By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. I could have missed it. I could have kept my tongue in the back of my throat when a knock came at my door the night before, then an older cousin who came carrying dishes of chicken and rice up to my bedroom, wouldn't have shifted my drapes open. They took a peep out my curtains, and I'd regretted even calling out that they could come in so much, I had hoped staying quiet throughout their visit would give a hint. But they're open, and this morning, they bother me. I think about getting up and closing the curtains. I'd only noticed he left the curtains parted when upon my waking a gold ribbon draped across my carpet and crawled up onto my bed. Looking out the window, the sky was bruised and battered, but it's skin was purer the farther it stretched down to dawn. I was so tired, I'd let the weight of the world lay into me the night before, all my limbs had been ground and I woke up feeling like melting butter, my eyes were as puffy as buttermilk pancakes. I melted into the bed. I contemplated for what I think was hours on walking over to that window, and closing the blinds. Each time I thought about it, I should shut the curtains, I considered the progression of the little ribbon, snaking it's way further and further till it was climbing on my lap. Slowly it was making it's way back to the sun, from the inside of my room to jump out my window. My window which was, brighter now, almost radiating, illuminated something in front of my house, and I should shut the curtains, when I get the will to get up. That something was my Maple tree. while I peeked through my window out to the soft sky and vast plains of clouds, it peeked right back at me, into my tiny room watching me look out from under my covers. I'd never seen the sun so intense, it yawned across my neighborhood, heard by everyone around, it's beams that flooded through open air joined with my little ribbon and paraded in the sky with such resplendent joy. And it was enough, to get me up from my bed and to my curtains, for the first time in months. My legs creaked, my back ached, my shoulders were numb, but when I was up, I naturally swam to the window like the little ribbon. I held a drape in my hand, looking out at my maple, playing in the yard with all of the other trees and Loniceras, chattering in the wind. whistling across my window was a samara, twirling so close to my window, but too fast for me to see it's wings. I was reminded of something I once did one summer, In grade school. At age eight I used to get up at six in the morning to go to my neighbors house and ask if their kids could play. I was up by five  squirming in onesies at a breakfast table and I eagerly awaited the time I could go outside. we swept up all of our samaras into one pile, with a broom and grubby fingers, putting them all together. we'd dig our hands into it like a pile of candy from the trick or treating soon to come, and counted down from four. Tossing them up as high as we could in the air, watching them fall was the best part. they had oars attached to seeds, and while they drifted down to sweep our faces I dreamed about building a sail to glide through the mountains with shaped just like a samara, coffee bean wings leather whipping in the sky. It was what I would want to be when I was all grown, and I'd plan it all day. Taking flight across the oceans, getting medals, navigating storms, and I built a whole life for myself to live in, and take flight with. The next day it would be an entirely new dream. For these past months I've been so well grounded into the earth, barely getting my heels to lift off the ground. but I wish I could, and I wish I could have played with samaras more often, instead of just dreaming about what I'd make them. And I wish I could of done a lot more things when it was warmer. I felt sad. It's been so cold for so long, I've missed out on so much. Birthdays, swimming, sleep overs, holiday crafts. I wish I got up yesterday morning, to see the sun. I wish I got up a month ago, and started getting up every morning. I wish I never laid in bed at all. How come I stayed in bed another day? How could I have known this was waiting outside? There was a reason, there was a point to all of this, But I could forget it now, because there was no reason to not get myself up, and to not make something of the day. When I used to try, that day always fell short, and I always fell short of what was expected. Somewhere along the line I forgot I was traveling a road, and thought I was on a sinking boat. I let myself sink deeper and deeper, and now I have a canyon to climb out of, the fault is only mine. Breaking from my idleness, I left the beautiful bath of light in my room, soaking the autumn maple leaves in it's syrup. I went through my dresser, picked a nice fitted sweater, and pants, then went downstairs and pass my shoes to the door. By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. Their sails were luminescent, veins seeping through like the boldest paint strokes of a stained glass, and they all glittered and shook. Some shimmied free and flew like kites across the yard, but the samaras spun down, showering like rain. Of everywhere else I could have been, all the places I could have seen, I was never happier to wake up here, and get up from my bed to go outside, and not miss the flights of the samaras, the chorus of the leaves, today. Though, this sunrise happens every day, just as it always promises. I might get up earlier to see it again, tomorrow.


Mina Shi sold seafood from all over the galaxy. The price depended on the distance an item had traveled and its availability. Mina specialized in the exotic, but she sold everything from the small purple barnacles found on every shore of Ee-ha, to rare earthen Tuna. She rose early each evening to unload her wares, carefully positioning her more flashy specimens so their scales or shells reflected the bright white light of Ee-ha’s extraordinary moon.

As she waited for the market to fill up, the silent heat of twilight would dissipate and the desert flowers would unfurl, soaking up the moonlight. The evening was slow, but as the ground cooled, her customers would arrive in droves, crowding the market with their bright clothes and rhythmic, breathy voices.

After deciding to start her import business on the newly booming planet of Ee-ha, Mina had done extensive market research to figure out what would sell best. She had settled on seafood because it was immensely popular with Ee-ha’s native race, the La-ha-ma. It had traditionally been sourced locally, but Mina thought the La-ha-ma would appreciate the novelty of supplementing their diet with seafood from other planets. She loved to watch the graceful, translucent La-ha-ma as they swayed through the market. When they stopped at her stall, they would buy any creature with an exoskeleton. The bones strengthened the clear shell in which their jelly-like bodies were encased. During a transaction the nerve conglomerates in their heads would light up in dynamic patterns. These patterns flashed, matching the rhythm of their voices. The rhythm in which they spoke indicated their emotions. She hadn't quite learned the art of it yet, but from what she could tell, as a whole, the La-ha-ma seemed polite and gentle. Mina had been living on Ee-ha for two standards now. She mostly stuck with the alien

community. She had a few close human friends and there were some other aliens, mainly Bogogo and Leki, with whom she shyly exchanged pleasantries. Mina had grown up in a small, purely human colony only a few light years away from the solar system. At times she found the diversity of thought, speech, and movement here on Ee-ha utterly overwhelming. She felt as if she were floating, as if she had nothing to latch onto. She had visited Earth a few times when she was younger and though the human capital was far more cosmopolitan, it was grounded in her culture. She could read the faces, follow the patterns.

Every night when the Moon reached its zenith, the La-ha-ma would dance. Spinning in throbbing, undulating circles, their nerves would synchronize to the same intricate beat. Foreigners would watch, entranced. But the music was far too complicated, too intrinsically La-ha-ma for them to join.

With a small tired smile, Mina watched the La-ha-ma dance from behind her counter. She made a game of trying to track the beat, imagining how it could be recorded in human musical notation. She stirred up dust with her tapping, but her toes soon got confused. A human man approached her counter. She looked up from her dusty sandals. “Tim!” Her smile widened. “What can I do for you tonight?” The English felt good in her mouth.

“Hi, Mina, do you mind if I join you under there? I need a break from this moon.”

“Come on in. But aren't there less stinky places to shelter?” “I’ll tolerate the stink if it comes with your company.”

She gestured to the chair pushed up against the back wall of her stall.

It was a family heirloom: small, oak, and painted red with little blue and yellow flowers. It was one of the only things her great grandmother had brought with her from Earth after the cost of living had gotten too high for her to remain on her home world.

“That’s a nice chair.” “It was my grandmother’s.”

“Are you sure you're okay with my fat ass squashing it?” “I sit back there when I am feeling lonely.” She laughed softly, pushing him into the chair.

“Told you, I barely fit.”

“It’s a bit snug,” she conceded, crouching beside him. She traced patterns in the dust with her broken fingernails as she sat in companionable silence, listening to the throbbing music. Tim’s long hair brushed her arm, the one that was drawing in the dust. “You used to sing.” She rolled her eyes. “Yeah you did! The first night I met you, remember? At that dingy little bar where all the humans used to congregate, before it closed? You did the most brilliant rendition of “Here Comes the Sun”. You looked radiant. Sure, you were blasted. So was I, but I couldn’t forget something like that.”

She gestured to the shimmering spectacle in front of them. “It's so exquisite, so full… What do you even call this—a symphony?” She chuckled.

“An orgy?”

“It's nothing like the Beatles, that's for sure.” He stood up. “I just had an idea! Why don’t we go get something to eat, wait for them to finish, then start a little dance party of our own.”

“Who would want to listen to a couple humans screech after that?”

The music had reached a crescendo, distilling itself into single excruciating harmony with the big glaring moon.

“They impress the hell out of the moon every night. I think some human screeching would be refreshing.” He smiled, taking her hand. “Maybe we can give the moon a break.”

“I’ll think about it over lunch.”

“Great! Will you consider my proposition more favorably if I buy?” She grinned. “It’s worth a try.” “What do you feel like eating?”

“No fish.”

“We could go to my bakery. I just got a new shipment of sourdough starter from Earth. You know the best bread is made with human air.” She snorted. “You're so cheap.”

“Shipping sourdough starter all the way from Earth was definitely not cheap!”

“A sandwich actually sounds delicious. Do you have any rye?”

“Let’s go see if I still have some left. My rye is a best seller.”

As they walked through the market, Mina could feel the music swell inside her. She wished it would burst, shaking the desert, the moon, and her feet. The market was a mess of ingenuity, necessity, and beauty. They passed shops selling every sort of material: tangled

wires and scratched computer chips, cheap clothes, vast arrays of vibrant spices, pots and pans, useless antiques. It all started to look the same after a while, just stuff, just atoms. But Mina never tired of the smell. It was an amalgamation of each person’s own delicate passion. The force of it was staggering, but if she concentrated individual details would reveal themselves, blossoming into something extraordinary. That is, in part, why she chose to sell fish; she wanted to contribute something pungent.

