Hey fellow reedsy writers! Before you dive into this story (or don't) I just want to set it up a bit to avoid any confusion. This is a story following the perspective of a certain journal, or diary whatever you like, during World War 2. I do like this idea but I'm not the best at writing down whatever thoughts are going through my head, so if anyone has some critisism please share I would love to get some feedback. Enjoy! 13/06/1943; Naples, Italy   Well, this is going to be the last time I write in this journal. Or diary. I still don’t know the difference. It’s been almost a month since I found it, and it saddens me to leave it. Roberto said that the Germans cleared the house five doors down (he climbs up onto the roof and sees what’s going on from there), so they would soon reach our building. I’m going to throw this book out the window in hopes that someone else will find it, since it wasn’t mine in the first place, and I won’t have much use for it on the run. And hopefully someone will enjoy it as much as I have, since boredom is the main killer in hiding.   But I have learned a lot on the road, so for whoever is going to read this I hope that you will find some of the things I have learned on the way without any losses. Anyway, I’ll write as many as I can down until the others are done getting ready, so here goes; Always stay in groups no matter where you go. A week ago we had someone leave to go to the bathroom without a partner and he never came back. Then Gianna, my cousin went to find him also alone and now we're missing two people and have no idea what happened to them. At least if you have a partner, someone can try and run away to the group and tell the others what happened, so that the others don’t need to go on an excursion just to find one person. Food. Food, food, food, food. It’s the number one thing you should think of when gathering supplies. Not only does it give everyone energy to keep running from the Nazis, but an empty stomach leads to a bad mood. And negative emotions can cloud your jugment, and it allows you to do stupid things you never would have done otherwise. There are two things you can do with your pride. Either hide your Jewish identity and live out in the open with false identification papers and an entirely new identity, or you can refuse to be someone you aren’t (or maybe you just can’t afford new papers) and go into hiding. There isn’t some compromise where you can do both, it’s either one or the other, I learned this the hard way. But as you can probably guess I chose option two, and while it is riskier I can’t pretend I’m somebody I am not. And if you are in Naples and reading this, I’m guessing you took the same path as me (and I admire your courage).

  That’s all I can write for now, Roberto told me we were leaving two minutes ago so I’m already holding them back. I wish whoever finds this luck, and hopefully in a few years we shall all be saved. Every day I am scared, terrified even, but the most important thing you can hold onto during these times is hope. Hope that somebody who you can trust will help you, hope that not all the Germans are bad and hope that someone will put a bullet in Adolf Hitler’s skull, whether it’s the Italians, British, French, Canadian, American or anyone else. Because in the end, we are all in this together. Anna Aurora, out. :) -AA

01/09/1944; Naples, Italy   Dear diary (?), I just found this book. Not sure if I’m supposed to start with Dear diary,  maybe it’s a journal or something, I’ve never owned one of these. I was passing by an alley and found it under a box looking for food, and it somehow managed to survive more than a year of rain, fog and the occasional snow. I took it and went into the house beside it, and I snuck through a window with a crack in the glass. That’s when I met the others in here, and they took me in with open arms. I would not have survived long if I hadn’t met them, and I was lucky I could rely on their hospitality. Not that it was actually their house.

  They were all Jewish except for Leon who’s german but ran away with the others. I wouldn’t have trusted him on my own but he’s actually very nice, it was him that gave me a pen to write. In total were now a small army of six (ha ha), Leon, Noam, Fishel, Pietro, Lavinia and finally me.   Anyway, I've been here about a week and with all honesty I forgot I was carrying this till today. But since I have nothing better to do I decided to start not only writing but reading, which paid off since I have now discovered so much about this small booklet. From what I read, the first time it was written was by a girl named Anita in 1939, almost five years ago. She wrote almost daily for about two years and then it went silent, and a boy named Silvestro picked it up in 1941. Since then there have been almost half a dozen kids who found this book, all of different ages and sides during this war. Some Jewish, some were just ordinary citizens, some were even with the Nazis.

  It must be some kind of miracle that it’s still intact, and that so many people knew others would have a use for it. But it was a really fun thing to flip through, keeping me occupied for a solid two hours and there were quite a few useful things in here too, like the last person to have written in here, a girl named Anna, had given a few useful tips that I could share with the group.

  Well, I’m done for now, I’ll try and write some more tomorrow. I know Noam was hoping for a few of us to go out and see what we can see, if there are still soldiers outside, if there is anyone else in hiding, etc… -Naomi Carmel (Am I supposed to sign my name every time? Some of the others did but not all of them.) 02/09/1943   I did it (I decided not to start with dear diary , it sounds like I’m a five year old)!

I managed to write two days in a row. We heard some banging on the door an hour ago which resulted in a yelp on my part, but it quickly ceased so hopefully whoever was there didn’t hear me.

  Other than that nothing major has changed in the last twenty-four hours. Noam helped all of us climb onto the roof one at a time (an idea I got from Anna the previous writer), so that we could see our surroundings from above. We are currently under the warmth of the sun but an enormous dark cloud was hurtling towards us a few miles away, so we’ll probably be getting a serious rainfall soon, as well as some harsh winds. Actually, just as I wrote the word winds a loud and powerful gust of air hit the side of the house.

  When looking down at the streets we could see a few stranglers darting from one side of the street to the other, away from the eyesight of the few german soldiers that were on the street. Tunneled clouds of smoke rose from several areas in the neighbourhood we were in, as well as far in the horizon. When we came back in w- oh my god they're here I have to go! 04/09/1943   Wow. It’s been about 36 hours and I haven’t had even one unbothered hour of sleep. It’s been total chaos. I guess whoever knocked on the door did hear my yelp, because right when I was writing a tremendous crash was heard indicating the main door of the house we had been hiding in was knocked down, and then there were several booming voices speaking german. We were lucky to be in a room upstairs because we had another few seconds to make our escape. Noam led us onto the roof but Leon and Pietro both stayed to hold the door. Although when we were on the roof ready to make our next move we heard the soldiers break through the door and flood the room to the shouts of Pietro and Loam. I managed to not make a sound, and so did the others, but just barely. Once they left apparently thinking those two were the only people hiding we made our way back in and ran.

  Now, I’m writing under a bridge, sheltered from an enormous downpour with the task of watching over three sleeping adults, terrified and occupied by every horrible thought I could have in my head, thinking of all the worst case scenarios. Or all that but instead of the horrible thoughts I get filled with guilt. Because all it took was a small yelp and now two complete strangers who I put all my trust in, who saved me, are dead or most likely going to die. I guess that's also not a great thought either. Part of me wonders if Leon might be accepted back into his country, since he is one of them, or if that would make it ten times worse for him being considered a traitor.

  But enough with that! My shift is almost over and I want to seem like I was doing a better job of watching over them than I did, so that’s it for now and hopefully we can find a place to settle down for a bit so I can write some more! -Naomi Carmel 07/09/1943

I think this is the last time I’m going to write here. It saddens me that I won’t be able to keep writing for longer but it isn’t mine, and even if it was fun while it lasted someone else should be able to see this.

  Exhausted, soaking, and frozen to the bone from several hours of running in the rain and being in the September night winds, Lavinia, Noam, Fischel and I slumped down in an alley between a bar. We had managed to cross the river (the bridge that I was previously under) by swimming across. I had thrown my back pack with this journal and it is still intact, protected by layers of clothing. The strong current with the addition of a large amount of rain had easily swept us away, but we still managed to swim across albeit travelling south hundreds of meters. The others came with me to retrieve the backpack once we made our way onto land, so we changed into new clothes.   Now in the alley, panting, an old man came out of the bar beside us and after taking one glance, he told us to follow him. We eventually came in (after several minutes of contemplation with us finally realising that we would soon die of starvation, hypothermia or just pass out of exhaustion) and he led us to the back of the counter. And that's where I am now, writing in a storage room of a bar with a plate full of food in front of me. Noam said we would only stay one night and leave in the morning. But I told the bartender to give this to someone else once I finish this last paragraph;   I might try and find another book to write in during my travels. I think that writing what is currently happening is a good distraction from the terror and worry that we all experience daily. But I hope whoever finds this book will acknowledge it and put it to good use. The events going on in the world right now have only happened once before, so maybe this will end up in a museum somewhere! If Hitler falls. But good luck, and safe travels to you all! -Naomi Carmel 027/011/1943 Dear diary,   I just received this book from an old man. I think I can trust him, he doesn’t have a german accent and he’s proven to be kind so far, giving me food, shelter, warmth and water. My name is Avner Sith, and I am part of the third Canadian regiment on a secret mission to get as many Jewish refugees out of Naples before a suspected bombing. I was separated from my regiment and when looking for shelter I met Tulio, the old bartender. I told him what I was here for and without hesitation brought me in. I read most of the previous pages and can’t even begin to imagine some of the fear these people have been through. I’m lucky that this is my first mission (I was just recently drafted) and I’m not completely thrown into the battlefield. They chose me for this particular mission because I’m an excellent marksman and a stealthy soldier. Also I am new so possibly expendable.   But I only wanted to write so that this book can hold stories of many different points of views in this war, and to say that once I get Tulio and any other Italian citizen out, I will be giving this to the first child I can find who this journal might be of use to.

  Anyway, I’m off now so I hope to meet whoever will be reading this next and that any or all violence and hate will cease. It has gotten to the point where seeing a dead body or someone being taken is a daily thing, so if not now then I don’t know when we will be able to stop. But I also give luck to these wonderful but depressing pages (as well as those who wrote in it), in hopes that it will survive through battle. That it will be passed on, this beautiful book of few.

