“There is nothing so lonely as an unmatched sock.” Thomas Brodkin When it comes to women, there is no one definition of beauty. Most would agree, however, if there were such a definition, it would not describe Lily. She stood just under six feet tall, had no figure to speak of, and her hair was almost the exact shade between blonde and brown, making it seem as if her hair had no defined color at all. To make matters worse, Lily’s voice had a smoker's raspiness, even though she hadn’t smoked a single cigarette in her entire life.

However, as is the case with many plain women, Lily had developed quite the sense of humor. She had an endless repertoire of raucous jokes, quick-witted quips, and humorous stories that, due to Lily’s reserved nature, rarely found their way into polite conversation.

Lily wanted nothing more than to dive into life, make scores of friends, attend endless events, and meet someone special. Yet, for reasons known only to her, she usually faded into the background, living vicariously through the lives of others. Each morning Lily woke up, showered, and dressed for the day, routine as clockwork. She would then take the elevator down to the first floor, heading to Joe’s Joe , the local coffee hot spot.

Joe's wasn't trendy or hip or even especially modern. It sat on a corner and had large windows covering both street-facing sides of the building. The shop had original oak wood flooring throughout and ten tables strategically placed so as not to block the counter, the door, or the hallway to the bathroom. It was always impeccably clean and the fresh-brewed coffee was the best for miles. In a world where one can find a Starbucks inside of another Starbucks, Joe’s Joe was a miracle. The small shop held its own against the competition due to the sheer will of its owner, Joe Artino.

To pay the exorbitant rent, Joe ran the shop as a one-man operation. He arrived at work long before the sun came up; most nights he would head home well after dark. For as long as anyone could remember, just like the post office, neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night prevented Joe from opening the shop precisely at eight o’clock each morning. He closed just as precisely at eight o’clock each night. It wasn’t that Joe didn’t want to live life—he just didn’t have the time. Five days a week, sometimes six, Joe would ask Lily, “What can I get for you?”

Five days a week, sometimes six, Lily would answer: “Large brewed, black.”

Even Lily’s coffee order was plain.

Month after month became year after year, and there was no change to either Joe’s or Lily’s lives. Until one day, a small change changed everything. The line for coffee was unusually long, and even though Joe was handling it with his usual expertise, the gentleman in front of Lily grew angrier by the second. When the irate customer finally reached the front of the line, he used some colorful expletives when ordering his coffee. Lily could practically see the smoke coming from Joe’s ears as he took the man’s order. Once Lily stepped to the front of the line, Joe asked, as he always had, “What can I get for you?” Only this time, Lily didn’t respond with her usual order. “I have a joke for you. Are you ready?” she replied. On almost any other day, Joe would have politely declined. He didn’t have time for jokes, but on this day, he did the unexpected. “Sure. Fire away.” “What’s the most dangerous number?” Lily said, a deadpanned look on her face. “I don’t know. What is the most dangerous number?” Joe responded, genuinely curious. “It’s seven,” she quipped. “Because seven eight nine.”

It was a joke worthy of any fourth grader, yet both Joe and Lily broke out into spontaneous laughter. From that day forward, Lily had a willing audience for her daily jokes. Five, sometimes six days a week, she would share a new joke with Joe while he made her coffee, just as she liked.

As the days, weeks, and months passed, Joe and Lily became more and more friendly towards one another. Even when the line was all the way out the front door, they would find time to share a story or an anecdote. And there was always a joke from Lily. Lily discovered Joe was three years older than she was, and Joe found out that Lily worked as a bookkeeper at the same firm that handled his business taxes. Joe regaled Lily with stories of growing up as the child of an immigrant in the middle of a big city, while Lily told Joe of her love of books and shared her expansive knowledge of old movies.

The one thing Lily never shared with Joe was the simple fact she had never been on a date. When she was younger, she had dreams of finding a nice man with whom she could settle down and build a life, but no one ever asked. Even if they had, she probably would have declined. Lily’s guarded nature had protected her all these years—until Joe. This busy man with no time for anyone was suddenly finding time for Lily. The thought both thrilled and terrified her.

On a cold day in January, the inevitable finally happened. Lily, bundled up in a parka, made her way to Joe’s and patiently awaited her turn in line. When she got to the front, Joe had her coffee ready as he always did. When Lily started to tell Joe her joke of the day, Joe, uncharacteristically, stopped Lily midsentence. “Lily,” he began sheepishly, “I am not a good looking man—I know this—but I care for you. Deeply.”

Lily, shocked by the admission and feeling lightheaded, listened as best she could, but she only heard his every other word. “I haven’t been on a date since high school,” Joe continued, too nervous to notice Lily’s unease. “But I would love it if you would allow me to make you dinner.” For a moment, the two just stared at each other in silence.

“You mean like a date?” Lily inquired. “Yes, like a date. With me. And you. What do you say?” “Say yes,” came a quiet voice from behind Lily. She turned to see a very short, very old woman grinning up at her. “Don’t make this poor man wait to hear you say you’ll go out with him.” “Yes,” Lily responded, taking a sip of her coffee and walking away. Leaving the counter was probably an inappropriate thing to do after accepting a date, but Lily had never accepted anyone’s offer before and she was lost in her uncertainty. “Tomorrow night?” Joe called out to her, watching Lily’s back as she headed out the door. “Okay,” she responded, without turning around. She simply left the shop, heading into the cold. Lily didn’t go to work that day. If she could have called in panicked , she would have. Since there was no such thing, she called in sick instead. She retraced her steps back to her building, went up the elevator, down the corridor, and into her condo. She didn’t even get undressed before climbing back into bed. She, of course, did not sleep all that day or most of the night. She kept thinking about Joe and their date. I’ll call him and cancel , she thought to herself before realizing she didn’t have his number. I’ll just never get coffee again, she thought next. But that too was ridiculous. Then it occurred to her: she liked Joe. She liked him a lot . She wanted to date him. She wanted more than that—but it couldn’t work.

It wouldn’t work .

He couldn’t care for her, not if he really knew her. Nobody really knew her . . . but maybe Joe was different? Somewhere around four in the morning, she finally decided it was worth the chance. Only then was she finally able to fall asleep. The next day was just like every other day while not being like any day ever in her whole life. She got up, showered, dressed and headed out for coffee, and more importantly—to see Joe. When she arrived, she could see a relieved smile on Joe’s face. The events of the previous morning had left Joe confused and unsure, yet all his fears were put to rest when Lily got to the front of the line. She told him her worst joke ever. “Why was the Indian buried on Boot Hill?” she asked, cracking a knowing smile. “I don’t know, Lily. Why was the Indian buried on Boot Hill?” Joe responded, smiling back at her. “Because he was dead!” Lily said, as they both laughed as hard as they had since the first joke she had told him. “Where do you live? What time should I be there?” Lily asked, confirming their date. “Six,” Joe answered, writing the address on a piece of receipt paper. “Six?” Lily repeated. “Yes, six,” Joe responded, ignoring the audible gasps from the shocked patrons. "Don't be late," he finished writing, flashing a sweet smile. "I won't," Lily said, also with a smile. "See you then."

Lily arrived at Joe’s precisely at six. His house was just outside the city in a small subdivision. Lily knew from her talks with Joe that it had been his dream to live outside the city, but someplace close enough to work to be convenient. His house was not at all what Lily imagined. It was as if Norman Rockwell had used it as a model to paint one of his famous pictures for the Saturday Evening Post . It was white with light green shutters, its yard enclosed by a proverbial picket fence. Lily half-expected Joe’s wife to meet her at the door. A man who lived in a house like this should have a wife , she thought to herself as she made her way up the walk. Joe answered the door promptly after the first knock. He was wearing a red plaid apron that made Lily chuckle. He took Lily’s coat and hung it by the door, leading her into the living room, adjacent to the kitchen where something smelled heavenly. “Would you like a glass of wine?” Joe asked, heading back towards the kitchen. “Yes, please,” Lily responded, amazed at how at ease she felt with Joe. All the nervousness from the night before was gone. “We’re having lamb chops as our main course. And I made Hassleback potatoes with asparagus, too. I hope you’ll like it,” he finished, hoping for a positive response. “It sounds wonderful and smells delicious,” Lily said earnestly. “I can’t wait to taste everything.” Joe brought her the promised glass of wine, and they shared an easy conversation while Joe finished the last touches on their meal. When it was finally ready, they moved to the dining room where Joe, ever the gentleman, pulled out Lily’s chair. “You are the first woman other than my mother to ever be in this house,” Joe confessed in a way that made Lily feel very special. “I honestly was beginning to think mom would be the only woman ever to visit,” he continued. “I’m happy I was wrong, and I’m happy you’re the reason I was wrong.” Lily blushed. “I’m glad you asked me out. I wasn’t at first, but I am now. No matter what happens after this, I want you to know how happy I am right now.” The rest of the meal was a combination of eating Joe’s excellent meal and gossiping about customers and telling corny jokes as the evening quickly passed. After the meal was over, Joe had another surprise. For dessert, he brought out the biggest strawberries Lily had ever seen, covered in chocolate. She heard the pop of a champagne cork, as Joe skillfully filled two glasses. Although Lily didn’t have any personal frame of reference, it was proving to be the most romantic moment of her life. Lily had seen Pretty Woman as a child and dreamed of a day when she could eat strawberries and drink champagne with a handsome man. To Lily, Joe was the most handsome man she had ever seen. With each bite, however, she started to feel like Cinderella at the ball. They would eventually eat the last strawberry and finish their champagne. Then the evening would be over. Lily didn’t want the evening to be over, but she also dreaded what might come next. “Close your eyes,” Joe said in a way that put Lily at ease. Against her better judgment, she did as he asked. Lily felt a soft, single kiss from a man she was now sure she loved. As Joe pulled away from her, she opened her eyes and looked into his. No words were spoken, but in that moment, she believed he loved her, too. She had only planned on the one date with Joe, just to know how it felt. Now, everything was different. “Lily, I’m in love with you,” Joe said, taking her hand in his. “I probably have been in love with you ever since your first terrible joke. Seven eight nine .” They both laughed at the memory. “Is it possible you could love me, too? Please say it’s possible.” “Joe, I have to tell you something. Something almost no one knows.”