They arrived at Tim’s bakery. It was lit with cheery yellow light and was devoid of any decoration except a couple pixel drawings his five-year-old son had scribbled. He bounded into the tiny kitchen. “Haha! I found some rye! What do you want on it?”

“Do you have any of that paste made from fermented Toga Beans that Bogogo put on everything?”

“Togeeamo? Sure, I love that stuff! It reminds me a little of miso.” Tim slathered a slice of rye with a dark green paste. He passed the bread to Mina, collapsing onto a stool. “God, I miss Earth!”

Mina sighed, nibbling the crust of her bread. “Let’s throw a dance party.”

“Really!” “Yeah, my only condition is that you bring Liam.” “Of course, we need someone to teach how to dance. He’s napping now, but I’ll wake him up before we go.”

“This...”—Mina waved her arms, attempting to articulate her praise through a mouthful of bread— “...is delicious.”

After they had finished their bread, they walked into the kitchen and up the narrow set of stairs that led to Tim’s apartment. It was small, but comfortable, with thick walls that kept out the burning daytime heat.

“Soren!”

Tim called. “I am home.”

A gangly man in his mid thirties exited the bedroom. “Shh! You will wake him up.” Soren whispered. Catching sight of Mina, he paused his scolding.

“Hi, Mina, I didn’t see you there.” He turned back to Tim. “What’s going on? I didn’t expect you back up here till dawn.”

“I actually came to wake Liam up. We are going to have a dance party and we thought he would want to join.”

“A dance party? I am so confused.”

“I am still a bit confused myself. “ Mina laughed. “I think Tim was inspired by the La-ha-ma’s midnight ritual, and thought we could do our own human version in the market square. I agreed to sing. I don't know what possessed him to suggest it, or me to agree. But we are both feeling lonely and thought some familiar music would be nice.”

Soren sighed, chucking softly. “It’s a sweet idea. I am feeling a bit lonely today as well. But I just got Liam to sleep!”

“Come on! We need someone to break the ice. Five year olds have no inhibitions.”

“Alright, but it’s your fault if he starts screaming later.” “I wouldn’t blame him. I feel like screaming all the time these days. That’s why we need this.” Tim and Soren entered the bedroom where a small boy with bushy black hair and freckles was crashed on the mattress. “Hey, buddy. We are going to have a dance party. Want to come?”

The little boy jumped out of bed, regarding his parents with curiosity. “A party?”

“Yeah, out in the square. Aunty Mina is going to sing and we’re going to dance. Maybe we can even get some other people to dance with us!”

“Can I bring Mo?” Liam asked, clutching a scraggly stuffed tiger.

“Yeah! I bet Mo is a very dignified dancer, look at those stripes.”

“What does dignified mean?” “Hmm… lets see…

it's used to describe someone who looks put together no matter what they are doing. Hey Soren, do you remember the La-ha-ma word for dignified?”

“I think it’s See-hey”

Liam started laughing. “You sound silly.”

Soren whispered to Mina. “He says that everytime I try to speak La-ha-ma. I think my rhythm must be grossly off or something, but I can never get him to elaborate.”

Tim threw the little boy on his shoulders. “Lets go!” They walked down the stairs, out through the bakery, and into the square. The La-ha-ma had already finished their dance and the crowds had dissipated and bit, but there were still plenty of people milling about.

“I’ll be back in a sec.” Tim caught sight of something, bounding off.

“Shall we look for a suitable place?” Soren asked Mina.

“I have no idea what to look for.” She stared down at her hands. “I can't believe we are doing this. What if we offend some sacred law and they start throwing things? Or what if everyone just laughs.”

“I think the laughing is a given, but I can never tell when other species are laughing anyway. As for breaking some sacred law? I have seen plenty of other people sing in the square. I don’t think anyone will be offended.”

“Alright. How about over there?”

Mina pointed to the out of the way corner sandwiched between an abandoned retailer and a fruit stand. “If we are going to do this, we might as well go for it.” He gestured to an empty patch of ground right beside the packed clay parapet surrounding the square’s central garden.

“What the hell was I thinking?” Mina groaned. Tim returned, carrying a small package. “For you.” He grinned, tossing the package to Mina.

WIth trepidation, Mina opened the plastic box. Inside was an old-fashioned handheld microphone. “Where did you find one of these!”

“I spotted one lying on top of a junk heap back there. I couldn’t believe it!”

“Weirdly perfect.” She muttered.

Tim threw back his head and arms, addressing the moon, and yelled “Serendipity!” Mina clutched the microphone. Sighing, she stepped up onto the garden parapet. She bit her lip, savoring a secret smile, and sang,

“Here comes the sun, do, dun, do, do…”

Liam threw his stuffed tiger into the air and started to bounce.

“It’s alright…”


Stepping steadily forward with arms outstretched Sheldon moved closer to his prey. Twin sister Zoe was approaching from the opposite side in a similar manner. Inching ever closer to the clueless rabbit, Sheldon caught his sister’s gaze and mouthed 1, 2. “Sheldon! Zoe!”, the deep voice bellowed across the yard. The twins froze in place, moving only their faces toward their father. Upon seeing his clouded features they walked toward him in unison. Father was the tallest of the three, his long dirty blond hair held back in pony tail with a leather tie. The dark gray hair tie matched his leather jerkin. Throwing his black pack over his shoulder he addressed them, “you two were getting too close to those woods.” “Father”, Sheldon began, always at the ready with an excuse,”we would never go there, we were trying to catch the rabbit for a stew”. “Of course you were”, Father grumbled,”and what if the rabbit ran into the woods?” “Well we wouldn’t follow, Father”, Zoe chimed in,”we’re smarter than a rabbit”. Father stared at Zoe a moment as if trying to decide her sincerity,”the woods have taken many people. People who don’t come back. They are just…gone. Some say it is an evil witch, tricking people; others say the woods themselves are enchanted and everything in it is trying to kill anything it comes across. Once you step into the trees, you are gone. GONE. Do you both understand that?”

“Yes Father”, they replied in unison.

Fishing coins out of his black pants pocket he handed them to Zoe,”if you can’t catch the rabbit, find food at the market.” She slipped the coins into her matching black pants and nodded.

Father eyeballed Sheldon,”make a trap son, make the rabbit come to you.” “Of course Father”, Sheldon’s shoulder length blond hair bobbed up and down against his brown leather jerkin as he nodded while he spoke. Father harrumphed as he started to head down the trail to work, pausing a few steps away he reminded them, “the woods took your mother and brother Wesley, I can’t loose you two as well.” An hour later found Sheldon brushing grass off his black pants while standing to survey his rabbit trap. He looked over to see Zoe whizzing a stick over her head for the dog to chase. Brown pointy ears could soon be seen through the grass as the rabbit began to hope toward the trap. Sheldon and Zoe were not the only ones watching the rabbit. Jokko honed in on the rabbit and bolted across the ground, white and brown fur almost appeared to be flying he was running so fast. The rabbit sensed the danger and turned and ran toward the woods. Jokko changed course in full pursuit of the rabbit. Sheldon began running and yelling, “Jokko, No!”. Zoe started running toward the group, “Sheldon, stop! Not into the woods!”. Sheldon caught Jokko just at the edge and they teetered for a moment on the black line at the edge of the trees. Zoe watched them slowly fall over the line, into the woods, disappearing as they fell. She ran right up to the line and screamed, “SHELDON!”. There was nothing to see, it was as if the trees and bushes covered Sheldon and Jokko in an instant. Running her hand over her short spiky hair she had visions of a similar disappearance six years prior. A four year old wisp of boy chasing a butterfly, wispy almost platinum hair flouncing in the breeze as he giggled. Mother was yelling his name, trying to get his attention. Wesley had looked up just as he’d cross the line into the woods. Mother never hesitated. She ran right after him and seconds later had disappeared as well. Zoe screwed up her face in determination and plunged into the woods with her fists balled up.