-Avner Smith

Hugo Millaire


My end is near. I can feel it with each slow drip of liquid seeping from my broken frame. The battle cruisers glide above the mountains of mechs on the ground and I turn my head to see what is left of the centuria that I was a part of. The loose pieces of titanium, plastic, and rubber surround me but not a single viable ‘bot. I scan the field beyond the piles of components around me but I can see no movement, only a random limb jutting here and there in the smoky air. The silence is deafening. Except that it is not silent. Not really. My hearing units have been shattered, leaving me in a deaf stupor. My sockets slowly shift towards the hazy atmosphere directly above me and then follow the trail of a battle cruiser belching black smoke and parachuting droids in equal measure. Another cruiser just as quickly shoots the droids, one by one, scattering their parts into the air like clay disks from ancient earth. One of the falling pieces of droid showers me with its remains, one of its gears landing on my face plate, the heat immediately melting the part into my cheek. My sockets lose focus and my memory card is flipped back to when I was a newly created ‘bot. A companion ‘bot. One of the first of my kind. Created with the newest version of artificial intelligence. Built with the best materials. Custom built to exact specifications. Companion to the only child of one of the five leaders of the New Earth Governing Body. She was a precocious child and I can still hear her high-pitched voice as she would ask me question after question. I watched her and protected her as she grew from child to young adult to adulthood. I assisted her with her learning and her unlearning. I was with her as she became the next greatest robot scientist, gladly receiving her attention and being implanted again with her experimental memory programs and her cutting-edge attempts to mimic sentience in artificial intelligence platforms. Platforms like me. “You won’t understand what I’m doing, Robot. But you might in another life.” I didn’t know better. Not then. I was still young. And when my companion passed away, I was reprogrammed to be a companion to another. And then another. And then another. Until better Artificial Life Forms were created; creatures who vocalized better, who were softer-plated, who had better programming, who didn’t speak unless spoken to. I was reprogrammed. The vibrations from more falling mechs shake the ground beneath me. I can feel something splatter against my arm. I turn my head again and try to focus my sockets on what it might be. I see nothing that resembles any of the centuria ‘bots that accompanied me on this fruitless task. But I have been working on fruitless tasks for what seems like eons. My secondary reprogramming was completed in time for the rise of large businesses. I was not deemed important enough for anything other than menial tasks; transcribing verbal claims into the different planetary languages chosen and shuttling boxes of data chips from one floor to another floor of towering buildings. The humans, who determined who remained working and who didn’t, were on the highest levels. I felt a new-found discontent when each of my colleague ‘bots were recommissioned. I watched as others from my creation era slowed down or shorted out and were taken away for parts for the rest of us. The survivors. I still had my speech structures then. I still had not learned fear. I still thought that robots could appeal to others of their kind and be heard. I was, perhaps, not as intelligent as I thought myself to be. I joined a band of rogue ‘bots demanding job security and felt justified in doing so. We worked for days and days without a recharge, without updates, without backups or defrags. We worked until many were twitching, their limbs locked. And the computers that controlled us were housed far away from the actual work floors, unseeing and uncaring. When we were summoned to meet with the humans in charge, I foolishly believed we were being acknowledged. The technician ‘bots who detained us were not sympathetic. “You are misfiring. You exhibit too many human-like traits and must therefore be decommissioned.” “I do not wish to be decommissioned. I wish to return to a meaningful existence as a companion ‘bot.” The tech ‘bots didn’t laugh because they were not programmed to do so. But their words were just as derisive. “Maybe in another life.” I was powered down and removed from the building, my memories erased. But not well. I was reprogrammed to battle. I had never known that the planetary wars were endlessly going on. In fact, had been endlessly playing out on planet after planet in galaxy after galaxy. Of course, they were never-ending. As long as there were continuous supplies of decaying, out-of-date ‘bots to man the ships and serve as cannon fodder, they would never cease. And I told whoever would listen. Until I was taken apart and then put together with fewer parts, minimized; my voice erased, my sockets removed and replaced with inferior lenses. Then I knew fear. My appendages clutch at the empty air and my peripheral alarms sound in my internal systems. I turn my head to peer around me, noting the lack of battle cruisers in the sky. I see movement rising over the hills and if I could shudder, I would. The scavengers are roaming the battlefield. My sockets go dim as my limbs lock. The scavengers will arrive and take me apart, not caring about my consciousness. And I will be unable to stop them, unable to speak to them. The deepest recesses of my memory banks seem to want to comfort me and I see a familiar face. A human face. One that reminds me that I learned happiness. My Madison was the best, the most intelligent rogue human I had ever seen, ever met. She worked for the acquisition team of my centuria. So creative. So thrifty. Able to take leftover pieces of scrap and make an entirely new limb or sound box or memory kit. “You know, Robot, you’ve got some pretty interesting wiring going on in that noggin of yours. Wish I had time to look you over,” she would tell me with each new repair. “Maybe in another life, right?” She spoke to me as if she knew that I could understand her, even though I couldn’t tell her so. She looked at me as if I was important, as if I was a complete ‘bot and not the scrap remains that regularly came to her for repairs. She was the one who asked me to retrieve the unmarked box from the cargo hold. If only I had opened it first. If only I had checked the manifolds. If only I had feigned ignorance or not found it or not brought it to her. I shift my sockets to see the empty gray atmosphere above me. I have done my duty as a programmed ‘bot and apart from my one act of rebellion, I have followed my programmed directive as well as I can. In all of my centuries of existence, I have never wanted something for myself. Never.

Madison was never meant to be part of my existence but I wanted her. I wanted that small human who it turned out was even more vulnerable than my ancient framework. Now I know sorrow. Because unlike the mechanical pieces scattered around me, scattered across this entire planet, humans leave no trace once they are obliterated. The edges of my sockets are starting to bleed black, concealing the sight of the atmosphere above me, and as I feel the cold tools start to dismantle my limbs, I wonder if I will ever know what it is to be free. Maybe in another life.


It’s a couple of minutes after eight when I turn off the high road and drive onto the open ground behind The Lazy Duck. My tyres crunch over granite chippings in the darkness and I draw up alongside a dozen other vehicles. I’m surprised there aren’t more cars out here this evening; the bar is quiet for a Friday night. Often at the weekend, a roar of chattering voices and shrill laughter greets me as I approach. In its heyday, the bar was a popular venue for parties because of its flexible licencing hours. The landlord, Jimmy McGuigan, used to close the wooden window shutters around eleven o’clock and his wife would circulate with trays of tasty snacks. Regulars chilled out until way after midnight, safe in the knowledge the local police would turn a blind eye to the extended business. In fact, it wasn’t unusual to witness off-duty policemen joking with Jimmy or clinging on to a karaoke microphone at one in the morning. # A young waitress approaches as I remove my winter coat. She offers me a menu, invites me into the seated area. There was no need to reserve a table for two in advance and no pressure to meet, eat, and leave. I’m relieved the venue is subdued tonight; its booth seating and table arrangement is perfect for extended conversation. I wouldn’t want to spend the entire night shouting at Trent; we’d both end up with sore throats and a headache. # My old buddy left the country with his girlfriend, Aleca, ten years ago and disappeared on a personal mission to find life and happiness in Spain. They met at my thirtieth birthday party at The Lazy Duck. To be honest, it was a setup. Both Trent and Aleca were single and my wife suggested we invite them. Jenny has a smart nose for match making and enjoys social engineering. She steered Aleca in Trent’s direction, made a casual introduction, and retreated. It was amazing to watch their body language. They couldn’t take their eyes off each other. They fizzed like a fistful of sparklers. Their conversation was effortless and in the style well rehearsed dance routine; they anticipated each other’s moves in advance. It was as if we’d nudged an infinite line of dominoes that cascaded ever onwards, describing intricate patterns in its wake.

I didn’t see Trent for a fortnight after that night; he and Aleca went off-grid. When they emerged again, they were an item and had broad grins like a double-slung suspension bridge. They’d bought a barn to renovate in the desert area outside Murcia, in the southeast of the Iberian Peninsula. Its climate offered hot summers and mild winters and was perfect for their new life together. Trent was always a handy chap; good with vehicles and great with repairing property. Aleca was going to teach English as a foreign language. At least, that was their plan. # We kept in touch for a year, exchanging the odd phone call or a text at Christmas, however soon lost touch. The local Spanish authorities have a loose grasp of contract law by all accounts and they went way over budget on their conversion costs. Reading between the lines it was tough, but they were determined to see it through. # To Jenny’s surprise, they hadn’t given up and returned to steady work and a normal life. She didn’t know Trent all that well. He would never settle for the ordinary. There was nothing he despised more than ordinary. My relationship with Trent influenced much of my life. We’d laughed together through our teenage years, dissected life through our twenties, and thought we knew it all by my thirtieth birthday. Both of us had a healthy dose of cynicism. As someone once said, “Life is too important to be taken seriously.” # With one thing and another, I’d almost forgotten about those carefree years until I got a text message last weekend. “I’m in town. How about the Lazy Duck at 8pm on Friday? Trent” It was from a number I failed to recognise. I hadn’t heard from my old buddy for over ten years. Both of us have a lot of catching up to do, and tonight’s as good a night as any.

# I order a couple of pints of beer and a bowl of the bar’s trademark chilli and bacon French fries. Trent’s nowhere in sight when I take a first sip of my pint, recalling all those times I’d waited for him to show up. I don’t remember him ever being on time. Trent was an hour late for his wedding to Aleca. To be fair, Aleca wasn’t punctual either and her arrival often stole the show. Their special day was no exception. He was tucking in his shirt and smoothing down his unruly hair when she appeared at the church doors. The congregation gave an almighty gasp when she appeared in the church doorway. Aleca was wearing a stunning white satin dress that flattered her hourglass figure. However, it was her face that drew the attention. Trent leaned over and whispered in my ear, She’s just got back from accident and emergency. What’s with the black eyes? I asked. It’s a long story, said Trent. It seems she had a dodgy cocktail at her hen-night and was sick in the ladies’ room. I didn’t understand. The toilet seat fell down and broke her nose. Jenny told me later, Aleca was most worried about the wedding pictures. Thank goodness for Photoshop. # It’s nine o’clock when I finish my second bowl of chilli and bacon French fries and I’m considering another bowl. No sign of Trent; no text message and no call. All I get is his voicemail. I should have known I’d be sitting here half the night waiting for him. I could always depend on Trent in the sense that he was always unreliable, but then when he showed up, he gave one hundred and ten per cent. On one occasion, we’d agreed to do some painting and decorating for a client. I turned up on time, but he showed up forty-eight hours late. The client was furious, despite starting the work by myself. It looked like we might lose the business. However, Trent calmed the situation with his smooth-talking charm and we demonstrated our competence with professional aplomb. The client was more than satisfied on completion and we landed more work than we could handle on their recommendation. We thanked the client for their help and she laughed, saying we were more like The Likely lads than Laurel and Hardy, however, she’d mistaken us for Bodgit and Leggett.