Joe could tell by the look on Lily’s face she was gravely serious. “You can tell me anything, Lily,” Joe encouraged her. “Anything at all.” Lily had kept her secret for most of her life, expecting to keep it forever. Now she was going to take the ultimate chance and trust another human being. “Joe, my birth name isn’t Lily—it’s Lyle. I had it legally changed when I turned 18.” Lily could tell the news was jarring to Joe, but she found the courage to continue. “I was born a boy, but I always knew I was a girl.” Lily tried to read Joe’s expression as they both sat quietly, but he just stared stoically trying to comprehend what he was hearing. “I left home when I was 12 years old,” Lily continued. “My parents didn’t want me and I couldn’t live a lie.” There was no stopping Lily now. Her secret was out in the open and she was not finished, “So in answer to your question, yes. It’s more than possible. I already love you,” she said, hanging her head. “I guess the real question is can you love me, now that you know the truth?” The question hung in the air like an unpleasant odor. To Lily the silence spoke louder than words, until Lily felt Joe’s hand under her chin, lifting her head. Once again his lips pressed firmly against hers. There had been an answer in Joe's silence; it just wasn’t the answer she had mistakenly anticipated. As Joe pulled away, he looked at Lily and said, “You know what you get when you drop a piano down a mineshaft?” “What?” Lily asked, wiping her tears away. “What do you get when you drop a piano down a mineshaft?” “A flat minor.” Their shared laughter told them both everything they needed to know.


Excerpt from the Watchman’s Review. Translated and reviewed by Adolf Huffenslafenmaker: Circa 1936, Berlin Germany. “Because I said so. That is what I told her.” “Is that what you really said? Do you believe that works?” It is the implied power that troubles me. Not that I am influenced by power, no more than anyone else I believe. I believe that there are those who command attention, allegiance, anything, and everything it takes, to remind us that without their superior abilities, we would be nothing. Then there is that age old lesson about being under their roof, protection, security, that gives them the authority to tell you how to live. Because they are providing for your wellbeing, you are indebted to them for their generosity. Which I might add, is not a gesture of kindness, but an inherited obligation. A duty, if you will, that is mandated by law. So, if you believe that being in the care of parents or guardians is essential to meeting their responsibility, and in return requires your obedience, you would be wrong. Being under the care of someone does not give them the right to demand anything.  Acceptance of the rules introduced, is a choice. Demanding adherence to laws is necessary, for the systems of our society, country, and the world to operate in a manner that is beneficial to all. But, because you see the value in rules, laws, does not mean you have abandoned your right to self-determination. The right to say no. If progress is to be made amongst ourselves, we must learn to accept the fact that there is more than one way to do something., more than one belief system to adhere too.

The sheer number of possibilities is daunting. There are no two snowflakes claimed to be alike, or I believe, a situation that could encompass every possibility in a person’s life. When I hear that someone has the one and only right answer, I find myself examining the declaration, not the person delivering it. I’ve seen the discrepancies in their judgement.  I realize they have convinced themselves and others, that theirs is the only correct way to proceed despite evidence to the contrary. Perhaps the need to exert a form of control is inherent in us all. When we order a meal we are often asked how we would like it cooked, what seasonings we prefer. The intent is to give us what we pay for. But that is entirely different from imposing rules on others because we can, because we have the leverage. In most instances we do not consider how or why someone did something we found objectionable. We are disturbed by the fact they did not adhere to our rules. When challenged, the notion of consideration is discarded, as it interferes with their ability to rule definitively. Charles Wagon was just such a person. He was unapproachable, obstinate in his beliefs, and yet showed no interest in becoming someone other than the person he was. When questioned, he would maintain the composure of a pit bull, snarling inwardly, waiting for his chance to attack. Being in charge gives one the financial armlock on a person’s contributions to duty, as it leverages the dichotomy between financial security and sanity, or minimally going along, so as not to upset the proverbial apple cart. Agnew, a one-time former Vice President of these United States, operated from his earliest years in politics, what I believed to be a reverse Ponzi scheme.  Rather than the pyramids peak being the goal and obvious conclusion of trickledown economics, Agnew inverted the scheme to incorporate persuasive contributions to his political needs by using his position to line his own pockets. He was caught, forced to resign, and eventually ended up in prison. But did this nationally televised embarrassment deter further scurrilous activity? No! It seemed to only heighten its use. Chuck, as his associates were asked to call him, believed not only in adhering to the eleventh commandment, “thou shalt do what I say,” but also, “pretend that I never said it.” Chuck is just one example of many I have met over the years of attempting to survive, that have invigorated my need to question authority. Not because of its purpose. If we all led, we would go in so many different directions we would become redundant before we began.  Our inability to incorporate ideas to achieve a specific goal, with the least amount of obstinacy, and an increased amount of productivity and creativity, is only possible when we infuse co-operation into our systems.

“Because I said so,” has become the rallying cry of those who have a vision that is inclusive, only in that it refuses to listen to amendments to their vision, because it poses a threat to the ego and arrogance of the one proposing the path to a satisfactory conclusion. We are, and have been trained, as individuals, communities, societies, to go along, to get along. I must admit it is the easiest way to survive, if you can allow yourself to be content with the person you’ve become. When you allow others to become your guiding example of morality, ethics, civility, even faith, you have given up the very thing that makes progress inclusive, available to everyone. To seal yourself away from various ideas because of who proposed them, is to limit your ability to express your own idealism, which often becomes the basis for fabricated fact. The definitiveness of the words, “Because I said so,” should leave us questioning what and by whose authority they have been proclaimed, “God like.” When we consider the mistakes humankind has made in the name of progress or defense, we must realize we continue to deny the basic truths that stem from our decisions. Most of the time they have proven to be flawed, resulting in chaos and death, the result of power imposed on those with little or none of it. Wars are not fought on humanitarian grounds, as that is an oxymoron of unprincipled design. We fight wars to flaunt power. It is rare the powerful suffer anything but exaggerated bank accounts despite the fact they are the willful instigators. I would suggest that the next time someone proclaims that you do something because, they said so, you ask the question, “And you are? And I’m supposed to do what, and why?” If the answer is not, “God or your mother,” I suggest you ignore their insistence and think logically. It tends to heal all wounds inflicted by the arrogant.


In less than a week, I’ll be turning 29. For some strange reason, this age feels scary. I’ve never been an age-conscious person, after all, it’s only a number they say. But, for whatever reason, this impending birthday sends chills down my spine. Thoughts of accomplishments, maturity, responsibility, meaning, and usefulness flood my head. Most people in my society are oblivious to my self-lashing, I’m doing rather well in their eyes. I stay in my own place, almost 700km from home, I work in a multi-national where I interact with pretty awesome people from all over the world and I’m valued where I am; my boss sometimes acts as the department would crumble to dust without me. I even clinched staff of the year for two years in a roll. But yet there is this gnawing feeling of despondency that eats me up from within, that soft but forceful thought that pulls on me every night, telling me ‘ you’re less than all you can be ’. It's true I am surviving but the desire to truly live grows more and more every day. I got recommended for this job by a relative and I was hired, this was never my dream job. And while it has taught me so so much, padded my pockets really nicely, it’s still not my dream job. Every now and then Lady Purpose hunts me in my dreams and reminds me that the enemy of the best is not the worst, but the good. I’m good where I am, but that seems to be the quicksand holding me back from my best. I’ll be 29 in a bit and like a mountain the thoughts of Lady Purpose stands before me, unrelenting and unmoving, demanding I face it or be crushed by it. Then one night, while I contemplated the path to take in the darkness of my one-room mansion, she came to me again, and she whispered to me “ give yourself a birthday gift: quit your job”. The words wrapped themselves around me like the rings around a planet, following me everywhere I went. I thought it’d be crazy to give up a perfectly acceptable job and step into the murky waters of the unknown, especially with the crazy inflation rate and the downhill economy. I explained to myself why a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. I reasoned how my family would consider me demented and would never support the idea. I assured myself that with my current performance here in my job it wouldn’t take long to get a major promotion to that envious managerial role. I talked to myself and reasoned with me but it got nowhere within me, Lady Purposes’ words had already taken root and I could feel it budding already. This would be so much easier if I could see the future, scratch that, this would be so much easier if I could see multiple futures. That way I’d see if I would survive even a year without my job, that way I’d know if I’d ever get to the managerial position that is beginning to seem as bait to tie me here. But alas, today, and right now is all I have to see and know, and yet I’m expected to make decisions that will affect the rest of my days. Maybe I’m lazy, I've found a comfort zone and I’m just doubling in to make sure I stay there, or maybe I’m just a wide-eyed child imagining fantastical castles in some far away Treasure Island, ignoring the reality of life. I recently found a nice girl I wouldn’t mind settling down with, she’s brighter than the sunshine and sweeter than honey-soaked pancakes. And for some unimaginable reason, she seems to fancy me quite a bit too. I already began making plans in my mind where and when I would pop the question, and imagining all the planets were aligned in my favor and she actually said Yes! Another adventure of my life would begin. But then a stable job would probably go a long way in the relationship, at least we would know what to expect. I don’t want to be the broke bum who lost the girl because he couldn’t pay for dinner. Following this outbound plan is risky, but this burning idea still haunts me. I can only hope that she sees wisdom and hope in this path because many times I who hold the lamp still can’t see the light. Whatever the case I’m in the valley of decision, a choice I must make, and a choice I have made. I’ve chosen to embrace the possibility of the tomorrow I seek rather than hunker down in the comforts of today. What if I fail? Then let me fail going forward. Torture to me will be defined as the 60 years old me wondering what could have happened if I ever followed my dreams. It’s a few days to my birthday, my mind is clear, though the questions still hover about, my decision is firm. I’ve ordered the birthday cakes, it’s going to be quite a scene in the office; by morning we blow out the candles, by evening we bring out the resignation letter. My boss will be shocked, my colleagues will shiver, the company will ponder but I may just finally begin my wonder. The secret plan is known by no one but me and Lady Purpose, I expect she’s happy about my decision. I’m still not 100% sure but I do have peace with it. In any case, my sleep though shorter has been sweeter; I’m losing my job but finally finding my life, wherever this rabbit hole leads we will see. So wish me luck as I quit my job and find my work, wish me luck as I leave the ground and walk on water, wish me luck as I end the paragraph and begin the book, wish me luck as I venture down the rabbit hole. I may fail in many things but I will never fail in being me, I may lose many battles, but I will not lose the war within, many things may be said of me but it will never be that I did not follow my dreams.