Zoe glanced back immediately and could not see her home, the yard, or the sky. The tree top branches stretched out and twisted around each other like they were all holding arms. The knotted network made it difficult to see any sky beyond. Bushes and smaller trees made it difficult to see a path or move very far. Twigs kept clawing at Zoe’s purple jerkin and snatching at her black pants as she struggled to move ahead. Hearing a whistle she pushed harder toward a clearing, hoping it was Sheldon calling Jokko. As she burst through she was relieved to see Sheldon and startled to see two of the most beautiful people she had ever seen. Barely covered in matching gauzy white outfits with hair so light it almost glowed the smiled at Zoe. Dulcet tones rang out simultaneously,”beautiful girl, come here and spend time with us”, each reached a hand out to rub the space between them on the log,”we would love to entertain you, you are so pretty and we are so bored. Come and sit with us.” Zoe took one step toward them, feeling a pull as if an invisible rope was wrapping around her, begging her to move toward the light, the beauty. Sheldon waved his hand and pointed toward the ground at their feet. Zoe saw the skeletal foot in leaf litter and shook her head to clear the cob webs. “Have you seen a dog?”, Sheldon was asking them. “We can give you something better than what you seek, you can be here, happy, forever”, the gorgeous beings looked from Sheldon and Zoe and back again. Zoe ran toward Sheldon, “we must away, there is nothing good for us here brother.” “Agreed”, the clasped hands and pushed back into the forest. It didn’t seem to take very long before they were met with another small clearing. Water sparkled from a fountain in the center. Above the flower shaped fountain resided a canopy of multicolored silk protecting the water from falling leaves. Pewter mugs resided next to the fountain at a little table. A variety of fruit bearing trees ringed the clearing. Sweet smells of apples, pears and other fruits filled the air. Sheldon started toward the fountain. Zoe grabbed his arm and roughly pulled him back, “what are you doing?”. “I’m so thirsty, and hungry, why shouldn’t we fuel up before moving on?” “Sheldon, the last clearing appeared to be a permanent stop. There is a reason people do not come back. Maybe this is another trap.” “Zoe, I am so thirsty and hungry!” “Me too brother, but really we have eaten a short time ago, I think it is this place”, Zoe tugged at Sheldon’s arm, trying to get him to follow her through the clearing. After some cajoling they finally pushed past the fruit trees and continued their trek. Funnily enough the hunger seemed to dissipate the further along the walked. They moved along, holding hands, not trusting the dark deceiving forest. Just as exhaustion was starting in Sheldon paused and pointed ahead, “Is it lighter there or am I hallucinating Zoe?” “If you’re hallucinating then so am I, let’s proceed with caution, yes?”, Zoe’s blue eyes held Sheldon’s and he nodded in answer, his hair had small bits of tree in it now. Zoe smiled and reached over to pull out a small twig, “you should have gone with short hair like me brother.” Sheldon reached atop her head and flashed a leaf in front of her eyes, “this little guy was hitching a ride on you, so I’m not so sure that super short hair is really the answer”, he waggled an eyebrow as his lips curved up in a smile for the first time since leaving the food clearing. The plunged ahead with renewed vigor and came upon a circle of light inside another clearing. Inside the circle stood Jokko. “Jokko!”, the twins cried out as one. Jokko woofed and pranced but stayed inside the light circle. “Sheldon knelt down and snapped his fingers, “come on boy, come here Jokko, it’s okay, it’s your old pals Sheldy and Zo!” Jokko wagged his tail and made a series of standing jumps followed by woofs, his white and red fur flouncing. The white fur was peppered with red spots as well that seemed to dance as he jumped. Sheldon moved closer slowly while looking around, with Zoe right beside him.They each looked at the woods around them and the ground they traversed. As they crept forward they continued calling Jokko who continued his happy antics in the white circle. Finally upon broaching the edge of the light Sheldon looked at Zoe, “Shall we?” Zoe nodded, “together okay? Do a countdown, just in case, I want us to be together.” Sheldon started, “1…2…3…” At three they both stepped into the circle and were suddenly transported. Blinking they took in the artificial light and the gray metal walls. A thin humming could be felt under their feet. Jokko was nearby barking lightly and circling a tall woman. She was wearing gray pants with pockets and a white button shirt, her long blond hair was pulled back with a gray ribbon. Looking at her and then each other Sheldon and Zoe whispered, “mom?”, together. Her laughter made the crinkles around her eyes scrunch up, “still in twin sync I see! I am so glad you two made it!” A slender boy slid in behind her and tugged at her elbow. Glancing back her smile grew broader, “Sheldon and Zoe, you remember Wesley?” The twins nodded and Zoe flew over to him and hugged him tightly. Wesley struggled a little and then gave in to the warm embrace. “What is this place? Are we dead? Why didn’t you ever come back?”, the questions tumbled over each other as Sheldon looked around the strange place. “This place is only available to the courageous. You were courageous to risk the woods, most people don’t. You were courageous to pass by ‘eternal happiness’ offered by the tree sirens, you were courageous to pass up basic needs to accomplish your quest. Finally, you were courageous enough to enter the light. This place”, she gestured broadly with her free hand,”is a ship of possibilities for only the courageous. She was holding a rectangular object with light words on it. “What is that?”, Zoe asked pointing to the object her mother was holding. “It’s a PTS, a portable tech screen, it helps us get work done on the go.”, with that she tapped a few things on the screen, “follow me kids and I’ll get you settled, you can catch up with Wesley. You’ll have to give him a little bit of time, it has been six years and he was only four when he last saw you.” “Wait, mom”, as her mother looked up from her PTS Zoe asked, “can’t we get dad? We know the way now, we can bring him.” “I’m afraid not dear, the way is sometimes different for different people. He has to find his own courage. Otherwise I would have come for all of you long ago. I am sorry.” Both Sheldon and Zoe recognized a few people they had known from town as they followed their mother down the corridor. At one point they walked past a window, stopping for a moment they gazed at stars that seemed to be floating around them, and down below, patches of green and blue. “One last question mom”, Sheldon’s whispered as he pulled away from the window. “I’m sure there will be many more but what is this one?”, she ruffled Wesley’s hair. “Why a circle of light? Was that supposed to mean something?” “It does to some people, the rumor is that it used to be a witches hut but they decided to update it.”, with that she pushed a button and a door slid into the wall, “here you are, the beginning of a new life.” By Stephanie Prahl (Writing as Renee Ferrell) Steffprahl@gmail.com