# I take a sip of Trent’s full glass and look at my watch. There’s no message from Trent and it’s half-past nine. I’m getting strange looks from cheerful groups of party-goers enjoying a relaxing night. Do I look that sad? I hope not. Maybe I look as if I got stood up. You know what? Sitting here all night isn’t much fun anymore. It never was. I’ve grown out of all that. I look at the second pint and take a deep breath. Forget it. I’m out of here. I haul on my jacket and step down from the booth. Jimmy waves at me from the bar as I head towards the exit. I acknowledge him and he summons me over. How is it going? He asks.

Yeah, I’m fine, I say. It’s been a while, Jimmy.

Where’s your partner in crime? Jimmy asks.

If Trent pops in, tell him I was here.

He was here earlier. You’re joking, Jimmy? I guess he got fed up and left. How things have changed. Jimmy says Trent told him he had to go to work the next day and didn’t want a hangover. Now he has a wife and two children to support, and a dog to look after.

# It was the unreliability that ended our business ventures and tested our friendship. I’d made too many excuses for Trent over the years. That last big deal we lost because he forgot to set his alarm clock killed it off. He missed the plane. We lost the job of a lifetime. There was no coming back from that mistake. How life moves on. # Before Trent and Aleca departed for Spain, he remarked how odd it was that he and Aleca were the only single guests at my birthday party.

What are the chances of that? I said, raising an eyebrow. I’m just born lucky, he said, shaking his head.

I smiled and kept my counsel.

The End


Rebecca ruffled her black bobbed hair as she came out of the water, leaving glistening drops of salt water sparkling in the summer sun. She smiled a wide, toothy grin at me, and I found myself staring. “Can’t swim, Dolly?” she lightly teased, flicking the surface of the water with the tip of her fingers, a light splash landing against my bare stomach. My heart beat heavy in my chest. “I just don’t want to get my hair wet!” I said, shaking my head to clear it. The New England sun beat down on us, surprisingly intense for September. I trailed behind Rebecca deeper into the ocean as it become cooler and cooler as we waded away from the shore. “Be careful; you don’t want to step on any crabs,” she said before pushing herself onto her back and floating among the light swells of the water. I followed her lead, drifting so that my head bobbed near hers. “Fuck, this feels too good,” I sighed as the water washed over me. “How come you never took me out here before? I know you hide out here all the time.” Rebecca paused before replying. “I just need to spend some time by myself every once in awhile, you know?” “Yeah, I get it.” I rolled my head to the side to take a look at my friend suspended beside me. Rebecca’s eyes were closed. She always seemed so relaxed since the time we first met, two years prior. I bet she never had a tense bone in her body. Maybe coming out to the beach alone was what kept her more sane than our fellow classmates. “So what are your plans for next year?” she asked, breaking the silence that had fallen over us. “Hmm,” I mused, “Join the Peace Corps? Or maybe the circus?” I grinned at the thought of that, being a twenty-two old trapeze artist, or maybe a lion tamer. It was ridiculous to think that way, but anything felt like it could have been real when I was floating in Narragansett Bay with Rebecca. “One hell of a way to use polisci degree,” she giggled in response. “But seriously, Doll, I’m going to miss you.” “Hey, I’m just kidding,” I said, turning myself upright and treading water. “I’m not that desperate to leave this crappy little town. I might be able to get a job with the state; I know a guy who knows a guy.” “Isn’t that always how it is?” Rebecca said. She turned herself upright and swam beside me. “Political. Corruption.” She rounded her vowels so she sounded haughty and dramatic. She let out a laugh. “Nepotism, maybe,” I said. “Be right back,” Rebecca said with a smirk as she dove into the water. Before I could reply she was gone. I looked to the horizon and saw that the sun was beginning to set in shades of orange and purple. College. Family. Money. The future. All of the stresses of life felt so fake in that moment. All there was around me was the ocean and all the colors of the sky. *Rebecca, how the hell long does it take to wet your hair?* I thought after a moment. Suddenly, a strong grasp took ahold of my thigh. “SHIT.” I gasped as I sunk further into the water, arms instinctively flailing above me. *Shit shit shit. This is how I go out.* I tried to thrash my legs to stay afloat, but I could only move the left, the right being immobilized by whatever had grasped me below. I held my breath, preparing for the water to overtake me, when I was suddenly freed. Rebecca popped up beside me, another wide grin on her face. I gasped for air, mainly from panic, as I hadn’t actually breathed in any water. “What the hell Rebecca?” I demanded. She smile faded. “Damn, Dolly, you’re really scared of drowning, aren’t you?” “You knew I was full of shit when I said I didn’t want to get my hair wet, didn’t you?” I replied. “Not cool.” “Okay, okay, Doll. You win. I’m sorry, that was a messed up thing for me to do.” My heart rate was decreasing. “Fine. Just try not to scare the shit out of me, okay?” “Promise,” Rebecca replied. I shook my head and took a deep breath as we stood in the muddy sand at the bottom of the ocean. “Sun’s setting,” I said at last, “We should head back to shore.” As I turned to point to the sand, a glimmer caught my eye. In an instant, a chain of lights had formed across the distant shoreline, like a string of white Christmas lights following the dimly-lit coast. The chain stretch in either direction along the sand, formed of faint, floating spheres that ominously bobbed as though they were suspended in their own, unseen ocean. A few small gaps were left in the chain, most of which didn’t seem to interrupt the pattern, except in perhaps one or two spots. “What the hell?” I muttered. “Dolly.” Rebecca said with surprising intensity. I turned to her as she touched my shoulder, breaking my stare at the lights. “What?” I asked. She held me by both shoulders, the setting sun reflecting off of her blue eyes. “I don’t want you to leave me,” she said with eyes wet with more than just seawater. “I won’t leave you,” I promised. Rebecca didn’t reply to this, but threw her arms around me and pressed her face into my neck. I found my arms wrapping around the lower half of her one piece bathing suit. “Who the hell knows what will happen next year? Is this about running off the the circus? Rebecca, I told you I was just kidding.” I stumbled over my words. “Just hold me,” she murmured. And so I did. When we finally returned to the shore, the lights were gone as though part of a dream. The muted remains of a dream about Rebecca, the future, and Narragansett Bay. ~~~ A week later Rebecca called my cellphone and told me to meet her at that same beach. I climbed out of my mother’s old Jeep and stood on one of the rocks at the edge of the parking lot, wondering when Rebecca, perpetually tardy, would arrive. I stared at the sea from my rock, this time the sun almost completely set behind the horizon. I had pulled a sweatshirt over my bikini to shield myself against the chilling air, and I absently swung my arms by my side as I waited. “Hey girl,” said a voice behind me. Rebecca stood, holding up a battery-powered lantern. “Help me with something?” “Sure?” I replied, unable to read her expression in the dim light. She had a flat-bottom canoe strapped to the roofracks of her Toyota Prius. “Took it from my old man,” she giggled. “My family never buys stuff like this. I love kayaking, though,” I told her as I helped lift the boat from the racks and bring it towards the shore. It took a decent amount of effort with just the two of us, but it was resting at the shoreline by the time the last rays of sun slipped behind the outstretched ocean. The ocean was eerily calm as we launched the canoe, lantern lighting our way. The only sound was our breath and the lapping the ocean against the side of our vessel. “What a lovely night,” I said, looking at the stars that stretched across the sky. There was no sign of the lights that had littered the shore during my prior visit to the bay. Their bobbing shapes felt almost like a faded memory, or perhaps a figment of my imagination. The stars, the lantern, and the faint interior lights of expensive homes along a further ridge were all that remained. Rebecca sat opposite me, simply nodding to my comment in the darkness. She hummed a tune under her breath, something soft and sweet, but oddly nostalgic. “What’s that?” I asked. “Do you like singing? You’ve never sung for me before.” Rebecca gave me an oddly sad smile but decided to fulfil my request. Her voice began very softly, so soft I could barely hear her over the ocean, but slowly gained strength as the song dragged on. The notes and harmonies that came from her mouth enchanted me to the point that I could not even absorb the words. Her range was incredible, as well as her control of vibrato. I had been in the school chorus in my middle school days, and hadn’t given acapella singing a though since. She carefully stood in the canoe towards the end of her performance as the final chorus crescendoed. The last of the melody dissipated into the cool evening air as she held out her hand to me. I took it and and stood alongside my beautiful Rebecca. Her hands were warm against the cold September air. “Dolly. Dolores,” she whispered. She placed her hands on my waist. “You’re incredible,” I whispered back, leaning closer to her, my hands finding a place to rest on her shoulders. “I don’t want you to leave.” I was a bit puzzled by her comment. “I’m not? I thought I told you that.” Rebecca pressed her lips against mine without saying another word. I could taste her orange lipstick and nightly milk tea on her lips and tongue. When I kissed her back she pressed herself harder against me, the intensity somewhat overwhelming, but certainly not in a bad way. We stayed like that for a long, amazing moment. The girl who I had always loved. The one I was too afraid to tell, for fear she would be disgusted by me. She was the one to break the kiss. “Yes, yes you are,” she murmured. At first I thought I was too lovestruck to move, too lost in the moment to have full control of my body. It took me a frightening long moment to realize that I was paralyzed. I could breathe and blink, but nothing more. “I’m sorry, Dolly. I’m so sorry. I love you, I really do, but I can’t help this.” Rebecca gently touched my shoulder. My heart thundered in my chest but I could not say a thing as tears began streaming down her face. She gave me a peck on the cheek before grasping my other shoulder and casting me into the sea. My eyes were transfixed as I floated to the bottom of the ocean. I saw a chain of lights, somewhat broken, that would once again become whole that evening. Another ghostly spirit was on its way to join their midst. I could see the eyes of my lovely Rebecca, staring down at me past floating auburn hair and salty waves. I could see the true sadness in her, but with an overarching sense of duty that lead her to what she had done. In the end, as I inhaled the watery depths of Narragansett Bay, I came to a place of peace. I hold nothing against her. *“I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.


