It had been twenty-four years since she had last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. Josephine stood in front of the little cottage that had featured in all of her fairytale dreams, the rolling hills, and the surrounding forest. That had been the happiest summer of her life. She’d wanted it to last forever. She’d been warned that day that it was only a temporary stay, but she had so hoped that things would be different that time. The woman who had greeted her, Mrs. O’Brady, had rosy cheeks and such a warm smile and her husband had such a jolly laugh that Josephine wondered if she was staying the summer with Santa Claus. Walking slowly up the slight incline that had seemed so much steeper all those years ago, she came to rest at the base of the large walnut tree. Its branches spread wide and twisting, creating a canopy of leaves for shelter. Sitting at the base as she often had as a child, Josephine let herself breathe deeply as she took in the sight before her. The cottage was white with blue shutters on the windows, a yellow front door, and the dormered window reminded her of rainy days playing dolls in the attic bedroom. She hadn’t been that only little girl here that summer. There had been two sisters, Tabitha and Janie, that had been there for a few weeks already. She had worried that she would not be welcome, but oh how wrong she had been. They had been adamant about her joining all of their games and nicknamed her Josy. After the first couple days it was as if they had always been together. Tabby was a blonde cherub and Janie was a redheaded hellion, she with her dark hair and solemn attitude had completed the set. With them she had learned to smile. Shaking herself from these thoughts, she headed back down and around the house to her car. As she unloaded her things, she was reminded of the day she left. A new foster family had been found and they wanted her settled before the new school year began. She had known that the O’Brady’s couldn’t keep her, but it had broken her heart all the same. The girls and Mrs. O’Brady had tearfully hugged her goodbye, while Mr. O’Brady solemnly promised that he was only a phone call away.  The heartache she felt that day was soothed as she prepared to enter the house for the first time as the homeowner. Unbuckling the carseat she lifted her son as gently as she could, hoping the little one would continue sleeping peacefully. She entered the house and let herself drink it in for a moment before heading up the stairs. The moving truck had left just over an hour before, after unpacking and setting up the bigger pieces of furniture. In that attic bedroom she remembered so fondly there was now a toddler bed and boxes full of dinosaurs and trucks. Laying her baby down, she smoothed his hair before kissing his forehead and heading back downstairs to continue unpacking. Life had not been easy since that fairytale summer. Experience had taught her that believing in fairytales was not always a safe thing to do. She spent so long believing that if she just wished for it hard enough, eventually all her dreams would come true. This way of thinking eventually brought her to a dead end and she found herself needing to start over, though luckily, she was not starting over with nothing. Wanting to give herself a good start she found herself looking at the one place that she had been truly happy. She found a local job and while taking a drive one Sunday afternoon she was amazed to come across her dream house and find it had a for sale sign by the driveway. Unable to help herself, she had knocked on the front door. Mrs. O’Brady had been as rosy cheeked as ever and tears came to Josy’s eyes as she was remembered and given a motherly hug. She had been welcomed in for cookies and tea and she found herself telling the kind woman everything that had happened in the long years since they had seen each other last. When she had finished, she was enveloped in another hug and was amazed at the relief and joy it brought. Mrs. O’Brady then took her turn, explaining that she was just too far from everything she needed at her age but confessed that she was worried that her home would go to someone who wouldn’t love it as she and her husband had. Their visits became a weekly thing and the next month she was able to tell Mrs. O’Brady that she was the person buying the house. Josy’s gaze fell on the tea set that Mrs. O’Brady had given her as a housewarming gift. It was a delicate china set with pink roses. She smiled thinking of past and future tea parties. She had been ecstatic when she discovered that Tabby lived just a few moments away and Janie came to visit regularly. Tabby had found her happily ever after with a local farmer and was having the time of her life raising their children while Janie, now going by her full name of Jacinda, was climbing the corporate ladder in Denver. They already had plans to get together the next time they were all in town. From the kitchen window she had a perfect vantage point of the walnut tree. Her mind already filled with plans for a tree house and a rope swing. For her son, she dreamed of long summers watching her son play pirates, colorful falls with leaf piles and pumpkins, and winters full of snowmen and cocoa. For herself, she dreamed of springtime filled with flowers. She felt her heart could beat out of her chest with joy. Maybe dreams don’t come true exactly the way you expect, and they don’t happen immediately, but maybe, just maybe, if you believe in them strong enough and work for them hard enough you eventually find what you are looking for. After so many years, she could happily say that this is what she had been looking for. She had found her happily ever after where she will be able to give her son the things she always dreamed about and that was all that mattered.


"This is the house where he wrote 'Hound of the Baskervilles',” Samara's mother said as they stepped through the door. How the mighty are fallen, Samara thought. The house was now a visitor's centre, selling pencils inscribed with the town's name that broke within minutes of buying, along with leaflets of local history, walks, and the prison that cast a shadow over the town from its outskirts. Samara was pulled instantly to the shelf where copies of 'Hound of the Baskervilles' were displayed in multiple languages. She picked up a German copy and turned it over, trying to translate the blurb using the German she'd learnt last year. “Hound of the Baskervilles... of the... 'Baskervilles' again... Why is normal German so hard? ” She put the book back on the shelf. “Over here.” Samara followed the sound of her sister's voice, and found her standing in front of a 7ft plastic statue of Sherlock Holmes. The statue was wearing a dressing gown, smoking a pipe, and also wearing... The deerstalker cap. Samara was constantly puzzled as to why Holmes was often portrayed with it; None of the original stories had ever mentioned a deerstalker specifically. Her sister was still surveying the statue when Samara discovered a small video-room. The walls and floor were black, and the only things in the room were large steps to sit on and a screen. Samara sat down to watch. “The Hound was inspired by the local folklore of the nearby forest, Wistman's Wood, said to be home to the Wist Hounds. No local walker ever ventures to these woods at night for fear of the legendary Hounds,” the video said. Samara's mother called her away to look at something else, but she returned a few minutes later. “ - rocks where Arthur Conan Doyle often sat to write his stories.” Samara vowed silently that if they ever came back, she would bring her notebook and pen and find those rocks. Then, she thought, she would write the best story she'd ever written. The ghost of the famous author would be there, helping her, writing with her. When she reunited with her family at the front desk, she carefully refrained from mentioning the idea to her sister. 'Just the kind of silly thing you would think of,' she could imagine her sister saying. Samara thought of the 'Sherlock Shelf' back at her house, with her two oldest books – One containing the 4 Holmes novels, spine broken and pages falling out from use, the other holding all 56 Holmes short stories, front cover broken off, back cover holding on by a thread. When asked which moors inspired the Grimpen Mire, the woman at the front desk showed them a map and pointed to the Fox Moors. The family thanked her and left. As they drove out of the town, Samara bombarded her family with Sherlockian facts. "Did you know that Sherlock never actually said 'elementary"? In any of the stories?" She said, wriggling in her seat. "Did you know that Arthur Conan Doyle got sick of him after the first few stories and eventually decided to kill him off? But the public and the Strand Magazine wouldn't have it so - Sherlock Holmes was brought back from the dead!" Samara's sister tried counting on her fingers how many times she had heard each fact. She soon ran out of fingers. "Did you know that -" Samara stopped dead as they came out through the tunnel of trees, onto the moors. "The great Grimpen More," she whispered. "A false step yonder means death to man or beast." The moors stretched for miles ahead of them, growing and shrinking into hills and valleys, bare and hauntingly beautiful. Rocks lay scattered across the flatlands and ferns dotted the hills ahead. It seemed as if they were the only living things on the vast, unchanging moors. Everything ahead was clay-red with dead, brittle ferns, islands of green grass and rocks sprouting from the fertile ground. "Did you know," continued Samara, in awe of her surroundings but desperate to get in one more fact before they parked, "that 53% of people who were asked if Sherlock Holmes was real or fictional said 'real'?" The road ran passed a large square of trees, perfectly bordered – too perfect for nature alone to receive credit, the only trees on the moor apart from one. One singular tree standing all alone, rocks surrounding it that looked just right for sitting on. Maybe the old moor people sat there at night to tell their children stories under the stars, Samara thought. She already fervently believed in the moor people, as much as she believed in the spirit of Conan Doyle that still haunted the place where they had lived. The car slowed down and Samara took off her seatbelt, opening the door before the engine was off. She had seen something and was determined to get to it before her sister. It was a sheep's skull. "I've found something and I'm keeping it!" Samara shouted to her parents. "What is it?" "The head of a dead animal," she laughed. The skull was barely damaged. A little cracked, a little holey (Samara could hear herself making the usual corny holy joke in the car on the way back), but otherwise in good condition. She picked it up, wondering if there was space in her backpack for it. She decided to keep in her hands until they went back home. It would crack more if she put it in her backpack. Samara looked up. Intent on reaching the sheep's head (her sheep's head, she laughed), she had entirely ignored her surroundings. Now she paid attention. Around them were stone houses. Some were in good shape, with walls higher a little higher than Samara and obvious doorways, but some were little more than piles of rock. The limestone mortar that would've kept the walls together had long rotted away, and what was left were simply stones piled on top of one another, the highest on the piles toppling precariously. Stone walls encircled the houses protectively. Once, they might've towered over the inhabitants, making them feel safe and secure, deterring intruders and ill-wishers. Now they had crumbled, and as Samara stepped over them she thought again, how the mighty are fallen. This is the house where the family lived , she continued to fantasize. Coming to another, smaller house next to it, enclosed by the same set of walls - No, this family was a big one. They were split between these two houses. She noticed the grass inside, completely flat where the sheep would have often slept. It had an aesthetic cleanness about it. Running to the top of her hill, Samara looked over the wide moors. She traced the stone walls along the surrounding landscape with her finger until it disappeared over a hill in the distance and didn't return. In the valley, Samara had thought she knew what she would feel when she reached the top. She would be Queen of the Moors, surveying her land from above. But here, she shivered at the thought. The moors were wild and free, and that was made them beautiful. They had no queen, no owner. Except, perhaps, the spirit of the famous author whose presence Samara felt with every breath.


