It had started raining. Jodie hadn't actually realised it was, until the folds of her shirt had begun clinging to her stomach, rapidly chilling, sticky ice, now noticed- unbearable. It must have been a while since the sun had disappeared and the clouds had covered the sky, but more worrying than the precipitation was the expanse of sodden ground she had covered without notice. Jodie picked at her damp clothes, annoying sensations of gripping fabric mixing with her worried retrospective about all the roads she had crossed outside of cognisance. Evidently no car had mowed her down though as her vague body auto-piloted through town. A shiver ripped through her, partly due to the chill, the other part- the dread of what could have happened to her while her mind had floated out of her body, so frequent an occurrence these days. What would Matt have said? He would have rolled his eyes at the very least, she knew it. So many times he had lamented her daydreaming. Back then though the fantasies were cotton candy pink hued clouds of hopefully adorned plans, barely formed but beautiful future ambition. He would summon her back to her body with a sweet smile and kiss on whatever part of her he could reach. Now her blinding fixations were nightmares, living doom and barely survivable sorrow and she remained unwoken from her insides for what felt like days, with no one to pull her out. Jodie's left thumb rubbed the inside of her bare ring finger. As happened periodically, a jolt of loss and guilt prickled from her core and sent pins and needles to the ends of her fingers and toes as she noted the continued absence of her wedding ring. It's disappearance had felt like a cruel joke when first acknowledged, and now- now it was a ongoing punishment for some unknown crime. Karma seemingly wanting to chip away her soul until there was nothing left. Matt's own ring lay under the earth with him. Whenever she had visited his grave before her band went missing, she had poeticly buried her hand into the loose soil atop the burial site, cool dirt pressing tightly around her fingers, feeling the imagined connection of the two pieces of metal through the earth, her last link to her dead husband reduced to a pathetic metaphorical gesture. A widow. The label was gross, unfitting, surely a lie. Jodie was sure it would never slot neatly into her psyche. Sometimes she hated Matt for slapping that label on her, more annoyed by the redefinition of her own identity than her actual loss. Ridiculous, she would tell herself as she shook off the resentment and sunk back into classic, uncomfortable yet acceptable grief. When the ring had first gone missing she had assumed it had slipped off her finger on one of those occasions in front of Matt's headstone. Running back to the cemetery in the dead of night, Jodie had rattled at the gates like a ghoul, the tall iron bars locked and immovable. Scaling the adjacenct wall, driven by feverish, agonised desperation, Jodie had ripped most of the skin from her knees and palms on the brick but didn't feel it, didn't know it until she returned to the light of home, mud-coated and bloodstained from her grave digging escapade. Scrabbling around in the wet earth in the perfect darkness she had suddenly become aware of how obsence her behavior was. Horrified, Jodie froze, kneeling in the pit- realising she had stopped searching for the ring a while ago and instead was throwing handfuls of dirt over her shoulder, imagining she was about to reach the coffin that lay six feet below, almost yearning for her finger nails to scratch the wood of the box that held her beloved, the idea of it both intriguing and unbearable. As she recalled this uncomfortable memory the trusty autopilot completely failed for the first time and Jodie experienced an utterly new kind of pain as she was thrown into the air then slammed impossibly hard into the tarmac, the screeching brakes of the car reverberating around her head. The cliché idea of time slowing became reality as she flew through the void and knew the impact with the ground was coming so impossibly long before it did. Detailed information of what that meant circulated her brain, awareness of all the potential harm that was milliseconds away from being a possibility. What an interesting kind of freedom- the inevitability of the next few moments and an absolute clarity that there was not a damn thing she could do to change the outcome of this event. It felt... nice- to know that control was robbed from her for that time, a kind theft of responsibility and intent, just the universe, universe-ing regardless of her wants or wills. By absolute chance, the collision caused no damage and Jodie was back on her feet almost straight away, pulling her arm away from the grip of the worried driver who was insisting a hospital visit and shouting desperate pleas after her escape. Maybe she was actually dead, maybe the car's impact had ended her life and the ghost that stalked through the world was just a shadow of she, who was formerly Jodie. This possibility was unimportant, the end goal was Matt's grave and it was to be, living or dead. The pull towards him was stronger now and Jodie pondered if there was a reason for that. She had often wondered when the last time she would visit his grave would be, maybe that was today. Everything has a last, for one reason or another. There were so many things that Jodie had already done for the last time that she had not known at the time was her last. Had she had already eaten her last peach? Maybe she had been to Spain for the final time when she visited her aunt on the continent the year before last. Then again, maybe she would be reclining in a deckchair on the sand in Barcelona next month, a juicy piece of fruit in hand, feeling the prickle of the Catalonian sun on her skin. Everything felt unwritten, everything tasted of... blood. Jodie spat onto the path in the cemetery between the graves, ruby splatters coating the ground as she continued to beat a path onwards. The glint of the reflected light hitting the object that sat on top of the headstone was visible from a distance. Flashing either like a lighthouse beacon warning her away from danger or like a green light at the end of a dock calling her in with promise. Either way, she knew exactly what it was that glinted in the returning sun long before she got to his grave, even if it seemed impossible. The ring was alive, like it had placed itself there, as if it had located and presented itself to where it knew Jodie would find it. Caught between the urge to snatch it up and hold on tight and the horror of what exactly it's reappearance meant, Jodie froze, gazing at the circle on top of her dead husband's headstone and it gazed back at her. All the times she had wished to possess the jewelery again, she had never imagined that it's reappearance would make her feel so uneasy and it took her a moment to realise why. This was it. This was the last time. There was no rhyme or reason to why she knew, but once she reached out for the ring, whatever happened, this would be it, this would be the last time she visited Matt's grave. Maybe the ring was setting her free, maybe it was heralding her end, there was only one way to know. Stretching her fingers out, she spoke silently to the universe. "What's next? I'm ready."


Aloysius Lets the Cleaning Lady Go It really was time to let the wretched woman go. Goodbye, but as graciously as possible, of course. Aloysius had forty pounds in his pocket and the words on the tip of his tongue. She stamped into the room, in the middle of a sentence as usual; another thing that irked him, her non-stop chatter. “So, you see, Mr Aloysius, there is a big difference between being alone and being lonely , if you get my drift. A big difference.” Maggie was unusually stern, having finished her hours. They were in the orchid house, where she was allowed one cigarette after her shift, but Mr Aloysius, having inadvertently broached a comment earlier, thought this might not be the case. He rather feared for his new Dendrobium and moved it slightly away from the floating smoke. They were sitting at the potting table, with Maggie using a plant saucer for ash. “It’s like this Maggie …” he began … “Here’s my friend, Rosalind, been married 40 years, loses Harry just like that. So, you could say she’s alone. Anyway, after the crying her eyes out, and me and her with a bottle of the whisky, she says she always liked some flipping poem, about wearing purple and eating sausages and stuff. Anyhows, we got the poem from the library, and blow me, if we didn’t do everything on it and she was like a new woman. Stupid things, but it made us laugh, going out in the rain in our slippers and that. I didn’t get it really, I’m not a fan of purple at the best of times, and she doesn’t do everything in the poem now of course. She got this little white dog that sits on the end of the bed while she reads her library books, ‘til midday if she wants to and then off they go visiting all over. Don’t get me wrong she grieves for Harry every day, she misses him heart and soul, but it’s been a couple of years now and she doesn’t feel lonely.” Against his will, Aloysius found himself strangely interested. “She does still eat a big plate of sausages all at one go sometimes. I’ve tried it myself. It’s very satisfying.” “Maggie…”, Aloysius steeled himself. Maggie paused, lit up another cigarette and Mr Aloysius, as discreetly as possible, opened a window by the rare Phalaenopsis and sat down again. “My friends, Wendy and Sharon, I’ve told you about them, haven’t I, what works at the restaurant in town. Now I wouldn’t say they are the most sensitive girls around, and they’d be the first to say the same. But do you know what they hate working the most? Valentine’s Day. You’d think you’d want to work it for the tips, eh?” Aloysius did indeed wonder why. “But they try and wangle it for a day off on that day. They say it’s the saddest day of the flipping year; some of those couples sitting together, trying to look together, but they’re not, Mr A; they’re pretending, and they’re not alone , but some of them are feeling the loneliness, that’s what Wendy says. She says it makes her really sad. Them trying to look together and happy for the day, but not really; not really.” Aloysius drew a determined breath. “Then get me, eh. Nothing more I love than a good car trip on my own. Alone, Mr A. singing along to the music like anything. Smooth FM, all good songs on there. I like going up to places to see the birds; Flamborough Head and all the terns, puffins and such. You should get yourself out Mr A., a bit more, really. So, one day I’ve had a really good walk, got my binoculars and all, see the little chicks in their nests, it’s brilliant. Just as brilliant as yer beautiful orchids, if you don’t mind me saying. And then I pass this family of four; the kids are real little shits, sorry to say that, but they are, the mam’s telling them they can have anything they want when they get back to the car; she’s as bad as them not wanting a walk, all moaning like mad. Then the dad comes up behind, and it’s him I see, his eyes. He’s tried to do something different, maybe, take everyone for a bit of fresh air, but that’s not the point. His eyes, he’s like lonely and alone at the same time; like ‘is this the rest of my life?’ This spoilt wife and these spoilt kids? His eyes went down to a right desperate soul, I could tell. Lonely and alone; I’m not sure, I’ll have to think about that a bit more for my theory, you know.” Aloysius could see it all, felt the breeze on his skin. Maggie puffed away on her cigarette. “Just finish this, Mr A. and then I’m off. Got me pilates class; I know, you wouldn’t believe it, but it’s good for me back. Another time, I’d been down to see Sue one afternoon in Cleethorpes. That’s another story. But driving out, oh, it was such a beautiful sunny afternoon, and I had this real hankering for fish and chips. Sit by the beach, watch the waves, see everyone splashing around, glorious. So there I am, all settled under a tree, mouth watering, just starting on my fish and chips, when I felt like I had just stepped off a cliff and fell into a sea of lonely. Oh, it was dreadful. All the world carried on around me; seagulls crying, children shouting, people laughing and chatting, and I was so apart from it, so, so lonely, it grabbed onto my insides and I started to cry into my chips. I don’t know what happened there, still don’t. I can still feel that lonely plunge today if I call it up. And I have never eaten fish and chips by myself since.” Aloysius clutched the notes in his pocket. “Right, I’m off. Have a think about it Mr A. when you said what you said today. Lonely, or just alone? Come and see those lovely little baby birds on the cliff, eh? I’ll drive.” Aloysius sighed. Another day, perhaps. That woman definitely had to go.