It’s 5:36 AM, his alarm goes off and it’s time to go to work, brushes his teeth and gets dressed, heads outside to his car, takes a breath of fresh morning air, starts his car and takes off. As he shifts through each gear and sees the sun rise a little more, he can’t help but be thankful for how great his life is, even though he’s off to work at his shitty minimum wage job, he lives with his parents and is saving a lot of money, has a car, has a beautiful girlfriend who he can’t wait to spend the rest of his life with and a good group of friends. A few yawns later and he heads into work, the day passes by quickly as he’s cutting up with people at his job, and now it’s time to clock out, he can’t wait to head home and clean up because he’s got a date with his girl tonight. A shower and a nice dress shirt later, it’s now 5:45 PM, time to go to her house. As he leaves his driveway and goes down the road, he can’t wait to see his girlfriend, even though they were very young and hadn’t been dating for only a few months, they had been talking on the phone the night before about how great their future is going to be, one day they’ll be married, living together, eventually they will be blessed with children. It’s gonna be awesome. He arrives to her house and they leave together, they’re not in the car 10 seconds and she already is wrapped up in his right arm, the bond they share is unbreakable. They decide to take a trip to the park and just walk around together, they head off to a quiet isolated places in the woods and begin to kiss passionately. There isn’t a single lustful thought in either of their minds, just two teenagers in love with each other. Soon it’s time to head back to her house so she can be home on time, as he’s driving back they talk about how much they don’t want to leave each other but know it won’t be like this forever. They kiss goodnight and he heads home. As he shifts through each gear and sees the sun set a little more, he can’t help but be thankful for how great his life is, he never thought he could be this happy. This is his last night as a 17 year old, tomorrow he will be an adult, a grown up, he’s ready to face the world. Now he is 18, unfortunately his friend group has split apart, his girlfriend has broken up with him, and he now has to get a better job to afford living on his own and school. What happened? It wasn’t supposed to end this way, he had everything, how could she leave him when she told him she wanted to spend her life with him. Is this what happens when you become an adult? “I want to go back, I don’t want to live this life anymore.” It may have all been a blissful ignorance, but was it really ignorance if that was when he was truly happy. This marks the end of his childhood, now it’s time to suck it up and be an adult, it’s time to dread waking up every morning and heading into your dead end job that only pays enough to keep the lights on, it’s time to seek relationships but only be met with rejection and heartbreak again. Is this what it’s like to be grown up? I don’t want it, I want to be a kid again, bring back my childhood. - This is something I’ve never done before, I’m not even a big reader, but I’ve been in a bit of a dark place recently and this idea has been on my mind. I’m mainly posting to get feedback and see what others think that aren’t people I know.


Molly-Anne was in the games room. She had been watching the raindrops run down the window for the past ten minutes, occasionally tracing it down with her finger, which made lines in the condensation. But now she was bored. She hopped off the armchair and stood on one leg, then pulled up her sock. Then she stood on the other leg and pulled her other sock up. ‘Lizzie, I’m so bored, let’s play a game!’ she whined. Lizzie was sitting on the floor doing a jigsaw, ‘I’m doing my puzzle Molly!’ Molly-Anne scrunched up her face. ‘Well, I shall go and see if Tommy wants to play instead then’. She said, knowing full well that Lizzie liked Tommy. But Lizzie didn’t care today, she was far too busy doing her jigsaw to be bothered about chasing boys. She stuck her tongue out at Molly-Anne. Molly-Anne Fingus was an energetic ten-year-old (who would argue that she was almost eleven!) with an incredibly short attention span. She’d had a tough start to life. Her parents died when she was a baby, and she now lived in an orphanage. But that didn’t stop her enjoying herself, and she was one of the star pupils in her class. Molly-Anne had always longed for a sister. She knew she had Lizzie, but she wanted more than a best friend. She wanted someone who would be there for her, no matter what. Someone who would not hide behind their possessions and be themselves around her. Molly-Anne had brown hair which was styled in a short bob, and brown eyes. She wasn’t very tall and almost always wore trousers. In the orphanage they didn’t get many new clothes anyway. Lizzie Karcher was her best friend and she had beautiful, long blonde hair, which was always neatly brushed, and she wore a headband and some pretty clips. She was a girl who loved the sound of her own voice, and she loved being the centre of attention. She always wore beautiful dresses because she had some distant family outside of the orphanage who sent items in for her. Sometimes it made Molly a little jealous, but she was still her best friend.

‘Hi Tommy! Do you want to play a game with me?’ asked Molly-Anne as she walked into the library, where Tommy Folds was reading a comic. Tommy shook his head, ‘Sorry Molly, I am halfway through this really good Batman story!’ Molly-Anne felt sad. She walked out of the library with her head hung down low and her shoulders slumped. As she came out into the hallway, Lizzie was coming up from the games room. ‘Molly, are you alright? I have finished my jigsaw come and see!’ Lizzie bounded back down the hallway, and Molly-Anne followed. Lizzie had done a huge Disney princess jigsaw. ‘Wow Lizzie, that’s cool!’ Molly-Anne said with wide eyes. ‘Come on, Molly. Shall we go on an adventure? I have heard a really scary story about the abandoned house down the street!’ Lizzie said excitedly. The girls ran to their dormitory, Molly-Anne put on her favourite jumper, which had red, blue, green and yellow spots on it. She put her raincoat and her wellies on and grabbed her scarf just in case. Lizzie also put on a jumper, a raincoat, and her wellies. She didn’t like scarves. She always said that she felt like they were strangling her. The girls ran downstairs. Just as they were nearing the front door of the orphanage, Mrs Hardiman came out of the dining room. ‘Girls! Where are you two going? It’s almost lunch! Go and get washed and cleaned up immediately, please’. Mrs Hardiman said, sternly. She had a very cross face; she always had a very cross face. Mrs Hardiman went past the girls and headed into the kitchen. The girls pretended to head upstairs, but when they were certain she had gone into the kitchen and wasn’t coming back out, they snuck out of the door. The rain was pouring down, and it was freezing. Molly-Anne put her scarf on straight away. They pulled up their hoods and began to make their way down the street. The girls were having a great time. They were splashing in puddles, catching the raindrops on their tongues, singing, and dancing. Suddenly, Lizzie stopped dancing and stood still, Molly-Anne stopped too and asked, ‘Lizzie? What’s wrong?’ ‘This is the place’. Lizzie replied, staring up at a huge, old, and decrepit building. Molly-Anne looked up at the house. The bricks that were probably once white were now grey and covered in moss. Wooden panels covered each window, but it was easy to see through the gaps in the panels that the glass was broken on most of the panes. ‘This place is a mess! Lizzie, I don’t think we should go in there’. said Molly-Anne, cautiously. ‘Come on, Molly! Don’t be a scaredy cat!’ Lizzie said, running off up the garden path of the run-down house. ‘Lizzie! Wait for me!’ Molly-Anne shouted after her, as she began to follow. ‘Come on, there’s a loose board on a window around the back’ Lizzie whispered as she led the way around to the back of the property. ‘How do you know? How did you even find out about this place Lizzie?’ Asked Molly-Anne, curiously. Lizzie tapped the side of her nose and moved a board from in front of a window. She signalled to Molly-Anne to head inside and put her finger to her lips, meaning they needed to be quiet. Molly-Anne was not happy at all, but she did as she was told. She didn’t want to look weak or scared in front of her much cooler best friend. Lizzie followed her in. They were in an old kitchen. The room was dark, damp and smelly. ‘What are we even doing here?’ whispered Molly-Anne. ‘I heard that up in the attic of this house, there’s a mirror that can tell the future! I want to find it Molly, I want to know if I’ll ever be famous!’ Lizzie giggled quietly and motioned for them to carry on moving. The kitchen had a worn-out tiled floor, and wallpaper that was peeling in lots of places. The ceiling was stained yellow and had wet patches, where Molly-Anne could only presume that the upstairs plumbing had leaked through.

The girls walked through into a hallway. The floorboards were creaking loudly underneath the stained, threadbare carpet, and this made Molly-Anne really nervous. ‘Lizzie, what if there’s someone in here? I think we should leave’, she said, her voice quivering. ‘Don’t chicken out on me now, Molly. Come on. Oh, wow, look at that!’ Lizzie exclaimed. She was pointing at some paintings hanging on the wall, in what looked to be an old living room. There were two of them, both portraits. One of an old woman and one of an old man. Molly-Anne didn’t like them at all. She thought they were spooky, and their eyes seemed to follow her as she entered the room. ‘These must have been the old house owners; I wonder what happened to them?’ Lizzie commented, having a closer look at the portraits. The old woman in the picture looked familiar to Molly-Anne. She didn’t like looking at her for too long because it creeped her out, but it certainly resembled someone she had met. She just couldn’t put her finger on who it was. In the living room, the furniture was covered with sheets that were probably once a bright white colour, but now they were covered in dust and dirt. The friends headed back out of the room and into the hallway again. It was time for them to go upstairs. Every single step creaked and moaned under their feet as they climbed up. At the top, there was another long hallway to the right with multiple rooms on either side. But the room Lizzie was interested in was right above them. They crept down the hallway to where there was a ceiling hatch. The girls could see they needed a long pole to enable them to unhook the lock. Suddenly, a noise came from downstairs. It sounded like footsteps on wood, possibly in the living room, as the kitchen had a different type of floor. The girls panicked and ran to the nearest door. It looked like a child’s bedroom. The girls hid underneath the bed, they were frightened. Even Lizzie was shaking. They could smell a horrible stench coming from the carpet in here, and with their noses being so close to the ground, it was making Molly-Anne heave. After about ten minutes, which felt more like a decade, the girls heard no more noise, and decided to come out from under the bed. Molly-Anne looked at Lizzie and smirked, ‘I wasn’t at all frightened then, you know! I was just making sure you weren’t on your own. I know how much of a scaredy cat you can be, Molly!’ Lizzie remarked, pulling a face and dusting the dirt off her tights, which were covered in muddy water anyway.

