The Leaking Pipe That bloody pipe had leaked again. Amanda set down her basket of laundry and looked up at the perpetrator. It had to be one of two pipes which ran parallel across the ceiling of the garage, directly above this morning’s pool of water. Similar pools had been appearing in the same spot for several days now, and Amanda had had quite enough. Leaking pipes were an inconvenience the Harrison household could do without right now. She had wanted to mention the problem to Neil, but these days he returned home from work so sad, that she had thought better of it. He had more important things to worry about than a splatter of water on the garage floor. So Amanda had set about solving the problem herself. The night before, when Neil had retired to bed, Amanda had taken several wads of cotton wool and taped them to the pipes’ joints. This simple test would determine the precise location of the leak. But the wads of cotton wool were all dry. Amanda prodded them all again, but they were still fluffy - they were all exactly as she had left them last night, and yet, the leak had negated the test and found its way to the water deposit on the floor. How strange. She continued to the washing machine, an old thing located on the far side of the garage, and spared the leaking plumbing no further thought as her husband had himself got up and left for work. The garage was built into the house, and had not been used to store a car in some time. The metal garage-door, painted a pale blue from the outside, hadn’t been opened in years, meaning the only entrance in constant use was the door at the back, which led to the rest of the house via a hallway at the base of the home’s staircase. Amanda only used the garage for the washing machine, which was a task performed each morning after her husband had departed for work. It wasn’t until mid-morning, when the washing machine stopped churning, that Amanda pondered what to do next with her problem. Calling in a professional would be expensive, and she’d never shield the costs from Neil. He’d ask why she hadn’t just told him. There was Brian next door. A builder by trade but surely he would tighten a loose joint for them? She wondered if he was on a job this morning. It had to be worth a phone call. “Thanks for coming over, Brian.” “No problem, Love, sounds like a fairly routine job,” Brian didn’t take off his shoes. The garage door to the driveway hadn’t been opened in such a long time but Amanda wondered if she should have made an exception as Brian trudged his muddy work boots through the living room. Such a house-proud lady, Amanda had quickly tidied the front rooms when Brian had agreed to come over, but it was only when they approached the hall at the foot of the stairs and laid her hand on the door to the garage that she realised what a tip it was. “I must warn you, Brian, we’re due a bit of a clear-out in here.” What was she saying? She’d been to her neighbours a couple of times and he wasn’t the tidiest of people - far from it. What would he care really? But she still winced as the door opened and the stack of boxes filled of items without an otherwise home came into view. “These ones here?” he said. She nodded and he ran his hand along the lengths of both pipes. How had she let the garage get this messy? There were boxes of old clothes she could take to Oxfam, Neil’s tools she’d seen him use once, and that dog basket… they could get rid of that now as well. It had belonged to a beautiful Alsatian. “You say it leaks through the night, Amanda?” “Most nights, yes.” “It’s this pipe on the left here which runs water from the boiler to upstairs, the one next to it is for gas. You have a boiler upstairs don’t you?” “I think so.” “You do. Every time you draw a lot of water upstairs water runs through this pipe from the main tank over there. The reason it appears at night must be down to your own routine. Do you run a bath every night or something like that?” “Sometimes.” Amanda thought hard. Last night, when she’d put the cotton wool on the pipes, the floor was dry. Had she brushed her teeth before or after setting up the test? Yes, it was definitely before, she brushed hers then went whilst Neil was flossing. She used the downstairs bathroom this morning while the kettle was boiling. Perhaps Neil had used the bathroom during the night? She thought she would have heard him but then again that medication had made her such a deep sleeper. And all that still didn’t explain why the cotton wool was dry. “It might not be leaking from the obvious joints, which is why your experiment didn’t work. Sometimes a leak can run along the pipes and drip down a few metres away from the hole. Though I must admit, you can normally tell straight away.” “What about the heating, Brian? If we hadn’t used any water in the bathroom could the heating coming on this morning have caused it?” Brian laughed, as if he found Amanda’s lack of central heating knowledge highly amusing. “The heating runs on a closed system separate to your upstairs water. You wouldn’t want that mucky stuff coming out of your taps let me tell you that.” “Brian. I am sure we didn’t use any water last night after I’d checked the garage. But this morning there was a puddle on the floor.” “Well, Amanda, if that’s true I can say with certainty that your puddle isn’t coming from these pipes.” Drip! Drip! Drip! Amanda dreamt of leaking pipes and puddles that night. It was the sort of awake where a person was very tired, but knew they wouldn’t get back to sleep for hours. She shouldn’t have had that coffee so late last night. That was stupid. She turned to cuddle her husband, but her hands only hit cold pillow. He was probably in the bathroom. Amanda needed a glass of water. She reached for the light, and then for her slippers and robe. Her soles flopped along the carpet, the slippers were tatty. She supposed that slippers would last a while longer now that there was no dog in the house. When she reached the landing, she noticed that the bathroom light was off, and the first inkling that something was wrong. Where was Neil? At the bottom of the stairs, the crack around the sides of the garage door revealed that it was on. She grabbed the handle, wondering what the hell was going on. And there she found Neil, clasping something in his trembling hands. It was a box, printed with a floral pattern. She could just about read the words printed in gold on top: Our loving pet, rest in peace, Cassy. She knelt next to her husband, underneath a pair of copper pipes, and cradled his head upon her chest as he sobbed.


Haunted House Some people swore that the house was haunted—certainly years of neglect and an assortment of decaying junk in the garden made it look the part—but it was Mrs McKinnet who transformed her run-down house into something that truly terrified the neighborhood children. She barely spoke to anyone, and had the kind of severe demeanor that could make any child wonder what she might do if she caught you on her property. And she was old—old enough that she did look rather like a corpse. That meant, of course, that we had to go. Three girls, nerving ourselves up to do something to prove that we too could have an adventure just like the characters in the books we read. We resolved to sneak into her garage after school. It was a dare, but a tame one compared to tackling the house itself. We climbed the fence at the back, negotiated an overgrown blackberry bush, and turned the handle of the door at the back of the garage. It was open. Perhaps that should have been a warning sign. We ventured inside. Inside were dusty shelves of neatly packed items; boxes of clothes and decorations and papers and discarded appliances. We filed past them silently, like we were in a museum, or in a church looking at mystical sacred objects. In the center of the garage was a 1930s Buick, perfect and gleaming like it was fresh from the showroom. I took it all in silently, the giant trunk, the shining chrome, the small rear window. And then as I moved to better see the side of the car I saw her—Mrs McKinnet, sitting motionless and impassive on the back seat. I stopped in my tracks. I thought for a moment that she was dead, but she turned, just slightly, and her eyes locked with mine. I screamed and we turned and ran. Dianne and Amy didn't believe I could have seen her. They told me the car was empty, that I had been scared, and they mocked me for it. I didn't answer. I had seen her eyes. I had seen her sadness and regret; somehow I knew that she had tried to hold on to some happy memory so tightly that it had curdled in her grasp. I can't explain why I screamed, except that it was too somehow much for me to bear. But seeing me in that moment meant nothing to Mrs McKinnet. She didn't care about anyone or anything in today's world, just some lost moment from long ago, when things were different. I had witnessed a haunting that day, not of a place but of a person—a specter of the past that wouldn't let go. I fell out with Dianne and Amy over in the following weeks. The experience had changed me and they just couldn't understand. Nothing was ever the same again after that.


“You literally have a superpower,” TJ argued. “That’s cool!” “But it’s

not a cool superpower. It’s not like I can fly or shoot lasers from my eyes or something,” Chloe sighed. She was walking home from school with her best friend. They were very different, she and TJ. She was tall and blond with the awkward gait of someone who grew too fast and didn't quite know what to do with their body. She was bookish and introverted, not much into sports and preferred the company of butterflies to humans.

TJ, on the other hand, was athletic and gregarious. He loved to be outside and a sport had a ball, he was good it. He made friends easily and loved people. They were friends because their parents were friends and they’d grown up together. Chloe was a faithful fan whenever TJ was in a soccer match or baseball game and cheered like she knew what was happening on the field. TJ was willing to go on solo hikes and seek out blooming wildflowers or sit for hours staring through a pair of binoculars for an elusive species of butterfly.

That was their biggest difference though. Their biggest difference wasn’t discovered until just last week. They’d been on a hike, it being the season for the wildflowers to bloom, and Chloe had wanted to get some new photos. TJ went with her and good naturedly complained about sunburns and mosquitoes. He’d been goofing around on a rather precarious part of the trail when his foot slipped and she’d watched in horror as he tumbled over the cliff. Chloe remembered feeling a warm tingly feeling in her hands, wishing she could reach out and catch his fall when he was suddenly plopped gently back on the trail by a windswept ponderosa pine.

“You can command plants. I mean, that’s cool. Hey, can you make the grass grow and trip the other team at my soccer game tomorrow?” he asked. He had a baseball in his hand and was tossing it back and forth.

“TJ! That’s cheating!” she admonished. TJ laughed and chucked the ball toward her. She waggled her hands uselessly in the air and the ball sailed past her left ear and landed with a soft pfft in a trumpet vine. The vine reared back, tossed the ball in a perfect arc back to TJ’s waiting hands.

“Nice!” he exclaimed. Chloe sighed. The trumpet vine was more coordinated than she was.

“Stop it,” she hissed. She wanted to keep her newfound power a secret. If people knew, she’d have to go to the Superhero Academy and leave her books, her butterflies, her hikes, and her best friend behind. Students at the Superhero Academy lived up to literal superhero expectations. They solved crimes, saved hundreds from certain death, and generally kept society functioning. Chloe didn’t think she could deal with that sort of pressure. Plus, they had to wear crazy spandex suits that flattered the type of body she didn’t have.

“Chloe, you’re being ridiculous. You know you got an awesome power. You, like, command nature. That’s way better than some stupid laser eyes any day.” At that moment one of the Academy students with said laser eyes came by them on a hoverboard casually zapping bits of trash along the street, turning litter into ash. His hoverboard hit a bump and he tumbled forward accidentally zapping a newly planted maple.

