Holly paces before the great hall’s doors, wringing her silver-gloved hands. She knows she should be admiring the festive decorations her team managed to scrounge up in the days since she came up with this plan. But Holly can’t stop thinking of the last Christmas she and her siblings spent together. It was the first family Christmas since her mother’s passing. The holiday season following the death of her father had been more of a celebration; there were inheritance gifts, after all. But without their dear mother to keep the peace, the last gathering ended in disaster and started a war. The War that has raged on for thirteen long years. The War that has claimed many of the lives of Holly’s beloved subjects. One of Holly’s workers, Jane, comes from the kitchen with the final dish — Shep’s favorite cheesy potatoes — as the bell tower rings the hour. Holly takes a shaky breath and inspects the great hall one last time. Mismatched ivory candles hang like icicles from the ceiling, dripping globs of wax onto polished bronze candlesticks. The old tinsel draped over the walls has seen better days, but it still refracts the candlelight and sets the cavernous room sparkling. Though it’s undressed, the pine tree in the far corner is the largest Holly’s workers could find on her lands. A cornucopia of fake but beautifully wrapped presents sits beneath it. The centerpiece is the long table where Holly’s family used to enjoy all their Christmas feasts. It is laden with her siblings’ favorite holiday foods, sans any troublemaking chocolate pies, of course. “Do you think it’s enough?” Jane asks. “Not for their lavish tastes, but it will do them good to see the toll this foolish war has taken.” When Jane’s face falls, Holly adds, “But I think it’s lovely. My mother would’ve thought so, too.” The bell tower rings again, announcing her first guest. Holly shoos Jane to retrieve the champagne and pastes on a smile as the great hall doors open. Her eldest brother Ebenezer marches in wearing a gold sword and matching cape, which he whips behind him with a flourish. His boots clack against the marble floor, and the badge pinned to his breast designating him as the current “winner” of the War glints in the candlelight. “How fitting to see you standing in dear mother’s place!” He says by way of greeting. “Merry Christmas, Ebenezer. It’s good to see you.” Ebenezer places two forceful kisses on Holly’s cheeks. “How are you, dear sister? Did you take any casualties last week when my army spanked yours? Ha!” Holly doesn’t let her smile falter, but she does grab a glass from the tray Jane brings around. “As mentioned in my invitation, your presence means you agree not to talk of the War until cocktail hour is over.” “I take it there were many casualties, considering the deflection?” Ebenezer booms with laughter when Holly’s smile slips. He pats her on the back, but Holly thinks his pats have always felt more like blows. “Only joking, sister! Now, where is my chocolate pie?” Holly chokes on her champagne. “Joking again! You must learn to lighten up, sister! So many rules.” He turns to snap at one of her workers. “Servant! Bring me something stiffer than this sparkling stuff, won’t you?” Then he heads toward the tree, wondering aloud if the gifts are real. Holly lets out a breath and sucks in another. The bells ring again. She puts her smile back in place. Cocoa is speaking to someone in her two-way mirror as she strolls through the great hall’s doors. She clearly didn’t read the memo about wearing metal colors. Her fur jacket looks like it’s made of unicorn hair, a rainbow of hues covering her from head to heeled toes, and colorful gems and jewels encrust her towering shoes. “I don’t care how much Shep’s soldiers taunt them,” she says into her mirror. “Holly has called for a holiday truce, and I refuse to be the only one who does not participate.” A muffled voice replies. Cocoa sighs. “I don’t know. Tell them to fight each other for all I care. I’ve got to go.” Holly’s youngest sibling removes the bright pink sunglasses concealing her bloodshot eyes. “Merry Christmas, little sister.” Holly holds out her arms. Cocoa brushes past her. “Must I remind you again not to call me little in public?” “We’re in our family home,” Holly says. “Hardly public.”

Cocoa swipes a glass of champagne and puts it back in one go. She scowls. “Could you not spring for the good stuff? I am very much of the opinion that champagne should never be aged. And this…” She sniffs the empty glass and scowls again. “This certainly is overripe.” “You may recall that you hold possession of the vineyard lands these days. If you want better wine when you visit, perhaps you should grant me some of my old territories back.” “It seems you haven’t gotten sweeter with age either.” She squints at me. “Are those wrinkles, sis?” Holly’s hand flies to the frown lines that have formed around her mouth since the start of the War. She seems to be the only of her siblings on whom the War has taken a toll. She hopes Cocoa won’t see the gray hairs, too. “And you used mom’s old decorations?” Cocoa bats away a piece of tinsel, sending up a plume of dust in its wake. She coughs. “This is simply tragic!” Ebenezer returns from his fake-gift-inspecting duties. “Will there not be real gifts?” He asks. “Mother always had gifts.” Holly gestures toward Cocoa. “Say hello to our sister, E.” “Yes, yes, hello.” Ebenezer gives Cocoa air kisses but refuses to look her in the eyes, turning back to Holly. “Now, about those gifts.” Cocktail hour ends, and, in his usual fashion, Shep has yet to arrive. Ebenezer and Cocoa have taken to opposite ends of the great hall. Cocoa talks to her two-way mirror by the broad windows revealing the snowy landscape beyond while Ebenezer instructs Holly’s workers on how to act more like the servants they aren’t. Holly stands from where she’s been sulking and rings her mother’s old bell. Recognizing the sound, Ebenezer and Cocoa start for the table.

Ebenezer arrives first, of course. “At last! I’m so starved I was about to eat your servants!” He laughs at his joke before taking up a seat at the table’s head. Holly clears her throat. “You are sitting in my chair, Ebenezer.” “But the head of the table is where I belong,” he says. “Father always said so.” “This is my home now,” Holly reminds him. “Then sit over there.” He gestures to the other end of the table. “Coaks, back me up here. It’s the least you can do.” “Yeah.” Cocoa kicks up her feet on the table. I cringe when a jewel comes loose from her shoe and plops into the cranberry jelly. “Whatever.” Holly sighs. Not wanting to cause a stir (not yet, anyway), she marches to the other end of the table. As soon she sits down, the bell tower rings again. The swirling black hole of chaos that is Holly’s younger brother erupts through the doorway. He, too, ignored the theme and wears his usual black—black suit, black cape, and black leather boots. His cane ticks against the stone floor as he creeps over to us, a flurry of expressions crossing his face. Holly rises to greet him. She is the only one who does. “Merry Christmas, Shep,” Holly says. “I’m glad you decided to come.” He extends the end of his cane to Holly. When she stares at it, he lifts one quizzical brow. Holly thinks he must want her to kiss his cane. She smacks it aside instead. Shep raises both brows. “Interesting.” Holly feels ashamed of letting the annoyance get to her. She should know better than to fall for Shep’s tricks. Shep walks around the perimeter of the table. He pats Cocoa and Ebenezer on their heads when he passes. “Aren’t we too old for duck-duck-goose?” Cocoa asks. Ebenezer waits until the table’s length is between Shep and himself before smacking his knee and jumping to his feet. “You owe me an apology, brother!” “What have I ever done to you?” Shep asks. “You took the first shot!” Ebenezer finally deigns to look at Cocoa. “I wanted to get her back by firing the first shot of the War! But you took it from me!” Shep grins. “I thought that might bother you.” “What kind of brothers would treat their baby sister so?” Cocoa pouts. “You are supposed to be my protectors.” “You lost the right to my protection — and my love — after what you did to me!” Ebenezer says. “So dramatic.” Cocoa rolls her eyes. “You could have never survived in my shoes when I got the smallest of father’s territories, the least of father’s attentions, the—” Holly rings her bell again. “Siblings, please. You all agreed to come here in peace.” “Yes, listen to Holly Jolly.” Shep puts his arm around Holly’s shoulders. “Mother did put her in charge of family gatherings.” “And where was Holly’s help when Cocoa stole what was rightfully mine?” Ebenezer glares at Holly. “You used to say the eldest rule the world! I thought that meant you were on my side!” Holly corrects him. “I used to say the eldest rules the world.” Cocoa talks over Holly. “And she always told me sisters should stick together.” “You never much cared to stick together before,” Holly tells Cocoa. But Ebenezer and Cocoa ignore her, devolving into a shouting match over who deserves Holly’s support the most. Holly looks at Shep. He watches Cocoa and Ebenezer with a smug smile. “You’ve been here for five minutes, and look what you’ve done,” Holly says to Shep. “Could you not wait until dessert?” Shep cocks his head. “I see being the loser in this War has changed you, Holly Jolly.” When Ebenezer storms away from the table with a shout for a “servant,” Cocoa butts into the conversation. “Hardly. She is still as spineless as ever.” “Shall we bet on that?” Shep leans across the table, his hand extended toward Cocoa. “I’ll give up my territories with your favorite shops if you win.” “There will be no betting.” Holly softens her words with a smile. “Please.” Cocoa smirks. “See? The same. Like I said.” “Tell the truth!” Ebenezer returns with a glass of whisky and an accusing finger pointed at Cocoa. “I know it was you, you little thief!” “I told you thirteen years ago,” Cocoa says. “It wasn’t me.” “But Shep said it was!” “And to think I regretted blowing your castle to bits for even a moment!” Cocoa says to Shep.

“Stop!” Holly rings her bell until the others quit shouting. She turns to Shep. “Did Cocoa eat the first slice of chocolate pie at Christmas thirteen years ago? Tell the truth.” Shep looks each sibling in the eye, his face solemn. Then, he begins to grin. “No, she did not.” Ebenezer goes quiet for once in his life. Cocoa crosses her arms and puts on her sunglasses. “Told you so.” “Then who did eat the slice of pie that started the War?” I ask. Shep’s grin widens. “Why, me, of course.” It takes Holly thirty minutes to break up the ensuing fight.

