This is the big day. Lei has been preparing for this day her whole life. But, she still has so far to go, this is just one step closer to her dream. Today, she goes to the elite ballet school in New York City. Thrilled, she spent every waking hour practicing in any way possible for ballet, preparing for this day.

Sitting in the dining room, she munches on the avocado toast. When will she sit in this room again, eating breakfast? How long will it be until she can return to her home in Hawai'i? She worries about all the adjustments she will have to make for her new lifestyle. What will the other dancers be like? The stereotypical mean-girl determined dancer? Or something else entirely? Thoughts consume her as she finishes her meal.

As she finishes packing her room, she takes one long last look at her bedroom. Now, after packing all her sentimental belongings it looks more bare and empty than before. Still, the posters of famous ballerinas hang upon the walls reminding her of the passion she follows and holds so dear to her heart.

Rolling her suitcase out the front door, she holds onto every little memory the house has given her. Although, she tries not to think about it too much or she may start to cry. She knows she is leaving all her friends, family, and the hot sunny days at the beach and the hours spent surfing the colossal waves in Hawai'i. She knows she is trading it all for her dream. She has worked so hard to get here, there is no possible way she can turn back now. In a few years, hopefully she will be dancing in the company among some of the greatest ballet dancers in one of the greatest ballet companies in America.

Her mother and father wait for her at the car, their faces tight with worry. They douse her in kisses and loving comments. “We are going to miss you so much, Lei.” “Are you sure you want to go? We can still get a refund for the tuition.” “What about your dreams about being a doctor? You don’t have to give up on them for dance.” “We will call you every single day, and visit you as soon as we can.” They don’t understand. They don’t understand how much she has always wanted this, longing for dance. She cannot become the dancer she wants to be with the limited ballet education here. She has to leave, and follow her dreams.

“Yes Mom, and Dad, I still want to go! I will miss you too. I promise I will call you every single day,” she answers, slightly annoyed. But, she is going to miss them so much.

Her parents drive her to the airport, and wait for the flight attendant to help her navigate the airport, as she is a underage minor. Her parents still badger her about changing her mind, and staying with them. Her mother feels guilty for letting her go by herself, but she has no choice because of their demanding jobs. Besides, she has an Aunt in New York City that will drive her to the school, and check up on her frequently.

On the long flight, she reads her ballet magazines, books, and listens to music trying to distract herself from all the abundant possibilities awaiting her future. She can do this. She is strong, in body and mind. What will others think of her? Is her technique as advanced as the other girls and boys that have been training their whole lives? Will she stand out in a negative way due to her dark skin and her Polynesian background? She shakes the thoughts away and remembers to breathe in, and breathe out. After a long flight and terrible sleep, her dark brown hair is matted, bags rest under her eyes, and her usually perfect posture turns into a slump. Yet, inside she cannot stop her thoughts about the ballet school she is yet to join today. It is early in the morning, 5:00.

Trailing her suitcases behind her, as well as her dance bag, backpack, and purse she spots her Aunt waiting for her, a big sign stating her name. She wears slim, black, business looking pants, a coat, a white shirt, short black heels, and a purse. Her red lacquered nails cling onto the sign and her lipstick matches. She looks professional, nothing like her parents who lounge in their aloha shirts and flowy, hippie pants in their free time. Apprehensive, Lei walks over to her Aunt, ussure what to say but wears a smile nonetheless. Thankfully, her Aunt does all the talking for her.

“So, how was your flight? Are you excited to start today? Today’s a big day! Have you called your parents yet? Are you nervous? If you ever need anything, just call me. Don’t worry, I will be there to visit you a few times a week. We can explore New York together!” She says cheerfully. Lei tries to answer all of her questions with the same enthusiasm, but she cannot stop the butterflies in her stomach.

Now, she is walking around the ballet school, full of awe as and adult guides her to her dorm while giving her a full run down of every important location in the school. She is shown to her dormitory, where she meets her roommate. “Hi, I’m Katy,” her roommate says, introducing herself. Lei does the same, thankful she was able to make herself presentable at her Aunt's house. Katy bombards her with questions. “So, where are you from? How long have you been dancing for? Have you been to New York before? How old are you? What level are you in?” Lei answered all her questions, reciprocating the same friendliness. She figures out that they are around the same age, 16 years old. And, they are in the same level. Lei unpacks everything to its place in the tiny dorm, trying to make it feel like home without intruding on Katy’s space. Lei gets ready for her first ballet class at the New York Ballet school, taking extra time to do her hair perfectly, and putting on her most flattering black leotard. First impressions are everything, after all. Katy guides Lei to her class, and it all seems like a dream as she meanders down the white hallways.

The studio is a dream. Bigger than she has ever imagined, so much larger than the one at her old school. When she sees the grand piano in the corner of the room, she nearly cries. Everything is perfect. Lei and Katy warm up in the studio together before class starts.

The ballet master walks into the room, and today it just happens to be the artistic director of the whole school. She nearly has a panic attack.

“To those of you students who are new this year to this school, welcome. I am Mr. Michael, the artistic director of the New York City Ballet School. I hope that you all have found your way around the school, and if any of you have questions, feel free to always ask me or another staff member. I know that joining a boarding school can be daunting, so I am here to help.” His voice booms in the echoing room as he stares at us intently, contradicting his attempt at a friendly tone of voice. He drones on for a few minutes longer about the rules and expectations and dedication that the school requires. Then, he decides it is time to dance. Suddenly, Lei’s pointe shoes feel as heavy as lead on her feet and her brain forgets how to function for half a second. Breathe in, breathe out, she reminds herself. She claims her spot at the barre, while paying close attention to the combination that is given.

The music on the grande piano starts, and she begins. In sync with the music, she moves beautifully combining technique, grace, musicality, and artistry she has worked so hard to achieve. It is the beginning of her journey to achieve her lifelong dream. Each breath, each move, she comes closer to her goal. She belongs here, and she knows it. It is her time to shine, brighter than a shooting star.


The man walked down the street, having just clocked out from another 10 hour shift. He never thought he would be using his mathematics degree to calculate the total of someone's shopping, and yet that's exactly what he's spent the last four years doing. He tried to network best he could, but if nobody is hiring, nobody is hiring. So the big clothing store brought him in. It wasn't great, but it almost pays the bills. He hung his head low, the exhaustion from the day seeped into his muscles. Staring up at the brilliant afternoon sky is a luxury he just can't afford right now. The birds chirping were drowned out by the rush hour traffic racing by his side. It congested the air with thick, noxious fumes and horns so loud they echoed off of the looming buildings framing the street. Only twelve more blocks before his apartment. Out of the corner of his eye, the light from the setting sun bounced wildly off of a nearby limo. The paint job was pristine, as if it had just been polished. In the back seat, he could just barely make out the passengers behind tinted glass. The couple was happy, smiling, crashing a pair of champagne glasses together before downing the cool liquid within. Air conditioning flung their hair wildly as the hot sun beat down on the car roof. Not a care in the world, not when they can afford a car like that and someone to drive it. At least a chauffeur can sit all day. Looking back down, he let out a sigh - no point dwelling on what he can't change. Those who have a bright future are those who can afford it. The rest of us just make their lives easier.  The rest of the trek home was uneventful. He was grateful the winter storms had subsided, he was sick of worrying about hypothermia scares. He'd probably just be kicked out of a hospital with his credit, and an at-home amputation would be a choice he wasn't looking forward to. The kitchen was a mess - his two roommates saw to that. He wasn't much better, but there's only so much mess you can make off of a diet of microwaved burritos and leftover pizza. The apartment would have been cramped normally, with tight corners and thin hallways. With a curtain hanging up, blocking off the "living" area, the place was downright claustrophobic. That's what you get for squeezing three guys into a one-bedroom apartment. At least he wasn't the one shoved into the bathroom this time. He pulled the curtain back and slumped on his futon. The clothes he desperately needed to wash surrounded him, sending a slight funk through the air. A couple of cardboard boxes were shoved in a corner, containing the rest of his possessions. It was only a matter of time before another one of his checks bounced - no point getting too cozy. The man let the aches of the day wash over him. The aches of standing all day bookended by his commute sent throbbing spikes of pain through his legs. He should get that checked out, there's probably a hairline fracture somewhere. The angry customers drained his mind of any critical thought. He was beaten, battered, and bruised. Mostly he was just tired. He picked up his guitar and began to strum, but he just couldn't find the strength to lift his arm again. His brain numbed up and he collapsed back into a mess onto his bed. He couldn't fall asleep too early - the nearby trains would wake him up well into the night, leaving him a zombie the next morning. Patting his pockets, he remembered his one splurge of the day - a lottery ticket. He extracted it from his pocket and compared the numbers there with what was on his phone.  They matched. Holy crap. he won. 4.7 million dollars.  He went to the bank and paid off his insurmountable credit card debt. The student loans brewing interest were next. The "zeroes" next to his accounts sent waves of ecstasy through his body. Quitting his job was next - his boss tried to bargain him staying with a one dollar boost to his hourly pay. Almost laughable - if he was worth that much, why weren't they paying him that earlier? It took all of his willpower not to knock a display over on his way out. His days were free now, no mountain of debt, no ball and chain dragging his thoughts down. A hotel far away from the train tracks became his new base of operations. The place was nice and clean - no roommates barging in and making a fuss. He just about broke the thermostat upon arrival, taking advantage of the working heating and cooling. He pulled out his guitar and sang 'til his throat was sore. The smile on his face grew with each minute. Room service was next - it was time he ate right for once. He picked up the phone to order and... *BRAAAAAAAAAAA* A...train horn? But he was too far from... Oh. Right.  He opened his eyes, staring at the familiar crusty ceiling. The train horn blared again, shaking the windows. He checked the numbers on his ticket - not even close. Balling it up, he threw it into a pile with the rest. Time to microwave a burrito.


