David and Mary quietly sifted through the last of the food items left on the Supermarket shelves. They were not alone. There were several others nearby doing the same thing. At the other end of the store there was a lot of yelling and shots being fired. Mary found a few packets of chips and a can of corn and quickly put them in her rucksack, hoping nobody had seen her. They had already seen an older couple get shot this morning, just because they had a few tins of food. David nodded to her that it was time to get out of there, as it was getting too dangerous. They warily made their way, as quietly as possible, to the exit, slipped through the door and raced across the road and into the trees. They hid behind a large tree for a few moments to make sure nobody had followed. Mary started to shake violently, from fear. David put his arms around her, and told her quietly. “Calm down, everything will be okay!” It had been another brutal day of scavenging for food and clothes, and seeing what the worst of humanity could do to one another. The day before they had found an empty cottage, very unassuming and rundown, not something robbers would be looking at. They headed back there now, avoiding being out in the open as much as possible. “What is going to happen to us, David?” Mary asked as they walked. “I’m afraid at the moment I can’t answer that.” David replied. “I guess, life as it was a month ago, is gone forever, and now we just have to try to survive.” They reached the small cottage, went around to the back door, and waited to make sure nobody was around. David checked the piece of cardboard he had stuck in the door. It was still there, so nobody had tried to open the door. After going inside David securely latched the door from inside, then made sure the front door was still secure. They emptied out the few items of food and stacked most of them in a secret cache, in one of the walls. They sat down on the couch with a can of cola and a packet of chips to share. They dared not put the television or the radio on, for fear of someone hearing them, and they left the lights off after dark. There was just enough moonlight coming through the curtains to be able to see. David thought about all that had happened over the last few months.  When Nth. Korea had their elections, they had voted in a dictator, who they found out too late, was crazy. By the time they realised he was out of his mind, it was already too late to stop him. He had done the one thing most of humanity had been dreading for many years. He had pushed the button, sending death and destruction to most of the Western World. Of course they had retaliated, sending their own, to completely wipe out the Nth. Korean nation and many surrounding nations as well. There weren’t too many left that hadn’t been devastated. Fresh food and water were a thing of the past, money was no good to anyone and everyone was out to look after themselves. The worst of humanity had risen it’s head, roaming the streets, violently killing anyone who got in their way. After dark David and Mary sat near the window, where they could see through the curtains, by the moonlight. They watched in silence, as the gangs roamed the streets with guns and fire torches, shooting anyone they happened to come across. David had found an old rifle in the house, but had not had to use it so far. He only found half a dozen bullets, so he had to be sure if he was going to fire it. “If it comes to them or us, I will shoot  them!” He told Mary. Mary was devastated, she had not seen or heard from any of her or David’s families, for months, and she feared the worst. “If only I knew that they were okay.” She kept telling David. He had no answers. He was thinking the same, but didn’t want to dwell on what might be. Tonight the sounds of gunfire were very close. David held the rifle, ready to take on anyone who tried to break in. The night went smoothly, but David was woken up early, by Mary urgently nudging him. “David wake up!” she whispered in his ear. “Someone is trying to open the front door!” David sprang to his feet, grabbed the rifle, and held it up facing the front door. In the dim morning light he watched with wide eyes as someone unlocked the door and walked in. “Stay where you are!” he said under his breath. As his sight adjusted to the dim light, he saw an elderly man and woman, in dirty clothes, and covered in cuts and bruises. “Who are you?” the old man asked. “This is our house, what are you doing here?” “We’re pensioners, we have nothing of value for you to steal.” Keeping the gun trained on them, David walked over behind them, then closed and relocked the front door, after making sure they hadn’t been followed. “Sit down.” He said. “I’ll explain what this is all about.” David stood beside the window, watching for anyone lurking nearby, as he explained to the old couple how he had found the cottage empty and they had nowhere else to go. The elderly man looked at his wife. “Okay, I believe you, you’re safe here, and we can do with some company.” He said. “We were at the shopping centre searching for some food, when the whole building started to collapse.” “We ran for our lives and only just got out with a few cuts and bruises.” “We have been slowly making our way back here, trying to avoid the gangs and shooting.” “We saw so many dead and injured people, but we couldn’t stop or we would have become one of the victims.” “It was horrible to watch, as people were shot down, for no reason, other than a coat or a packet of chips.” “One thing I did overhear though.” The old man said. “I overheard someone saying the Army was headed this way, ready to take on any, and all rioters.” “Anyone holding a gun in the street, will be shot on sight.” David’s eyes lit up and a smile cracked his lips. Mary jumped up and gave him a hug. “That’s the best news I’ve heard for weeks!” he said, then laughed. “Actually it’s the only news I’ve heard for weeks!” The old couple had found some fresh oranges and a couple of bottles of water. They added the water to the cache and shared the fruit with David and Mary. The next few weeks went quietly, without incident. A few gangs passed by, but weren’t interested in a dishevelled, run-down cottage. They were headed for the wealthy homes at the top of the bluff. David had sneaked out a few times and came back with some cans of beans and tomatoes, but their small cache of food was almost gone. One night as David sat beside the window, he heard the gangs headed towards them. He held the rifle up ready to shoot, then he realised they were running away, and the Army was after them! The next day a soldier knocked on the door. David opened the door just an inch. “Sergeant Leo here!” “How many in the house please?” “Four.” David replied. “Do you have enough food?” “No, we are just about out.” David said. “If you would all like to come with me, we’ll take you to the shelter, where you can pick up enough food for a week, and anything else you need.” The shelter was a very large distribution shed, with thousands of food packages, hundreds of soldiers and hundreds of people with nowhere to go. After picking up enough food parcels for a week and some clean clothes, they got a lift back to the cottage. The elderly couple were very glad to have some help and some company. It took many months but eventually David and Mary found most of their close family. Sadly, a few had unfortunately lost their lives, and they attended several funerals. They stayed at the cottage, as their own home had been obliterated. David helped clean-up the outside, and eventually repainted the cottage. Mary redecorated inside the cottage, making it more light and airy, and she also did the cooking. They had sadly lost a few family members, but David and Mary had found, in the ashes of the desolation, a new family to cherish for the future.