“Oh no!” Chloe yelped and held out an arm. The laser sight bounced off the tree and was scattered harmlessly in the air. She could sense the tree’s great relief.

“Whoa!” TJ said, his mouth forming an “Oh” of admiration.

*****

Chloe often thought of that day, the day she was discovered and ripped from her quiet life and thrust into the busy world of the Superhero Academy. Over the past few years, she’d grown a bit taller, cut her hair, but still didn’t fill out the suit quite the way the girl who could command water did. She missed TJ terribly. She’d been taking final exams when he played in the state finals for baseball, but she’d heard from Sal (the boy who could had some kind of telescopic vision and could see for miles) that TJ hit a homerun and won the game. Sal didn’t give her this information out of kindness. He gave it to her so he could tease her about her love of the “normies.” That’s what they called people like TJ, normies. Sometimes they called her a normie too or a normie lover. She didn’t have any friends and was so busy with the demands of the academy that she hadn’t seen a butterfly or a wildflower in months. Okay, that’s not entirely true. She’d seen them, but for practice only. Poor things, subjected to her clumsy attempts at manipulating them. The flowers virtually screamed at her yesterday when she’d accidentally made a daisy drop all it’s petals. Do you want me to be naked! This is an embarrassment! The day after TJ hit the homerun she’d decided she’d had enough. She was dropping out of the academy. She went to the headmaster to declare her intentions, destined to live her life as a mediocre normie and being totally fine with it. Chloe marched down a long gray hallway. The floor virtually shimmered and she could see her reflection looking as frightened as she felt staring back at her. Chloe paused in front of the headmaster’s door and took a deep breath. The headmaster terrified her. He was a huge man of imposing strength who could tear a car in half with his bare hands. Superstrength. She knocked timidly. The door was gray like the hall and shiny. It had been cleaned recently, and not well, for Chloe could see the streaks on the surface. They marred her reflection, making her look wavy and noncorporeal, like a phantom.

There was no answer. She checked her watch. She was well within his office hours so she knocked again, louder and braver than she thought her hand could be.

“Come in!” the headmaster called. Stealing herself, Chloe went inside. The headmaster was speaking to a woman with purple hair. Chloe recognized her as a previous graduate. She’d been a senior when Chloe entered the academy for the first time. Telekinesis was her thing, Chloe thought. As if confirming, the girl twirled her fingers and sent the pens on the headmaster’s desk spinning in a complex dance.

“Alexandra!” he barked. Alexandra smirked and let the pens drop. He turned his attention to Chloe. “Yes Cleo,” he said looking disappointed that his next appointment was the girl with the plant thing.

“I’ve come to declare my intention for next year,” Chloe said. It was supposed to be her senior year. If she completed it, she’d be employed by the International Squad of Superheros or if she wished to further her studies, would be granted permission to attend the Superhero School for Advanced Heroics. She’d never been told of a third option. She knew if you got kicked out, you got sent to some sort of facility where they would rid you of your power before dropping you back into society. She’d heard it was quite painful but was willing to endure a few hours pain in exchange for a life she was happy leading.

“I’m going back. To Newland High School,” she said. “That’s not an option,” the headmaster said silkily, carefully arranging the pens Alexandra had deposited.

“You want to be a normie?” she said with a laugh.

“Yes,” Chloe said, definitely thrusting her chin forward.

“Not an option,” the headmaster growled. “We keep our own with us. Once you’re with us, you don’t go back to them.” “What about the expelled students. You send them back,” Chloe argued. She noticed a ficus tree in the corner cheering her on. Alexandra and the headmaster looked at one another and laughed. “Oh I forgot how naive we all were,” Alexandra said. She turned to Chloe. “They don’t go back.” “What do you mean? Where do they go?” Chloe asked. Only one student had been expelled in the past five years. It happened before Chloe arrived so she’d only heard rumors. Some boy who could fly but who kept invading foreign airspace and almost starting at least two world wars. “They’re dead,” Alexandra said matter of factly. She waved her hands gracefully in the air and spun the headmaster’s photos of his wife and kids in the air. “Alexandra!” he yelped, plucking the picture of his wife on a beach in Bermuda out of the sky. “Knock it off!” She shrugged again and gently set the one with the kids fishing in Lake Tahoe back on the shelf. “You have them murdered!” Chloe said, the familiar tingly feeling rushing into her arms. Behind the headmaster, the ficus stirred.

“Not really murdered. I mean, it isn’t malicious. They aren’t cut out to be superheroes and it’s too dangerous to let someone with powers run around in society unchecked. They must be disposed of,” the headmaster explained. “Now tell me again Cleo” “It’s Chloe,” Alexandra corrected. “Cleo’s the one who can shrink remember?” “Right. Chloe. Anyway, Chloe, let’s try again. You’re not our strongest student, but you haven’t royally screwed up international relations yet either. I think you'd be better suited for a career at one of our outposts. How’s the Amazon? Lots of plants?” he grinned. Chloe wavered. The Amazon didn’t sound so bad. It was teeming with life. She could protect it, turn the trees against the people aiming to chop them down.

“I could protect the trees?” she asked. The headmaster laughed. “Protect the trees? You foolish girl. Trees don’t need protecting. No. There’s an issue with the natives sabotaging the logging company. We need someone to take care of that. You could be our gal?” he said this like he was offering a rare treat. Chloe stared at him, horrified. She’d have to protect the ones destroying the forests, use her powers to oust the native people and watch the beauty of nature burn. She felt a rise of anger in her chest she’d never summoned before. “No,” she said menacingly.

She thrust her hands forward and before the headmaster or Alexandra could react, the fics had locked them both in its leafy branches. Alexandra summoned all manner of office supplies, knocking the ficus with a stapler, stabbing it pointlessly with a mechanical pencil and finally smashing the headmaster’s expensive (and heavy) desk chair against the trunk. Chloe raised an eyebrow. Trees were pretty impervious to being hit with stuff, though it did tend to upset them. “You’re just making it mad you know.” She inclined her head toward the ficus as a way of thanks and marched out the headmaster’s door. “Where are you going!” the headmaster shouted trying to stop ficus leaves from being shoved up his nose. Chloe peered over her shoulder. “The Amazon,” she said with a smirk.


The boy had a pair of eyes of pure mischief and a heart of pure gold. There was something about the 23-year-old Jack that dragged people towards him. He had a spark in his smile and he was more than good-looking. There was nothing threatening about him. Nothing at all. He preferred working smart rather than working hard but he always gets his work done and that ideology of his was what made him oppose his opportunity of taking up his long-lasting family business. Jack's mother was a task manager who decides everyone's direction of life in the family and organized chores of the house. His father did nothing but work. His world lied in his business which was a soft drink manufacturing factory. He had to deal with thousands of workers in a day and he would smile only once in a while and then sink back in his work. His sister was 2 years younger than Jack and was still completing her studies. There was no scope of their parents accepting their daughter to see the world like a man or let her manage any sort of business. So, Jack had a lot of pressure on him to take up something he was not ready to. He just wanted a strong reason to oppose his family and a strong motive to prove himself right. Jack tucked himself into the blanket on his open terrace that night and the sleep pooled on his eyelids. He slowly buried in his sleep. In the middle of the night, Jack felt someone trying to wake him up by nudging his shoulder. He suddenly opened his eyes as if it was an emergency. He rubbed his eyes trying to give his brain a moment to allow his vision to be clear. His brain functioning had stopped at the exact moment when he saw a girl like an angel kneeling next to him and when her eyes met his, she smiled. "Who are you?" he asked with a confusing expression. She beamed a soft dimpled smile. With a voice not louder than a soft whisper "I'm your guardian angel. You people call us fairies," she took his hand and stood up. His stomach did a leap and a twirl all at once. "I'm definitely dreaming!" he said hiding his excitement. He was looking at her flowing black hair and her deep blue eyes. There wasn't anything magical over there like wings on her back or rainbow in the sky or any wand in her hand with a star. Everything was normal and she looked so real, her touch was real and her words were so assuring that Jack started believing her. "Why are you here?" he asked. "I'm here to guide you with your life," she said in a sweet tone. "How did you know that I needed guidance?" Jack said raising his eyebrows.	"We don't have the whole night Jack. I'm here to solve your problems and help you decide which path best suits you," she said as if she was in a hurry to disappear. "Yeah! you are right. I need this right now. How can I convince my family that I am not the worthy person to takeup our family business?" he asked without wasting the opportunity he had in his hands. "Why do you think you are not worth it?" she politely questioned him back. "I believe in luck and smart work. I don't want to lead a busy life. I've seen my father work day and night for the business and I don't wanna live such a life," Jack let out his words filled with sorrow. "You are just not interested, Jack. It doesn't mean you aren't worth it. I am giving you a secret mission for your own good Jack. Will you do it?" her words were so manipulative that Jack immediately agreed with her. "Tell your father that you wanna try how everything works in your business and that you wanna take up the business for a month," she said and started walking away. "What after that? What if my father feels I am interested in it? What if this is all a dream?" he squealed while walking after her. She turned back and gave Jack her finger ring. "This is not a dream," she said firmly and "Do what I said. I'll be there for you," she said. "Go back to sleep now," she added. Jack obeyed her orders obediently and turned back to the entrance of the terrace for her trace though he knew that she had already left. He held the ring tight in his palm and fell asleep remembering her beautiful face. He woke up just the way kings wake. He had experienced consciousness and felt blessed by realizing, the ring was still in his palm. His eyes greeted the day shine. His heart and lungs expanded. He welcomed a new day in his life, the anticipation of whatever comes. Jack went downstairs and got himself ready in a decent white shirt and blue jeans within no time. He had his sandwich and juice just in time. He was ready to leave with his father. "I'm gonna join you today. Would that be okay?" he asked his father as soon as he came into the hallway. His father wasn't a fun person but as soon as he heard Jack, he let out a wide smile and rested his hand on Jack's shoulder. Jack knew his father was proud but he couldn't resist saying that he was still not ready to takeup the business and that he just wanted to visit their factory for a month. Jack's father didn't seem to be disappointed. He at least felt happy for Jack taking an initiative and he thought it could be the beginning of something big. Jack's mother, who was looking at all this was overwhelmed with happiness and she packed some extra food for Jack. His mother's love was always a platform from where he could fly to a clear blue sky. It was the first day of Jack at their factory. Everyone greeted him with a lot of respect and admiration which showed how much they adored his father. He learned, he would gain equal respect his father had earned with his hard work. He saw how everything worked and also noticed that some techniques they were using were old but he didn't utter a word. He saved everything in his mind. All he wanted to do was complete a whole month as the fairy had advised and get out of it. He wasn't sure, what he was gonna do in his life if not for the factory. He monitored everything for twenty successful days and he even gave his father rest for a couple of shifts by playing his role, supervising the factory. He felt responsible. He was losing traces of boyhood. Bit by bit he changed tough and matured. On his twenty-first day, he couldn't resist but suggested ideas to his father which he had observed so far. The implementation took a couple of days but that decreased about half the effort and time the workers usually dedicate. All the workers appreciated Jack and his father was tremendously proud. The replacement of the old fashioned equipment was also done under Jack's assistance. Everything was great and Jack felt productive about his work. He now made their factory work easier and less hard-working.