When Dave was just four, he went up to a girl and said that he liked her. The girl started giggling and replied with an “eww!” Dave felt a pain in his chest. He didn’t know what it was at the time, but he would later find out this was heartbreak. This was his first heartbreak. But it would not be his last. A few years past and there was a different girl that caught his eyes. He decided to wow this girl with a handmade card and a dozen roses. He used all of his allowances and gave them to her. He was really excited. The girl liked them and thanked him. She read the card and said, “oh. I’m sorry. You’re so sweet, but I don’t see you in that way.” Dave’s smile disappeared and he received a pity hug. He walked away sad and defeated. This was his second heartbreak. But it would not be his last. Senior year of high school. Dave still never had a girlfriend, but he was determined to change that. “A prom-posal should do the trick,” he thought. He got a bunch of supplies for it. It was perfectly planned and he was ready. However, the day before Dave was going to ask the girl, another guy had beat him to it. Dave couldn’t believe it. That night, he took the poster and ripped it to shreds. He then asked the girl if he had asked first would she have had said yes. She laughed in his face and answered, “of course not!” Dave was crushed. A frown across his face and tears primed to starting flowing onto his cheeks. This was his third heartbreak. But it would not be his last. Dave needed an escape from his tiny hometown. A fresh start in the world. He would travel hundreds of miles away for college. A new group of people. A second chance for a first impression. Dave started college well and made lots of friends. He talked to a lot of girls, but there was one that stood out among the rest. He really liked this one. He enjoyed their conversations and all the times they hung out together. They had been friends for a few months now and Dave decided it was time to ask her out. He felt confident and ready and knew she would say yes. There was just one small issue with his plan... “I have a boyfriend back home,” she said. The words hit him like an express train. Dave’s jaw dropped, his face red with embarrassment. He tried to use whatever confidence he had left to gracefully end this conversation. It didn’t work, he gave her an awkward, stuttering apology and sprinted away. This was his fourth heartbreak, but it would not be his last. Dave used the rest of his time to work on himself. An outside observer would think he had a great life. It seemed he had it all, big house, steady job, nice car, the whole 9 yards. But I know the truth about Dave. He was lonely, he was sad, he had tried and tried to find someone, but it never worked out. Suddenly there was a crash by the window. A robber had entered Dave’s home. Dave came downstairs to see what was going on. Surprised by Dave’s presence, the gunman shot Dave right through the chest and ran away with as much as possible as quickly as possible. Dave fell to the floor with his hand over his heart. He lied on the floor watching his blood pour out. Dave was in great pain until he realized something. This would be his last heartbreak. In his final moments, Dave looked at his wound with a smile on his face. Only is those moments, was Dave truly happy.


“No, it’s Ji-wi-an,” Jillian repeated herself to the beady-eyed woman sitting behind the glass at the county clerk’s office. “That’s what I said, Ma’am,” the woman gazed up at Jillian, revealing her irritation, “Jiwian Wester.” Jillian heard two little girls behind her giggle, clearly eavesdropping on her conversation. She turned around to see what-must-be their mother, grinning at her, not stopping her daughters from ogling at Jillian. She felt like a circus act. Jillian felt her eyes well-up in tears. “Ji-wi-an Wester. Not Jiwian Wester!” She started to feel her quivery voice raise and began to panic that the woman behind the glass would judge her more than she already was. This was exactly why Jillian was here at the clerk’s office to change her name. She couldn’t deal with the embarrassment of not being able to pronounce it anymore. She couldn’t deal with the arguments that came each time she introduced herself to someone new. She felt a cauldron of rage in her begin to boil and took a deep breath. “Have you ever heard of the name Jiwian before? Why would my name by Jiwian?” Jillian elevated her pitch as she grabbed her license out of her purse and pressed it up to the glass, “See? Jiwian Wester!” The woman’s eyes scanned Jillian’s license and a smirk slowly drew on her face. “Jillian Lester, your number fifty-seven. Have a seat and wook for your number to come up on the screen.” Jillian was caught off guard by the woman’s clear insertion of wook instead of look. How can people be so cruel? she thought to herself. She closed her eyes and felt the boiling inside her begin to bubble up. Flushed and sweaty, she took the license from the glass and placed it back in her purse. She drew a deep breath to gather herself together before finding an empty seat in the middle of the crowded room. As she sat down, she felt her phone vibrate and grabbed it out of her purse. She had just received a new rating: Jillian Lester received a one-star review from Janice Dawson. Janice Dawson? Jillian thought to herself, who could that be? She squinted and looked up at the name tag of the woman sitting behind the glass who was now helping an elderly man with thick, black glasses. She could scarcely make out the small writing on her black and yellow nametag: Janice D . Janice glanced up at Jillian and looked away quickly, her face turning red, clearly caught. Jillian had been given a lot of one-star reviews in the past. But the nerve of Janice to rate her poorly while Jillian was still sitting in front of her? That was a whole new level of low. Jillian opened her Ratebook App and found Janice Dawson’s profile. She knew the rules: you were not supposed to give someone a low rating just because they gave you a low rating. In other words, no spite-rating allowed. But this was not a spite-rating. Janice was rude. Jillian’s fingers hovered over the stars under Janice’s profile picture, debating if she should give her one or two stars. Normally, Jillian didn’t give any rating below a three. But after being mocked and given this one-star review, Jillian needed vengeance. She pushed the one-star button before she could second guess herself and closed her eyes, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down her temple. Tentatively, she opened her right eye and then her left one, staring directly at Janice behind the glass as she picked up her phone, looked down at it, and then up at Jillian. Jillian smirked at her and then looked back down at her phone in frustration. Janice’s rating had moved Jillian’s overall Ratebook score to two/five stars. Almost every single low score Jillian had received was because she had gotten into an argument because she could not pronounce her name correctly. People always asked Jillian how her parents could have given her a name with so many L’s. And she always responded with how could her parents have known when they named her that she wouldn’t have been able to pronounce her L’s? They had named her what they named her. And now she was a twenty-four-year-old with a speech impediment and a bad rating. Jillian looked up at the screen above her, “Number thirty-three,” she mumbled to herself, dreading the long wait time in the cramped room. The elderly man with the thick glasses who had been speaking to Janice turned and sat down next to Jillian, giving her a friendly smile. Jillian forced a smile back and looked back at her phone, scrolling through her recent ratings. “Ratebook, huh?” the man asked pointing down at her phone. Jillian looked up at the man in surprise and a little irritation that he was snooping in her business. “Uh huh,” she said and quickly glanced back down at her phone, hoping he was not going to chat with her. She didn’t need another bad rating today. “Back in my day, people didn’t give ratings to one another,” he told her as he took his glasses off and cleaned the lenses off with the bottom of his shirt. Jillian raised her eyes up towards him. She had heard this speech all before from her grandparents. How individuals didn’t used to rate one another. People could curse one another out, say a rude comment, butt in line, and no one could do anything to damage their reputation. “When I was growing up, phones were for calling, taking photos, and using the internet. I don’t know how you kids do it now-and-days. You can’t get away with anything, can you?” he asked her, giving her a little wink. Jillian perked up and smiled at his friendliness. “Your tewing me about it,” she agreed, showing him her phone. “Wook. Two out of five stars. You can’t get much worse than that. Even some murderers have better ratings than me.” The man put his glasses back on and looked down at Jillian’s phone, squinting. “Only two stars for a pretty, young woman like yourself?” he asked her, looking her over in curiosity, “That can’t be right.” “When you have a speech impediment and can’t pronounce your own name, it causes a wot of mishaps,” Jillian explained. “Lambdacism,” the doctor had told her parents when she had been diagnosed with the condition at the age of ten. “It should go away with age and speech therapy.” But it had not, in fact, gone away with age and speech therapy. Not at all. Eyebrows raised, the man frowned at Jillian, clearly hearing her impediment for the first time. “What’s your name dear?” he asked her with a look of genuine concern on his face. Jillian reached into her purse and took out her license to show him. He took the card from her and then chuckled to himself after reading it. “God really does have a sense of humor, doesn’t he, Jillian?” he asked as he handed the license back to her. “He sure does,” she agreed as she put the license back into her purse and held up her phone again. “Every time I meet someone new, I have to try to expwain my name. And nine out of ten times, it ends up in me getting a bad review.” The man shook his head in dismay. “What this world is coming to. My mother would roll over in her grave.” “So that’s why I’m here today. I’m changing my name,” Jillian announced to him, feeling proud of her bravery. She hadn’t even told her parents yet that she was changing her name. She was sure they wouldn’t like it that she was banishing the Lester name from the family forever, her being their only child. The man’s eyes lit up and he looked at Jillian in surprise. “Changing your name? To what?” he asked. “Emma Webb,” Jillian said matter-of-factly. “Do you know how many names have wetters I can’t pronounce? A wot. Emma Webb is perfect,” she repeated the name again. How sweet it was to be able to say her new name correctly without messing it up. “Emma Webb is a beautiful name,” the man said, frowning at Jillian as he noticed a tear creeping out of her eye. He pointed down towards her phone. “What happens to Jillian Lester’s rating once you become Emma Webb?” Jillian glanced down at her phone, digesting his question. “Well, I’d have to open up a new account I guess,” she said shrugging her shoulders. “So, Emma Webb gets a fresh start then on Ratebook, huh?” he asked her. Jillian grinned, in realization. “Yea, I guess she does,” she responded. “And you are changing your name today?” he asked, pointing up to the number forty-five that flashed up on the screen. “That’s the pwan,” she said, nodding her head. “So, Jillian could do anything she wanted right now…get any rating…and it wouldn’t matter? Because Emma is starting fresh?” Jillian’s eyes lit up. “Yes…” she said slowly, looking around the room. “What are you going to have for your last meal?” he asked her, grinning ear to ear. Jillian’s heart was racing in an excitement she hadn’t ever felt before. All her life she had to follow the rules. Make people happy in fear of getting a bad review. But she was about to get a blank slate. She was about to clear her record. She looked over at the man, needing someone’s approval first. “Do it,” he urged, smiling at her. Jillian stood up and walked towards Janice’s desk, butting in front of the lady speaking to her. “Hey,” the lady exclaimed, eyeing up Jillian in judgement. “Hey yoursef!” Jillian said. She directed her eyes towards Janice and pointed her finger towards the glass. “The next time you rate someone badwy for having a speech impediment, maybe you should think about how it is going to affect them! How dare you give me a one-star rating for not being abwe to say my name! And how dare you mock me!” Janice’s eyes widened in surprised as Jillian turned and walked back to her seat before stopping towards the mother of the two girls who had been giggling at her. “And you! You are supposed to be raising those wittwe girws to be kind humans, and you wet them gawk and waugh at me. What kind of mother are you?” Jillian pointed her finger at the woman as she grabbed her little girls and pulled them close to her. Jillian turned to the room of people, now all staring at her in astonishment. “Each and every one of you! You just rate and rate peopwe aw day without thinking about how it is going to make them feew! Wew, wet me tew you, it feews pretty terribwe!” Jillian began to cry as she walked back over to her seat next to the old man, feeling tears stream down her face. She felt the man’s hand pat her back as she cried into her hands. It reminded her of when her grandpa used to put his arm around her back when she was little. “Shh, get it all out,” he whispered to her as she cried. “They all deserved it.” The chatter in the room began to pick back up and Jillian felt her phone buzzing in her purse. Ratebook. Her two-star rating was going down quickly after that performance. But for the first time in her life, she didn’t care. “I think you’re up,” the old man took his hand off her back and pointed towards the screen. Jillian’s eyes rose to the number ahead of her: fifty-seven. She widened her eyes and stood up, grabbing her purse from the ground. She turned towards the man before she walked towards the door. “I didn’t get your name,” she said. “Matthew Schneider,” he said, “But don’t bother rating me. I don’t use it. No need for it at my age.” Jillian nodded, understanding that once you retired and owned a house, there wasn’t much need for Ratebook anymore. Once you got to a certain age, it didn’t matter what people thought of you. Must be nice , she thought. “But don’t worry, Emma Webb,” he continued, “when I see you walk back out of that door, I am going to be the first person to give you a five-star review.” He gave her a wink and she felt her face flush. “Thank you, Matthew,” Jillian said before she walked towards the clerk’s office to become Emma Webb. “See you on the other side.”


