it seem like the whole sound is supposed to be low-pitched… **HELLO, CHILD**. Who is that? **EVERYTHING IS NOW ABOUT TO COME TRUE**. What? What “everything”? **YOU WILL SEE**. **BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY, CHILD**. **WE DO NOT TAKE THINGS LIGHTLY IN QUANTUM SPACE**. What? No, it was all a joke...I didn’t mean anything by it! **NOTHING IS A JOKE IF ONLY ONE PERSON FINDS IT FUNNY**. **COME**. No! Aaah! Help! Someone! \~STATIC\~ ...Where am I? What is this? Why aren’t my eyes working? Hang on, maybe my phone works… # Hello, this is West End Helpline #46. How can I help you? Am I ever glad to hear your voice.


Of all the things you’re sure the mind would cling desperately to, the strange desire for companionship is the first to go. I am alone, yet I do not feel lonely. Of course, it wasn’t like that initially. Blind panic struck and both my body and mind scrambled frantically for an escape, back into the arms of those I loved. I’ve never thought much of humankind, yet I’ve realised just how adaptable we can be. How, like water poured into any container, we can take the form of our environment and exist comfortably within it. I suppose there are people I miss. Yet, and I feel a pang of guilt admitting it, it’s not as much as I expected. If I made a list of the positives and negatives of my situation, I’d unfortunately have to admit that the loss of those I loved isn’t enough to tip the scales. I’d been so obsessed with filling every second of every day with what I viewed as progression, that I hadn’t realised the truth. I wasn’t trying to live a rich and full life… not really. I was running from it. I was so scared of what may arise in my mind if left unstimulated that I spent every waking moment trying to distract it. Distraction took many forms, be it meaningless sex, alcohol, or acting out the role of adrenaline junkie. I should be grateful for being consumed by the latter, because that’s what landed me here. The truth was, after the initial trepidation of my situation had passed, I realised that being alone with my thoughts wasn’t the all-consuming terror I had once believed. It was, in fact, incredibly peaceful. I never understood William Henry Davies, I thought his words were ridiculous, but I understand now. At first, I would mark the days by carving into the walls. After the first month time seemed an irrelevance, so I gave that up and I’ve decided to carve these words instead. I hope when I’m found that these words are passed to someone who needs them. Don’t be the donkey that chases the carrot, don’t waste your life trying to chase impossible goals. I also hope that when these words are found I have long since passed. There’s a stream of fresh water and enough insects to sustain me. It’s dark in this hole, only a dim glow from where I fell in penetrates and fills the cavern. Light is another surprising addition to the list of things I do not miss. I don’t want to return to civilisation, that is a rat race I have been glad to see the back of. I see no sheep or cows, no squirrels hiding their nuts. I cannot see streams of stars, nor the sky that they reside within. Yet there is a peace within this hole that I have never felt before. There is peace within the darkness. There is peace within the silence. There is peace within the void.


The woman was sitting by the window of the crowded train. She had a medium sized bottle in her hand with a rolled up paper inside it. She thought twice and thrice if she should open up the rolled stuff which belonged to someone else though it somewhat interested her. She was traveling with a 'Happy camp' team to a well-known Sea site. She joined them in order to relieve her stress that was upsetting her from the past few days. Genuinely it was suggested by her husband. This time they were on their way back to the capital city were they live.  Initially, they all had the same motive " To reduce stress and depression ". It seems it all worked for most of them except her and few couples of people who were still silent with shrunken expressions. While paying a visit to the sea shore following their camp schedule,  she was having a lonely walk all by herself and her teammates were busy running back and forth playing with the waves like teenaged kids letting their souls free of all tensions that gave them the reason to join the camp. That was the time when she found this bottle partially dipped into the sand. It made her thoughtful. She knew, people from years ago used to leave bottles with rolled up papers by the sea shores. Letters not papers, to be precise. She wondered if it was a letter or was it someone’s marksheet with failures and low grades that was left behind to avoid some kind of embarrassment. But leaving it here would make no sense. Some sort of feelings raised inside her that made her pick the bottle up. She kept it with her till they finished the night camp by the fire with a dinner consisting of sea foods. She was asked by another woman while sitting by the fire “Oh, is that a newspaper rolled inside that bottle in your hand?” “I am not sure”, she replied with a weak smile, “I found it by the shore.” “Hmm, seems like a letter”, the another woman giggled, "a love letter perhaps!" “I wonder”, she threw back. They were suppose to pass the night inside tents at the beach which was too a part of the camping schedule. When she finally washed up and was ready to sink into her sleeping bag she recalled she wanted to unroll the paper from the bottle that she had preserved safely inside her backpack. Should she? Why did she even picked it up? The night passed. Now, sitting in the middle of crowd with the instrumental noise of the train mixed with an old song played inside the train she wondered if it was the perfect place to pull the paper and unroll it. She kept hesitating. Should she? At length, the woman pulled out the paper and unrolled it as her curiosity was at it's limits. It was A LETTER . " Dear Mother , I hope you are doing fine wherever you are. I am fine too! You will be glad to know that I found a job. They say getting a good job was my luck as I could not continue attending high school because I had no money. That day I saved a tourist from sinking into the sea who was shoved by the waves and was not a good swimmer. I was able to seek attention from the head of lifeguards who offered me to join the rescue team that was eligible for a student like me. I had to take few strict trainings hoping to see better days than chopping onions at the sea side restaurants . I realized that you lied to me when we had little food and you offered me to eat the whole part claiming you are strong enough and so you do not get hungry, you lied about buying clothes for me that was actually the cut and sewed portions from your own clothes, you lied that you will pay my school fees soon and it were not a burden to you, you lied that father was not dead and either he will come back himself or he will be sending us money soon. Also the last time when you asked me to play and wait by the sea shore and said you will be back within a couple of minutes, I realized that you lied. Even your beautiful smile that was forced from your side, was a beautiful lie. I know it all. Mother, I'm grateful that you lied to me when I was a child and so I lived happily believing you without understanding or feeling the hardships back then. I want to return this favor. Now nothing is like before. We do not need a father either. If you ever find this letter, come back. I will wait by the sea shore just like you had asked me to do years ago. -Shima" The woman rolled back the letter and pushed it inside the bottle. She decided to get off the train on the next station. She will board on another train ensuring that it will take her back to the coastal site. She was going to leave the bottle were it was because Shima must be waiting for her mother to receive the the letter. All she needed to do returning home after this was to revisit the asylum where she left her son because her family suggested to. She is going to bring back her son, he must be waiting. She will fight her In-laws and wait for her husband to join her realizing that every child awaits their parents to protect and love them and they want to return the same out of gratefulness. It was what she learned from the letter of the liar's child. The woman looked out the window, the gentle breeze was pushing her hairs back. That greenery scenery outside the window takes her back to the days when she often found her son dipping seeds inside plastic bottles filled with soil trying to plant saplings. He had a beautiful mind even though he acted stupid .


December 21st, 1918 Adelaide, I cannot live alone with the knowledge of what has happened to Levi. It has been forty-six days and no other man has uttered a word, not even an indication that Levi existed. I’m almost certain you are aware of the war's end. Conflict between us and the Germans has been long gone yet the feeling of hopelessness and terror looms over the select few of us. We landed in France in late October. As we arrived in Le Mans the morale between men who had been stationed there quickly transferred to us. Levi though never changed. He spent every moment he could trying to raise our spirits. A few of the men resented him for not being as miserable as them. I found it charming. The trenches are more unbearable than imaginable. Levi’s attempts at humor became quiet sobs in the night. None of us could have anticipated the conditions in which our French friends had been fighting in. I often saw Levi staring into the walls of the trench with such intense focus. I was somewhat jealous of him if I’m being truthful; he seemed as if he was ignoring the war altogether in those moments. Within the days leading up to the war's end, Levi spiraled down to a deep despondency more and more with each mortar shell. Men who had been in the trench for months looked on as Levi fell victim within a few weeks. His sobs late in the night became rarer. He simply did not sleep. He came to my side the night before, smiling. At first, I had hoped that we might be able to get the Levi we once knew back to his former self. Levi put his hand on my face and began to whisper to me. He kept repeating to me that he had “finally heard” and that I needed to listen. Confused and still dazed from my sleep I told him to tell me in the morning. He wept to me while still smiling. “I’m going home, Beau.” These were the last words I spoke to Levi. On the morning of November 5th, we began to charge forward. I wish to not remember the sight of men being ripped apart by German artillery. We blindly ran forward ducking as if we knew when to dodge. It was useless looking back at it. Levi, myself, and the few men we had become acquaintances with over the weeks took cover in a large crater caving in on itself. As we lay there looking up at the sky as mortars passed over, Levi began to hum. The noise of our peers dying around us rang out louder than any sound I’d heard, but Levi, he just kept humming. He was cheerful and full of life. Eyes closed, he sat up and began to rise, putting himself in direct line of fire. Yet he slowly walked forward still humming his tune. It was a deep foreboding melody he repeated. The song pierced through gunfire and chaos and sunk deep into us like we had known this melody for our whole lives. With each step Levi took toward the top of the crater, his song rang out ever so slightly louder. Cutting below Levi’s hum was a deep rumbling like that of war drums. Could it be the tanks distorted from fear? Could it have been the beat of my own heart pounding in my head? I truly don’t know. I don’t want to know. Levi’s hum was now drowned out by that of a soft choir of trumpets playing the same melody he had been repeating as if a legion of angels were announcing the end times. I can only describe the horror that occupied no man’s land as inhuman. Deep in the fog of the German line faint movement was taking place above the ground. As Levi got closer to the edge of the crater, almost as if to join it, the figure made its appearance known. I do not know where the figure stopped and the sky began. Its arms outstretched displayed what could have been miles of darkness hanging from its limbs. My soul was filled with dread on a scale I’d never imagined. I can only assume the other men felt the same as they looked, stunned, in pure horror. A gunshot fired a meter away from me aimed not at someone else. As Levi crested the edge of the crater the trumpets roared, consuming our senses; a triumphant score for an incomprehensible abomination. He reached his hand out yearningly towards the sky. In only a moment, there was silence. The trumpets had subsided, the drums had ceased, and the roar of the battle around us had stood still. In the instant that the deafening noises came to a halt, Levi was gone. There was no fanfare, no goodbyes, nothing. He was gone; as if he was cut out of existence itself. I stared at the spot he had previously stood for an eternity. The sound of gunfire returned and I was dragged from the crater. I do not know what to make of this happening. The men who witnessed this have been silent as of writing this, as have I. Returning to camp to find solace has proved ineffective. Upon seeing the doctor I’ve been given the diagnosis of shell shock, but I know that to be wrong. I write this letter to you in hopes Levi’s memory will still subsist as any trace of him here has since gone missing. This will be my last correspondence.