She smiled. That beautifully radiant smile. A smile that could beat back the darkness of night and the bleakness of despair. It was a smile that many a man would readily die for. And it was for me. Her fingers entwined themselves in mine, holding them firmly enough to let me know she was there. I resisted the urge to squeeze them any harder, for fear of breaking the spell. I was utterly bewitched and she knew it. I was powerless to resist. *It’s not the fall that hurts. It’s the sudden stop that kills you.* The strains of music drifted through the air. At least, I think it was music. At this point it didn’t really matter what it was. It was everything and nothing at the same time. It was the perfect soundtrack to a movie of our own making. We were the stars of a show, written and directed by suns beyond our sight. She turned away, and dragged me through… a crowd? I don’t know. It mattered as much to me as a man’s debt does to an ant. I didn’t care. All that I yearned for was to be with her. In the here and now. Even if I knew that I didn’t deserve it. That I’d somehow used up all of my life’s luck in just one night. *But what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger… Right?* Why was I even here? Doubt creased my face with line upon line of impotent sadness. Words whizzed about, shouts and screams filled what anyone would readily perceive to be the air. But none of it reached me. I was an oasis of self-deprecation, unable to move beyond the pitiful cycle of self-immolation. The music changed. I think. I tried to clamber back up from what was a dark pit of ridiculous, nonsensical anxiety. What good would it to do to me to take myself apart like this, piece by piece? *I should just enjoy this. Even if it doesn’t last.* She must’ve noticed something was wrong. She pulled me close, and held me tight. I was conflicted, a maelstrom of opposing emotions competing to plant themselves at the forefront of my consciousness. I closed my eyes, and drank in the moment. The stupidity of the doubts crystallised in my head, and began to melt away. She pulled back, and looked straight through me. Her eyes sparked with the fires of life and passion. She was gorgeous beyond belief, her face contoured and sculpted by the gifted hand of the Maker himself. The exquisite lines of her being flowed from one feature to the next, never ceasing to amaze me as I watched her glide through my vision - a study in indescribable, breathtaking magnificence. *Things aren’t beautiful because they last forever. They’re beautiful because they can’t.* I finally returned the smile, a pale imitation of the loveliness that was before me. She let me go, satisfied that I had picked myself up. I finally heard the music and let it bounce around in my head. It moved me, us, bringing us up and down as wave upon wave of joy washed up on the shores of my soul. I was happy. She was happy. And that was enough. I tried hard not to think of what would happen once the night bade farewell. Maybe it would all be over once the music ground to a halt, and any number of fat ladies stopped singing. Maybe this was all it was ever going to be. Just another moment in time, lost amongst the infinite nothingness of irrelevance. *Hold on to that smile. You might never see it ever again.


My mom laid there on the hideous hospital bed that had taken up space in the living room for the past two months. She hated that bed. If she could have talked she probably would have said that it was the most uncomfortable bed in the world. Her head was propped up on two pillows, one over sized and one undersized. Her comforter was covering her now tiny body which was always cold. She laid there eyes open and looked up to the heavens. My mom was dying physically. She was no longer going to be here after that cool November day, the week before Thanksgiving. She gave me one last look and took her last breath. In my life there were only three times I cried as hard. I held her hand one last time and gave her one last kiss and prayed to the heavens that she was out of pain now and she would rest easy now.

That day I lost my mom and I lost myself. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I have heard that we are all put on this earth for a purpose. That you have to live your life with purpose. That you were entitled to have happiness, peace and abundance. But, here I was not knowing what purpose I had any more. I was always Carol’s daughter, the oldest of her three children. Big sister, mom to my son later in life and for the last three years I was my mother’s caregiver. I was there 24/7. I cooked her breakfast every single morning. Before she lost her voice we would talk over eggs and potatoes about the morning talk shows and how ridiculous she thought some of them were. We sipped tea or coffee together and she told me stories about when she was my age and younger. She would share with me advice about life and her struggles and prayed that her struggles would not become my struggles. We would have pineapple pizza for lunch and Chinese food for dinner. We would laugh at the stories my sister would tell about her husband.

Days, weeks, months passed faster than we wanted them too. Mom had very good days and very bad days. At certain times even hospital days. They were terrible days. Each time she went in she came out worse. The last time was the time she never fully recovered. Her body could not take any more. I was angry at first that she left me. I now had to search for my own identity. I now didn’t know who I was anymore. If I was not Carol’s daughter, who was I?

In the days and weeks following the death of my mother I tried to do all the things that I had never done. I immersed myself in taking swimming classes which I had stopped taking long ago. I took cooking lessons, art lessons, and even took a ride in a hot air balloon and almost scared myself out of this world. I spent more time in the garden and trimming the trees, counting the fallen leaves and trying to plant pretty flowers in assorted flower pots. I had a barbecue in the middle of the coldest December day of the year.

My nose ran, my face was cold, my gloved hands almost turned blue but I persisted turning that chicken trying to get the perfect color, the perfect grill marks. Mom would have liked that chicken and would have told me to bring my behind inside before I got sick. I exercised more and went from walking to running. I ran fast and hard, losing my breath at times but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I was running towards something. I was running trying towards the woman at the end of the block. I knew this woman. She was short like me, kind, long red hair like mine blowing behind her as she ran faster and faster. Then the woman was gone. I finally got to the corner and she was gone. I cried out for her to come back. I screamed for her to come back. I needed her. I needed her more than ever. I need her voice, her strength, her courage.

Finally I ran home. My new home, the home I had been living in for a year. The home I wanted to share longer with my mother. Our dream home. I looked around at the high ceilings, the skylights in the living room and wooden planks in the kitchen. I stared at the grain of the wood on the railings leading to the loft. My hands felt the wood trimming on the walls. I stared at the place where my mom took her last breath. I knelt down on that spot where the carpet frayed from the bed and I let out a primal scream. My hands were bruised from the beating I gave the wall. My knees were sore and my head was empty of thoughts and feelings. My heart was full of love and regret.

The ornaments fell to the ground as I sat at the crotch of the Christmas tree. One bulb was mother, another one a daughter, sister, aunt, niece, dreamer. One bulb had the name of all the places I had not been, Paris, Grease, Louisiana, Lake Tahoe, Hawaii and other exotic places. The bulbs went so high

that I could not name them all. It was like they disappeared into the colors of the lights at the top of the tree. The star, the elusive star which I had trouble finding every year, that star was an accumulation of my life. Every year I wished upon that star. I wished for peace, happiness, toys, clothes, health, strawberry cakes and chocolate kisses. That star was the brightest. It lit up the room but more than that. It lit up something I didn’t expect. That star, that big bright silver and gold star lit up me. My head filled with thoughts, lots of thoughts. Thoughts about the past, future, present and most of all the one thought that told me that I had found something.

That very second that thought that was like a whisper in my ear, the thought that made the hair on my neck stand up, the thought that told me that I had always known my purpose in life, the thought that told me I never lost myself that I just needed to look for me. I will be many things to many people over my years on this earth and that was part of my purpose to love and to be loved, to be happy and sprinkle happiness where it needs to be, take care of people and let people take care of me and dare to be my unique beautiful self. In that moment I learned what I was seeking was already here, in the mirror looking right at me.


A dream-lit cityscape in the stars  The silhouette of two individuals could be seen sitting on the edge of what could very well be the void, but the sound of cool night waves lapping against weather-worn wood was a clear giveaway.  "It's a lovely night to watch a meteor shower", the younger sounding of the two murmured with a feminine voice. There was a warm softness to her voice, almost as warm as the arms that draped and the chest that supported her back. Her companion held her just a little tighter in response, as thought to voice his agreement.  The flash of the first meteor flew overhead, like an avian of pure brilliance announcing the arrival of a majestic flock of light. The woman chirped a happy noise at the appearance of the signal that their planned show was about to start. They have come to this very same spot every year on the same day since they first met, both drawn by the promise of the technicolor lightshow that graced these same skies year after year.  They still remember that first chance meeting, two awkward teens prone to sneaking out had snuck out of their respective homes in search of the perfect place to view the annual meteor shower. The moon had been full and its pearlescent rabbit was clearly visible against its snow white canvas, watching over the sleeping town they both grew up in.  The man, barely into puberty at the time of their meeting, had fumbled out a greeting to the young woman. "Um, hi. The, uh, moon is really big tonight, right?", he had muttered, picking at one of the separation points in the wooden planks with his foot while his hands threatened to burrow straight through his pockets. She chuckled lightly, a flash of metallic imbued teeth showing her own greeting. "Indeed, I came to see the meteor shower, they're hard to see at my house. Want to join me?", she inquired of the nervous young man. He muttered a nearly non-committal approval of the idea and stood beside her. They stood and watched the rain of light parade across the stars.  "I think it's starting!", the present day woman burbled as a few more meteors screamed across the spacial viewing screen they had both become well acquainted with. She still had fond memories of him pointing out Ursa Major and Orion's Belt for the first time, stricken at the amount of passion for astronomy he expressed when the mood changed from his own anxious mood to that of a confident young man. She felt his face that was muffled by the hair on the back of her hair smile warmly. Nothing but the stars and the bond they shared existed for a time as far as they were concerned.  They sat there and watched the kaleidoscope of galloping light flood the night sky till the sun showed the first signs of breaking. Another successful and happy year, enjoying the night sky they had nearly memorized by this point. They got up, brushing off the light amount of sand they had managed to accumulate from a night of sitting so near the coast. The couple then proceeded to journey back to their shared home, the coolness of their twin rings giving way to the warmth of their entwined hands.