A suitable starting point to my story might lie in an explanation as to how 'keeping up the pace' and metaphorically running a race, took shape for me. Nearly twenty years ago while in my twenties, I successfully kept ahead; I was fit (in all senses of the word), popular, reached degree status, claimed total financial independence and the world sat, as I'd wanted it to, invitingly at my feet. I was content with my place. Although, after some years of grandeur, an irritating thought whizzed about in my mind, like a trapped fly: worrying that time would, one day, no longer be my friend - it would soon turn its back on me and behave as if it had never known me. It would accuse me of taking it too much for granted, not paying enough attention to its ticking hands. By the dawn of my early thirties, everyone my age had hooked up. Married with a baby or at the very least married. They 'belonged' and more noticeable to me, they had children. Did this mean I had begun to slip back in my metaphorical running crowd ( which consisted of all those females in my age bracket)? In my own mind, if there existed a hint of self doubt to any question of mine, the answer always had to be yes. So, yes, I had inadvertently given in to a more complacent pace and was falling behind. The consequence of this acknowledgement (I am certain) summoned Roman. He stood almost 6ft ( in shoes) which I'd decided I would overlook. Slightly thin on top too, for a twenty - eight year old, but for the sake of showing time courtesy, I chose to pretend it wouldn't matter. Unluckily, Roman had no house of his own, was renting a box -room and his car was so knackered that the shine had lifted from its paintwork. It reminded me of a pair of old, scuffed shoes I still kept from my childhood. Truthfully , I was quietly embarrassed to be seen in it. And, despite my friends' negative opinions about my new lover and his lack of suitable status, I carried on regardless.  So when he admitted his debt along with a side - serving of understandable explanations, I still decided to keep the news a secret, despite my personal forgiveness for his past mistakes . Please also consider that no matter what, this man had to be my solution as time was about to turn. 'You won't ever need to worry about being alone, Shannon,' Roman pledged, stroking my ponytail softly. 'I want you and we can have an amazing future.' I took another sip from my glass of cheap, sour wine. I looked into his dark green eyes and enjoyed their glint. ' How do you know that? We've only had three dates.' 'Yeah and I want more. I always want more with you.' 'Promise it's not just sex. Promise me. Just don't make promises you won't keep,' I sighed heavily, aching for certainty. Roman leaned towards the low table we sat next to and set his almost empty beer glass close to my wine. Returning his convincing gaze, he gently moved my chin towards him and pressed his mouth earnestly against mine. A glorious electric sizzle whipped through my thighs. ' I promise. Look - I have an idea! Finish your wine... ' I'd never known a man who offered me so many guarantees so soon . It thrilled me, leaving me half - believing he was indeed, 'The One,' forgetting that I'd stopped striving for that idiotic ideal a long time ago. His idea was for us to head immediately to the tattoo shop to have identical tattoos needled into our lower backs. After all, it was the most concrete assurance he could offer with immediate effect. Yet again, I kept this out of sight from all others, for fear of being ridiculed or accused of recklessness. Within weeks, we were already engaged and Roman had moved in; I was basking in the warmth of his consistent presence. I felt proud of my progress- I had begun to set a good, solid pace once again and the runners ahead of me didn't appear quite so far out of reach. 'It's too quick!' my grandmother ranted. 'Act in haste and repent at leisure,' she kept repeating. 'I know what I'm doing. I love him and I won't lose him!' I insisted, unhappy that she hated him with immediate effect. 'You've only met him twice. How can you know?' She had but months left to live as she'd developed terminal lung cancer, which had recently spread to her poor brain. 'Well I don't bloody trust him. He 's after the money Shannon- why can't you see that? He knows what will happen once I die!' She continued with tears in her eyes. 'It's not like that. Anyway I need him now more than ever... I'm pregnant.' The defeated , frail, little lady fell back into her sofa chair and sat, aghast, for what to me, felt like hours rather than minutes. She hardly ever cried, but this time as her tears fell, I had to tell myself it was the tumour invading her brain and her personality with it. It was only weeks old. The foetus. I hadn't planned on telling her about the baby, as Roman and I had agreed to keep the news to ourselves until three months was up. But I wanted her to know; I wanted her to be happy for me. If only just a little happy. It wasn't to be. She died too soon- during an unusually warm September, clasping hold of her thorough disappointment in me and I am sure this went along with her tiny body into the earth - I had failed in my lifelong ambition to make her happy and proud. Yet, I ignored the new ball of pain now setting hard in my heart, because I knew that with just a few more short sprints, I'd be level with the front - runners. House prices began dropping after her burial though; as if I'd suddenly been cursed by her. Her home was my inheritance dwindling away; thousands gone in weeks. Eventually, we decided to take the plunge and buy Seven Oak Dene. A perfect solution it seemed. It also paved the way for me to pay off Roman's debt, which would in turn help us to pay the monthly mortgage. His suggestion made absolute sense. So by November that year, I had indeed miraculously boosted ahead to first place: doting fiancé, baby, house, career. I felt like the luckiest woman alive. Roman and I were also fortunate to have had the most perfect time during my pregnancy: I even began enthusiastically transforming gran's old home into a new home for the three of us. To add to this, we couldn't wait for the arrival of our first bouncing baby. But I ought to have known better than to have forced nature's hand... Following thirty crushing hours of labour, Tristan was brought into our world eventually, through an emergency C - Section. At once, Roman seemed to fit the mould of responsible, proud dad. And at the start, I seemed to be perfect for the responsible role of dutiful, wholly fulfilled mother. When I say ‘the start’ I refer to the first few weeks.. Until the day I collapsed in our kitchen, holding a boiling kettle in one hand - of all things, and one of gran’s delicate China cups in the other. Six months of sleepless torture for the both of us since the birth, might have taken its toll on me at last, but I knew it was more than simple exhaustion. Something wasn't right; it seemed as though nothing was completely real anymore since the labour: like looking at everything through frosted glass. All my senses had become muted and in truth, I felt very little. Except for one overriding emotion - fear. The doctors predicted Multiple Sclerosis as lesions were found on the MRI of my brain. I had weakness in one side and suddenly, terrifyingly I couldn't sleep. Upon drifting off, an electrical current, a flash that I could actually see behind my eyelids, would spark like a lightning bolt, jolting me almost straight off the bed. To my private horror, after two gruelling weeks in hospital,it turned out not to be MS and my bloods revealed very little. I was a mystery and mysteries had to be dismissed - they would cost the health service way too much time and money. I was a problem they couldn't solve, taking up the space of a valuable hospital bed for someone who was fixable. Back at home I could do very little; fatigue floored me like a train hurtling towards me at full speed. Family were hauled in by Roman and were provided a rota to help him care for woeful Tristan. So I lay there in our bedroom, day after lonely day upstairs; my ears burning from the helpful relatives' naïve opinions floating up the staircase like phantoms coming to haunt and taunt me. 'She's just tired,' Amanda proposed. 'It's a difficult thing to adjust to after all.' 'Yeah but Roman's finding it bloody hard too and he's not got the luxury of lying up there in bed,' Roman's father would say. 'Well let's just see. Give it time,' his wife sang, laughing it all off, underscoring the whole situation as temporary . The guilt I experienced sliced through me over and over, because I couldn't do what was needed for both Roman and Tristan. Humiliation also hung about my sick - room like a stench I couldn't rid. Panic threw my rational thoughts into a blender, as I often expected to die. My headaches and weakness worsened to a point where my body shook with any effort: even teetering to the toilet and back became hard. My position in the run had been turned on its head by nature herself . Keeping up ( to be shoulder to shoulder with the fittest) would no more be the goal. That was going to be impossible, I conceded. Oh no. Instead, it had turned into a deadly, uphill run to keep pace with even the slowest runner of the group. So, with this firmly in mind, I removed the covers from my heavy, unsteady body and pulled on my gown. I headed gingerly downstairs, holding on tightly to the banister as I descended to be with tearful Tristan who wailed ceaselessly, as if he were crying for me. ' ‘Oh my god, you're finally up!' Roman cried, with a look of uncensored scorn ruining his kind face, as he noticed me wander through the lounge doorway. 'Yes I am,' I smiled as I awkwardly knelt in front of him and howling Tristan and began tidying the sea of scattered toys. 'All better now then!' he remarked above the din, in a spiteful tone that squeezed my sad heart. 'Yes, all better now,' I affirmed, watching my hands shake as I placed the last of the toys in the box. In this desperate scenario, sensing Roman already resented me, I begrudgingly recalled my grandmother's warning, 'Act in haste and repent at leisure.' Just a short while ago she had sat down in the vacant chair which now loomed in front of me, wagging her finger with those remonstrations that had seemed so very ridiculous. And when Roman revealed a few months later that he was leaving me for someone else, her warnings resounded so loudly in my painful brain, and I did not know how I would continue this nauseating , nightmarish marathon with no one there to help me keep up. She would have helped, yet she was gone. So would my mother, but she had gone too. Long ago. But I knew if I stopped, I would be out of the race altogether and worse still, Tristan would too and his dear little life had hardly begun. So I chose to look ahead, holding Tristan tightly despite his heaviness, and kept going. I just kept going. Fourteen years later, I am still looking ahead. I still have Tristan to protect and guide and love; therefore I am still taking part , albeit lagging somewhere towards the middle or back of the crowd. The floor beneath me is still something cruel like sand. Or mud at times. My fear of dying has all but gone, but my heart stopping fear of failure and falling behind remains. I continue to run from the ground that now collapses behind me as my disease devours me little by little; it remains a mystery. Never mind: I just keep going. There is no choice. No option to stop. Or I will be swallowed whole. Written by Eleanor Winstanley