From her passenger side window, Anne would imagine the windmills were giant steel orchids standing tall above flat fields. The silence in their car was now the new normal. No radio or laughter, only the monotonous noise of wheels rolling over imperfections in the asphalt. Both she and her husband, Bill, were sunken deep in their melancholic thoughts. It was the same trip for several months now, but this time they would make another stop. Life needed to get back on track. Six months before, their daughter had been rushed to a hospital, only to end up in a coma. The accident hit them hard. But hospital bills kept piling up, and Bill had been between jobs for some time. So they both decided to reopen the old tea house again. It had been closed for a couple of months; understandable, given their situation. She wasn’t keen on this reopening. She imagined a happier event there, surrounded by friends and family, and a laughing Lizzie helping out around. The venue had been a family owned tea-house in that quiet part of town, boutique and vintage vibes. Then the pandemic started. Then the accident. She did not visit the location after the accident, so she did not exactly know what it looked like now. Bill took care of all that. But it was he that asked Anne to stop going to the hospital. He thought the bleakness of that location made her more and more depressed. “A change in scenery, a purpose would do you good”, he told her. ”There’s no point in seeing all that pain in others when you can’t manage your own.” He was right. Plus: doctors and nurses were there twenty-four-seven, so if any machine Lizzie was connected to would pick something up, they would let them know. This amalgamation of thoughts was why she agreed to reopen the shop that day. Or, at least, put things in order for a fresh start. She dared not think of the discussion they would have to have about taking Lizzie off those machines. “Do you need anything after?” Bill’s raspy ex-military voice broke the silence. She shook her head “no”. “After the hospital, I have an interview in the city. Maybe this time…” “Fingers crossed…”, Anne reflexively replied. The last thirty or so unsuccessful interviews he had attended were not encouraging at all. They parked the car in front of the old tea house. Bill took out the bags holding supplies out of the trunk and carried them to the front door. She realized she missed that door chime as they entered the now dusty place. The once chique locale looked more like an abandoned mom and pop store. “You should open up the windows, let some air in here”, advised Bill. “Where do you want these?” “Put them on the counter. I’ll unpack them later. I need to do some cleaning, first…” A serene feeling took over her. She thought back to when she felt something similar, after her mother passed away and she inherited the tea shop. The venue came with its loyal customers so they added some tables, turning it into a small tea house. Memories of her redecorating the place while pregnant with Lizzie and Bill helping out during his military leaves. The thousands of hours put into the overhaul had breathed life back into the place and even made the whole enterprise profitable. The sweet nostalgia of happier times… “You OK?” Bill asked her, surprised to see her standing still and watery eyed. “Yeah, just had a moment…” She tied her hair back and pulled up her sleeves, ready to get to work. “I’m leaving now. Call me if you need anything OK?” “Sure… Be careful, please!” “Always…”, Bill replied, leaving the store. Anne spent the whole morning cleaning up the place, shaking off nostalgia as best as she could. The shine brought back into the varnish of the old furniture got her spirits up. She even found herself singing again. Then came her favorite part: placing the assortment of tea in the caddies, but not before smelling each bag. This ritual had made her nose able to distinguish even if some of the Oolong was no longer in its prime. Grabbing the small ornate aluminum box labeled Matcha from the paper bag filled with supplies, she convinced herself the effort of getting the extra special delivery was worth it. Not to be savored on any occasion less than special, she resisted the temptation of opening the lid. “Short shelf life after opening, but the highest quality”, she thought. The door chimes startled her a bit, so she quickly got up from behind the counter to see who had entered, since she did not remember putting the Open sign on the door. “Nat!” Anne noticed out loud. “What a pleasant surprise!” “Mornin’! You open?” “Not yet, but for you, I’ll make an exception!” Anne rushed to pack the tea bags in the caddies. “I can come back later, if it’s inconvenient…” continued Nat. “Nonsense! Let me put these in storage. I haven’t seen you in ages.” She could not hide her excitement. It had been a couple of years since she last saw the old man, and even though he had been a loyal customer before the renovation, he had a habit of disappearing for months at a time. This time, however, it had been a couple of years. “Wow! You haven’t aged a bit, Nat. What’s your secret?” “Well… I’m here for it, Annie!” Nat said, jokingly. “Can I get the usual?” “You’re in luck, just bought this today”, she cheered, showing him the matcha box. “I knew I picked the right time to visit! To be honest, I was passing through the area and saw the blinds up, so I thought I’d try and see if you’re open.” She was smiling, first time in months. She put the kettle on the stove and prepared a whisk and two bowls. “Are you back in town for longer, this time?” she asked, popping off the aluminum cap and savoring the aroma of the freshly opened can. “Don’t know yet…” Nat said, while being invited to also get a whiff of the wonderful scent the special powder emanated. “How long has it been?” Anne continued, sifting the powder in a small bowl. “Dunno. A year? A year and a half? Lost track of time. So, what’s new with you?” Nat asked, cheerfully, taking a seat on a stool and placing his black hat on the counter. Anne’s enthusiasm subsided, not ready to share. Nat sensed this and steered the discussion away: “I get it, times are for all over the world. Chin up, kid-o. Let me tell you what I saw, though…” Nat then proceeded to tell stories of the exotic locations he had visited. His tales often included animals, and he tended to exaggerate about the size of some bird’s beak or some monkey’s tail. As if there weren’t enough animal documentaries on daytime TV channels. Anne had brushed up on those, during her depression. The magic in Nat’s stories appeared to have petered out but she nodded and smiled, whisking the matcha in the bowl and kept on pouring water from time to time. By the time the foam had formed, Nat was telling an anecdote where an old friend of his had

lost a pinkie to a Toucan in the West Indies. She cozily smiled and poured the beverage in two bowls. Nat stopped so they could both enjoy their first sip of matcha that year. “Did you know”, said Nat, turning the bowl around in his hands, appreciating the fine taste, “they used to eat tea in porridges before they boiled it?” “Yup. Ancient China, right?” Anne replied. To which a challenged Nat one-upped: “Right. But what most people don’t know is that tea is also the reason humans first came to these parts.” “What do you mean?” asked Anne, genuinely curious. “Exactly that. Tea helped the old humans traverse the great frozen plains through the narrow strip between Asia and America, following big game. Well, not tea, the drink, but the plant. Back then, they ate the leaves, while hunting, ‘cause it gave them energy. Mind you, all this happened when the world was a lot colder than it is now, and chewing on those leaves all day gave one that feeling of inner warmth. Perfect for a whole day of tracking. So they followed their food across that icy bridge, hyped up by the caffeine in the leaves. They still do that, a lot south from here…” Anne pondered on the accuracy of Nat’s story. “Well, not the same plant,” Nat continued. “But the same idea. They chew leaves while they chase their prey. It’s funny and a bit ironic: they turn that stuff into powder as well, but they don’t make tea out of it…” They both laughed and finished their matcha. Nat went on to tell her of some other ways native tribes of the Amazon drink their tea, while Anne sat quietly, enchanted by what the old man recounted, same as she did when she was young. “My… just look at the time?” Nat said, checking his wristwatch. “Oh, you have to be somewhere?” “Yeah. This place looks clean and ready to receive some customers…” he continued, pointing to the four empty tables on the other side of the room. “Yes. We’re reopening soon.” “Best of luck! I’ll leave you to it, then…” Nat paid for the drink, leaving a very generous tip, then put his hat on, ready to head out. “Wait, Nat!” Anne called. She then grabbed a sealable pack and dropped a couple of spoons of the green powder in it, then rushed it to Nat, handing him the pack, to which Nat took a quick step back, politely refusing. Anne insisted but Nat reminded her it’s about the ritual, not the beverage. It was at that moment that Bill entered the shop and acted surprised to see somebody else in. He modestly greeted the stranger. “Oh, Bill! Do you know Nat?” Anne asked. Bill’s puzzled face shook a no, extending his hand to shake Nat’s but was left hanging. “Can’t say that I do. I’m Bill, her…” “Husband, yes. Nice to meet you. You will excuse me for not shaking your hand but I’m a bit of a mysophobe…”, Nat excused himself. “He doesn’t like touching others,” Anne explained. “Not to worry. Have we met before?” asked Bill, unable to shake the feeling of a dejavu. “Not sure, maybe… I’ve been tasting matcha here for a while now…” “Ever since my mom opened it up, right?” Anne added, while Nat nodded approvingly. “No, I don’t think I remember you from this place,” Bill said. “I visit this place from time to time,” Nat confessed, “every other Thursday. Love the way tea is made here. I saw the blinds up and I couldn’t miss the chance.” A few moments of awkward silence, after which Nat continued: “Well, that’s that. Best of luck with the reopening, Anne. Pleasure to meet you, Bill.” Nat exited the shop, tipping his hat gentlemanly on his way out the front door. “You’re here early. How was the interview?” Anne asked, heading over behind the counter, to collect the bowls the tea was served in. “Don’t think this one’s a winner…”, Bill said, pouting and taking a seat at the counter. “Don’t fret. Next time…” Anne reassured him. “Annie, who was that man?” “Oh, Nat? He’s been coming here since way back, since mom’s time running things. Not really a regular, but he orders the same matcha tea drink every time. He’s pretty cool as a person. I’m surprised you never met him, by now…” Anne told Bill. “I think I have, though. He did look familiar, but I can’t place him in my memories…” Bill confessed. “Might just be his quaint face, then. He does travel a lot so you might have seen him abroad, if not here, in the shop.” “No, that’s not…” Bill’s words came to a stop as Anne saw his eyes enlarge and his thick eyebrows frown. He then jumped off the barstool and ran out of the shop, ignoring Anne’s calls. Adrenaline pumped up his heart, same way it did in his youth, in firefights. Outside, he looked around for the old man, scanning the surroundings for a black hat. He noticed Nat’s silhouette in the distance and started running towards, calling him to stop. Nat slowed down, but did not turn, standing still on the sidewalk as Bill arrived running, stopping just by his side. “I know you! I’ve seen your face!” he said, accusingly and short of breath. “Do you, now?” Nat’s voice had changed into something deeper and more ominous. A cold shiver ran across Bill’s spine as the hair on his arms stood up. “I’ve seen your face twice, before. Back there, during the war… I would not forget it… Ever!” Nat turned to him, revealing a gaunt, haggard face, different from the one he’d seen inside the tea house. Nat’s bony finger pressed against those thin lips, gesturing him to shush, scared Bill, who took a step back, startled by the sudden change in appearance. “Yes… It’s you!”