#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I provide a simple constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. This rotates between simple prompts, sentences, images, songs, and themes. You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** &nbsp; *** #This week’s challenge: - **Theme: ** - **Bonus Constraint:** Do not use the word “darkness” or any major . This week’s challenge is to use the above theme and/or image as inspiration for your story. The theme should be present within the story, but its interpretation is entirely up to you, as long as you **follow all post and subreddit rules.** The bonus constraint is not required, but it is worth 10 points. **Note: Don’t forget to next Monday!** (The form usually opens at about 11:30am EST Monday.) You get points just for voting. &nbsp; *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. (No poetry.) - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post, exclusively. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Come back throughout the week, read the other stories, and leave them some feedback on the thread.** You have until **2pm EST Monday** to get your feedback in. Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **2pm EST** next Monday to submit nominations. (Please note: The form does not open until Monday morning, after the story submission deadline.) - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. &nbsp; *** #Campfire - On **Mondays at 12pm EST,** I host a Campfire on our server. We read all the stories from the weekly thread and provide live feedback for those who are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. Everyone is welcome! &nbsp; *** #How Rankings are Tallied We have a new point system! **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** | **15** pts each (5 crit max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 75 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | No cap | **Bay’s Nominations** | **20 - 50** pts | First- **50** pts, Second- **40** pts, Third- **30** pts, plus regular noms | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Users who go above and beyond with feedback (more than 2 detailed, actionable crits) will be awarded Crit Credits that can be used on r/WPCritique.* &nbsp; *** #Rankings *Please be aware that we have a new point system. See “How Rankings are Tallied” for more specifics!* - **First:** - Submitted by u/FyeNite - **Second:** - Submitted by u/katherine_c - **Third:** - Submitted by u/AliciaWrites *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Check out the brand new over on r/WritingPrompts! - Try your hand at serial writing with ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


The inhabitants of the small Norfolk seaside town of Breezehaven wouldn’t have been human if they weren’t occasionally jealous of their near neighbours in Hunstanton. Oh, there were no barriers or riots, or anything remotely like that, and it was by no means unknown for there to be what were called (only in jest, of course , people hurriedly added) mixed marriages. The good folk of Breezehaven even sometimes expressed a certain pity for their counterparts in Hunstanton. “We can live perfectly well without being the answer to a pub quiz question,” was a remark you sometimes heard. The relevant question was worded in different ways, but all amounted to the same thing, that Hunstanton was on the East Coast and faced West. You see, it was on that arm of the North Sea known as The Wash, which pub quiz devotees may also recognise as the place where King John’s crown jewels were reputedly lost, and the weird quirks of geography meant that journeys from Norfolk to Lincolnshire took twice as long as they would otherwise. One thing in which the inhabitants of both towns were united were in thinking a bridge would be a great idea, but it would never be built.

     The oddity of geography also meant that sunrises and sunsets in Hunstanton were particularly spectacular, and it was nicknamed Sunny Hunny . Some claimed that the town’s name itself came from “Honeyed Stones”, but the general consensus was that it was more prosaic and merely relating to its geographical position on a river, with the suffix “ton” for “town”.      Mary Shaw ran the Violet Villa guest house in Breezehaven. The name sounded poetic, but as she proudly said, unlike some others  (naming no names, but thinking about Castle Hill and Cliff View) it was entirely accurate. The guest house was, indeed, a 1930s villa, and Mary was justifiably proud of her collection of African Violets. But she didn’t go over the top and have the walls painted bright purple of anything like that. Mary was, for the most part, happy enough with her life. She had a business that might not exactly be the proverbial little goldmine, but “washed its face” (how easy it was to fall into using expressions you didn’t like!) and she enjoyed being a proprietor of a guest house, though she determinedly avoided either calling herself a landlady or falling into the stereotype of one. It was a shame her marriage hadn’t worked out, but she and Toby were still on reasonable terms, and everyone agreed their children were a credit to them both. Alice was doing a nursing degree and wanted to specialise in paediatric nursing, and Joe was in the sixth form at school and wanted to be an engineer. She liked to think that at some point in the future she might have grandchildren, but it certainly wasn’t one of her absolute priorities.      Although Mary ran the guest house effectively and efficiently, she had a poetic and thoughtful side, and often, particularly after a rather stressful day (every hotel owner dreads a plumbing emergency, but at least she could rely on Ron to come quickly and fix it properly) she liked to take a mug of coffee, or sometimes a glass of wine, out into the garden, and take a few deep breaths, and enjoy the sunset.

     She was expecting a particularly beautiful one that night. It had been the right kind of day; a day of sunshine and showers, the kind of day that led to shafts and shades at twilight. It was a cool evening, but with the kind of gentle coolness that held the warmth of the afternoon and the promise of the warmth of the next day.      It took Mary a few seconds to realise what was both glaringly obvious and absolutely impossible. The sun was setting in the east. And the sun just did not  set in the East. Weather forecasters both could and did get things wrong, but other things were set in stone, and had been since – well, she wasn’t sure about the Big Bang (though she was always rather taken with the idea that you could hear its echoes in the static on your radio) but for billions of years, and would be so for further billions of years.      Which was fine in theory. But Mary knew her eyes weren’t deceiving her, and she hadn’t even had a glass of wine, settling for coffee that evening. She was the kind of person who could be zany enough to have faith in her own sanity, even after a difficult day. And the sun was most definitely setting in the East.

     Mary decided to look on the Internet. And already reports were coming in.

The Impossible Happens in Small English Coastal Town  was one of the more level-headed of them. Some took it as a harbinger of doom, and though there were some that regarded an odd shaped cloud as a harbinger of doom, there was no denying this was bizarre, and whilst not sharing the apocalyptic warnings, she could understand why people felt that way. But she had seen it, and had not been afraid, baffled, yes, but not afraid.

     It soon became evident that only Breezehaven was affected by this strange and inexplicable turn of events. It extended to the little estate on the outskirts, but no further. It did not impact on the whole country, nor even the whole county. It did not – and the good folk of Breezehaven couldn’t help feeling a certain smug satisfaction at this – even affect Hunstanton. “So let them go on about their little claim to fame,” Mary’s friend Frances at the pharmacy said, “I reckon we double trump it!”      It was not some one-off. The sun in Breezehaven carried on rising in the West and setting in the East. It became the subject of some of the hottest scientific discussion since the splitting of the atom. And nobody could work out exactly why it was happening, as explanation after explanation was offered, even those who offered it plainly just as puzzled as everyone else. Some tried to make out it was like those streams that seem to flow uphill, or those moons that look suddenly enormous, just a trick of the light or the atmosphere or perspective deceiving your eyes. But probably nobody really believed that. It was generally agreed that it was utterly harmless. Which was a relief.      Of course, it wasn’t only the scientific community that was highly taken with what they called the Breezehaven Solar Aberration  as it was officially known. Some people, especially those whose living didn’t depend on the tourist industry, remarked that although it was true Breezehaven Solar Aberration  sounded like some unpleasant illness, the marketing of Breezehaven as The Town that Defies the Laws of the Universe  was somewhat vulgar. The trouble was, it was also true. And also, when it came to the marketing, probably unnecessary. Breezehaven had gone viral. Guests swarmed in as they never had before. There simply weren’t enough rooms to accommodate all their visitors. With laudable magnanimity, they did, if needs must, direct people to Hunstanton, after all, they could afford to be generous. A new holiday village on the outer edges of the town (but still within the range of the Solar Aberration) was built and opened more quickly than a field hospital. Up until now Breezehaven had relied mainly on trade in “the season” (an early Easter was a boon) but now they had become an all year round resort. People wanted to see autumn sunrises and sunsets there, and when it came to the Winter Solstice – well, Stonehenge suddenly found itself playing second fiddle. The kind of people who normally only appear on screen if a solar eclipse were imminent dutifully warned about the dangers of looking directly at the sun, and of course there were right, but to the best of anyone’s knowledge, the Solar Aberration (or defying the laws of the Universe) did not, thankfully, lead to one case of eye damage.

     The good times were rolling, everyone agreed. There was even renewed talk about the bridge project, and this time it didn’t seem so fanciful. It was all like a miracle.      Mary, like so many others, saw her bank account swelling in a most pleasing manner and reflected that perhaps she might be able to make that trip to Australia to see her brother Kieran after all.