The sun burned down on my sweat-streaked face as I sprinted around the corner and began the last lap up the mountain. The boy beside me was clearly as tired as myself; his face was flushed dark red and he was breathing heavily, yet he kept on with the same determination. Darn it, would he ever fall behind? All the other kids had dropped out long ago, yet this one kept on. This could present a problem. I put on an extra burst of speed, although all my muscles seem to shriek in protest. I was gasping with the effort now, sweat pouring down my face, heart pounding wildly...I didn’t think I could maintain this pace that long - if only the other boy would drop behind! I risked a glance behind me, and to my utter frustration, the other boy had also increased his speed and was slowly gaining on me. I grit my teeth and forced the last little bit of energy out of my aching legs, but it was no use. He was again in line with me, racing neck-in-neck for the finish line. A shadow fell across my burning face, and I looked up to see that we were passing under a rocky overhang. For a moment, I only thought of how wonderful the momentary shade felt to my aching body, but then another thought entered my mind. This was probably the one spot on the entire mountain where the judges could not see the contestants. I mentally shook myself at the sudden thoughts that rushed into my head. No, a thousand times no, I would not cheat, I would win by my efforts, and my own efforts alone, I didn’t need that, I would do it myself… I glanced across at my companion and realized with a sick feeling in my stomach that he was not slowing down; on the contrary, he seemed to be speeding up.

At that my limbs faltered slightly. I could not go any faster, could not force another iota of strength from my burning legs. My throat ached with thirst, my face was on fire, sticky rivers of sweat were pouring down the back of my neck… The temptations came crowding back into my mind thick and fast. It would be so simple, just one little motion, and my competitor would be sprawling in the dust, giving me the few extra moments I needed to pull ahead. Again I resisted. I couldn’t do this, it wasn’t like me, it was wrong, but my leg twitched in spite of myself.

I glanced over at my companion and caught the look of determination in his eyes. It was that look more than anything else that made my unconscious decision. This was a boy who intended to win. Almost before my mind was aware that my body was doing anything, I felt my foot reaching out through the suddenly still air, coming in contact with his unprotected leg… He stumbled suddenly, lurching forward, yet even as I began to pass him, he tripped on a large stone, jerked sideways, and plummeted off the edge of the cliff. I came to a complete halt, suddenly incredibly sick. My mind seemed to burst open as the sudden realization of what I had done hit home: I was a murderer. On legs that had suddenly turned to water, I stumbled over to the edge of the cliff and willed myself to look over. I didn’t want to know what had happened, didn’t want to maybe see his crushed and mangled body on the rocks below...My heart was pounding again, but not from running. I looked over, and felt myself suddenly go limp with relief. The boy was not dead; he had miraculously landed on a small ledge just over the edge of the cliff.