“So I’m in the library and I stumble across this book.” As he is saying this, the large man holds out a small leather volume, that is clearly old, and has seen better days. He is a big man; nearly 190 centimeters tall with broad shoulders and tipping the scales at 18 stone. The man hands the book to a small figure and continues; “I mean I literally stumble on the thing.” The one now holding the book smiles brightly and opens the old volume as the bigger man keeps talking. “It must have fallen off its’ shelf;” he continues, “I snatched it up; along with the amphorae, and high tailed it out of there before the security detail could glom onto my presence.” The small figure is leafing through the book and says “amphoriskoi.” The big man cocks his head and says, “beg pardon?” Pecht tells him in his high, soft voice; “technically since it is such a small example of an amphorae; the proper term is amphoriskoi.” The bruiser has a slight smile on his face and says “potayto – potahto, Mr. Pecht.” The Pixie looks at his man and says “you know Gerald, I can’t recall how many times over the years, I have told you that Pecht will do.” The smaller figure looks expectantly at the big man and asks; “so you did get the amphorae?” “Yes sir Mr. Pecht;” the large man says with a grin on his face as he reaches into his jacket pocket to pull out a small glass vessel. The amphorae seems tiny in his large hands. Of course it is only about 12 centimeters tall with two delicate handles on either side of the tapered neck. It is translucent sea green with the handles in emerald. As he hands the smooth glass amphorae over; Gerald can’t help but think to himself; that the thing always smells like the sea. “Mr. Pecht sir?;” the big man questions his smaller boss, “how is it that Miss Bella can’t seem to hold on to this thing?” The Pixie shrugged his small shoulders, and Gerald continued;” I believe this is the third time in as many decades that I have had to retrieve it from someone or somewhere.” The small figure ran the glass amphorae gently through his nimble fingers and spoke; “at least this posh gentleman were just a collector; and had no nefarious motives like that Italian from the South side of the city.” Gerald shivered; despite the relative warmth of the small apartment. The mention of that man made him recall when he had first met Mr. Pecht: that had been nearly a hundred years ago. It had in fact been the very night that he had been killed by Vittorio in one of the back rooms of the Italian eatery that the troubleshooter had secretly owned. He clearly remembered tackling the Italian devil because the other man had been stalking his friend Teague; and had taken out the ivory handled razor that he had used to kill dozens of men. Gerald recalled his friend; and the years they worked for Mr. Penrose, who ran the West side of the city for quite a while. Teague had been, maybe slightly smaller than Gerald himself; and to this day, he was the toughest man that Gerald had yet to meet. He remembered thinking that he would take his friend Teague over any man; even if they were armed, but if he were taken unawares by someone like Vittorio… that could be a different story. So, he had tackled the Italian and very shortly after that; had been lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood. Teague had found Gerald and held him as the bruiser’s life seeped from him. Over the years; he had asked the Pixie several times to explain what he actually did that brought him back. Gerald always just thought of it as a miracle. Pecht had to basically “dumb it down” tremendously. Even then; the closest he could come to something that Gerald could understand, was to say that he shared a part of himself with the enterprise man. Pecht would not say “soul”; because he consistently would assert that since he was not a man, he technically did not possess a “soul”. Long story short: Gerald had ceased working for Mr. Penrose, and his enterprise, and started working for Mr. Pecht, the Pixie. He remembered one of the very first things he had learned about his new boss was that pixies and fairies don’t get along: sort of like the Chinese and Japanese. But that didn’t stop the Pixie from falling in love with one. Her name was Tenkha; though Gerald usually referred to her as Miss Bella. It was odd; since that was part of how Vittorio had spoken of her many years ago. The bruiser remembered the handsome Italian say that she was his Tenkha Bella: Gerald knew that bella meant beautiful in Italian. That was just one of the unusual things in store for Gerald after Mr. Pecht had brought him back; and shared part of his “self” with the enterprise man. Gerald found that he understood languages. He could read and write and communicate with anyone in any language. To Gerald; that had been miraculous, because he now knew that he had been dyslexic in his prior life but Mr. Pecht had fixed that. He remembered the Pixie saying something along the lines of something being not quite right in Gerald’s head, so he fixed it. He had found that he also could understand animals to a certain extent. He was no Dr. Doolittle; but he could communicate with most animals. He also never got ill; and oh yeah, he didn’t seem to age. So; all in all, Gerald thought “miracle” was a pretty good term. Mr. Pecht mentioned nefarious intent in regards to the amphorae. That was pertinent because he knew that if someone possessed the small glass jar; then they could exert influence over the sea nymph Tenkha who was the love of Mr. Pecht’s ridiculously long life. He remembered that the original intent of Vittorio was to use the amphorae’s hold over Miss Bella to have her paramour, the Pixie; come over to the Italians’ side. The small fae had provided Pixie Dust that the chefs in the eatery used to enhance the food. This meant that people would be willing to do whatever they must; including paying exorbitant prices, to enjoy the delicious food. In fact; the Italians had been using too heavy a concentration of Pixie Dust, and eating the food became an addiction as insidious as Heroin. The Pixie was polishing the amphorae and preparing to place it in a cleverly concealed safe. As his boss was doing that, Gerald had taken the book and was admiring it. The small volume was actually several hundred years old; written in Olde English, and had been inscribed by hand. There were beautiful illustrations that were still astonishingly colorful, considering how old the book was. He had read through most of the book in the short time it was in his possession. He could remember hating to read as a boy because he had been dyslexic, and he would get headaches if he tried to read or concentrate on anything for more than five or ten minutes at a time. One of the advantages of the “miracle” that had brought him back was that he had been cured of that particular learning disability. The book had many tales, what most would consider folklore: and some of them had made Gerald question his relationship with the Pixie. He found a spot near the middle of the book: it contained information that he wanted to discuss with Pecht. Gerald waited till after his small boss had secreted away the amphoroskoi before he said;”Mr. Pecht sir, there’s something I would like to discuss with you.” The Pixie raised an eyebrow and said;”of course Lad. And what would that be?” Gerald handed the small volume over to his boss: it was open to an illustration of several warriors and a small figure in blue. Pecht examined the intricate artwork; because the illustrations in the book were certainly that. Gerald noticed the expression on the Pixies’ face as the small figure appreciated the drawing. “I remember you telling me that story Mr. Pecht sir;” Gerald said to the Pixie. “It was a group of young warriors who happened upon you; and you convinced them that you were blue because of the drink you had brewed.” Pecht smiled broadly in remembrance as his man continued. “You told them that the potion kept you safe and whole in battle, but in fact, it kept you three sheets to the wind.” “You have to admit Gerald;”Pecht told the big man, “it is a funny thing.” The bruiser nodded in the affirmative because it was in fact, a funny thing. “The thing is, Mr. Pecht, sir”he said, “it goes on and on about the trickster god and how he would do anything to further his own ends.” Pecht kept his eye on Gerald and said; “I think the same could be said of just about anyone; be they man, woman, or Pixie.” “Something occurred to me;” the bruiser said, “actually several somethings.” Pecht looked up at his man and asked” and what would those be lad?” “Well;” Gerald said, “I’m going to be one hundred twenty six years old this November, and I’ve lived in three centuries so far.” Pecht smiled and interrupted with, “that’s cute! Talk to me when you’ve lived in forty five.” Gerald shook his head slowly in awe. He knew that his boss was old; but seldom thought about just how much history the Pixie had seen. The big man kept on; “the main thing that occurred to me: was that you knew.” He looked the Pixie in the eye when he said this. “Knew what?” the Pixie said with a convincing look of ignorance on his fae visage. “Don’t try it Sir. I’ve known you too long.” Pecht shrugged his slight shoulders as Gerald continued. “You knew that Vittorio was going to take her.” Pecht looked slightly dismayed. “That was a long time ago lad.” Gerald slowly shook his head in the negative and said;”that doesn’t matter.” The big man took a moment to survey the small lavishly appointed apartment before turning his gaze back on the millenia old figure from folklore. “She wasn’t my mum;” Gerald said, “but Teague’s mother was the grandest lady I have known my whole life.” Pecht agreed with; “the Mrs. was quite the lady, you’re not wrong there lad.” “You knew that Vittorio was going to take her; and you did nothing?” Gerald asked his boss. The Pixie said;”she came out of it none the worse for wear lad.” Gerald nodded but asked; “but did you know she would be ok?” He continued; “you know what that beast did to me. Did you know she would be ok?” Pecht considered for a moment before he answered; “honestly lad: I did not.” Geralds’ face flushed: he sighed, and he asked; “then how could you have done that?” the big man started to pace; “they both could have been killed by that monster.” “I’m sorry lad;” Pecht told his man, “I needed Teague to take care of the situation; and having his mother in peril, made certain that he would do what needed to be done.” A troubled look crossed Geralds’ broad face and he said; “I don’t know if I can be here.” Pecht looked up at his man and asked; “what do you mean Gerald?” The big man looked around and said;”I need some time.” “Time for what lad?” the Pixie asked. “I just need some time Sir.” He stopped pacing and looked down at the old fae; “I need some time away to think.” The Pixie looked a little distressed and said; “but I need you here lad.” Gerald considered for a moment and told his boss;”I honestly believe there is nothing you can’t do Sir: you don’t need me.” “Don’t worry;” he said to his small boss, “if Miss Bella loses her amphoriskoi again: I’ll get it back for her.” Pecht looked troubled and asked; “are you sure about this Gerald?” The big man considered for a moment and said; “yes Sir Mr. Pecht; I am sure.” The Pixie thrust his small chin up at the big man and said; “what if I say no? What if I don’t let you go?” Gerald looked down at the much older, smaller figure, shook his head and softly said; “I don’t think you will.” The Pixie looked down at his small, fancy shoes and in his soft, high voice agreed; “you’re right: I don’t think I will.” The big man turned away and started toward the door. As he reached the door the ancient Pixie called out; “Gerald: you take care.” The former enterprise man looked back and said; “you do the same Pecht.” And then he left.