I’ve decided that tonight is the night I’m going to kill myself. It’s time to finally say goodbye to the world. I’ve thought about how I would do it so many times.

I decided that pills would be the easiest option.

I considered trying to get a gun, but apart from having no idea how I would go about that, I’m far too squeamish for it. Knowing my luck, the bullet would just blow my face off, leaving me horribly disfigured in addition to being eternally miserable.

No, pills are easily obtainable and I can fade away in the comfort (if you can call it that) of my own home.

I’ve done my research and know roughly how many paracetamols I’d need to do the job. It’s been an effort tonight; nowadays you can only buy two packets at a time.

It’s a small town and I’m almost running out of shops. I know of another two chemists, but they aren’t walking distance. I return home, get in my car and drive over to the first one.

As I pull into the carpark I see the sign, ‘Closed due to emergency’.

“Dammit!”, I shout, thumping my foot against the accelerator, tyres squealing as I leave.

I get to the last place and it's open, thank god.

I make my way down the aisle, looking up and down at each shelf.

My heart sinks as I see an empty space where the paracetamol should be.

A store assistant must see my anguish as she calls out “I don’t know when we’re due anymore in love, there seems to be a shortage just now!”. I nod weakly, and head back to the car. I think about other pills that I could take but I haven't done any research and again, knowing my luck, I’d end up seriously fucked but still very much alive.

************* I’ve woken up feeling quite opposed to pill taking as a means to an end.

The setback last night made me realise there are just too many unknowns with that option.

I decided that the best way might be to jump off the Tay Bridge.

I actually considered it a while back, and being me, I did my research.

I know the right spots to do it fairly undetected, and the right time of night to go.

As I get ready to leave, I make sure the flat is looking tidy.

I know people will be in here at some point after I’m gone and I don’t want them looking down their nose at the state of the place.

I consider writing a note for whoever turns up, but I don’t know what to say.

I guess the fact I’ve done this to myself says quite enough. I get in the car and drive; the wind is howling and I have to fight to keep the steering wheel steady.

As I reach the bridge, I’m confronted with a sign, ‘Bridge closed due to high winds, diversions via M90’. I pull the car over and sit there in silence for a long time.

After a while I start to cry, and begin the drive home. ************** I feel at a loss.

Perhaps someone up there is trying to tell me something.

Well, if they are, my life is still pointless so I won’t be changing my mind. I walk to the local shop, my mind racing.

There’s a busy road I need to cross to get there and as I stand on the edge of the pavement the lorries and cars whizz past me at dizzying speeds.

I glance over to the zebra crossing further up the road and see a couple standing together, laughing and joking with their two young children.

They don’t seem to have a care in the world. I think back to when I used to have a family and that familiar raw pain hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest.

I squeeze my eyes and fists shut, and start to psyche myself up for what I need to do next.

As I begin to count down slowly from ten, I’m startled by the sound of shouting.

I look up and notice the child out of the corner of my eye, running past the zebra crossing and across my path.

It takes me a second to realise what’s happening, and with the screams of the parents ringing in my ears, I race without thinking into the road and grab the young boy. In a split second I’m aware of the horn blaring ahead of me and the truck roaring down the road towards us.

I push the boy hard towards the pavement then everything goes black. ************* They’ve given me something for the pain.

I’ve been out cold for a couple of days but I’ll live. The paramedics worked hard at the scene to bring me back, I’m told.

How ironic.

At least the boy is ok - the parents came in earlier to thank me, said I was their hero.

I don’t feel like a hero.

I still feel like the same coward I always was.

I look around at all the wires and machines surrounding me.

If I could move, maybe I could dislodge some of this, make it stop saving me.

Although I don’t actually know if I have it in me anymore. It shouldn’t be this hard to kill yourself. As I contemplate my future, the ward door swings open and a familiar face appears in the room.

It takes a minute for me to realise that it's my daughter Rachel.

She comes over to the bed and I can see she is pregnant.

“Hi Dad’, she says tearfully, taking my hand. We talked for a while, about how the hospital called her as my next of kin, how the thought of losing me had made her scared, how she wants me to meet her family, how all of the fighting just didn't make sense anymore.

As I listen to her talk, I realise I don’t want to say goodbye to the world.

Today is the day that I choose to keep living.


   There is a story in the first book of the King James Bible. A book called Genesis. The part of the story that I am referring to is found in the 19 th chapter.” The sun was risen upon the earth when Lot entered into Zoar. Then the LORD rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the LORD out of heaven; And he overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground.

But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt. I often think upon that whole story when I remember my friend that left me and can never return.   The way this story really starts is on the month of November in the year of our Lord 1965.You see there was a country known as Vietnam that for many years had been known as a colony of France. In 1941 a leader arose there by the name of Ho Chi Minh. He raised up an organization known as the Viet Minh. During WWII they were friends to the Allied Forces. Once WWII ended the Viet Minh felt that Vietnam had the right to independence. This led to a conflict first known as Indochina War. But back to the US. You see the congress of the United States enacted a daft on December 1 st 1969 to send American citizens to fight in a war the was never declared a war. Outrageous, vile and contemptibly illegal. Yet it happened.  My friends and I suddenly became aware of all the senior male student in our high school. We began to hear things like draft dodgers, moratorium, and peace rallies. Our young people were in defiance of this draft. Suddenly a young man turning 18 in the US was a challenging thing. Even frightening. Throughout the country are citizens of the age of 18, who at that time did not have the legal right to vote, were being told you are going to a country that is fighting off colonial rule and you are going to kill those people weather you want to or not.   Now while all of this was going on I attended, with my family a Presbyterian church in a sweet little city called Rye NY. The minister at the time was married and he and his wife were both very active in the community. They also had two sons that would be affected by the draft. The church had a choir, youth fellowship and it opened its doors to visiting ministries from other churches. So needless to say, I had a rather large number of friends. Not only did I attend this church but I was a part of something that “Life” magazine called. “The groove Christians of Rye NY.” And of course, being a young female, I had a lot of crushes on a lot of older guys that were going to have to deal with the draft.   I began hearing things like. ‘Did you get your draft letter yet/’ Hey are you going to go sign up before they draft you?’ Mother, fathers, aunts, uncles, cousins, godparents, and siblings were all becoming very concerned about what was going to happen to the male youths that would be 18 in 1969 through 1975. The total military causalities of the war that was never declared a war by our congress, about 58,220 souls. I, who had two brothers, was very much opposed to the draft. So, I became what was referred to as a dove. Those who approved of the war were called hawks. We doves were known to hippies and love children as well as Jesus freaks and all of us began to demonstrate and protest the governments actions. We were seeing footage of the war on the news. Napalm or liquid fire was being dropped on the Vietnam people. Families we knew were getting telegrams about the young men dying. Yellow ribbons were sprouting up everywhere to represent those missing in action.   All of these activities and people I meet kept me very much informed and before you knew it, I was going on 16 and it was1972. My very close friend was going to be 18 in a few days and a group of us were discussing what to do if he got his draft letter. If he dodged the draft, he’s probably never see his kin again and could even get shot and killed just for doing it. If he got called up and went to NAM, he might not make it home. If he obeyed, he would be able look back if he, didn’t he would not ever be able to look back. It’s just how his people are.    It was late one night, a few days after this debate my friends had about it all. I was walking down Stuyvesant Ave and turning down Halls Lane when I felt A wall of silence. I couldn’t hear a cricket, dog, car or anything else. I stopped walking and tried to figure out what was happening. A bat fly past chasing some bugs and in the far distance I started hearing cars. It was the weirdest experience. The next day I went to school as usual. My friend wasn’t there. After a week of him not showing up I went by the house and asked if he was okay. The younger sister had answered the door when I rang the bell. She looked both angry and sad at the dame time. “He came home from school last week and his draft letter had arrived. Mom and dad figured he must have left that night. We haven’t seen him and don’t want to see him.” I nodded my head and quickly turned and walked away. I didn’t want her to see me cry.   All they way I kept thinking about the 4-student killed at Kent State University over protesting the war. I though about things that had happened to anti-war activists and I tried to image my friend safely across the border and free from all of the BS. I made it home, went up to my room and cried. He was gone and would never be able to come back


Author note, Trigger warning, explores emotions following a miscarriage. They say third time lucky, but as the survivor of three miscarriages I could definitely bust that particular saying. Is survivor too dramatic a word? No, I don’t feel it is.