1 The hotel pool room was pure Picasso. The wall paper was a rose and cream decal. The carpet was red, as was the felt on the four pool tables. There was a juke box in the corner, Bob Seger was singing I Feel Like a Number. I was with some mates, drinking, chatting, playing pool. It was my shout. On the way to the bar I passed her. She was wearing blue jeans and black ankle-high boots. Her blue eyes sat in a round face. Her hair was cut to a number four.  She wore a black leather biker’s jacket over a grey t-shirt and smiled as we passed. I returned with the round and there she was standing near my table. We talked as The Steve Miller Band sang The Joker.

We played pool together and won. Two grey suited detectives walked into the room and started asking questions, recording the replies in their flip top note books.

Suddenly there was a fracas. A guy wearing an Eastern Suburbs rugby league jersey came running into the room, screaming loudly. He leapt on to one of the pool tables, stomped around the top of the table, his vocal chords strained as he leaned forward and screamed obscenities at everyone in the room.   Deep Purple, Space Truckin’, blasted from the duke box. Suddenly the doors to the main bar burst open. A dozen people fell through the doors and into the pool room. An all in brawl had erupted. The detectives reacted quickly, jamming their notebooks into their inside coat pockets and moving urgently to the nearest exit. The guy shouting from the pool table leapt to the floor, landing nimbly on the red carpet, running into the melee in the front bar, disappearing into the ruckus. She took me by the hand and we ran from the pool room together, her leading the way. I had no idea why or where we were running, yet I followed. Hand in hand we ran up the hill from the pub, stopping in the darkness of the doorway of a shop, gasping for breath, sirens sounding in the distance. It sounded like police cars were in every street. We huddled close together in the door way of the shop. I put my hand on her cheek and felt the warmth of her face in my palm. We kissed as the noise of the sirens washed over us. She took my hand and, as the sirens faded into the distance, we ran up the hill. Soon we came to her apartment. It was above a shop. There was a double bed, a kitchenette and a disused fireplace with a brick and tile mantelpiece all in one room.  A radio sat on the mantelpiece. We removed our jackets and she turned on the radio. She took two glasses from a cupboard in the kitchenette and poured two rums. She offered me one of the rums, sat on the bed and removed her boots. She rose to her feet, walked towards me. We embraced and kissed. We fell into her bed and when I entered her I felt the meaning of connection for the first time.  Warm Ride played on the radio.

I slept like I’d never slept before.

When I woke, I was bathing in the warmth of the light that poured through the windows of her flat. We were lying in her bed, her head in the crook of my right arm. I watched her eyes flutter as she woke. She looked at me, put her arm around my neck and pulled me close. We kissed. “I’m headin’ up the coast, wanna come?” she asked. “When?” I replied. “Now,” she said, pushing me away and getting out of bed. I watched her bare arse as she walked into the bathroom. While she was showering I made scrambled eggs on toast. We ate and I did the washing-up while she gathered her stuff together. I had nothing but the clothes on my back as I followed her onto a bus to Central.

From Central we caught a train to Hornsby, where we started hitching north. 2 We caught a ride with some hippies in a blue Kombi. She and I lay on a mattress in the back. The hippies passed around a joint. She took a tote and then placed the joint in my mouth. I took a deep draw.  She handed the joint back to the hippies and we kissed. We expelled each other’s smoke into each other’s mouths, breathing each other’s breath. She pinned my arms to the floor of the van.  Her face leaned down and we kissed. I closed my eyes and when I opened them I looked into hers and smiled. She smiled back.

Every now and again, as the van travelled up the coast, people would leave and people would join the clan. Cuddled together in the back of the van we enjoyed each other’s company. After a few days the van stopped at a deserted beach. She and I decided it was time to wave the hippies goodbye. We disembarked, walking to the beach as the van pulled away. She and I held hands as we ran onto the deserted sands. We stripped each other naked and ran hand in hand to the surf, embracing skin to skin.

We stayed on the beach all day, making love and diving in the waves.

Mid-afternoon we took a walk along the beach, coming upon a fisherman. We talked and after a while the fisherman opened his Esky and offered us a cold beer. We accepted the fisherman’s offer and talked to him for hours while he fished. It was getting dark when the fisherman said, “Fish are about to run,” and he put a cork reel in my hand. He pointed up the beach and said, “Find a fishing spot.” She and I walked up the beach until we could no longer see the fisherman. When we stopped I unravelled several metres of line from the cork reel, swung it like a lasso and let it go. That first throw found the water at the back of the waves.  Hook, line and sinker were swallowed straight away. It felt like a big fish the way it grabbed the line and ran. Yet I knew I had its measure. By the time I reeled in the fish my hands were sore and bleeding. I could hardly move my fingers. She put her arms around my neck and we kissed. We took the fish to the fisherman. He smiled. “Trevally,” he said. “Nice catch.” We spent that night on the beach with the fisherman. We built a small fire in the sand and cooked and ate the Trevally. We slept in the sand a few metres from the fire. When we woke, wrapped around each other, the fire was dead. The fisherman was gone.

3 The sky was overcast and dark, looking like it was going to open at any moment. We ran, hand in hand from the beach to the road and started hitching, hoping to beat the storm. We hit the highway and a few minutes later we were in luck. A truck pulled over, the cab door opened and we climbed in. We were met by a broad white smile in a black face.

Lightning struck as we got into the cab and thunder burst overhead. The rain came down hard, quickly turning to hail, bouncing off the bonnet of the truck.  “Where’re you guys headed?” asked the driver. “North,” she said. “You chose the right side of the road,” said the driver, laughing. Steppenwolf, Magic Carpet Ride, played on the radio as the truck accelerated on to the road. We drove non-stop for hours, through heavy rain, into a cloudless, star-filled sky. The sound of the truck’s motor out did the tinny radio. She and I fell asleep to the constant throb of the engine. Suddenly the motor stopped and we woke, parked on the side of the road.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Don’t know,” said the driver.  He reached across me, opened the glove box and took out a plastic bag.  He tossed the plastic bag to me. “It’ll be a while before the others catch up.”

I caught the plastic bag and opened it. From it I rolled the biggest joint I’d ever rolled. It was six papers big! It was a masterpiece. The cab filled with smoke as the three of us toked on that huge joint.   We wound down the windows to let in the fresh air and were met by all sorts of night noises. In the distance I could hear a voice, whispering, “Lemonade, lemonade, lemonade….” The voice slowly got louder, “Lemonade, lemonade, lemonade….” It became a shout, “Lemonade, lemonade, lemonade!!!” I woke suddenly, as a train passed close beside us. Lemonade, lemonade, lemonade, rattled the train’s wheels over the tracks. As the sun rose there was a barrage of horns tooting and suddenly everyone was awake. Two trucks pulled up next to us. Several people got out of the trucks and approached us. They were carnies, part of the same mob. She and I looked at each other. “We’re heading off,” she said to the driver.

She put her arm around me. “It’s time to say goodbye,” she said. We got out of the truck and walked hand in hand for hours along sugarcane lined-roads. 4 The day was hot and it grew hotter as we walked. Around midday, sore, dirty and tired, we walked into a ramshackle roadhouse, a wooden building, with a bar, a pool table, a coke fridge and a juke box. We each opened a coke and guzzled it.

“I’ve got beer, if you want one,” said the guy behind the counter.

“We’ll have two of those,” she said, putting her arm around my neck. We kissed, JJ Cale, After Midnight, played on the duke box. “You guys need a room,” said the barman.  “We’ve got a caravan out back, you can have it,” he said, throwing the key our way. She caught the key and we took our beers to the van. Once inside the van we embraced and fell upon the bunk. The bunk was narrow and uncomfortable, but we made do. I pealed her top away as she stripped me of my jeans. I felt her hot breath on my skin.

We left the van at sunrise the next day. We walked for hours, hitching as we went.  A purple, vintage, convertible pulled up and we hopped aboard. The walk had been hot and draining, but sitting in back of the purple convertible, sailing down the highway, was fresh and cool. Gerry Rafferty, Baker Street, played on the radio. The driver was affable and talkative.  He was European and smelled wealthy.  He and I conversed while she slept, her head on my shoulder. Kilometre after kilometre passed and we stopped for fuel. We bought a coke while the driver paid for the petrol. I lost count of the hours after we hit the road again. She and I lay in the back seat of the car, talking and sleeping. It was dark when the convertible stopped outside a bar. The driver got out of the car and we followed him inside. The bar was upmarket from our usual digs. People were dancing in the dim light, Gloria Gaynor, I Will Survive, pumping from the speakers.