     The trouble was, when? There was no such thing as an off-season now, and she had even opened a little annexe in what had once been her conservatory. Although she had been one of the first (she liked to think the first  but there were other pretenders to that title) to see the phenomenon, she now hardly ever got to see it at all. When the sun was rising or setting she was either catching a few hour’s sleep or had to be busy. But she did know that at times it was impossible to catch a proper glance of the sunrise or sunset anyway as the beaches were often packed like chicken batteries with people jostling for position. It was mainly good-natured, but not always, and though actual arrests were rare, there was some bad feeling. In the few hours when the beach was relatively quiet, an army of local council workers strove to clear the rubbish that had been dropped. “I never thought I’d say this, but it has its downside,” Frances said, “I mean, I know it’s great for you Mary!”      “It’s certainly set me up,” she agreed. Or was that agreeing? She hadn’t said it was great because she, too, was beginning to have her doubts. Even as she spoke, she felt an elbow from one of the holidaymakers in the queue, standing behind her, who said, “Sorry,” but in that kind of tone that implies that it wasn’t an accident, and she wasn’t sorry at all. Mary felt a sudden absurd nostalgia for the bad old days of social distancing, though of course nobody in their right mind would want the reason why.

     As time wore on, she realised that many of the visitors were no more seeing the sunrise and sunset than she was. After all, you could see them in profusion on the internet, and they were always the best and most spectacular ones (because the aberration was, in itself, no guarantee of a sunrise or sunset being spectacular). The important thing was to have been  to Breezehaven, to have those bragging rights that rankled with your friends and family until they had been there too. As many selfies were taken by the sign welcoming people to the town as were on the beach. There was a market for little pseudo-passports, all, of course, carrying a warning that they served no official purpose. And they were amongst the least tacky souvenirs that were stacked high in all the shops in Breezehaven.      It was November, which would normally have been one of the quietest times in Breezehaven, with most of the guest houses, Violet Villa included, not open at all. They were open now, as were the holiday villages (for one had now been built on the other side of town, too) and Mary had been struck by the awful thought that she might possibly have double-booked one of the rooms for the Solstice Break which everyone expected to be even more of an event than the first one had, the previous year. Or at least, for more people to flood into the town, for more jostling, for more dropped rubbish, for more short tempers and more buying of useless souvenirs. Sometimes she was hard pushed to keep track what time of day it was. But she did know, if only because of the news programme she had just managed to catch, that it was late afternoon and the sun would soon be setting.

     She knew the double booking issue wasn’t going to go away, and she would have to do something about it, but she desperately needed a few breaths of the clear, cold air of late autumn, needed to feel it on her face and she even half-hoped it was raining.      At first she just thought it was one of the less spectacular sunsets, and she wasn’t even that bothered. It dawned on her far more gradually this time. The sunset, it was true, wasn’t that bright and brilliant and evocative, but was quite undeniably in the West.

     Once more, Breezehaven was in the headlines. Cancellation of bookings began as a trickle, then turned into a flow, though there were those who were as keen to see the ending of something as they had been to see its beginning and its afternoon. But the return of things as they should be has neither, at heart, the longevity nor the newsworthiness of things beginning to be how they not only shouldn’t be, but couldn’t be. And yet, undeniably, were.      It was a shame. Of course it was. And yet, thought Mary, standing on a near-deserted beach one cold and quiet Sunday morning, in another way it wasn’t a shame at all. Perhaps it had stopped just in time! AUTHOR’S NOTE As some readers may know, the Norfolk town of Hunstanton does, indeed, exist, and it is on the East coast facing West for exactly the reasons given in this story. I know and love the place and offer it my apologies for enlisting it as a “supporting actor”. However, Breezehaven, even with sunrises and sunsets as they ought to be, is entirely a product of my imagination and this is most definitely a work of fiction!


Trigger Warning: Substance Abuse, Death - I watch in utter helplessness as my father takes another swig from his handle of vodka. He no longer pours himself glasses of this ruthless poison as he once used to; instead, he has graduated to simply drinking straight from the bottle. Though he bought the handle only a mere few hours ago, half of it has already been emptied into his stomach for his failing liver to process. I glance concernedly at his abdomen, which has become distended – the hospital diagnosed him with ascites and an inflamed liver when I brought him to the emergency room a couple of nights ago. The nurses had pulled me aside and advised me to begin gathering my support system, for they did not believe that he had much longer to live due to his severe addiction to alcohol.               I have never quite understood his obsession with alcohol. He began drinking at the young age of 14; his parents – my grandparents – never batted an eye, even as his drinking grew more and more frequent. He still functioned well, so I suppose that they did not see an issue with him indulging himself and his love for alcohol. Perhaps what they failed to understand is that he was already an alcoholic – even then, at 14 years old – despite his ability to function; to put simply, he was a functioning alcoholic, but still an alcoholic, nonetheless. Had they sought the proper treatment for him at that age, maybe life would be different today. Maybe he would be a healthy 56-year-old man with decades of wonderful life splayed before him. Maybe our relationship would be different . . . maybe it would be healthier. Maybe all the trauma that I have endured at the hands of this nasty addiction would not exist, and I would be more whole and more grounded. These are things that we will never know because his parents ignored his alcoholism, and time travel (in an effort to warn them of what was to come) is a thing of science fiction.               He is now essentially on his deathbed. He has not eaten in quite a number of days due to the pressure of the fluid accumulating in his abdomen from the ascites and his dying liver – it makes him feel full after one bite of food, so he refuses to eat altogether.               Drinking, however? Of course , he can still drink! Never mind eating and thus never mind the fact that he is also starving himself to death; as long as he can still drink his vodka – that absolutely disgusting poison – he is “okay.” Needless to say, he is not “okay” in the slightest sense of the word. As his abdomen continues to expand, his arms and legs grow skinnier. He is effectively anorexic, and his liver is failing; with a heavy and broken heart, I realize that it will not take much longer for death to follow.               Behind closed doors, when he is restlessly sleeping, I often grieve. I grieve for the man who is still alive, but who is killing himself before me because he is completely powerless against his addiction. I grieve for the father he never was, but could have been, had he never taken that first sip. I grieve for all that he has put me through; I grieve for the past, for the present, for the future – for all that ever was, and for all that never will be.               Addiction is a relentless and powerful disease. It does not just affect the person who struggles with the addiction; it affects all those around him as well. It has shattered me into pieces that I am still struggling to fit back together at the age of 25. Though I am an adult, I still feel as though I am a wounded child who wishes desperately for her father to snap out of his alcoholism and see that he is so deeply loved. Like a child, I find myself wishing that I was enough of a reason – as his daughter – to put the damned drink down and actually live , but as an adult, I know that is simply not how addiction works. Once addiction sinks its unforgiving claws into a person, it is incredibly reluctant to release that hold . . . if it ever does. It never did release my father.               Dad clumsily sets the handle down on the table with a thud . His eyes, glazed with intoxication and yellowed from jaundice, turn to me, and his thin lips crack into a drunk grin. As horrible as he looks, he does appear to be happy under the blanket of alcohol intoxication.               I feel rage rising within me; how dare he have the audacity to smile at me after all that he has put me through and is continuing to put me through? And then that fury is immediately replaced with guilt; he is ill from a disease against which is utterly powerless, so how could I be angry with him? I should be infuriated with his addiction, not my father. And I should be infuriated with his parents for not having gotten him the help he so clearly needed as a young teenager. Again, I feel the rage return, causing my body to burn and tremble – they could have prevented this, could they not?               But instead of speaking stinging words of fury, I simply return the smile. It is forced, but I figure a forced smile is better than no smile, for to discuss such thoughts with him is futile. I have learned in my years of watching him spiral into the darkest depths of alcoholism that speaking to him about serious matters regarding his drinking behavior is akin to speaking to a brick wall. The conversation typically goes nowhere because he either ignores me or becomes so defensive that it is absolutely pointless to continue the conversation. So, instead, I return the smile.               “What is it, Dad?” I inquire gently, choking back the rage that is rising within my throat.               “You look beautiful,” he slurs in response. “Almost as beautiful as that fairy over there.” He points past my shoulder to the far right corner of the room.               Wondering what in the hell he is talking about, I offer a swift glance over my shoulder at the empty corner. There is nothing there – not even a shadow. How odd , I think to myself. Dad usually doesn’t hallucinate when he drinks.