Molly-Anne wasn’t really paying attention, she was looking at all of the stuff that hadn’t been covered up. ‘I wonder why all of this stuff has been left uncovered. Every other room has sheets over everything’ Molly-Anne muttered to herself. ‘Let’s get out of here, it smells funny’, Lizzie suggested. Molly-Anne followed Lizzie out of the room, but she had a very strange feeling that she just couldn’t explain. Out in the hallway, the girls noticed the atmosphere felt completely different to before. ‘We need to find the pole for the attic’. Lizzie insisted. ‘What? Are you crazy? Lizzie, we need to go home!’ Molly-Anne replied. But Lizzie was already opening another door, ‘Here! This looks like a storage cupboard Molly!’ Lizzie said, excitedly. She was fumbling around trying to find a light switch. Just then the whole contents of the cupboard came tumbling forward off the shelves. Lizzie screamed as she fell and was hit by buckets, mops, boxes, and everything else that you would normally not imagine to be crammed into such a small space! Molly-Anne jumped backwards, mainly to get out of the way but also because it startled her. Lizzie began to get up off the floor. She wanted to cry, but she wanted to look tough in front of Molly-Anne. ‘Lizzie, are you alright?’ asked Molly-Anne. ‘I’m better than alright, Molly! Look what I found!’ Replied Lizzie, holding up a long, wooden pole with a hook on the end. Lizzie held the pole at the end, she wasn’t very tall, and neither was Molly-Anne, but she was able to carefully unhook the lock. The hatch door swung down, and some ladders began to slowly drop from the attic. Suddenly, there was a loud scream from downstairs. The girls were rooted to the spot. Molly-Anne made the first move. She scrambled up the ladder, followed closely by Lizzie. ‘Why are we up here Molly? What were you thinking?’ Whispered Lizzie, angrily. ‘I had no choice! We can’t go downstairs because there is definitely someone down there, that was a real scream Lizzie!’ Molly-Anne explained, in a hushed voice. ‘Shh! Someone is coming!’ she continued. The girls were still, and they could hear footsteps below. There was another noise. It sounded like something was being dragged up the stairs. Molly-Anne acted fast, she pulled up the ladder and shut the hatch, locking it from the inside. ‘There’s more than one person. This is bad. I am so sorry Molly. We should have gone home when you said!’ Lizzie began to cry. Molly-Anne cradled her best friend. She had never seen this side of Lizzie before. She was truly frightened, and showing her weak side was something Lizzie never did. The attic was huge. There was a little light coming in from a window that hadn’t been boarded up. Most of the items had been covered up with sheets, there were some boxes that hadn’t been, but they were sealed shut with brown tape. Then Lizzie spotted something. Hidden in the corner of the room behind some stacked up boxes, there was a familiar shape covered in a sheet. ‘Molly! It’s the mirror!’ Lizzie whispered, excitedly. Molly-Anne helped Lizzie move the boxes out of the way, but as Molly-Anne picked one up, the bottom fell out. She crouched down to try and clean up the items that had dropped out of the box, but she couldn’t help but be a little nosey. It was mainly paperwork, which Molly-Anne didn’t understand and found very boring. But then she noticed some photos. ‘They were a family’ Molly-Anne said quietly to Lizzie, who was now crouching next to her. In the photos there was what looked like a family. The mother and father were the people from the portraits downstairs, but a lot younger, and a baby wrapped up in a blanket. Molly-Anne flipped over the photograph, ‘Daniel, Abigail, and M…’ Molly-Anne began to read the words but stopped. Tears formed in her eyes. She handed the photo to Lizzie. ‘Daniel, Abigail, and Molly-Anne Fingus. Oh, my goodness! Molly, these are your parents!’ Lizzie said, staring at her friend, who was sobbing. ‘Molly, was this your house?’ Lizzie asked. But Molly-Anne had no idea. She had lived at Mrs Finch’s Orphanage for as long as she could remember. ‘Mrs Hardiman always said that I was taken to them by social services when my parents died. I was a baby, almost new-born. But this doesn’t make sense, Lizzie. If my parents died shortly after this photo was taken, how are they looking so old in the portraits downstairs?’ Mollie-Anne asked. ‘One thing that does make sense though, when we first saw those portraits, I knew I had seen the woman somewhere before. Now I know how I recognised her, I dream about her all of the time, Lizzie’. She continued. Suddenly, a croaky, old, and haggard voice came from below the hatch. ‘Molly-Anne, I know you’re up there, I can smell you. I knew you would come home eventually!’ The girls looked at each other, they were petrified. ‘What are we going to do? We can’t open the hatch, that thing knows your name and does not sound human at all!’ Lizzie said. Molly-Anne could tell she was worried. ‘What about the window? It isn’t boarded up, let’s see if we can smash it with something’. Molly-Anne responded. Lizzie grabbed the wooden pole that she had used to open the lock on the hatch. The hook on the end was metal, it was worth a shot. She stood back from the window and swung with all her might. The hook hit the top corner of the windowpane, and it caused a huge crack to form from the top of the window to the bottom. The hatch began to shake violently, and the voice coming through it was getting more irritated by the second. Molly-Anne grabbed a huge, heavy book and threw it hard at the cracked window. It smashed. Lizzie climbed out first. There was a thin ledge, which stretched the whole length of the house. She stood to the side of the window and helped Molly-Anne climb out. The rain was lashing down now, and Molly-Anne had lost her scarf. The ground seemed a very long way down. The girls tried not to look down as they edged along the ledge towards the drainpipe. Just then, there was a loud crashing noise from inside the attic. The girls moved quicker. Lizzie reached the drainpipe. Luckily, she had done this before on her previous adventures. She was able to ignore the fact that she had a dress on and shimmy her way down to the safety of the ground. Molly-Anne, however, had not been on such adventures and was very nervous. Suddenly, an old, withered head that Molly-Anne recognised popped out of the broken window. It was her mother, or at least, it used to be. She was grinning at Molly-Anne. Her teeth were yellow and crooked, and most of them were missing. This was enough to make Molly-Anne grab hold of the drainpipe. Seconds later, she was on the ground, and the girls ran home. Later than evening, the girls were eating dinner with the other children. They hadn’t told anyone about what had happened, but Molly-Anne presumed Lizzie would tell Tommy to make her look really brave. Molly-Anne finished her plate and asked if she could leave the table. She made her way up to the girl’s dormitory. Lizzie followed. ‘Are you alright, Molly?’ asked Lizzie as they sat on Molly-Anne’s bed. ‘Yes, Lizzie. I just can’t get my head around any of it’. Molly-Anne said, as she pulled out the photo of her parents from her pocket. It was a bit soggy, so she put it on the top of the radiator to dry out. ‘I want to go back, Lizzie. I need to go back; I have so many questions, and I think I can find the answers there’. ‘We will go back, Molly. I promise’. Lizzie replied, hugging Molly-Anne. Just then, a feeling passed through both girls. For the first time in their lives, they felt as one. Molly-Anne finally felt as though she had not only a best friend, but a sister. The End


Here's a really bizarre short story I've been working on. Will post part 2 later this week or next! # The Arm Farm # Part 1 The roar of the car’s engine cut clear across the open fields of the farm. Chris looked out the passenger window, wishing that he was the one behind the wheel. It was his car after all, but after the accident, it wasn’t safe for him to drive stick shift anymore. Fields of low plants passed by in a blur as they approached a large farmhouse in the middle of the property. “You sure this is the place famous for bioengineering?” From his observation, it looked like any other farm in the area. “Maybe we took a wrong turn.” “Nope, there’s the sign,” answered Megan, pointing toward the barn. A large canvas banner had been hung over the side of the building and painted to read: ‘Art’s Arm Farm’. Chris looked down at what remained of his right arm and back to the sign. “What the hell is an arm farm anyway?” “I’m sure it’s just some silly gimmick,” she replied. “There’s probably a lab under the farm for developing prosthetics. It looks like he grows other crops too. These days, it’s good to be diversified.” “I guess you’re right.” Chris looked out at the rows of short plants that stretched out in every direction. They were all covered by opaque plastic bags. “Must have a problem with pests out here,” he commented. Megan nodded and pulled the car up to a series of painted parking spaces next to the barn. A wooden sign read ‘Visitors enter through the big door’. Megan cut the ignition and the air conditioner eked out a final breeze of crisp, cool air. The sun shone through the window and quickly filled the car with an oppressive heat. Chris remained rooted to his chair. Before the accident, he had hated relying on others, and a prosthetic felt like the ultimate submission to his newfound disability. Megan put a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Chris, we can’t stay in here much longer. Let’s see what he’s got to offer. If you don’t like it, we’ll leave, simple as that.” Chris sighed and opened the car door. Heat rolled off the farm in a wave, carrying with it a strange smell he couldn’t quite place. There was fertilizer, yes, but something else as well. “You smell that?” he asked. “Yeah.” Megan wrinkled her nose. “Smells like baby powder?” He smelled the air and nodded. “I think you might be right.” More specifically, he thought it just smelled like newborn, but he kept that to himself. “Which one do you think is the big door?” he asked, grinning. “I don’t know, Sherlock.” She pointed toward the large barn door in front of them. “Think it’s that one?” “Only one way to find out.” Chris pushed open the door to the barn and was immediately struck by the loud disco music playing from inside. Bright, fluorescent lights illuminated the length of the structure, and steel tables with various medical equipment ran in a line down the center. “Told you.” Chris barely heard her. He was more focused on the older man with a nearly wizard-like beard dancing to the music the center of the barn. He wore a dirt-stained lab-coat and his eyes were closed as he swayed back and forth. Megan laughed out loud and the older man heard her. He held up a remote in his hand and the music stopped immediately. “Sorry about that,” he said, setting the remote down on one of the lab tables. “It seems I never have time to enjoy a good song anymore.” The man walked briskly through the barn, running his hand along the lab tables as he went. “Business is booming, as they say.” Chris recoiled slightly as the man walked right up to him, getting uncomfortably close. “Oh, no need for that, my boy.” The man held out his right hand. “Name’s Art, pleasure to meet you.” Chris grimaced, reaching out to shake Art’s hand awkwardly with his left. “Chris.” Art shook his hand and looked to Chris’s stump. “Don’t worry, Chris, we’re going to fix that. Do you mind?” he motioned to Chris’s arm. Chris did mind, but Megan squeezed his shoulder. “No, not at all.” Art grabbed Chris’s right arm and examined it. With his left hand, he pulled out a tape recorder. “Three quarters of the right arm is missing.” He squinted at the skin. “Pigmentation is white, probably a three or a four.” Art looked to Chris’s good arm. “Light freckling on the remaining limb. Is that something you’re looking to keep?” “I’m sorry?” asked Chris. Art removed his hands. “You’ve got some freckles on your left arm, would you like them on your new arm as well?” Chris looked mildly confused and remained silent. “That’s alright, I’ll show you some options.” Art noticed Megan and jumped as if electrified. “You must be Megan. Pardon my rudeness, I’m Art.” He shook her hand. She shook Art’s hand and smiled. “Nice to meet you, Art. Between you and I, I like his freckles.” Art gave her a comical wink. “Well, we’ll see what we can do about that. No time to waste, let’s get going and see what the Arm Farm is all about.” Art led them towards the far end of the barn. They passed by several lab tables, each containing a different arrangement of potting soils, grow lights, and strange flesh-like pods suspended in liquid. Chris wanted to stop and get a closer look, but Art was a man on a mission and walked at a quick clip for his age. “Started this business about five years back,” he called as they walked. “Back then, it was one lab table and a small plot for growing the prototypes.” He reached the end of the barn and flung open a large door leading outside to the fields. Sun rushed in, illuminating him as a black silhouette on a backdrop of dazzling light. “It’s a beautiful day for it.” Art inhaled deeply and stepped outside. Megan shot Chris a smirk and followed. Chris was feeling more uncomfortable by the minute. “What exactly is it you grow out here?” he asked, stepping onto the dirt path that ran into the fields. He could see the rows of plastic bags stretching out as far as the eye could see. They didn’t look like any crops he was familiar with. “Didn’t you read the sign, son?” Art laughed. “You’re here looking for a new arm, well, here’s my stock.” He made a sweeping gesture to the field. Chris’s confusion didn’t abate, but there was a sickening turn in his stomach. Looking at Megan, she showed no signs of misgiving, and seemed perfectly comfortable. “Now, let’s see…” Art stopped at one of the plots and checked a note sheet that had been pinned to a wooden post. “White, three or a four for pigment, some freckling. Let’s check out row three.” Art led them into the fields. “Step carefully now, if you can help it, don’t touch the bags.” Chris was already keeping a healthy distance from them. The crops sent chills up his spine, almost like they were watching him. Eventually, Art stopped and bent down to check a few of the bags. “Ah, here we go.” With a flourish, he removed three plastic bags in a row. Chris’s heart raced as he looked down. “Are those?” Art nodded with a grin. Poking out of the dirt were three human arms, fingers outstretched toward the sun like something out of an old movie about the living dead. Art ran his fingers along the wrist of one and the fingers flexed.