Bill was at a loss of words as he felt something he had not felt in a long while. Pure fear and terror. Was this? “Maybe,” he thought. But the feeling of the encounter was the same, unmistakable. “What… What are you doing here? Please, don’t tell me…” “Simmer down, William. I just came here for matcha tea…” “What?” “Is it so hard to believe I enjoy the stuff?” Nat added, grinning. “You’re joking, right?” Bill cried, his feeling of panic subsiding into confusion. He took a quick look back at the tea house, then turned and slapped himself, wanting to check if this was all a dream. “Not joking William, although I remember you telling jokes when explosions were going off near you, out there in those mountains…” Bill now knew for certain who he was dealing with. “What did you want?” Nat added. Bill jumped at the opportunity: “Our daughter… Lizzie…” Nat shrugged, adding: “She’s out of my reach for now, William.” “So… She’ll be OK?” “Not quite and not my place to say.” “Can you at least…” “William, you’re not the first, nor the last to try and bargain with me. I don’t negotiate. Everybody meets me at some point, but not of their own choosing.” Bill fell to his knees and started sobbing. “Get up, William.” But Bill did not move. Nat repeated the words but in a commanding voice: “Get up!” Bill then stopped sobbing but did not stand up. Nat, crouched in front of him and shifted to a soothing voice: “Look, what you’re asking is not possible. I like Annie, I liked her mother. Understand I can’t touch you but you have to be strong. For her. This tea house made my Thursday breaks delightful with that matcha. She learned that from her mother. I took her mother, even though I was fond of her. It’s just what I do, my purpose. We all have a purpose, and yours is to be a pillar. There’s no point in crying about things that are out of your control, so get up, go and be with your wife. Enjoy your time together, because, trust me, the next time we’ll meet you will not have that luxury. This is not a threat, it’s a fact.” Bill gazed straight into Nat’s black eyes: “Take me, instead… Just… Give Lizzie back to her...” “She’s not mine to give, William. Understand that.” A crestfallen Bill dropped his eyes to the ground again, tears irrigating the desert that were his cheeks. “Tell me one of your jokes, William… Like you told the guys when times were tough and there was no good end in sight…” Bill found the strength to stop himself from crying and tried thinking of one. He then plucked up the courage to tell Nat the first joke that came into his head “Well, there’s the one about a guy, home alone at night, hears a knock at the door and goes to answer it. Opens the door and there on the doormat he notices a small Grim Reaper. Seven inches tall, black cloak, scythe, the works… He gets scared and yells ‘God, no!’. To which, the small Grim Reaper replies: ‘Calm down, you drama queen, I’m here for the hamster…’” Nat started chuckling, then turned to outright nightmarish cachinnation as he fell on his behind on the pavement. Bill soon joined him, shy, at first, but they both ended up laughing so loud the birds in the trees across the road took flight. By the tea house door, Anne could not understand what was happening. In the space of a couple of minutes she saw her husband get into action mode, cry and laugh with the old man. She then saw them wave each other goodbye, and brimmed with curiosity about how the two knew each other. As soon as they both got into the shop, she asked Bill if he was feeling well, expecting a laconic answer from him. “Why were you two laughing?” “Just told him a joke…” he answered. “How do you two know each other?” “We met while I was in the army… Let’s leave it at that…” She knew she wouldn’t get anything more from him, so she abandoned the questioning. She asked him to help her with the dishes, instead, and offered to make him a calming tea, and Bill accepted. As Bill sipped from the hot cup, Anne’s phone rang. “Who is it?” Anne asked Bill, who was closer to the phone. “Unknown number. Might be the bank...” Anne answered the phone and heard a faint voice at the other end: “Hello? Mom?”


One day, as I'm scrolling through my Instagram feed, I notice that an 8/10 has just posted a photo. Naturally, I like the photo and gawk at it for several minutes. After snapping out of my trance, I check the comments for some reason. I see the usual stuff: guys (all of which are infinitely more attractive than me) talking about how hot she is. I'm getting bored of reading the same generic compliment over and over again when suddenly, I spot it. A girl commented, "Oh, my god! You're so pretty". The OP replied, "No you are". Curious, I click on this girls profile. Based on her profile picture, she's a solid 9/10. Unfortunately, her account is private. I sigh and send her a follow request, not expecting to be accepted. After a few minutes, I get an Instagram notification on my phone. My eyes bulge. My knees weaken. Tears of joy start streaming down my face, and I collapse on my living room floor. My mom looks at me like I'm crazy, but I don't care. I'm accepted. I proceed to go through all of her photos. I read every caption, and see who she's following. I see what artists she's into, what school she goes to, and who her friends are. After a while, I feel like I know this girl. Needless to say, I'm in love. Unfortunately, after reading a few comments on her posts, I realize that I'm not the only guy who's into her. I go through their profiles. I see that they're all in football, conventionally attractive, and aren't pieces of human garbage like me. My self-esteem plummets. My knees weaken. My eyes begin to water. I collapse on my living room floor. My mom doesn't even bother looking at me this time. She just sighs, gets up from the couch, and walks into the kitchen. I can feel her disappointed from the floor. As I lay there crying, I close my eyes and try imagining going on a date with this girl. I cry harder because even in my head I suck at talking to girls. Suddenly, my whining is interrupted by an Instagram notification. A 10/10 has just posted a photo. Naturally, I like the photo and gawk at it for several minutes.