I mean, no my life hadn’t been at stake, or had it? Maybe not in a physical way, but emotionally it definitely was, as each loss had taken me closer to the brink, I often worried that each loss was erasing a little piece of me, and what would finally be left?

And what of the future life that I had lost, all

those experiences of raising a child, that now I would never know.

I

felt traumatized , so yeah I damn well classed myself as a survivor, although at that moment in time, I wasn’t entirely certain that I would make it through to the other side. But there was a glimmer of hope, as after days of sitting in my dressing gown, staring blankly at the wall opposite, I had managed to rouse myself and muster the energy to get dressed, which was

a shock to my system. The next part is still a mystery, but somehow on autopilot I managed to drag my sorry carcass out of my street door and along the road, towards my chosen destination.

As I walked along, crisscrossing pavements periodically to avoid coming into contact with women passing by pushing prams, my mind pondered upon the word miscarriage. Such a benign word for such a soul destroying event.

Before going through it, I had only ever briefly wondered about it. But now it seemed I was unable to think of anything else. Almost three years of my life sped by with me living in a

perpetual cycle of hope, anxiety, fear and guilt. Three years of fending off the commiserations of the World and his Mrs. Everyone seemed to have an opinion, I’d heard it all, from “You're better off with a dog, kids just disappoint you?” to “May you’ve had a lucky escape, might have grown up to be a mass murderer.” Neither of which gave me any comfort. But then neither did the more sensitive comments, because let’s face it, when it comes to miscarriage the sorrow is personal.

 My faith had got me through it, up until that point.

Whether it was praying to conceive or praying for my child to survive, I had done it. I think my kind of miscarriage didn’t help matters,

as they were

silent and void of

fanfare. There was no drama, no mad anguished dashes to A&E in the middle of the night. No mine were just a possession of

tiny beating hearts that forgot to beat. A little trio of

tiny beings with ten fingers and toes, that were lulled to sleep within my lousy treacherous womb. Self loathing seemed to be the norm, that and in that moment a desire to do something right for my never to be born child. This last miscarriage had been different to the others, he’d survived longer and I had seen him alive on a screen, and that’s how I know he’d had ten fingers and toes, to wriggle in rytthm with his beating heart. A black and white, grainy image with the power to rob me of my breath, as tears cascaded joyfully down my cheeks. Only a few short weeks later, those tears flowed again, but this time in sorrow. “You are lucky,” they told me, (what a crass choice of words) I had thought, “a week later and you would have had to give birth.” they’d explained with a level of professional calmness that was borderline cold.

 I had still been thinking about their choice of words, as they had wheeled me into the theatre. In some crazy ill thought out decision, I even tried to resist the anesthetic, I wasn’t ready to relinquish

my child, not ready to wake to the emptiness. I counted beyond the twenty, before pitching into a darkness, that even now weeks later I was trying to submerge from.

 At last I had reached my destination, my local church, my safe haven. Upon entering I glanced up at the statue of the Virgin Mary, proudly holding her child in her arms, “is the fruit of thy womb”, I whispered, and felt the sting of tears. Looking down the aisle I spotted the priest, he was new, and I didn’t do well with change, but still he was God’s servant, and in that I had to trust. I gulped back my tears and told my sorry tale. He looked slightly bored, I told myself this was in my imagination as I had grown way too sensitive, my hormones seemed to be riding an everlasting rollercoaster, of ups and downs. Was it any wonder I was an emotional wreck.

Then once I had reached the end, he nodded and said he was sorry. “The thing is” I stuttered, “I really would like for you to say a mass or something for his soul” As I spoke, I thought my request was reasonable, I mean he’d had ten tiny fingers and toes, so it stood to reason that just like any other human being he had a right to celebrated.

“I am sorry I can’t do that.” The priest replied, bringing me up short. “Why?, I mean I am willing to pay” I explained, delving into my handbag and praying I had remembered my purse. “It's not a question of payment, your child did not breathe and therefore had no soul. Come sit with me, and we will pray for your speedy recovery.” I stepped back, shaking myself from head to toe, as if trying to dislodge something nasty that had settled on my skin.  “I don’t want you to pray for me.” I shouted, wondering if he would be able to see the guilt that oozed from every pore. “I am sorry.” he said again, in a tone that told me his decision was final. “Three times I have endured this pain.” I continued as if he had not spoken. “I don’t think I could go through that again.” I paused to make sure I had his attention before allowing my axe to descend, “If I were to fall again, I think I would need to consider an abortion.” Even saying the words left a bitter taste in my mouth.

I had lied of course, as I knew that

I wanted a child, so bad that I would keep trying no matter what the cost. My lie was necessary as I wanted this man, this supposed servant of God to feel the extent of my pain.  “I can not condone that.” he replied simply, “You would be acting against the will of God.” “Why?” I asked, defiantly jutting my chin forward. “Where is the sin, if like you say the child has no soul?” A silence lapsed between us, I could see a rage building in his eyes. And almost smiled for having outfoxed him, but then I remembered I no longer knew how to smile.

 “That’s different. “ he said at last, in a tone that told me this explanation should be enough. It reminded me of the Holy Sisters in convent school telling me it was not my place to question. But I was a bereaved mother, and at that moment it was not only my place to question, but my duty to do so. Too long have women been told what to do, by a church that calls itself the Mother Church, that adores a Virgin Mother, yet does little to ease the daily suffering of women. When I thought about it, why was Eve blamed more than Adam? She hardly held a gun to his head. Why was original sin credited to women, when we all know it takes two to tango, even in the garden of Eden!  “So you’re saying that my child who I saw alive and moving, be it on a screen, had no soul and is not recognized. Yet, another who might not even reach that stage, who might even resemble a raspberry would be awarded more rights and make me a murderer, if I chose to put my sanity first?” I wasn’t sure if he was acting in accordance with church policy but, at that moment I didn’t care. I just wanted out of there. After twenty five years of loyalty, the blinkers were off. Having said my piece,

I turned and walked straight out of the church, not even stopping to anoint myself with Holy water,

swearing never to return.

However, as you most likely know my darling, I didn’t turn my back on God. No, the way I saw it, every organisation has its share of

bad managers, and quite often the man upstairs has no idea of what is going on at the grass roots, why should God be any different?

But I couldn’t be a part of something, so held back by dogmas that it couldn’t see beyond them. I had stood before him a broken woman, a mother with no child to hold, who was lost in grief. He’d fallen back on his own misguided beliefs and hadn’t allowed himself to see that

he was my last hope. The only way I could possibly give my child something, to demonstrate my love. Unknowingly he gave me anger, and anger fueled me forward, so I suppose he did something in the end. And that my sweet girl is why you and your sister have not been baptized, I am sure if we search hard enough we will find the perfect venue for your wedding, that accepts you simply as you are.

You are my miracles, born out of my belief that I would one day hold you. To me you existed from the very first moment that I knew you resided within me. You had ten fingers and toes, a beating heart, and a soul that would be your moral compass. As a mother I have given you love, and freedom not to be tied to any outdated institution. You are a woman now and you are free to choose your own path.


I’m going to pass out. I’m going to pass out and hit my head on this disgusting, stained tile and catch a deadly infection and die. If I weren’t freaking out when I flew through the bathroom door, I would’ve taken my time to look around before squatting over the dirty, cracked toilet and struggling to balance against the stall while holding the test between my legs. It was clear this bathroom needed some TLC and I was not about to be the one to be wheeled out of it on a gurney. I rested my forehead against my palms and tried to take a deep breath as a wave of hot nausea washed over me. Every second seemed to be taking its sweet time in passing.

I was so nervous when I came in that I could barely even pee. I mean, what idiot can’t pee? Now, as I sit and wait, all I want to do is pee my pants and scream and quite possibly pass out from the rate my blood pressure is skyrocketing. I couldn’t keep my hands still. They were shaking so badly that even fidgeting with my necklace was getting difficult.