“Hey, um, you alright?” I heard myself asking, my voice loud in my own ears. The boy looked up. “Yeah, I’m ok, but I don’t think I can climb back up alone.” “No problem. Here, give me your hand.” In a few moments, I had drawn him back onto the cliff and we stood there looking at each other, panting with the recent exertion. I didn’t know what to say; what could you say to someone you had almost killed? I was so wrapped up in my own guilty thoughts that I didn’t realize I was crying until my mouth suddenly stung with something hot and salty.

I desperately tried to wipe away my tears before the boy noticed, but I could already feel another one slipping down my cheek. “I’m sorry,” I gasped, completely starting to lose it, “I don’t know what came over me. I’m never like that, I-” Just then a thought flashed through my head, shocking me with its implications. Of course, it was the only right thing to do...But did I have the strength to do it? Taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and said in a mostly steady voice, “I know that no amount of apologies will ever make up for almost killing you, but I just wanted to say, you can go first.” The boy looked back at me, and I suddenly realized that he was crying too. He cleared his throat twice, trying to speak, and finally managed,

“I just had to say, I’m sorry too.” I stared at him, not comprehending. “What?” “I’m sorry. I almost did the same thing to you.”

As I looked into his eyes, I felt something lifting inside me. It was not my fault entirely. I was not the sole cause of a near tragedy; he could have done the same thing. The boy must have seen some of the relief on my face because he smiled suddenly.

“So, you see, I don’t really deserve to go first.” I shook my head. “No, I’m not going to go first. You might have considered it, but I actually did it.” The boy looked puzzled for a moment, but then said, “Ok, let’s go together.” The judges had probably never seen such a strange finish to a race, but I didn’t care. As we trooped across the finish line in perfect synchronization, I realized that this was probably the first race I had ever lost. And yet, it somehow didn’t matter; something had changed for me at the edge of that cliff .

The delicate thread that holds life and body together had almost snapped in my hands, and forced me to comprehend its value. It had forced me to weigh the importance of my own decisions over the value of another life, shaking my world to pieces in the matter of a few moments. I knew I would never race, would never make any decision in quite the same way again; death had brushed too close for me to ever consider myself in the same selfish way. As I was leaving the racing grounds with my family, I glanced once more at the boy, who was also preparing to leave. Once he became aware of my gaze, he looked up suddenly and gave me a quick half-smile. Yet there was something in his face that seemed different from before….Was it only my imagination, or had the experience so gravely shaken him as well? I tore my gaze away and looked off broodingly into the distance.