Death. It wasn’t anything other than a distant notion. Something that would eventually happen but, you know, in the future. Until now, it was simply an idea that surrounded my daily life in a shroud of fear. It was always looming, but never a real threat. Maybe that’s why I never thought about it. Or maybe all of those video games wrought with carnage and destruction and those horror movies filled with gratuitous gore really did desensitize me to the point of laughing at or altogether dismissing the idea of actually dying someday. Sure, I’ve attended my share of funerals and I even saw that guy get hit by a car right in front of my apartment. Those moments did ground me back to reality for a while. Over time I always went back to the ever so popular “that will never happen to me” mentality. Of course, that’s when I accidentally stumbled into death’s path. All this time, I thought I had control of my own life. I mean, I didn’t think I was above fate, or destiny, or whatever you want to call it. I thought I still had time to make more mistakes, maybe even go on that trip I've been putting off. I simply never gave death much merit. I carved my little niche of a life out of the choices I made. I, like so many others I’ve come to know over the years, struggled my way into and out of most of the cliché of life’s virtues and vices. I kissed my high school sweetheart, Jessica Martin, under the stars near the soccer field. It began to rain a bit but neither of us cared. I was pissed at my boss when that bastard, Jim Montgomery, got that promotion and third floor office with the custom executive desk and shiny name plate. I thought it was “in the bag” until it was announced at the Christmas party. It may have been a simple life, but it was mine, dammit. If I could cry I would. Maybe I am. All of those times throughout the years I thought I was indestructible, and even now. Well, not right now of course. You see, I didn’t realize just how much I cherished the world around me until I could watch myself being devoured by one of its creatures. I would be more accepting of this predicament if it was my fault. I wish I could blame some ancient curse on my family lineage or if I neglected to honor the god of “insert religion here”. Hell, I’d even accept it if in a drunken stupor I accidentally pissed on a mystical being wrought with vengeance in its hollow heart. But no, this thing, this monster that has taken what seemingly insignificant life I had at my dead-end desk job, was simply a “human being”. I use that term in the loosest sense of the word of course. Even as I watch my body move towards lifelessness in this strange third party view that can only be experienced when your head is severed from its home, I can’t imagine any true “human being” possessing such raw violence and a seemingly preternatural enjoyment from the turmoil of others; especially since that human is a thirteen year old bitch of a little girl. I even know her! She spent the night at my house just last weekend. Now, she is feasting on my entrails like my body is part of the raw food diet. The darkness is coming soon, I can feel it. Not in the usual sense of the word. I really don’t feel anything anymore. It’s peaceful really. I’m not sure how much longer I will be in this state of “transition”, for lack of a more appropriate word. It seems like hours ago when I felt that first pain throughout my lower back. That tingling sensation you feel when your hand falls asleep. You know, that damned unshakable “pins and needles feeling”. I felt that flood through my body as it collapsed to the floor. Then came a wincing pain as my upper spine was shattered. My skin and throat were ripped apart and I, well my head at least, finally came to rest here. How appropriate for me to find the best possible position so I can bear witness to the rest of this dreadful show. I find myself trying to recall things, memories, anything. It’s hard. I really just expected, no, I *wanted* this to be some bad episode of a low budget television show. I mean, who the hell ever thinks that a leisurely jog around the block in an attempt at redeeming a New Year’s resolution would turn out like this? Sure, it’s July and the New Year is halfway over, but better late than never, right? Well, I guess in retrospect, never starting would have been much better for me. The humor and irony of those thoughts are lost in the moment it seems. This sight is surreal, like that one movie. Or was that a book? Ha-ha! She really is having a grand old time with my carcass. What the hell is she? And why is she devouring my lifeless body like it was a Thanksgiving feast? Who am I, and who the heck am I even talking to? Oh great, and now here comes ‘nother guy. Is that the calvinry, the cavalry? Hey, too late there, buddy! I’m already decursertated, descalpitated... what the hell? My head is over here and the rest of me is being digested by that little, um, whatever that is! Wait! He isn’t here to slaughter that monster, he’s joining in! Not sure why he chose to start at my groin. I hope you choke on my pipe organ; you freak! I don’t know how much longer I will be in this state of “translation”, for lack of a butter wand. Wait, didn’t I just say that? The blackness is covering most of my eyes now. It’s closing like the ending of the Looney Tunes cartoons I used to watch as a kid. Ha-ha! ‘member that one about the orange monster and the bunny? That was great. All I can thank of, thank if, think of is that fade to black and the simple word ‘fin’ written in fancy white letters. The darkness is coming, and I don’t see the light. They said there was a light when you died! Where’s the light? I want to see the light! Don’t let me die! I’m sorry.


Once upon a time, there was a woman named Lucy that liked to eat bread sandwiches. You are probably wondering why is it called a bread sandwich. Don’t all sandwiches have bread? This sandwich is different. It does have bread but it’s a sandwich with bread in it. No chicken, no cheese, no lettuce, pickles, mayo, and ketchup. Just bread. It is bread between bread. It is the breadiest of bread. It is the bread sandwich. How does one make this special meal? Easy. Lucy grabs three slices of bread and stacks them. That’s it. If you really want to get creative, you can sprinkle bread crumbs and croutons in the middle so you have a mixture of soft bread and crunchy bread. Next thing you have a mouthful of bread goodness. Lucy wasn’t the only person that liked bread sandwiches. Some of the other members of her family loved bread sandwiches too. They would also make other bread meals like the bread dog. The bread dog like a hot dog but instead of a sausage wiener, they would roll up a slice of thin bread and place it between the hot dog bun. When they wanted to eat pizza, they’ll eat just the dough with torn bread as toppings. When they wanted to bake pie, they would bake bread pie which is pie with raw dough filling. Every meal had only one ingredient and that is bread. The woman’s obsession with bread took its toll when she woke up covered in slices of bread attached to her body. Her body created so much yeast from the bread eating that bread started growing on her body. Even though she loved bread, she wouldn’t eat bread that grew from her body. The bread that grew from her body smelled weird and it had an odd curve to it. She would shave it off and toss it to the pigeons outside. The pigeons loved her body bread. Lucy was the only person in her family that had this problem. The doctor told her to lay off on the bread and maybe the bread will stop forming. She never did. She still ate her bread sandwiches, her bread pies, and her bread dogs. When the bread growth multiplied to the point that she turned into a giant loaf of bread, that was when she stopped. Her family felt sorry for her. Some people weren’t sorry for her. They wanted to throw her in the oven to make bread dogs out of her. To keep her from molding and from being eaten by hungry family members, her mother put her in a nice glass bread container. She would place her on a chair at the dining table during family gatherings so she could feel like she’s part of the gathering. It was better than sitting by the toaster oven. To this day, Lucy is still a loaf of bread. Occasionally she would eat a small bit of bread. The doctor told her to lay off the bread. She would return to her normal self if she just stopped eating bread. Unfortunately, after eating her own kind by swallowing a slice of bread topped with bread crumbs, she now has random pieces of bread growing off her bread loaf body. No one knows what she might turn into next. Poor Lucy, she just can’t lay off the bread.


”I’m leaving the subway now, just a block away!”

Josephine hurried through the crowd, pushing past people on the stairs, her heart pounding in her chest as she ascended towards the clean air above. A light drizzle met her outside, but other than that the open sky felt welcoming as she drew a deep breath and felt the tension leave her body with the exhale. Normally, on a day like this, she would have kept her umbrella with her; her hair was too important not to mention expensive; but this evening she had pulled her hair back and tied it up in ponytail that no amount of humidity could conquer - also, she didn’t really care anymore. Her phone vibrated in her coat pocket. Cara — again. Josephine felt her jaw tighten but tried to smile as she answered, hoping that it would carry over the line. ”Yes. I’m turning into Dulcimer Street now. Be there in five — no four minutes.”

Caras voice was sparkling like electricity. ”There’s no need to panic. People are just starting to arrive. You won’t be the last one here.” Josephine could feel her self slowing down slightly, like someone else controlled her actions. ”So, who will be there exactly? Thought you said it would be a small and quiet housewarming?” ”Oh, it won’t be too many” Cara said. ”Just the girls. And their boyfriends . Five bucks Penny has pulled some rando off the street just for show. She’s a hot mess!” Cara laughed. ”Soo happy you’re feeling better babe, I’ve missed the hell out of you the last couple of weeks!” ”I missed you too — So — that’s you, me; Penny with her rando, Lisa and Peter, Carly and Chris - and that’s all?” It already felt like a lot. Josephine swallowed as she pushed the gate open and walked into the yard. The apartment complex was looming. Cara continued: ”I don’t know, probably a few more. Oh right, Carly is bringing her cousin as well. We don’t know him but she insisted.” As the doors closed behind her Josephine felt trapped again. The narrow corridor leading to the stairs and elevators bathed in a yellow light that made her feel nauseous. ”But Cara — why ?” she said as she skipped the elevator and proceeded to the stairs. ”You know I’ve been ill and I’m not up for meeting new people. If you’d told me I wouldn’t have come!” ”— no just leave it, I’ll deal with it tomorrow — I’m sorry sweetie I didn’t hear you; are you almost here? Can’t wait to see you!” Cara continued to laugh with someone on her side. Josephine sighed. ”See you..” The apartment was on the third floor. Josephine felt a bead of sweat trickle down her back. I’m in terrible shape, she thought as she stopped outside Caras door and checked herself with the camera app on her phone. She was pretty but her eyes looked tired and her skin dull and lifeless. Josephine cleared her throat. It still ached and felt dry and swollen but got better every day. It was cold season after all so no one would question why she sounded hoarse and croaky. It was the perfect alibi. A familiar melody could be heard from inside the apartment when she pressed the buzzer — hello from the other side — it appeared the Adele anthem had moved with Cara to the new place. Josephine immediately regretted coming out tonight - she was not ready.  The door opened and a wave of laughter, conversation, music and perfume poured over her. This was not a quiet gathering. Cara flung herself around Josephines neck. ”Jo! So good to see you! I thought you’d been swept away by a sheik or something, come in - oh your coat looks darling, is it the Burberry one? I knew you had one I just didn’t — have you met Cassandra yet? - She has one too - just like yours - but she’s too skinny you know, it doesn’t look nearly as good on her.” Cara pinched her cheek. ”God, it’s amazing to see you! How are you?” Josephine removed her coat and bag.