I never imagined myself in this scenario. No, not me . The careful, responsible friend who you could rely on to get you home safely after a night out. The friend you called when you needed sound advice. I was the one who talked my friends out of texting their toxic ex on lonely nights. Me . The one who always had the tissues when needed. The girl who never drank too much just in case she had to pick up her friends in the middle of the night. Where was she when I missed that pill? Huh? What happened to the angel on my shoulder that night? My eyes were already overflowing with tears. Once again, I’m not sure if it's the pungent scent stinging my nostrils or the fact that I’m sitting hunched over on the toilet in a gas station bathroom, praying to fail a test for once in my life. Dear God, I’ve passed every other test I’ve taken, I think I can afford a hit to my otherwise perfect record.

Each breath came labored. My chest was aching as I sat and watched the timer on my phone. Thirty-seven seconds . It’s only been thirty-seven seconds since I set the small, plastic stick face down on the square container connected to the stall. The reality of the situation slams into me over and over as I search the small square stall for any sign of hope. The maroon paint was chipping and had random names scribbled here and there. If my eyes weren’t betraying me with tears, I’d probably be able to make out what the clearly written text in front of me says.

The sound of laughter poured into the bathroom from the hallway. I could barely hear it over the thump, thump, thump of my heartbeat in my ears. At least someone is having a good time. Any other day, that would probably be me. I can almost taste the wine my friends would surely pour me as we laughed off this scare. I’m just being silly. There’s no way. I mean, scientifically it is completely possible and even probable. My mind is having a hard time wrapping around that fact. It’s as if I’m the main character of a horror movie that’s been paused and I’m the only one moving. There’s no way out but I’m grasping at anything here. I can’t believe I’m now this woman. The woman taking a pregnancy test in a gas station bathroom so that her roommate doesn’t see. The woman who let one thing lead to another that led to this exact moment.

Fifty-four seconds. “Dear God, if you get me out of this, I’ll become a nun. I swear, or no, I don’t swear-” I bit my lip to keep from cursing in the middle of my plea to the heavens above. A fresh wave of tears began to pour down my face. I watched them spill onto my jeans. The dark spot on my thigh was growing by the second as my tears soaked into the denim.

I’m not pregnant.

I am not pregnant.

I wrapped my arms around my torso and hugged my abdomen. There is no baby in there. There can’t be. But the waistband of my pants digging into my stomach says otherwise. I’ve been bloated for the past two weeks. I tried convincing myself that I was just bloated because my period was due. But, it never came. Three weeks and not a sign of Ms. Flow. I steal a glance at my timer, one minute and thirteen seconds. In less than a minute, I’ll know. My fingers were itching to flip the test over and glare it into a negative, but I know that’ll only work in my imagination. Which, happened to be running wild with images of children. All the children in my life. My sweet little niece, Remi. Her little curls bouncing around as she jumped into the puddle her mother told her to stay out of.

Then, Reece. My cousin's son, who was a spitting image of his mother. Every time he saw me he would throw his arms up in the air and scream, “Lou Lou!” For the longest time, his L’s sounded like D’s. So my name was Dou Dou. Thank you God, for speech therapist.

Then my mind betrayed me and plagued me with images of Davis. He doesn’t deserve this. His career just took off. As a lawyer, I’m sure he knows how to legally get out of the responsibility of being a father. But I’ve known that man my whole life and I know he’d never be able to get out of the emotional obligation. He’s honorable. He’s dependable. He’d never let me go through this alone. He’d probably marry me just to do the right thing by my parents and his, who would be happy to see us together.

There is no baby in my uterus, but if there was, it would surely have his blonde hair and our blue eyes. We would have the most gorgeous baby, with a lawyer father and a realtor mother. It would be set for life. A good life, too. But now? Do I really need a baby now?

One minute and forty-seven seconds. My heart was beating out of my chest, every single muscle in my legs twitched with my need to get the heck out of here.

Davis would probably laugh in my face if I told him I was pregnant with his child. He’d think it was a joke. We only ever hooked up once and it was a huge mistake. I’ve known him my entire life and I’ve never once heard him mention wanting a family. We were friends. We were really good friends, who got entirely too drunk on a bottle of champagne after his sister’s wedding and made a mistake. Could I love him? Absolutely. Any woman with eyes would love to get this chance. Heck, I would love to have this chance, without the baby.

When I think about feeling for any other man the level of comfort I have with Davis, it’s laughable. No other man could compare to the man that’s held my hand through every breakup, every sad movie, and laughed at all my jokes. He was there the night my prom date stood me up. He held my hand and walked me into prom like I was the queen.

If I flip this test over and it’s negative, I still have to call him. We still have to talk about what happened and who knows, maybe we’ll make a go of it. How am I supposed to focus on building a relationship with any man, let alone Davis, with a ball of hormones growing inside of me for the next nine months? Okay, so technically it would be almost eight months, since I haven’t seen Davis since that night over a month ago. “I’m just stressed. Maybe it’s something else, like cancer. Maybe I’m only late because I’m going into early menopause. Please, let it be early menopause,” I whispered. I closed my eyes as I

The ringing of my timer nearly stopped my heart.

Instantly my mind flashed images of me in the hospital. The nurses were surrounding me as I screamed and cursed, throwing any and every threat at Davis as he flashes me his panty dropping grin. The nurse asks him if he wants to cut the cord, he says yes. Of course he would say yes. As the nurse laid the baby on my chest gently, my eyes met Davis’ teary ones and we both smiled. Happy. We were happy.

In all my panicking, I never let myself imagine a happy ending for us. A white picket fence wasn’t in the cards. But, as I lay back against the toilet seat and let my alarm ring into the silence, I can see it. The calm washes over me as my mind settles on the image of him smiling down at a baby boy, or girl, I couldn’t care less which. The idea of having a baby scared the shit out of me, still does. But part of me wants it. I always have, I guess.

My hands were still shaking as I reached out and flipped the test over. All of the air left my lungs in a rush as I stared down at it. Nothing could have prepared me for this moment. The emotions swirling around in my mind were too much and I couldn’t contain the loud sob that worked its way up my throat. The two lines on the test were clear. They were dark. There was no denying that I was pregnant. I’m going to have a baby. Davis is going to be a father. He’ll be a good one, that much I know.

Me, a mother, who would’ve imagined that.

Something shifted as I shoved the test into my purse. A lightness fell over me and for the first time in days, I felt like I had something to look forward to. Despite being scared to death, despite my heart still climbing up my throat, an overwhelming calmness washed over me and cooled the heat of terror.

I’m going to be a mother.

I’m going to be a mother and I’m going to be okay.


It was the voice that convinced Remy to go further into the cave. He initially went into the cave to escape the blistering heat outside. As an old desert rat, treasure-hunter, gold miner, and seeker of riches, he knew better than to challenge the sun at its apex. At first he only went in a few yards. With the help of his flashlight he found a comfortable spot on a large outcropping of rock to sit on. He pulled the canteen off his belt and took a short swig of it. Just enough to wet his tongue and throat so he could swallow. He looked at his old Timex wristwatch that still glowed in the dark after 50 years, and decided to take a quick nap. He relocated himself on the ground with his back to the granite wall, and pulled his baseball cap (that said Lakers on the front) down. When he woke up an hour later the first thing he noticed was a horrible smell. Standing up carefully, there was only a small clearance between the roof and his head, Remy took a few steps further into the cave and shone his light down into its dark depths. He didn’t see anything, but the smell told him something was wrong. It smelled like death. Decaying corpses. Humans turned into torches with napalm. The fat in their body fueling the flames and causing a greasy smoke that clung to whatever was near. That bad. If Remy wasn’t an adventurer at heart, he would have left the cave right then. But his curiosity, which had nearly cost him his life before, was too strong. When he heard the voice in his head that cinched it…he had to go further inside and find out why it was calling him. He double checked the contents of his backpack. Extra ammunition for the old Army .45 he brought back from the Nam, and carried on his web belt. Enough dried, and canned food for a week. A Vietnam-era metal mess kit, plus P-38. A compact First-Aid kit. A compass. A flip phone (a concession to his grown daughter) with minimum functions. A charger for the phone which was only good if it could be plugged into an electrical outlet. A local map of the area he was in. A folded up plastic poncho. An extra t-shirt, and pair of socks. Extra batteries for his flashlight. A metal flask filled with Bushnell’s Irish whiskey. Along with the .45, he had a flashlight, two canteens, and a k-bar knife hanging on his web belt. Caves didn’t scare him. He’d been in a few hostile ones in Vietnam and Cambodia. He took his bearings with the compass, mentally noting them before pushing on further. After an hour he stopped when the cave abruptly broke off into three directions. The already stale smell of the damp cave was enhanced by the sickening smell that drove him on. The air was getting thin as he pondered which way to go. His sense of smell wasn’t so acute that he could tell which cave the stench was coming from. They all smelled like hell to him. Then he heard the voice. “Chests full of old Spanish gold and rare jewels…” “Where?” he roared, his voice reverberating down all three tunnels. “Down here…down here waiting for you…” the voice promised. Remy knew, on one hand, that he shouldn’t be listening to a voice in his head. After years of PTSD counseling he knew it wasn’t right to respond to a voice in his head. It was the fine line between sanity and insanity. But, on the other hand, he’d responded to voices (one’s he didn’t tell the psychiatrists about) before and things had worked out. He picked the tunnel to the right and started walking as he debated with himself about the value of voices with messages. After walking for eight hours he took his backpack off and sat down on the damp ground. He rummaged through it until he found some beef jerky and his plastic poncho. He unfolded the poncho and slipped it on. It afforded some protection against the dampness. He finished his meal off with a swig of water and whiskey. Before falling asleep it struck him that he was getting use to the foul smell. When he woke up the first thing he did was look at his wristwatch and turn on his flashlight. He’d slept eight hours. That was two hours more than his normal rest. He wondered how much the thin air weakened him. As if in answer, he got dizzy when he stood up. It took a couple of minutes to be able to bend over and retrieve his web belt. He felt a little better after sipping some water. His first decision was to go back the way he came until he found the crossroads again. It took him over eight hours because he had to stop and rest several times. When he came to the opening for the three tunnels he sat down and pulled out his metal flask and took a healthy swig. He sat down and took his compass out and studied it for a few minutes under the flashlights beam. He was exhausted and decided to camp right where he sat. After eating, still wearing the poncho, he curled up on the ground and fell asleep. An hour later he woke up, startled by an overpowering smell stronger than what he remembered earlier. Instinctively he reached for his web belt and his gun. He drew the .45 from its canvas holster, before slowly standing up. The smell was so strong he felt like vomiting. Then he saw the eyes – hundreds of them – glaring at him from all three tunnels! The only option left was a strategic retreat. The things in the tunnel made a low chattering sound in anger. Some grew more bold than others and came closer so that he was able to see their short, squat, hairy, naked bodies, clutching weapons made from human bones. Their faces were disfigured parodies of humans and they were covered in vile-looking boils. Some had three arms One had two heads, and hopped angrily on one leg. Remy backed up and kept the flashlight in front of him. When one of them burst forward and came within a few feet of him he fired his gun three times, then turned and ran as fast as he could! Gun in one hand and flashlight in the other, he stumbled but never stopped running. It seemed like forever before he saw daylight and the cave’s opening. He was blinded by the sun and held his hand in front of his eyes. He looked back at the cave’s entrance once, expecting to see pursuit. None came. As he hiked back to his old jeep he decided this was one adventure he wouldn’t share with anyone. Especially with his friends who warned him to stay away from the Yucca flat region of the Nevada Test Site near Area 51. As It Stands, some of us are born adventurers that will always be looking for treasure, but not necessarily finding it.