**Mother’s Day** I sat crouched in the darkness as the first rays of light broke on the horizon, hidden behind a solid wall of granite. I held the dagger, tightly between my hands, trembling ever so slightly as I scanned the cemetery grounds for movement. “Mom? Why are we in a graveyard, and why do you have the kitchen knife?” Ok, so it wasn’t so much of a dagger but a really sharp chef’s knife. I mean, it was a Wülsthof, so it’s not like it was undagger-like. It was at least German steel, so that made it feel like a dagger to me. All that really mattered was that it was metal and sharp. I scowled a bit as I looked at my son standing there with a flashlight. This was his first time out. Being on cusp of middle school I felt it was reasonable to bring him along - one day he would need to take over this job - if he loved me that is. “Shhh Cy! Just watch” I hissed. I immediately felt badly - it wasn’t his fault he was in such a screwed up family. Hell, it wasn’t my fault either. The least my husband could have done was disclosed what would happen before we brought kids into this. I scanned across the field but there was nothing but headstones, tufts of grass, and old vases filled with dying flowers. I took a moment to contemplate the scene, relaxing just a bit to settle into my awareness. This had become a regular pattern for me over the past decade - each May I spend my weekdays taking the kids to school, doing the laundry, and even enjoying Michigan Spring with a bit of yard cleanup. Then Mothers day weekend would come and I would pack up the kitchen knives, jump in the Ford Flex, and head to the local cemetery at dawn to kill my in-laws. Well, I’m not really sure, now that I think of it, whether I’m actually killing them. Perhaps this is splitting hairs (ha ha!), but when they crawl out of the ground like they do I can’t imagine they’re actually alive. I mean, it sure feels like a zombie/vampire/undead kind of event (at least from my limited tour of netflix shows on the topic), though it doesn’t happen until day break. I don’t really get that either - every show where the undead rise seems to have them coming out at night. I once argued with a girlfriend over this, emphatic that it couldn’t be an undead uprising and that there must be another explanation since it never begins until daylight breaks. She doesn’t talk to me anymore - something about how I project my feelings on my inlaws to justify keeping my kids away from them. Fuck her. “Mom, what’s that?” Cy stammers. He’s right beside me now, leaning up against the big monolith emblazoned with the name “Levine Schroeder”. He’s safe there, Levine was just another dead great great grandpa who happened to die early enough that he was buried at the edge of the family plots. His stone made for a great vantage point of the rest of the field, For some reason you never had to worry about the men in the family coming back to life, only the women. And then, too, only the women who married in. I don’t know if it was a curse or a plague, but it was weird as shit. And ever since I joined the family I’ve been a central actor in this play. I looked down at his hands and saw he was clutching a small red pocket knife - a Victorinox swiss army knife, with its one and half inch blade extended. A smile crossed my lips - that was my boy scout son, always prepared. I brought him out here just to observe, to understand his “heritage” as it were. But silently I was proud that he was ready to to help out - there was a reason I brought him instead of his brother Henry. My eyes darted across the landscape and followed his gaze to a stone roughly fifteen yards away. There was movement, certainly, though in the still breaking light it was tough to tell. It looked like Susan’s stone, a great aunt who was married to my husband’s uncle Alan. “Just watch” I hissed through my teeth to him, and began to move towards the shaking pile of dirt. Despite having only done this for the past ten years or so I had developed a bit of a technique. See, if you move in slow and wait for them to surface their head above the ground you can hit them with one strike and send them back to their grave none-the-wiser that another Mother’s day had passed. Quick and painless (I think!?). What better way to honor a dead ancestor? After I dispatched Susan I went on to Janet and Michelle. Pardon me, Michèle. Supposedly she was French from the countryside, though she died nearly 20 years ago so I never met her (minus the last ten years I’ve been returning her to her grave on M-day, of course). I think I would have liked to have met her though; out of all the corpses crawling out of the ground at me she seemed to have the most lovely vintage clothing, and you just got this sense that she was well put together. I saved grandma Ruth Schroeder for the last. She passed when Cy was just a baby and, while I’m sure he didn’t remember her, I thought it only fitting that I share this experience with him. She was older than the others when she passed, and was slow, so she was an easy kill (or whatever it was I was doing). “Cy, pay attention.” I called to him, still hiding in the shadow of Levine’s stone. “The key is you have to hit them in the head, don’t just hack away at them like a tree.” The minute I said it I rolled my own eyes. Hacking away at undead like a tree. WTF. What kind of world was I living in. I approached Ruth, or what was once Ruth, and eyed her up. She shambled towards me on mission unknown - I’d never let one bite me, or whatever it is they were going to do. Hell, maybe they just wanted to give me a hug. But after all this time I wasn’t going to find out. “The eye is easiest, but anywhere in the head is fine after all this time” I called out, not bothering to look back. I plunged my knife up into Ruth’s skull just between her jaw bones on the right side. The lifeless body fell to the ground and turned to ash like the others. “See, when you do that it’s quick and painless” I continued. I heard Cy shout: “M-MO--” then pain lanced through the left side of my face and everything went dark. I came to with Cy sobbing over me and a headache beyond compare. The sun had risen in the sky and my scout den mother foresting skills told me it was mid-morning. I groaned as I sat up, pain lancing through my face. My hand found dried blood. “Oh Mom!” Cy said, a mixture of joy and desperation bringing him to tears as he grabbed me in a hug only a fourth grader could give. I saw a flower vase on the ground next to me, a twisted kitschy metal container usually attached to cheap grave markers. Next to it was Cy’s knife, sitting discarded in a pile of ashes. Bethany. Shit, I had forgotten. The cancer last year. Damnit. But Cy had my back. So I guess I made it one more year on this side of the graves. I stood up, bracing myself on Cy, and picked up his knife. “We might have to get you a bigger knife” I said, trying my hand at levity. It failed miserably and he started to sob. I picked up my chef's knife and as we walked back to the car I noticed the tip of the knife had broken off. It had been getting old anyways - a wedding present of course - and the handle on the paring knife had long since split. Couldn’t find the bread knife to save my life. Idly I thought to myself that it seemed like a refresh of the cutlery was in order. Maybe I would go down to the Williams Sonoma in the mall this afternoon and see if they had any of those Henckles for a good price. They must have a sale on, it’s Mother’s day after all.