I went to the bar and bought a round while she led him to a table.  She appeared alongside me at the bar, her hand on my shoulder. “I thought I’d give you a heads up,” she said. “He and I are heading west. You’re welcome if you want to come.” “I think we’ve come as far as we needed to come,” I said. I smiled and kissed her on the cheek.

She put her arms around my neck and we kissed. \ I never saw her again and I’ve missed her ever since.


Silence surrounded us in an unnatural haste. This special brand of silence can only be manifested, created, by man. Not mankind, not you or me, but by one man. I steeled myself against the encroaching fear and readied to plant my Black Rose as the saying goes. Footsteps of death broke the silence in which they themselves created; a duality in existence that only Life and Death possess. Despite the arid desert on this wasteland of Mars, a Black Rose can bloom like a weed in the Graveyard of Earth. The Graveyard of Earth is where the first scientists were buried. With them, marked the death of a society that would usher humanity further into our greatest potential. I always think of those scientists on the 40th day of the month. For when Death enters the prison wielding The Final Mask me and my fellow inmates living in the Purgatory sector of the prison wondering who death will take today. But, what would those scientists do? They fought against the impossibility of life on Mars. The Universe threw death at them the moment they left earth sailing through space for a new beginning. They shouldn’t have made it off Earth with the wars and all, but they outsmarted death. They shouldn’t have landed on Mars, but they were more prepared than death. They shouldn’t have built a successful civilization on Mars before the dust storms took them, but they were faster than death. Doesn’t matter though, death still wins in the end. The Final Mask hung lazily in the hand of the Warden, his own face hidden behind a sheer black mask with the constellation of Gemini in the center. the Final Mask was meant to be humane. An inmate was killed without pain as they were slowly lulled into sleep. Sleep is the cousin of death, after all. As the final mask was thrown into a pile of identical masks we would all don at once and as the Warden activated his remote switch the Final Mask would pressurize and send someone to sleep for good. When we lined up and took our masks the sound of a sudden thud as someone hit the ground would tell who was unlucky enough to have worn the fated mask. How would Mars’ first scientists handle this? They would fight back against death. If we can kill the Warden we can escape our death sentence. What was the point of it though, death comes for all of us in Purgatory. As the masks were mixed and then passed out a voice whispered into my ear. “Zane, my mask is warm, man. My fuckin’ mask is warm.” “Good for you. I’m freezing my ass off.” I said grinning to myself. “Is your shirt warm too? I’ll trade if it’s such a problem.” I heard a small chortle to me right from another inmate eavesdropping on us. Joking was how we got by living in purgatory. The only way to deal with this inescapable feeling is to simply laugh at it. “Think about it. My mask is warm. It feels like someone’s been holding it.” At this it began to sink in. I glanced at the cart whose mechanical arms continued to mix the masks move automatically down the line. “It’s my turn to plant the Black Rose. Shit, Zane this isn’t exactly as humane as they say it is. I’m not exactly sent from sleep to death here. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.” Panic was setting into his voice now. His attempt at a joke fell short and only doubled the sound of fear in his voice. But, he’s right. I stared at the Warden’s mask, the Gemini twins radiating a soft glow, and considered how he would feel knowing death was coming for him with certainty. It didn’t matter that they tried to build a death penalty that was 100% humane and successful when the Warden probably sat on the mask beforehand just to feel a little power over us. As if he didn’t have enough already. I thought of the scientists that left earth so long ago. “Give it to me. Trade.” I was speaking hastily now as the cart was nearing the end of the line of inmates. “What? Fuck no. That makes me no better than the Warden. Why would you want this shitty thing, Zane?” His voice quavered with a mix of relief, shock, and residual fear. “Trade. I’m getting it eventually. Might as well get to choose when I die. That’s humane, right?” I meant it, but my eyes didn’t leave the Warden as he sauntered to the start of the line where he would check mask seals before activating the killswitch. I moved my manickled hands carefully so they didn’t disturb the manifested silence that still surrounded us. I grabbed the Final Mask from his hand, although I pulled harder than I needed there wasn’t much resistance taking it from him. I am the master of my fate, not the Warden, and if he thinks he can dangle fear over us I’ll gladly correct him. How does this guy live with himself? The whole point of the Purgatory Sector is to deliver a peaceful and humane end to a prison sentence. He began checking seals down the line. Each inmate repeating the phrase to verify seal integrity. I felt the warm embrace of my mask as the Warden of Death moved down the line. I wouldn’t just take the fear away from the man next to me, I’d deliver it back in kind. “State your number.” The Warden’s distorted voice echoed from behind his mask sounding both ominous and distant. “280-61914” “I, state your number, have violated the New Laws of Mankind…” I repeated the Wardens words with a stoic disdain as to not betray my thoughts. “...and am graced with a humane death, though I am unworthy.” The Warden repeated the phrase the same way he did every 40th day. Each and every soul in PurgatoryBut, this is no humane death. Is it humane to know your final hour? I admit, I haven’t felt so charged with life until now. A surge of thoughts and meditations of the original scientists who escaped death at every corner just so the whole of humanity could continue on. Are these inmates to my left and right also human? They deserve the same selfless act. Sruely, it’s selfish if I don’t do something. Pushing firmly against the left and right breathers the Warden nearly concluded his final checks, so I took my opportunity. I took my life into my own hands, even for a moment. Tackling him and pinning his torso hard we began to struggle in our duel against death as each man, master and slave, became equal as death loomed over both of us. The Warden was nearly at the killswitch on his hip. I didn’t relent. The robots that normally oversee the death penalty were not responding, though they probably registered my masks signature and assumed I was killed already.None of them know they wield death like I know, today.\ I caught his left arm between the cold concrete ground and my knee. None of the other inmates would join in. Why would they? People fight back all the time, but death always takes them. The Warden sent his right elbow down into my liver as I reached to take my mask off. The blow doubled me over, but men fight hardest in this final hour. I tore the Wardens mask free and in one swoop shoved the Final Mask in place. I pushed the killswitch and hoped the mask was sealed. While I loomed over the Warden I kept my face in view so he would see the face of death as my own. His body went limp and the line of prisoners roared and tore their masks free. That was when chaos erupted. The robots watching the precession are clearly on some sort of timer or routine and we had just violated it. I grabbed at the Warden’s mask, the Gemini twins still glowing a soft-blue hue, and put it on. The robots began subduing prisoners with mechanical efficiency; neither emotion nor malice in their actions. I vaulted for the exit as I escaped Purgatory. Frantically searching for a way out I considered the Warden must have personal items. I could be free of this place, my sentence has been served. Finally, I had stumbled upon a small room with a neatly folded white button down shirt, trousers, and a pair of sharply cleaned leather shoes. Rifling through the pockets searching for anything of use I found a key card and opened a locker in the corner of the room, my mask illuminated the interior dimly. A screen was staring at me with an ID reader built into it. I tried the Warden’s card hoping the computer had access to the communications network on Mars so I could begin to form a plan. Inserting the card a prompt appeared. Warden number: I keyed in the 7 digit alphanumeric number on the back of the Wardens badge. Termination Sequence Successful? [Y/N]: Termination sequence? Is that all this is? Just a routine, a policy or procedure, to be carried out with the same monotony as a janitor cleans a trash bin or an accountant punches numbers into a spreadsheet. I typed in Y anyway. Didn’t want to throw any alarms so close to freedom. Gemini Mask In Place? [Y/N]: I hesitantly typed Y. Must be an inventory check. You are free from the guilt of murdering another soul. An eye for an eye; death is the great equalizer. Thank you for keeping it Humane. My mask tightened and the world went black.