My gaze returns to my father whose eyes are now focused on the corner as though he sees a creature of unadulterated beauty standing within it. I wonder if the hallucination is perhaps a symptom of his failing liver – I will have to research that later to be certain.               “Is the fairy still there?” I ask curiously.               “Yes,” he croaks. “And my God, is she beautiful.”               If there is one thing that I learned from my mother who worked as a psychiatric nurse, it is that delusions should not be broken by those who are not trained in mental health. Therefore, instead of arguing with him and telling him that the corner is in fact empty and he is quite simply out of his mind, I again peak over my shoulder at the corner in which there stands nothing. I then look back at my father and offer another smile.               “Yes, she is beautiful,” I agree kindly. “But it is time for you to go to bed. You have another appointment in the morning.” Another useless appointment, I should’ve said, but didn’t, for what good would that have done? But that is indeed the truth; it is just a consultation with a gastroenterologist to determine what our next steps should be in my father’s journey with his alcoholism, though I know that my father will not listen.               He heaves a childlike sigh and retrieves his huge bottle of vodka from where it rests on the table. I grimace as he swallows, swallows, swallows . . . I suppose he wants to drink as much as he can before he goes to sleep. Finally, after many gulps, he slams the vodka down on the table and screws the cap back onto the top of the handle.               “Alright,” he slurs again. “I’ll good to bed. I’m tired, anyway. But don’t let that fairy leave. I like her.”               “I won’t let her leave,” I assure him. “Now, go on to bed.”               On wobbly arms, he lifts himself from his seat to stand on equally wobbly legs. He raises his arms above his head and briefly stretches, exposing his abdomen that looks more similar to a pregnancy bump than to a beer belly. Then he staggers into his room, mindful of keeping the door open in case I need to check on him, and collapses upon the bed. Before he can even cover himself with his blanket, he is blissfully unconscious.               Having sent him to bed, I walk on weak legs to my own room, and weep. I weep for my father who has fallen victim to this disease of addiction – specifically, alcoholism – and I weep for myself. Loving an alcoholic is beyond difficult . . . beyond heartbreaking, even. It is so hard to watch someone you love so deeply kill himself through means of his addiction. It simply is not fair. I know that life is not fair, but why, of all people, did it have to be my father who would have to be so ill and powerless in the face of his addiction? Why did he ever have to be addicted in the first place? And why was I never enough?               From his room, I hear odd, exasperated breathing. I am swift to wipe away the tears as I run to his room, only to find him on the floor clutching at his chest and struggling to gasp for breath. His breathing is erratic and noisy; each breath is accompanied with a strange grunt, and there are long pauses from one breath to the next.               I rush to his side and immediately collapse upon the floor next to him. With strength I did not know I possessed, I heave his upper body into my lap so that he is leaning up against me, hoping desperately that the change in position will allow him an opportunity to breathe with more ease. My hopes are dashed as the odd and terrifying breaths continue. Helpless and wildly unsure as to what is happening, I work my hand into my pocket and retrieve my phone. I dial 911 and immediately begin explaining to the operator about my father’s intense struggles with breathing.               As she begins to tell me what to do to help him, his body suddenly becomes limp within my arms. The grunting stops, the pause stretches and stretches until I am suddenly certain that he is no longer breathing. Horrified and desperate to save Dad’s life, I drop the phone, rest my father’s body upon the floor, and immediately begin administering CPR.               “Come on, daddy,” I plead through tears. “Please don’t leave me! Not yet!”               In the faint distance, familiar sirens sound. An ambulance is coming. But looking at my father, who still lies limply upon the floor, I realize that any help he is to receive from the paramedics will come too late, for he is not responding to the CPR. I pause to check for a pulse in his neck – and utter a long shriek of unadulterated agony when I find none.               I lost him. I lost my father.               I lost Dad.               When the paramedics arrive, they try to revive him. They attempt to restart his heart with the paddles, but to no avail.               Dad is gone. His addiction finally robbed him of his life at the young age of 56.               Not in my right mind, I walk into the kitchen where we were just sitting moments ago. I take the handle of vodka and throw it onto the ground; glass shatters everywhere and the liquid splatters onto both the floor and my legs. I am furious that this monster took my father’s life. I am hurt beyond belief. I am heartbroken and shattered all over again.               What would life have been like if he had not taken that first sip at 14 years old? What would life have been like if his parents had intervened and gotten him the support he so desperately required?               Maybe . . . maybe I would still have a father, my Dad.


The window matches the rest of the house. Grimy, covered in years of dirt and memories that no amount of cleaning can make a dent in. I should know. I’ve tried. But soap can’t erase memories, not even from a window like this.

The hammer feels familiar in my hand. I hate the familiarity, actually—just another reminder of the life I’m trying to forget.

But today is demolition day. Demolition of this house, in preparation for a new restaurant, and demolition of my old life in preparation for the new. A clean slate. That’s a good thing, right? I don’t know how to answer the question.

The answer seems obvious, considering I’ve spent the last...how many years, now? Seventeen, I think. Seventeen years trying to forget the past.

But the past has gotten me here, hasn’t it? Maybe it’s not something I should try and forget. *** Wren was only 16 when she took off. Far away from her father, from the family that all-too-clearly didn’t want her. From the pain, and heartbreak, and loneliness of living in her own little bubble, locked in her room, left alone to her own devices. She wouldn’t feel that again. Not now, on the dusty streets of her city that bordered the Sahara.

Wren would have to find a way to make a living, hopefully save up for a house or something. Finding a job would be easy—she could do anything from bartending to fast food. It was in the in-between, the time from when she started to when she raised enough for a place to stay, that the problem rested.

Wren could sleep on the streets with just the pack on her back, for all she cared. As long as she was out of that house.

And sleep on the streets she did.

The first order of business, she decided in the morning, was to find a job. Technically, she’d decided that the day before, but she figured it would be better to ask around when the alleyways weren’t shrouded in darkness, hiding criminals ready to ambush any unsuspecting visitor.

However, considering the sand and dust currently coating every inch of her, Wren began to question her decision. She would never get a job in a nice place, not looking like this. She was a mess. With nothing else to do, though, Wren shouldered her pack and trudged through the streets in search of someone to question about a job.

The streets were desolate. Considering the midsummer heat beating down on her shoulders and the sweat trickling down her back, Wren couldn’t blame people for staying inside, but still. She needed a job, or at least some air conditioning. When the heat got to be too much, Wren ducked inside the nearest building. A tavern. Probably too busy for comfort, but there wasn’t another option for an escape from the sun. Besides, she wouldn’t be staying long.

Ironically, that tavern was where Wren spent most of the next couple years, when she wasn’t on the run. People paid well for small favors, and the occasional vengeance mission got Wren even more. She was a natural bounty-hunter. More of a criminal-for-hire, actually, because she took any jobs she could, but it paid enough for her to get a dingy room in the tavern’s basement. Wren never gave her name to the owner, and he never gave his name in return, but as long as she stayed out of the way of his underground dealings, he tolerated her.

Eventually, a tiny house across the paved road caught Wren’s eye. It was pristine, even glowed sometimes in her eyes, and it was the perfect size for her to live alone. There was only one problem, one that Wren discovered one night while scouting out the place through the window. That house was already owned, by a wealthy-looking businessman, no less. And, after a short conversation with him, Wren learned that the house was most definitely not for sale.

*** I can’t bring myself to raise the hammer, or tear my gaze away from the window.

The same window I used to look through, watching a certain wealthy businessman pace. The only difference is that now, instead of being out on the dusty streets, I live here. But I never bought the house, not really. Identity fraud can do wonders for an 18-year-old.

Identity fraud and other things. My grip tightens on the hammer. *** Wren flew under the radar, doing favors, gaining a reputation in the tavern, until her eighteenth birthday.

She couldn’t stay in the tavern forever, and that stupid businessman wouldn’t sell her the house anytime soon.

She had to get that house. And she knew exactly how she was going to do it. Wren had watched the mini black market under the tavern thrive and grow for the past year, and she decided it was about time she got involved.

The plan formed slowly, and the technical details that could get her arrested were too many to count, but one-by-one, Wren worked out the solutions. The plan was a twisted mash-up of identity fraud, breaking and entering, and another crime that Wren was reluctant to acknowledge, but she would go through with it. It was only one time, and if she didn’t get caught, she could live a normal life from the moment she got the house and on. Her entire plan hinged on this one moment, and despite her fears and the moral dilemma it presented, she knew she would go through with it. She had to. She convinced herself of that on the short walk through the pitch-black desert night to the house in question, with her rusty hammer in hand. It felt foreign, especially considering the two things she was about to use it for, but she clenched her fingers and pulled up outside the window. It was still pristine. Still spotless. It would be gone in a few short moments, but Wren could always replace it.

Wren swung the hammer. The glass shattered.

There was still the hard part of her plan to get over with, but this was the beginning of a new life for her. The wall, or window, rather, holding her back was gone now. Crushed to pieces underfoot. Wren climbed into the house.

Just this once .

It went against everything she believed, but she only had to do it just this once.

Get rid of the man, then the house would be hers.

*** I take a deep breath and raise my hammer, wanting to close my eyes but unable to stop looking at that cursed window.

It will be gone in a few short moments, but the new owners of this house can always replace it.

I swing the hammer. The glass shatters.

A new beginning for me. I can finally forget the old life, forget how I got this house, be a legitimate person from now on. That’s what I told myself last time.

Just this once. But this time, as I crush the slivers of glass under my soles, I mean it.


“This time next year, I won’t be here for the holidays!” I shouted as I slammed the heavy, wooden, front door of my sister, Alyssa’s, house behind me on that bitterly cold New Years Eve. The shift had begun. Growing up as the youngest of four, I always looked up to my siblings. Renee was my comfort, and she often referred to me as her ‘mini’. Dylan was my entertainer, spending countless hours playing video games, or watching Kung Fu movies, together. Alyssa was my mentor, always trying to be as cool as her while we imitated the gymnasts in the Olympics, and playing our instruments/music that drove our father crazy. My mom kicked my Abusive, Mentally-ill father out of the house when I was ten years old. She was already a workaholic, but now she took on the role as a single mother. I was a latch-key kid.

As we grew older, I formed my own opinions about things, and harsh judgments for choices they made, to which I did not agree. I was coming into adulthood in my mid-twenties, and had moved back in with my mother at the age of twenty-five. My mom and I were not always close, but during my college years we made a bond that was more comparable to a friendship than a traditional mother-daughter relationship.

Just a week before this family gathering to ring in the New Year, my mom and I had been returning from a trip we took together from Hawaii to visit her cousin. The tension between Alyssa and I came to a head when I made a comment about something my nephew, Nathan, said or did. My sister told me that I sounded like our father, which could only be meant as the worst possible insult. My blood began to boil, and deciding I would rather leave than argue in front of Nathan, I yelled those words of contempt while exiting to go cool off, literally and figuratively. My mom tried to console me, saying that Alyssa did not mean it, and that we really shouldn’t drink so much. Soon after, I was heartbroken to learn that Renee had decided to divorce my brother-in-law, John, and was already on the rebound. That drove a wedge of disapproval between us. I helped her move out of their house, and struggled to understand why they couldn’t work it out.