Her chest heaves as she directs her siblings to return to their seats. “Now that Shep has revealed the truth, I hope we can all agree this foolish War should end.” “And give up my lead?” Ebenezer runs a loving finger over his badge. “I think not.” “Agreed,” says Cocoa, pulling out her two-way mirror and glossing her lips. “You only want to quit because you’re losing. But I’ve found I’m quite good at this waging war stuff.” Holly turns to look at her younger brother. She doesn’t know when he managed to fill his plate, but he holds it against his chest, devouring his favorite cheesy potatoes as he watches the drama like a spectator at a game. Holly is glad at least one of her siblings can enjoy the feast her team worked so hard to prepare. “Well?” Holly says to her younger brother. “I would very much like to see what happens if I say, no, I do not agree,” Shep says. “So, no, I do not agree.” Holly deflates. She was hoping for a tie, at least. She has never wished any ill will upon her siblings. But in the thirteen years since they last gathered, Holly has realized her family’s drama is never just family drama. The consequences of their conflicts fall on the backs of their hardworking subjects. It is an injustice her dear mother always turned a blind eye to when their father was alive, but one Holly intends to correct. “Very well,” she says. “If we all must go to war again tomorrow, the least we can do for our dear mother’s memory is to share a dessert tonight.” Holly rings her bell once more, and Jane enters. She carries a chocolate pie. Holly carves the pie into four pieces and dishes them up on the very plates used for that fateful pie thirteen years ago. She places the first piece before Ebenezer like a white flag. “For you, brother,” she says. “I’m sorry I didn’t support your claim to the first slice of pie thirteen years ago.” Ebenezer looks smug as he tucks a napkin into his shirt. “At least one of you has some sense.” Holly retrieves the second slice of pie and brings it to Cocoa. Cocoa’s brows ripple in surprise. “For you, sister,” Holly says. “I’m sorry you always got the last slice of pie growing up.” Cocoa pushes up her sunglasses and gives me a rare smile. “Finally, someone understands my sorry lot in life.” Ebenezer is devouring his pie already, refusing to wait for the others to be served. Cocoa follows his lead. “Doesn’t taste like mom’s,” she says through a full mouth. Holly takes a deep breath and retrieves the third plate of pie. She places it before Shep. “And for you, Shepherd,” she says. “I have always felt we could be friends if you worked as hard to keep the family together as you do to set us at each other’s throats.” “Friends?” Cocoa frowns, licking the last bit of chocolate from her fork. “You didn’t say that to me.” A thud sounds from the head of the table. Cocoa screams, jumping from her chair at the sight of Ebenezer facefirst in the cranberry jelly. Her scream cuts off, and she wobbles on her bejeweled heels before crashing to the floor. Shep starts laughing. Holly sees that he has not taken a single bite of his pie. The doors to the great hall open one last time, admitting a line of Holly’s soldiers. Shep laughs harder. “When did you know?” Holly asks. “The moment you slapped away my cane,” says Shep, “I knew you’d brought us here to end the War, whether we agreed or not.” “Then why did you not agree?” Holly asks. “I admire your plotting, but the war games have grown mundane,” says Shep. “This is just the shakeup I’ve been hoping for, Holly Jolly, though I didn’t expect it from you.” He claps his hands like a child at Christmas. “I have never been so excited for what’s to c—.” Shep’s words cut off as he collapses onto the table. Holly walks over and pats his head. “Silly goose. You should have known there was poison in the food, too.” The soldiers close in and bunch up the tablecloth to dispose of the hazardous feast. Three more soldiers carry away the limp forms of her wicked siblings. Holly picks up her chocolate pie, taking a bite of the one slice her team didn’t poison. She smiles, the first real one in thirteen years, and finishes her piece in peace.


I pulled the coat closer around me as the chill of the February day seeped through my coat. The road was packed with traffic, and I kept walking along the sidewalk. I slowed to a stop as I came near the crosswalk and pushed the button and waited, watching the multiple of cars with their snug drivers and passengers inside. My stomach grumbled and I grimaced. I glanced up at the road sign, reading the words “Blue Lakes Blvd.” My stomach grumbled even louder and I patted it. “Hold your horses,” I grumbled back, “Lunch is right there.” Indeed, it was. I could see the DQ logo standing out above the small square building, a line of cars in the drive through. I’d rather walk the two miles to this DQ, as the one on Addison was not known for being speedy. More then once I had been forced to wait for a long time. “I could really use someone to talk to,” I grumble. “Maybe if my lazy, no account husband would work from home and not at the hotel, I could talk to someone.” “*Hello from the outside!*” The voice caused me to start, and I looked around. No one was nearby, a kid was sitting on the hood of his car in the parking lot roughly four parking spots from where I stood. I shook my head. “Damn paranoia,” I grumble. “This is what happens when my hubby won’t even let me get a dog! The jerk!” Now, you might think that I dislike the jerk. Nope, I love the jerk, but I wanted a dog. It was hard staying at home all day. I pulled the phone from my pocket to see if anyone had texted. Not my mom, not my husband, not the mother-in-law. Not even my best friend had texted me. So, back in the pocket it went, the phone feeling weird rubbing against my cold legs through the jeans. The crosswalk light lit up after what seemed like a couple minutes, and I started walking across the road. Luckily, we didn’t get too much in the way of ice, and the road was fairly clean of slush. As I was walking across, I barely got pass the first set of cars when I heard the voice again. “*Take me out tonight!”* It was songful, keeping in time with the lyrics. I frown, looking behind me. Nobody was following me, and I glance towards the cars. The driver nearest me was in what appeared to be a very angry yelling match with his dashboard. I frown and shake my head. “Well, at least it’s date night and indeed, I can’t wait to be taken out tonight.” *“In the dark of the night, evil will find her!”* “All right!” I snap, rushing across the road to the sidewalk on the other side of the road. “Whose talking? Don’t you dare think to tell me I’m not hearing you!” *“I’ve got a hand in your pocket and a key on your chain!”* I glanced down at my pocket and indeed put my hand in there, following the suggestion and pulled it out. It was an iPhone and as I looked at it, the screen was filled with the album cover of *One Foot* by Walk the Moon. It was currently paused. I look at it, and frowning, pushed the home screen to close it. That was a hubby song, he liked it and I don’t know why it would be on my phone. Instead, it did not move, but stayed on there. “This is strange,” I mutter, “Why aren’t you working? You better not freeze up, I know you’re a piece of junk but that’s no reason to act this way.” The screen changed to an entirely new song and the phone suddenly sang out, “*I’m sorry that I let you down, l-l-let you down!*” My mouth dropped open. Was my phone sentient? Was the robot revolution at hand? My husband would love writing such a story. Phones secretly conspiring to take over the world. He’s a real nerd. A grin to myself and I decide to test it, because of how silly it was that such a thing could actually be sentient. “Alright, let’s pretend that you are sentient,” I say aloud, “What day is it today?” *“It’s just another manic Monday!”* it replied cheerfully. This puzzled me. It was being a little too sentient for my taste. Like reddit bots. You ever see those things? Sometimes they are crazy scary with how easily they get conjured up and have full length conversations. Deciding to play along, I decided to ask one more question. This time I ask the phone, “What was my dad’s favorite song to sing to me?” The lock screen changed to an entirely new album cover. The Temptation’s “My Girl” album cover popped up and sang a single lyric from it. This was enough to convince me that my phone was indeed sentient, like Chucky from *Child’s Play*. I just hoped that it wasn’t going to try killing me. I was a little confused as to why it could only speak in music though if it had indeed become self-aware. It reminded me of that one movie, where a robot can only talk through the radio. I forget the name, the hubby could probably answer that. I didn’t have long to ponder though this turn of events. The phone decided to speak up and ask its own question. *“Why haven’t I heard from you?”* the Southern-accented voice of Reba strong. I blink a few times. “What?” I ask, “I don’t understand.” “*It’s been a long, long time*.” “Look,” I sigh, “I’ve been really busy, ya know? Besides, you’re a phone. I use you talk to others not at you.” “*Do you really want to hurt me?”* the phone replied. I mean, I wanted to chuck it a few times for being old and I’m pretty sure it was junk and virus filled. However, I wasn’t going to say that. My mom had always taught me to not say anything that wasn’t nice. So, I wasn’t going to say that. “Look, I don’t really want to,” I tell my phone, staring at it. “I just.....look, why now do you want to talk to me? Why reveal yourself after all this time?” The phone suddenly went silent. It didn’t respond and I was reminded of a youtube video buffering. It had that feeling to it. No, it had a thoughtful feeling to it. Like it was trying to figure out how to put into words what it wanted to say. Not sure how to word things in such a way not to make the recipient angry. The pause came to an end and the phone’s question came. “*Where is my mind?”* That was an odd question and stumped me. How exactly do I answer that question? I wasn’t a philosopher, and I wasn’t a technician. I didn’t know how to respond to such a question. That was some deep, soul-searching question that was beyond my ability to answer. “I don’t know,” I respond. The phone responded with “Hurt” by Johnny Cash. The way it played it, it was very slow and melancholy. I felt my heart strings being tugged and I didn’t like it. I had enough troubles with heartburn to deal with that. So, I urge it to ask me another question. “*Do you believe in magic*?” That was an odd question. I blink at the phone, wondering why it was asking me such weird questions. Where was its mind? Did I believe in magic? What, did I miss the owl with the invitation to Hogwarts or something? Was I accidentally in Salem and the Sanderson Sisters going to eat me alive? Don’t know why they would, I was a full-grown woman, dammit! “Look,” I said, my stomach growling loudly, protesting my not having fed it. “I guess I do, but I don’t know what that has to do with anything. Look, I’m hungry and....” “*What is love?”* I glance at my phone and I’m getting a little frustrated at these nonsensical questions. I was hungry, I hadn’t realized I had stopped moving once I got to the other side of the road, DQ was close by and I was being asked questions that weren’t part of my major in college. If it wanted some of these answers, it should watch a TED talk. “Well,” I say trying to be polite, “That’s a very interesting question. Love is about finding your soul mate that makes you feel appreciated, and that you are enough. You don’t need to hide your vulnerabilities to them. It makes you feel good, sad, happy, frustrated and wonderful at the same time. What’s with that question anyways?” “*I love you, you love me,”* the phone sang to me in the Barney theme-song, then it shocked me by changing the song. “*I know he’s just not right for you.....I know I can treat you better, Better than he can!”* The song lyrics caught me by surprise and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. This was some silly nonsense that honestly, I was too hungry to deal with. The phone was proclaiming it’s undying love to me? Didn’t it see the ring on my finger? Hadn’t it been in the same room when we did more than declare our undying love for each other? “You are so silly phone,” I giggle like a little girl. “What does that even mean? I have a husband.