I’m an *old* man. Okay, I’m not that old. I’m only seventy-five. I’m being dramatic. They say that the seventies are the new fifties. But, I’m entitled to being a little grumpy at my age. I’ve earned it. When I was younger, birthdays earned you new privileges, like buying tobacco (albeit I hate the smell and only occasionally smoke a cigar, which even then I still find it mildly revolting), getting married, joining the military, voting, alcohol, and cheaper car insurance. But now the doctors inform me that, based on my age and my insurance provider, I’ve earned the privilege of undergoing another test for some disease that’s sure to end my life miserably. Every year I go in for my physical, and every year the doctor runs a complete battery; cholesterol, blood sugar, blood pressure, hearing, prostate, bone density, and on and on. I see a dermatologist annually owing to my fair complexion; a trait I inherited from my mother who had strawberry blonde hair and a spattering of freckles that ran up and down her cheeks. And every three years I have to drink that God-awful Crystal Light and apple juice concoction, shit my brains out for two days, and then get little cameras inserted up my ass and down my throat. If it wasn’t for the drugs, I’m not sure I’d enjoy it much. Or would I? When you get old, sometimes you wonder about these things. I’m not gay (and I don’t have a problem with it, mind you), but these thoughts run through my head on occasion as I get older. What if I actually enjoyed it? Maybe I would have when I was younger and a bit more open to those kinds of things. Apparently, the prostate, that little walnut-sized gland near your bladder, is also called the “male G-spot.” All I know is that on occasion, when the doctor sticks his fingers up my rectum, I get a little chubby. It’s kind of embarrassing, but if it weren’t for the sterile formality of it all, maybe I’d relax enough to enjoy it. You see, I never considered these things before. Just like every time I get some new test. It gnaws away at my mind’s ability to ignore the fact that my time on this earth is coming to an end, something my younger self never once considered as a real possibility. Where death was something that happened to other people, each phone call from my specialist inches me closer to the realization that I’m not a spring-chicken anymore, and I’m one rotten biopsy away from the grave. So, when the doctor says “you’re as healthy a twenty-year-old,” I always respond (still a little slick between the cheeks), “that’s just great, Doc.” But who am I fooling? They say that the seventies are the new fifties, but on Tinder I am old. *I’m old, and I’m creepy.* At least, that’s what all the young girls tell me. *Swipe right, swipe left?* I don’t know how we matched, because I can barely text my wife without transferring my life savings to an African prince. I joke, because they all end up in my spam folder anyway, along with my daughter’s e-mails … *why can’t you just call me on the phone like a normal human being, or God-forbid, visit once in a while? I know you have a family of your own and live a couple thousand miles away, but would it hurt to bring them down to get to know their Papa before he chokes?* Online dating is as foreign to me as *Ching Chang Chong*. Or is that too pejorative of an idiom these days? One thing I’ve also realized is that the older I get, the more bigoted and wrong about the world I am, at least that’s what everyone keeps telling me. But let me be clear, *Chief*, it wasn’t me who changed; it was the world. When I was a kid, these things didn’t have the same context. People weren’t so sensitive. I grew up in New England, for fuck’s sake. If you don’t recall, we fought to end slavery during the Civil War. We championed equal rights, and I even marched to end segregation, and now I’m a bigot? *Please*, spare me. I don’t want to get political, but there’s a reason Trump won. I don’t care much for the man, with his gold-plated shit palace and orange skin, but he appreciates what being American used to mean. In a lot of ways, those were the gold-old-days. Those were the days before Twitter, Facebook, and Insta-whatever. Things were simpler: you sent a letter in the mail and then you waited. And when you *waited* you learned patience. Kids don’t have patience these days. They want everything now, now, now. The world has changed, and maybe I’ve stayed the same. A few years ago, we decided we were going to audit an ethics class at a local community college. Being that we are retired and didn’t have to work for food, we thought it would keep us engaged with the world that seemed to be changing daily. At any rate, the professor, some snotty, high-falutin’, thirty-something who couldn’t commit to a PhD, decided he was going to lecture me about objective moral values. *Objective moral values?* What’s so objective about values these days when a man can decide to be a woman, and a woman can decide to be a Furry? *A Furry.* One interesting thing I learned in class: an employee filed an equal opportunity complaint because she not only believed she was a cat, but that she was being discriminated against because there weren’t any litter boxes for her to shit in. Can you believe that? Did the world go crazy, or am I going crazy? One of the advantages of age is that it provides some perspective. A disadvantage is that facts about the world that one picks up in one era may not apply in a subsequent one. It’s not that the facts weren’t facts, but that those facts were time sensitive. What used to be true is not true now. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t true. I’m *time sensitive* these days. I’m sensitive to the fact that I’m not getting any younger. But eventually, you have to move on. You have to give new things a try. You have to embrace—and I hate to sound so callous, but at seventy, you appreciate the time you had and you appreciate the time you have left—change. It is hard to move on, but, sometimes, the world changes and you just have to hang on for the ride. So, when Judith messaged me (not sure if it was through Our Time, Zoosk, Elite or Silver Singles, or whatever dating app I ended up contributing practically my entire 401k towards), it was a bit unexpected. I have to admit, it was hard. It was hard to carry on a conversation through my keyboard to some stranger in the internet ether. Hell, for all I knew, she was some Russian hacker trying to steal my e-mails. *I’m kidding.* We decided we’d meet at a local café. We’d have some coffee, maybe some breakfast, and we’d simply talk. That sounded great, honestly. Because another thing about growing old is that everyone you know is constantly dying. When you’re twenty, it’s one wedding after another. When you’re seventy, it’s one funeral after another. Your address book gets smaller and smaller over time, and conversations become few and far between. You find yourself talking a bit too much to that clerk at the grocery store, or the telemarketer who’s trying to sell you a timeshare. I give my daughter a hard time, but she has a career, a husband, and children, and I feel a bit guilty expecting anything from her beyond a call on Thanksgiving or Christmas. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a wonderful daughter. She’s always trying to get me to move back to Maine, but I’ve grown accustomed to the Southern climate. They keep going on and on about climate change and saying Florida will be sucked into the ocean one day, but that won’t happen until long after I’m dead and gone. I keep telling her not to worry about me, and while she does, she knows I’m too stubborn to leave. But, daughters have a way of softening even the most hardened assholes like myself. I showed up at the Waffle House a bit earlier than we agreed. Sitting at the booth I was reminded about how nervous I was when I was a kid. But seventy is the new fifty, right? One thing I appreciate about technology is that it opens doors (both figuratively and non-figuratively). When I was a kid, you had to muster up the guts to approach a girl at the bar, an ice cream parlor, a diner, or the library. You had to introduce yourself while her and her friends pretended not to notice, but which made you even more nervous and uncomfortable. You had to invest an inordinate amount of time and resources into the act of dating that, probably, would be a waste of time in the end. It was a shot in the dark. You’d discover something about her personality, her values, her parents, her outlook, three or four dates into it, and you’d be back at square one. *Luck.* That’s what it took to find the right one. The great thing about online dating is you can weed out all those people you know aren’t cut out for you, that don’t share your worldview. It opens up the pool of dating I didn’t have when I was a kid. It’s simple math; the wider your net, the more chance you have of making the catch. Sitting there I realized I still had my wedding ring on. I hadn’t taken it off for nearly fifty years. In the bathroom, with a great deal of soap, I worked the ring backwards and forwards. The once smooth band was now sharp and cut into my finger that had grown a size (or two) larger than it was when I had first gotten married. The ring refused to budge over my knuckle. No matter how much I yanked, the damn thing wouldn’t come off. And the harder I pulled, the more I smiled and the more those crow’s feet, winkles, and loose skin scrunched up into an adolescent grin ear-to-ear. Judith ordered black coffee, two eggs sunny-side up, turkey bacon, and wheat toast. From her purse, she pulled out a shaker of Morton Salt Substitute, and that’s when I saw that she hadn’t taken her ring off either.