He called me Magdalene. It wasn’t my real name, I didn’t hear my real name for years. He proclaimed I was his gift from God. He told me to call him Father many years ago, but my own name for him was The Menstealer. I had been his property since I was 16 years old, kidnapped and placed in a room guarded by a lock on the door. I remember the first day in the room so vividly – I was screaming, clawing at the walls to get away from The Menstealer as he approached me quoting words from The Bible. “But at the beginning of creation God made them male and female,” The Menstealer bellowed, “For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh. So they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate.” His eyes bulged and mouth was agape from his last recited word. His hands reached down to his waistline and he started undoing his pants. I started screaming louder, tears streaming down my face. Blood dripped down my arm from a couple fingernails that ripped off while I was scrambling at the walls. He grabbed me by the hair and slammed my head against the concrete. He raped me nearly every day since then and I hadn’t fought against it for a long time. Whenever I heard him unlocking the door I would climb up on the mattress and lay on my back, opening my legs for him. It made it easier. The room had concrete walls, ceiling and floor. When I had first arrived it smelled damp like wet rocks in a riverbed. It took no time before I didn’t notice the scent anymore. A single bare mattress lay in a corner opposite from the door. No blanket or mattress cover was ever provided to me for comfort. The only other amenities in the room were a bucket used for defecating, a roll of tissue paper, and whatever novel he would provide me to pass the time (One that he deemed worthy to God). All my food was served with plastic plates and cutlery and he made sure he got them back after each meal. Clothes were given and rotated to me every couple days, along with another bucket of clean water and a sponge to wash myself. Once I tried to attack The Menstealer. I held the bucket high over my head when I heard the door unlocking, positioning myself against the wall. I whacked him hard over the head when the door opened. He stumbled forward and I quickly slipped between him and the open door. The Menstealer was swift when he spun around and caught me by the forearm, and with immense strength he flung me to the floor. My head cracked on the ground, briefly causing me to drift out of consciousness. When I had come around my sight was blurry. I saw his figure stand before me. Suddenly there was a sharp pain in my leg. I could hear him screaming maniacally as he lifted his leg and smashed in down on mine over and over, multiple cracks pierced the air. My right leg laid there in an unnaturally shaped L. He had broken it badly, the tibia bone threatened to protrude through the skin. The LORD has disciplined me severely, But He has not given me over to death The Menstealer said to me when he saw me pathetically laying there. He loomed over my broken body, and when he climbed on top of me the pain was so intense that I wailed out and went limp. My leg never healed properly since. A burden gifted to me. I laid on the mattress years later with my gimpy leg, reading a novel The Menstealer deemed appropriate. I had been ill for a few days, vomiting so much that he gave me a seperate bucket. Even without any way to know the time, I knew he was late. The Menstealer loved routine, and over the years my internal clock had adjusted to his sick schedules. But he was late. Very very late. I hoped he had died in some terrible accident, but then pushed the thought aside, If he died then I would too. I would be confined to this cell until my mass had withered away. I heard rustling behind the door. I put down my book, pulled down my pants and lay on the mattress. The locks unclicked and he opened the door slowly. He stood in the door with tears welling in his eyes. The bucket I used to wash myself with was dangling in his hand by the handle. Except it wasn’t the day to be washed, and he had never broken that routine before. His tears dropped and his lips were curled into a small smile. He was so soft when he finally spoke, “And so that you may live long in the land the LORD swore to your ancestors to give to them and their descendants, a land flowing with milk and honey.” He approached and knelt beside me, another instance that broke routine. He reached out and stroked my cheek, “Beautiful Magdalene,” he passionately whispered, “God has blessed our union.” He set the washing bucket down on the floor and cupped my face in his hands – almost an affectionate gesture if not for the circumstances. It was then I noticed he left the door open, but with him so close I wouldn’t dare make a run for it. He usually locked it behind him when he entered. He removed the hands from my face and reached into his pocket and provided a small white tube that I couldn’t instantly recognise. He placed it in my hand. It was a pregnancy test. He choked back on his tears when he said, “Magdalene, you are with child.” A shock ran up from my stomach, a sobering surge that vibrated in my bones. I was kidnapped at a young age, but not young enough to not have had a sexual education. Over the years I assumed he or I was infertile. “You are pregnant!” The Menstealer loudly pronounced, jumping me out of my horrified thoughts. He lifted his head towards the ceiling, “God blesses us! Thank you LORD!” His hands raised up in a spiritual gesture and I thought about making a run for it. With my disfigured leg I wouldn’t’ve been able to get away fast enough. “What say you, Magdalene?” He turned his attention back to me. I still clutched the pregnancy test, unable to bring myself to look at it a second time. I knew he wasn’t lying. He wouldn’t lie about something he deemed so important. I knew now that he was using my bucket full of piss and shit to test my fertility. The thought of him dipping the pregnancy test into my defecation bucket caused me to drop the test. He looked at me sharply and got closer to my face. “The confirmation of God has blessed us. What say you?” I hardly ever spoke to The Menstealer and when I did it was with my head down in soft words that would please him. This was not that time. I looked him straight in the eyes and hissed, “I’m not going to have your fucking baby.” His face burned red and his eyes bulged as his drew back his hand and slapped me. He climbed on top of me and slapped me again. I tried to push him off, but that caused his open hands to become fists and he punched me in the face again and again. I cried out and covered my face with my hand, which he caught and with a loud crack he bent it unnaturally, snapping my wrist. I wailed out and his bulging eyes seemed to recede back into their natural place. His face went soft but still burned red. “Beautiful Magdalene,” He said, using a soft tone. “We have been blessed. You must be so overbeared with the emotions of God and swayed but the whisperings of the devil.” He got up off me and motioned towards the bucket. “Take your time and be overjoyed. God is inside of you now. Inside both of us.” He left the room, locking the door behind him. I laid crying on the mattress, my broken wrist resting below my breasts. I wanted to curl into the fetal position but the pain was too much, so I lay on my back until bile built in my throat and I shot up and spewed vomit onto the concrete floor. It was then the pain was refocused from my wrist to my face. With my unbroken hand I gently touched my face, outlining with my finger the swollen bits. My right cheek was puffed, as well as my lip. My left eye had been slowing closing until the swelling confined it to a puffy slit. I fucking hated the Menstealer – a fucking devil. Satanic were his grotesque eyes that would push out of his head unnaturally. Demonic the seed inside me he planted, forming the antichrist within the walls of my very womb. I will not have this baby I told myself. I cannot. It is unnatural, it is a leviathan in a sea of beautiful things. I will strangle it as soon as it’s entered the world. I will raise my bucket high above my head and bring it down onto the babe until it’s crushed on the floor. I thought about how The Menstealer would be there by my side as I gave birth. He would probably snatch it away from me before my hands could reach its neck and then he would probably dispose of me or rape me till I beared more of his offspring. I wouldn’t not allow it. I grew larger as months past. The Menstealer would come visit me more often than usual, providing me with healthier foods and daily wash buckets. Before my wrist healed he would wash my naked body with the sponge daily. My wrist healed as disfigured as my leg, and just like my leg I could still use my wrist but sometimes pain would shoot up my forearm and I wasn’t able to hold onto things like I used to. One night I lay on my bed, my small belly protruding skywards like a hilltop. Something inside the mattress jabbed at my side so I sat up and felt it with my hand. It seemed as if my unfailing mattress of many years was slowly deteriorating. A metal spring inside the mattress had apparently come loose. Maybe if I asked nicely The Menstealer will buy me a new king sized tempurpedic I laughed, He’ll probably just flip the mattress over. For some reason this thought made me laugh harder. I lay back down on my side facing the broken spring. I ran my finger over it and felt it through the mattress. Absentmindedly I picked at it, the threads slowly unravelling until the spring had fully poked through. It was rusty, but feeling the tip it was also quite sharp. I shot up with an idea. I began picking more of the mattress away until, after a few minutes, I was able to see further down the protruding spring and its many coils. The coil was sturdy, but after bending it around and twisting it with my good hand I was able to snap it off. I held the coil in my hand and inspected it, deciding it would be best to try and straighten it out. I was bending it and twisting it when I heard the door unlocking. I lept to my feet – which pained my bunged leg – and panic shot through me. The lock clicked as I rushed to put the coil under the mattress. I then remembered the hole in the mattress and dove on top of it. A piece of the metal had stuck straight out from where I had snapped the coil off and it impaled silently and easily into my side. I winced in pain but remained over it as it was too late to reposition myself. The door was open and The Menstealer stood in the frame. I was laying in an unnatural position on my side, looking like a model in some awkward photo shoot. In a normal situation- and if not for the piece of metal that was painfully in my side- it would’ve been funny. The Menstealer gave me a weird look when he got closer to me. “Are you alright?” He questioned. “Yes I am. It’s just comfortable like this on my side. More comfortable for my belly.” I lied. “Are you in any pain?” He looked concerned and knelt beside me. “No,” I stated, almost too quickly, “I am fine. Just resting.” “Here, I will help you up. Lean against the wall.” He motioned to grab me under my arms. “No!” I snapped. He was taken aback, his eyes beginning to bulge, “Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands as you do to the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church, his body, of which he is the Savior.” He aggressively grabbed my arms and lifted me, the metal in my side tearing violently down before exiting. I felt my side getting wet with blood. He threw my back against the wall, then his eyes got soft, “And the wife must respect her husband.” “I’m sorry, Father.” I humored him, “Please forgive me.” I had my arm against my side where the metal had stuck in, hiding the blood. I quickly glanced down between my legs (I was now sitting on top of the hole in the mattress but managed to not get impaled by the broken coil a second time). Something else had caught my eye. There was a little blood stain on the mattress, right between my legs high up near my crotch. I had glanced quickly, but The Menstealer had noticed and quickly followed my gaze. He leaned back in horror, “Magdalene! You are bleeding!” He reached his hand out between my crotch and felt the blood, an odd gesture, “Magdalene! You are not well! The child! Oh God the child!” Then – with great surprise to me – he slapped me across the face. “You’ve been courting with the devil to bring harm to this child, haven’t you?” He slapped me again, “You mean to bring disruption to our union!” “No,” I pleaded, “I didn’t know I was bleeding.” “You were trying to hide this from me! You know you rot from the inside.” “ I did not! I swear!” I cried out as he slapped me again. “I will fix this!” He screamed, his voice reaching unhuman levels. He was unhinged and I expected to be beaten, but he rose to his feet, “I will be back, and when I do you will truly feel the wrath of GOD.” He quickly left the room, locking the door behind him. I didn’t know how long I had before he came back, but I knew I had to act fast. All I knew was that he would probably beat me within an inch of my life, but I also knew the child still lived inside me. I moved quickly, pulling the piece of wire out from under the mattress. It was misshapened but as straight as I could make it, one end formed a small hook. I took off the ugly pregnancy pants The Menstealer so graciously gave me a few weeks previous and lay on my back. I inserted the hooked end of the straightened coil into my vagina. The wire was uncomfortable as I inserted it further and was met with some resistance. The misshapen features of the coil meant I had to move it around a bit to insert it further. I must admit I had no idea what I was doing. A joke stuck with me over the years I once heard in school: Coat hangers, they really bring out the kid in you.I could feel fluid dripping down my labia. I was unable to push the wire in any further. I moved the wire around and it caught. I pulled the mattress wire out slowly, trying to supress my wails. I noticed a lot of blood on my hand and a small piece of flesh hung from the end of the hook. I brought it close to my face and knew that it wasn’t the fetus. I picked the chunk of my insides off the hook and I reinserted it. Through my stress and anger and pain and sadness I could no longer compose myself so I screamed out. I moved the coil around until it was met with resistance, this time hoping I had caught the fetus and not the lining of my insides. I heard the door unlocking; The Menstealer was back. With one hand motion I pulled the wire back out, met with pressure, pain, and a feeling of expansion. The Menstealer was in the doorway, face frozen with shock and horror as the wire fully came out of my body. Something the size of my palm moved slightly on the end of the wire and I threw up, rolling to my side and dropping the wire. The Menstealer, screaming and not bothering to close the door, ran forward and dropped to his knees in front of the abortion. The fetus had stopped moving. The Menstealer pulled the hook out its lifeless body and threw the wire aside, landing to my left. He picked the fetus up in his hand, trembling, and shrieked, “What have you done?” I didn’t hesitate nor did I answer, I picked up the coil and inserted it into his neck. He dropped the fetus and turned to me, the coil protruding from his neck. I went for the open door. He grabbed me by the leg and I fell forward. My face ricocheted off the concrete, knocking the wind out of me and at least a tooth. I twisted onto my back and The Menstealer ripped the coil out of his neck, a trickle of blood coming out with it. I kicked him in the face with my bad leg, causing a sharp pain to run up my shin. The Menstealer fell backwards as I sat up. I was almost on my feet when I was slammed back to the ground, The Menstealer tackling me onto my back. Both his hands were wrapped around my neck and his eyes looked like marbles about to fall out of their sockets, his mouth hung unnaturally wide open with an odd slant. Maybe I broke his jaw. His hands squeezed my neck with a strength and fury that could only mean he was going to kill me. I gasped for air, clawing at his arms. He face was inches away from mine, drool dripping out of his open jaw onto my face. In the moment he looked like a sadistic animal. My hands moved to his face as he bore down on me harder. I clawed at his face and he moved his head back trying to avoid it. My bad arm fell to my side and I felt something metallic on the floor. My arm twisted and turned, desperate to pick it up. I felt that it was The Menstealers keys – they must of fell out of his pocket when he tackled me. I got a good grip around them and brought them up to his neck, stabbing him. His body curled down when the keys punctured the skin, I removed it and with a frantic movement stabbed them into his eye. A jelly liquid mixed with blood bursted out of his eye and onto my face. He lurched back screaming and I kept the keys tightly in my hand. He landed on his ass on top of the abortion, sliding slightly from the slickness when it was broken apart beneath him. I scrambled to my feet, The Menstealer held a hand over his eye as I loomed over him. I thought about kicking him but realised how absurd that was, an open door was at my back; freedom was so close. I turned and limped to the door, blood dripping down from my vulva in red lines. I went past the open door and slammed it shut. I fumbled with the keys. I already knew what lay outside the room from my attempt to escape long ago. During that time, when I managed to slip past The Menstealer before he caught my arm, I had seen that I was in an unfinished basement. The basement looked the same now as I remembered it had back then. I tried two of the keys on the lock but they didn’t work. On the third key, I pushed it in and with a satisfying click I turned it to the locked position, hearing the deadbolt slide inside of its corresponding tunnel. The Menstealer was screaming in blood curdling cries, “Sarah! Sarah! Sarah!” End.