Night was beginning again and sure enough, an orangish, redlining began to strum the edges of a dusty horizon. Far off somewhere amid the endless miles of dunes walked a half-dead corpse, treading upon what so long ago thrived. But now in every direction, sand stretched across this barren wasteland, engulfing the so-called world few inhabited. What lived, killed, and what was killed, rotted alongside the souls of the living. Each grain of sand this corpse-like-traveler kicked up was one of sin and pain, a breeding ground for death and despair. And with each step one took echos from beneath strained in your ears, begging and grasping for anything. Hell couldn’t have been any closer.

Klunk, Klunk, klunk, klunk. “Daum this bad.” Cliunch, cliunch. “Daum this is really bad. Did that old, mute codger tell me to take a left at the crossroad or was it a right…Daum.”

The traveler had crossed many deserts all part of the whole, not one was any different than another. The traveler sought a town that rested beyond the red of a sand dune somewhere seemingly past infinity. This town was supposedly large in size and in number. And the city had golden gates that stretched miles across hairs of green grass. The glimmer and magnitude of the gates were marveled by all who stood facing it from any direction. And the inhabitants that resided peacefully within the city’s marvelous gates, were mostly in the older stages of life. Yet despite their old, grouchy, highly envied lives, the residents kindly welcomed all who sought their heavenly oasis or so he was told once long ago by his mother.

Eventually making up his mind, the weary traveler decided to stay left at the fork and slowly, yet surely, he made his way, sticking to the dirty beaten path he has tread upon for so long.

The traveler had walked many miles, day after day, month after month, and year after year, and not once had he come across a town that met such a description. Yet the traveler stayed upon this path, completely relying on hope and the whisper of a fairy tale ingrained within his heart.

On the verge of yielding his search, the traveling man crawled to peer over one last reddish sand dune, and to the world’s wonder there stretching off into the desert a magnificent gate, a gate that seemed impossible, until now, to find. The man broke down upon his knees and wept until the sun had fully dissipated into the horizon.

His search had come to an end. After traveling seven years upon this wasted world his seemingly endless search had reaped benefits. The traveler made his way closer and closer to the city’s gates, hardly believing what his eyes made out.

“Surely.” he said to himself, “Surely this is it, this must be it, Surely.”

The traveler, now sprinting toward the gates, yelped out into the night, begging the sun to rise once again so as to cast light upon the golden egg of the blood-stained world. In fact, he believed if the sun did at once rise again he would welcome death in any torturous way. Eventually, the man couldn’t stand to wait in the dark any longer, he must reach the town, he must reach the heaven on hell.

Two figures in soldier’s armor approached the traveler steadily with spears and spoke out, “What is it that you seek young vagabond?” The traveler still stained by the tears from before responded with the words spoken by a transformed man: “I seek a life within your city of gold and green. A permanent stay if at all possible. For I am exhausted and tired of traveling upon this desolate, life straining world. Since the very day I found out that there was a city such as this hidden amongst the dirt, I have yearned to learn more about it. So I could be in this very spot, talking to you. ” The two soldiers glanced at one another, then in unison, both took off their helmets and placed them upon the grains of hell beneath their feet. “Welcome, we will humbly accept your request.”

The two soldiers, leaving their helmets stranded in the abyss, turned towards the gates, and instantly cracks of something bright unlike light began to seep through the crevices of the opening masterpiece. The brightness of the inside overwhelmed the traveler so much so that the two gatesmen had to pick him up and carry him inside. Within the walls, there were wondrous pieces of art and sculptures. And houses of gold and silver-lined the city streets, each leading in different directions and met up in many different ways.

Instantly the two solders dissipated back into the night, possibly to retrieve their helmets from before, but neither one returned.

The traveler gradually regained his bearings and as soon as he did he noticed the difference of color upon the ground. Thereupon the ground was grass, the greenest of its kind. The traveler flopped upon the strands in ecstasy, crying out-loud in triumph. Upon the grass not far from the traveler, a group of children danced and sang merely. The words the children used in their melodies were recognizable to the traveler but put together with the melody, each word sounded similar to an infant's speech. And Old folks trod grudgingly past each other block after block going somewhere, but where too would never be determined. The brightness that once overwhelmed the traveler from before now yielded to darkness which swiftly swept over the buildings and citizens in only a moment's notice, yet the children and old folk’s actions were completely unfazed by any change of any sort. The traveler, shocked by all that had taken place, stooped around upon the firm soil bewildered and frightened. The world he dreamed of for so long ago seemed so different than what appeared before him now. The gates he envied to see for so long, that were only a few footsteps behind him, had vanished from sight along with the brightness he saw once he first entered the gates.

From up ahead an old man approached the traveler, he wore long silk stockings and a baggy suit with columns of buttons running down the sides of his sleeves. And his body stretched outward farther than it did upward. “Hello, there good sir! You must be the stranger the guards picked up outside the gates. Is that right?” Mumblelishly, the traveler managed to make out somewhat of a yes to the old man. “Alright, ok ok, and they did mention to me that you’d wish to live here freely, is this also valid?” “Yes”, said the traveler once again, this time with a slightly more lively tone to it. “Righteo, then lastly…, I assume then that you do have something to give to the rest of the residents in compensation for allowing you to live alongside us?” “Huh”, said the traveler still utterly confused by the changes in his surroundings and now, even more so, bewildered by the previous statement. “I asked you, dear sir, do you have anything to give to us in compensation, for allowing you to live here.” “No sir, I do not.” responded the traveler monotonously, looking now at the rounded man. “So, you have nothing, is that truly true?” “Yes sir, that is correct. I have nothing of worth to give anyone in this town, nothing at all. I was told by many that this town was free of charge to dwell in, but it appears now that I am here, I would be mistaken." An impish grin consisting of both fire and malice rose upon the rounded man's face. "Indeed, you would be mistaken, no place as such lies on this earth. This world is consumed by evil, and evil is all it will ever be." The ground beneath the two began to tremble, and spurts of sand gushed up from beneath, smothering the grass and the soil. Yet the children didn't relent from singing, neither did they hesitate from laughing. Not even the old folks faltered when they walked through the sand pits, which we're building up all across the ground. Fear along with sand gripped the wanderer's body, and there was nothing he could do about it, for the roundish man he had once been conversing with dissolved into the sand which was gushing out from almost every place, there was absolutely nothing that he could change. Nothing at all... And so with that thought in mind, the young man leaned back and embraced the sand upon which he will forever lay.


It was some time in December or January, I cannot recollect exactly as those days blend together for the most part. I was getting around the city enjoying the days and atmostphere. They say there's no bad weather only bad clothing. It's true, with good layering you can withstand winds and chill. And that allowed me to walk all over the city like some lost person but no less curious than a tourist. I was born here but I never really spent time hanging out in Manhattan like the norm used to be in the late sixties and seventies. Manhattan was small enough back then.. I made my way to the downtown area to admire the Statue of Liberty from the very tip of the island since it's expensive to get to Liberty island, or so I hear. I never much cared to ask since I'm alone a lot. Kids all getting out of school making me anxious so I take a hike North to take a chill pill at Bryant Park. It's so cold and it's all I can think about. Made it to Twenty-something Street and Second avenue. I walk closer to a roudiness that I hear in the distance. As if I had just snapped back to my senses and guttural talking and swearing is all I hear. Knocked out of this trance in which I was walking eternally just staring down at my boots. I raise my head to three strong men. They appear to be construction workers because they wear backpacks with hardhats and wear Carhartt coats. The brand may appear irrelavent but it appears it's a trusted brand among construction workers. One leans over and blows a fart noise with his tongue and the other two guys begin swearing at me. Naturally I keep walking as confrontation is too dramatic. It was too late when I hear foot steps rushing behind me. One of them ran up and pushed me to the ground from behind. My mobility is limited as i have too many layers and can't do much with my arms. He starts stomping on me yelling "s*** my ***k"! I kick back while laying on my back for as long as I could. I know I got him in the face. I felt something land on my heel. I manage to grab a hold of his foot and the other two men caught up and began beating my head. I tried keeping my face low so that I can still try to see and be aware of my surroundings but every thing moved so fast. In the blur of it all I see his ankle exposed and I bite it. He forces me off with a kick that sent me flying away. Strong men. In that moment I try standing but they push me back down. I hear a cop in the distance. "Hey! Knock it off! What's the matter with you guys". They ease off. Without fear. They tell the cop how much of a punk I was, while walking away. Nobody was detained. I was not questioned. My guess, they went back to the bar. I continued on my way. Everyone staring. Some smile. Some don't. Maybe they might not have killed me. But if their police friends never showed up, I may have had some worse scars to prove it.