There wasn't a night he didn't think of those pretty blue eyes of his angel. He didn't know if it was his league or not but what he knew was, the more he was thinking about her, the more he fell in love with her. He sometimes even felt that he had seen the angel in the broad daylight on the way to their factory. He knew he was falling for her even more day by day.

It was the last day of his mission. He saved one bottle of their soft drink whose bottle's design was recently changed following Jack's orders. Jack was unofficially running the business and it seemed like he was already the Chairman. He didn't even speak to his father about anything regarding him taking up the business. He was waiting very patiently for the fairy. He wanted to disclose each and every particular thing to her first. His priorities changed unknowingly. The big night has arrived, he held the ring in his fist same as the previous twenty-nine days and closed his eyes under a sky of perfect midnight. He knew his wait was over when he heard his name in the same sweet tone he was dying to hear for so long. He opened his eyes and bounced immediately to sit parallely to her. "I did it!" he shouted. "And?" she asked eagerly. "You were right. I am worthy of our business," he said. The fairy smiled, "but I don't want to take up our business. I learned about myself in this journey. That is because of you," Jack said, taking the fairy's hands in his.

The fairy's expressions showed that she wasn't expecting that. She herself seemed confused. "What do you want to do then?" she exclaimed. "I'm worth more. I am a quick learner and now I know that I deserve more. All thanks to you!" he said handing over the bottle of drink he had saved for her. She politely took it without refusing.  "What's your next move?" she asked sipping it. "I want to start my own business," he said. "Then what about this one?" she asked. "I'm going to hand it over to my sister. Now that I have made everything easier, she need not spend many hours in there. I will try to educate my parents about women empowerment and give her a chance to set an example in our society," he said which was quite impressive. "Why wouldn't you want to continue what you are good at?" she asked. "I want to start from zero and prove myself. All the respect and admiration I am receiving now are not my earnings. I want to succeed on my own skills and prove myself to this world," he said in a firm voice. "You look pretty confident," she said by raising her eyebrows for which Jack literally blushed. "What if you fail?" she questioned back, "You are not allowed to re-join your family business. Are you ready to play with these rules?" she added before he answered. "What if I win?" he seemed pretty sure on what he was going to do. "How much time do you want?" she asked. "Three months and your visit once a month," he was clear, "and... I'll ask you what I want once I succeed," he ended the conversation from his end.

"Done!" she said and asked him to lie down. He did as she said, and then she placed her warm hand on his eyes. Jack's heart pounded like never before. He could hear his own heartbeat. As his consciousness ebbed, his mind went into free fall. The next morning, Jack went downstairs and knocked on his sister's door. As soon as she opened up, he went in, and they both had a deep discussion for almost an hour. Jack came out and dressed himself up and was having his breakfast when his sister, Judy dressed herself up and joined him nervously. Jack's mother was looking at all of this surprisingly but did not try to interfere in any of it.

"What's up with you guys today?" asked Jack's father coming out of his room. "You take rest, today dad. I wanna take Judy with me today. I think that would be fine with you guys," Jack told his parents taking the lenience he had. "I'll come with you What's wrong? Why do you need your sister?" his father bounced back with questions. "I want to show Judy how good I am, dad. Is something bothering you?" Jack said indirectly that no matter what, he was definitely going to take Judy with him. "Fine. You are a grown-up now. I'll let you make your decisions, Jack," his father said with a fake smile. Though he trusted Jack, he was not okay with Judy going out to the factory like a man. According to him, the outside world is where men rule and women 's place in this world is the kitchen and sometimes he would also agree if the word "kitchen" is replaced with "house" in the previous statement. Their father stayed back and these two kids took off to the factory. Judy was very hard-working. She was sincere and bold but never said a word against her parents. She didn't stumble entering the factory. Everything from the way she held herself, to the way she spoke to the factory members, to that look of unassailable confidence in her eye said she could do it. Jack was happy that he had predicted his sister's capability right. Judy even knew how to raise her voice against injustice or wrong deeds. She yelled at a worker on whom her eye fell while he was smoking inside the factory premises. Later went to him and made him understand the scenarios which could go wrong by his deeds. When Jack discussed Judy taking up the factory in the morning, he understood that it was always been a desire to Judy to achieve something as equally as men and that she had always been regretting being born as a girl for not being able to continue the family business. It was dinner time when they reached home. Their father was already waiting at the doorstep. Keeping the three months he had in his mind, he cut everything short and told his father face to face that he wanted his sister to takeup the business and that he wanted to start a new business on his own. "What are you thinking about yourself?" his father raised his voice. "You told that you'll let me take my decisions," Jack pointed out. "How can a girl manage everything?" his father shouted. "Stop this gender-bias dad. She is stronger and sharper than me. Let her takeup the business for two weeks and then let the factory members vote for us," Jack said instantly without any second thoughts. His father agreed as he was confident that a girl could not win over a boy. Parents cannot see the world through children's eyes. Children see exitement and opportunity but they see danger and uncertainity. Jack had planned everything for his business and took a bulk amount as loan from a bank. His father visited the factory often to look at how his daughter was managing everything. He slowly realized that she was no less than his son. Her work had impressed him pretty much, and he started accepting the truth that both men and women must be given equal opportunities. Judy decreased the need of men to their factory by installing softwares which did half of the work and that helped Jack. Those remaining half workers were hired by Jack for his brewing company. Their father was already convinced but the voting system was a formality. The workers elected Judy as their new chairman, and Jack was gifted the big building next to their factory by his father. Everything was going great, and within the next two weeks, the fist production of bottles was ready.

 It was the day his angel would meet. He knew that he had to sleep for her to arrive. Soon, he was so asleep and so awake in his soul when the fairy appeared. He got up even before she called him. "I did it! I am the owner of

Elixir  brewing company" he said with pride-filled eyes. "I'm happy you did it. When I made a deal with you, though I knew you would succeed, I wanted you to try harder, so I told you shouldn't go back," the fairy said. "I know! So I win, right?" he waited for her confirmation. "Yes, what do you want?" she asked as if granting a wish. Jack kneeled and pulled out the same ring she gave him and asked: "Will you marry me?". "Don't you wanna successfully sale your products in the market yet?" a voice from behind said. Both Jack and the fairy turned towards the staircase to see Jack's mom standing with folded hands. "Mom! NO, it is not what you think," Jack stood up and was trying to explain. "I know. She is a fairy. Isn't she?" she said suppressing her laugh underneath her words. "How do you know?" he whined like a little puppy. "YES!" the fairy said in between their conversation. "What?" Jack turned to her and asked. "I wanna marry you," she said blushing. "I am okay with it," his mom said from the other side. Jack had no idea what was going on. He stood still placing both of his hands on his head. "She is no fairy son. She is the one whom I selected to get you married to," his mom said. "I'm sorry. I played along. But your mom believed that only something special and challenging could guide you figure out what you want in life," her words showed how sorry she was for fooling him. Jack pulled both of them together and made them stand side by side, right in front of him. "I am angry but do you know who knows me better?" he asked by looking at his fiance. "MY MOM," he said with a smile. "She even knows which type of girl I want. I'm blessed with everything in my life. You two guided me with my life. I want you to do the same whenever I need it," Jack said. Both the beautiful ladies hugged him under the infinite patterns of the stars in the velvet dark sky. "What's your name by the way, Ms. Fake Fairy?" he asked. "Rose!" she replied with shy.