Graham woke up as the sun rose through the crack in the blinds in the window next to his bed. He had cracked the blinds himself the night before. He wanted to make sure that he woke up for the sunrise this morning. After all, it was the last one he would see on the planet. Because today was Humanity’s last day on Earth. The year 2099 had brought widespread fear throughout the population. The year had finally arrived. The year that would bring about the destruction of the planet. Over the past century despite repeated warnings of the havoc they were bringing to their home, somehow Humanity continued on its path like an old steam engine, unaware that every belch of smoke and step forward hastened their imminent demise. Tearing up the ground for all the natural resources, poisoning the water supply of the planet, letting species after species fall one by one through greed, ineptitude, and sheer ignorance. Despite this abject cruelty to their own world, the human race had formulated a contingency plan. Since 2050 when the final end date for the planet had been announced, for the first time in human history all governments and people banded together. Not in a last-ditch attempt to save this planet no. But to begin the terraforming and colonization of the moon and mars. Both locations had enough room to house the entire earth's population. Surprisingly enough, no one would be left behind. Rich or poor saint or sinner, all would be leaving on ships to these new worlds. For the next step in human history. Tonight as the sunset and the last ships would leave, the sun was expected to unleash a solar flare. Normal enough it had happened before. It had happened in 2037 and turned Hawaii into a burnt-out rock of an island. It had happened in 2076 when it boiled the English Channel like a steaming kettle. And it had happened just five years ago in 2094 when the entirety of Australia was transformed from a sea of dry orange sunbaked desert into a barren wasteland of ash. But today was different. The combined effect of the legions of ships leaving the planet and the impending solar flare, the planet would be eradicated. But not entirely destroyed. The rock would remain. But its oceans would boil and steam, its vegetation would twist and burn and its ice caps would melt. It would become a dead rock floating in space, a distant and deathly reminder of all the mistakes humanity had made. A reminder not to squander the gift of their new homes. Graham pondered all this as he got up from the bed and began his daily ritual. He made a pot of coffee and while it boiled hopped in the shower. Due to the worldwide lack of water due to the vast amounts of untainted water being taken to Mars, he was only allowed the state-mandated daily allowance for single occupancy households. Frankly a dismal amount of water. Roughly 60 seconds of cleaning. No matter. Graham didn't mind. Stepping out of the shower he went back into his bedroom and laid out his clothes for the day. His wardrobe was empty bar the suit he was due to wear. The rest had already been packed away by his daughter the previous day as she rushed him to get ready for today's impending escape. The suit was 30 years old to the day. He had worn it to his wedding to Catherine, his long-deceased wife. They had been married for 20 years before the plague of 2089 had taken her along with most of her family. He admired the picture on the bedside table of them shoving wedding cake into each other's faces as he got dressed. Despite the illness, she had died peacefully. She didn't even know she had it. One night she had kissed him goodnight. The next morning she was cold beside him. Just gone. If Graham had ever been thankful for anything in his life, he was thankful for that. As he fastened his tie, he looked at himself in the mirror. He had gotten so old in the past ten years since Catherine's death. What was once a tight square jaw, had given way to a set of jowls that hung from his chin like an umbrella bucking under the weight of rainwater. His hairline had begun creeping up his head like a retreating armed force, fleeing the encroaching wrinkles on his forehead. His blue eyes, once crisp with the vibrancy of an electric life and personality now murky with the passage of time and the expelling of too many tears. He was only 65, and by all accounts still had at least 20 good years left based on the estimates of this new forefront of medicine being promised on Mars. He sighed and grabbed the picture frame he slipped out the photo and tucked it in his breast pocket before heading into the kitchen. The coffee pot bubbled and spluttered, sending out the sweet roasted smell of the coffee. He poured himself a cup and took a swig. It tasted good, but nowhere near as good as the real stuff. Coffee had been one of the first crops to disappear. Now it was synthetically made in some lab in Japan. Funny how all these wonder synth products all came to exist mere weeks after their forebears had died out. Graham had often wondered if they knew they could do it for so long, why not release it sooner. Then maybe there would still be some reality left in the beans. Who knows, Graham wasn't a scientist. Taking his coffee Graham headed out to his front porch and took a seat on the swinging bench Catherine had made him install a few months before her death. She had always dreamed of lazy summer evenings spent on the porch together. Watching the sunset and sharing a glass of wine. By then, however, the evenings were as hot as midday and she never did. Graham sat and he looked around the neighborhood. The houses lay empty. Driveways free of the usual mandatory TESLA premium model vehicles. Everyone else had left yesterday. No one wanted to miss their spot on the ships despite everyone being guaranteed one. Graham looked at the houses of his now-absent neighbors. There was the Roberts house, usually so loud even in the mornings with the sounds of little Carol and Bob chasing each other around the garden. There was the Bimmers across the street, usually lit up with disco lights and thumping with Bass music. There were the finkles, usually radiating with the famed smell of Miss Finkle's synth beef pie. But not today. Today a lone bike laid broken on the Roberts lawn. The Bimmers windows did not shake with modulated beats and the only smell from the finkles was the hot aroma of burnt tarmac from their driveway already in the clutches of the sun. Graham's phone beeped in his pocket. Pulling it out he inspected the screen. His daughter's stressed face appeared. Cassie, named after her mother. Graham smiled as he answered. “Morning Cassie. You alright?” Graham asked. “Yes yes fine dad. Just trying to get the kids in the car now… David can you just grab Sam please. No tell him he's packed all the toys he taking. If he wants Caltheman then he has to put one back”. Graham giggled. That grandson of his. Never did know what he wanted. Would change his mind on a dime. “Are you getting ready to leave? The transport for your area passes by your street in 15 minutes don't miss it please!”. Graham nodded. “Of course not darling. I’ve got everything packed and ready to go. Can I see Sam and Becky?” Cassie shook her head. “Sorry Dad they are driving me up the wall today. You’ll see them in a couple of hours at the departure depot okay?”. Graham paused but relented. “Alright love. You tell em Grandad loves them anyway okay?”. Cassie too stressed to notice the emotion crackling in her father's throat nods as her husband David appears behind her. A former military man he always greeted Graham with rigid respect only found in those that had, had it institutionally enforced in them. “Sir. How are you today. Ready to go?” Graham nodded and gave David a flimsy salute which David responded to firmly and with sincerity. “All good to go David. Now listen. You take care of my daughter and my grandkids alright”. David nods. “I sure will Sir. Right up until we see you later. And after that also.” Graham looked away for a second, composing himself. He turned back to the phone as David passed it back to Cassie. “Okay Dad we’ve got to go now. But ill see you in a few hours okay. Don't miss the transport!”. Graham nods and smiles. “I love you Cassie. Very much.” Cassie paused and looked at the image of her father on the screen. “I love you too. See you soon”. Cassie ended the call and Graham put the phone down on the floor next to him. Stifling some tears he slams his foot down on the phone smashing it. Graham wouldn't be seeing his daughter, her husband, and his Grandchildren later. Or ever again for that matter. Because Graham wasn't going to catch the transport. Graham wouldn't arrive at the depot. Graham wouldn't board the ship with the hundreds of thousands of people who make up his sector. He wouldn't look out the window and wave goodbye to this world as he made his way to the next. Because Graham was staying here. Graham was staying to the very end. Graham sat on his porch and he waited, gently swinging on the bench. After a while, he saw the transport vehicle arrive at the end of the street. He watched a few late families scurry towards it, overloaded with bags and suitcases. He heard it honk three times signaling its departure. And then he watched it leave. That was it done then. He had made his decision, there was no going back. Graham spent the rest of the day walking the streets of his neighborhood and the surrounding areas. He visited Stark's Pond where he had taken Catherine for many walks in their courtship and taught Cassie to swim. Now it was just a cavernous space in the ground. An absence in the world filled only with his memories. He climbed Moss Hill behind his house and looked at the short ledge where Sam broke his arm playing Wootball with a friend Graham couldn't remember the name of. He strolled through the dead forest of Gimblewood, inspecting the remaining blackened and twisted trunks of a once lush wood. He had played here as a boy. He even saw a deer once, long after they were supposed to have died out. No one believed him, not then or in later retellings of the story around the dinner table and at company picnics. He knew what he saw though. He didn't think they were extinct. They were just hiding from them. Maybe searching for their own way off this derelict and decimated world. As the day drew later and the time drew nearer Graham returned to his house and grabbed the 60-year aged bottle of scotch Catherine had bought him for his 50th birthday. They were going to share it together on their 30th anniversary. But she had never made it to that date. So he would have it now. He sat back down on the swinging bench and poured two glasses. One he placed on the bench next to him and going into his breast pocket retrieved the wedding picture. Folding it in half so as to only see Catherine’s cake covered and smiling face he placed it next to the glass and clinked his to hers and said “Cheers love. It’s been a hell of a run”. Graham checked his watch. 745pm. The ships were due to leave at 8 pm at sunset. Cassie, David, and the kids would already be on board. She was probably panicking as they began to close the doors begging them to wait for him. It broke his heart to think of her distressed, desperately calling his phone to no answer. David attempting to calm her and hide her hysteria from the questioning children. But in truth, it was a necessary evil. She would suffer now but once her ship slipped the bonds of earth and the solar flare burnt it to a crisp she would have her answer and begin the process of starting a new life. One unencumbered with the painful memories of a world that was no longer there. Graham had to remain here. Graham felt that someone had to be here. Someone had to stay to the very end. Not for some grand and meaningful reason. Not a reason that would be written about and stored in the annals of history as the definition of nobility and sacrifice. But for a million small reasons. Graham had worked as an engineer of a drilling company for 40 years. He constructed the small belts that connected the drill bits to the inner housing. Drills that were used to harvest the world's resources. He had contributed to its destruction. Not directly. He was never stood astride those behemoth machines, manically excavating the ground like a technologically advanced rabbit. It’s not like if he had quit they wouldn't have found someone else. He had a family and a set of skills suited to that job. So he worked it and made peace with the decisions he had made. Over the years when he had read stories and news articles about the effects the work he did was having on the planet, he was concerned sure. But he did not blame himself personally. The entire race was to blame. The companies that drilled, the companies that sold the resources, the companies that used them, the general population that refused to protest until it was too late. But when the date had finally arrived and it was announced that all humanity would be saved, sent off to new worlds on the moon and mars it didn't sit right with Graham. Instead of a feeling of elation, and happiness at being able to do the impossible and leave, instead, he found himself sleepless and stressed. After everything that happened, after everything the human race had done to this planet. They shouldn't be rewarded for that with TWO new places to haphazardly do with what they will. If a child breaks their toy on purpose and with ignorant malice, their parent does not placate them with two more. So Graham, in his own head, opted to stay. Someone had to go down with this planet. Someone had to take penance for it. If the entire race were to flee and let it be engulfed in flames whilst they wiped their brows in relief it would forever taint them as a species. He didn't know if there was some greater power or beings out there that could see them and what they had done and what they were doing. He didn't know if there was anyone who could or would judge them in such a way. But he knew. He would always know. So Graham would stay. Graham stayed. 759 the soft computerized voice of Graham's watch said. He poured the last of the scotch into his glass and clinked Catherines once more. He looked at the happy cake covered face of his wife from all those years ago and it stilled his beating heart and drove the fear from his mind. He would be with her soon. Besides what does the new world really have to offer him? Sure another 20 years. But It would take them 500-100 to really work out what the hell they are doing up there. Just look at how long it took them to finally get themselves right down here. No Graham was fine to go down with the ship. His watch beeped. 8 pm. A deafening sonic boom echoed around the world vibrating the air. Graham stood up and walked to the edge of his porch, every step convulsing with the vibrations of the earth. The sky lit up with the lights of the armada of ships. A myriad of spots fleeing across the deep dark red of the sunset like grain on old film stock that was processed for too long. Graham wondered which held his family. It didn't matter. They were safe at least. Graham held onto the beam of the porch to steady himself as the ground shook and the air wailed with wind and energy. The temperature rose and sweat broke across Graham's head as the solar flare whipped out from the sun. Graham was not scared. He closed his eyes and waited. Suddenly he felt a presence next to him. Looking down Graham opened his eyes to see a cowering deer, fur old and patchy, eyes milky and wide. It pushed itself against him for comfort. Graham smiled and sat down, placing a comforting hand on its head. The sky filled with light as the ships finally escaped the atmosphere. The sun’s flare lashed out at the earth and the world engulfed in flames. Graham smiled as he disappeared from this world. He knew he had made the right decision. There Has To Be One he thought. There has to be one….