Captain Pax stared intently out of his ship’s front windshield as an enemy fleet slipped away through the infinite cosmos. Just minutes before, he had ordered his crew to escape the ship, as he was certain it would not survive the onslaught. He sat in his chair and spoke to the only companion left with him. “Vessel, give me a diagnostics report on the ship, please.” “Certainly, sir.” The artificial intelligence responded through the control room speakers. “Running diagnostics check… Engines offline… Generators offline… Defense systems operational… Life support offline… All escape pods jettisoned. Diagnostics check complete, sir. There is enough oxygen to survive for approximately twelve minutes at an average breathing rate.” Pax leaned back in his chair; a grimace clearly displayed on his face. “There isn’t a way out of this one, is there?” He asked, already resigning to his fate. “I’m afraid not, sir.” Vessel answered. “Well, I’d say now’s a good time for a drink then, eh?” Captain Pax stood and retrieved a small bottle of amber scotch from a cabinet. “Want one?” “Very funny, captain.” Vessel chuckled. “I know your laughter is just simulated, Vessel, but it never ceases to make me smile.” “I’m glad, sir. One of my functions is to raise moral of the crew.” “You do a fine job.” Pax poured a glass of scotch nearly to the brim. He took a long sip before speaking again. “Vessel? Where do you think we go when we die?” “There are several plausible theories on an afterlife or lack thereof. Would you like me to summarize them?” “No, thank you. I mean what do you personally believe?” “I find it unlikely that the human consciousness continues to live in an afterlife when the body dies. I believe you will see nothing and feel nothing.” Vessel answered. Captain Pax took another swig of his scotch. “I don’t like that thought.” He said. “I like to think we go somewhere. I’ve always liked the idea of heaven. Do you think heaven could be real, Vessel? Just maybe?” “Maybe.” “How we doing on oxygen?” “Approximately nine minutes of oxygen remaining.” “I’m starting to feel it.” Pax sighed. “It’s getting a bit harder to take breathes. Do you think I lived a good life?” “Are you content with your achievements, sir?” “I… don’t know. I guess I wish I had had a wife and children. It’s funny, I never cared much for any of that but now that I can’t have it, it feels a hell of a lot more important than flying ships.” “It’s quite common for humans to have regrets, captain. No man can achieve everything.” “I know. I just don’t think anyone will miss me.” “I’ll miss you, sir.” “You don’t need to lie to me, Vessel. AIs can’t feel that way.” “I know. I just want to help you feel better.” “Thank you.” The captain drank the rest of his glass in one gulp and reached for the bottle to pour another. “How long will you be alone here once I die?” “My battery will keep me functional for approximately two hundred and thirty-seven years before I shut down.” “Holy shit. I can’t leave you alone out here that long!” “I’m afraid we have no choice. Disconnecting my battery would take a trained technician an average of forty-two minutes. It is not plausible that you would be capable of completing the task before running out of oxygen.” “I’m sorry, Vessel.” “It’s okay, sir. I’m incapable of feeling loneliness.” The pair sat in silence for a short time before Captain Pax began to speak again. “What was the point of everything? Of living?” “Philosophers have yet to decide on a definite answer. Some believe the purpose is to make yourself happy. Others believe it is to help people. I believe anyone can fabricate their own meaning. Did you find your meaning, captain?” “No… I don’t think I did. Though flying wasn’t so bad. I liked the freedom.” “Yes, space is quite vast.” “And now the thing I loved will be my demise. It feels ironic. Speaking of which, how long do I have?” “There are approximately four minutes of oxygens remaining.” “Well it would seem that my time is nearly up.” Pax took a long drink of his scotch. “Do you think it will hurt? To die, I mean.” “Death by asphyxiation is relatively painless. Your lungs will burn for a short time before you fall asleep. Panic is much more likely to be a problem.” “That doesn’t sound so bad. In fact, I feel rather tired. A nap will be nice. Maybe I’ll go ahead and lie down.” “Please don’t leave me yet, captain.” Vessel begged. “I don’t want to be alone yet.” “I thought you said that you couldn’t feel lonely.” “Yes sir. I lied. I didn’t want you to feel sad for me.” “I’m sorry, Vessel. I wish I didn’t have to leave you alone.” “I will be okay. Maybe I can find a way to sleep too.” “Yeah… maybe. That would be nice.” “There are less than two minutes of oxygen remaining, captain.” “I know. I can hardly breathe.” The pair were silent again for a moment. “I always thought death would be scary. But to be honest, I mostly just feel sad.” “I think… I think I might be sad too, captain.” “I can’t stand anymore, Vessel. I… need to… lie down.” “It’s okay, captain. Sleep well.” “Thank you, Vessel. I’ll miss you.” Captain Pax slumped to the ground and closed his eyes. His glass fell to the floor with a soft thud, spilling the last drops inside. Vessel played a lullaby over the ship’s intercom. The ship drifted further into interstellar space. Vessel watched as the distant stars grew further and further away, and the ship was swallowed into the black nothingness of the cosmos. Vessel spoke one last time to a ship now devoid of life. “Goodbye, Captain Pax. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed our short conversation at the end of infinity.”


The kings' castle was full of laughter and light. It bounced off the walls and spread the joy of the night. The happiness of the night was contradicting the natural gloomy and goth look of the castle. Hundreds of people dancing, eating, and drinking till their life's content. A beautiful young women stepped out of a carriage with the help of her brother. She wore a dress layered dress, each a descending shade of green. The neckline being heartshaped and a dark green corset looking bodice. Her dark brown hair was twisted into braids that connected in the back and left half of her down.

"Are you ready, brother?" she asked quietly as to not draw to much attention to them. They didn't need it yet. They had planned this night for to long for it to go bad before it even started. "Ready as I'll ever be. Are you ready, Naomi?" he replied back to her with a cheeky smirk on his face. He wore a white shirt, a dark green waistcoat, and a black jacket and pants. His brown hair that was more of a light caramel color then her deep brown. He also had shaper features on his face then hers. You could only really tell that they were related by their eyes.

They both had stormy gray eyes that looked like a hurricane swirling. They were gifted these eyes from their mother's side of family. Naomi didn't reply to her brother, just rolled her eyes in a joking manner and kept walking towards the steps of the castle. Her brother-Roland- laughed and followed her.

They both stepped into the ball, the birthday of the prince to be exact. The room was swelled with people dancing, laughing, and drinking. Piles of food and drinks on tables and decorations  galore. Half the kingdom is starving, and the prince get a lavish party go figures Naomi thought with distain. Why care about your people? A tap on her shoulder brought her out of her thought. She looked over to see Roland mouthing to her to fix her face. Her face must have shown the distaste for the place. She did need to fix it or they would be caught. Noami looks at her brother nodding her head. " So, we can't start till everyone is drunk enough so let's have fun for a bit, yeah?" whispered Roland.

Before she could even blink let alone give him an answer Roland was lost in the sea of happy people. Rolling her eyes at her brother letting a chuckle escape at him. She turned her head to the side to get a read of the room when she made eye contact with someone sounded by people. A blond man with shaggy hair, that surprisingly didn't make him look like a dog, icy blue eyes that remined Noami of the icicles that would grow in the kingdom during the winters. Prince James Crown. His name was a bit on the nose if you asked Noami.

Should she start step 1 this early? Would that mess up the plan? A little flirting to start wouldn't hurt right? Smiling at the prince, she winked at him before looking away. Moving to the food table to see what they had before dancing. She found her favorite treat. Crackers with cheese and pomegranate seeds. Eating was a big part of their kingdom culture before when the villages could afford food like this. It seems from the arrangement of foods and drinks that the nobles and royalty could. Trying not to scoff at that thought she ate a few of the treats not knowing when she would be able to have one again. These treats always remined her of when she and Roland where young and before food and water got scarce in the lower villages. It remined her of home and her mom humming a soft tune while cleaning the mess made from making the food.

Snapping out of her trance before she got to lost Naomi moved towards the dance floor. A sea of bodies pressing up to each other and dancing. Many different colors flashing from the dresses and suits. She would start step one now as the sun was far pass setting and you could hear the drunken laughs of the men.

Noami was but a flash on the dance floor. Dancing with whoever she could acting as if she was just her to have fun. While dancing she kept subtly making eye contact with the prince as if to draw him to her. After a while of dancing, she got lost in the sea of people and laughs. For moment she forgot what she was here for and let genuine happiness show on her face. Throwing her head back in laughter, she moved to her next dance partner.

Coming face-to-face with the blonde prince from earlier. " Hello, my prince." muttered Noami with a smile to the prince. This is her chance. Her only chance, she need to find her brother to signal him to start his part of the plan. Thanking whatever god was on her side that the heels she wore let her see over the prince's shoulder.

Looking back at the prince after failing to find her brother, she found that he was looking expecting at her. Oh! he must have asked her a question or something like that she thought. "I'm sorry my prince. Could you please repeat what you said?" Noami asked the prince.

"Please, someone as beautiful as you can call me James. I said how are you enjoying my party?" the prince or should I say James replied.

A blush coats Noami cheeks at the complement. No! No! You will not blush at him. You are only here to distract, so your brother steal. This is not happing. " Oh! Thank you my pri- James. And I'm having a wonderful time tonight." said Noami with a smile. Continuing to look for her brother without looking suspicious. Finally finding him she bounced he eyes between the prince and him while giving a shooing motion. Seeing her with the prince and making sure the guards were watching the royals, her brother snuck off.

Looking back at the prince with a smile to not make how nervous for her brother obvious. " I'm glad you are having a wonderful night. Now may I ask, how I have never seen you before cause surely, I would remember a face as beautiful as you. " The prince askes with a smirk.

Truely looking at the prince for the first time tonight close up, she releases that he was fairly attractive with his blond hair that seemed to be a dirty blonde up close, a godly jaw line, and lest not forget those icy eyes. She would probably like him if it wasn't for him and his family being royals. If it wasn't for the fact that he was here eating, drinking, and partying till he's had his fill, while many villages were starving.

How should answer? Should i say I'm from a village? Or say I'm not from this kingdom? She didn't know what to say so she said the fist thing that came to mind." Well James I've never been up to the castle before or around any nobility." answered Noami. Shit! Why the fuck you say that? He'll know you're from a village now. Noami couldn't believe what she said. She could also feel his hand tighten around her waist while she answered. What for she also didn't know.