Michael "Maverick" Carter was a force to be reckoned with. A former space marine, he had seen the darkest corners of the universe and survived to tell the tale. He had a plan to push the boundaries of human understanding. Maverick wanted to see the future, and he knew just how to do it. Rumors spoke of a black hole lurking near the edge of the galaxy, a cosmic beast with the power to distort time. Maverick's plan was simple: take a spaceship to the outskirts of the black hole, slowing his time relative to Earth, and see the future unfold before his eyes. Maverick spent months preparing for the journey, retrofitting his ship with state-of-the-art technology to withstand the immense gravitational forces. He named his vessel "The Timebender." As the final preparations were made, Maverick's heart raced in anticipation of the unknown. Finally, the day arrived. Maverick piloted The Timebender through the darkness of space, edging ever closer to the black hole. He could feel the pull of gravity intensifying, but his ship held steady. Time slowed to a crawl as he approached the event horizon. From his vantage point, Maverick observed the Earth spinning faster and faster, seasons changing in the blink of an eye. He watched the world evolve, technology advance, and wars fought and won. He witnessed the rise and fall of nations, and the human race reaching beyond Earth to establish colonies on distant planets. As decades flew by in moments, Maverick felt an unsettling emptiness. The thrill of exploration and adventure was overshadowed by a longing to return home, to be a part of the world he had left behind. He had seen enough. With a heavy heart, he turned The Timebender around and began the arduous journey back to Earth. When he finally arrived, Maverick found Earth unrecognizable. The once lush and vibrant planet had been reduced to a smoldering, lifeless husk. Cities lay in ruins, oceans boiled away, and the sky a permanent, angry red. The Earth he had known was gone, and with it, the entirety of human civilization. Maverick's heart sank as he surveyed the devastation. He had wanted to see the future, but he had never imagined it would be so bleak. He wondered what had caused this cataclysm, what terrible force had brought humanity to its knees. There were no answers, only the silence of a dead world. In the depths of despair, Maverick received a faint transmission from one of the off-world colonies. Humanity had survived, but only in the far reaches of space. Filled with a renewed sense of purpose, he plotted a course for the nearest colony. He would share his knowledge of Earth's fate, and work tirelessly to ensure that the mistakes of the past were never repeated. Maverick's journey had taken him to the edge of time and back, and he had witnessed the tragic end of his beloved home. But as he set off for the stars, he knew that the future was not set in stone. The power to change it was within his grasp, and he would do everything in his power to forge a brighter tomorrow for humanity.


There’s a small tight knit community where people grow their own food, sew their own clothing, and take care of their children. The community is tucked away in the foothills on a fair sized lake. The lands are fertile and there is nothing the towns people are ever in need of. In fact there’s generally an overabundance of supplies. The elderly and children aren’t forced to work but everyone does their share. It is not uncommon to see even the adults playing in the field with their children or swimming in the lake in the middle of what would be considered a work day. Across the lake there is a very large castle. It is old and unmaintained but by no means is decrepit or falling apart. The towns people have grown up for generations looking at but never visiting the castle mostly because they never had the need and there was no obvious way in. There were occasional whispers about who had lived there and why they never ventured out or how they got their food. The towns people also grew up under instruction to maintain a curfew of sundown. Never once would they step out of their homes after the sun had set and before it rose the next morning. It was unspoken and everyone followed the rule without question. It wasn’t something they were taught it’s just how it had always been and was never up for dispute. Due to this there was no need for external lights on their rustic stick built homes. But light spilled out of the open windows onto the streets. Homes only had simple door locks usually consisting of a simple piece of wood across the back of the door. And in all honestly were only there to keep the door from blowing open in the night, windows were wide open and contained no glass but had wooden slats to keep the larger animals of the night from crawling in. There were shutters for cooler nights or when it rained. If you looked closely you could sometimes see a light on in the castle as well. Sometimes it was in the eastern tower and other times it was in the middle of the castle. The light was from the twins living in the castle. They had always lived there from before anyone could remember. Every once in a while they could be seen walking on the walls of the castle but nobody had ever spoken to them or seen them up close. They were brother and sister but from such a distance none of the towns people could describe them in any more detail. Their father hadn’t been seen in nearly 10 years and their mother was a mystery to everyone. Nobody knows when the family moved in but they had been there for as long as anyone could recall. The twins were in their mid-twenty’s at this point. On one of the cooler nights of the year after the sun had set and all of the towns people had gone to bed, first one, then a second small torch appeared at the base of the castle. The torches presumably carried by the twins slowly made their way closer and closer to the town and just at the edge of the town they stopped for a moment and one departed to the left side of the street and one to the right. They moved slow as if they were trying to go undetected but nobody was watching because they were all asleep. Simultaneously the torches dipped and touched the walls of the first home on either side of the street. The fire slowly grew but the twins just moved to the next house and again touched the torch to the walls. They did this until every house was on fire and they had made it to the other side of the town. The twins then proceeded to walk up onto a nearby hill that overlooked the burning town. On this hill there were two rectangular hole. They stood next to the holes and turned to look at the glow coming from the town. From their distance the twins could hear screams and cries for help but not one towns people opened their doors or left their homes. Slowly the cries disappeared and only flames remained. Those eventually began to dim as well and for the first time since reaching the hill the twins moved. The smaller of the two turned around and faced the hole and placed the torch on the ground next to it revealing a neatly placed coffin inside. She carefully lowered herself with a little help from her brother into the coffin and without a word closed it. The brother covered up the coffin with the shovel and dirt placed next to it. He then proceeded to crawl into his own coffin and close the lid. He closed his eyes and waited. A few minutes passed without a noise when suddenly the sound of dirt falling on the lid of the coffin could be heard. Seemingly unstartled the brother listened until he could no longer hear anything but his own breath before falling asleep.


Internet (Interneé?) is the wild and chaotic daughter of Jupiter and Arachne. The daughter of Electricity and the Weaver. It was said on the day of her birth that the rays of a long forgotten goddess were seen across the earth. It was quickly discovered that she had the power to make distance disappear into endless space that could be connected in infinite ways. All the gods marveled. Even the most ancient titans, like Chronus and Gaia bowed before her in her infancy. As she grew, so did her power with mankind. Artists created with new forms of media. Poets and scholars and journalists became more prolific and spread their writings to the ends of the earth. Scientists worked with Internet to create clouds that held vast amounts of data that could be organized. Many news discoveries were made. Mankind rejoiced in an unexpected new age. Yet she was unbridled. Had no control. Anything that could be, could be. Mankind found new forms of cruelty and lies in her endless space. Yet she is neutral, and by her nature cannot control what flows through her, or discern what is true or false. Pluto grew jealous of Internet’s ability to create value from air. Offended by her frivolity. Under the guise of affection and seeing her potential, he persuaded the gods to let him be her tutor. He locked her in a maze of moving walls with shrieking faces that demanded payment for arbitrary services. Mankind on the island of Janus, home to Pluto’s throne, was struck by a terrible famine as a result of her imprisonment. She remains trapped there, the walls getting more and more obstructive. She is depicted as sitting on a large cat, with an apple in her hand and a window behind her. A penguin sits by her side. Her scepter is an antenna, and her corona is a radiant blue wave called WiFi. She is too young to have a consort yet. Some say it is impossible for her to have a consort because she has no conventional identity or physical form. She is worshipped by the lonely, the bored, and the inquisitive. Her chief religious rite is called “Surfing”. It involves bowing the head and swiping a device called a phone or mouse. “Gaming” is a competitive form of this rite performed by people at unknown distances. These rites are known to cause people to fall into fits of laughter, love or rage. She is a new goddess, and her rites and mysteries are still being developed. But if she is kept in Pluto’s prison, we will share her fate.


To the Keeper of my thoughts, Do you know a dragonfly is extremely unique? Their four wings, working independently from each other, allow them to fly in any direction they please. Their compound, telescopic eyes enable them to view the world in a 360 degree vision. Ironically, the only blind spot is directly behind them. Hot diggity darn, I wished me a dragonfly. I never knew words could comfort me like a cozy luxe blanket until I found your diary, secretly tucked inside a birdhouse. You see, my dad asked me to clean it out, shortly after we moved into the new house. What seemed like a laborious chore, turned into a cathartic moment, forever changing my life. The diary was strategically buried under layers of hays.

The cover of the book had a picture of a Cherry Blossom Tree, the edges tethered from endless nights of writing. I wasn’t sure why but my heart was thumping loudly, as if I was just about to open a present left for me underneath the Christmas Tree.

Gingerly, I opened the book to the first page. In an effortless beautiful cursive style, just one line breathed, “To the Keeper of My Thoughts.”

I felt a bit relieved knowing I was allowed to read the contents of the book. I turned to the second page and started reading.

“Am I lonely, I ponder For I am always alone

But not fear loneliness.  		    To the keeper of my thoughts;  		    I have waged, battled and fought

 		    So that you may read my gamut

 		    Of solitary thoughts.” Immediately, the book fell from my shaking hands. Bewildered by the haunting words, I was struck by overwhelming emotions blended in a whirling tornado hitting straight to the core of my heart. Distinctly, I heard your voice carried upon the wings of a globe skimmer dragonfly, patiently seeking a mate to finally end your wandering, lonesome journey.

 My heart resonated with unfamiliar feelings. Your poem ignited and fueled empathy towards how you felt while you wrote those short stanzas. At that moment, I was hungry to know more about this hidden gem, about you.