“What are we going to do?” Hansel stared at Desderada with wide eyes as they lay on the straw-stuffed mattress. They lay in silence for some while, then she turned away and had one of her coughing fits. She wasn’t having them as often but could still barely manage to get to the outhouse, stopping many times to catch her breath as waves of dizziness overcame her. He had just badly hurt his ankle, and the doctor had told him on no uncertain terms that there would be permanent damage if he put any weight on it in the next three days. They had animals on their farm that depended on them, and they depended on the animals to provide them with food and a livelihood. They couldn’t go a single morning without working, much less three days, and there was no one who could help them. It was a miracle the doctor had even stopped by to check on Desderada when dawn broke and been able to assess Hansel’s injury. “I’ll have to work,” he said. “There’s just no other option. Maybe I’ll have a limp from now on, but we can’t neglect the animals.” Suddenly, a sullen teenage boy wearing what appeared to the 18th century couple to be pajamas appeared out of nowhere. “Who are you?!” Hansel demanded as he and Desderada sat bolt upright. “How did you get in here?” “I’m your descendant from the year 2245. My dad sent me back in time to make me help you with your farm as punishment for something I did at school. Time travel was invented when I was little, unfortunately.” Hansel recovered quickly from this sudden intrusion. “What the hell did you do?” “Well…I got a firework from my friend and did the equivalent of dropping it down an outhouse hole,” said the teenager, whose dad had made him endure the entire 6 hour government time travel orientation on rural 18th century surroundings. Hansel and Desderada discussed this development, considering the possibilities that the rye bread they’d eaten for dinner had been too old and they were hallucinating, that this had to do with witchcraft, or that they were being deceived in some way. Ultimately, they decided to see if he would feed and water the animals before making any judgement. The teenager, whose name was Chauency and probably deserved it, had stood impatiently by through this conversation, shifting from foot to foot. He was trying to think of ways he could activate the time travel machine’s safety mechanism and go home, knowing his dad would check the log and make him go back if he went home voluntarily. The safety mechanism would only send him to his time if he was in any kind of danger, in which case he’d instantly be sent home, or had some kind of medical problem, in which case he’d be sent to a hospital. He couldn’t get out of his punishment. For the next three days, he worked harder than he ever had in his life. The tools of 18th century farming were entirely alien to him – most food was created in sterile factory laboratories in his time – but he gave it his best try, and the farm scraped by with adequate care that required much more effort than the skilled maintenance his ancestors used. He returned home before dark each evening only to attend to his hygiene, pack food for the next day, and get well earned, much looked forward to sleep. At the end of the third day, Hansel slowly hobbled around the farm with a crutch he’d made for an inspection. Curiosity had been eating he and Desderada alive about how things were coming along, considering that they’d spent five minutes explaining to Chauency how to use a shovel on the first day. He was thoroughly impressed that someone who was so incredibly unskilled had managed to basically accomplish all the tasks necessary to keep the farm going. “I’m impressed.” He told Chauency. “Thank you.” Chauency said, with feeling. He felt good about having worked so hard to take care of the farm for his ailing ancestors… but was determined to never invoke the ire of his dad ever again. He had to go to a new school, where he made nice new friends and never broke any rules. He graduated, but instead of going to college, he pitched an idea for a nonprofit to some interested donors and started a sanctuary for rare farm animals such as goats, chickens, and cows. Schools did field trips to his sanctuary frequently, including the school that expelled him. His dad wished he’d picked a punishment that had involved math, but was proud of him nevertheless.