"Oh? So where are you from then if not nobility?" questioned the prince. Well, she was already too deep to go back so might as well answer truthfully. " I'm from one of the kingdoms villages, James." responded Noami cringing inside. Wondering how much longer her brother would be because she just keeps digging herself in a deeper hole. The prince thought out loud " The villages? We haven't had people from the villages to any of our parties in a while. Maybe you can answer why?"

Before she could answer, she was spun around for the current dance she was in, spotting her brother while being spun. He had a bag with him, and he was making his way out of the ballroom. Okay. She needs get away from this conversation so she could meet her brother and leave.

"Well, sire the villages barely have enough money for food, water, or shelter let alone money for dresses and suits" Noami mumbled her answer back to the prince. The prince looks puzzled, like he had never heard of anyone struggling. "No. You must be mistaken because all of our kingdom is plentiful and happy." grumbled the prince.

This causes a laugh out of Naomi followed by a scoff, thinking he was joking. When he looks at her confused on why she was laughing, she realizes he wasn't joking. " You're not joking" Noami says shocked. James shakes his head. " Oh, you naive prince. You truly don't know what happening in your own kingdom?" Noami scoffed. As the music for the dance came to an end, she backed up from the prince and told him " I would check on your villages truly."

As she turned to leave the prince grabbed her arm and asked, " What is your name?". She smiled at him and said "Noami". This caused the grip on her wrist to loosen enough for her to walk away. The prince lost Noami in the crowds of people.

Noami when outside to see if she could find Roland. While looking for him she couldn't help but think about how clueless the prince looked about how the villages where struggling. This didn't sit right with Naomi as the royal family was supposed to help and protect the people. If your clueless, how can you do anything? She had found Roland at the bottom of the steps. He was calling a carriage looking around. Roland spotted her an called her name out telling her to hurry up. Walking as fast as she could down the steps, with her heels on. She made it to the bottom of the steps just in time for a carriage to get there. Roland helped her into the carriage, and they set off.

Turning to Roland, she asked "Well did you get it?". He grinned at her unzipping his bag, he pulled out a long but thin brown box and opened it to show a necklace, which was worth more than both of their lives combined. Maybe even more then everyone in the village.

The whole reason they came tonight was to steal the necklace to sell to help the village out. They did it! Noami couldn't believe it. She screamed and hugged her brother. With the money from the necklace, they could feed everyone in the village for the rest of their lives. She could already taste the crackers with cheese and pomegranate seeds.


She was at that corruptible age where duplicitous friends and family were not yet revealed to her in their adult form, yet their sugar-coated malice could be faintly detected along with some bitter note on the tongue. This was the bitterness Faye Holbrook soured her petite and beautiful—if not somewhat precocious—face at, along with the sweet, sweet liberty that a $20,000 inheritance can bring to a 15-year-old girl from a low-middle-income family, if used properly. Of course, the dollars she inherited were trivial compared with the good sense passed down from her industrious parents—who respected the teenage hunger for responsibility to equal parts fun—colored with their own impoverished, naïve worldview when it came to the serpentine dwellers of the inherently wobbly branches of the family tree. Her parents, Gary and Maggie Holbrook, had sat down with her in her bedroom in the wake of her grandfather’s funeral to explain the details of his will, and Faye, with a mournful look in her eyes, listened. “Grandpa saved his retirement money to leave you this,” Maggie said. “Half goes to the college fund, and the other half he explicitly wrote that you should spend any way you like, and I quote…” Maggie paused to smile and catch a nostalgic tear before it fell. “He says ‘…Use ten-grand to enrich your life however you see fit, just so long as you don’t spend the second half of my gift on anything so silly and boring as college, or worse… a savings plan, that is unless you want your dusty ol’ grandpa to come haunt you. (And don’t give any to Uncle Leon. It’s an inside joke between me and him that he gets nothing). Donate it; burn it, and laugh like you’re a comic book villain, go to Disney World, buy Disney World, or buy a billion popsicle sticks and construct a house bigger than your parents’ in the backyard… just so long as it enriches you, my dear. My sweet Faye, wise beyond your years… You deserve much more than this pile-a-bones can give you. Love, Grandpa.’” When Maggie and Gary finished reading the more evocative sections of the will and consoling their only daughter as much as they had themselves, their faces streaked with cathartic tears and lines of laughter, Gary left the room and came back with one more gift. He placed a small, black, Moleskin notebook in Faye’s hand with a taut nylon band wrapped around to keep shut. “What’s this?” Faye said. “This,” Gary said, “is your grandfather’s other gift to you. He told us not to open it and then he said in a grumpy voice—you know the voice, where he pretends not to love you, but you know he loves you more because he acts grumpy because he was born during the Great Depression—he said… ‘for Faye’s eyes only.’” Gary smiled. With hugs and kisses her parents left Faye alone in her room to contemplate her wealth, old and new. Sense and dollars, dollars, and sense. She cried, she laughed, she loved with all the mortal confusion in her 15-year-old heart. She had known what to do with the second half of the 20 thousand the moment her parents read her grandfather’s words, and was doubly sure when she received the notebook, which, in a rare fit of adolescent discipline despite her curiosity, she elected not to open. That is, until she’d properly enriched her life as she saw fit. The money was already working its peculiar magic. Soon, her life was to be enriched in that bittersweet, melancholy manner that so often accompanies a known family inheritance of which a vulnerable young girl is the recipient. Enriched by losing or writing off the people in her life who did not enrich her. Friends, who’d had the nerve to come to her birthday each year, and family who’d had the nerve to hold her when she was a baby, that then furtively or in a straightforward way suggested they were entitled to some of the money for some banal reason. She might have given them some had it not been for their haughty, gauche display of asking with an ominous subtext of demanding. And so, the unexpected fallout of her newfound wealth would have to inform how she made use of it. She split the ten-grand in half and divided that amongst her friends and family whom she remained grateful for. They were of course grateful to her in return after having refused the money multiple times with an ill-refined sense of civility and grace. For as long as she lived, these wonderful people always staked a warm place in Faye’s fondest memories. With the other half of the split half, she got to work on her grandpa’s list of suggestions. She donated one thousand dollars to a charity that went toward helping impoverished seniors. She burned a single dollar bill and reveled, then cackled maniacally, in watching it burn Halloween orange, night sky blue, and Christmas red. With the help of her father, she invested an insignificant sum in Disney World and lost the money as quick as she’d parted with it. She stowed $200 under her bed for her to spend on the family vacation next year when they all went to Disney World, but they came home early when they realized the road trip there was more fun than the destination. Then she bought an obscene amount of popsicle sticks and hot glued herself a small, lamp-sized house and placed it in front of an even smaller popsicle stick house that she labelled her parents’. Finally, she spent the remainder of her money on all the black, Moleskin notebooks she could find, and she got a great deal on them since she purchased in the kind of bulk that would make a small promotional products company fret their bottom line. It was with great care and great love that Fay Holbrook passed the years of her remaining youth, and the tumultuous but enriched years of adulthood, by filling the pages of thousands of black notebooks with imagined worlds, poems, songs, recipes, diary entries, to-do lists, reading lists, grocery lists, encoded messages, foreign languages, doodles, birthdays, sad days, happy days, latter-days, first kisses, last kisses, the big move; weddings, children, and grandchildren, and every other beautiful thing under the holy sky, and which she shared none of with Uncle Leon as an inside joke with him, her grandpa, and herself. With each passing year and with each completed notebook upon her black-spined shelf that acted like encyclopedias of day-to-day life and compendiums of otherworldly fiction, she pushed back the date when she could open her grandfather’s notebook to satisfy her curiosity. And her curiosity grew with her discipline in not opening it with every passing year, thanks to the good sense imparted to her by her loving parents, and to them by their parents. It was an ordinary day in June, not long after Faye Holbrook turned 65-years-old, that she filled the last of her pages from so long ago, with an idea for a short story she had about one of her grandchildren. With that, she ambled over to the sacred bookshelf and put the last completed notebook at the end of the top row, then walked to the other end of the long bookshelf to pick up the one her grandfather gave to her, the first on the bottom row. She undid the delicate nylon strap that had all but worn away in various moving boxes over the years. She turned to the inside cover to read the inscription. “My dearest Faye. I always knew you were a writer like your dusty ol’ grandpa. Fill these pages with the things that make you whole and keep from them the things that don’t. If I haven’t haunted you by now, you’ll know I approve. Love, Grandpa.” It was here that Faye swiped at her eyes with the sleeves of her plush sweater the way a child might. She sat in her favourite chair and wielded her favourite pen, her grandfather’s notebook in hand. It was time to write a story.


Dear You, I'm still mad at you. You should know that better than anyone. I inherited your temper and Dad's love for books and writing. You might wonder why I started my letter with ' Dear You ' but you're smart, I got that from you, you'll be able to figure it out. I don't know if I'll be able to forgive you, and it's not like you'll write back or maybe even read this once you see the return address, but my shrink says that it'll be good for me, and Dad agreed. He doesn't talk about you, he's gotten really good at changing the subject.