Dylan and his wife, Amber, lived on the East Coast and we did not talk very often. Alyssa and her fiance moved forward with their wedding plans, even with the rockiest of beginnings as an unfaithful couple.

I moved to Europe. I thought that moving to the other side of the world would help me keep my sanity. I felt like my contributions to help Alyssa with Nathan were going unnoticed, and I was tired from making an effort without any recognition or appreciation. I kept telling myself that my family dynamic was better off with me loving them from a distance.

That first Holiday Season without them was busy as I traveled to Rome, and I hardly noticed the lack of a loving presence to which I was accustomed. I was caught up in the thrills of visiting a new place, and being welcomed into the traditions of my new friends with their families.

The second year away was also a blur, as I had just moved to a new city, and was busy with my new boyfriend. I recall making Christmas dinner with him, just the two of us, and trying to make our own traditions.

The third year, it sunk in. I really missed my family.

Strange as it may seem, that was the time I actually made the effort to come home for the Holidays. My brother, Dylan, was in the Navy and was leaving for another Tour in January. We wanted to make sure we were all together to show support before his next journey. Anyone who has a loved one in the Military can understand this sentiment. I didn’t care that I had a twelve hour layover in Amsterdam before flying back to the USA. I needed to be a part of that reunion and made the necessary effort. Even though I was only home for five days, I tried my best to put our childhood wounds and past traumas behind us.

For all the ups and downs we had witnessed through our lives together, realising I was taking them for granted struck me to my core. I moved back to the USA within a year, and thought that things would be better now that I had grown up.

That first Thanksgiving after my return I had to work. I made the trip to see them for Christmas, but my reverse culture shock made me feel out of place. My oldest sister, Renee, talked about herself the whole time, updating us on her new condo and the puppy she had just bought. I asked my mom if she noticed how little they asked about my life.

The following year, Alyssa and I got into a fight because she didn’t seem to mind that she hurt my feelings with a snide remark about one of my ex-boyfriends. Because I had found my voice and told her she was being a hypocrite, she blew up and started screaming at me, with Nathan as a witness in the back seat of the car. I questioned why I made an attempt to create peace between us, but all I could say was that we were back where we had been years before on that New Years Eve. I expressed my frustration in a calm tone to balance the shouting, but she said that only made her more upset! I couldn’t win with her. I then said “We have to unlearn these old patterns and build a new way of communicating.”

What changed? How was I able to find the right words in a moment of rage?

Maybe I should have paid my Therapist more.

At the end of the day, no matter how many disagreements existed between all of us for whatever reasons, this fact remained: We are a loving family. The family tension exists purely because we care so much about each other.


Victor VanLorn’s Lunar Circus was known for taking its customers away. Natalie didn’t think it would be quite so literal.

The circus was a collection of blue and grey tents with strings of lights that looked like mason jars filled with fireflies. Natalie had been so enamored with it all: the joyous cries of laughing children, the smell of funnel cake and popcorn, and the sparkling wonder of the circus that made Natalie wander around so bravely. She’d drifted through the carnival games, followed behind a trio of performing acrobats, and looked deep into the eyes of a caged tigress. The only problem was that she’d lost her way back to her parents and when the darker it got, the less Natalie wanted to stay. Trying to find her way, Natalie walked through the circus. The tents here weren’t the glorious big top or the charming carnival games. Behind the scenes, a circus started to lose its whimsy. The roars of sleepy lions started to sound like they were hugging her in the dark and the people talking seemed sinister and feral. Biting back the urge to cry, Natalie tried retracing her footsteps until she stumbled across a group of performers sitting around a fire.

“Eighty-six,” a young woman frowned, flipping through a stack of bills, “eighty-seven, eighty-eight…damn it. Coming up short, again.” “Victor isn’t willing to front you anymore?” Another woman asked. “I’m still trying to pay off my last advance,” the young woman sighed. She was wearing a gold leotard that sparkled against the firelight. Her black hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail adorned with golden pins. On her back were a pair of fairy wings with more firelight sparkles that Natalie couldn’t help but stare at. The other woman had blonde hair and was dressed in an outfit that looked like a bluebird warming itself by an open flame. A bald man with a pair of black pants and a fourth person wearing a dark blue mask with spiky black hair were sitting around the fire as well, the bluebird woman’s head in the bald man’s lap as they lounged.

“Downside of circus life,” the bald man grumbled, running his fingers down the bluebird woman’s arm, “no overtime pay.” “I don’t see why you pay rent anywhere,” the blue masked person shrugged, folding their arms behind their head.

“It’s a storage unit. I want to have somewhere to go after I finish my time here and it’d be easier if I was starting with more than what I have in my car.”

“What about temp work?” Bluebird asked. “John made some extra money when we were stuck in Atlanta for a week between shows.”

“Worst five days of my life,” the bald man sighed. “‘Corporate doesn’t care for clowns!’ as the owner always told me. Not that I was any worse than of the other goons in the data entry crew. The three I was with were always high off their—“ “Shh!” The golden woman perked up and looked across the fire. “What’s she doing here?”

Everyone around the fire looked, surprised to see Natalie, but their surprise was quickly covered over by careful ease. The Bluebird perked up and hopped over the fire, crouching in front of Natalie with an eager smile. “Hello, little girl…what are you doing back here?” “I—“ Natalie stammered, her voice breaking a little. “I can’t find my mom and dad…”

“Poor girl’s freezing,” the Blue Mask said. “Come sit by the fire for a minute. You’re shivering so much I can see from here.”

Natalie hesitated, but the warm smile of the Bluebird and the Golden Woman enticed her to sit. Bluebird made a show of clearing off a stool for Natalie, wiping it clean with a handkerchief. Bald John hoisted her up and plopped her onto the stool.

“There we are,” John beamed, “best seat in the house! A warm fire and good company are the keys to a good mood! What’s your name, miss?”

“Natalie. I live in town.”

“Well, Natalie who lives in Town,” Blue Mask smiled, “my friends call me Rain! This is John and his lovely wife, Hannah. And our lady in gold, Amy. We’re all quite pleased to meet!”

“Are you all in the circus?” “Acrobats,” Hannah said. “Except for John, but he’s alright for a clown.” “They’re all well enough,” Amy said. “Did you come with your parents, Natalie?” Natalie nodded and regarded the stack of bills in Amy’s grasp. “I have two dollars…” “Oh?” Amy asked a little confused.

“You can have it,” Natalie said, stretching out her hand with the crumpled bills in it.

“Oh, I couldn’t take it from you,” Amy smiled. “It’s sweet of you to offer, but…”

“My mom said I could spend my circus money how I want,” Natalie said. “I don’t mind.” Amy sighed deeply and looked to her other compatriots. When no one else objected, Amy took the two bills from her grasp. “Well, I’d hate to take something for nothing. Two dollars strikes me as enough for a small parade.”

“Natalie the Generous!” John said, hoisting Natalie onto his shoulders. “The Charitable…the Kind!”

“We’ll sing her praises through the Lunar Lane!” Rain cheered, hopping up and running in circles around John.

Natalie giggled as the acrobats rushed through the circus, cheering for her and jumping into throngs of people. People applauded as she walked by and John encouraged her to wave at people as they passed by. Before long nearly, the entire circus was following Natalie and her crew as they marched through the impromptu streets.

“Natalie!” Natalie’s mother came rushing through the crowd and reached up for her. Amy lifted her from the bald man’s shoulders and passed her off to her mother with a smile.

The golden acrobat knelt down and smiled. "A good deed can be its own reward, but you helped me more than you may ever know." Amy stood again a little prouder and raised her hands to the crowd. “To Lady Natalie the Charitable!” Amy cheered. "Friend to the circus and all the circus folk!" The crowd roared with applause as Natalie’s mother carried her out of the circus and the acrobats cheered. Natalie looked back to see Amy holding up the two dollars with a broad grin.


“You can do this…” Kleo self-encourages as he stares at the blank word document practically wasting time waiting for one of his three papers to write itself. His schedule for the next 24 hours includes three papers: one due at midnight, the next  due in the morning, and the last due tomorrow evening. The paper due for midnight he’s already completed, but only needs to comb through and refine;  the one for tomorrow morning he’d already made it halfway through the page limit; and this one he can only pray that he musters the willpower to start. “You can do this..” After procrastinating and telling himself that he could finish all 3 three days before their respective deadlines, he finds himself struggling and suffering the ramifications of his arrogance. Kleo, a semi-humble aspiring fiction  writer, is experiencing the bane of many writers’ existences— inspirational block. Up until this point he jumped between the other two papers until he was slapped with  the inspiration for his third.