The 'why' is unclear. To humanity, it was the world's greatest accomplishment; they defeated world hunger. Nowhere on the globe did any child go hunger. Food was plentiful for everyone everywhere. To them it was the beginning of paradise. Things were a little different in the unseen world. Angels, demons, and spirits felt the tangible shift in the world. They knew the truth. Humanity didn't defeat Famine; he was murdered. It was ironic in a way. Death was born when a brother murdered his own brother, so it was only fitting that he would do the same. Perhaps Death thought he could save himself by ending Famine, reducing the mass deaths caused by starvation for the slower pull of old age. Perhaps Death was jealous, and wanted Famine's power to himself. Perhaps Death was just that. Death. Perhaps his relationships mean nothing, and he wants nothing more than to kill every thing alive. The why remains unclear. What is clear is what happened next. The remaining horseman, Plague and War, panicked. In a last ditch effort they split up, hoping to escape their mad brother. But Death found Plague, hiding among the filth of an unwashed cult. A battle naturally ensured, but Plague was never a fighter. He tried to escape, jumping from body to body, and casting vexes as he went. Vexes that didn't even slow the pale rider. By the end of the night, another horseman was dead. Humanity rejoiced. The unseen quivered. They knew what would come next. War wouldn't wait to be hunted and killed; he would challenge Death. And he did. And when Death failed to arrive, War became enraged, and he sent the humans after each other. It was a great war, so terrible and bloody and never ending. War only started the spark, but the humans kept it alive. The war burned for ages, until the prosperity of former generations was forgotten. It was now when Death decided to strike. He found War waiting where he challenged him all those years ago. A small private clearing in the forest with plenty of room to duel. War was in the center of the clearing, sitting on a discarded piece of a turbine. Waiting. It was evident that he had been waiting for a while, as the forestry began to grow on and around him. But when Death came War knew. He called out to his old brother, letting him know he knew he was there. 'You know, I knew it would be one of our own that would kill us all. It takes a horseman to kill a horseman. I just always thought it would be Famine. You know how he gets when he's hungry.' War chuckled at his own joke as Death stepped out from behind the treeline. They were facing each other, Death looking silent as ever and War looking up into Death's eyes. 'You could at least tell me why. I think you owe me that.' 'I think you know.' War's smile dropped. He gazed deep into the abyss of Death's eye sockets and was no longer amused. He stood now, casting off the plants and clenching his fists. 'What of our duty! We have a job to do here. What of that!' To this, Death laughed. It began as a small chuckle, but evolved into full blown laughter. Reflexively, War drew his blade and gun, but Death didn't attack. He instead kept up his unearthly cackle as he slowly circled his prey. The trees above became alive with activity as the animals rushed to escape the Grim Reaper. The grass under him withered and died the moment he touched them, leaving a path of death in his wake. He turned now to address his brother. 'War... Plague... Famine... If you ask me, those are just fancy ways to say death.' Death's laughter sparked again with renewed vigor, but War seethed with rage. He bellowed and rushed Death, firing preemptive shots from his rifle. Death's laughter cut off in an instant as he quickly ducked to dodge the bullets. He tightened his grip on his scythe and rushed his younger brother. Death has always been the faster, but War was the best fighter. He pushed the flat end of his blade toward Death and dodged slightly to the left, deflecting Death to the side. While Death was off balance, War fired again into his back, slaying the pale rider. Death dropped in a heap on the ground, groaning and dissolving before disappearing completely. War was the better fighter, but he didn't fight fair. He groaned and sighed. He didn't want to kill his brother, but he didn't see any options. But that wasn't the only reason he mourned. Now, War was truly alone. There wasn't another soul like him. Not man or devil, angel or other. He always had his brothers. Now he had no one. He cried as he went to grab the weapon of his brother. He picked it up, and struck it into the turbine he was sitting on. He turned around, eager to leave this cursed ground behind. He turned, and stared Death in the face. Death appeared unfazed, as if the battle hadn't begun yet. He gripped his scythe as he had before, and rushed War again. War defeated him again. Until Death rose again, only to fall again. This happened over and over, as War was a tirelessly immortal and Death kept rising again. But just because War didn't physically tire, the hopelessness of killing the unkillable over and over was beginning to wear him down. He stopped after a particular false victory and leaned on his blade, holding his gun at the unwavering Reaper. Death kept walking towards War, until the gun pressed into his abdomen. War looked up at him and Death looked down at him. 'Why keep fighting? I am inevitable!' War knew it. Deep, deep down he knew. Death couldn't defeat him in combat. But Death could keep him here. He could keep him in this hell forever and forever. War didn't want to do it anymore. He didn't want to live like this. He could. But he wouldn't. He dropped his gun, and cast his gaze away. Death made it swift, beheading the horseman. He then walked away, contemplating his next move. And humanity rejoiced.


It was hard to tell the difference between fantasy and reality at Greenbrier. A few things were obviously genuine. The musicians playing quadrilles for guests engaged in the rigors of Regency dancing. The gardeners planting daffodils and tulips in showy displays along the paths where guests strolled and gossiped. And Greenbrier Manor House, which had been built to impress. And to last. Crafted of Indiana limestone, it served as a private boarding school for wealthy Midwesterners seeking a New England elite education closer to home. A private rail line ran to the station in Rochester, connecting Greenbrier to Chicago and the world. Throughout the latter half of the nineteenth century the Manor House had been used as a sanatorium for patients dying from tuberculosis and Veterans convalescing from Civil War injuries. The heirs to the Greenbrier Mining Company bought it in 1925, installed the modern convenience of electric lights, and used it as the family’s summer home. The British accents adopted by the Greenbrier Regency Faire staff, however, were decidedly inauthentic. A disturbing conglomeration of the Scottish accent you might hear in a Disney movie about dragon riding Vikings mixed with a cockney twang reminiscent of the Artful Dodger. “In need of lodgings, are you, ya Bonnie Lass? I know a respectable Mistress what’ll give you a room for a farthin’, she will,” Billy—the lantern lighter and town crier—called out to Margaret as she walked down the cobblestone road from the bakery to the dressmakers’ shop. She waved at the enthusiastic young man and pulled her shawl around her shoulders against the wind that had dislodged ringlets from her braid. Margaret loved the Faire. The air of celebration and excitement. And she treasured her role in the community. Margaret was the modiste. She transformed guests from jeans-and-t-shirt-clad modernists into chemised and corseted ladies of the ton. As enjoyable as it was to dress people in flowing gowns and fitted pelisses, she reveled in the metamorphosis of a slouching teenager into an erect and elegant peer of the realm—performed with the magical power a high collared shirt, cravat, waistcoat, and breeches. Margaret lived and worked in the heart of the village that had been assembled by the eccentric Greenbrier visionary who spent his fortune salvaging nineteenth century mercantile buildings from as far away as Niagara Falls and St. Louis. Her three-story dressmaker’s shop sat between the tiny post office and the cheerful tea shop. The bakery stood across the village green from her store, tucked between the print shop and the perfumer. The early morning sun had not yet chased away the grey light of evening when the doorbell tinkled. Alexander stepped into Margaret’s shop. “Morning Maggie.” “Sandy. What a nice surprise.” Alexander—known as Sandy to his friends—was the Greenbrier Regency Faire’s art tutor. He gave lectures on the paintings and sculptures in the Manor House, taught drawing and painting classes, and occasionally accepted commissions to paint guests’ portraits. Although Maggie’s dressmakers’ shop had comfortable living quarters occupying the third floor, Alexander lived in the studio on the far side of the Manor House. A single large room overflowing with easels, canvases, paints, and brushes. One wall, made of windows and glass-paned doors, overlooked the gardens. It provided a beautiful view of the changing landscape but made for rudimentary accommodations and miserably cold winters. “I’ve popped a button off my vest. Mister Jenkins gave me a warning this morning. He’ll force me to attend Saturday night’s ball if I don’t have it fixed by tomorrow morning. Will you lend me a needle and thread?” “Have you got the button?” Margaret held out her hand. She was delighted to have an excuse to spend time with him. “No,” Alexander said. “I’ll need a button, too. Do you have one that matches these?” He stepped toward Margaret pointing to the two remaining brown buttons fastening his blue vest. She reached out and used both hands to slip first one and then the second button through their buttonholes. She had never stood so close to Alexander. He smelled of bergamot with a hint of turpentine. They had met at the beginning of last years’ Faire season backstage at the theater. He had been hired to paint sets for the theater’s adaptation of The Count of Monte Cristo . He fabricated a desolate prison cell, sumptuous dining room, imposing courtroom, deserted island, and a smuggler’s ship. Margaret had been asked to alter the costumes to accommodate the generous proportions of the leading lady. Although she found him to be both excellent company and undeniably attractive with his brown hair, hazel eyes and captivating smile, they rarely encountered each other. He worked either in his studio, the gardens, or the Manor House. She was occupied in the village which was a thirty minute walk from the Manor House. And most importantly, seeking his company would have been in direct violation of Margaret’s absolute prohibition against getting involved with the itinerants. The various lecturers, musicians, acrobats, repairmen, and laborers the who kept the Faire running and the entertainment fresh and exciting. She had suffered heartache her first season at the Faire when she had indulged in a romance with an itinerant tenor who sang his way into her affections and left when he got the lead in a dinner-theater production of Beauty and the Beast . She inspected Alexander's buttons. Placed her hand on his shirt—feeling the flat planes of his abdomen through the soft cotton—and in one smooth motion pulled up and back on the vest, slipping it off his broad shoulders. She stepped around him and took the vest to the far wall of the shop that was comprised of drawers. She pulled on the brass handle of a small square revealing a long row of small boxes filled to bursting with buttons. She withdrew three boxes. The kettle whistled from the stove in the dressing room at the rear of the first floor. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked, setting the vest and button boxes on the counter, and opening the frosted glass door separating the shop from the dressing room. She inhaled the scent of lavender that hung in bundles from the ceiling. She would have to make more sachets—she was nearly out of the little fragrant pouches she packed with the clothes she sold to her customers. “I don’t want to be a bother…” He followed her as far as the doorway. “Wow. I thought my studio was crowded.” He smiled at the sight of a dozen racks loaded with clothing—each rack dedicated to one type of garment. The tallest rack bore men’s great coats. Another was full of waist coats. Others held gowns for every occasion. Promenading. Dancing at the Faire’s elaborate balls. Windows were set just below the ceiling, flooding the room with light, but protecting the privacy of customers who stood in varying states of undress when Margaret took measurements and conducted fittings. The sky darkened as rain clouds swept across the morning sky and rain fell in gentle droplets against the windows. She set the tea pot to steeping and lit the first-floor lanterns, chasing away the cloudy gloom with cheerful firelight. “Where are all your apprentices? I imagined your shop full of people wanting to learn how you create your fabric masterpieces.” He’d imagined her shop. Interesting. “They’ve all gone back to college, or jobs, or their families. Most of them left the first week of August.” She loaded a tray with the tea pot, cups, saucers, a jar of honey, and the lemon scones she had bought at the bakery. “Come. Have some tea.” She walked back through to the shop, set the tray on the counter, and withdrew a tall stool from behind the counter for Alexander. She poured the tea and set out two steaming cups and the scones. She inspected the button options. “What do you think of this one?” She held out a button made of brown stone streaked with blue veins that matched the vest. “It’s beautiful.” He took the button from her outstretched hand, drawing his fingers over her palm, leaving a scorching trail across her skin. “It’s lovely. But the others are just plain brown.” “Oh, don’t worry about that.” She snipped the strands that held the two buttons in place. He stared at her, shocked by her bold move, and then laughed. She took a sip of the fragrant tea, enjoyed the sound of his laughter. The rain pelted the shop windows. A bell rang from outside the shop. “Sounds like Billy,” Margaret said. Alexander stepped to the door and opened it a crack, trying to keep the rain outside. “This one’s fer the bonnie Miss Maggie. And I’ll just be givin’ you yours. Save me from wadin’ through muddy fields to get to your patch ‘o paradise,” the young man said as he shoved two bulky bags into Alexander’s hands. “What’s this for?” Alexander asked, water dripping into a puddle despite his efforts to keep the shop dry. “Mister Jenkin’s heard word of a severe thunderstorm warning. High winds and hailstones. They’ll keep the guests coddled ‘n cozy in the Manor House ‘till it passes.” “Thank you,” Margaret said as Billy headed to the post office, bell ringing, water sluicing off his hat and coat, a huge smile on his face. Alexander peered inside the wax-coated canvas sacks. “Bread, cheese, hard-boiled eggs, a jar of strawberry jam, a couple of apples…” “Sounds like we’re all set for lunch. Do you have to teach classes today?” Margaret asked. “No lectures or classes, today. I’m a free man.” “Well, let me fix your buttons before the rain gets worse.” He watched her as she threaded a needle, tied a tidy knot, and bent over the vest to sew the top button in place. The porcelain clinked as he set his cup onto the saucer. “Would you mind if I sketched you while you work?” She looked up, surprised by the request. She was inclined to make an excuse, but his expression was hesitant and earnest. “I’ve got a stack of newsprint you could use.” She pointed with the needle to the stash of grey paper on the far end of the counter. “Thanks, that’ll be great,” he said, tucking a small notebook into his pant pocket. He emptied the tea tray, lined it with newsprint, and rested it against his stool. She relished in the sight of him in her shop. Like an exotic bird visiting a bird bath—a welcomed and cherished visitor. But every birdwatcher knows that such creatures will continue their migration home once they’ve taken their respite in your garden. “Are you staying through the winter?” she asked. “I am. The winter is the best part of the deal.” “Whatd’ya mean?” “I only planned to come for a month. To study the Greenbrier collection of Ingibjorg Olafurdottir’s paintings. But I couldn’t afford the guest fees for a month. So, I signed on as the art teacher for a year. I really don’t like public speaking, and nearly had a panic attack before my first lecture until I realized that only two people showed up.” His arm moved with quick motions. Eyes flicking between his page and her form. “I don’t mind the lectures so much anymore. And dancing at the balls can be fun. It’s the fancy dinners that are the major downside of the job. Making conversation with strangers doesn’t come easily to me. But I have you to thank for rescuing me from many an awkward conversational lull.” “How’s that?” “I ask about the clothes my dinner partners are wearing. They’re eager to tell me all about their visit to the modiste, and how it’s one of their favorite things to do at the Faire.” “That’s lovely to hear.” “But the teaching and even the dinnertime chatting—it’s all worth it. Free room and board year-round, and the whole winter free to study and paint. I forget that it’s all make believe in the wintertime.” “What’s make believe?” “This life,” he pointed out the window. “Pretending it’s 1813. Entertaining Jane Austen fans who come here to escape the real world and live out their fantasy of a weekend fling with Darcy. There’s no electricity. The Manor House has power, but all these outbuildings are off the grid. Which means I’ve got no light. No internet. No cell phone. I can’t take a picture of a scene I want to paint. I’ve got to get it down all in one hectic rush before the light vanishes. In bed by nine so I can be up at dawn. Otherwise, I miss the light.” The words of an itinerant. Sharp and clear. A flash of lighting brightened the sky and two breaths later a crack of thunder rattled the shop windows.