”I’m fine. Look, had I known this would be a party I wouldn’t — I didn’t think I would have to — ”If I had told you it would be a party you wouldn’t have come,” Cara interrupted. ”And we haven’t seen you in ages! This will be fun, I promise! Let me show you the place!” The apartment was packed. Josephine counted at least fifteen people, several of which she didn’t recognise. Lisa was there, looking posh as ever, her boyfriend Peter was off in the corner lecturing a group of new faces about bitcoin (as always). No one could sell ”boring” as Peter, and it served as both his greatest strength, and the most annoying thing about him, that he never seemed to pick up on the glazed expression in his audience eyes. Pennys ”rando” turned out to be a girl this time.

That was new. Cara pulled Josephine around the apartment on a very speedy run through of the four rooms before returning to the living room with its many guests.

”She never gets tired that one,” Lisa laughed nodding towards Cara as she spun away. ”It’s like we all haven’t seen a one bedroom apartment before.” Her deep blue eyes now fixed on Josephine. ”You ok? You really had us worried for a while.” Josephine sipped her drink. ”Yeah, thanks. I’m ok. It was a nasty infection.” Lisa studied her with a worried expression. ”Must have been yeah — and just about when the merger was about to go down. The whole office was scrambling. I thought Jaineway would snap.”

Josephine could feel her face grow hot and red. ”I - I didn’t make this up you know. I got really sick! Also, I knew you could handle it.”

”I know I know, I believe you. The pressure you were under — it would get to you eventually. We all suspected it would.” ”And yet you never said anything?” She didn’t know if her voice cracked because of the strain or the anger that was suddenly flaming up inside her. ”Honey” Lisas voice softened. ”You never would have listened. You are a work horse. And no one is as good as you. Everybody knows that. Especially you.” Josephine struggled to find a good comeback but failed. Besides, Lisa was right. The people at the party where all well dressed and fancy. The black long-sleeved turtleneck and jeans she wore made Josephine feel underdressed among the blazers and blouses and she thought of using fever as an excuse to leave early. The mood was high and the volume had grown louder to combat the alkohol fuelled discussions. Josephine moved towards the kitchen. She had walked past it on her way into the apartment and noticed a big window with some green plants that made the room seem much different from the rest. Cosy and warm. Like a mirage in the desert.

*** ”I’ve told you! I’m just really tired.”

David took another swig of water hoping that would put an end to the conversation. He wasn’t exaggerating. Having worked the night shift for what felt like forever, and even though the schedule hade turned, his mind and body hadn’t turned with it. He looked down at his cousin. Carly was still there, arms crossed, looking like an angry pixie. She sure had changed since moving to the city. ”You could at least make more of an effort and not stay cooped up in the kitchen all night”, she muttered. ”I had to convince them to let you come you know.”

David yawned into his hand. ”I thought these were your friends? Why would they mind?” ”Because it would only be small group of friends, that’s why. I told them you were my cousin, that you had been working really hard and needed some fun. Now you’re making me look bad!” David felt exasperated. ”And your small group of people didn’t turn out so small did it?… — Look” he continued, off Carlys bummed expression. ”I will try ok? I promise.”

”Ok then.” Carly beamed, ever so used to getting her way. As she turned to rejoin the party another girl appeared in the doorway. Carly let out a shriek. ”Jo! It’s you! I’ve missed you soo much!”

David watched as the women embraced. The newcomer was blond and slender, dressed in a black sweater that made her skin seem even paler than it probably was. She towered over Carly and her arms, long and thin, wrapped around his cousin almost twice. David recognised her instantly. ”David,” Carly said, turning back towards him, her arm firmly around the new girls waist.

”This is Jo! The girl I told you about. The one who puts us all to shame.” ”Come on now,” new girl said. ”You are being way too — ” She looked at him and her eyes widened. ” — dramatic.” David knew this girl. Knew her by name. He had heard the doctor calling her over and over. Trying to wake her up. Josephine. That’s what it was. Josephine. After a brief moment, a moment that probably felt much longer than it actually was, they shook hands. Her hand felt cold in his. He remembered holding it before, changing a needle for the IV.

A month had passed but he could still see a fading yellow bruise on the back of her hand. He smiled. She did not.

”I’m David. Nice to meet you.” Josephines lips thinned as a strained smile pulled from end to end - like a prisoner torn apart by horses. Carly didn’t seem to notice. ”David’s a doctor. He works over att Blue Road Hospital,” she said almost giddy. David gently put his hand on her arm. ”I’m a nurse. Not a doctor.” He smiled again. Josephine just thought she did. ”Yeah fine, a nurse. ” Carly continued. ”But you can still become a doctor later right? When you are finished with your studies or exams or whatyoucallit?” David sighed. He knew that a nurse meant ” just a nurse” to Carly and her family; they always had difference of opinion on what it meant to be successful. Excel, make a lot of money and always have people below you. This was one of the reasons him and his father had almost become shunned by the rest of the family. Because they were content. And that always bothered someone. ”Sure, Carly”, he said. ”But who will clean up after the doctors when I’m gone? They need me where I am.” He winked and Carly rolled her eyes. ”Just lazy. And silly.” Watching them bicker; Josephine thought back to when she’d last seen David. She hadn'´t noticed him at first. It was the doctors that spoke to her, and they seemed to change with every round. The nurses however, were mostly the same, and David had been there a lot; changing the linens, checked her vitals and brought her food when she became well enough to eat. They hadn’t really talked. Other nurses tried to make chitchat in order to make the situation less uncomfortable. They all knew why she was there after all. But David had remained respectful and never bothered her or pushed her to speak. She really appreciated him for that. He was also the only one who didn’t look at her with pity when he saw her scars. Josephine scratched her arm and pulled her sweater down further over her wrist. Her mother hated them too. Looking at her now, David could hardly believe it was the same woman he had helped save a little over a month ago. She had been brought in at around eight on a Wednesday, non responsive and very weak. He had just started his shift and still had crumbs from his cheese sandwich around his mouth when the alarm sounded. The woman was in bad shape, not drunk but clearly intoxicated. Turned out to be pills - and lots of them. They had pumped her stomach and she had regained consciousness in the middle — he had been forced to hold her down when she had struggled to remove the tube from her throat. Her eyes were wild - blood shot - panicked.

Eventually she calmed down and after a mild sedative, was able to sleep. Later that evening, in the staff room, they all wondered what would make such a young, beautiful woman want to end her life. Carly broke the silence again, snapping reality back into place. ”I went to you moms Jo, since you didn’t answer your phone. I guessed you must have stayed there? She told me everything was fine and that you just needed some time off to fight the virus. Sounded like you would be back at work in no time.” Josephines eyes met Davids and he could see them pleading for him not to say anything.

”Yeah, she would say that…that’s just…mom.” Her voice was starting to fail her now. She couldn’t deal with this. Somewhat sensing the tension but missing the tone completely, Carly said: ”See David? This girl is amazing! Never complains. Always gets the job done.This chick would never settle for a nurse. A doctor — a good one — maybe…” She flashed a smile and a wink at them both. ”Something to think about.”

Then she backed out of the kitchen and was gone. The silence between them seemed to drown out the noise from the party. They just stood there unsure of what to do next. When David finally spoke Josephine almost pulled back. ”So…I just wanna…” ”Don’t…please” Josephine put her hand up to stop him. ”We don’t need to do this…I just can’t right now.” She looked at him. David had a blank expression on his face, the one he had worn in her hospital room, when she had cried next to her mother who refused to listen. ”Sure” he said. She tried to smile but stopped herself, fearing her eyes would well over if she did. ”So —” Josephine straightened up. ”Not becoming a doctor then?” David laughed.

”No, I think I’m good. Not everyone plays forward you know.” He looked so calm and at ease Josephine felt almost frustrated with him. Was he just lazy like Carly had said? She didn’t care for those people. ”So then, how do you know when you’ve reached your full potential? If you don’t strive for anything?” She sensed how inappropriate her tone was and immediately regretted it. David didn’t seem offended though. Perhaps it was just in her head. She looked at him. His eyes were kind and warm. ”I don’t see my fullest potential as something to do with what career I have” he said, thoughtfully. ”As long as I’m happy where I’m at…I’m — well…happy. No matter what it is or what people think. I feel my fullest potential is reached when I love what I do.” Josephine said nothing for awhile. So many emotions flowed through her; anger, guilt, remorse, shame. She had been taught to climb, to always reach. But was it ever really enough? She turned to the window. Autumn was coloring the trees outside with flaming leaves and frost was reaching in from the corners of the glass. The plants on the windowsill smelled fresh and sweet. ”Do you think there’s ever a way to make the world just give you a break?,” she said, looking out at the night sky. ”To slow things down just enough to give you all the time you need. To figure things out?” She was crying now. Silently and softly. She again turned to look at David who was standing halfway between her and the people in the other room. He had seen her at her worst so her tears didn’t face him. And he didn’t judge her for it. He just stood there. ”There always is” he said.

Josephines lips were trembling and her tears were falling hard now. ”How?” Her voice almost a whisper. She looked at David and he looked back. Then he smiled. ”Just ask.”