Adult Content The clock is ticking, just a few minutes til 5. Andrea taps her foot impatiently as she waits for it to be time for her to leave this hellhole she calls work. The longest part of her day is always these last ten minutes of her shift at the diner, and she can hear her bed calling her name from all the way across town. She longs for the day where she doesn’t have to worry about getting table 22 their fourth round of refills, or forgetting that one rude lady with the orange hair’s ranch. As she’s counting her tips, Andrea looks down at her phone to check the time when she sees a message on her phone. “Still on for 6 o’clock? Can’t wait to see you in that pretty little red dress, dear. ;)” She rushes, finishing up counting the rest of her tips that provide nothing but humility in this very moment. “Fuck, I forgot about this guy,” she whispers to herself as she places her cash in her bag. Her french tip acrylic nails make a loud tapping sound as she frantically clocks out to leave. She hurries to her car and makes her way home. When she gets home, she immediately peels her clothes off and starts looking for her crimson, tight nightgown. She puts on some mascara and some brown eyeshadow to give herself a seductive look, finishing off the look with some lip gloss. She takes another look at the time. 6pm on the dot. “Any minute now,” she whispers to herself. All of a sudden, Andrea gets a Facetime call from her macbook. Andrea’s heart starts pumping so much blood you would’ve thought she just competed in the Olympics. “Fuck.” Andrea pauses and takes a deep breath before getting into character. She clicks the green button to pick up. To her surprise, the man on the other side of the screen is strikingly attractive. A man with deep green eyes and tan skin starts to speak. “Hello princess. Oh my God you’re even more gorgeous than I thought.” Andrea blushes, but does her best to remain focused on the task at hand. “Thank you, love.” She leans in closer to the camera, making sure to show just enough cleavage to keep the man enticed. “Wow, I can’t wait to see what’s underneath that little red dress you got on. Why don’t you take it off for me?” Andrea lets out a slight chuckle. “Not so fast, babe. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.” Men are the lamest and easiest creatures on the planet to her. So eager to do anything just to calm their sexual urges. Take this man, for example. He stumbled across her ad and immediately purchased a session within only twenty seconds of viewing her profile. No wife, no kids, young, rich. He had everything a man would need to find a date, or so Andrea thought. But that’s not important, she reminds herself. What’s important now is to give this guy the show he wants so that her ratings and reviews don’t plummet. “I’ve been so excited to see you, and from the looks of your pants I think you’re even more excited.” The man looks down at his groin where you can see a visible imprint of the boner he can’t conceal. After some flirtatious banter with the man, Andrea finally starts to give him what he wants. She slowly starts to peel the straps from her nightgown off the sides of her shoulders, lowering the top part just enough to get a slight glimpse of her nipples before she pulls it back up to hide them. She loves a good teasing moment. It keeps the clients on the edge of their seats, among other things they’re already on the edge of. After doing this two more times, she fully slips the gown to the floor, leaving her in just a little red thong. “Ohhhh my Godddddd,” moans the man, who at this point is starting to unbuckle his work pants. Andrea rubs on her boobs and nipples as she watches him pull out his throbbing dick. She tries to keep her eyes as seductive as possible while noticing that it’s so big she would probably need a wheelchair after a night with him. Her hands move to the sides of her boobs where she pushes them together and gives them a little jiggle. This makes the man start moaning every cuss word imaginable. When it’s a hot customer like this, Andrea usually keeps her cool, but this man. This man is so attractive that even she is starting to get hot. She turns around and moves her hips, bending over just enough for the man to see the outline of her pussy. “Fuck baby, look how wet you’re getting. I wish I was there to clean it all up with my tongue.” Just the thought of this has Andrea over the edge now. Normally she doesn’t meet up with her clients, however if given the opportunity, Andrea would let him do things to her that she never let her good-for-nothing ex boyfriend of 4 years do. She moves her camera from her desk to her bed, where she gets down on all fours and starts to arch her back, making sure the angle makes her ass look good. The more this man speaks, the more she wants to do things she’s never done for clients. She begins slipping off her underwear as her legs are in the air, making sure her vagina is in view of the camera. This makes the man start stroking his dick a little bit faster and his moans start to get louder and louder. The way his moans echo in her head make her lose control. She pulls out her dildo and starts teasing him with it. She kisses the dildo, making sure to kiss and lick every inch of it. She gets the dildo and starts to slowly inch it down her throat. Once she has all of it in her mouth, the man lets out a grunt she hadn’t yet heard before during this session. The grunt didn’t sound like a moan, and at this point Andrea was just having fun hearing the man moan, she wasn’t really focused on giving him the show he wanted anymore. However this grunt took her by surprise so she sat up and looked at the screen. Andrea dropped the dildo she was holding and let out a scream. On the other side of the screen, was a different man wearing a mask, stabbing her client with a knife. She watched in horror as the killer approached the camera and took his mask off. “Luis what the fuck?!” Her ex boyfriend sets the mask down, taking a seat where the man he just killed was once seated. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. That guy was a fucking loser anyway. And why the fuck have you never showed me your pussy on camera?! All those times I stayed in Jersey you never once let me see!” Andrea rolled her eyes “well that’s because I don’t show pussy for free dumbass.” Luis scoffed, “oh whatever. Here.” He picks up the man’s phone and Andrea gets a Cashapp notification on her phone for $1,000 from Theo Martin. “Now can I see?” Andrea lets out a sigh. “Get help.” She hangs up the phone and proceeds to order her Amazon wishlist. “I guess he’s good for something sometimes, ugh but that guy was cute though.” She sighs to herself and clicks “order.


A frenzied shriek over the airwaves was the only response to the controller’s repeated request for identification. A few tense moments later, the unidentified plane crashed east of the airport and nearly caused an air-to-ground collision. A midsize jet had been taxing down the runway in preparation for takeoff but had to abort in lieu of the emergency circumstances. The crash investigators were surprised there were no survivors or human remains found amid the wreckage. A cursory examination revealed that the vast majority of the doomed vessel was still intact; allowing for a realistic outcome of survivors. As a matter of fact, no explosion or fire had occurred at all in the fuselage. Closer inspection revealed the reason was because the fuel tanks were completely empty at the moment of impact. What did puzzle them was the very odd combination of forty five sticks of dynamite; and the bodies of twenty seven adult chimpanzees. “With those sticks of dynamite, there wouldn’t have been anything left if it still had fuel.”; They reasoned. "Luckily they didn't detonate from the impact alone." The obvious conclusion to the mystery was that the plane had been piloted by rogue animal smugglers. Those unscrupulous criminals were lured by the illicit fees paid to smuggle primates across the world to North American experimental laboratories. Another curious aspect of the investigation was the unusual location of the dead apes. They were scattered throughout the plane; instead of being in cages or crates. Ordinarily wild animal smugglers isolate them in the cargo hold during transportation. Three of the apes were even in the cockpit area. The investigators concluded that the smugglers had miscalculated their fuel supply and had bailed out before the crash; or hastily made their escape as the emergency vehicles screamed to the scene. “Perhaps a loose chimpanzee distracted them from checking the fuel gauge.”; Another theorized enthusiastically. "During the chaos, the loose primate may have freed the others. That would explain the dead chimps being in the cockpit." An all points bulletin was put out for the unknown suspects. The official report suggested at least three would have been required to fly a plane of that size. Since it crashed near the runway, it was assumed they were still close by. After running the plane’s ID number through the database, it was determined to have been stolen a few hours earlier from a large land development company. The mid-sized cargo plane had been taken from an airfield near the owner's construction site; four hundred miles away. Perplexing to the investigators was the fact that the company headquarters was only a few miles away from where the stolen plane crashed. It seemed to be quite a curious “coincidence” that (of all the places the smugglers could have went with their contraband), their flight path was in direct line to whom it had stolen it from. That revelation brought up many unanswered questions which needed to be taken up with the owner. He agreed to come in for questioning and to give an official statement. When asked why the stolen explosives hadn’t been reported, the owner contended that he had no knowledge of it. He further explained that he hadn’t even been told about the missing plane until an hour beforehand by the site foreman. His explanation and genuinely confused expression satisfied the local police but they had been given strict instructions to detain him a bit longer. A federal agent was on the way to further interviewed him. In all investigations involving explosives, animal smuggling, and aircraft highjacking the government assumes jurisdiction since criminal offenses of that nature could threaten national security. Also taken very seriously are suspected cases of insurance fraud and false theft reports. That was exactly what the inspector suspected under the circumstances. The lead investigator wanted to judge for himself if the developer had anything to hide, before releasing him. When he arrived; the agent formally introduced himself as Special Operations Investigator Joe Harris. He removed his mirrored sunglasses and deftly placed them in the coat pocket of his tailored suit. After taking a few minutes to familiarize himself with the facts of the case, he proceeded to the interrogation room for the questioning. Recently the government had tightened down on animal smuggling after U.S. based animal right’s organizations put pressure on them. Most state officials resented interference by the same country that created the incentive for smuggling in the first place but the American tourist dollar was a major part of their economy. They couldn’t afford to ignore the animal rights groups since they were such a powerful lobby. The general consensus however was that it would have made much more sense for them to tackle the problem from where it started; the U.S. Being a country with extreme poverty made this lure of riches simply too tempting to their poor countrymen. In the interrogation room, the agent questioned the owner with deliberate repetitiveness. He did this to determine if the same answer was given each time it was asked. This particular method of interrogation is called re-collective continuity. It is considered one of the best techniques for uncovering the truth about the subject’s statement. In this case however, the developer seemed to be telling the truth so he was cleared of suspicion and released. Two days later Agent Harris flew to the construction site and began interviewing laborers about the theft. As his first subject he chose the construction foreman since he had been the one to report the theft. From there, he planned on working his way down throughout the ranks of workers and contractors. During the initial interview, the foreman went over the events leading up to the robbery. When he mentioned the strange circumstance of the chimpanzees being loose on the plane, the foreman offered: “I don’t guess it would have done any good to cage the little bastards!” When asked for further clarification; the foreman explained that for months chimpanzees had been breaking into their supply hut and stealing food and snacks at night. Finally sensing what he meant, the agent dropped his serious disposition and asked with a humorous overtone; “Well, didn’t you lock it?” To that the foreman explained that at first there didn’t seem to be any need to. Eventually the supplies just started disappearing and couldn’t be accounted for. “That still doesn’t prove that...” “I hid outside one night and waited to catch the thief. It was then that I saw with my own eyes!”; He interrupted. “Those harry rascals crept over quietly and pulled the stick out of the lock flap and helped themselves to several cookies before I chased them off!”; He continued. Agent Harris broke into an ‘ear to ear’ grin. “You guys never heard of a padlock?” “Of course we’ve heard of padlocks.”; He sneered. The thick sarcasm annoyed him. “But that didn’t do any good either! They must have watched us put up the key on the pegboard next to the bulldozer keys. The next day, more food was missing and the supply hut’s key was on the wrong hook. I thought one of the men was playing a joke but I’ll be damned if we didn’t catch one of ’em the next morning ‘red handed’; trying to put the key back, with a candy bar in his other hand!” “You mean to tell me the apes were unlocking the padlock with the key?”; Joe grinned. “Not only that; they were locking it back so we couldn’t tell!” Agent Harris roared with laughter. “I’m tellin’ ya’, those monkeys are smart. They were sneaking into our R & R lounge and watching T.V. at night! We never caught ‘em but we could tell they had been in there because our generator was ran down every morning. Muddy paw prints would be everywhere!” “Well; so much for the ‘perfect crime’!”; He chuckled. A hilarious vision flashed in his mind of the chimpanzees sitting around watching “Bedtime for Bonzo”; while eating popcorn and wearing human clothes. Slowly he rose from the chair and thanked the foreman for the very amusing story. “The crazy things I encounter at this job!”; he thought to himself. One by one, Agent Harris eliminated all the workers as suspects at the development complex. They had all given similar accounts of the events which took place on the day of the theft; and all had 'iron clad' alibis. About the only interesting fact of the whole investigation was that the nearby chimps had a preference for candy bars and old war movies. The only other information came from workers who cleaned up after the rogue primates but he wasn’t about to put any of that ridiculous hearsay in his report. He would have been the laughing stock. There didn’t seem to be anything further to uncover there so he prepared for the return trip to the crash site. Unfortunately his dismissal of the provided testimonials at the development site was wrong. All the evidence he needed to solve the case was right there 'under his nose' but he refused to see it! In all fairness, he wasn’t alone in being oblivious. No one else would have been able to accept the true facts of the mystery either. Rapidly, the jungle was being bulldozed down to make room for the new development; and the ‘rascals' were watching their home disappear. Since fruit is their primary source of food and trees are their source of shelter and recreation, they began to suffer losses of both; as they were cut down. It was only natural that they would resort to raids on the supply hut and the R & R lounge (to seek food and recreation) since the source of both was becoming increasingly scarce. There in the lounge the Chimpanzees learned about war and bombing missions while watching T.V. They wanted to extract revenge on the humans who were responsible for destroying their home, so the supply plane seemed to be the logical answer. Many times they had witnessed the destructive power of dynamite while watching human’s blow up tree stumps out of the ground for clearing land. They simply navigated toward “enemy headquarters” for a retaliatory strike with the human’s fire sticks. Only a little more fuel in the plane stood in their way of successfully blowing up the land developer’s office and extracting justice. Still; I know that many of you readers will refuse to believe this is a case of “monkey see, monkey do”; but look at ME for proof! I learned how to type while watching the same T.V. as the others.