“You might want to wait out the storm.” She swallowed what remained of her cold tea and turned her attention to the vest’s lining which had split across the shoulders. “Where’d you learn to sew?” “First, I learned to darn. My grandmother immigrated from Alsace to work as an underseamstress to the Kirkham family. She was only allowed to repair underwear her first year in service. She graduated to darning socks and reweaving bed linens and handkerchiefs. My grandfather came from Naples where he’d apprenticed as a tailor. They met in Central Park, waiting in line to buy ice cream on a hot summer’s day. They opened a store that was a menswear tailor’s shop on one side and a dress shop on the other side. I grew up with them.” She didn’t explain why she’d been sent to live with her grandparents after her parents divorced. The official reason was that neither of them could afford to keep her. But the real reason was that they didn’t want her. Maybe the Faire wasn’t real life, but it had been a sanctuary where she could lead a life of her own making. Helping her customers fulfill their fantasies. And to her astonishment, it was the place where her business had prospered. Her customers paid handsomely for hand-made garments made to fit and flatter their bodies. And her apprentices happily peddled the treadle sewing machines, powering the workshop even without electricity. She cut the thread on the final stitch, stood, placed her hands in the small of her back, and stretched. “Do you want to see the workshop? It’s just upstairs.” She flushed with embarrassment at what sounded like a proposition. “I mean, maybe the old sew machines might be interesting to draw.” “I’d like that. This is only a sketch, but I’m really pleased with it. There's a truth in it that’s been missing from the still lifes and landscapes I’ve been wasting my time on lately.” He set the tray on the stool, and although he could reach the newsprint from his side of the counter, walked behind where she stood. His hand rested on the small of her back as he leaned to fetch more paper. Without thinking, she pressed against his hand, keeping him fixed in place. She was violating her own rule. And happy to do so. “Here,” she said, lifting the vest. “Try this on.” She stepped behind him in the close quarters between the counter and the shelf, threaded his arms into the vest, and pulled it up across his shoulders. She spread the fabric over his upper back feeling his taut muscles under her hands. She stepped around him and carefully inserted the top button into its buttonhole. He rested his hands on her shoulders as she slowly tended to each button. “I’ve wanted to paint you since the very first day I saw you, but I’ve been too shy to ask,” his voice was low and rumbling. His hands moved from her shoulders up her neck to cup her face. “There’s something else, I’ve wanted to do…” She stepped up as he bent forward touching her lips to his. Gentle. Soft. Warm. She tugged his shirt collar, pulled him closer, and deepened the kiss. He tasted of lemons and honey. She savored the feel of her breasts pressed against his chest as he wrapped his arms around her. Eventually, he broke the kiss, tucked her head under his chin, and held her in a tight embrace as the sky flashed and thundered. “Is this make believe?” she asked. “No.” He lifted her hand, opened the button fastening the cuff of her sleeve, and brushed his lips over the inside of her wrist. “This is…,” another kiss, “wonderfully real.”


On a cold autumn morning, camera in hand, I set out to the park near my home in an attempt to capture the grandeur of the changing foliage. Clouds overhead dampened the spectacle of mother nature's display as the red, gold, and amber hues shone ashy and dull under overcast skies. A low mist hung to the ground as if the spirits of all that had ever lived in my city came back to walk the earth. I had my camera at the ready to capture the hauntingly beautiful landscape around me. I snapped photos as I walked, checking each on the digital display to ensure the lighting and framing was just right. As I looked at my last photo, I noticed a ghostly figure sitting on a bench underneath the maple that I had just photographed. I hadn’t seen her when I framed the photo in my viewfinder, but when I looked up, there she was--a beautiful, young woman in a flowing, laced white dress. Her dark hair was done up but with strands falling out as if from a long night. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her lips were gray. Her mascara ran down her cheek, stark against her porcelain white skin. As I approached I could see her face was wrenched in agony. She cried, dropping her face in her hands, her body shuddering with sadness. I walked up beside her. "Do you mind if I sit?" I said. She shook her head, wiping tears away, crumpling her face, trying to hold back tears. "No, not at all," she said, sniffling. After I sat, she put her face back in her hands and began to cry even louder. I looked upon her with pity, wishing there was some way I could help this poor girl. But what advice did I have to give? I was an old man, and she was a young woman, obviously suffering some kind of heartache. I knew my fair share about heartbreak in my long life, but I could never know what it was like to be a scorned bride. But she looked like she needed someone, so I offered her my ear. "Do you want to talk about it?" I asked, shifting uncomfortably on the bench. She didn't respond, she just kept crying. But by the way she was dressed, I surmised that her wedding day didn’t turn out as she had planned. "Is it your wedding?" I asked, unsure how to bring up the topic delicately. "No," she said, looking directly into my eyes. "Today is my funeral." My heart began to pound and I straightened up. But then, after a moment, I chuckled. Thinking she was joking and trying to dissipate my unease her black, lifeless eyes made me feel. "Your funeral?" "Yes," she said, nodding and sniffling. She wiped her tears away with her gray fingers. I decided to play along, perhaps this girl was sick, needing psychiatric care. Perhaps I could gain her trust and bring her into the nearest hospital. "Then why are you in your wedding dress?" I asked. "This is what I was wearing the day I died," she said. "I had just been married that morning to the love of my life. The wedding could not have gone more perfectly. We danced and sang and our families were all there, having a great time. It was the greatest day of my life." She paused, taking a deep breath looking up to the granite skies. "But that night, I fell asleep in my dress and I never woke up," she said. "I don't know what happened. The next thing I knew, I was watching my poor husband struggle to wake me up. He started to yell and scream and shake and cry. He called an ambulance. The whole time I was in the corner trying to calm him, but he didn't see me. 'Jake,' I said. 'Jake, it's okay, I'm right over here.' But he didn't hear me. Then, I watched as my mother and father cried over my lifeless body. They said it was an aneurysm, and there was nothing anyone could have done for me." My stomach felt like it flipped, my heartbeat quickened. But I decided to play along. "Well, how did you end up here?" I asked. She pointed her finger far across the park, where I saw a huddling of bodies all dressed in black. I spotted a man crying over a casket, and an older couple weeping together. A preacher’s voice boomed across the misty plain. "I have been following my husband around," she said. "I want him to know that I love him. I want my parents to know that I love them too. That's why I'm here. I was at the funeral before, and I was shouting at my husband, saying 'Jake, it's ok! I love you, I'm right here! Jake! Mom! Dad! I'm right here.' But they didn't turn around, they couldn’t hear me. They just kept crying--and I kept crying too." I nodded. It was all so strange. This woman was clearly sick, or pulling my leg. Either way, those tears were real, so I did the best I could. "Well, you can tell just by how sad they are, that they loved you very much,” I said. “And they must have known you loved them too. “When my wife died, I worried that I didn't tell her I loved her enough, but I never worried about how much she loved me. That was apparent in every day we spent together. One day, you, your husband and your parents will be reunited and you'll know for sure. But for now, take comfort in the way they miss you. You meant the world to them." For the first time since I met this young woman, she smiled. It was a beautiful smile that anyone could fall in love with. "I guess you're right, but it's so hard to be in this...this...limbo right now. How do you deal with it? Why aren't you with your wife right now?" I furrowed my brow. "Well, like I said, she passed away, a long time ago." "Yes, but so have you." She pointed down the path. My body face down on the concrete--the camera shattered on the ground beside me.