They stared up at the old mansion with apprehension. None of them could name when it had been built, nor who had built it, just that both had been well before their time and that time had changed it immensely. The sheer size alone was enough take them aback, but it was the condition at a glance that truly shocked them, down to the youngest who was just 11 months old and had no earthly concept of what a mansion even was. The paint was peeling and washed out, showing old brick walls that looked more like raw, weeping wounds than the dry, red clay that they were. The shingles of its vast roof were almost all gone, and the roof itself looked sunken and pained with water damage, or like something had smashed in but not through it. All of its windows were broken and revealed nothing but pitch blackness inside, save for two windows along the centre which reflected the midday sun in broken shards that shone like eyes staring down, peeled open and malevolent, at the family who had trodden upon its domain. The husband, a barrel chested, younger man, step forward on the brick pathway, ignoring the pleas of his wife, a taller, older woman, to please get away from it, please. “It’s going to fall on your head Hal, for gods sake.” “It’s fine Luanne, I’m just getting a closer look at it.” Immediately upon finishing the sentence, he stepped onto the first cracked and dusty step and could hear the stone groan under him as he walked up with great caution to the front doors. They were in the best condition of any part of this old monster, firm and tall and carved with symbols of lions facing each other. The door knockers were around the crotch level, which forced Hal to avert his eyes as he wrapped a hand around one of them and found that he had to push it open. “Lousy design.” He muttered beneath the wailing creak of the door slowly, deliberately, opening inward to reveal yet more darkness. Hal leaned forward so that the clear blue sky and its huge spotlight of a sun did not get into his eyes, which helped them adjust. Inside the mansion was a floor made of wooden planks, which were rotted and soaked over with mold and fungus. The grand staircase, an enormous thing that may have once been quite proud, had collapsed midway up and the debris littered the hallway that, Hal gathered, would have led to some kind of kitchen or recreation room. Above him hung a chandelier, an enormous and complex structure of glass that, to his shock, seemed utterly untouched by the doubtless decades of decay and neglect that had put this place in its present state. It swung about, slowly side by side, of seemingly no accord. Looking down again, he saw on either side open archways that led into rooms he had no idea the use of. A low groan emerged from within the bowels of the mansion, beckoning him inside, deeper yet deeper, so that he may be shown even more of its sights. He ignored it and turned around in a huff, his lips pulled a tooth baring expression more suited for a baboon as he stomped back down to his family, his wife completely unsurprised. “It’s a goddamn dump.” Hal blustered out as he took his place by Luanne’s side. “I told you we couldn’t trust that website, but the offer was just to good pass up, wasn’t it.” “Don’t start up on that, you wanted this place just as badly as I did.” “Yes dear, I know, but I did offer the idea that it was too good to be true.” Luanne looked up at the mansion again, quickly squinting and looking away from the glare of the broken glass. “And you were right, are you happy?” “Not in the slightest dear.” Hal simply nodded and marched back to their car. “I’m with you on that.” He said as he pulled open the drivers side door and slipped halfway in. “What’s eating you? You look troubled.” “Aside from the house?” “Aside from that, yes.” Luanne sucked her bottom lip in and looked over her shoulder again at the looming beast behind her. “I have an odd feeling about the place, likes it got something wrong with it outside of how it looks.” “Well, you won’t have to worry about that honey.” Said Hal. “We’re going to march right into that real estate place and scream our heads off til we get our money back.” He gestured up at the mansion, his movements wild and exaggerated as he got more and more worked up. “They show us a beautiful house in those pictures, tell us it’s all furnished, and then we show up to THIS?! Not a chance in hell I’m letting that slide!” His sudden descent into hollering at the top of his lungs made Luanne and their baby flinch, and the baby immediately set off into a loud and miserable wail. Luanne went to work right away rocking it as Hal hurried over, his eyes wide with shame. “Oh Georgia I’m sorry honey.” He cooed. “It’ ok baby, it’s ok.” She said, and it worked rather quickly, as Georgia stopped almost as quickly as she started. Both parents were pleased. “Save it for the real estate agents Hal.” Luanne said. “Only if you help me.” He said right back, and the two kissed and walked back to their car. Once little Georgia was buckled securely in her seat, the two took their own and drove around the roundabout and it’s huge, concrete fountain (which held no water at all) right back out on the path they came in. They were gone for a minute, then two minutes, then five. It was on the fifth minute that the mansion, realizing that they really were not coming back, shut its still open door and let out a disappointed sigh. Maybe next time big guy.


It was the summer of ‘96. Everyone I knew was drunk on love, or just the idea of it. I had different plans, though. I had just moved out of my parents’ house and wanted to save for college. I got the job at the diner the next day.

There wasn’t anything especially eye-catching about the diner. The outside was plain and unassuming. Inside, black-topped bar stools lined the back counter, and the booths were red and cracking. The tile floor was black and white checkered, and it needed a decent mopping.

My first customer was Laura. She was young, maybe twenty, with hair so dark it made her look ghostly. She was pregnant, which was the first thing I noticed on her slight figure. She wore expensive clothes and jewelry, the kind that isn’t muddled by bad lighting. She had a huge engagement ring on her tiny finger.

She ordered a decaf coffee with a slice of blueberry pie. She stayed for so long that I checked on her five times to make sure she was okay. Her sapphire eyes held sadness; the last time I asked her if she was okay, she teared up. Her fiancé had cheated on her, and left her for the other woman. I abandoned my other tables to reassure and console her.

She left me her engagement ring as a tip, with her phone number. I sold the ring and bought myself a car, which I drove to see Laura. We were inseparable for two months, and she asked me to be in the room when her baby was born.

I still see her every once in a while, and we talk on the phone. Her son just turned twenty-four, and he’s getting married next year.

My most memorable customer was Daniel. He walked into the diner an hour before closing, and he was the only customer there. He was wearing military clothes, though I couldn’t quite tell which branch they belonged to. I asked him what he’d like to eat, and he answered by asking me what my favorite meal was. I told him I like the grilled cheese combo, so that’s what he ordered. We chatted during his meal, but I didn’t think anything of it. He was very polite and respectful.

When I went outside for my smoke break, he followed me and asked me out. Before I said yes, he told me that he’d only be here for two weeks. I agreed anyway. He kissed me before I finished my cigarette.

I had the best two weeks of my life with him: we broke into the Y and went skinny dipping, fell asleep in the bed of his truck after shooting fireworks, and spent an entire day playing arcade games. He was unlike any other man I’d ever met.

He was sensitive and tender; if I didn’t know already, I would have never thought he was in the military. I really loved him, and I think he loved me, too, but we agreed to never exchange those promises.

When he left, I watched his plane take off, crying. He was the first man I ever loved, and he left a scar on my heart that never healed.

My most interesting customer was June. She drove up to the diner in a ‘75 Volkswagen van, that you could tell was once blue, but was so chipped and sun-bleached it could be mistaken as white.

She wore white platform boots, which was the most normal part of her outfit. Her tank top was patchworked, made out of thirty different patterned squares. She also wore a jean jacket with jeweled tassels hanging from the back, but it was obscured by her long, wavy, wheat-colored hair. Her bell bottoms were well-loved, and the holes were patched by the same patterns as her shirt.

She came right up to the counter and ordered a strawberry milkshake to-go. I complimented her style, and she complimented my beauty. We flirted a bit while her milkshake was mixing. She left with a wink, but came back later that night and picked me up in the old van. We got high listening to Janis Joplin and kissed until my shift the next morning.

That was the first and only time I ever saw her. I didn’t love her, but she did help me heal from Daniel. I never got to thank her for that.

To this day, I’ve never met someone else quite like her. Not many people can be so effortlessly unique, but she was one of the few.

My last customer was Corey. He came into the diner with three other guys, all dressed in black and red leather. He wore eyeliner, and had curly hair that fell into his eye when he first saw me.

The other guys slid into a booth, but Corey walked up to the counter, where I was taking payments. He smiled at me, the kind of smile that makes you stop and lose all the words in your head. We had an instant connection.

He told me he was in a band, and they were on their first tour. Together, they ordered one of everything. They weren’t sitting in my section, but I went out of my way to check on them. Corey was so captivating, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of him. The feeling was mutual.

As they were leaving, I yelled for them to wait. I handed my apron and name tag to my manager and finished the tour with them.

When the tour reached Las Vegas, Corey and I got a little drunk and wrote a song together. I was so in love with him at that moment, that we went into town and eloped.

That song became the band’s number one hit. Corey sang it to me last week when we celebrated our twenty-fifth anniversary.

I served hundreds of customers when I worked at the diner, but only four of them changed my life.

Only four of them took a tiny piece of my soul that they’ll keep forever.


I don’t recommend nursing a broken heart while eating a greasy calzone in a mall cafeteria. Especially

my  local mall, where you’re almost always bound to be one of two people in the entire cafeteria. The other person is the janitor, whose lack of ass and boatload of keys means his pants are hanging by a belt and a prayer. He stands in place wiping a rag over the same clean table with the same dead eyes in a perpetual frozen state since the nineteen nineties. He’s like the mosquito stuck in a sad sepia resin of capitalism’s underbelly. At least then, when you were in high school, the mall wasn’t an abandoned soul suck. At least then, you didn’t eat alone in the cafeteria. Now, you’re a forty something stuck in the same frozen time glitch sitting at the same table, feeling perverse by sinking your fingers into a meaty moist calzone and pulling out the slimy red and green peppers you hate. Like the janitor, you may not have ever left this table—at least not in spirit, and the only thing that’s changed in the last two decades is your waistline and hair color. The same Orwellian soft rock soundtrack from two decades ago lulls you into calm resignation while something in your gut simultaneously screams to be released. Orange grease drips from the corners of your mouth making you look like a sad clown. Each time you slip a limp pepper from the calzone, you think to yourself:

I deserve this. I deserve this pepper.