Mother was in her dreams.

“A butterfly,” she said, looking at Mother. “What does a butterfly have to do with it?” They were in a meadow. Tufts of grass plumed up around them like little green fires. The sky overhead was a deep blue, vast and wide, bluer and fuller than the sky had ever been in the waking world. There were no trees, only plain, undulating meadow for miles and miles, touching the blue horizon like the confluence of two rivers.

“A butterfly,” Mother said, and as she spoke a richly-colored monarch butterfly fluttered gently down to settle on her finger, antennae whispering in the gentle warm breeze. “A butterfly does not change by force of will. It undergoes its metamorphosis because it must. There is no choice, there simply comes a time where it must be a butterfly. And a butterfly it becomes.” She tilted her smooth pink fingers outwards and the butterfly rushed once more into the breeze, flapping its magnificent wings, whispering through the empty meadow. She watched it fly away, shrinking and shrinking until it vanished somewhere off in the warm blue ocean of sky. There was no sun, either, she noticed. The light simply was. It came from within every atom that hung in the air around her. It came from her. But most of all it came from Mother, who seemed to radiate light and warmth as does a lit hearth in winter. She was so much warmer and fuller than she had ever been in life or memory.

“But I do have a choice, don’t I? I’m not like the butterfly. I can stay a caterpillar if I choose to.”

Mother laughed softly, peacefully. “No, dear. You are already locked away in your cocoon. You are more like the butterfly than you realize. The change has come upon you suddenly, as though from outside your own will, though you are the one bringing it about. Your metamorphosis has begun, my dear. In fact, you are almost finished.” “What do you mean, Mother?” “You will understand soon enough. It is a wonderful thing. It’s the reason I’m here now, the metamorphosis.” “And where is here, Mother?” The radiant woman closed her full round eyes for a moment, opened them. “It is nowhere, and it is everywhere, my dear. As trite as you may find that. I am with you, still. I am you, to an extent. This is a place outside the bounds of where you have been before. Though from it you were born, and to it you will return. It is the place your mind goes when you are asleep. It is with you when you are awake.” “I don’t understand.” “You will, dear. You will.” “Is this a dream?” “It is, and it isn’t. You’ll have forgotten it by morning, anyway.” She looked around herself, taking in the vast, open meadow, feeling the warm sun on her back, stretching out her fingertips in the omnipresent radiance. There was a strange familiarity, a nostalgia to the whole place, to the almost-nothingness inherent in it.

“I won’t forget.” “You will, dear. You’ve been here many times before. We’ve talked. I’ve helped you. You remember fragments of it, see. Fragments that you take back with you to the flesh-and-blood world. But I will be here waiting for you, when you are ready.” “And when will that be?” “When the metamorphosis is complete. When you and the butterfly are as one.” “Mother,” she asked, averting her eyes from the warm, bright woman ahead of her. “Do you like it here?” Mother chuckled. “There are no likes or dislikes here. Everything is as one. ‘Here’ is all a part of me, and I am but a part of it. It is not about whether I like or dislike it. I am. The ‘am’ itself is too much, even. There is simply an ‘I.’ An immortal, omnipresent, unifying ‘I’.”

She was still looking at the ground. She noticed, as she watched, that the green tufts of the meadow were losing their lustre. Slowly, gently they were being drained of their very essence. She looked up. The sky, too, was being drained; its blue lost its saturation, and even as she watched great swathes of it withered to a lifeless grey. She looked around for her mother. The meadow had grown cold.

“Mother!” The old woman in front of her had shriveled, shrunk, diminished so much in size as to become unrecognizable from the scintillating, bright creature that had stood there moments before. She tried to step forward, but her legs were rooted to the ground, were one with the ground. Mother was fading, turning grey, aging at one hundred years a minute. Her skin flaked and cracked, her spine became twisted as she stood, half-crouched in front of her daughter. Mother was losing her color, too. Her hair, now, was grey. Now her eyes. Now each and every part of her.

“Mother!” she tried to call, but no sound escaped. Mother faded, the meadow faded, the metamorphosis was almost complete.

She awoke.

* * * That morning Eloise received a call from her mother. She wanted to meet that night for dinner. A high-class Italian restaurant, top of the line. It would be her treat, she said, a certain urgency in her tone. The call happened in a whirlwind. Eloise found herself shushed before she could speak. Soon it was over. It was the first time they had spoken in almost fifteen years, since Eloise was twelve.

Eloise, since that day, had been raised in the care of an aunt, Jackie, her mother’s sister. Jackie did not have any children of her own, nor did she want any, but she had devoted herself to Eloise with a sort of self-sacrificial stoicism for which Eloise felt a great deal of guilt and gratitude. Eloise spent the morning and afternoon in fits of nervousness. She found herself flitting from one corner of her small apartment to the other, wondering to herself, sometimes aloud.

“What’s gotten into her?” she murmured over and over again, busying herself with straightening the couch cushions, rearranging her bookshelves, picking loose clothes off the floor. All the while her heart thumped steadily away in her chest, making her aware of its every motion. Her head ached. Eventually, as it must inevitably do, evening rolled around. Eloise’s hands shook as she tried three times to fit the car keys into the narrow ignition slot. On the fourth attempt she managed it, startling herself with the car’s strangled roaring all around her. She drove with care, hands trembling. * * * “My oh my,” Mother beamed, awash in her own exuberance. “Look at how much you’ve grown!”

Eloise looked at her. A wide leather purse hung heavily from one of her arms. She did not look as Eloise remembered her, but she could not quite place what had changed.

“You’ve gotten so tall, dear. And so beautiful, too.” Cars thundered along the street behind them. “Oh, come on then.” Mother took her arm and pulled her through the double doors into the restaurant.

A warm, deep red light seemed to permeate the dully humming atmosphere indoors. A jazz band played somewhere off in the dimness, and there was the quiet, sibilant swoosh of so many hushed conversations taking place in parallel. Rich, buttery aromas infused the very floorboards, hanging in every atom of air around Eloise and her mother.

A waiter approached them, spoke briefly with Mother, and promptly led them to their table. He shifted from one foot to another as he spoke, and didn’t seem to know quite where to point his gaze at any given moment. He couldn’t have been older than nineteen, Eloise guessed.

Eloise and her mother took their seats opposite one another at a small table near the back of the restaurant. There were a few moments of silence. Jazz music wafted softly over them, the trumpet speaking to the saxophone speaking to the piano speaking to the silence. Eloise examined the napkin in front of her. It had been folded into the neat shape of a butterfly, wings pointing majestically in sharp triangles. It evoked in her a strange sort of nostalgia whose source she could not place. A certain halcyon feeling. It seemed so familiar, she thought.

Suddenly, Eloise looked up. “So,” she said, as casually as she could. “Why did you bring me here, anyway. After all this time.” “Oh, Eloise!” said Mother, a little too loudly. “Does a mother really need a reason to want to see her daughter?”

“Yes,” Eloise felt like saying. Before she could manage it the young waiter was at their table.

“Are you ready to order?” Mother mentioned a type of pasta Eloise had never heard of. It had an Italian name which Mother wrapped her tongue around so lavishly one might have thought she was actually eating it.

“And for you?” “I’ll have the same,” said Eloise. She felt very small in the presence of her mother, too embarrassed to attempt the pronunciation of any item on the menu.

The waiter jotted a few things down in his notepad before retreating to the kitchen with a polite nod at the two women.

“So,” Mother leaned conspiratorially forward, throwing a dark shadow over her own butterfly napkin. “How’s your love life? Are you seeing anyone?” “No,” Eloise said simply. “Ah, that’s a shame.” Mother sank back into her chair, disappointed.