Anthony Fauci was smiling on the television in a large crowd of people who were gathered in an enclosed space. It was the perfect TV moment. The president gave a short speech about the strides they’d made globally with the pandemic and a new, adaptive vaccine that is effective against all SARS viruses, but the star of the show was Fauci, whom the camera followed as though he were the bride at a wedding. He shook hands and leaned in to speak in people’s ears. Jenna didn’t look at her phone. She knew she’d be flooded with texts. *Fauci said it’s over! Come out to dinner! Come to my wedding!* For a year she’d been telling everyone that when Fauci says it’s safe to congregate again, she’ll congregate. He was her final barrier. When the vaccines came out and she qualified to get one her mother asked her to come visit, but she refused, saying it was still possible to spread the virus. Then cases started to plummet in New York and the governor lifted restrictions. “If I come out now and we see a spike in two weeks then what?” Finally, Jenna settled on, “When Fauci says it’s over, I’ll come out.” And here he was, telling everyone it’s over. She felt betrayed. It’s not that she hadn’t been outside at all. She took short walks around her block every day with two masks on, crossing the street when people passed. She went to a doctor’s appointment in March, but he sent her home when she collapsed from panic in the waiting room. In the pandemic summer, a few friends invited her to picnic with them in Central Park and she was all packed up, ready to go when she felt her arm simply weighed too much to open the door. She didn’t even bother canceling that time, just didn't show up. The CDC said it was safe to meet indoors with other vaccinated people and she abruptly called things off with a Tinder guy she’d been virtually seeing for months. She knew it wasn’t rational, that she should see someone. Every time she logged on to Facebook there was a BetterHealth ad. She’d start the sign-up process and then stop when she got to the submit button. Part of her reluctance was that she was embarrassed, she couldn’t stop thinking of those chud types who called people taking precautions sheep who were too afraid to live. The other part was that she knew that any therapist’s goal would be to get her to stop being afraid to go outside and she didn’t *want* to go outside. She shut her laptop. It was time for her daily walk. She donned two fresh masks, popped some hand sanitizer into her purse, and headed out. People were packing the street, dancing and singing. A shirtless man with a trombone was playing an off-key ‘Celebration’. A guy from down the block was handing out red Solo cups to passersby and filling them with tequila. A beat-up old Honda was inching up the block and a woman inside with wild, grey hair was screaming, “FAUCI SAYS WE’RE FREE!” Jenna froze at the street’s tableau, terrified. *So many droplets, so many touching hands*. A group of teenagers at the small park across the street were burning masks. She resisted the urge to go save them from the fire as though they were rare books. Jenna turned to go back into her apartment, but several of her neighbors were barreling out with noisemakers that said ‘2021’ on them, leftovers from New Year’s celebrations. “Jenna,” her neighbor Tobey shouted, “come on Jenna! Dance with us!” Tobey’s boyfriend Derek (or was it David?) started singing, “So if you care to find me, look to the western sky” and pointed dramatically at the Hudson. A woman from the third floor grabbed Jenna’s hands and twirled her around. Jenna almost fell off the stoop. She was starting to hyper-ventilate. She made to put her hands to her ears to make sure that both masks were still on, and then remembered that her neighbor had touched her, so she aggressively applied hand sanitizer all over her hands, forearms and elbows. Jenna managed to get inside the front door, but couldn’t make it to the stairs because the family that lived in 1D was making its way out, baby in the stroller, toddler running along, wiping his fat hand along the dingy wall. Jenna swore she could actually see the spores encircling them and being left behind on the wall. The toddler looked up at Jenna saying, “Mommy says no more bi-rus.” As soon as they were out of the door, Jenna went over to the stairs and collapsed on to them. Everything was spinning, so many germs, spores, droplets, everywhere. She reapplied the hand sanitizer to her arms and the outside of her purse. This calmed her for a moment, enough for her to make her way back into her apartment. Once she had finally closed the apartment door, she took all of her clothes off and ran to the shower. She wiped down all surfaces with loving care, each crevice of her bookshelf, every door handle. Tobey and Derek/David were having a house party now, the floor shaking from the bass of their music. Jenna started googling whether viruses could spread from apartment to apartment. She was grateful for a pre-war with radiators. She fell asleep, face planted on the keyboard of her laptop, occasionally jolting awake to the sound of the fireworks until she managed to drag herself to bed. Jenna woke up to a loud knocking on the door. “Jenna? Are you in there?” She rolled over to her alarm clock, 9:30. *What day is it? Saturday*. “Jenna? It’s me, Rosie. Are you in there?” Jenna sat up on the side of the bed, heart pounding in her throat. “Please Jenn. Your mom and everyone are worried. Are you in there? No one has heard from you.” “I’m coming! Coming.” She kicked around inside her drawer for something that would cover her more and applied her two masks. “Oh, thank God. Jenna,” Rosie said from the doorway. “I thought something had happened to you. Are you ok?” “Yeah, I’m ok.” She was actually on the verge of panicking. Rosie wasn’t wearing a mask and she was standing only two feet away. “Can I come in?” Jenna tried to find an excuse to refuse. “Jenn, please?” “You need to wear a mask.” Rosie let out a long sigh but accepted the two masks Jenna handed her. Jenna pulled her armchair as far away from her loveseat as she could without dragging it out of the room. “How are you feeling, Jenn?” “I’m ok.” “You’re not taking any calls. Your phone’s off. What’s up?” Jenna didn’t say anything. “Have you been talking to anyone? A therapist.” Jenna shook her head, tearing up. “My therapist told me about someone. She’s been seeing a lot of pandemic cases.” “I’m not a pandemic case,” Jenna said bitterly. “Just because I’m being more cautious than you doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me.” Rosie nodded. “No, you’re right, Jenna. It’s just, objectively it is safe to see people again and you won’t see anyone.” “Have you considered that maybe I just don’t want to see *you*?” Jenna asked. She instantly regretted her cruelty. “Yeah, actually, I have.” Rosie tucked a piece of her curly brown hair behind her ears. It was her turn for her eyes to well up. Silence passed between them for a few minutes until Rosie stood up and dropped a creamy pink business card on the coffee table. “Look, I’m happy to tell your mom you’re ok. I’m not trying to intrude or force anything on you. But that woman comes highly recommended. Bye, Jenn.” With Rosie gone, Jenna picked up the business card. It read “Dr. Eloise Harrington, Ph.D.” There was a phone number and a website, which turned out to be themed the same color pink as the business card. There was a link from the top menu for “Pandemic Problems.” *Since the outbreak of the COVID-19 pandemic and subsequent lockdowns, job loss, illness and personal loss, the therapist community has seen an enormous increase in cases of anxiety, agoraphobia, OCD, and depression. If this sounds like you, you are not alone. Dr. Eloise has been working with experts in the field to come up with the best treatment plans to face the emotional and psychological challenges posed by the pandemic. Call the office or submit an inquiry online today to learn more*. Jenna slammed the laptop shut. She’d seen enough. The doctor was probably going to offer something stupid like hypnotics and charge an arm and a leg. She turned her phone back on and saw two hundred text messages and thirty voicemails. There was no way she was going to read through all of them, so she prioritized calling her mother. “Oh my God, Jenna. I thought you were dead.” “Hi, mom.” “Jenna, please, let me come visit you.” “What? No. Mom, don’t come.” “Jenna, please. I’m scared. I’m afraid I’m losing you.” “Mom, I am FINE. Just relax and leave me alone.” “We’re all worried sick. We’re seeing reports on the news of people partying in the streets of New York City we were afraid you got hit by a car or something.” “Don’t be so dramatic, mom, Jesus.” Jenna could hear her mother weeping quietly. “Listen, mom. I’m fine, ok? I’ll call you later.” Two days later, Jenna got a phone call from her boss who hinted strongly that she was expected to return to the office within a month. “I hope you understand,” he said, “that it’s getting difficult to not have you here when everyone else on your team is in the office. Every time someone needs to ask you a question or needs your expertise in a meeting, we have to stop what we’re doing to message you.” Jenna’s stomach dropped. “Yeah, ok. Understood. Yeah of course.” When she hung up, she went back on Eloise Harrington’s website. With her eyes closed she hit “submit” under the inquiry form. To Jenna’s horror, she got a call just five minutes later. A woman with a thick New York accent was on the line. “Hi yeah, Jenna? It’s Theresa DePiano from Dr. Harrington’s Office.” She said her name ‘Treesa’ and ‘doctuh’ and ‘awffice.’ “You filled out our information form?” Jenna cleared her throat. “Um, yeah, I did.” “Whatch’ya lookin’ for hun? You need a therapist?” “Um, yeah, just hoping to book an appointment with the doctor?” “Okay, Dr. Harrington is free in thirty minutes. Can you do an intake call with her then?” Jenna’s heart was racing now. She really did not want to talk to this doctor, but she knew if she tried to reschedule, she’d never go back. “Ok, yeah, that’s fine.” Jenna gave all of her insurance information to Theresa and thirty minutes later, like clockwork, she got a call from a cool-voiced woman. “Jenna? This is Dr. Harrington.” “Hi, doctor, it’s nice to meet you.” “You too. Do you want to tell me what made you reach out?” “Um,” Jenna swallowed hard and began pacing her apartment. “I um, can’t like leave the house, since the pandemic. And uhm, my friends and family and stuff are getting really upset and I think my boss wants to fire me because I haven’t come back.” Dr. Harrington said, “First, you’re not alone, I can tell you that. We have a few options, but one of the options I’m finding most helpful to people suffering from agoraphobic anxieties is group therapy. There’s a lot of other people feeling the same things as you and it can be a lot less isolating to process them in a group.z I’m starting with a new group of people next Monday over Zoom. Can you join? We meet at 6:30.” “Um, yeah sure,” Jenna meekly agreed, and ended the call. A week later, Jenna joined the group therapy Zoom. Ahead of time, Dr. Harrington sent out a list of questions she wanted them to reflect on, the first being, “What do you think will happen if you rejoin ordinary life” and the final being, “What’s something you’ve missed out on in the past six months.” There were about eleven people on the Zoom, a mix of men and women, mostly white. Jenna was surprised to hear so many people personify the virus like she did: *the virus is coming for us*, *if we let our guard down it will come for us*, *other people are more foolish than me*. After they all shared a few answers, Dr. Harrington moved them into breakout rooms in pairs, except for one group that had three. Jenna was paired with a woman in her late sixties, Dolores, who hadn’t yet met her new grandchild, eighteen months old, because she’d been too afraid to go see her family. Dolores broke down crying and said, “At this point I’d try anything to get over this. I don’t want to lose my family.” It reminded Jenna of what her mother had said to her the week before, “I don’t want to lose you, Jenna.” Over the next few weeks, Jenna started looking forward to group therapy and her breakout sessions with Dolores. They would laugh with each other talking about how they imagined the virus as small monsters or flying monkeys. Dr. Harrington sent out little work sheets before the sessions where they were supposed to share their goals, feelings, and fears. Dolores and Jenna started making jokes out of their worksheets, writing elaborate stories like they were now terrified that they’d be suffocated by grilled cheese. Jenna often woke up the morning after group therapy with her abs slightly sore from all of the belly laughing. In the sixth week, Dr. Harrington told the group that she wanted them to try to meet up in a public place. Everyone on the Zoom looked petrified. Dr. Harrington said, “Hear me out. I didn’t promise anything at the beginning of this other than that you’d be able to work through some of your feelings with others. But the truth is that I’ve been running these groups for a year now and every single group has had success reintroducing people with pandemic anxiety to public life. I want you to give this a try. Meet somewhere you feel comfortable. Stay as long as you can stand. Then report back next week.” Jenna and Dolores agreed to meet at Madison Square Park where they’d share Shake Shack shakes. In the days leading up to the meeting, Jenna was grinding her teeth to dust and waking up every morning in a cold sweat from horrifying stress dreams. But knowing that Dolores would be waiting for her, she forced herself out. The subway was torment. Eventually, she closed her eyes because she started to visualize the germs as tiny bugs crawling all over every surface. She felt better when she emerged off of the R train and could breathe fresh air, but she was still under two masks. While she caught the occasional glance, there were enough people still wearing masks that she didn’t stick out too badly. Besides, it was New York, she could’ve been wearing a dick on her face and no one would have blinked. Dolores was waiting, her dyed blonde hair pulled up into a ponytail. She only had on one mask. “Ok,” she said. “It’s you. You’re here. Let’s do this thing.” The pair of them stood in the long line to order their shakes. As they waited the conversation became easier. Dolores said her daughter was proud of her for leaving the house. They found an empty table. It was hard to sit six feet apart, the park was too crowded, but they moved as far apart as they could. The moment of reckoning came when they had to drink their shakes. They decided on quickly lifting the bottom of their masks, sipping the shake, and letting the mask snap back into place. After a few minutes of this, they started hysterically laughing at the silliness of it. “You know,” Jenna said, wiping tears from his eyes, “we must look like we’re in some kind of cult to people.” Dolores put her arms above her head like a preacher and said in a ringing, monotone chant, “All Hail Eloise Harrington! All Hail Eloise Harrington! All Hail Eloise Harrington!” Jenna laughed so hard she spit out her milkshake, it started dripping down the bottom of her mask. “Oh, crap. Um, hold on.” “Here, I’ve got something.” Dolores offered her a baby wipe. “I actually bought these when my grandson was born. I wanted to always be prepared, you know, for when I was with him. At this rate, he’ll be potty trained before I ever meet him in person.” Jenna took the wipe, turning her face from Dolores and taking off the mask to wipe off the ice cream. Jenna tried not to cry at Dolores’ confession. A small, sweet way to prepare for a new member of the family, one more thing the pandemic took away. Jenna slipped a new mask on. Dolores looked defeated, like she was about to give up. “Hey,” Jenna said. “If it’s all right with you, I’d like to take this off.” She gestured to her face. “My mask.” Dolores’ eyes became orbs. She didn’t say anything for what felt like a long time, then, finally, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath and took her own mask off. For a few seconds, neither of them could breathe and then, they both smiled. When their shakes were finished, they stood up, briefly hugged, and agreed to meet again next week. No masks.