It had been many years since he had walked down these streets. Everything seemed familiar yet unfamiliar at once. The old buildings still looked the same, with paint peeling off and the air of gloom hanging around them, the roads were still narrow and crooked, the street-lights still didn’t work. But the people had changed. The old man who sold ice-cream had disappeared and the old aunt who often scolded the children for being noisy but would unfailingly appear with lemonade at regular intervals to distribute it among them was no were to be seen and he himself was no longer that young and innocent child who had considered the entire world a magical land to be explored. Indeed the passage of time was cruel and though he had gained many things, he had lost as much in the process. As he trod down the well-remembered road, he absent mindedly took out a cigarette and lighted it, a bad habit he picked up in his youth and one he found difficult to completely cast off even now, it had become a part of him, an action that he did subconsciously whenever he was deep in thought. Blowing out the smoke he rounded a corner and suddenly stopped, in front of him was a dilapidated playground just like the one he remembered, the same rusty swings and creaky slides…perhaps the difference would be that now a small fence surrounded the playground, perhaps the result of some mandatory maintenance project, but what caught his attention was the old tree near the swing, it was an unremarkable tree, short and crooked, he didn’t even know what species it was but he felt an unexplainable attraction to it. With large strides he walked over to it and kneeled down beneath the shade it cast. He reached out a well manicured hand and felt around its trunk, his hand stopping when it discovered some deep indentations that time couldn’t completely cover up. With an almost maniacal urgency he roughly ran his hands over the spot a few times till the marks left in the trunk became more visible. As his eyes ran over those marks, an old memory resurfaced in his mind, a summer afternoon and a couple of boys fooling around without a care in the world, a sharp knife one had snuck out of his father’s drawer and a spur of the moment decision to etch their names on to the tree under which they spend their time. Of course they had realized that to carve their names completely would be a tad bit difficult but unwilling to give up they had compromised by deciding to only leave their initials on the tree. As he revisited that particular memory he found himself smiling for some reason. It wasn’t the kind of polite smile he usually had but a real one which came from the bottom of his heart. Even though he realized that the sight of a thirty something man in a three-piece suit kneeling down and smiling in an empty playground might make people think him a creep he couldn’t care less, he couldn’t remember the last time he had smiled without any hidden intentions, smiled simply because his emotions dictated he had to, smiled just because he felt like it. Walking out of the playground he ran into an aging man in a police uniform stretched tight over a rather plentiful belly. He was shocked to realize that he knew that man, it was the same police officer who had chased those young boys around for causing ruckus after ruckus and handed them over to their parents after a stern warning time and time again. Even though time had stripped the man of his vigour and turned him into a fragile shadow of his former self he still recognized him. In front of him, the man had a frown on his face, perhaps he was wondering why a guy in an expensive albeit soiled suit would be hanging around these parts. Perhaps the man would remember him if he talked but he didn’t feel like it. It was curious, the feelings he had for this place and it’s people, all he knew was that despite everything he had never hated it, as for feelings like love or nostalgia…he had no idea. It was strange really, he didn’t understand why after coming out of yet another boring meeting he would have a sudden urge to revisit this place. But he had never been one to leave something for later when he wanted to do it, and thus he had come.Why? He didn’t know. Wasn’t “I felt like it” reason enough? He was shaken out of his inner thoughts and monologuing by the sound of a car behind him. He turned around to see a sleek and expensive car that was awfully familiar to him…it was after all his own.The car came to a stop near him and a man got out, it was his secretary. The man cast a disapproving look at the state of his clothes but switched focus and said “ Sir, I just received a call, the representatives hope you will be willing to have a video conference with them tonight” he felt a familiar stifling feeling rise in his chest but still nodded curtly and flashed the policeman a polite smile before getting into the car. As the car pulled away from the place he hadn’t seen in so long he glanced at the rear view mirror and saw the policeman watching the car speeding away, he still had a frown on his face but the next moment the car rounded a corner and he could no longer see the policeman. He felt a wave exhaustion wash over him and leaned back in his seat before slowly closing his eyes.