No, I don’t recommend your local mall for the self pity party. (Or laundromats. Those are also places you feel particularly depressed and pissed at the world.) And in the only department store that hasn’t gone under to Amazon, there’s bound to be one fluorescent light in the dressing room that flickers so hard you’re at risk of a seizure even if you don’t have epilepsy. Lady A (formerly Lady Antebellum) sings the pop country song of your people over the store’s sound system :

“… It's a quarter after one I'm a little drunk and I need you now Said I wouldn't call, but I lost all control And I need you now” Simultaneously your mind plays its own mantra on loop:

depression lies…don’t text your ex…depression lies…don’t text your ex… And you know you must be getting old because the clothes in JC Penney’s are suddenly looking cute. Last time you were here you cried in the dressing room at the sight of your thick thighs bulging out of cream colored spanks you were trying on to wear under your prom dress. It’s hard to remember that girl—the smart pubescent one with a pretty face and painful nipples; the girl trying to navigate menstruation, melancholy, and love; the girl who liked alternative music and had Plath’s

The Bell Jar dog-eared in her leather backpack.

You don’t recognize yourself on the outside anymore. You’re probably standing in the same dressing room as you did decades ago, surrounded by three walls of funhouse mirrors. But the inner reflection hasn’t changed. Your hormones are still going haywire (except now it’s perimenopause); you’re still on antidepressants; and you still have a crippling fear of abandonment.

And you still find yourself accidentally browsing in the petite section, running your hands over adorable outfits and wondering why the little blond with the Patagonia jacket is giving you concerned glances, only to realize your mistake and beeline it to your homeland where busty bald mannequins call you back with open stiff arms?—the same Amazonian mannequins whom you hip check (and apologize) because there’s not enough room for two plus sized ladies here. (Why do they put petite next to plus size? Can’t there be a buffer? A neutral zone? A gradient? Why must these two countries share a border?) “I'm all alone and I need you now Said I wouldn't call, but I lost all control And I need you now” Nope. The mall is one maladaptive coping mechanism you should really ditch. Drop that paisley polyester blouse and book it outa there; do your girl a favor and tackle that Renaissance mannequin on your way; bust an old rugby move and free that queen;  pull that fire alarm; punch a pack of pantyhose; push over the table of cropped tops and daisy dukes; hip check a rack of retinol wrinkle reducing blah blah blah; run as fast as your now-out-of-style skinny jeans will let you; and don’t get caught at the exit where the revolving door will dump you back into the hellish mental time warp of a trap that is your childhood trauma and insecure attachment personality type.

No, let the calzone-causing heartburn motivate you. Let your heart

burn . Burn rubber in the parking lot while Ms. Mannequin hangs from your passenger window. Back your car into Patagonia Girl’s Wrangler like Kathy Bates, Fried Green Tomatoes style. Peel outa there like Thelma and Louise; peel off that idea that you aren’t good enough. The only way to heal is to let that burn in your heart burn itself out. And if you could say something to that sullen girl you left in the dressing room, that 90’s child who kept a diary and dreamed of being an author, you might tell her: Learn not to measure your success in the number of miles you made it from your hometown, but by the number of times you look in the mirror and soften your gaze. And this: Keep writing. And this: Seriously though, don't text your ex. Despite aging, existential angst, and a touch of anger, your eyes still shine. You remain tender and maybe even the teeny tiniest bit hopeful about love. Because you know something that girl doesn’t yet trust:

You’re going to be okay. Heartbreak, though it may feel like a death sentence, is just fuel for the fire inside you, accelerant to keep you driving toward your truth. Stay the course. And stay away from the mall.


Whenever a bird poops on your car, it’s annoying. If it’s on your windshield, a little fluid and a couple scrubs from your wipers will clear it off. Anywhere else on the car and you either have to wash it off yourself, wait for rain or take it through a car wash. It’s a minor inconvenience at worst. But what if the bird poop literally buried your car like a snow storm. You can’t take that through a car wash because you can’t even get inside your car. Not that you can even approach your car when the poop is also on fire. This is what happens when you live next to a wizard who breeds Phoenixes. In stories, a Phoenix is supposed to bring good luck or help people, but these ones just fly around and annoy everyone like pigeons. They like to perch on top of everyone’s house and it's hard not to be worried that one day the roof would cave in because of it. I didn’t know Phoenixes even grew that large. When it comes to dealing with a problem like this there are a few options. All of which I’ve tried. The first is to talk to the neighbor. I knocked on his door and he answered. The wizard was what you would expect an old wizard to look like. Gray beard, robes, a pointed hat, he had everything. Of course I was angry, but I tried to be civil. I asked him if he could try and keep the birds away from my house or keep them under control and he made an excuse about how the Phoenixes are their own creatures and go wherever the wind takes them. I then asked if at the very least he could use some kind of magic spell to clean my car. He merely laughed and told me that magic doesn’t work that way. The next step was to take up my concerns with the local ruling bodies. Since this was a magic related issue I had to go talk to the council. Unlike normal people whose buildings look like modern structures, the magic council’s building looks like an old tower. Everything else is like normal government procedures. In order to make my complaint, I have to make an appointment. The soonest they could see me was in about two weeks, or as they said for dramatic effect, a fortnight. They told me they would contact me when they were ready to see me. What they didn’t tell me is that when the council was ready I would be teleported from wherever I was. When it happened, I was at work, and I was using the bathroom. It scared the literal crap out of me. Luckily, the teleportation spell worked as a tunnel so I had time to at least zip up my pants. When I finally saw the council, which was a group of old men in women in robes, they said that Phoenix breeding wasn’t illegal, so they couldn’t do anything about it. When they teleported me back to work, they brought me back to the exact place they had taken me, and somebody else was already in the stall. The final step was to take matters into my own hands. I was a hunter, and I had a collection of rifles. If none of the wizards would take care of the Phoenixes, then I would. At least if one landed on my house. One did, which was signaled by the loud thud which shook the house and knocked off some ornaments from my shelves. I took my best rifle and went outside. My goal was to scare off the beast. I aimed at it, but a couple feet away so the bullet would pass it’s head. As I fired, the bird turned it’s head and the bullet struck it right in the eye. I freaked out because I thought I had just killed the Phoenix and then the wizard would take his revenge on me. What I had forgotten was that when a Phoenix dies, it burns up and revives itself from the ashes. This is indeed what happened, however in the ensuing rebirth, the fire took my house with it. When it was over, I threw my gun down, sat on the sidewalk and cried. After everything, most people would pack up what they could and either stay with a friend or family member, or get a hotel room. But I couldn’t do either, because my car was still covered in flaming Phoenix poop. I hate magic.