Eloise considered returning the question to her mother. Was that the sort of thing one asked their mother? She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

Mother, having seemingly exhausted her sole line of inquiry, occupied herself with her mobile phone, thumbing it rapidly, flickering images throwing harsh light across her eyes. Eloise watched her with a certain curiosity, not sure if she should be speaking. Mother looked up then, a solemn expression on her face. “Listen, Eloise,” she said, much quieter than before. “There’s something I have to tell you.” Eloise looked at her mother, suspicious of the sudden shift. “I’m ill, Eloise. I’m very ill. Dying, in fact. They’ve given me four weeks to live.” “Oh, I--” “And I have to ask you for something, Eloise. Do you promise you’ll--” At that moment the waiter returned to the table, empty-handed. “I’m very sorry,” he said. “The chef says we’re all out of the pasta you asked for. We won’t be able to make your order. We’ve had a very busy night, you see, and it’s our most popular dish. If you would like to order something else, though, we can offer you a small discount.” Eloise watched the waiter shift his weight continuously from one foot to the other, as though balancing. “Again, we’re very sorry.” “That’s not acceptable,” said Mother sharply. Eloise and the waiter both turned to look at her.

“Ma’am?” “You will give us our food for free, or we will be leaving,” Mother snapped, resuming her usual boisterousness. “This is a disgrace.” Eloise stared very intently at the folded butterfly, still and graceful on the embroidered tablecloth. “I’ll see what I can do, ma’am.” “Yes, you will.” The waiter swallowed and scurried back to the kitchen. “It’s alright,” said Eloise. “I don’t mind having something else.” “No. You’re my daughter and you’re getting what you asked for. It’s the least I can do for you.” “It’s really alright. I don’t mind.” “Nonsense. We’ll have them fix it. It’s that idiot waiter’s fault, probably. Got our order wrong or something. They can’t have run out.” “I really don’t mind.” Mother spotted the waiter walking back from across the room. He reached the table, grim-faced. “So?” said Mother, impatiently.

“We can’t do anything, ma’am. We can offer you twenty-five percent off your meal, though.” “And you’re sure you got our order right?” “Yes, ma’am. I wrote it down.” He held up the notepad to indicate that the writing had indeed taken place.

“Don’t take that tone with me, young man.” “I wasn’t trying to, ma’am.” Mother thought for a moment, then stood. “Come on Eloise.” She turned to the waiter. Eloise tried to speak but was quickly drowned out. “I’ve been going to this restaurant for nearly a decade, and this is the worst service I have ever received. What’s your name?” “I’m sorry, ma’am. We’re running very low on ingredients today. It’s a busy night, you see. I’m sure if you come back some other day we’ll have your pasta for you.” “What’s your name?” asked Mother, raising her voice. “I’ll be mentioning you in my review. And I’ll be contacting your manager. What’s your name?” The waiter said nothing. He looked as a deer might in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. Eloise tried for an apologetic glance, but he didn’t seem to notice her. “What’s your name?” Mother half shrieked, stepping forward. She looked as though she might cry. Some of the other diners were pointing their cell phones at her, holding them up above their faces. Others whispered, their voices like so many rivers whipping by, crashing over rocks. Eloise felt herself redden.

“Ma’am, you’re going to have to leave.”

Eloise stood, tried to grab her mother’s arm, but she was quickly shaken off. Mother backed slowly towards the exit. “All my friends that go here,” she shouted, “I’ll tell them never to come back! This place is going out of business soon, anyway. I’ll them never to come back. You’re going to lose half your business, you hear. I’ll tell everyone I know!”

“We’re very sorry, ma’am.” said the waiter.

Dark lines seemed to have set deeply into Mother’s face. She looked down at her daughter. “Come on, Eloise,” she said, much louder than was necessary, her voice aching with contempt. “We’re leaving.” * * * Out on the street it was raining. The sky was dark and angry and grey with clouds. The two women had to shelter under an awning to avoid getting soaked.

Mother glanced forcefully up and down the street, looking for something or other.

“What was it you were going to ask me?” Eloise released the question that had been gnawing at her mind. Mother looked at her then. Her eyes scintillated, and somewhere deep within them hid a glimmer of something uncertain, shining through the dark pupils, as though the rain had washed them clean.

“Well, I meant to do this after the meal,” said Mother. “I’m very ill, Eloise, like I said. Terribly ill. And I know I haven’t been the best mother to you.” Eloise was silent.

“I came to ask you,” Mother squinted her eyes slightly, putting a slight tremble in her voice. “I came to ask you for something.” “What is it?” Neither of them spoke for a moment. Somewhere far away a car honked its horn. Mother looked at Eloise as though expecting her to have already guessed what was coming. She shook her head, closed her eyes for a moment, opened them. “I’ll just come right out and say it. I need a transplant, you see. A kidney transplant.” “Oh,” Eloise said. The rain enveloped them, a bellowing from the heavens. Cars, obscured by the downpour, rolled past like so many hundreds of thunderclaps. “I’ll give you some time to think about it, Eloise. I know I haven’t been the best mother to you.” “Did you ask Jackie? Wouldn’t that work better? She’s your sister.” “I asked her.” “Oh,” Eloise said again. Rain sluiced the sidewalk around her feet in great rivulets, hanging desperately to the curb, dropping, collecting in puddles. It fell around her in torrents, forming thick walls of falling liquid on each side of the awning. “I’ll give you some time to think about it. There’ll be one or two more weeks before it becomes urgent, they say.” There was a silence.

“I know I haven’t been the best mother to you, Eloise.” Another silence.

“I’m going to change, though. We can do this as often as you’d like. Seeing each other, I mean.” Mother looked hard at Eloise’s face. For a few moments, the rain poured around them, uninterrupted. “I’ll give you time to think,” Mother said, after a moment.

Mother took to glancing up and down the street once more. After a few long seconds she stopped, reached into her purse, and pulled out a cigarette, then a lighter. She held the thing up to her lips, but her hands shook violently. A harsh wind blew, cutting to bone. After another moment she plunged the cigarette and lighter back into the recesses of the purse.

Rain thudded angrily down above them, in front of them, to either side. “Let me know,” said Mother, “if you make a decision.” She stepped forward and planted a wet kiss on her daughter’s cheek. “I know you’ll do the right thing.” Eloise nodded vaguely. In her mind’s eye she watched her mother dissolve, crumpling, withering from a dreamlike radiance, turning to wet ash. Footsteps.

When Eloise looked up, she saw only Mother’s retreating form, leather purse swinging angrily, making its way off into the rain, shrinking and shrinking.

Feeling a short vibration in her coat pocket, she pulled out her phone. There was a text from Jackie.

“Call me ASAP,” it read. “If your mother tries to reach out to you, don’t respond.” Eloise, feeling lightheaded, hid the phone in the darkness of her coat, and shuffled off down the street, battered by rain, looking for a taxi to take her home. #


 I knew the sound vibrating from your throat would pour like sand down mine. I knew my stomach would squeeze hunger when you closed the curtains on the day. I knew the walls would shriek when I saw you staring into your palm. I knew Henry would never fix it. The TV was on, and Barney was singing. The moan was back, and you stared deep into it. It was pressed in the middle of your palm, a red dot punched into skin by the tip of the knife you use to carve turkey on Christmas day. You were master of the blade and you stopped before the weight of it gave more than required. You needed one drop, one circle. Your skin split perfectly. It always did. One scarlet pearl. I watched you watch it. Your black eyes fixated and unflinching, an eerie sight to the unaccustomed but, it was the sound your stomach made that would crawl into the skin. I heard it gnaw on your bones. I watched you gag on your soul. It moaned. I had heard this sound often but not consistently. Sweat pilled under my armpits and I pulled Henry tight as I lay on the sofa under my Batman blanket. I close my eyes on the sound sitting at the kitchen table. Every fiber holding my blood in, is taut, and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. I forget to breathe. I’m an antenna, a radio wave, I’m dialed in waiting for the static to clear. The air is heavy and the dunes boom. Grandmother says there are stories in our bones, and that our skin is red because that was the color of the sand we grew out of. Mountains are our beginning, coyotes laugh and the stars are our ancestors. She says Indian boys are sons of thunder. She named you Asiniy Wache Iskwewis,

Mountain Woman . You name me Isaiah and you called me your Thunder Being. You are an eagle and I am your bolt. You knew in the womb I had good bones because I made my presence known. Grandmother says Salish art requires perfect circles. Grandfather practiced chiseling circles in cedar in the basement. Grandmother used coffee cans to paint perfect circles on canvas. You said when you closed your eyes you dreamed about spinning wheels. You said it is an unstoppable force that will ruin you. Grandmother said you have spent your life crawling out of a circle. I sat with my crayons, and I drew circles in black and purple and green. I drew them small and tall. They were not perfect enough. I heard you moan. I closed my eyes. My stomach grew heavy, it always did when I swallowed the sand. I left my spot on the couch. I left Henry staring at the TV with eyes as black as yours. His long ears wilted. His grey fur snarled in love. He watched nothing silently. I remember the day you gave him to me. The Christmas you missed. The Christmas I ate ham instead of turkey and adult voices whispered adult things while I colored course paper with red crayons and searched for you at night. You visited my dreams. You were falling, I screamed until the clouds caught you. They said you were getting help. You came for me when they turned off the Christmas Lights. I gave you pictures I colored. They gave you little pink pills. You gave me Henry. You kept saying sorry, I never knew why.  Henry stared at Barney. You stared into your palm. Neither of you blinked. I went to you and hugged you the way I hugged Henry, long and hard and with all my might. I want to squeeze that sound out of you so we can go play in the park. Dark never played. Dark was alone. Dark ate cardboard corn flakes from a cardboard box. Dark swallowed water to fill the hunger the cornflakes left. You didn’t see me. You didn’t feel me. You were too busy breathing. It came out in puffs. It smelled like cotton candy and I wondered how something so bad smelled so good and I wanted to crawl up closer too you but your eyes screamed at me to stay away. I shivered. It was summer. It was hot. And the drapes were closed because the light scratched your skin and the sound of the birds burned your ears. I whispered your name. Sometimes that worked. If I was quiet. If I touched you very softly sometimes you would stop moaning and move your black eyes from your palm to my face. My fingertips touched your lips. Tears squeezed out of the corner of your eyes and the sand in my belly grew. I go back to the sofa and grab Henry and press him to your chest. You respond. I see the corner of your mouth move from nothing to something. Your right hand holds Henry. Your fingers rub one ear. My fingers rub the other. Behind us Barney sings of how much we love each other. I want to watch him dance. Yesterday you danced with me. You twirled me in your skirts and the colors danced me in your hair. Bangles in gold married your wrists and chimed, and your green feather earrings brushed my skin. You painted your lips red and your nails pink. You giggled out your cotton candy and tickled me till I needed to pee. The birds laughed at us from the tree outside. We watched them dart under rays of sunshine and we ate apple pie fresh from the oven. You put ice cream on mine. I ate until I couldn’t eat any more and then You and me and Henry laid on the sofa, you were humming my eyelids closed and running your fingertips through my hair. I fell asleep full. I dream I am coloring clouds in a red circle. Your moan wakes me, and I wonder what I have done…