The sun beat down on the Farne Islands, bringing a welcome heat for grey seals basking on the beach. Others sought to escape it: rabbits retreating into the shade of their warrens, Arctic terns diving in the beautifully cool ocean. Then there were the puffins, the most aristocratic of birds with their suit-like plumage and colourful crown of a beak; parents fished while pufflings sheltered in their burrows. One such puffling poked his head out of one such burrow. Pip stretched his wings as he stared up, watching the adults swoop and soar across the sky. His feathers brushed against the walls so he shuffled out a little further and, when no danger presented itself, a little further still. As the tip of his tail passed the threshold Pip clambered to his feet, revelling in the feeling of the sun on his back and the wind ruffling his feathers. His head swivelled as he hopped around, struggling to process all the new sensations. Just as he was becoming used to the world around him, a cacophony of cawing erupted around him. There was a momentary blip in the sun's warmth as a shadow passed overhead before looping back around, growing steadily larger. Pip made a frantic dash back to his burrow and dived inside just in time to escape the inquisitive beak that poked in after him. But something wasn't right. The tunnel was the wrong shape and was missing the grass lining. Pip considered the conundrum. Could he risk going back outside? He suppressed a shudder as an image of a long, sharp beak flashed through his mind, and started shuffling further in. "What are you doing here?" demanded a rabbit in the corner, harried by the many children that covered her. "Sorry, I think I came in the wrong burrow. "Is there another way out?" Her expression softened as she registered the quiver in his voice. "You can try that way," she said, shifting under the mass of young rabbits to point. "But it's a bit of a warren down here." "I'll show him," one of the young rabbits squeaked. "No Kit, you're not ready to go out alone." "But Muuuumm, I won't be alone. And he needs help." "Fine," she sighed. "But show him to the entrance and come right back. No going outside." Kit leapt up. "Okay Mum," he said, before turning towards Pip. "Come on, it's this way." They made their way through the maze of tunnels until they reached an opening. Pip paused to say thank you, but the words caught in their beak as Kit continued on. "I thought you were meant to stop here," he called after the young rabbit. "Pfft, if I always did what she said I'd never have any fun. Besides, I want to make sure you get home safely." "Well, thanks," Pip said, hopping after him. "I suppose --" A screech cut him off, accompanied by an approaching shadow. He was almost back at the burrow entrance when he noticed Kit wasn't with him - his new friend was cowering in the grass, a large gull circling overhead. Without stopping to think, Pip charged across the ground beating his wings as hard as he could and soon found himself climbing into the air. But there was no time to enjoy his first flight; he had to help Kit. He dived towards the gull, pulling away at the last second. On the next attempt his feet brushed the wings of the monstrous bird but still it ignored him. Despair was starting to creep in when two other puffins joined the fray. One of them flung their beakful of sandeels over the gull while the other flew underneath to block the view of the young rabbit. The rain of food proved enough of a distraction as the gull chased the falling fish, allowing the three puffins to glide down to the ground in relative safety. Pip landed next to Kit and gently nudged him with his beak. "It's safe. You should probably hurry home." Kit's eyes darted around as he nodded at Pip before racing away. Pip allowed himself a small chuckle, it would be a while before Kit ignored his mother again. As he turned his attention to his saviours, joy filled his heart. "Mama! Papa!" "You gave us quite a fright young man!" his father scolded, eyes boring into Pip. His mother hopped towards him, pushing her head gently into his. "Yes, but did you see that stupendous first flight?" "Yes, yes, very good. Even if it did lose us our dinner. Now what do you say we go home? I've had enough excitement for one day." "Me too," Pip agreed, feeling the truth of the words in his chest as they made their way to the *correct* burrow entrance. \*\*\* This story was written for the WP Hub's Secret Santa Story Exchange. The constraints were given to me by and were: \- Includes: A bird features in some way or another \- Words: 'inquisitive', 'harried', 'stupendous', 'aristocratic' or 'conundrum' are included \- Action: Someone gets a tad (or fairly, or extremely) lost.


#Hello r/Shortstories! For the last four months, we’ve been running a here on the sub. I’ve had the pleasure of watching numerous writers build an entire world from scratch, and I’ve watched their characters grow and develop as they’ve faced different challenges. I’ve seen each and every SerSun participant improve week to week and it’s been a delightful experience. I’m back again to celebrate another writer completing their serial! Let’s take a moment to say to u/mattswritingaccount! He’s been a part of the WP family for quite a long while now and an active participant in our discord. I’ve enjoyed getting to him and he’s a delight to have in the community.   ***   #Have Skeleton, Will Travel - Written by u/mattswritingaccount If you haven’t yet read the latest installments of his serial, I encourage you to check it out. Take an afternoon, kick your feet up, and dive in. **A brief synopsis from Matt:** Short version? *Have Skeleton, Will Travel* is about the life and times of a wandering skeleton that is new to this whole "undead sentience" thing. Basically, poor Larry was murdered and brought back to life to serve (albeit for a very short amount of time) as one of the mindless servants to a necromancer. When the necro died, Larry for whatever reason didn't dis-animate. And that's where we start things off. It's mainly a fun little look at turning a fantasy world on its head. - - - - - - - - - - - -   ***   #A Chat with u/mattswritingaccount about Serial Writing So let’s take a few minutes to chat with Matt about his experiences writing a serial. ##**What have you learned throughout the serial writing process?** Well, I did this serial specifically to get some practice with writing humor. It's not a main focus in my personal writing most of the time, so I wanted an outlet to specifically focus on it. I wasn't sure if I could translate some of my oftentimes-dry attempts at humor to the written word. So it definitely was fantastic practice for that. ##**What did you enjoy most about writing this?** There were two things I enjoyed about writing Have Skeleton, Will Travel. For one, I loved seeing everyone's reactions to some of the various scenes within the story. I enjoyed seeing something that I thought would be amusing hit right, and when it hit wrong - it leads me to my second thing. The feedback I got from the other writers, between comments on the threads or via SerSunday Campfire, were ABSOLUTELY invaluable. And that applies to both this writing as well as my other works. One other aspect I enjoyed about the story came from the Campfire presentations. Initially, the first few chapters were read outloud by other readers and it was fun to see how far into the story they got before having to suppress a chuckle. ##**What was the biggest challenge you faced and how did you overcome it?** The biggest challenge, for me, was getting in a humor mindset in the first place. I have a very dry humor honed through way too much exposure to things like Monty Python and the Princess Bride. I wasn't sure if I could DO a humorous piece at all. As to how I overcame it, well... I'm also really stubborn. So I figured darn the torpedoes and just dived in with both feet. ##**What advice would you give to writers who are thinking about writing a serial for the first time?** For one, you definitely want to at least try it. Just like trying a new vegetable when you were a kid, you never know what's going to hit without trying it. If all else fails, you can always just shrug and say, welp, I tried - instead of just wondering "what if" forever. If you're having issues figuring out how to do a serial, you could approach it this way. If you've been on WritingPrompts for a while, you've likely written a short story or three for various prompts. Well, a serial then is nothing more than a 500-850 short story, weekly, with the same characters. As long as there is SOME tieback to the previous versions, you're already set. I HIGHLY encourage people to give it a try. It was a lot of fun that I will definitely be doing again - about the time Larry's ready for round two.   ***   Thank you so much, Matt, for giving us a peek behind the curtain, as they say. It has been such a joy to watch your story evolve over the past few months. Larry is a character that will stay with a lot of us for a long time. I wish you the best of luck on your future projects. And maybe we’ll see you around Serial Sunday again.   ***   ###Subreddit News - We’ve recently updated our subreddit rules. Please take a moment to or take a look at our sidebar. - Try your hand at serial writing with - Sharpen your micro-fic skills by participating in our brand new feature, - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