Nov. 3, 2021  I came up with a band name today. "Ready, Aim, Tired". I was thinking about how meaningless my job is and how exhausted I am all the time because of it. I mean well, truly, but I am constantly feeling like I'm running on empty. Always filling my tank, just in time, with scrounged dollar bills carelessly put through the wash. It's not good money, but cash is cash.  I often think about how precarious my predicament is. How I've been one paycheck away from abject poverty for my entire adult life. So I come to work and earn my measly $1700 per month. That'll do. It has to though, because I'm severely burnt out.  I don't have the energy to go back to school, job hunt, update my resume. Hell, I don't even have the energy to work 5 days per week. Now I'm working 4. My choice, thankfully. I feel like I'm stuck in a cycle of never ending, repeating, days. Except the seasons change, my body starts aching, my hairline recedes, and I realize that there's a surprising amount of grey in it. I guess I really have been working here for 8 years.  I've decided to call it silver hair, because mines shiny and only a little bit depressing. I just realized that "Shiny and only a little bit depressing" perfectly describes my guitar tone, my playing too frankly. Maybe that's the name of the debut album.  "Ready, Aim, Tired - Shiny and only a little bit depressing" Doesn't exactly roll off the tongue, but I like it.  I'm writing because I've been told it's good for you, and I could use some good in my life right now.  My estranged father has been getting his neighbors to call me. I'm not sure why he doesn't just pick up the phone and call me himself. I'd probably be so shocked that I'd forget not to answer. He's sick, but not nearly as sick as he wants me to believe. His doctor told me it's "Munchausen syndrome". He's faking the rest for anything it'll earn him.  He want's me to go out to \[place\] and spend time with him in my childhood home. Like it would somehow make him feel better, or validate his existence. It would be bad for me, and I would hate it there anyway. It stinks like piss and shit...because he did literally use the floor as a washroom for a couple months before his operation. He smokes like a 23 year old drunken socialite with a coke habit and he doesn't have screens in the windows, so there's always insects inside.  What used to be my bedroom has had the carpet torn out and is filled floor-to-ceiling with the discarded boxes and packaging of at least five years of impulse purchases. It's as if he still hasn't learned that no amount of spending on himself will make him feel happy or fulfilled.  He neglects his poor cat and micro-waves frozen dinners while chain smoking in the ruined house that my ruined family used to live in.  I wanted to spew all of that at my dad's old neighbor Rick when he called me up 2 weeks ago, but instead I said; "Sure thing, I'll drive out to see him on Tuesday". Rick means well too, like me. But I never went out to see my dad.  He bought me a guitar. Way back in July. I was spending time with him at least once per week for the first time since before my brother died. He wanted to buy me a nice gift for all of the birthdays and Christmas' we missed because he was too busy being an asshole for me to love him. I declined his offer a couple times, but he insisted. Once, getting angry when I said all I wanted as a gift was to hangout in the backyard with him and a couple beers. I instinctually did what I always used to do when he was angry. Comply, or else.  So, I did some research and picked out a brand new electric guitar from Ibanez. They had just released them. I fell in love with the colors, the wood, the shape, and the features. I thought it was the perfect guitar for me. I even allowed myself to fully feel the excitement and anticipation. Later when I showed my musician friends what I ordered they each said "That guitar is so you!" excitedly...or some variation of that anyway.  That was 4 months ago. My ADHD brain has decided that guitar playing doesn't make us happy anymore. Which is a shame because it showed up at my place today and cost me $300 in duties, taxes, and fees. Welp, I guess I only have $1400 this month for expenses.  I'm writing this on a pile of post-it notes at work and I just thought to myself. Wouldn't it be funny if I go home, open the package, admire it, and play it, only to have disgust, resentment, and shame wash over me like a melancholy tidal wave of regret.  I'll try not to hate it. I'll go home after my shift, open the box and not hate it for what it represents, but appreciate it for what it is. An instrument that's so me. Who knows, it might kick start a manic ADHD guitar binge that'll give me joy for a couple weeks. But for now I'm just going to take it as it comes.  That might be on the debut album. Track #3, "Melancholy Tidal Wave"  Nice.


"I can see that the video games of this world are still mostly focused on killing monsters and... people. Or on the end of the world. Or on zombies" Astra stated while watching some reviews on my tablet, her left eyebrow risen above the other. The sky was covered with clouds again, and the quarantine was turning a little gloomy because of that continual grey light. "Will you ever focus on reality? Why don't your video games talk about reality? Video games can be serious, from time to time." "Those are just the most popular ones... I told you" I replied, sitting on a sofa. "There are many exceptions, I swear. We also need entertainment. Even if I'm not very knowledgeable in this field." "You always preferred books, I know" she said with a mocking tone. "You still give a lot of weight to words. Too much weight indeed. Video games can be as important as books. But it looks like special matter people always need entertainment, entertainment, all the time..." "Please, detach from my tablet, you're monopolizing it. Tell me more about the universe, the dark matter, your civilization. I mean, I am sure you did not come here just to spend the quarantine here in my ugly house. Please, tell me if your people found out what's the purpose of..." "Of...?" "Of life. Well, of life, of course. We barely know how dark matter works, so you must know something we don't know." "The purpose of life... Well. You'll be disappointed. No purpose. Sorry" she said drily, and kept scrolling for a while, getting to the latest news about Sony. I sighed with impatience, and after two minutes she activated her brain again: "Ok, let's put it like this: the absence of a purpose is the greatest discovery an advanced civilization can make. So my comment can just be: about time." "How come?" "Because that's the only thing that can actually make you free! If there is no meaning anywhere, that means you can just do things you like - provided that you don't work all the time pretending you want what you do. I cannot believe you are so naive to believe that life should offer you a purpose." "We are mortal. Any purpose of mine would be temporary. I want to know if there's something more." "And the fact you are mortal should mean anything to the rest of the universe? You need a great quantity of ego to think that the universe promised you something at the end of the tunnel! Oh no, you need to stop with science fiction celebrating the end of the world, and also with apocalyptic video games. You need to realize that nothing is more clever that making your time meaningful. That means: stop trying to make everything useful and productive for the whole humanity. You do not need that. This planet does not need that." I looked ad the bees struggling against the breeze in the garden, and realized that I had wasted so much time before that quarantine, I had given so much energy to a system which just wanted me to survive in order to produce more for it, exhausting me with lies about the personal choice and the necessity of a common struggle. I loved this quarantine, I loved talking about life. And I did not need a higher purpose. The whole civilization did not need to imagine absolute purposes and meanings all the time. Yes, we needed more video games about reality. Yes, we needed to resist during the lockdown, but also after it, after realizing there was no need to keep pretending that life had a purpose. No, there was no purpose, so why couldn't we enjoy our time? - or at least try. We didn't really want to back to our every day routine. "I think this virus is doing something great to humanity. But only if we're ready to learn its lesson" I stated, taking the tablet. Strangely, she didn't protest, and let it go. There was something strange in her smile.


The Hearth The hearth above the fireplace at Pewderschmidt’s Department Store was a resting place for the collection of unique objects left there by any and all patrons which elected to do so. There was no criteria, other than to abstain from hoisting a behemoth upon it, even though it’s breadth was sizable, Yfan promoted a sense of scale so unconsciously upon those before him it seemed that whoever had placed the first object, a soul long since forgotten to the ages, and even Yfan himself - or so he says: suspicions and rumors mount to this day - had placed a spell on the ever living wood and all had followed suit to select an object similar in size and space consumption. The item first placed upon the now soot covered grains, which were ostensibly fresh at the time of its placing, yet that was still undetermined as many claim Yfan was not the progenitor of the establishment as he promotes himself, is a small token of an indistinguishable figure, carved from an earthly clay hardened and greyed by a millennia of smoke and grit. The figure kneels, its head raised, a hand facing forward, the other resting on its knee, the outstretched leg counter balancing the straightened arm. Legend has it, one night as one of the heaviest snows hit the countryside, the roof failed and snow, ice, and rain plummeted towards the mighty hearth, the patrons hollering for cover and diving under the tables faced being buried alive in the thousand year storm, yet with a whisper a nearly inaudible voice cracked, and the small token increased in size 100 fold, rose from its knee and pushed the storm back with its broad chest and hips, heaving the weather with a shock of its own, a zephyr whipping up to the clouds. The force of the thrust created a vacuum, and drew in the surrounding timbers, intertwining them in an impenetrable woven roof of trees whose roots stretched down the walls to the soil and strengthened the structure. It was this night that the immortality of this place was enacted. They say the token is a key to the heavens, and the hearth it rests on enchanted by the one who placed it there allows one to pass through the fire beneath it and arrive in paradise. Or so the legend goes. Many a man has scorched himself attempting to access the fiery vessel only to return engulfed and choked, yet strangely no creature has ever been burned by the eternal flame. Yfan himself is said to have placed an object on the hearth yet over the years the living tend to blend together in the eyes of eternity, a sea of unique and unified consciousnesses heaving and flowing like an ocean, it’s currents hidden beneath the surface, directing it and cloaking its purpose, and since Yfan himself fails to admit what it may be - if anything - and generally smiles and feigns dutiful in his own excusing if queried, eternity is left silently winking at us - but probably not at Yfan. The most recently placed item was put there by a small boy passing through with his grandmother. Both on their way to the theater in the city, and needing respite and taking some winter bread and cheese into their stomachs, their horses being cared for by Polty the stable hand, Yfan approached them with the tradition of Pewderschmidt’s Hearth. The grandmother, showing more interest in engulfing sour crumbles and rips of bread, fished in her purse and pulled out a tied leather pouch and handed it to the boy. He poured the contents out before him and climbed upon the table. He began to sort the arrangement of Knick knacks that fell to the gouged planks. By what standard Yfan could not tell, and the grandmother was occupied too much to give notice if she had any clue herself, so Yfan sat and watched. The boy would move the same piece, placing it next to one other, then another. He’d hold two up to the fire, a shiny sitting on the hearth catching his eye or both, his gaze altered momentarily before focusing back on his task. When he’d selected the one he wanted, he turned to Yfan and handed it to him. Yfan put his hands behind him and bowed before the wood carved gorilla. The boy pointed to his chest and held the figure up. Yfan understood the boy had made it himself. Yfan smiled and directed the boy to place it upon the Hearth. The child hopped off the table, his suede moccasins wrapping the wooden floors as he walked slowly to the monstrous hearth that towered before him. The boy looked to Yfan for assistance, but Yfan simply gestured elegantly towards the hearth, leaving his hand hanging gingerly before the flames. Tendrils of smoke snaked out from the fire pit and wrapped themselves around the ankles of the boy. Slowly his soles lifted from the ground and he rose towards the hearth, his hand outstretched. He placed the gorilla next to a smooth stone and brass fork green with grime. the smoke puffed and a single flame leapt out and enveloped him, and retreated to the roaring embers beneath the hearth, taking the boy. Yfan bowed toward the grandmother, a smile in his eyes. The grandma looked up for a moment, pointed toward the cheese plate, and took a gulp of honey milk. Yfan nodded and retreated to the pantry for more cheese.