I was walking out of the park this afternoon when I ran into some trouble. It is July 27th, 1974. My trouble began at approximately 3pm. It dark now, though I am not certain of the time, and the difficulty has only gotten worse. In fact, it has spiraled into something quite terrible. I was in the middle of a great jog; the weather overcast, and plenty of people in the park, so I felt safe. Sometimes Cherryville Park turns into a dark and seedy place. Sometimes the wind carries with it restless transients from all over the state, who seem to sniff each other out and join forces, magnetically, as if one transient sees another and thinks, ‘Oh. Another transient. We are so light and feathery, without mortgages to pay or pantries full of food, that perhaps if we join forces we will carry some weight. Perhaps if we glue our feathers together they will formulate some purpose on this earth that we lacked individually.’ And the transients form together and help each other get food and look out for the vulnerable in the park. The child. The lone woman running. We are grateful to have our transients. It is when the transients decide to get up and *leave* the park that the trouble starts. But when I began my run at precisely 2:33, there were plenty of the benevolent creatures, cooking their street animals and their roasted vegetables over their fire pits, tipping their sooty hats to me as I slugged by (I am not a very fast jogger). Despite my snails pace, I began to feel a runner’s high, and fell into sort of a trancelike state, staring intently at the trees, and even sensing that each individual leaf on them has a life of it’s own. Then I tripped. It was a shallow nodule in the root of a tree, or a stump. It could have been a rock. Whatever it was, my toes slammed hard against something, sending me head first into the grass, and had I not reflexively thrown my arms in front of me in that split second, my head might have suffered some injuries, and an ambulance would have been promptly called to whisk me away. If only that had been case! I sat up, perched in a state of shock, and then I tried to stand. My ankle was completely torn from the fall; I couldn’t move it. There I was sitting in the grass, wincing and cursing, when a transient approached me. This was a delightful-if-somewhat-odorous man wearing a long trench coat that must have been black in it’s better years. He had on fingerless, moth-eaten gloves and a top hat that was shorter than an actual top hat (I do not know what to call those things). He was thin, tall and cheerful. He seemed malnourished, but happy. His malnourishment suited him, if such a phenomena is even possible. He knelt to hand me a fresh daffodil to cheer my hardship, smiled, and reminded me that there were children in the park, so please do not curse. I sheepishly apologized and thanked him for the flower, though I would need more than that to be able to walk home! As if reading my mind, he held out an index finger, signifying to me to wait, and ran several yards away where his transient group was herded over a trash can, sorting through their knickknacks I suppose. He returned swiftly with a roll of white tape. Amazed, I saw it to be just what I needed to fix my ankle! I thanked my transient friend, and began to pull some tape off the roll. He gestured for me to stop this nonsense, waving his arms about and making a big show of things, insisting that I rest and let *him* do the work. I wasn’t sure if transients knew the ins and out of wound-mending, as I barely knew the basics myself. But as I watched him work, I realized that his sort probably knew how to fix injuries better than most, and out of necessity, as transients are rarely seen at doctors’ offices and only go to hospitals in cases of dire emergency. And before I knew it, I was on my feet again, having thanked my transient, and limping my way back to the park entrance, ready to take the four block journey home at a slow and steady pace; grateful for the help of a kind stranger. The last thing I remember is seeing the backside of the Cherryville Park welcome sign before my knees buckled, I went crashing back to the ground and I blacked out entirely. When I came to, it was pitch dark out and the park was entirely empty. There are only a few flickering street lights to show me my surroundings, and from their light I discovered in horror that I was, and still am, on the ground again and sitting upright, yet this time strapped to a large tree with hundreds of strands of that damned tape holding me in place! There must have been multiple rolls of it used! It is a very thorough job. My torso is completely covered in it, from shoulder to waistband, and my hands are at my sides so I am utterly helpless to move! For several minutes I called out, only to hear the echo of my own voice. There is not a person in sight, not even the transients who make the park their home! I soon realized that, while this is strange, and my situation helpless, what *really* terrifies me is the lack of noise. The locusts and fireflies have been beaming and buzzing all summer long, especially in the nighttime, yet I do not see or hear one. Not even a moth hovering by the street lamp. Not one sound of a bird calling or a car engine in the distance. Not even the wind. I know that my ears are not damaged because I can hear the sound of my own voice. So where did the other noises go? Where did the other *life* go? The trees and bushes are entirely still. Not one blade of grass sways in the air. The more I stare, the more it seems that I am not in the park at all, but I get the feeling that *someone* or *something* wants me to believe I am. There is nothing to do but wait. And now, to my terror, there is a wolf approaching me. I heard it a moment ago, just as I was contemplating the stillness of the leaves. Just as I had unfolded, in my mind, the notion of being watched. There came the noise of footsteps pressing upon the grass, creeping, piercing the stillness. And when the thing emerged from a large bush several yards to my left, I shuddered with my entire being. I swear it is the height of a small car. Scrawny, with a filthy grey coat, matted and mangey, but piercing blue eyes. Starving, angry, evil, about to consume me.


The third time my boyfriend dumped me his parting blow was, "I'm sorry, babe, you're just... boring." "Boring how?" I asked him. "Like, in terms of compatibility or how interesting I am." He titled his head to one side, fingers on his chin like he was in deep thought. My ego wilted in preparation for his answer, like an ant cowering in the presence of an overhead foot. "Both," he said because crushing my ego was easy as pie for him. "It's both." "How?" I challenged him. "I'm an interesting person. I do things. I like art. I…" He gave me a pitying smile like he couldn't believe he'd stooped so low. "Suzie, pretending to like art isn't the same and let's be honest. All you do is... wear pyjamas and watch television." I opened his mouth to deny it and then I stopped. The truth was, he was right. I did wear pyjamas and watch television. A lot . And he was one of those guys who was always on the move, always jumping into one thing after the next. It was exhausting and I was glad he was dumping me. Maybe now I'd be able to relax a little. "Thank you," I told him. "Guess I'll see you never?" He shot up when I stood and left the coffee shop, following me at lightning speed. "Wait. We can still be friends, Suze?" I pressed the button at the pedestrian crossing and looked at him over my shoulder. "Now that would be boring." + It hit me when I was in my orange, velvety pyjamas and on my fifth episode of Friends that actually, I was bored out of my mind. Maybe it was time to get a hobby. After a quick Google search for 'easy hobbies to learn' I settled on...practising yoga. I wasn't the most athletic girl but I was no slouch either. How hard could it be? + Yoga was a disaster and I gave up on it after I limped into work one day and had to endure a round of whistles and being asked about the mystery man revving my engines. One quick to HR later, I was scouring the internet for another thing to do that would instantly up my interesting quota. Something that wouldn't leave me injured or harassed by the class clown. Write a poem. ... well, I could barely come up with a birthday greeting for my friends and family so that was out of the question. Watercolour painting. Everything I'd ever drawn or painted in life looked like various hues of vomit. Hard pass. Knitting or crochet. This one I embraced wholeheartedly. I spent three hours ordering supplies, watching countless tutorials and cleared out an entire Saturday to make myself a scarf. The sound of the needles clacking together made me feel accomplished and I grinned to myself. ... and then my phone buzzed and I spent the rest of the evening arguing about the motivations of fictional characters. By the time I threw my phone away in disgust, the yarn and needles had slipped to the floor. They stayed there for a while. + Determined and downtrodden, I persisted and scoured the web again . Take an online course . Too much work. Plus I'd already enrolled in seven courses none of which I'd paid attention to for more than a week. Web design . It was only my bank balance that stopped me from launching my laptop across the room after too many hours spent begging the free software to work by itself. Learn an instrument The guitar I bought might not have amounted to anything, but it did up my cool cred on Instagram. I added this one to my plus column because my social media status was intrinsically tied to my interesting level. Still, it wasn't enough. The next time I went on a date, I wanted to be able to list all of the things I did. Not laugh and twirl my hair and hope the guy breezed past my non-answer. Scrapbooking. I thought about this one long and hard. Enough to know that I didn't have the patience for it. Singing. My neighbours kindly told me to shut the fudge nuts up. + Eventually, I settled on a cooking class. They always seemed fun and quaint on television. Everyone banded together to create perfectly presented meals and laughed, the perfect way everyone did on television. Bright eyes, wide smiles and happy hearts. Unfortunately, television and real life? They were not the same. There was no quippy instructor who made everyone smile with joy. Instead, we had to deal with Roy, who looked like he'd rather drive over his own foot than teach us mere mortals how to make chicken parmesan. He raced through the instructions quickly and spent most of the session on his phone and nipping outside for cigarette breaks. The people around me seemed to get on with it, but I was not like them. Stoves and ovens were my Kryptonite. They did not like me. I did not like them. The fear was mutual. And unfortunately, after forty-five minutes, the black smoke billowing out of the oven next to me was a welcome sight. This was my element. Wondering if my eyebrows would survive, dumping hot pans in the sink and pretending I was in a sauna when the cold water splashed down and the steam rose up. Unfortunately, Roy didn't take it too well. + I was banned from the cooking class shortly after I tossed out the charred chicken and I made my way to the parking lot. Footsteps came after me and I turned to see an unfamiliar man. He was nice looking, I suppose, but at this point, I was mad at myself. Was there anything I was good at? "Hey, Suzie is it?" "Who wants to know?" I said, channelling my best made-for-TV mobster voice. The guy laughed and said, "The guy in charge of the cooking program you were thrown out of. I teach the advanced class, while Roy does the beginner's class." "Oh." I poked some gravel on the floor, not wanting to see the amusement in his eyes. "Do you need my credit card information for the damage?" "No. I'd like for you to come back." I snapped my head up, eyes wide because what? He wanted me to come back? Did he not realise I was one sausage roll away from burning the entire place down? "I don't think that's a good idea." "C'mon. I'll keep a close eye on you, the way Roy was supposed to." "Listen…" I trailed off and waited for him to offer his name, a little something I'd picked up at work. The best way to let someone down was to give it a personal touch. "Derek," he offered. "My name is Derek." "Well, Derek, the truth is that I only did this because my boyfriend - ex-boyfriend now actually - told me I was boring." "...he seems like such a catch." "He wasn't that bad," I said automatically, although I didn't know what was so good about him either. "He was right. I am a boring person. And I've failed at every single thing I've done to make myself interesting." "You know, if you want to better yourself, you should do it because you want to, and not because some guy put you down." "I have been!" I insisted. Derek raised an eyebrow, and I contemplated his words briefly. Fine. Maybe I hadn't . The way I'd given up easily, jumping from task to task because I didn't pick them up right away. My goal had been to change something about myself so I could brag about it on Facebook and passive-aggressively tag my ex-boyfriend. To prove him wrong when in reality, I didn't owe him anyway. "I take it the penny has dropped." "Kinda," I replied. "I guess I can give cooking a try again. It would be nice to eat something other than ramen." With that said, Derek walked me back into the centre and I managed to make it through the rest of the class unscathed. ….well, I ended up with a jug of cheese sauce all over my cashmere sweater, but hey - baby steps. Fin.