The First and most important paper, due at midnight, is a 12 page research paper on the magical influences on the Italian Renaissance. Every student’s sweet dream and succulent nightmare. The second, an 8 page Essay on a philosophical debate on some discourse he could barely comprehend in class, and doesn’t care to recap now. Finally, the third paper is a work of fiction, a 6 page paper completely within in his control, subject to his imagination. However, he has no clue how to handle it. “Come on… come on brain, just one more. You can do it!! Don’t fail me now!” His hands claw at his face, dragging his weary eyelids past their normal stretch-limit. “I’ll just start typing and see where that takes me, see how you like that.” His hands take their battle stance above the keyboard without a clear purpose, his muscles tense as he tries to regurgitate random sentences, but his hands stall and fail to make a move. The paralysis spreads from his hands to his arms, then from his arms to his eyes and finally to his brain. His vision blurs and his mind seemingly shuts down, not a single flare of electricity fires from the creative neutrons of his brain as he dissociates from reality. He hears his thoughts more clearly, they’re  screaming, but not all of the screaming is his, strangely enough. An array of voices, the sound of an emergency siren, and other soft, yet excruciatingly loud noises rampage about his head. The sounds strangely bring Kleo back to consciousness slowly as opposed to intensely shocking him back to lucidity. “I’ve Got it!” He shouts, his hands, now knowing what they should, start typing. “I’ve got it!! That’s actually an interesting theme! I’m gonna have fun with this..” Kleo begins to write and carry out the newfound contents of his heart. His hands, dancing spicily over the phonetic dance floor, orchestrate the story of a man madly in love and overcome with the emotions he feels for his partner, a fellow Brooklyn paramedic. The emotions drive him mad and tear up the wining bits of his heart again and again until he’s just a bruised man still returning to a crush that may never see him the way he wants. A forbidden love, perhaps not to the standards of Shakespeare’s compositions, but socially forbidden none the less. The words beat in his chest as he pulls pieces of his own experience, making the work feel more alive, more birthed than mixed together in a tube. “Write what you know. Turn your troubles to words, and express what you could never show.” Kleo Quotes his 9 th  grade English teacher, “It’s fiction after all, at least that’s all everyone else needs to believe.” The truth behind the story, behind the thickness of the plot, remains  a part of Kleo’s early life that he’d happily locked away. Although, he was never a paramedic and the other guy wasn’t at all lost, he only needed to embellish and shift the story to suit the forbidden love requirements for the paper. In reality, forbidden isn’t a word, Kleo cares to even acknowledge. Except, when he wants to laugh at the futility of it being compared on aspects of his life. The word is merely a challenge gladly accepted. Somehow he manages already to reach 4 pages effortlessly. He, himself, doesn’t quite understand how he manages to achieve this but he doesn’t question it immediately. He allows his brain to pour the flesh onto the bones of the story and his heart to draw the stringy sinews together. It’s magical.

It’s a miracle!!!

He thinks,

Calliope is surely on my side on this one!! Maybe if I’d invoked this particular muse days ago I would have already finished, but better late than not at all!!

He finishes the work of fiction, and pleased with his concluded work, he looks it over. However, his veins are still overflowing with ambient inspiration. It is still too soon to call it quits and wrap it up. He presses the save button for this document and while it slowly goes through the saving process he works on the one he’s nearly finished. Suddenly the discourse seems interesting. He still isn’t fully capable of comprehending it but he manages to take what he has written and turns flips it around in the second half, making an explication of this nightmare. He works in questions of his own to add a personal flavour and attempts to see them into the natural flow of the paper. Even if the paper isn’t the best it could be, it becomes the best that it could be under the circumstances.

This is why procrastination still prevails,

his mind hums,

It never ceases to amaze me, and it definitely doesn’t let me down when I need it.

After finishing and beginning the save process on that paper he moves to the editing process of the bigger paper, the one he’s already completed. He feels as though it would be alright to just send it in without over looking it, but as he glances at it he immediately notices at least five sickening typos and he feels the intense urge to comb through the rest. Luckily he has just enough energy and divine inspiration to complete this task. As he combs through the last paper, he refines it making it infinitely better than whatever it was before.

“The number of typos was….. astonishing…” he teases himself, “It wasn’t the worst paper I’ve ever read.” Oh, really?? That’s grand!! And to think I wrote it in a matter of two hours!!

“ I….. could tell.” Kleo presses the save button and it moves faster than the rest. It completes and presents a successfully saved message. He hoots into the still night with vibrant rejoice! He’s finished.  .  . At least that’s how he’d wished it happened. Quickly 3 messages flash mockingly on the screen of his laptop. “Failure to save documents.” They read. The Joy and intense pride he once felt immediately transmigrated to Ashes beneath his tongue. It intensifies as he the word documents quickly erase sentence by sentence until each one has been removed. In sheer panic he abuses his mouse and keyboard trying to stop this catastrophe, but to no avail. All he can do now is watch as everything rots and draws out his devils. In distress he drops his head to the keyboard, then picks it back up and drops it again. He repeats steps one and two, again and again until he sees the God of Abraham and Isaac. The Clunk, Clunk, Clunk of his head raises in pitch each time. Until it’s a radiantly horrid ringing. He stops and opens his eyes. He’s washed in depression and sadness when he’s looking at a ceiling instead of the top of his desk, and the high pitch sound continues, exposing its true nature. He looks over at his screaming  alarm clock and begins to cry. He never started any of the papers, yet instead fell asleep 17 hours ago. At least he’s well rested, and ready to brave the— “Please….” He choke on his tears, “SHUT.  .  .  . UP.”


Click, click. Beep. Diiiiing! “Welcome to World Wardrobe!” projected a voice deep within the store as I continued to step in further. The lady behind the counter was a short, plump woman with remains of what used to be a head full of ginger locks and an energy so vibrant she must have been well beyond her first cup of coffee. She appeared old enough to be my grandmother yet clearly had the motivation of a newborn baby the way she zipped around sorting through clothes while pointing customers in every which way as they asked where to find this and that. Diiiiiing! “Welcome to World Wardrobe!” Gosh that must get so repetitive. A rush of a breeze wrapped around my entire body as I felt the pain of a punch on my right shoulder. “Your in the way!” I watched as the lady frantically ran towards the counter dragging her bags over my feet and then the sleeve of a bubblegum pink shirt that was nearly falling out. “Hi, I would like to sell of all these, so how much will I get?” “Hi how are you today ma’am?” questioned the old plump woman, Sal written across her nametag. “I need to sell these,” said the woman again, this time a little more calm. “If you don’t mind filling out this form with some basic information I’d be happy to add you to the list and call you when we have finished going through everything.” “Oh I went through it, everything’s fine, so uh, how much did you say you’ll be paying me for all this?” “Well that’s why we have to go through everything first ma’am, to ensure the quality of all your items and to maybe return any to you that we feel could be more valuable to someone somewhere else. That just ensures everyone’s happy ma’am.” Her use of ‘ma’am’ was quite a nuisance as I began to pick up on her slight southern accent. “Also because of the heavy traffic here this time of year, we can only examine two bags per customer, but you’re welcome to come back tomorrow with two more bags.” The lady glared as if Sal had just robbed her of everything she’s ever had. “You do not understand, Christmas just ended, we don’t have much time, I am in the middle of cleansing myself, do you think you can just make me put that on pause for you?” At this point I was staring with no control. Sal focused on me now, “Is there something specific you were looking for?” I snapped out of it and realized this was not my business. I turned right around and walked out of the store before I could lay my eyes on anything I would want to buy. From the looks of it, I would be waiting awhile to check out anything I picked up anyway. I got back in my car reflecting on the insanity of people and their “cleansing” rituals as I began to slowly back up, slamming on the brakes soon after as another crazy woman zipped behind me and then into a parking spot near by, got out of the car, and dragged her bags in just as frantically. I got home, no bags to bring in. The red light flashed on my phone counsel with new messages waiting for my arrival. I clicked the button “Hi Rach,” Rachel was my name but those who were close to me called me Rach, usually, “I know it’s been awhile but I wanted to let you know I’ve been thinking about you and you’re welcome to come over whenever you’d like, we’ll talk soon. Tell your folks I said a Happy New Year to them!” Same message as last year, and once again, probably the only message I’ll get for the year. Click. “Next message.” “ Hey girl! It’s Sam, you know, Samantha? From science lab?” It’s been almost two years since I graduated high school now and just about a year since I last talked to Sam. I guess you could say we had a falling out. We really just distanced after my grandmother passed and I had become cold to the world, Sam just took it personally I guess, nobody’s fault, really. “I just wanted to let you know, more for me though, that I forgive you.” Okay, I changed my mind. It was her fault. She probably should have been there for me more knowing how close of a relationship I had with my grandmother. She was too worried about losing me as a friend texting me things like asking if we are still friends and she felt like I didn’t like her like I used to. Of course I didn’t, I didn’t like anyone, I just lost a huge piece of me, like losing a friggin limb. It’d be kinda hard to lose a leg and then get up and start walking again.

Click. “Last message.” “Are you unhappy with your current medical coverage?” Aah the wonderful world of telemarketers, Shut up. I shuffled over to end the message retrieval. “Start off 2020 right, correct you health…” Annnd Click.