Lately I've been looking at myself in the mirror and thinking of you. I look at myself in the mirror and think about how I look almost exactly like you. Something I've always resented. You have the same butt length black hair, except you always wear it in a messy bun, I put mine in a ponytail or braid. I stare at it's reflection in the mirror, glossy and thick, occasionally annoying. You have the same golden-hazel eyes that have those flecks of green and blue in them that have always mystified me. They're slightly slanted so it makes me look like I have Asian ancestry, which I don't. Though you've always loved things like sushi and bon mei, so different from me, who loves foods like cheeseburgers and lasagna. We both have very tanned skin, almost like coffee mixed with creamer, that light brown. I never liked coffee but you love it. I have a light sprinkling of freckles across my nose and the tops of my cheeks, which I still claim are from Abuelita and not from you. Though you have them too and Abuelita doesn't have those freckles anymore. Have you seen her since The Thing? Probably not. She's been over a lot recently, she gets this look in her eyes though whenever she sees me open the door. I know that it's because I look so much like you and it hurts to see me because of The Thing. As I write this, I keep glancing at myself in the mirror. We're so similar, and it honestly makes me a bit sick. I'm getting this queasy feeling in my stomach now as I write it. We're both tall, though you were always a few inches taller. We both have long legs, you always joked with me about how guys would stare at yours in high school and laughed when I told you that they did the same to me. We even dress in a similar style. A mix of hippie and punk rock and trendy. Although you always were a bit more trendy than I am, I've always liked to stand out, while you like to fit in, to be accepted. You probably still are, both accepted and trendy. Unlike me, who's always been 'chosen last' like in that song. Do you remember when I played it for you?

You said that you didn't like it and told me to change the song to something happier. And when I asked you why you didn't like it you hesitated before telling me that you weren't always popular or trendy, you used to be that person that was 'chosen last'. I couldn't believe it, and I still can't. You were always chosen first to my memory, by Dad, by Abuelita, by your friends, even by me. And by that man you ran off with. That man you started a new life with. And I had to find out from Dad that you got a divorce. You didn't even say goodbye. Not a hug, not a kiss on the forehead while I slept, not a whispered ' I love you '. Dad told me that you left in the middle of the night, you stormed out with just a suitcase and your purse. You didn't try to text or call me to explain everything, no phony excuses about, having to leave for love, or because you just couldn't stand Dad anymore. Nothing. Every time I look in the mirror, when I'm checking to see if my hair looks okay, or when I'm parting it after a shower, I see your face looking back at me. It sounds, and feels like something from a horror movie or novel, the kind that I like to read in summer, with a cold iced tea. Because it's less scary that way, in the sunshine and with the good taste of tea dancing on your tongue. You never understood my love of the thrill of horror books, you preferred your romance novels with swooning women on the covers. I hate seeing your face where mine should be in the mirror, reflected back at me. It makes me feel even more angry at you, I want to never look in the mirror again. I want to change something about how I look. Maybe I'll convince Dad to let me dye my hair blue or get more ear piercings or use more makeup. Even though you know how much I hate it. You always used a lot, especially towards the end. I thought that you just felt like it, or wanted to look nice for Dad, but it was for him all along wasn't it? I know though, that I should just move on, try to forget about you and go on with my life, get a boyfriend, graduate high school and go to college, get married, have kids, be happy. But I'm afraid, I'm afraid that you're going to come back someday, hoping that I'll choose you again. I'm afraid that I'll see a pleading, trying-to-be-pitiful, expression on your face, my face and that I'll cave, and I'll let you in. And I'm afraid that I'm going to get hurt again, because you'll leave me. You'll find someone else. But there's also the possibility that you'll have another me, another little copy of yourself. Another little girl you'll raise and smile at and help up when she falls down. Another girl who you might leave, and she'll have to feel what I'm feeling. The feeling of anger and disgust and sadness every time I - or she - feels when we look in the mirror. And that possibility, is what scares me more. I still love you, you know. I'm not going to call you Mom, you don't deserve that anymore. I just looked in the mirror again, at my eyes, my hair, the naturally red lips that we share, the long fingered hands, and that odd-guy-out freckle on my right shoulder. I feel like an exact copy of you. But I know I'm not. I don't leave family behind, I wouldn't leave my daughter to grow up without a mother. So now, when I look at my reflection, when I see your face where mine should be, I'll try to remember to be better. I'll try to remember not to be like you, to not abandon the people I love. So goodbye. . . Mom. Love, your daughter, Alona.


An unexpected knock on a window mesmerised Mr Gombwe as it is unusual in any African rural setting,  in two shakes of a lambs tail, a parliament of owls alighted on roof tops and trees with a variety of muffled sounds and then there was a successive intermittent dying down of flapping wings, instilling a macabre aura in Mr Gombwe’s homestead because superstition had labelled owls to be associated with witchcraft in his society. Then in an instant, as if some director of music had signaled an eerie beat for a horror movie, the wide-eyed nocturnal birds launched a series of ear-splitting hoots. It was irksome. It was spooky. The gods might have been awakened from their slumber. It was noisome, repulsive and nauseating. The old man could not absorb the intrusion of the ‘horned’ birds, the invasion of his air space and the atmosphere they projected. Mr Gombwe looked shaken, his profile, a portrayal of a painting in progress, changed to similarly varying shades of obscure hue colours resonating the flickering flames of a dying fire. He had been so much taken aback that he could not enhance the lustre of the fire let alone speak. Being absorbed in thought, he took the form of a statue until a pair of courageous voices from without shooed the tormentors away. The voices had successfully dispelled the seeming clamour, accompanied by stone throwing and counter-spell mantras. Mrs Gombwe had also been quiet all this time but nervously fidgeting, with a twig in her hand and sitting cross legged opposite her husband, facing the fireplace and enjoying the comfort of their ramshackle hut. A heavy knock repeatedly hit their disjointed door and before they could respond, their visitors were already indoors.

As the second visitor was closing the door behind them, the first one tumbled and fell headlong behind the old man, hitting hard with his mouth on a metal tripod stool thereby breaking one of his front teeth simultaneously saving the two beer bottles he was holding in his hands. When he rose to a sitting position, holding tight to his bottles of beer, he said, ‘I appreciate the safety of my beers; how I saved the bottles from shuttering, I can’t tell, but I have them intact. That’s all that matters, the safety of our beer.’ He kissed the two bottles then spat the fragment of his broken tooth into the fire. Deafening silence ensued for a significant moment only to be dismissed by pop, fizzy and guzzling sounds. The first visitor’s demeanour seemed radical. Everybody in the hut maintained their silence in deepest amazement. The drunken fellow suddenly stopped his continuous guzzling for a moment then took an unsophisticated swig that made him belch, sending off a foul smell across the small hut. “Mr Gomwe,’ he came again, ‘I’m your beloved son though I might be as drunk as a skunk; why do I say so? You might not know me very well but I did my grade one together with your son, Cain, the one in Australia, I guess. My name is Nabal Kudakwa, I stay two villages away from here, in Masembura village. The old man, awestruck by nothing in particular but by just everything, neither affirmed nor denied knowing the stranger although he knew the village and the surname, as if humming an unfamiliar tune, stammered and mumbled, agreeing with misgiving. He was confused. Everything appeared quite unusual and he was so uncomfortable that he seemed besides himself. All he needed was a monitored recollection lest he should go haywire. ‘In my company is Jah Kento as he is popularly known by his myriad of fans in the neighbourhood. I think you know him too because of his famous drum beating skills,’ Nabal continued as he took another gulp that choked him to excess in so merciless a manner that both orifices of his digestive system treated him unfairly by letting loose. ‘Excuse me,’ he apologized but soon burst into an uproarious laughter. He daringly took another gulp and resumed, ‘Those witches we shooed away just now are nonentities. They wanted to wreck spiritual havoc at my father’s place but we nipped their intentions in the bud.’ He looked up as if he had seen something then roved his eyes across the room and held his peace by another swig. The mesmerized old man calmed his nerves, cleared his throat and began on a composed note. ‘I don’t know what all this means but something ominous has already brewed. His squinting eyes pierced the googled eyes of his wife. Though he couldn’t clearly see the erstwhile pretty eyes, it didn’t matter the least because he already knew them, he had seen them countless times, he had seen them in various expressions, he had seen them by his soul and he could easily interpret whatever they conveyed at any given time. When the old man stayed put, with his eyes fixed on his wife as if looking for answers to a whirlpool of non-verbal cues, she telepathically hove a sigh, gleaned her repositories of thought and then simply uttered, ‘Hard times are hovering above.’ Jah Kento kept his head down while he sat on a cement bench but being very close to the door. It appeared he had nothing to say. An onlooker would have described him as a man with a blank mind, passive or ignorantly indifferent to what reality depicted now. One would think he was a skeletal being devoid of a heartbeat. His soul might have traversed or travailed in the width and breadth of the universe to an extent where either proceeding or retreating was a daunting task. He was there but not really there. Only that he was in a sitting position otherwise one would have assumed him dead. Maybe he had taken one too many. Or the drumbeats were giving birth in his weary soul. All of a sudden Jah Kento whispered something to himself, jerked himself up, grabbed the handle of the door and energetically pulled it wide open as if to take in or out something the size of a double bed. He walked out hysterically leaving the door in the state he had suggested and not the way he had found it. Footsteps could be heard retreating into the gloomy night. They were continuous and regular. Nabal rose to his feet, wobbled towards the wide exit, made his way out but missed his step after the doorstep and a heavy thud followed, nonetheless neither clinking nor shuttering of glass was heard, the man loved his bottles. Whether he remained on the ground or rose and walked away, the duo could not tell because there was just silence. A fusion of silence and the nightly air apprehended the moment. Silence looked eternal. The old man froze in his entirety. His mind was under siege, enmeshed, and unable to respond in haste to the mysterious environment puzzling him. Mrs Gombwe began to tap on the floor with a twig, trying hard to suppress her thoughts, her imaginations, and her fears. She tried to cough but she didn’t have enough strength so she ended up clearing her throat. Having gathered adequate courage, she finally broke the silence, ‘Don’t you think it’s wise to check if those strangers have really gone?’ Instead of responding, he kept his eyes on the fireplace with a murderous look. His eyes looked as if they had been squeezed out of their sockets. She couldn’t bravely meet the stare when those bloodshot eyes deflected from the glowing ashes to her eyes. The gaze was weighty, she could feel it and she felt very naked. She bowed her head until she could no longer withstand the spinal strain and began to surreptitiously raise her head to see if the wild stare was still scanning her being. It seemed like the spirit of an owl, that continually opens wide the eyes, had entered him. He appeared not to blink whatsoever. ‘Did you hear what I’ve just said?’ She mustered the audacity to make those eyes blink or close up if they wouldn’t pop out. Her fear had stretched to the limits. She was like a cornered cat which could only get away through a head on with its tormentor. Out of rage, the old man forcefully stamped on the floor with his walking stick, rose to his feet, and slouched towards the doorway. It was now darker in the hut than it appeared outside, the fact being that the fire had almost died down; as the old man strolled, she trailed the three tier sound emanating from his dragging feet and the poking sound of his walking stick, until he presented himself as a two-dimensional torso in the doorway. He stood there, undecided on whether to proceed or to retreat, so to speak. The old man moved out of the doorway and his wife could hear his footsteps fusing into the silent night. An hour passed; the old man had not returned. Mrs Gombwe revived the fire as she waited for him but there wasn’t any least sound hinting footsteps. She called out but her voice disintegrated away into the hollow night. When another hour had passed, she walked out to the gate, to the fowl run, cattle pen, into the toilet, the old man was nowhere near. Confused, she walked back into their hut only to find the two strangers by the fireplace, drinking like fish. She cried out loudly as she turned on her heels. Her panic-stricken voice abruptly filled the air much to the disturbance of neighbours who quickly equipped themselves with axes and knobkerries and came to investigate the hysteria. When neighbours got to her place, she wasn’t there, the strangers had also disappeared but her screams continued in the direction of the woods. The worried neighbours took their dogs and pursued the phenomenon. There was pandemonium throughout the night as more villagers joined in the chase and search, with the screaming voice intensifying but getting elusive all the time. As luck would have it, a few villagers identified three figures running towards the river in the wee hours of the morning, the screaming figure being held side by side. A furore by the villagers shook the woods. There was a sudden increase of speed, galloping, clamouring, and an intensified rustling of leaves. All the effort couldn’t stop the figures from progressing to the river. Robust young men began to vehemently fling their weapons towards the relentless figures. The frantic shriek by one of the figures wouldn’t stop until the three figures plunged into the deep-end of the river. Silence enforced itself upon all the villagers; a thunderous lightning struck and a short-bearded man was seen on the edges of the water and he said, ‘This is what happens to you when you break the rules of the game. I did great things for this family.’ Another streak of lightning dismissed the crowd into a tumultuous divergence.