Growing up as a little girl, I learned about Greek mythology. My dad was a professor of Greek Mythology and Religion at the local university, so my childhood was filled with dramatic retellings of the Odyssey and fantastical summaries of how spiders came to be. He told me of powerful, narcissistic men who could fight away any problem and witty women who could outsmart the sun. These legends became an important part of who I am today. Especially after my dad died. After his death, I read the stories he would tell me over and over again until I committed them to memory. I learned Greek, I got my degree in Greek Literature and I took the teaching position my dad had. I’m even in the same office he had when I was little. It still kind of smells like him and I kept his rare Greek poem collection displayed on the same shelf he had it on.

One of my favorite stories, while I was in high school at least, was the story of the Suitors of Penelope (Proci). The story is about the wife of Odysseus who ended up having 108 young men, known as the suitors, invade her house and vie for her hand in marriage after her husband supposedly died in the Battle of Troy. Talk about pushy. The thing is though, they were terrible houseguests. They drank all of the wine and spirits, ate all of the food, and were just overall disrespectful of Odysseus’s home. Penelope couldn’t do anything about it though. The concept of Greek xenia encouraged everyone to be as kind as possible to everyone they came across. You could never know who was a god and who wasn’t in those days. Ten years after the ending of the Trojan War, Odysseus ended up returning home once his young son, Telemachus, found him, after being prompted by a disguised Athena to search for his father. Telemachus told his father of the suitor situation back home and they headed back to Ithica swiftly. Once Odysseus was back home, he and his son slaughtered all of the suitors and maidservants that were aiding the suitors. Gory ending, but they were kind of jerks.

Well, I now know how Penelope felt and why Odysseus did what he did after a series of somewhat dumb mistakes on my part. This last weekend I went on a Tinder date with this guy named Levi. We started our night by going to see a play at the playhouse near my apartment. It was some kind of Shakespeare theater that I enjoyed, but my suitor didn’t seem very into it. No big deal, theater isn’t for everyone. After the show, we went to get dinner and were able to sit down and have a conversation. As he talked more, the more I realized that he was just not my type. Oh well, not every guy can be a winner and he was cute so I figured I would at least invite him back to my place for a drink and see where the night went from there. Note that this was my first mistake of the night. We got back to my place, post-dinner, and got settled on the couch with a glass of red wine and the fireplace going in the background. Kind of cliche, but why mess with something that works. He noticed my collection of Greek literature on the shelves around my living room and asked about them. I didn’t like this guy enough to explain the true relationship I have with Greek literature, so I summed it up by saying it is a big thing for me and I work in the Greek department of my college. He nodded and said that was cool and continued to tell me about the minute details of his job. He talked about his work as a manager at some sort of technology shop (I looked it up after this shit show. Think Best Buy but smaller and with worse reviews). He set his wine glass down. I thought he was about to make a move, but instead, he burst into tears.

As you can imagine, I was very taken aback. I looked around my apartment, like people do in movies and TV, for the hidden camera, unsure of what the hell was going on.

“I just got out of an engagement. My fiance left me at the altar like 3 weeks ago and I just felt like it was time to get back in the game and I don’t really know what I am doing.” He blubbered.

I sat there blinking at him, feeling like an idiot because I didn’t know what to say. What do you say to that?

I went with the classic, “Shhhh, it’s ok. Relationships are hard and I am so sorry you had to go through that. She doesn’t know what she is missing.”

This choice of words was my second mistake of the night. “You’re right, I am an awesome dude. I make lots of money, I am in shape, all of my friends say I am hilarious. It’s a miracle I wanted to be with her in the first place.” He boasted through, puffing his chest up. I winced internally at everything I had just heard but nodded along politely and gave a weak “yeah” in an effort to support my date of the evening.

Before I even knew what was happening he had lunged over to my side of the couch and was grossly pressing his mouth against mine. I froze. I no longer wanted to be kissing this guy and at this point, I just wanted him out of my house. Call it intuition, but I had a feeling that if he stayed much longer, the night was going to get a lot more interesting and not in a good way. I wondered to myself if Penelope had this feeling when the first 25 suitors came strolling into her castle.

I tapped his shoulder “coming up for air” and pulled back as far as I could. It wasn’t as far as I wanted though because somehow his arm had wound its way around my waist. I squirmed uncomfortably and put a hand on his chest. His face still hadn’t changed from the kissy-face he had been making and I had to hold back pitied laughter.

“Woah, hold up man. Maybe this,” I gestured between us, “isn’t the best idea. It seems like you’re still kind of dealing with stuff from your last relationship and you need to take time to heal and work through everything.”

“I don’t need to work through anything baby. Fuck my ex, she was a cunt and a dumbass. You’re pretty hot, I’m really hot, let’s see how hot we can get together,” He explained leaning back in for a kiss. I leaned away from him further into the arm of the couch, hoping it would help me in this situation I found myself in.

“Let me rephrase this Levi, I don’t feel comfortable doing anything of a physical or sexual nature with you. You were just bawling on my couch and I don’t think it would be very humanitarian of me to uh… take advantage of a situation like that.” I sugar-coated hoping he’d get the damn point and leave.

“Take advantage of me all you want pretty girl,” He crooned, unbuttoning his top shirt and throwing it on the carpet. I stood up from the couch and placed myself behind the arm I was previously trying to melt into.

“Levi, I am not interested in anything and I think it is time for you to go,” I stated firmly gesturing towards the door. He stared at me for a moment and scoffed. “So you’re a dumb cunt too?” he laughed, “what is it with all you blondes. Pretty, but dumb as fuck. You should feel honored that I would even want to fuck you.”

He stood up from the couch and started approaching me. “I could make you feel so good, Lily.” He attempted to purr.

“My name is Libby, short for Elizabeth and you can take your ego and…” I started, completely ready to tear this man apart. Lucky for him, he was saved by a knock at the door. Willing to take any escape route from this Tinder date gone terrible, I quickly walked over to the door and opened it to find a blonde woman I had never seen before.

“Can I help you?” I questioned, confused as all get out. No one wearing that much pink had ever knocked on my door.

“So you’re the skank trying to steal my fiance! Levi!! Levi, are you in here you fucking pig?” This woman screeched, storming into my apartment. I resisted the urge to throw my hands up in disbelief like this was some kind of sitcom.

Not a sitcom, my real life. Gods, I need a different life. I turned around to see that in my attempt to flee from Levi he had managed to remove his undershirt. So now he was standing completely topless in the middle of my living room with his clothes strewn on the floor.

“Kayla! Babe, what are you doing here?” Levi asked, also obviously dumbfounded. Though I assumed being dumbfounded wasn’t anything new for him.

“Don’t you babe me! You’re a fucking pig, Levi! Cheating on me every chance you get. I hate you! My mom was right, you are a worthless son of a bitch,” The Barbiesque woman whose name was apparently Kayla, yelled at him. Before I could even move she had picked up the vase that I keep on my living room table for fresh flowers from the farmers market and threw it at Levi’s head. He dodged it and it thudded, thankfully unbroken, onto the carpet.

“What the fuck, you crazy bitch! I wouldn’t have to cheat if you weren’t such an airheaded whore. Who is also the most boring person in bed... Ever. Also, your mom is a whore. She’s one to talk about cheating, she’s cheated on your dad more times than I’ve ever cheated on you!” At the mom comment, I had to bite my tongue to keep myself from laughing for real. Man, these two sweethearts had such a healthy relationship and I wish them all the best.

While oddly invested in this ridiculous couple’s dramatic and convoluted backstory, I had had enough and honestly just wanted to go to finish my glass of wine and watch the newest episode of Chopped. I looked around my apartment as they continued their screaming match. I walked into the kitchen and grabbed two pans from the drying rack beside my sink. I banged them together, effectively getting the lovebird’s attention.

“Both of you need to get the fuck out of my apartment right now. Or I will use these” I lifted up the pans, “and start swinging at both of you. Get. Out.”

“You crazy bitch, you can’t just threaten people like that!” Kayla screechingly whined. I made a fast lunging motion towards her, frying pan lifted at my side and she ran out the door, heels clicking obnoxiously down the hall. I turned to Levi and made a brief swinging motion towards him and he fastly followed after the Belinda the Good Witch impersonator, completely forgetting his shed clothes.