It was the cold breeze blowing over my cheek that woke me. For a moment I was confused, did I fall asleep outside again? I’m sure I didn’t get that drunk last night. As I forced myself to open my eyes the tent slowly spun around me. Yep I clearly drank way more than I had anticipated. That wasn’t good. I would have to go back into town and buy more booze if I didn’t pace myself better. If that would happen I might run into my parents and they would force me to come home again. When the spinning subsided I noticed a big tear in the orange canopy. I could have sworn that it hadn’t been there yesterday. It had been whole when I laid down to dream of him. With a slight growl I sat up and pushed the open sleeping bag off me. The tent looked the same as it did last night. My backpack next to the opening, clothes spread out next to my flimsy mattress, and empty bottles of booze all around. The now empty vodka bottle lay next to my pillow, and somewhere in my brain a tiny voice tried to make me feel guilty. You should have stayed home. Should have talked to people instead of running a way in denial like a coward. Should have let your parents help instead of isolating yourself. “No, I did the right thing for me!” speaking the words out loud made me feel better. More in control. I made a move to get the water bottle out of my bag and winced when my head started to pound. Sadly the warmth of the alcohol had given in to the withdrawal. My body craved the poison that I had been feeding it for the last three days. Instead of the water my hand searched for more alcohol. Praying that I hadn’t run out. Not today. Tomorrow I would face the world again. Maybe. My hand got all the way down to the bottom without touching anything I wanted. Annoyed I took the damn thing and emptied it out. Matches, couple of power bars, water, two old patches for the tent and a bundle of clothes lay before me. I ripped the bundle apart and smiled. Gin. I had a beautiful bottle of pink gin left. Although that meant that I would actually have to go back to town tomorrow to shop. After a big swig I turned my attention back to the hole in my canopy. There was no way that I had done this myself. This was a big rip, about 12 cm long that looked more like someone had cut it open from the outside. Not something that I would have done, no matter how drunk I got. It was disturbing thought. I was supposed to be all alone up here in the hills. Far away from everyone. That was what I had wanted. I even walked far away from the campground. All to be alone to grieve in peace. But now the tiny voice was smugly telling me that maybe I wasn’t as alone as I had assumed. There is someone watching you. Just waiting for you to get blackout drunk again. You should go home! It was getting harder to tune it out. And what if it was right. Someone had to have made that cut in the canopy. For a moment all I could do was sitting there staring at the sky through the hole. It was cold and dark but I knew the morning would soon light it up. The gin bottle was getting dangerously low when I finally started moving again. It was now or never. If I didn’t fix that hole now it would still be there when I sobered up again. Reminding me how useless I am. Just like Jake always told me, before he couldn’t take it anymore and left me. He was in a better place now. New city with a pretty girl on his arm. Someone that didn’t need to be taught how to dress and act. Someone who knew all his needs and desires before he even could voice them. The perfect opposite of me. I could feel my mood turning from sadness to something much darker. With a firm headshake I pulled myself back. Happy drunk trumps sad drunk and happy one I was going to be, even if it killed me. And dying had never been on the agenda. I still had my pride. Dying would only confirm everything he had ever said about me. This was my last stand. No matter what I would stay alive and after my boozy stint in the wild I would go back home to my parents and build myself a new reality without him in it. I could still hear my parents screaming at me, trying to get me to stay home and felt a ping of regret. Maybe they hadn’t been all that far off the mark. Maybe he had been keeping me away from them. Though I would never actually say that to them. Better to keep that tiny bit of information for myself, for my tiny little glimmer of dignity. The patches were on the floor next to me and with a big, determent breath, I gathered them up and opened the tent zipper. I was a grown up and could take care of myself. No matter what anyone thought. The canopy was moving in lazy circles as I stared up at it trying to keep it still so the patch would go on just right. I knew that there might be a better way but really one on the inside and one out there should make everything perfect. There was no way it wouldn’t work. Just like putting a paper inside of plastic and sealing it up. Instant water resistance. Although it was a bit more of a chore than I thought it would be I got it to stick. And felt damn good about myself. Next time I would be sober while fixing things and doing it perfectly. There were only about three good sips left in the bottle when I finally got myself outside and for a moment I was tempted to close my eyes. It would feel so good to sink into the warmth of the booze and the nothingness that was occupying my mind. But that tiny voice kept pestering me. Just finish that one thing. You can do it . You will feel so good when you wake up . So with a sigh I kept my eyes opened and took in the breathtaking scenery. It was almost morning and the sun was starting to rise over the hills far away. Everything was bathed in a soft light orange glow. I suddenly felt so alive. The cold, fresh air, cut through the alcohol fog and suddenly I wished that I had taken this trip with my friends. It would have been so much better than being here all alone with my thoughts. Jake would have hated this. The only good morning for him started with a cigarette in bed at noon. Me on the other hand had always loved waking up with the sun. Going fishing with my dad. Playing outdoors, sitting around a warm fire at night, without the alcohol. I looked down at the bottle with contempt. Before Jake I would never have touched that stuff. I flung the bottle away. When I would wake up next I would never touch the stuff again. I will never know how long I sat there watching the sun waking up the world. All I know is that suddenly I jumped at a rough voice speaking behind me, somewhere behind my tent. “Well, well, well. What do we have here. The little princess is actually awake. And here me and my friends thought you would slumber all through the exchange.”  My skin was crawling as I slowly looked back and saw a dirty, middle-aged man with an unkempt beard down his chest. Behind him where two younger guys that looked just as bad, like they hadn’t seen a shower in weeks. My fear reduced a bit when I saw Jake walking over to us. He would help me get rid of them. It felt like destiny that he was here, just like the prince on a white horse to save his true love. He walked right by them towards me. Hugging me sideways and looking me over. “Honey, you know I have told you time and again to watch how much you drink. You are no use to them if you pass out before they start having their fun. They could just as well have bought a blowup doll for that.” It took a moment for me to register his words. Use to them? Who were they? How was I supposed to be of any help to them? The grim reality sent my world spinning once again. He wasn’t here for me. He would never have come here just for me. The ice-cold words he spoke next sealed my fate. “It’s really all your parent’s fault. If they would have just let me have you to begin with I would have gotten rid of you ages ago. Instead, I had to groom you for two whole years before you finally rebelled. You were such a pathetic daddy’s girl.” He looked down at me with something aching to pity in his eyes. “Don’t worry little princess. If you are lucky some old dude will buy you and treat you well. If not, you should have applied yourself better. The best sluts do as they are told. Not that you were ever any good at that to begin with.” With those horrible words he all but threw me into the bearded man’s hands. “Hold on to her while I set this tent on fire. Best to get rid of all the evidence. Her dad is sure to come looking for her.” I could only watch as Jake rummaged through the tent, taking my wallet and phone and leaving the rest inside. When he was done searching, he came back out and asked if anyone had matches. He then poured the rest of the gin over the opening of the tent and set everything on fire. Jake winked at me. “Sorry honey but you know how it is. Business always comes first.” I desperately tried to fight but they were too strong. With a punch to my face they had me almost knocked out and through that black haze I felt them carrying me away. We hadn’t gone very far when I heard voices, ghost like whispers coming for us. I can see her. Never mind the fire. She’s right there . Later my dad filled me in. He had gotten so worried that he made his friends in the fire department, as well as a couple of policemen, come with him to look for me. I was only seventeen. Just a kid really, that had been missing for two whole days. Thankfully they found me just in the nick of time. God knows where I would have ended up. Jake is in jail now, along with those three men. Hopefully I will never have to see them again.