"Christ alive, it's a busy one today" "Yep. I guess all those sick bastards have to come somewhere, right?" "So let's see what we have today. 412 rapists, 982 thieves, 636 killers, and 290 animal abusers. and that's just the morning batch!" "Dave. We're literally in hell. Why do you sound so surprised? Were you expecting priests?" "We actually have a few of those too" "Funny. Just hurry up and process them. We can't have the reception area too full, for long - we need to keep this shit going smoothly. Satan is on my ass. Why am I even telling you this? You've been doing this for 10,000 years. You should know the drill by now. Anyway, I need to head to management. There's been a mix up in torture routines. 300 liars got castrated and 200 rapists got their tongues ripped out. It's a fucking shit-show. Loads of paperwork. Get these bastards processed and to their torture chambers ASAP." "Yeah, yeah I'll see you later." Bob snapped his fingers and was reduced to ashes in an instant. Dave stood there for a moment, reluctant to begin the task set before him. He groggily made his way back to his desk and collapsed onto the chair. In front of him, was a line of human beings that stretched as far as his eye could see. Dave sighed. "NEXT" He shouted. A man approached Dave's desk. He was middle-aged, short, fat and balding with a tragic comb-over. He wore a blood-stained suit and was genuinely looking a little shaken. "Full name and Date of birth please," Dave said in a monotone voice. "r..r..r..ryan a..adams" 12th of the 3rd 1969." "hmm.. ryan.... ryran...Ah! Ryan! Here we go. First-degree murder of your wife. Sin-date 23rd of 2nd 1997. Place your left hand here on the outline." Dave gestured to the outline of a hand on the left corner of the desk. "Please..wait.. you don't understand.. I was drunk.. I caught her chea-" Dave interrupted. "Place your hand HERE" Dave pointed firmly again to the outline of a hand on the desk. Ryan sheepishly lifted his arm up and slowly placed his left hand on the desk, while looking ever so squeamish. Dave opened the draw and selected the appropriate branding iron. He took it out the drawer and slammed the burning hot end onto Ryan's hand, with a great force. Ryan tried to pull back but a strange force was keeping his hand stuck to the table. He released the loudest screech Dave had ever heard, and within seconds, vanished into nothing. "He'll love it here." Dave thought. "..NEXT..." It had been 96 hours. Dave was tired and practically falling asleep. He had gotten through 1048 candidates. "NEXT" He shouted. Only this time, no one moved. "NEXT!" Dave shouted even louder. Again, the line remained the same and no one moved. "HELLO? I SAID NEXT! WHY AREN'T YOU MOVING FORWARD?" Sat from his desk, he made eye contact with the person next in line. "What's going on!? Hello?? Why aren't you moving forward?" Dave questioned. He could see the human looking visibly confused. Dave sat there for a moment wondering what the actual hell was going on. "Hello? I'm talking to you? Do you understand?" Dave was more confused than angry. The individual at the front of the line seemed to only get more anxious and kept nervously looking away. Dave was absolutely stumped. He grew angry. As he opened his mouth and drew breath to shout his next word, he heard a strange sound. He stopped and remained silent for a moment, waiting to hear if the noise repeated itself. "Meow" Dave froze. He sat in his chair, mind racing. A sound he hasn't heard in over 7000 years seemed to be coming from right in front of him. Dave slowly stood up and by Satan as his witness, there it was. A small black cat, licking its paws less than half a meter from his desk. He had almost forgotten what a cat looked like. The only thing he could think of; "This isn't possible. Animals are forbidden from entering hell. Yet here one was?" Without breaking his gaze from the feline, he felt for the contact switch on the underside of his desk and flipped it. Seconds later, a booming voice echoed from the fiery skies. "Dave, you fucking moron, what is it? This better be good!" Bob was known to be a dick. "Bob. I don't really know how to say this. So I'll just be direct. There's a cat at the front of the line." There was silence. "So you really think I have time to play these stupid games with you." Replied bob in an aggressive manner. "Bob, there's a fucking cat down here. It's looking right at me. It's sat at the front of the line. Can you please get down here right now." This time bob sensed the desperate tone in Dave's voice. The echoing voice disappeared and in an instant appeared Bob, from a fiery ball of ash. Dave and Bob, stood next to each other dumbfounded. Both of them were speechless. None of them could believe what they were seeing. After 10 minutes of staring Bob finally mustered up the energy to speak. "It's a cat. An actual fucking cat. Here. In Hell? No animal has ever been sent to hell. It's forbidden.. Just... how..? I've been here for almost 450 thousand years. I...I don't know what to do.." "Maybe it can talk? Shall we ask it something? Maybe it's some sort of super demon?" suggested Dave. He was knew he was grasping at straws here. They both had no clue. With his heart pounding Dave moved a little closer to the small animal, who was currently cleaning its crotch. "w..w..w..who..are.. y....y..you? whimpered Dave. The cat stopped. Looked up at Dave. The feline nimbly jumped up onto the desk and regained direct eye contact. It opened it's mouth and said; "Well, I thought you'd never ask.


"A sentinel is never corrupted. A sentinel never falters A sentinel never fears A sentinel is never defeated If a sentinel falls Another will take his place We are the gate of mankind The spear that keeps the darkness at bay And if the last flame fades A sentinel will avenge it. " He kept whispering, every word, every phrase, he said them in sequence. Perhaps in the vain hope his sacred oath would save him, or at least keep him in the right direction, but the darkness did no favors, he could barely see up to two feet. The loud, frantic steps on dry leaves, fallen branches and pointed stones made him more and more terrified, he could not find the path he was going through anymore, his despair had already dissipated and now it was sheer terror, he hits himself against a tree while searching for the lost path, falling from his back. He tries to get up, prostrating under the tree he had just hit, "A sentinel ... is never corrupted" he repeats to himself, standing again. He took a few cautious strides, and listened to the sound of leaves breaking behind him. A rush of adrenaline stirs him and he pulls out his spear with shaking hands, "A sentinel never falters," he says in a low voice while turning to the sounds direction, trying to accompany it. The alternation between falling branches randomly, sounds of metal objects creaking in the wood of the trees around him, did not allow him to focus on only one side, he spinned on his own axis, trying to look for the source of such diabolical sounds. "A sentinel never fears," he says in a muffled voice, swallowing saliva and keeping a defensive pose, years of training will not be thrown away, he thought. A full moon night favored him, but the clouds capped any lunar light that could be of service, except for a brief moment, a small crack in the heavy clouds made it possible to see clearly for a moment, and there it was, the trail, mere yards ahead. "A sentinel is never defeated," and he sets off on the road, he could hear other steps following behind him, they were heavy, incongruous, they did not follow any apparent rhythm, when he thought he was about to be reached, they seemed to be far away again . He needed time, he knew that his companions were far, and that he needed to mislead whatever it is that had been following him this whole time. He held up his spear with only one hand and reached into his coat with the other, pulling a canister with a reddish liquid, "If a sentinel falls," he says, tossing it deftly toward his follower. A bright red glare rises from the trees, a shrill and deafening cry takes the surroundings, He knew that he should not look back, but the morbid curiosity overcame him, and he tries to catch a glimpse. What his eyes caught in that fraction of a second he saw the creature could not be conceived by the human mind, he gasps and his heart pound on the chest, "Another ... will take ... his place," the phrase involuntarily escapes in a moment of horror, his legs become wobbly, but they manage to keep their frail run as much as they can, the arrhythmic steps had ceased after the creature's frightening scream. Slowing his pace out of sheer exhaustion, he pulls a wineskin from his waist, taking long, slow gulps of water, gasps again, this time with some relief, resuming his accelerated walk. He could feel the trail getting more open and cared for, more smooth stones and ancient writings determined that he was close to safety, he loosened his grip on the spear and noticed that his fingers were completely bloody, he had held so tightly that didn't even notice the wood ripping through the skin. But he continued, strong winds against his path swayed the great trees around him, old leaves were plucked and flew, branches of dead trees fell suddenly, but in the distance, he heard something different. The sound of a tree breaking and falling, but in a way more violent manner, he tries to make some sense of where it came from, but the darkness, despite more mild since the sun was about to come up, still made it ardous to see properly. An unconfortable silence is instigated instantly, and from his peripheral vision, observes something coming at unbelievable speed, he didn't even had time to get down, as a wooden trunk passes inches from his head, violently hitting the tree behind his back, it seemed to have been thrown like a toy, he points his spear from where the log had came from, "We are the gate of mankind", he shouts as the creature approached at ungodly speed. When the beast was barely in front of him, he applies a desperate thrust with his spear, but it passes by cutting wind, he is thrown away with a strong hit, flying meters from the ground and falling between the stones of the trail, one of them pierces his right leg, he uttered a cry of grotesque pain, but despite it, he knew that the creature would come to finish his work, he manages to stand up with one of his legs, picking up his spear that had fallen beside him, keeping it at his front, he could hear a loud breathing nearby, stalking him, "The spear that keeps the darkness at bay," he says firmly. The first step is taken by the creature, but he could not see where, his teeth squeak with anger and pain, a second step is given, this time closer, heavier, accompanied by a strong, rough breath, the third step was loud, it was evident that the creature was right in front of him, enjoying its prey, "And if the last flame fades," he says, his eyes fixed on that thing that he could now see clearly, then came the forth step. "A sentinel will avenge it.