I used to be an atheist, don’t get me wrong I didn’t have a near death experience or experience what’s known as a miracle to others. I’ve merely found a theory which to me explains everything that happens in this world. To understand let me tell you about my past and the events which had let up to me becoming the laughing stock of the scientific community. My name is Tyrel smith and I was a respectable physicist, one of the best in my field. Never once did I entertain the thought of an afterlife or the supernatural being any more than a delirium among my fellow man, a story made up to explain all the oddities and fears in this world or to simply take the fear out of death itself. Religion was a joke; I mean how can something be created from nothing especially the vast universe and our world in 6 measly days no less. It’s absolutely absurd, so when they would try to converse with me about the greatness of their lord I simply laughed and brushed them aside, however after doing my own investigation into some of the oddities that plague our world, I came to a conclusion which sounds crazy but makes the most sense. It all started 6 months ago whilst I was looking into how black holes affect our universe and what potentially lies at the singularity at its core. This research was based on something known as the black hole cosmology, a theory that each black hole contains a universe at its core proposed by a theoretical physicist to which I found intriguing. I mean seriously there has to be a place for all the matter black holes consume to go right, anyways I'm getting distracted back to the point. I had spent 2 years researching this seeing if it could tie in to our theory of the big bang, to which we have evidence is the start of our universe, I enjoyed doing my research listening to audio books of various subject, so one of my colleagues Samantha suggested I listen to stories from a youtuber who only ever told true stories that enveloped the area of mystery and the disturbing, which seemed like a joke at first but after a while they fascinated me. One story in particular had me bewildered, though I don’t think you would know about it but it's about this old woman who passed away, however the part that bewildered me was how she had led her life and what she proclaimed. I'll explain the story then explain why I'm no longer respected by my colleagues. so in 1904 a girl was born, her name was Dorothy, at the age of 3 she had fallen down the stairs in her home. Her parents had called a doctor who pronounced her dead shortly after arriving, after an hour had gone-by she had gotten up and started playing in her room. However, the girl was never the same after that her mannerisms had changes and she had frequently asked her parents to take her home much to their surprise, they had frequently asked her where is home to which the girl could not give an answer. This doesn’t quite seem odd coming from a child it seems quite natural that she would have these confusing thoughts after such a horrible accident, however this would persist throughout her entire life. One day they took her to a museum which had recently opened an Egyptian exhibit, shortly after the girl had entered the exhibit, she started acting weirdly running up to all the statues of the pharaohs and sphinx kissing their feet crying I'm finally with my people. On one of the walls hung a picture of the temple of Seti when she had seen this, she began excitedly saying that’s my home. When she turned 27, she moved to Egypt and began studying everything she could about the country that she was certain was her true home, it was during the first year of this she began getting visions from Hor ra, a deity of the ancient Egyptians and from this she had proclaim that she was a priestess at the temple of Seti named Bentreysht. That she had become the lover of Seti and conceived his child however because she had broken her vows of chastity, she was interrogated by the other priestesses hoping to find the culprit and summarily took her own life to protect her love. At the age of 57 she finally got permission to go the Abydos to do research on the temple of Seti, upon setting foot in the temple she had stated its almost as if I had been here before during her 20 years working at the site, she had demonstrated impossible levels of knowledge regarding the ruins leading to many discoveries of hidden tunnels and the old garden that used to stand there. This in my opinion is the most realistic case of reincarnation we have seen to date. Once I had heard this story, I started doing my own research on the theories of reincarnation which stem from Indian religions where it is described as the rebirth or transmigration of the non-physical essence of a living being beginning a new life in a different physical form after death. This sound preposterous especially when you would need to accept that something like a soul exists and that is an impossibility to prove. Then I started looking into the mythology of our world and all the creatures that exist within our heads, there's no evidence any of them existed yet all myths and stories always stem from a single truth or event which over time gets misconstrued and twisted as it is passed down through generations. By this point 3 months had gone by and I was obsessed with trying to figure out the truth behind it all, until one day as I was watching tv I came across one of the anime’s that children love, it think it was called the wise man's grandson. Which is about a man who dies and reincarnates in a fantasy world and at that moment things started to connect in my head, what if none of the religions wrong or science for that fact. Then I started thinking and here was my thought process. For reincarnation to work then the metaphysical concept of a soul must be true, however that itself is a struggle as the soul itself must have memory, meaning that if you did indeed reincarnate all of your memories if not a few would remain from a past life. Therefore, a system would have to be in place to wipe those memories which would be triggered by external stimuli that you are/were familiar with, however if what I was researching is true then such a thing as a multiverse should be real, therefore if you were to reincarnate into one of those other universes then maybe a life there would overwrite the soul's memory and erase the past life. This explains how some can remember previous lives whilst most of us don’t, but it would also explain our mythology. Mythology could just be stories about creatures that existed in those other universes, a residual memory if you will from a past life. This would explain how there is no base for these creatures in our world, yet they have a deep and rich history here. What I got from this process was that reincarnation may be real, however we reincarnate between parallel universes and some of our experiences in those alternative realities have leaked over to this world creating our myths and legends. I know sounds crazy but it does explain religion and some of the thing's scientists have been stuck on since before my time. Now I've explained the story behind why I became the laughing stock of my fellow scientists, I will tell you how it came to pass. Once I had this theory, I decided I would document it and share it with a few of my colleagues, sufficed to say they laughed at it calling it ludicrous at best. No matter what I said to them they dismissed it and called me crazy, they mocked me for weeks calling me a crazy man or delusional. I decided to try one more thing I got some of the best theoretical scientists to agree to a meeting and presented them with my theory and all the evidence I had accumulated to back it, I was hopeful that they would see the potential in what I had put together. After they had gone over everything and discussed amongst themselves, they said it was a solid theory and told me to give them time to see if it stands against scrutiny so I agreed went home and waited to hear back from them. Unfortunately, no sooner than a week had passed and I got a phone call from an old friend asking if I had seen the story about me in the scientific journal, I pondered what the article could possibly be about, when I finally saw the article, my heart dropped the title read in bold letters “physicist Tyrel Smith officially declared crazy with his new theory”. It's not surprising to say every part of that article was a dig at my intelligence and my sanity, I lost my lab all of my research data and now anytime I see my old colleagues in the street or the store, I get barraged with insults and jabs concerning my intelligence and what I had discovered. This is where I will leave this story, I decided to type this up so there is a record of what transpired and so others may read my theory and draw their own conclusions. as we speak, I'm preparing to leave this world behind, maybe in my next life I will be respected.


The hike to the hidden meadow was rough for a beginner. Back aching, calves screaming, she had to make her goal; she owed herself this win. It was only three or so miles, but for her, it felt insurmountable. COVID was a depression feeding ground, and she had become one with her couch for too long. Over feeling cooped up inside her stuffy apartment, she needed to be outdoors. She envied the explorer section of social media: lush green, fresh air, soft breezes, birds tittering, streams bubbling. Enough watching it through a stranger’s lens; today was *her* turn. The trail began to incline, and she was grateful for the trekking poles. It was not an unpleasant day; in fact, it was beautiful outside. It had sprinkled that morning, so all was a little damp, but the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze made it lovely. Sadly, the thick trees blocked the breeze, which left the air warm and muggy. *Ugh*, she could feel the sweat on her face and back. Please, *please* let me be close. Misplacing a step, her ankle twisted. *Ouch*. She sat down on a nearby log, only to fall right through. Looking down in shock, she realized too late that the log was rotten. Why did the outdoors appeal to her again? She sat in disgust, lamenting her lack of grace while studying her surroundings. It was more of the same: dense trees and brush, parted only by the unkempt trail. She considered turning back, questioning how much more she could take. No, she was *going* to make this happen. Resolve strengthened, she pulled herself up and gave her ankle a little test. *I can do this.* *Squish, squelch, squish, squelch.* Watching her feet, she trudged ahead. A half mile later, she could feel the breeze again. It looked like the trail was beginning to open. Excitement overtook exhaustion, and she moved faster. She saw the meadow, and a grin split her weary face. A large patch free from trees, the foliage bloomed extensively. There were wildflowers everywhere: purples, yellows, pinks, reds, and blues. There were ferns, bergamots, goldenrods, black-eyed susans, geraniums, daisies, and more. Closing her eyes, she listened to the birds. *Zee-zee-zee, purrrty-purrrty, choo-choo!* Farther away was the sound of water. Looking around, she found a small stream at the north edge and began to follow it. The trickle became a bubble, and the bubble became a rush. There was a small waterfall at the bank, surrounded by an equally small rocky outcropping. She could see a grotto behind the waterfall – just large enough for her to sit in. Giddily she leaped on two larger stones to get closer and stepped through the cascade. The rush of cool water was exhilarating. Hunkering down, she crawled into the cavity and sat down. It was just her and the water in peaceful solitude. She marveled at the beauty, splashing on the smooth stones below. Settling in, she pulled off her bag and fished out a thermos. She slowly sipped on the hot coffee, enjoying the view through the veil of water. In this surreal moment, she silently praised her triumph. Taking the time to slowly finish her coffee, she let her mind wander as her eyes continued to soak everything in. She could stay here forever. Rinsing her cup in the water, she set it aside to dry. Resting her hands on her thighs, she closed her eyes. Listening to her body, she became anchored to the ground, to mother nature. The strength of the stones supported her body well. Methodically, she loosened any tension from her face all the way down to her toes. Slowly she took in a deep breath, waited, and blew out a slow exhale. Repeating this cycle, each breath brought nature in, and each exhale took with it life’s stress. Now in a calmer state, she breathed normally and began meditating. The rise and fall of her stomach, bringing in life and expelling its woes. Her ears heard only the water, splashing, trickling, and bubbling. Any errant thought was noticed and drifted away. This was her moment. This was her peace.