This was supposed to be the happiest day of their lives. I had grown used to this comment, spoken as it was by everyone; often accompanied by a sad shake of the head and the glimmer of tears. Though absent they were the center of conversation, Asai and Idui. But all I could think, curled up on the couch hugging a mug of tea in my hands musing in the quiet peacefulness of my abode; was that they probably were the happiest they’d ever been. A touch of sadness tinged my thoughts though it was much overwhelmed by happiness. My mind wandered back to that fateful day almost a week ago. How ordinary the day had started, and extraordinary it had ended. Summer, time unknown: Flakes of white clay fell to the ground joining the chunks already littering the wooden boards that made up my secret studio as I carefully carved feathers into the wings of my masterpiece. The bird didn’t exist in the physical world, but it did on Asai’s canvas and Idui’s paper. It was to be their birthday gift. My studio truly did look a mess - pieces of unfinished work all over the small room, placed on ‘pedestals’ like an upside down paint bucket, the box that contained marbles I often placed on my sculptures, the second stool where Asai often sat when she visited. A shattered mirror. A beaded pillow. Surrounding me were open jars of paint, some of said paint dripping down the sides. They were the most expensive paint on the market imported straight from the spice lands far off to the northeast. But they weren’t the main ones I was looking forward to using. I paused my work to look at the small can next to the big ones. It was a bright iridescent blue paint. I had made it myself. No one had the right color I needed so I had taken matters into my own hands mixing blue paint with white and crushing my precious marbles to make a sparkling dust. After a quick glance at the statue, I put my carving tools down and reached for the roller lying beside the paints its worn handle giving away its age. I poured a dollop of paint on the bird’s narrow chest and began to run my roller over it until the bird was coated in every crook and nanny, up and around its elegant neck, over the 2 pulled back prongs on the top of its head tipped with several tiny sparkling marbles of red, green and blue swirls. Its swimming dark brown eyes stared deeply into my own as I stood back to survey my handiwork. The bird, carved in mid-flight spanned 12 feet wide and 8 feet tall, all long neck and knobby legs. It sparkled, it shimmered, it glowed. It also looked exactly like it did on Asai’s Canvas. I couldn’t wait to show it to them. I walked to the room’s door and pulled it open yelling down the attic steps. “Didi!” I called. A moment of pans clinking against a counter and then my older sister’s mischievous face appeared as she craned her neck around the corner like a swan. “Finished?” She asked. I grinned back and nodded. She bobbed lightly around the corner and up the steps. I poke her button nose and she batted my hand away only slightly annoyed. We both knew today was an important day. She stared at the bird statue with her critical eyes. “I think this is your best one yet.” She said eventually. I bobbed my head shyly. “How long before it dries?” She asked. “An hour,” I replied. “It should be more than enough time to finish the other preparations.” She nodded. “I could use your help moving the foods and the furniture to the beach.” She said turning to look at me, an ever-burning excited glow lighting her eyes as if lit by an internal furnace. Together we left the room and bounced down the creaky old attic steps, down the second floor steps through to our humble living room and into to the kitchen which was full of supplies, pots, plates, cups, and utensils. I went to the full sink and turned the tap washing my hands of clay, paint, and marble bits before I threw myself into motion. I picked up a heavy stack of ceramic plates and carrying them placing my chin down like a buffer; walked out into the early afternoon sun, I blinked wincing as my eyes tried to adjust. I walked across the cobblestone path on the side of our small abode headed to the back of the house. The farther I got the louder the sound of crashing waves became. I couldn’t see the ocean yet blocked as it was by the big leafy trees planted in our meager backyard. Bracing my elbow on the fence and pressing my chin down I freed on hand to lift the latch and push open the gate door. I walked along the path outlined in Cowrie and painted Crab Shells.  My bare feet sank into the sun-warmed sand of pure red, bringing with it the familiar soothing feeling that I had always cherished. I walked over the huge sand dune that blocked the view of the seashore taking in the beautiful beach that never ceased to have something new and interesting.  This place often gave me much inspiration for my statues, however today – the beach was covered in tables and chairs. The big wooden tables newly made just for this occasion were already covered in mats and at least half of the food we had cooked over two days. I placed the plates down on the edge of the first table and jogged back up clothes flapping in the sea breeze which deposited salt on my lips. My sister was waiting at the door and she passed me another set of dishware, and that’s how it went for the next hour. Then we cleaned up the house, made our way down the stairs carefully balancing my heavy statue. We pulled one of my sister’s silken sheets out from her cabinet of fabrics and flung it over the gleaming masterpiece which stood beside the final table which was still empty. Then we stood back to admire our handiwork. Everything was in its proper place. Steam: carrying with it delectable scents wisped serenely from the still hot pots, the elaborate tablecloths blew in the breeze, the fruit was fresh and glistening with water. We smiled at each other. “It’s great!” I said pleased. Didi nodded. “All that’s left now is the guests of honor and the attendees.” We looked to the Sundial in our yard made of white stone and aquamarines. “It’s almost time.” Didi said then swatted me toward the house. “Go change, you shan’t be looking shabby when they get here.” I hustled off toward the house up to the second floor and into my small bedroom. Across from me out my window was the best view of the sea in the house. The blue expanse seemed to sparkle as if marble dust permeated the entire huge body of water. Briefly I drew the blinds so  I could change into a blue patterned dress secured by a gold linked collar that rested at my color bone and the gold strap around my waist which I swiftly tied into a bow. I held my long, twisted coils up into a ponytail at the top of my head tying them up with a red piece of fabric. I put my big hoops and ankle bracelet. After checking my green tinted reflection in my sea glass mirror, I jogged down the steps and back outside. I arrived at the beach right as the first guests arrived. Greetings were exchanged and seating arranged. Just as we finished another group of party attendees arrived, then another and another. Soon most of the chairs were filled and the usual serene silence of the beach was filled with chattering voices, rustling clothes, and playful yells of young children. Even a violin had come and was now playing a merry tune. The one empty table we had remaining was piled with presents of all shapes and sizes fit together like a complicated 3d puzzle. Then the guest of honor arrived. Walking over the high sand dune, the twins came side by side dressed in similar outfits of white. Asai - eyes sparkling with excitement smiled at me from a distance. Idui nodded in her quiet and powerful fashion. Opposites both of them though they looked like two peas in a pod. We all rose and clapped as they came over and they bowed in the formal fashion though Asai wobbled like a baby duck learning to walk. I choked back a laugh. Chairs were pulled out for them and food presented. I sidled up to the two. “Idui greetings, Asai as clumsy as ever I see.” I said in an overdone solemn voice. Asai gave a cheeky smile in return. Idui nodded toward my covered statue. “A big surprise that.” She observed, I smiled mysteriously. “I don’t know.” I said tone demure. Asai pouted. Idui tilted her head in her classic thinking pose. I was glad to see that she didn’t seem able to figure it out. “Open all the other presents then I’ll show you that one.” I told them both before retreating into the crowd of people and joining into the song which sounded like strong wind, rippling waves and shifting sands, accompanied by the Earth’s heartbeat made y our clapping hands and stomping feet. The twins gained new clothes, carved arrowheads, carving knives, new canvas for painting, a journal for the ever-writing Idui, yams from the recent harvest then all that was left was my statue. My heart started to race in nervous anticipation like it usually did when I presented my work to the public. The singing, clapping and stomping continued becoming background sound as my heart became the forefront. Regardless of my feelings I seized the corner of the fabric and whisked it away with a soft shkkkk from the statue revealing it in all its glorious beauty. There was a collective intake of breath and the singing and movement stopped. Asai and Idui’s shock lasted for several moments before a light seemed to come from within them lighting up their face with a peculiar kind of joy which seemed to me deeper than any I had ever seen before. Asai let out a choked cry which sound like a wordless emotion I could not name. Idui stepped forward followed by her sister. A cry of shock rose from the crowd switching my attention to them. Their eyes I realized were not on the twin or me but rather behind me. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted the shadow of the statues move. Shocked, I turned around and stared dumbstruck. Before me standing regally on its knobby legs was the bird. Its wings were tucked, and its glittering blue feathers blew in the wind. Its eyes once marble were now absolutely real and focused upon the twins who I could dimly hear coming up behind me.  The marbles on the pulled back prongs at the top of its head were now glowing membranes. The bird was alive. My statue was alive. I knew without knowing how I knew that I wasn’t hallucinating. A long-fingered hand landed on my shoulder startling me and I twirled around. Idui smiled at me, “You have outdone yourself this time, Andi.” She said. I opened my mouth to ask but nothing came out. Idui seemed to understand anyway as she walked past me to touch the birds plumage. “This is Ramaru. A spirit bird of Egungun. Spirits, Ancestors long dead.” She said softly. “He’s was ours, our pet who died at the same time as we did.” Asai continued coming over to the bird and sinking her fingers into its plumage as well. “But when we died, we feared what was beyond, so we ran away back to earth.” Idui continued an age-old regret in her soft voice. All small part of my mind screamed at me that this was all impossible, but everything else seemed to sense the truth in her voice and swiftly drowned the voice. “We, after several millennia. After watching our friends and family die. After the world we knew changed. After civilizations rose and fell, as we watched languages learned and lost within short spans of time; grew to wish to leave. We were ready to face the beyond. Longed for it even. We began to dream of this blue bird. A breed of a bird called Heron which existed back when huge buildings and transportation called cars and bus and trains existed. We lived near a river when we were alive which has now long since become part of the ocean. We found an injured baby heron, nursed it back to health. Ramaru. We died in a fire when he was an adult. He had journeyed to the beyond and now he came back for us. But we could not figure out how to reach him.” A tear formed in Asai’s eyes. One falling unheeded disappearing into the sand. “Until now. You have given us our way home.” Asai turned to me and grabbed my hands. “Thank You. You have been the best of friends both you and your sister.” Behind her Idui hoisted herself up onto the big bird’s back. She held out a hand to her sister as Asai turned round and grabbed it. She also hoisted herself up and in my dazed mind I realized what was about to happen. “Wait.” I began as the bird unfurled and began to beat is huge wings stirring up mini sand tornadoes. Holding a hand up to protect my eyes I called out again. “Wait!” I had so many questions I still wanted to ask… Present …But I never would get the chance I thought sadly. No one else, I found out afterward had heard much of the conversation after the beginning and believed that death had come to steal them away on their birthday and that their tear were ones of grief and sorrow rather than joy. I had never bothered to correct anyone. I though did hold one regret. That I never did get the answers I now yearned for because by then it was too late. THE END