# <The Last Bavarian Supper Club> WC: 3510 ## PROLOGUE The Parisian night traffic looked pretty from Bette Glass's apartment but she hated the noise. Even drawing the curtains over the tall windows did little to muffle the honking horns of cars and scooters. Tucking a curl of black hair behind her ear, Bette peered through a sliver between the window and the fabric and caught a glimpse of herself, superimposed like a spectre over the City of Lights. She sighed and put on a long coat before walking to the door. Perhaps it was one particularly jarring sound that distracted her long enough to miss a shadow flitting on the other side of the peep hole. When she opened the door Bette was met with a silencer on her temple. Neither Bette nor the bullet were louder than a whisper. Small but deadly, the hole it made barely bled as she fell to her knees, then crumpled backwards in the doorway. With the grace of a cat, the killer stepped over her body and dragged her back in. They wiped the gun with a cloth and placed it in Bette's lifeless hand and searched her coat. A single slip of paper with the number *419* written on it was enough to make the call.   Four kilometers away, Francis DiMarco lit another cigarette in an alley on Rue l'Oie. His eyes burned as he pulled a drag. *Damn the French and their fucking unfiltered smokes*, he thought. He'd been buying *Galloises* for a year now and he still couldn't get used to them. Not like the cheap gas station menthols he craved. These went straight to his head. He was glad they burned fast and dim. He flicked the butt into the dark alley and checked the streets. A quiet night. Only a few buildings with lights on dotted the other side. Walking with practiced stealth, approached an unmarked wood door and knocked four times. "*Oui?" asked a brusque voice on the other side. Francis cleared his throat and wished he could quit smoking. "Islands in the stream, that is what we are," he sang. When the familiar series of locks clacked free and the door creaked open, he stepped inside. The tuxedo'd doorman smiled. "Monsieur DiMarco, so good to see you again," he said. "Are we expecting guests tonight?" "No Martin, no guests tonight. Are the others..." "Already upstairs. We are only waiting for Mademoiselle Glass now." Francis raised an eyebrow. "That's surprising." "May I take your coat?" Martin offered his arm and Francis draped his trench coat over it. The pair walked to a stairwell and ascended to the second floor to *Chez Traversier*. The restaurant borrowed heavily from the American phenomenon of pop-ups, catering to wealthy diners who'd sought new, fresh experiences that were different from the traditional trappings of fine dining establishments or the wrought iron bistros that bordered *Les Halles*. For tourists, they'd say. Each night, *Chez Traversier* opened in a new location in Paris: sometimes in an existing storefront, sometimes in a stranger's kitchen, and never advertised. Instead, the location was conveyed in code within the pages of *Le Monde*. While the cuisine might not have won any Michelin stars, it promised a type of conspicuous exclusivity that many people—mostly the rich—admired and sponsored. Secrecy had been part of its allure. It certainly was for the Supper Club. Tonight, *Chez Traversier* had bloomed into existence in an old safe house once owned by the German Intelligence agency. Francis recognized the unmistakably minimalist aesthetic. In his experience, every spy in the field eventually got a little homesick. Martin ushered him past closed doors where other diners ate in seclusion. French, British, and Yiddish voices filtered through the cracks. Nothing compelling that he could discern at least. "Quite the international crowd," he said. Martin said nothing and instead, opened a white door close to the end of the hallway. Inside, a dozen club members chatted at a long table. Wine flowed from an equal number of bottles. "Bon appetit, Monsieur DiMarco," he said as he left. Francis found an open seat nearest to the window and as he took it, the woman next to him filled a glass with burgundy wine. "I hate this seat." "Am I such terrible company, Francis? I promise not to chew your ear off. Not unless you want me to," she purred with a wry smile. Her hand found his lap. Angelique was never one to mince words nor waste time. "The window," he said with a glance over his shoulder. Amber light percolated up from the street and cast the window panes in shadows. He'd spent most of his adult life observing others, reporting what he'd seen, people who lived, loved, and died while he silently recorded them for his superiors. For him, windows were a vulnerability. "Well *mon cher*, you should try to arrive on time next time. At least you're not last." She pointed to the empty chair against the wall, offering a skewed vantage at the window. The Supper Club was not a meritocracy, and Last Person Lookout duty was generally considered to be the worst way to spend the night. A night with Angelique was a close second. Francis checked the time. It was only a few minutes after meeting should started but the president's absence made him uneasy. He'd been on edge ever since he heard the rumor about the club in Hamburg and he planned on asking questions tonight. The nature of their organization kept members in the dark for everyone's sake. But these were uncertain times. Clarity would go a long way to assuage his fears: what did she know, were *they* in danger? "It's not like Bette to be late." The door opened and Martin appeared with a retinue of white gloved servers. Each man, carrying a plate covered with silver cloche, walked behind a diner and when Martin nodded, placed the first course on the table in unison. As they lifted the covers, buttery steam wafted from underneath. "Tonight we start with fondant potatoes in a beurre blanc sauce, topped with caviar. *Bon apetit*." As the last server exited, Martin closed the door. Conversations died down as the club members tucked into the dish. Angelique closed her eyes as a morsel passed her lips and she let out the softest of moans. She looked at Francis with sultry, half open eyes. "Delicious. Sweet, salty, creamy. I just know you'll enjoy it," she said, gripping his leg like a bear with a salmon. She leaned back and her earring, a small fortune in diamonds and precious metals, glinted with a flash of red light. A laser beam. Francis moved without thinking. He shoved her, hard and fast until she fell backwards to the floor and shouted, "Gun!" Bullets sprayed though the window and found a home in his back. Angelique screamed and crawled towards the exit. As Francis gasped for breath, he watched as more members fell to unseen attackers. "It's locked!" Angelique yelled, rattling the door knob. Smoke seeped in from the crack under the door and sat on the floor, frozen. A man dropped his shoulder and barreled into the door until the room shook. Blood made Francis's voice gravelly. "Stop, they're right-" The man broke through and blue-white flames engulfed his body. A stream of fire spat through the hole he'd made and the room flickered in smoke. Francis struggled to stay conscious but managed to look at Angelique, arms crossed over her chest, still trembling against the wall. *This. This was the worst way to spend the night.*   *** ## ONE No matter what time he arrived, Hektor always managed to find the absolute worst cart in corral at Restaurant Reload. The one he'd selected today squeaked like a colony of rats and wobbled on six partially rolling wheels. It was half covered in chipped paint, rust, and shipping labels too sticky to remove by the warehouse workers who were too busy to care anyway. As he flashed his tax card to the doorman, Bernice hopped on the other end of the cart and held the rail like a playground jungle gym. He couldn't fault her. If he'd been forced to buy wholesale ingredient for the family restaurant as a child, he'd look for a way to play too. His sister Greta had been bringing Bernice ever since her husband left them. Her mother pulled her off and the nine-year old stumbled backwards onto the concrete floor. Greta kept her from falling but shook her straight. "Watch your feet, Bernice! Do you want to break them? You know you're not supposed to jump on the carts." "Yes, Mom," said the child, stretching the words like saltwater taffy. Hektor pushed the cart to a pallet loaded with fifty-pound bags of onions. "How much do you have to get today?" she asked as he wrangled two bags onto the cart. "The usual, Bee." He licked the end of his pen and crossed out a row in a small notepad. The menu at Greens hadn't changed in years. Meat, veggies, and starch. The classic triad arranged generously on a platter simply worked, whether it was beef, chicken, pork or fish. No one would have accused him of following trends. The recipes had worked well enough for his father, back in the days when the old man ran Greens with a meaty fist and bellowing voice. Back then, Hektor, Sr., an imposing man in a permanently stained apron, commanded the kitchen. Suppliers would drive their best ingredients *to him* and he'd check each crate like a military general inspecting his troops. The idea of driving a minivan to a wholesale warehouse would have killed him if he weren't already dead. Greta helped Bernice put on an over-sized orange jacket and walked her into the refrigerated side of the building. Hektor followed and the whir of overhead fans dampened the sounds of the wheels. Cases of iceberg lettuce teetered on a nearby pallet after other customers had pulled them out like bricks in Jenga. Hektor wished he had time to examine the product, to select one with the best looking lettuce, but it would mean more time for Bernice too. The little girl's patience for cold was demonstrably short. The cart wobbled less after it had been fully