As the mournful night drifted by her window, Susanna knew nothing of her future, and very little of her past. Every person in the train car, including herself, drew shallow breaths under the dampened light. Cigarette sighs hung in the air, and a dozen sullen eyelids drooped down to the floor. Susanna stole secret glances at the others, when she dared. She liked to imagine what brought them here, onto this dark, creaking train, hidden beneath the belly of midnight. One woman had coarse hands and sensitive eyes. She was loosely wrapped in a work uniform: the night shift. Maybe she worked at night to feed her children during the day… maybe she had multiple jobs… maybe this was the only one she could find. Whatever her reality was, the woman seemed gentle, if only a little resigned. Then Susanna looked behind her to see a tired man yawn back into his seat. He had a face made of lines. The creases on his forehead were parallel to his blocky eyebrows, to his narrow eyes, to his furrowed mustache, and to his wiry lips. Every time he yawned, he seemed to fold into himself like an accordion. Susanna wondered what could’ve made this man so exhausted. And if it was just tonight. She looked again at his eroded face–her guess was no. It was every night. The night sky raced beside the train and finally began to slow. It moaned as it eased itself into the station. Susanna reminded herself that she had her own story, too. Her own secret that she couldn’t seem to forget. She was running away. Several hours ago, Susanna had thrown everything she needed into a large, canvas bag. An extra pair of clothes, a toothbrush, her medicine, and her portfolio. She forgot to bring her books. When she first boarded, she merely shrugged this off; but now she cursed herself. This was going to be a long journey. The car doors gasped open. A few people shuffled off, a couple people meandered in, but the gentle woman and tired man stayed. A part of Susanna wanted to turn and talk to them. So, what brings you here? She would say, softly. But Susanna also knew that traveling alone brought not only freedom, but danger. Especially for a young woman like herself. Susanna must have dozed off, for when she awoke, the train had halted at another stop. More people stepped off, but none stepped on. Just as the doors began to shut, a stray hand flew forward, clasped onto the rim of the door, and yanked the rest of its owner on board. His young, wide eyes frantically searched the faces of the other passengers. The door, by now, had closed, and the train resumed chugging along. Yet the man still had not taken his seat. Something about him seemed unusually urgent and fresh. His suit was pressed, his stubble shaven, and his gaze anxious-yet-alert. Susanna was unsure if the man’s appearance made him more trustworthy or more suspicious. Keep an eye on him, she told herself. Never trust a stranger. Suddenly, the man’s eyes met Susanna’s, and something in them flickered. Not something like fright or anger, but something like… Well, Susanna didn’t know what. The man seemed less tense now as he approached her. “Thank God,” he said as he took the seat next to hers. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.” “Do I know you?” Susanna snapped at him. The man turned to her, and the frenzy in his face melted. A hint of sadness tinted his eyes. “Oh… I’m sorry. I must’ve mistaken you for somebody else.” Susanna nodded and held her bag closer to her. The man sighed to himself and rubbed his temples. For several quiet minutes, his attention locked to the dark window, and Susanna thought she spotted a few tears inching down his cheeks. Eventually, he turned back to her. “What brings you here?” he said, softly. Susanna looked at the man’s dewey, pleading eyes. She could almost see him as a little boy, as though he were a child crawling towards a stranger for comfort. “Well, to tell you the truth,” Susanna smiled warmly at him, “I’m headed to New York. To sell my paintings.” The man was impressed. “New York, you say!” Susanna nodded proudly. She seemed to have cheered him up. “Are those some of your paintings there?” He pointed to the portfolio sticking out of her bag. Susanna beamed, took them out, and slid them towards the man. He held the pages carefully in his hands. Delicate strokes appeared almost stitched onto each canvas. The first was a self-portrait: a girl like Susanna staring sideways at the viewer, a glint of mischief shining in her eye. Then came a series of imagined portraits, fictional faces that Susanna must have conjured from her dreams. A young soldier, his serious brow furrowed above a familiar, kind gaze; three middle-aged women walking down fifth avenue, their faces bent by laughter you could almost hear; and two children, a brother and sister, the boy helping the younger girl into the loving arms of an oak tree. The final portrait was of an old woman standing alone on a beach at dusk. Her face, barely turned towards us, was smudged beyond recognition. Like a dream Susanna just couldn't quite place. “These are beautiful.” Susanna could not doubt the honesty of his words; they trickled out from somewhere deep within him. Smiling, she shrugged. “I have more at home, but these were all I could carry.” Susanna recalled what she’d told herself a few stops before– do not blindly trust this man. But something about him seemed so soft, so forgiving. It was like she’d known him all his life. “Who are you looking for?” Susanna asked. The man’s voice gasped like the opening of the train doors. “Just… someone who ran away… someone I lost.” The man’s hand reached out again, this time wrapping Susanna’s hand in his warm grasp. Suddenly, Susanna saw it all: packing her bag, running from her house in the pouring rain, boarding the subway, getting strange looks, taking her seat, and watching the night chase after her. Now she looked back down, saw the man’s hands and hers. Hers were so… old. They looked like wrinkled papers, loose, purple, and etched with age. Frantically, she looked out the window. Where was she going again? But the tunnel was only filled with murky darkness. All that Susanna could see was the reflection of a watery old woman staring back at her through the smudged night. The lights flickered. Her attention swerved back to the inside of the train car; it was empty except for the two of them. She turned back to the man beside her and pleaded: “What is happening?” The man rubbed her arm soothingly. “Let’s get you home, Ma.” At the next stop, when the train moaned to a halt, a young man held the hand of his elderly mother and helped her step off the car. The woman turned and watched the sliding doors breathe shut one last time. Then she whispered to her son. “Matthew?” “Yeah, Ma?” “When you got on the train, was it just me in the car?” Matthew shook his head, earnestly. “No. There were some other passengers, too.” “Did you see the woman in the uniform? And the very tired man behind me?” The man hesitated before nodding. “Yes. And yes.” I smiled. “Thank you, Matthew.” As my son and I climbed up the stairs and out of the station, the lilac sky peaked mercifully down at the both of us. “Am I still painting?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the yawning sun. Matthew lifted into a grin. “Yes.” “What do I paint?” “A lot of things,” he shrugged, “But you’ve always had an eye for faces. People.” He pointed across the road to a mural splashed on the side of a brick wall. It was a mosaic of five women– each a different age, each a different temper, but all of them with the same compassionate glint in her eye. “See Ma,” he said, “that’s you.” One by one, the golden sunlight moved onto each of the women. As it did, each of them turned and bravely faced the violet dawn.


The silver bell adorning Madam Magdalene’s Oracular Viewings chimed over the soft swooping hair of the boy who’d just pushed through the door. Magdalene hastily slid her crossword under an appropriately leather-bound tomb sitting next to the register and watched closely.  The bell was a trinket given to Magdalene by her mother, who’d received it from her mother before her, who had supposedly bought it off an old troll living in what was now the sunken city beneath San Francisco. A miniscule enchantment carved along its edges summoned the boy’s aura for an instant; it was peach, like his polo, and trembled with uncertainty where he stood locked wide-eyed and halfway over the threshold. She jangled the bangles stacked up her arms to make up for the Levi’s she was wearing. Believers liked a little atmosphere, but denim settled even the most strait-laced skeptic. “Welcome.” She dug deep for her voice, and it came out gentle and echoey, as though from the bottom of a well. The boy drew cautiously inside. A woman with short, curly hair and clear glasses wide as welder’s goggles followed behind, her lenses lit from below by the light of her phone. She chewed her lip, taking in the shelves of trinkets and talismans, the blacked-out plaster of the ceiling, the tapestries depicting battles and nudity. Polo Shirt met Magdalene’s hooded eyes. “Is this the InkDot? The one on 51 st Street?” The girl with the glasses clicked her phone off and nudged him with her elbow. “Does this look like an InkDot?” Magdalene refused to let her disdain for the T-Shirt printing company that previously held Oracular’s storefront show. Instead, she plucked a painted teacup from the counter and studied the dregs inside seriously. She was a professional, after all. “Catastrophe befell them at this location. The ghosts downstairs live to tinker with modern gadgetry.” She peaked up to see if this got a reaction. It didn’t. “I heard they reopened in Boston. Nearly two years ago.” Magdalene couldn’t help tacking on the last part a little resentfully. Her mother had survived off house calls to a few wealthy clients; bored and lonely, and likely doped up on either booze or oxy. Real whales in the industry. Now here Magdalene was—a woman with the Sight, her practice living and dying by Yelp.