This whole story does have a point, aside from a fast laugh and a feeling of horror. I got suckered into being Penelope. Thankfully mine was just for a few minutes and not a few years. The Greeks never knew if a god was walking around disguised amongst the mortals, so they had to treat all visitors and strangers like they were, well, gods. The concept of xenia is what kept Penelope from being able to just take a knife and charge down those castle stairs and start threatening those dumbass suitors. As much as I accept the concept of xenia and try to practice it in my life, there is a time and a place. And last weekend I learned that having a crazy dude and his “fiance” fighting in your apartment is a time and place it might be ok for xenia to go by the wayside. If only Penelope had gotten the chance. I would have loved to read her story of violent and threatening conquest over the suitors.


The cities continue to fall. For aeons, we have fought the invaders. Our cities were great metropolises when they first arrived, and it seemed that we could fight them off. With our superior numbers and their small societies, we were sure their days were numbered. They could not communicate with our efficiency. Our networks allowed coordination of great armies against them, and they were confined to simple, local communication. Surely, victory was assured. But they were such giants. Even the great armies of entire city-states could only take down a few before they would escape. And they eventually learned to avoid them. We could send out expeditionary forces against them, but we would be lucky to strike down one or two of the massive aliens. And then the weapons came. We thought they were stupid beasts and that their only advantage over us was size. We had thought their poor communication was a sign that they lacked the intellect to construct more than the simple tools they so often used. We were wrong. They had incredible firepower at their disposal. Our expeditions grew less successful as they began to strike out at our forces with heat enough to cook them in their armor. Had that been all, it would have been a formidable threat. But they had more. They were able to reshape our lands with ease. They directed massive floods into our greatest cities, wiping the proof of their existence from the land in mere moments. We learned to move our cities underground. We left what proof of their existence we could not hide. Fresh air is necessary for life, and food suppliers needed to be able to ship in goods. But the smaller we could make ourselves appear, the more likely the aliens would leave us alone. Some of the great city-states still remain. They are isolated to the few parts of the world that have not been completely overtaken by the invaders. As for the colonies we have formed underground… When they are found, the invaders continue to find new ways to annihilate our people. Fire, flood, even landslides and great earthquakes… but it is the bioweapons that are the greatest threat. Our food supply routes can be tracked down. When they are, the invaders can arrange for poison to be introduced into the food supply without notice. Until it is too late. The birthing centers and government officials are the first to go. Then the rest die out. So many peoples lost. We remain. It is clear the aliens do not consider us a threat, but a nuisance. Our armor is useless against the kinetic force of their attacks. Our own attacks have become less effective as they have developed armor against them and treatments against the injuries left by our forces which would once have driven them to madness. The juveniles are more vulnerable, but it is rare to be able to mount a sufficient force even for one juvenile in most places. But they do not eradicate us, either. They have taken our world and consider us beneath them. Oftentimes, they are right in a literal sense. We have tried to go after their own food supplies, but their ability to bring in more, and so much, is beyond the abilities of all but our greatest legions. It doesn’t make sense. We have better armor. We have better communications networks. We have better trained militaries. But they have the better weapons. They have more food. And above all, they have size. Those great, heaving, horrific forms can stand taller than most of the cities that remain. We aren’t sure how gravity allows for such monstrous forms, but they have clearly paid heavy costs for their size. They are covered with huge musculatures and move so slowly. Most are unable to lift even half their own weight in our gravity. They communicate by great explosions of pressure rather than sophisticated speech like our own. Their senses are less acute, as well. They are not stupid, but their brains are certainly limited in processing speed by the sheer size of the bodies which must transmit the same neural signals our much smaller forms can do so much more quickly. But they are winning. They *have* won. We continue to fight, but we are beaten. Beaten by these brutes who move so animalistically, so stupidly. But because they are the victors, they think us the stupid ones. And they have a word for our people. It is small, like us, which is fitting. They call us, “ants.


14 February 1778 To my dearest Maria,

I sincerely hope all is well. How are you holding up throughout this war? I know I haven’t written to you in a while. I truly long to see you all once again. Everyday I miss you more and more. Remember when we were young? I often have memories of the fresh Philadelphia air filling our lungs as we lay on the soft grass in the meadow. While I am writing this, it is hard to suppress my grin while reminiscing on such simpler times… I miss my work as a teacher and all the wonderful children I taught. This treasured innocence is now thrown away, never to be resurfaced, for what I have seen at Valley Forge can never be erased from my memory.

My decision to aid the Continental Army may have been a grave mistake. The conditions here are so terribly dreadful. Soldiers are practically naked, on the brink of death, and starving. Watching all of these brave men slowly lose their spirits is nothing short of heartbreaking. With my brother now living with his wife in Massachusetts, Mother and Father have no one to take care of them. They are left to tend to the farmland by themselves (I fear you now know what the purpose of this letter is for). Because of these horrible conditions, I have decided it would be best to leave Valley Forge. I understand that leaving in the frigid winter is practically suicide, but I cannot die without trying to see you again. I can already imagine what a scolding you would give to me if you were here: “What a blithering fool you are! Why on EARTH would you ever think this is a good idea?!? I swear, if you make it back, it’ll be me that kills you!”. By the time you are reading this, I have already started my journey back (mainly so you will not be able to talk me out of it).

Please allow me to elaborate, Maria. Have you ever seen a man die? I have. Many times. Far too many times to count. I think us in the medical department try to pretend that it doesn’t bother us each time we watch a patient pass on, but it does. No matter how many times I’ve witnessed it, it never seems to get easier. It truly makes me feel grateful for what I have and the life I have lived so far. But also, it makes me think of all the things in life I wish I had done. Mortality is horrifying.

Watching men slowly meet their demise knowing there is nothing you can do to help starts to take a toll on you after a while. I often find myself thinking: Could that be me next? I will now include a few excerpts from my diary: “25 December 1777 Although it has only been a week at Valley Forge, the blizzards show no signs of stopping. Our living quarters (cabins) are crammed, only about 16’ by 14’ with dozens of men inside just one. With the harsh winters forcing everyone to stay inside, the influenza is spreading rapidly. The insulation is poor and it is freezing on the inside. The smoke from the fire is entering our lungs, making us even more run-down. Merry Christmas. 4 January 1778 With each day I spend at Valley Forge, I find it harder to believe in the Revolution. Today was no exception. This night when walking to my sleeping quarters, I overheard the lieutenants discussing how their force was shrinking at a detrimental rate. Over 1,000 men have died from smallpox, and this number will only skyrocket as the days go on. It fills me with despair to watch these brave soldiers die, knowing that their death may be in vain. Instead of dying a noble death fighting for liberty and freedom, they are forced to spend their final moments sick, vulnerable, and afraid. I never would have volunteered for a cause as hopeless as this if I was aware of what I would be getting myself into. If there is a Hell where mortals can roam, it is Valley Forge. God bless us all.” Life here is anything but luxurious, Maria. We are starving and malnourished, making it impossible to help sick patients. Men can hardly stand on their own and are being brought here only to die. I am aware that General George Washington is doing his utmost best with what he was given, but nothing seems to be working out. Even someone as influential as himself can’t

seem to keep up the morale. The soldiers haven’t said anything, but you can tell just by the gruesome look in their eyes that they’ve already given up. We will stand no chance against the ruthless British army if things stay the same. We are left with empty stomachs most days while the British eat like kings. Our army cannot even afford to buy enough for one full meal from the Patriot farmers. Ever since I came, I have even started to miss the taste of your dreadful pumpkin pie. That taste, no matter how insipid, would provide me with the comfort of familiarity, whereas here, there are only unknowns. Everyday I am here, it seems I get one step closer to my own demise and I am not willing to play with the odds of life and death anymore. With the statistics as they are now, around half of the soldiers are sick, and I might just be another body to be buried.

My lovely Maria, I know you would have wanted me to stay and help until the end, but I hope what I have written so far gives you a better understanding of my decision. I mean, I’m a teacher for God’s sake! I’m hardly qualified for this line of work. No matter how many times you write to me assuring me everything is fine on the homefront, it does nothing to ease my worries. Back in Philadelphia, it is now only me and them. They are old and can hardly take care of themselves anymore. They are extremely reliant on me to help around the house and I feel terrible about burdening you with them. I know you do what you can to help out my mother and father and I thank you kindly for it. Alas, they aren’t getting any younger. If something were to happen while I was at Valley Forge, I would never forgive myself for not being there. Furthermore, I miss you all very much and wish to be with you especially again, my love.

For the weeks I have been here, nothing has improved. General Washington has tried his hardest but his efforts may in fact be in vain. I have nothing but respect for Washington, but no matter how hard he tries there is practically nothing he can do to improve the conditions at Valley Forge. I genuinely have tried. I hope you know that. I am not one to quit, but this is not for the faint of heart.

The conditions are horrible and the whole army seems to be slowly withering away. My own health is at risk due to the lack of food and the chances of me contracting smallpox. This reason may be selfish, but my life at home is so dear to me. I want to die being surrounded by those who I care about. At Valley Forge, my death would be just another statistic. It strongly pains me to say this, but my time here has been proven to be useless. I do not like to see my fellow Patriots on the brink of death. I am embarrassed to say this, but I have completely lost faith in the Continental Army’s success. We stand no chance. I feel as though the most important lesson one can get out of this is that sometimes you must put yourself before others. Please do take care of yourself, Maria. Perhaps if I return home, we can finally be together again. Do not lose faith in me, my love. I know you will be disappointed in me leaving but I also know that you will be understanding of what I have been through. The chances of me making it back home are slim, but those odds are greater than me surviving at Valley Forge. If I do however face my utmost demise, I would like to say that I have no regrets. However, that would be lying. My biggest regret would be not telling you how much I truly love you. I would shout it from the rooftops if I could. Do take care of yourself for me. Hopefully we will meet again and laugh about this matter in the future. Please tell my parents that I wish them well. I won’t ask you to pray for me, but I may need it. I love you. Yours truly, Emelia Smith