Hi! I've written a few other stories before, but haven't ever posted them online. They've all been cringey, and I am expecting this one to be a bit cringey too... haha... but don't be surprised if I get bored and randomly decide to discontinue the story 'cause I get bored of it. That happens to me a lot. Also, it would be nice if people talked about the story as if it were real, the way it is in r/nosleep. You don't *have* to, but it would be nice. Anyways...  I was born on what is now known as September 12, 986 A.D. My name is Victoria Windsor, and my parents were the Duke and Duchess of a small part of England. I grew up happily. Despite the time period in which I was born, we faced no illnesses of any sort and nobody who tried to attack us survived. There was a good reason behind this; you see, my parents and I are vampires.  They may have been the Duke and Duchess for some humans, but they were the King and Queen of all the vampires in Western Europe. Over time, that grew to the whole world. Nobody could overcome their power... physically. Royalty in vampirism is based on the rank of your power. Imagine it as a scale set from 1 to 100; the most powerful vampires are ranked at 100, the weakest at 1. My parents and I were the only vampires in the world who reached 100. All of the Aristocrats were above 50. Everyone else was below 50, and power only grew with time. However, this doesn't make vampires less strong. A level 1 vampire could tear the strongest human alive into shreds in less than a minute, but a level 15 vampire could do that to a level 1 vampire. Now imagine a level 100 vampire... that's me.  It would take a level 1 vampire 2,000 years to achieve the power I had at birth. I can smell a vampire from miles away; I can jump as high as Big Ben with one leap; I can crush a boulder by touching it; I can run five times as fast as the fastest animal alive; and many more minor powers. These are things that all vampires can do to an extent, though. Some vampires have special, unique powers, powers that no vampire before has had. Mine is shape-shifting - I can turn into anything and anyone, at any time I wish. That includes younger and older versions of myself. It is quite an advantage in the modern era.  When I was 20, I was riding my steed in the forest a few miles away from the now-long-forgotten village of Westbrook. Back then, a few hundred people lived there, so it was nice and populated for the time period. I smelt a vampire, which was odd, as I didn't know of any vampires who lived in that area. I didn't want to appear suspicious to the humans, so I took the longer form of transportation, and rode my horse to Westbrook. When I arrived, I hid behind the trees, wanting to see what was going on. I saw almost all of the villagers standing around a lone human, tied to a post, the villagers chanting things, and holding torches.  *Ah,* I thought. *A witch trial.* I then realized that the “witch” was the vampire I had smelt from all those miles away. It would be best to intervene before something actually happened to this peasant of a vampire - they were scared and had obviously never dealt with something like this before. It seemed like they didn’t want to hurt a human, so I tied up my horse to a tree, gathered my skirts, and walked up to the village square.  “What is going on?” I asked in my most regal voice. Nobody heard me. “WHAT’S GOING ON?” I yelled. Everyone grew quiet and turned to look at me. Upon realizing who I was, they started to curtsy and bow, some of the younger children nearly tripping over their own feet. “What is going on?” I repeated myself once more.  “Y-your Grace,” stuttered a villager. “The evil woman at the pole is a w-witch. She is being punished for her crimes against our Lord the God and humanity. Once she is dead, she will be sent to hell, to be tortured eternally for her crimes.” I tried not to scoff at her, and it took a lot of willpower. There is no *god,* at least not the one they speak of. (Sidenote: while writing this part I am listening to Take Me to Church lmao). I know this for a fact - my parents were alive when their so-called Jesus died for them. They lived in Rome, and such a thing would have been announced throughout the city - nay, the *country.* My parents didn’t hear anything of it, which would be surprising if Christianity was real, as they were of a high noble ranking. As for Judaism, my grandparents lived in Egypt during the time they were supposed to be enslaved - but no, there were no Jewish slaves of that amount, and the Red Sea didn’t part for Moses, as they didn’t escape as their Torah said.  I waded through the sea of kneeling villagers, and they parted for me as if the Bible was real and I was Moses, them the Red Sea. I started untying the ropes holding the young vampire to the pole, quickly slashing from and breaking some a few times when I thought nobody was looking. The young vampire stared at me, wondering why I was doing this for her - she probably couldn’t tell that I was a vampire, too.  “This ‘witch’ is coming with me,” I stated to the villagers. I saw some staring in disgust at the vampire, others nodding their heads fearfully. I grabbed her arm and pulled her towards my horse. I heard the village going back to normal after a few minutes, then turned to face the vampire to confront her.  “What is your name?” I asked.  “P-Peasant Rosa,” the vampire stuttered, scared. “What is it that Your Grace wishes from me?”  I just laughed. “Nothing, Rosa. I just wanted to save you from those awful townspeople.” She gawked at me. “They know *nothing*,” I said more harshly. “And that’s *Your Highness* to you.”  She blinked a few times before realization hit her. “Y-you’re the *vampire princess?* Princess Victoria?”  I laughed. “Who did you think I was? Some random Lady - no, Vampire Princess - come to save the day?” I could tell that Rosa was trying to suppress a smile. “Go on, laugh!” I urged her. She did, and it was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard in my entire life - up to the present day, after a thousand years, I haven’t heard a more beautiful sound. It was the sound of my future wife gaining hope.  “I could smell you from miles away, and checked to see what was up,” I explained. “I was just taking a trip with Bailey over here,” patting my horse’s head. “You can pet her if you want.”  Rosa ran her fingers through Bailey’s soft mane. “I’ve never actually touched a horse like this before,” she grinned. “Especially not a horse like yours.”  The vampire community doesn’t tend to care about your personality - it doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman, black or white, gay or straight - as long as you can get done what needs to be done, they’re fine with it - so it was perfectly ok when Rosa and I got married 50 years later.  To Be Continued (Hopefully).  Note: I’m not gay myself, just a straight ally, but I am an atheist. For some reason, I had this strong temptation to write about gay vampires who are a thousand years old yet still childish and going through high school in the modern world… yeah, I’m weird.


THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS He finds it difficult to tear himself away from the window and, even when something draws his attention, the ringing of the landline in the hall or the sound of his cell phone, back he returns, involuntarily, to the French window that looks out onto the vast lawn and the cluster of trees that border the edge of the grass and the beginning of the embankment that stretches down to the river flowing hurriedly past his garden. It was always the same when she went away. The first two days, he would almost revel in his solitude; eating what he wanted, when he wanted. Staying up as late as he liked, watching the programmes that he preferred but rarely got a chance to see and sleeping as late as he wanted the following mornings. But, invariably, this novelty began to wear a bit thin by the third day though he usually managed to find something to amuse him, pass the time. Perhaps, a visit to the shops, loading up on “treats” that she would normally nag him into avoiding: chocolate being top of the list. But it was always that third night alone, going to bed, when her absence seemed to bother him the most and he would feel his loneliness forcing its way through, preventing him from sleeping, lying in the darkness, realising just how much he missed her. The very first time that she had mentioned visiting Sydney to see her daughter, he had become upset at not being invited. He had never been on good terms with his step-daughter and, in all honesty, even if he had been asked, he almost certainly would have said no. But it was the principle after all; he was big on principle.  He should have been included. Of course, he understood that his wife had every right to visit her daughter and, above all else, all he had ever wanted was her happiness and it had become accepted that the week long trip would be a regular occurrence that he would just have to come to terms with. Always, he made sure to drive her to the airport, bid her farewell with a smile and a hug, message her before her boarding time to wish her a wonderful trip and assure her that he would be here, ready and waiting in seven day’s time to pick her up. In his own mind, too, by this time, he had started to look forward to his own “freedom”. Then, as per usual, around about the third day it would usually begin to pall. He had never been one to have a bunch of acquaintances. Like his father before him, he was a solitary person who could, at best, count those he considered to be real friends on two fingers. Not one for small chat, he was slow to warm to people and kept his feelings close. He was also extremely set in his ways, spotlessly clean, morally upright and found fault with anybody who did not come up to his exacting standards. Because of this, he gave off an invisible aura that kept most at arm’s length. His wife was his life. That was it in a nutshell. More than just loving her, he was devoted ; wanted only to make her happy. Oftentimes, he knew that, if not for her, he would, almost certainly, stop going to the gym daily, cease making an effort with his diet, his appearance. It was all for her, never wanting her to think less of him, craving her approval. Those final few days before her return from the latest trip were the most difficult for him. He would fill his daytime hours completing crossword puzzles, reading, following the instructions that she had left behind regarding the watering of plants, the exact amount of washing detergent to use, which rinse cycle to set the machine etc, desperately wanting everything to be in shipshape fashion upon her return. But, always, those last nights as the week progressed were the toughest; their huge kingsize bed somehow becoming more empty, each night, guaranteeing a lack of sleep. When he did collect her from the airport at the end of each week away, there was always an initial tension that they never spoke about. She would be reluctant to tell him of the things she had done, thinking that he might envy her for having had a good time without him. He would be loathe to ask about her time away, not wanting to openly acknowledge his feelings of just how much of an an outcast he was in the lives of her family. Why this was exactly was hard to pinpoint. He had never been less than supportive to his step- daughter and, when she had given birth to her only child, it had been he, on his regular business trips to Sydney, who had always made the time to drop in and see the boy. It was he, not his real grandfathers, who wrote long letters to the boy on a regular basis that included stories, jokes, cartoons and riddles that he would often labour for hours over. Yet, they never seemed to be appreciated. His step-daughter had simply outlawed him when he had lost the business, blaming him without knowing the true facts and nothing would ever change her mind. He had been responsible for the downgrade in her mother’s life and that was all there was to it. Despite the injustice that he felt, he had come to terms with this, years before, and it was only on these jaunts, that seemed to be occurring more and more regularly, that this situation really hit home, making him realise just how lonely and empty his life actually was without his wife. He had come to dread being told that she was going off again. Always, that initial notification cutting him deep but he had become a master at hiding his feelings, assuring his wife that there was no problem, lying to himself about what a good time he could have while she was away. And he, initially, did...up until around the third day. Now, here he is, staring, trance-like, out into the soft drizzle that has just begun to fall, the wind blowing it back onto the window. The telephone in the hall rings yet again and he forces himself, against his will, to go and check the number: 02. Sydney again. He doesn’t pick up. The ringing stops but, almost immediately, his cell phone begins to ring; the same number. Her number; his step-daughter’s.  Once more, he declines to answer. Back he goes to the lounge window. The rain has stopped. The wind forces a break in the clouds and a streak of sunshine comes struggling through and the darkness of the wintry grass nearest to him is suddenly lit up. As more clouds part, more rays shine down and the entire lawn is slowly bathed in sunlight all the way to the bottom of the garden where the wind is blowing the willows as they bend forward trying to reach the river. He is mesmerised. They say that a criminal always returns to the scene of his crime. It had been her cellphone that had given the game away. As she had showered in readiness for her departure, her phone, being charged, had pinged as he’d come in from the garden. Automatically, he had glanced at it: “Can’t wait to hold you in my arms again. Jack. X” Jack? Who the hell was Jack? It had felt like an ice pick had been thrust into his heart. All this time? All these trips? All of his sleepless, lonely nights? What an utter, contemptuous fool he had been. He understands that there will be no picking up from the airport ever again and his loneliness will be cast in stone forever for, as he stares, tears in his eyes, at the willows swaying back and forth, he knows what lies beneath them.