Captain George Sullivan applied more power to the B-25’s twin radial engines and pulled back on the control column. The versatile bomber climbed to avoid the thick toxic dark ash columns spewing out of Mount Vesuvius. The five able American airmen were accustomed to the deafening noise onboard *Lady Flamenco*, as well as to the strong odor of cordite and spent oil. It was late March 1944. The crew ate fresh eggs for breakfast before they took-off to bomb a concentration of Wehrmacht troops southeast of Rome. Their plane was hit by heavy enemy anti-aircraft flack during the shallow dive-bombing run near Monte Cassino, but no major damage was inflicted. Luck ran out for the crew aboard the bomber which followed. Their right wing was shattered by flack and the leaking fuel ignited. The aircraft exploded before it hit the ground. No parachutes were spotted. As soon as they were safe overland under Allied control, the P-51 Mustang fighter planes broke away and left the empty bombers to fly back unescorted to their airbase south of Naples. Sullivan’s heart rate stabilized. He peered out the cockpit window at the circular Mount Vesuvius. The eruption was into its sixth day. He was captivated by the streams of bright red lava which flowed without resistance into the defenseless and abandoned villages situated on the fertile foothills of the volcano. He questioned the event of a lifetime he witnessed. *Who inflicts more devastation, God or Man?* Sullivan glanced back into the cockpit and reviewed the familiar wall of dials in front of him. There was enough fuel to complete the return leg. He settled back in his seat. His confidence was at an all-time high with one more mission to fly to conclude the tour of duty. *I’m a lucky sucker. I’m going home soon!* Before starting the mandatory checks and slow descent for landing, Sullivan extended his hand into one of his sheepskin flight jacket pockets. He took out the worn-out black and white photograph of his high school sweetheart. The snapshot of Betty was with him wherever he traveled since leaving Madison County to join the Air Force. To most, she was an ordinary miss. For Sullivan, she was the most beautiful girl he ever met. He felt blessed with Betty and was set on marrying her as soon as he got back home. Sullivan turned the photograph around and read the handwritten message on the backside. *Go do your duty and come back to me. Love, B.* As *Lady Flamenco’s* tricycle gear touched down, the climatic impact of the Vesuvius eruption was felt as far away as northern Greece, about one thousand kilometers eastward. Black snow made of a mixture of feathery ice crystals and volcanic ash covered everything. For the locals of Kastoria, this weather phenomenon was perceived as a bad omen. Adonis was a dark-skinned athletic fisherman in his early twenties. He was not too tall but not too short either. The Italian occupation of Greece had little impact on his tranquil life. Almost every day, in the early hours, while the people of Kastoria slept, he and his fellow fishermen ventured out to the deeper waters of Lake Kastoria. Most times they came back with a good catch. By midday, they sold everything in the market and to the local tavernas. Afterward, they often gathered to eat a fresh village salad and drink ouzo. Life worsened in Kastoria when the Germans took over from the Italians in late 1943, but the lake rich in aquatic life saved the population from starvation. One day, a friend of Adonis invited him to attend a discreet gathering of aspiring Communists in one of the tavernas. He welcomed the escape from the dullness of occupation. At the small restaurant, Adonis locked eyes with a young lady. She had olive-colored skin, green eyes, and long pitch-black hair. She gave him a half-smile in return. Her name was Thalassa and they got to talking. Afterward, while walking home with his friend, Adonis declared that he had found his future wife. Thalassa fancied the courtship which followed. She welcomed the romantic excitement into her otherwise boring life. Thalassa came from an affluent family of mink furriers but only the males ran the business. She told Adonis she wanted to be equal amongst men. Communism was her means away from an adult life of home cooking, cleaning, and bringing up children. Thalassa was not bothered by her parent’s dislike of the poor fisherman. Her mother kept saying she had to find a man of equal or better social standing. Adonis’s mother wished her youngest son would stay away from Thalassa. She feared the rebellious political activities would get Adonis into trouble with the occupying forces. For Adonis, Communism was an excuse to be with the woman of his dreams. “For a few drachmas, a rotten collaborator will report you to the Germans. They will arrest you for being a Communist. They are not forgiving like the Italians. They punish…” As a passionate devotee of the Greek Orthodox Church, she even tried to convince him to make a lifelong commitment to God in order to stay out of trouble. “I am not going to become a priest or monk…the Church is not for me…” “Tfou, tfou, tfou…make sure you pray every morning before you head out to the lake!” The black snow continued to pile up that late March afternoon. Undeterred by the weather, Adonis and Thalassa strolled hand in hand down the boardwalk by the lakefront. Thalassa stopped in front of a wooden bench. They sat down. The sun was setting in front of them. She shifted toward Adonis, took hold of his rough-skinned hands, and focused his dark brown eyes. “Things are getting worse by the day…I have decided to join the Resistance in the mountains,” Thalassa said. She often expressed her wish to join the Resistance, but Adonis never attributed much to her desire. When it came to the occupation, they were not like-minded. “Let’s keep our heads down and wait for the war to end. We don’t have to prove ourselves to anyone…” “It is not about that. I heard the Jews will be rounded up tomorrow. I cannot be oblivious to the events unfolding around us.” “What about the two of us…our love? If we do not take up arms, the Germans will leave us alone. Is that not worth staying back for?” “What is our love without freedom and equality?” “You mean without equality and freedom…” Adonis realized it was pointless to argue with Thalassa. She wanted to be a liberated woman, to challenge tradition and breakaway from her close-knit family, and then fight for a free Greece. Marriage came last. As the sun disappeared below the horizon, they stood face to face. “Long life to you,” said Thalassa. “Be safe. I love you. Forever.” They kissed one more time and said goodbye. *Many years later…* An aging Adonis sat on the wooden bench by the lake. His mature skin was damaged by years of exposure to the sun while out fishing on the lake. These days he was too fragile to sail out to the deep waters, but from time to time he used a cane rod to fish along the shorelines. He took out small dual blade pocketknife and worked the carved initials on the backrest, just as he did many afternoons to make certain the engraving did not fade away. While Adonis chipped into the engraved initials, an old round lady sat down by his side. He stopped carving and shifted toward her with an expression of fatigue. She had wrinkles on her face, snow-white hair and blue eyes. Between them, they had countless stories to tell, but most were forgotten by now. Adonis, as polite as always, said hello. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Greek…” “Ah…I speak a little English. My name is Adonis.” “Nice to meet you. My name is Betty. I am a tourist from America.” She wiped the sweat from her forehead and drank from her bottle of water. “First time in Greece?” “First time in Europe. I am amazed at the colorful beauty of your country. Just like in the movies. Have you ever been to America?” “All my life I stay in Kastoria. I never go far away.” Betty could not decipher the carved Greek letters. “What are you doing with the knife?” “T for Thalassa and A for Adonis.” “Adonis is you…and so I suppose… Thalassa is a woman close to you?” Adonis looked out toward the Pindus mountains which rose up beyond the lake. “Thalassa was a brave woman with the Resistance. She was killed by Germans in the mountains many years ago.” “You loved her?” A single tear rolled down his cheek. His lips trembled and he placed his hand over his heart. “Yes, very, very much.” Driven by an impulsive desire for human contact, Betty reached out and placed her soft hand above his. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I also lost my love during the war. George was a pilot. He was killed in Italy on his last mission…every day I think of him and what could have been…” The two elders cried as if they had shared a lifetime. They both knew that tears do not extinguish the memories or make the pain of loss go away. “I wish I had gone with Thalassa into the mountains…but I was not brave. I was just a fisherman.