Today is December 31st. Tomorrow is January 1st. And at one point, tomorrow was December 1st, and November 1st, and October 1st. What was I missing? Someone, sometime ago, decided on a certain calendar setup and it just so happened that January 1st was the first day of the year. Great. Well what if nobody ever decided that? What if we all just lived everyday like another day, because that’s all it really is right? Another day? The holidays all repeat, Valentines day, St. Patrick’s Day, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and then the big finale at the end of the year where Halloween hits, then Thanksgiving, Christmas, almost feels as if you never left the same chair at Uncle Mike’s house as your family celebrated around you. Then you think you get a break after that but New Year’s comes to slap you in the face and suddenly there is an expectation realm around everyone for a fresh start for the next two months until we all just resort back to our regular ways. You know, the seasons repeat too. Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall. They are all present in a time marked “year” but they don’t end and start again, aiming to be better than before. They just act in a cycle. One dying out while the next steps in to pick up the slack. You know why we rely on a groundhog for our annual ritual? Why we rely on an animal who has no idea about time past the difference between day and night? Because it keeps humans on a timeline. But life isn’t a timeline. If a groundhog wants to start doing something different on August 7th at 6:42 in the afternoon, he does it. Anyone of you crazy New Years go-getters could drop dead anytime, and you can’t control that. You can’t align it perfectly with your timeline, when it’s convenient for you. Who is someone that developed an idea of time to encourage you to wait until January 1st to start your better life, seems a little dependent for no reason. “We made it through another year!” people will proclaim year after year after year, like what were you expecting? Whether you come or go, or the World gets shipped off to war and people die, there will always be that guy, “Phew, made it through 2036, let’s make 2037 great!” But will it be? Why couldn’t you have made the last month, or the last two months, or the last two months and twelve days great, were you out of control? To make it through another year again, I guess is a good personal… accomplishment? Not sure if that’s the best word to describe it. You either make it, or you die and don’t know you didn’t make it. In this case though, wouldn’t your birthday be a better start to your “year”? Or even if we wanted to do this as a group effort, as a full country effort, our country has a birthday! But, I digress, people will still go out and have their fun every year proclaiming that “This is my year!” I opened the fridge and grabbed some guacamole I had thrown together last night. That was about the only thing that remained in my fridge, but a day like this was not one to grocery shop. It was already 5:00 and darkness would be rolling in soon. Just another day that flew by with no accomplishments. I grabbed some wheat crackers that sat at the top of my pantry and shuffled to the living room to sit in the recliner. I clicked the TV on and scrolled through the channels, everyone of them making a big deal about the ball drop. Why the hell do hundreds of people feel the need to talk about a ball dropping hours before it happens to signify a new day? Why is that so damn entertaining?? A big ball is lowered from high up. That’s it. Somehow its broadcasted about for hours. Me eating my homemade guacamole would be a more interesting topic. There was nothing to watch on TV, the world could not convince me to go out and do any sort of shopping, and the few friends I had were probably miles and miles away drunk out of their minds. I lived alone and I usually didn’t mind it, but on a night like tonight or really any night deemed to be a holiday, I had to worry about break ins or someone I loved being in some sort of accident with a stupid party animal. I shuffled back to the kitchen, rinsed my dishes and grabbed a glass of water. My doctor told me to start drinking a full glass of water before bed, said it would reduce cramps while I was sleeping. Nowadays I would just be up all night peeing, but I guess he was right, at least I didn’t have cramps. Nothing like waking up to yourself already standing beside your bed and it feeling like your being stabbed in the back of the leg.

I took my water to the bathroom and started the shower. I cleaned myself up, got soap in my eyes like almost usually everyday and stood there for five minutes in pain thinking what an inconvenient time this would be for someone to break in, me blinded. I stood under the hot water for a while sipping my cold glass of water, just like I did every night.

I got out and blow dried my hair on the lowest heat setting, just like I did everyday. I brushed my teeth and flossed and gargled listerine, just like yesterday and the day before.

I threw my robe around me which was conveniently left hanging on the bathroom door, just like it is everyday.

I walked to the kitchen to stare at the green numbers on the stove screaming 6:45 in the finally pitch blackness that poured through every inch of the windows. Too early for bed I thought.

I cleaned and put the dishes away that I left in the sink so that I wouldn’t have to worry about them tomorrow, just like I always do before bed. I went to my room and put all my blankets and pillows in order. I was never one to make my bed in the morning, not today, not yesterday, never. I plopped down and scrolled through every app on my phone, just like I do everyday. Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, peoples stupid snapchat stories, all the same, trying to impress the world, looking much happier online then they probably actually are in real life.

It was now just after 7:00. People were probably getting up from naps and just now leaving their houses to go celebrate after spending hours getting ready. Here I was, ready to sleep again, too early again, just to wake up early tomorrow, again, and start going... again. I woke the next morning to the sunlight beaming through my window onto my pillow on the same spot as it does everyday. I got up, went to the bathroom, washed my face, put my deodorant on and got dressed. I opened my front door to leave for work and there stood that big bulldog, the one that’s there every morning when I leave for whatever it is I am doing. I went to work, then went grocery shopping, came home, red light flashed on my phone counsel, listened to the messages.

Grabbed something to eat, clicked through the tv channels. Back to the kitchen, rinsed dishes, grabbed a glass of water.

Took water to the bathroom, started the shower, burned eyes, thought about burglars. Stood in shower, finished glass of water. Got out, blow dried hair. Brushed teeth. Flossed. Gargled. Robe. Dishes. Bed. Phone. Sleep. I woke the next morning to the sunlight beaming through my window onto my pillow on the same spot as it does everyday. I got up, went to the bathroom, washed my face, put my deodorant on and got dressed. I opened my front door to leave for work and there stood that big bulldog, the one that’s there every morning when I leave for whatever it is I am doing. I went to work, then came home, and guess what? The red light was flashing on my phone counsel.


The sharpie started making that bothersome screech sound as I hurriedly drew out, in large block type letters, the message I desperately needed to portray. I would make two dozen and scatter them around the hallways. One of my signs would strike a chord with someone, it just had to. Should I add color? Something to grab attention. No time for perfection, but these needed to work. All I had, a pack of markers and a stack of white paper. These were my tools. I opted for a blue line under the word LOST. Red could grab attention, but also brought about feelings of a warning sign and who is really interested in reading those? Blue was bright, pleasant, and did not blend into the yellowing white walls of the hurried halls. I tossed my markers in my bag, the emptiness even more apparent, slung the bag over my shoulder. Freshly made printer paper posters and scotch tape in hand I shuffled down the hall and tacked my message on every board and door I came across. I seemed to catch the attention of some, hopefully they glanced toward the message and not just the shambles I appeared to be in. When I reached the second hall, I paused for a moment to check my phone for messages. No texts. No missed calls. No one had found it. Or no one cared to tell me. I continued my process: rip tape, grab sheet, apply tape to top of sheet, press to wall, walk, pause, repeat. On and on through four halls. I had paused at the end of each hall for a phone check. Texts: none, calls: none, email: my frozen yogurt rewards were expiring. The clock continued to tick. Of course, I’m being metaphorical. There was nothing ticking anywhere close to me, my phone was annoyingly quiet. Yet, I still felt that pressure, tick, tock, tick, tock. I needed someone to find it. I had searched and now I had to wait. Well, wait while sitting, listening, note taking, thinking , what time was it? Of course, I was late, I was always late. My hands were empty of papers, so I tossed the tape in my bag and hurried to my destination. Back to the first hall, no one waited for me, but they did note my presence as I quietly made my way to my seat grabbing a spare pencil someone had left on a desktop. I sat down, I was not present in the conversation, pencils are the worst, this is what filled my mind. I found my notepad in my sad bag and scribbled a little to test it out. Oh ,how infuriating that sound was. Could people even hear themselves think with my lead scratches. It felt like a punishment. It probably was. Scribble scribble, pause to absorb, scribble more, repeat. The conversations dwindled and I looked at my hand, a smear of graphite on the side of my pinky finger. So ridiculous. I looked at the clock, time ticking down in my head, but no sound emanating from its face. I had moments to myself, the search was on. I retraced my steps from before the postings. I was always so careful. A place for everything. I imagined my bag felt it too, something was out of place, the process was interrupted, the system was broken. Walking, looking, crouching, peeking, nothing. This was absurd. Check phone, nothing. Think, just think . Let’s try this in reverse, reverse of my current method, so forward. When did I last have it? This morning, first thing. Tick, tock, tick, tock. What happened after that? The thought of my looming schedule was muddling my thoughts. I couldn’t do it without it . I needed to find it. Dashing back to my morning start, think , coffee, I tasted coffee. Did I taste it now, or from before? I looked around, no cup or pot in sight. Before, it was a clue, my mind was clearing. I moved in the direction the coffee taste led me and peered through a door, room empty. I opened the door quietly and I rifled through papers and inside drawers, nothing. Snapping back to reality I realized what I was doing, rearranged all the things that were not mine and left, the door closing with a click. My phone vibrated in my pocket, my heart skipped a beat, the coffee taste vanished and I looked at the message. Appointment reminder. Not helpful. Initiate countdown. I continued on my path, the same path, I had already been here. This was not working. Someone was trying for my attention. I came back to reality, interrupted his question and pointed towards one of my signs. With a laugh he shook his head to indicate “no” and continued on his way. I knew what people were thinking, but I didn’t understand it. That’s how it usually was. Another person caught my attention, looked at me, tapped on her watch and gave an excited expression with her face. I raised my eyebrows and made a timid smile. I was aware of the pressure and importance, tick, tock, tick, tock. I needed to make my way to the room, that room. I frantically searched the corners and hall floors as I made my way to my destination. I passed by people, they patted my shoulder, gave encouraging jesters and attempted high fives. I left them hanging. I couldn’t stray from my task. The ticking became more real, I felt the urgency, I looked up to see an analog clock on the wall. Thank God , it wasn’t all in my head. I made it to the room, five minutes to spare. I halted my search to go over my plan. Routine had to mean something. Routine actually meant everything. I played it through in my head as I had so many times before. I could do this. I had done this. I was snapped out of it by a tap on the shoulder. “Is this yours?” The overly confident voice asked. My eyes were wide, my world came in to focus. I lightly grabbed the pen from his hand, barely said thank you , and he walked away without another thought. My pen, the pen. The search was over. I stepped towards the door, my finger clicked the pen top and my heart was ready.