loaded. Sixty dozen eggs weighed a lot. When the final item had been scanned Hektor looked at the register: $549.40. He scribbled down the number in another part of the notebook where he tracked expenses and then opened a bank bag of cash. Everything was costing more. "We really need to push the specials," he said to Greta as he loaded the last giant tub of mayonnaise. "We can't afford to have a bad week." "When have we ever?" Hektor suspected that she already knew the answer. Being the older sibling meant she saw more of the restaurant's logistics than he did growing up. She was always smarter. As they drove away, back towards Providence and the restaurant, Hektor wondered how long it'd take for her pride to wear out and just sell the damn place. They pulled into the parking lot and the minivan lurched over a pothole. The heavy load, already taxing the vehicle's shocks and springs, made sure that Hektor felt it. He drove around to the back entrance and when he stopped, he gave the keys to Bernice. "Go ahead and unlock the door for me, Bee." She puffed up in her seat and returned a sharp salute. "Yes sir, Uncle H!" As the van door slid open she hopped out and mumbled to herself: "One nine o two. One nine o two." "You got it, sweetie," Greta called. "Just remember to press star after putting in the code." "Got it, Mom!" Hektor watched her spin the keys and he sighed. "She's a good kid, Greta. The best. She shouldn't be spending her Saturday mornings loading lettuce into a walk-in cooler." Greta kept her gaze on the restaurant door. "I know, but be honest. You'd miss her. Even when she's complaining she's still helping out. Pretty soon she'll be old enough to look after herself at home." "How's school going?" "The same," she replied. "Still having trouble making friends." "Having a free weekend could help. Maybe she could do a play date or something." Greta laughed and opened the door. "She's not a child. I mean she is, but she hasn't been on a play date in years. I can't even remember the last birthday party she was invited to." The thought saddened him. Hektor knew they had it rough, just like every other small business owner in town. Food costs and national chains were killing them. The only way to stay afloat was to save where they could, including doing more labor by themselves. He popped the trunk and hefted a case of raw beef. A trill of beeps came from the restaurant backdoor and Bernice came out, propping it open with a brick. "Go help your mother," Hektor said, gesturing back to the minivan with his chin. Inside, Hektor's shoes squeaked on the old tile floor. Overhead florescent bulbs bathed the kitchen in sterile white light and the stainless steel surfaces gleamed. The back of the house at Greens wasn't tiny, but it wasn't grand either. It comfortably fit Hektor, three line cooks, Lucy on apps, and a rotating crew of servers. Most of them had been with Greens for years. In Lucy's case, she'd been hired by his father as a teenager and never left. Balancing on one leg, he kicked the cooler handle and a chill air filtered through the plastic curtain. Something inside had spoiled. "Jesus," he muttered as he dropped the case. His nose crinkled as he sniffed the shelves to find what had gone south. He didn't have to look long. A half-eaten egg salad sandwich sat on top of a soup kettle drop-in, wet and uncovered. Greta entered the walk-in and winced. "Oh, oof." "Who was cleaning last night?" he asked, holding the plate at arm's length. "Barry. Pretty sure it was Barry. Good God, that stinks." Hektor took it to the sink and ran the water as he scraped the mushy sandwich down the drain. Yellow and green egg salad smeared along his fingers and he did his best to hold his breath. It didn't help. The rank odor sat in his nostrils waiting for an opening. He would have tossed the whole thing, plate and all, into the dumpster outside if he could afford it. But every plate counted. The food counted. Everywhere he looked the restaurant seemed to ooze with waste. He looked at the shift chart on the wall and read Barry's name next to tomorrow. Tearing him a new one would have to wait. Lucy arrived soon after he finished rotating the pantry shelves to surface the older ingredients. She tucked her curly gray hair into a net and tied on an apron before stopping at the cooler door. "What died in there?" Hektor looked up from a bin of onions he was going to slice. "Barry." "Barry's dead? Sweet. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy." Lucy and Barry used to fight like cats until Greta separated their shifts. The rumor was they'd slept together his first week on the job and worse, that he was terrible lover. Lucy held an empty plastic bin and waved it as if the walk-in was on fire. When she returned, it was full of vegetables and a slab of bacon. "Who else is here?" she asked. "Greta. Bee. Why?" She pointed outside. "There's another car in the lot. I didn't know if you were hiring." Hektor put down the knife and onion and wiped his hands as he walked towards the front of the house. The dining room was split into thirds: the bar area in the front, a larger room with booths and tables, and a back room with a large heavy table and bench seating. He remembered serving booze to business men there as a child, when he was not much older then Bernice. Later, his father would tell him that those men in sharp Armani suits were part of the local mob. The "Oak Room" was rarely used these days. He stepped into the vestibule and sure enough, a black Lincoln Towncar idled in the closest parking spot. Tinted windows prevented him from seeing inside but as soon as he unlocked the front door the car's engine turned off. A man wearing glasses and a jacket over a URI sweatshirt stood up from the driver's side. He looked over and gave a little wave. "Can I help you?" Hektor asked. Whoever he was, the man wasn't local. A professor maybe? If he was from the region, he'd learned to drop the Rhode Island accent. "I hope so. I am interested in reserving this space for an event. Several, actually. Contingent upon your services and availability, of course. Are you the owner?" *Reservations*. Hektor felt like he hadn't heard that word in forever and a smile crept over his face. "That's great! Yeah, I'm Hektor Green," he said, offering his hand. Despite the stranger's small slender hands, he had a firm grip. "My name is Brian. Brian Lauer." "Good to meet you! Do you want to come in and check out the, uh, facilities?" Brian dipped his head in a slight bow and said, "That would be delightful." Once inside, Hektor noticed every flaw, chipped table and mote of dust in the room. He prayed that Brian didn't notice. "So what kind of gathering are you looking for? Something big? Fifty, or a hundred people?" "Twelve. Give or take a few. I host a weekly gathering called the Bavarian Supper Club." Hektor smiled but his heart sunk. A dozen people weren't going to save his business. "That's terrific. You won't find better German food anywhere else. And I think you're going to like our back room. It's surprisingly spacious, comfortable, and private." He led Brian past the bar and flipped a switch in the Oak Room, then mentally cursed himself for not dusting it. Brian walked around the table, seeming to scan every corner of the space. As he opened his mouth to say something the radio in the kitchen turned on full blast. Lucy was in a groove. "Will you excuse me, for just a moment," Hektor said. He stormed into the kitchen and ripped the radio out of the wall. "Hey! What the hell, man?" "We've got a guy checking us out for a booking," he barked back, pointing at the swing doors. "Can you keep it down for like, ten minutes?" "Jesus, alright. You scared me half to death." When Hektor returned he found Brian examining a framed newspaper article. His father had been recognized for his service to the community. It had been a while since Hektor looked at the picture of his father with his million dollar smile. "Is that you?" Brian asked, pointing to the little boy in the picture. "Me and my sister. We both own Greens." "That is a blessing, to pass on a place like this to future generations. Your father must be proud." "I'd like to think so," Hektor replied. He did feel like explaining more. "Now, what dates were you looking to book? I can take a look at our calendar now for you." "Next Saturday, if it's not too soon. My group typically dines from seven until ten. I do apologize for such short notice. If it helps, I'd be willing to pay more than your customary deposit." Brian pulled a folio wallet from his jacket and thumbed out three thousand-dollar bills. "Will this be enough?" *Mob. He must be with the mob*, Hektor thought. "Y-you're most kind, Mr. Lauer. Sure. We'll be ready for you." "Excellent! And please call me Brian. Only the government calls me Mr. Lauer." They shared a laugh while Hektor tried to suppress his urge to run. Brian took a menu and promised to call later to clear any special requests. When the Towncar finally pulled out of the parking lot, Hektor's shoulders sagged. "Did you book it?" Lucy asked as he returned to the kitchen. He nodded and opened a filing cabinet. "Next Saturday," he said as he opened a three-ring binder. He hadn't looked at his father's Old Old recipes in forever. "Do you know any German starters?" "Nein," she said laughing, holding a finger to her upper lip. He didn't appreciate the humor and flashing the three bills on the counter shut her up. "Are those real?" "I ran the marker on it. They're real. Even have the strip inside, see?" He held one to the light and let her find the security tag running vertically in the bill. "Tell me, do you know what kind of man carries crisp thousand dollar bills like they were twenties?" "No, what kind?" Hektor made finger guns and pointed them at her. "A seriously connected man.