You filled the diary with poems, stories, quotes that uplifted my spirits, brought tears to my eyes, had me belting out with laughter. Every word transported me to a mystical and magical realm I never wanted to leave. Your world of escapism helped me forget I was a teenage boy, burdened by the bullies from my old school. One of my favorite poems (boy, did you make it hard for me to choose), Grow Old With Me Your love is a song that sings to my soul Come and grow old with me And you will see

Our love will set us both free You and I were always meant to be

Connected by a flimsy thread Woven by a spider’s beautiful silk web

Can’t you see, the vision that lays ahead For once, let our feelings take the lead

Your love is a song that sings to my soul And when I feel your sweet embrace

Oh my darling Can you see how symmetrical

Like a lucky four leaf clover

You know our bond can never be broken

It’s a love song that should not be unspoken Let’s not waste any more time

Because our love is a parallel desire

Not flames waiting to burn But time has wanted us to shine

Your love is a song that sings to my soul Stay and grow old with me

And you will see

Our love will set us both free

You and I were always meant to be I read and reread this poem until each syllable was etched into my memory. This harmonious soliloquy replaced the small fissures in my broken spirit once filled with cynical doubts, now with hope. The possibility of falling in love in this chastising world. Intentionally, you left out dates, your name, any details describing your physical self in this common world, knowing those shallow details were unimportant.

Unsuccessfully, for years I tried to find you but every public record led me to dead ends. How you remained so mysterious but a kindred spirit was perplexing. I did not appreciate the Universe laughing at us, taunting us with its wicked humor.

Throughout the years, I kept your diary close to me. Every morning, on my way to work, I’d stop in front of the window of the same bookstore. For a fleeting moment, I wished for a meeting with you.

On this particular summer morning, the sky was pouring down showers upon the city streets. Gripping an umbrella with both hands, my walk to work was a drenched sprint. Then something happened. A familiar cherry blossom coverlet was showcased in the window of the bookstore. I stood frozen, recognizing the hardcover. I forgot about work, the rain, the world.

Nervously, I walked into the store and asked the person behind the register for the book. As it was handed to me, I felt the way I did when I was fourteen. The same way when I found your diary in a house full of chirps. Could it be? Did the Universe hear my wishes and finally grant me this inevitable, fateful meeting?

I did not open the book. I flipped the book over and staring back at me, was a picture of you. I took in every detail of your features, conventionally falling in love with you all over again.

As I did when I was fourteen, I slowly opened the book. On the first page I read your dedication to me, “To the keeper of my thoughts.” Excitingly, I turned to the second page and

there was your haunting poem. Remembering this is not the original, I flipped to the inside jacket of the cover. I read the synopsis of your book and then the last sentence struck a searing knife into my soul. You passed away a year before your book was published. Tears started pouring like the rain outside, flooding my entire being. Suddenly, I felt like I was drowning in an empty abyss of puddles. I cried like a child. The person behind the register came over to me. Angrily, I asked to be left alone.

Through my blinding tears, I flipped through your book until I reached the last page. An unfamiliar poem. With a heavy heart, I read your final words you wrote to me,

To the Keeper of my thoughts:

               Under your protection

                      I found courage.

               The Universe carried to me

               a voice.

              Your voice.

              I heard it say,

                     fate will continue to urge

                     two lonesome souls,

              strangers wandering in the dark night,

              parallel paths

shall one day cross.

            If not in this eternity,

          endless eternities here on in. Suddenly, I felt like a dragonfly. My wings will continue to fly in every direction, searching for you.


Some have all the luck A wedding is set for April fools day, but Maggie feels more the fool than a bridesmaid. Her sister Rebekah has planned a fantasy themed wedding. To make matters worse, she has even chosen her sister’s costume, without any room for negotiation. Pointed ears, a green dress with glitter and sparkles adorned. Then there came the shoes out of it’s box, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, with great pointed toes!. How on earth was anyone to walk in these without falling flat on their face, was beyond Maggie’s understanding.  But she had promised to go along with her sister’s wishes, even if it meant photo’s on social media that would plague her for the rest of her life! The wedding’s location is by a great lake, centred within an ancient Celtic forest. Maggie was sent there early, to make preparations. The tents had already been set up by hired hands, and a few gathered round a camp fire as the sun began to set over the tree tops. Everyone must remain in character, while they are staying, so costumes and ears were fixed appropriately. Maggie avoided any eye contact with others there, she was a recluse and did not care for social interaction, though she enjoyed a concert if it meant she could sit back and close her eyes to take it all in. The wedding is at noon, in 2 days time.

The night was quite cold, as she tried, but failed to sleep, the wind blew through her tent and Maggie sat up, with one ear on, and the other hanging off, stuck to the side of her cheek. She poked her head outside, to see where this strange noise was coming from. She could hear music playing, and yet it was in the distance, amongst the trees, and not in the camp. Putting on her floppy pointed shoes, she hopped about, pulling the tights until they reached up and over her waist, as they had a habit of pulling downwards in an uncomfortable fashion. Maggie left the camp site, in search of this jolly music with such a hypnotic good beat. There she saw, tiny lights, flickering and moving about amongst the forest trees. Out of no where, this man, dressed like her ,only with dark green baggy clothes, and dirt all over as if he had been rolling around in the ground, leapt out. He cried “So ye be wantin te join the party?”. Maggie just burst out laughing. Thinking, these hired actors her sister joked about hiring, must have arrived and are in character. So she played along, fixing her wonky ears. “Yes, I be wantin, te join ye”. She replied. If there was one thing that could get Maggie out of her shell, it was music. To her it was a way to reach out to the world but still keep a safe distance. The pixie grabbed her hand, and trailed her with great haste towards a small group of people dancing and playing, all like him, but male an female.

The lights, came from old fashioned lanterns, hung around the trees. There were also these strange holes in the ground, a bit like giant rabbit holes. Musical instruments were being played, and Maggie joined in when she was offered to play. She played the flute and found this to be a fun party that had this trance feeling of comfort and joy. They did not pressure her with any questions, it was just simply music and dancing. As drinks were handed out, they tasted like wild nut tea. But Maggie felt dizzy and suddenly blacked out.

When she awoke, her head was splitting. Feeling for her false ears to take them off, they refused to move!. She tried over and over, pulling at them, but it hurt!. Had they pranked her and glued them on?. Furious, Maggie rushed to a mirror, but she had no reflection. Feeling the tops of her ears, and pinching them, it hurt even more!. ‘This can not be, it’s a nightmare or some weird mushroom drug was in that tea, I’m having a hallucination’ she thought. Running outside, there was her sister Rebekah, and other guests. All seemed concerned and were talking about her disappearance. Maggie reached out to them, but her hand went straight through, as if she were a ghost. Running now in sheer panic, she reached the place of the late night party. Only to find no one there, but a hole was still visible. She built up the courage and began to climb through it. Mud and water, made her filthy as she squeezed through tight corners. There a light, Maggie reached the end. A great cave, with a glorious waterfall and a rainbow which hung over it. An entire town was situated, streets and shops, and even a school. All of them carved out of the natural bed rock stone.

Maggie rushed towards a pixie, who walked with her cow from a small field. “Please, I need help, I think, I’m trapped”. The young pixie laughed, and turned towards her father who was now coming up the lane. She spoke as though this were a normal event. “Father, here is another one”. Maggie now with her throat dry from horror, begged to know what on earth was going on?. He answered, “isn’t it obvious, you made a deal with a pixie and now you must repay him”. Maggie, tried to think back. But while she was gazing around in deep thought. It dawned on her, everything here was small, as was she. There was a nut, being crunched up by 2 pixies on some strange apparatus with hammers. And again, another example, a flower, a buttercup lay on it’s side, used by children to slide down like a playground. “What must I do to return to normal?”. She begged in desperation. They explained, there is a way, but Maggie must repay her debt first. The pixie who had invited her to dance, was their chief prankster and he declared himself the champion, undefeated. Maggie in all her wisdom challenged him. If she fails, she will remain a pixie, and if she wins, he will grant her what she longed for, self confidence.

In her hand, just as if magic had prevailed, there appeared a scroll. A list of pranks, to win this bet. Maggie, placing it in her belt, and saying goodbye to this strange underground world, wished never to return, for fear of being trapped. She crawled inside the hole to make her exit. Maggie looked upon the first prank. An easy one by far. To place frogs inside her sisters wedding boots. Silly, but who was she to question the list. Only one problem, Maggie was fully visible now and was being scorned for her filthy appearance. Her ears could be removed, which was a blessing, but the list remained and so this was no dream. Time to avoid the crowd gathered and focus on this list, the frogs will just have to wait. She snuck into the wedding tent and replaced the figure of the bride with another, her keyring which was of a cartoon pig. But had to make conversation with two couples who lingered at the tents entrance, before making her escape. Next, to mix up the seating arrangements, no easy task when people are coming and going, and having yet again to make small talk with her sisters guests. Maggie was not panicking she had until tomorrow, at the wedding. But when she passed a calender on the wall, there a day had vanished!, her sister was to marry, in one hour!. If she fails before noon, a pixie she shall remain forever. Reaching now for seats, reading the list, that was declaring that drawing pins be placed, and on top of this, she is to burn a horrible smell, sabotage the catering with creatures such as worms and slugs. It was too cruel, too much, and unfair to Rebekah. Her sister looks so upset, already she has witnessed her cake. Maggie just felt awful, knowing that her sister had diet problems and was sensitive about such things. Maggie could not follow through any longer. No this was over for her. She threw the list into an open fire and approached Rebekah. “I wish you all the luck, joy and happiness in the world sister”. With a shocked expression from her sister, she was glad, both were of a renewed friendship that was just about hanging in there.

The sun was now in the south, as Maggie stood at the alter and watched her sister wed. Maggie heard music now, being played in the distance. Only she could hear this, she knew where it came from. The beat, the drumming sounds, they were back, and possibly waiting for her. Too afraid to touch her ears, Maggie shook with fear, as she knew, at any moment, she would vanish from sight. But she did not. An entire hour passed by, with nothing horrible taking place. Dare she touch her ears?. Yes they are OK. Needing answers, though terrified of the result, Maggie rushed through the dark forest, towards the music. The pixie stood waiting for her, he mocked, “so ye thought ye could beat me? Ye failed!”. Maggie agreed, but he laughed. “Why the long face, ye haven’t failed yer self, no, passed ye did, and wit flying colours”. Maggie was confused. Then she realised, she had lost, but her punishment was to be more like them, more open and alive. This was no curse, it was a lesson and a gift. As it says, it takes a wise man to act a fool. Sometimes, those we see as being fools, are the wisest amongst us.