Glasses was back on her phone, zooming deeper into the screen. “There’s a FedEx on 4 th .” Polo Shirt nodded as though that meant something. “Do they do work in fibers?” Magdalene considered him. His was the type she imagined Travis sitting next to in his classes at university. It’d been years since the days of bloody noses and schoolyard bullies, but there were still times she chewed her cuticles over how her son—with his Electric Squid sweatshirts, expanding collection of piercings, and oracle mother—fit in with these children of doctors and real estate agents. “You two.” Magdalene strode from her seat, her orthopedics silent as she glided over the carpet. “Are you together?” Polo Shirt smiled wide and cheeky. “Almost a year now.” “Such a critical time for you,” Magdalene said, and fluttered her hand to land on her chest. His shoulders jumped almost to his ears. “It is?” “Yes, very. I see the roots tangled between the two of you, but they’ve yet to sprout.” She splayed her ruby-lacquered nails in the imitation of a blossoming flower. The girl pushed her glasses up her nose. “Pay them the right mind and they will ripen to seeded fruits. I offer a discount for young love. With a bond as strong as yours, a reading would appear to me—” she sighed heavily, the movement clicking together the beads around her throat “—crystalline.” Glasses leaned into Polo Shirt’s side and rested her cheek on his shoulder. “I already know what’s ahead,” she said. He looked down at her and crooned. “ Babe , that so sweet.” Magdalene clicked a nail against her toothy smile and retrieved the gum from where she’d stuck it on the back of her molar. “How wonderful for you both.” The troll bell tinkled wildly as the door burst open and bayside-fresh air gusted over the carpet. A sweatshirt-padded form swung inside and slammed the door closed. Travis turned and slouched against the glass, panting, his aura spiking dark and turbulent. He cast around before picking out Magdalene’s paisley blouse amongst the Oracular’s haze of textures. “Mom!” he breathed and stumbled towards her, a crazed look in his eye. The young couple clung to each other as he passed, the phone cradled between their chests like a newborn. “Mom, you’ve got to help me!” “My apologies,” she called out to the couple as they inched towards the door. “This should only take a few minutes!” Polo Shirt flapped his hands. “Please no, that’s alright!” Glasses tugged him through the door by the elbow. The bell showed Magdalene the white lie when she said politely, “Thanks for the info, we might actually stop here on the way back!” Then they were gone out the door. Magdalene massaged the lines of her forehead. “Mom, I need you to do a reading for me.” Travis was halfway to the backroom where she kept a locked file cabinet hidden under a scarf and a low table with a deck of cards for readings. He waved at the air, as though trying to generate a current that might sweep her after him faster. Sweat glistened on his forehead and his cheeks were red. “Did you jog here? I thought the doctor told you to cut back on building up your free radicals.” Apparently, her son’s heart was becoming too muscular to beat properly. Not a bad problem to have in Magdalene’s opinion, but Travis had been devastated to learn he couldn’t sign up for another marathon. She tried to recall the new exercise routine he’d told her about over the phone—something called body pump , she thought. Travis choked. “What? Mom, just come on—please, there isn’t much time.” She gave in and followed her son to the back room, crouching to fluff her pillow before sitting down at the table while Travis closed the door. He pressed his ear against it for a moment, then shook his head and paced over the carpet. A tag stuck up from the back of his shirt like a ruffled feather and Magdalene itched for a pair of scissors. “Sweetheart, your shirt’s on inside out. And come sit down! I haven’t seen you in weeks, at least tell me how your midterms went.” “Finals,” Travis muttered. He bit at the cuticle of his nail subconsciously; a habit she’d thought he’d broken sophomore year of high school when he heard Trudy Bankmen laughing to her friends about it while they were stuck at a crosswalk. Travis hadn’t told Magdalene about that, but she’d seen it on him as soon as he got home. To this day, Trudy Bankmen suffered from a paranormal number of hangnails. The Sight still had some uses, even if paying the bills wasn’t one of them. Magdalene caught her boy’s ankle and tugged him to be still. “Travy, what’s wrong?” Travis ran a hand through his hair and took a huge breath. “Right, you’re right.” He plopped into the cushion opposite her and started bouncing his leg. He used to do the same thing when he was a child, waiting restless while his mom finished a reading before karate practice. Magdalene’s mouth twitched to smile and she picked up a cup from the tray at the center of the table. “Tea?” Travis dropped his head into his hands and breathed raggedly. “Holy shit. Holy shit. I-I—” he dragged his hands down his face and looked up. His eyes were bloodshot and tired. “I did something really stupid.” Magdalene clicked her tongue and poured him a cup anyway. “It can’t be any worse than trying to chop Mrs. Dirkson’s balcony railing in half. I thought they’d give you a cast for sure.” Travis laid over the table and caught Magdalene’s hands in his own. The full teacup rattled precariously. “Listen, I need you to listen, ok? I-I borrowed some money from some guys—just to sign up for this stupid licensing exam I have to take—but I couldn’t pay them back when I said. Then, it turns out they owe someone else money, and long-story short, there’s three of them and their huge and they’re after me!” It felt as though a tiny robin’s egg were caught in Magdalene’s throat as she stared into her son’s pleading eyes. “How much was the test?” Travis clicked his mouth shut and glanced at the smiling ceramic cat sitting on the shelf over her shoulder. “Two hundred.” She pulled her hands from his. “Two hundred? I could have loaned you that.” She wrapped her hands around her cup, her silver rings clinking against its side. “I know, mom. It’s just, you know,” he heaved a shaking breath and sat back. “I know the store isn’t doing so good. I didn’t want you to worry about me.” Magdalene realized suddenly that there existed a flat plane she’d built her life upon. She only knew this because now the plane was tilting, things were rolling and falling somewhere she couldn’t fathom. Travis used to ask for her hand before crossing the street, and complain to her about his teachers, and stew openly in the living room about girlfriends and championships lost. Despite the long shifts, the budgeted holidays, and the little idiots at school who told Travis his mom was loony, Magdalene had thought she must be doing something right. She’d been wrong, though. Her boy couldn’t come to her for two hundred dollars, and now he was in danger because of it. In the other room, the troll bell tinged. Magdalene froze, one of her false nails cracking between her teeth where she realized she’d been gnawing on it. The bell rang twice more and though the voices were muffled, it was clear there were three men treading through her shop. Something glass fell from a shelf and shattered. Magdalene tore the loosened plastic from her nailbed and spit it out onto the tablecloth. “Just tell me what you need.”

Travis scrabbled for the file cabinet. He reached behind it and pulled out a 12-inch Bowie knife she kept sheathed against the wall in lieu of a gun. Magdalene hadn’t been lying about the ghosts tinkering—even the cash register started trouble sometimes. Guns were a liability around spirits, but steel ate flesh same as lead. Travis crept over to her, knife in hand and knees bent, like he was soldier running through a foxhole. “Tell me what to watch out for,” he whispered. “Don’t stab them.” Magdalene had hesitantly decided to downgrade the Oracular’s insurance coverage last year. They’d be lucky if it covered a broken window. Travis guffawed. “Of course not—the insurance won’t cover that! I’ll just,” he waved the knife, “scare them. Right?” She patted his cheek. “That’s right.”

The doorknob rattled and Travis grabbed it, holding it tight to keep it from turning all the way. Voices sounded on the other side. Magdalene jumped when a fist banged against the wood. “You in there, Trav? We’re just here to talk.” In the background, the drawer of the cash-register cha-chinged open. Magdalene gritted her teeth and straightened her back, widened the cross of her legs and rested her wrists on her knees in an open energy pose. Travis watched her, looking nervous. She gave him reassuring wink. “I believe in you sweetheart.” Travis’ returning smile wobbled. He’d had the same look before his first wrestling match—he’d won then, and they’d gotten ice cream afterwards. Magdalene turned away from the door and closed her eyes. She navigated her conscious intent to the back of her mind and passed through the lens of her Sight. She awoke hovering bodiless over the reading table, the world expanded around her in a single wide lens. Below, her body sat rigid and Travis struggled to keep the doorknob from turning as his grip grew slick against the metal. There were three people on the other side of the door. Two of them boys close to Travis’ age. One hung back against the far wall, sweating through his shirt. The other had his fists wrapped around the door handle, wrenching at it with both arms. The third man had a shaved head. He was older, and that worried Magdalene. Tucked in his belt was a blunt silver handle. “He has a gun ,” Magdalene whispered, and she saw her lips move where her body still sat in the back room. Travis said nothing. He must have known about the gun. It was easy to stay focused in the energy realm without all the pulsing hormones of a body, but Magdalene made a mental note to have a serious conversation with him later. She refocused her sight on the future and couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’ll have an opening on the count of seven. Go for the gun first.” On the dot, several things happened at once. It began with the bald man wedging his fingers into the till to scrape out the few dollars collected there. The register’s screen flared to life, emitting a string of angry ones and zeros displayed in ghostly green. With an aggravated cha-ching , the drawer snapped closed on the bald man’s fingers. There was a wet snap and he shrieked. A second before, Travis had rammed his shoulder into the door, flinging the boy trying to get in back a step. He landed on his butt at the same moment the register closed. Travis ran straight for the bald man, who was doubled over the register trying to pry open its drawer without twisting his fingers. By the time he noticed Travis pulling the gun from his belt, it was too late. Travis stood looking between the bald man and the boy slowly rising from the floor, but kept kept the gun pointed at the ground—waving it around wasn’t safe even without the possibility of paranormal tinkering. “Don’t forget about the third!” Magdalene yelled, though her voice issued from the back room in a monotone. Travis slashed the knife threateningly and made a show of choking his grip on the gun’s handle, though he still didn’t raise it. “Neil, don’t move.” The second college kid—Neil—yelped and raised his hands in front of his chest, as though he thought Travis might decide to chuck the knife at him and he might have a chance of catching it. He hadn’t been reaching for the ruby-pommeled sword tacked to the wall over his head, but he’d been close to thinking about it. “Get out, all of you,” Travis said, his voice impressively steady, though he must be close to shaking apart from nerves. The boy who’d been twisting the doorknob tried to smile. “Look man, there’s been a misunderstanding—” Travis laughed incredulously. “You’re fucking right there has been, Mitch!” He nodded to the bald man, who was blinking through watery eyes and attempting to punch the cash-register into submission. The register chimed melodiously and began printing a receipt. In all caps it read, over and over, GETOUT GETOUT GETOUT. “You bring that guy with you, and to my mom’s house? That’s slimy business, even for you.” Mitch’s smile wavered. “You were the one who ran in here,” he muttered. “What did you just say to me?” “Dude let’s just go,” Neil hissed, watching in horror as the receipt spilled over the countertop. As though in agreement, the register dinged open, and the bald man snatched his hand away. He held his bent fingers and glared hatefully at Travis but made no move to approach without his firearm. The three of them exchanged looks and backed for the door. “This isn’t over, Trav,” Mitch warned. Travis sucked his teeth as he watched them leave. The bell chimed over their heads and Magdalene could tell from their auras that at least two of them took those final words seriously. A worry for another day. Magdalene closed her Sight and breathed through the headrush of returning to her body and all its moving parts. Her flesh felt dry and heavy around her, the rattling of the AC loud and tinny against her ears. A warm hand rested on her shoulder and when she blinked, her vision was narrow and resting on Travis. “You ok?” “As the Corral, cowboy,” she joked weakly. The whole experience had been thrilling, actually, but Magdalene kept that to herself. She climbed to her feet, her knees aching, and mustered a stern look. “I expect we’ll be talking more about this?” Travis swallowed. He raised his hand to scratch his head only to see he was still holding the gun. “Yeah, that’d be good.” Magdalene took the gun and the knife from him. “There’s some pasta from last night, and some port in the fridge. Pour me a glass and we’ll talk over dinner.” Travis sagged. He was taller than her now, but when he gave her a quick hug, he felt like her little boy all over again. “Thanks mom,” he muttered. She patted his back, careful not to stab him with the knife and breathed in the familiar scent of his shampoo. “Anytime.” She Paused. “But next time you make friends, maybe consider a computer science major, or someone from the arts college.” Travis snorted and drew away. He looked Magdalene over appraisingly. “That was pretty cool, you know. Maybe you should consider fighting crime or something.” “Get the commissioner to return my calls and we’ll talk.” Once Travis had disappeared up the stairs and the pipes for the hot water were rattling through the walls, Magdalene patted the cash-register and flipped the Oracular’s sign to CLOSED. She smiled to herself; the Sight still had some uses indeed.