Rich people always seem to think the best kind of couches are the leather ones with those knobby tufts, or the ones with electric recliners in every seat and cupholders and cell phone chargers in between; the ones with the contoured seats that make you feel like you’re getting ready to launch into space or something. But they’re wrong. I can tell you right now, the best kind of couch is one with a deep seat and two long cushions, none of that three cushion business. Two long cushions, at least 80 inches total, and a high back. Nothing ruins a couch like a low back, or you know those back cushions that stay attached? Those are the worst. You’ll never find a harder couch to put a fitted sheet on. And believe me, I know a thing or two about putting a fitted sheet on a couch. Most people who meet me might describe me as a nomad and I guess I can live with that term if I have to, but it’s always made it sound more like this is a choice when… I’m not really sure it is. Sure, I choose where I go next, I choose to up and move when things get rough, but… doesn’t everybody? Maybe not. Maybe this life is not as typical as I feel like it is. Maybe it’s not normal to have to list twelve different addresses in the last seven years when you’re filling out paperwork for a background check, and those didn’t include the basement or the farm or the single month stays. Maybe it’s not normal to have a place you lived at for two months as the address on your driver’s license. Maybe it’s not normal to you, but it’s normal to me. At least… I thought it was. I thought I had gotten used to this. I thought I understood what it was to constantly be surrounded by change; to constantly be on the lookout for cheaper rent, for distant relations with spare rooms, for friends with 80 inch, two-cushion, deep-seat couches. I thought… I thought this was freedom. I have nothing to tie me down. I work the jobs that get me through; the jobs that teach you good and well what type of person you want to be, and it’s whatever those customers are not. I’ve got a car with about 75k miles more on it than normal and a tow hitch I installed myself. I never grow roots deeper than friends with couches. I move enough that I don’t even have to ask for boxes anymore; everything I own is in plastic bins. Now let me tell you something about plastic bins. Everybody seems to think those big, heavy-duty ones are the way to go, but I’m here to say that if all you are getting are the big, heavy-duty ones, you’re going to hit a lot more trouble when you have to TETRIS those things into the back of your car and the smallest U-HAUL trailer available. Besides, you don’t want a giant bin of books to lug around; do you know how heavy books are? They’re right about the heavy duty, though. Don’t skimp out on your plastic or it’ll skimp out on you. Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I always say. Not to anybody in particular, mostly just to myself. It’s the type of thing I would say in a podcast if I ever did one of those. I’ve thought about it, definitely, and I’ve even had friends tell me we should start one together, but… well, the thing about couch-deep roots is that they hardly ever last long enough for a podcast. That’s another thing about couches. Everybody has one. Everybody needs someplace to sit; everybody has a couch. And when the couch breaks or wears out, you get a new one. You take off the legs to get it through the door and, even though it’s probably a bit uncomfortable and it takes a bit of doing, you get it out eventually and a new one goes in. And the old one is taken to the curb. Not in a resentful sort of way, necessarily; not with malice. Most people will flop down one final time, pat the couch on the back, thank it for its work, and then go back in to enjoy the new one. Every once in a while, they’ll think of the old couch and how it had that one spring sticking out that would catch your pants if you shifted the middle cushion just wrong, or the three missing tufted buttons, or the busted arm that sort of hung off a bit wonky. But once it’s gone, it’s gone. Who knows where it went after it disappeared from the curb? We think about it sometimes, but it’s not like anybody is going out of their way to track it down, even if they see its posts on Facebook and have its phone number. Well, that’s couch-deep roots for you. It’s alright though, everybody loves a new couch, and once you show up somewhere else, it’s like you were never on the curb to begin with. And it repeats. And I thought that was freedom… but the longer it goes, the more I catch myself wondering… if I’ve only trapped myself in some cyclical sequence. Because no matter where I go; no matter who I meet or how easy it is to get the fitted sheet to fit the couch, I end my days restless and wanting. I tell myself I want to travel; I want to leave again; I want to disappear. But is that the whole truth? Is there more to this wanting? Maybe what I want is something more than couch-deep roots. Maybe if I just stayed in one place for a while… learned last names, met a neighbor, chose a dentist… maybe then, I wouldn’t want to leave. Maybe loneliness sometimes wears a mask that looks like freedom. But maybe someday, I’ll be the one with the couch. 80 inches at least , no more than two cushions, deep seat, of course. Maybe then, the loneliness will subside; maybe then the restlessness will ease. Maybe then I’ll wake up one day on an actual bed with a fitted sheet and maybe then I will earnestly say… I’m free.


Gazing out my office window, I decided it was too nice of a day to sit eating lunch in my office. Plus, I needed a break from my desk phone and email. Grabbing my leftover coffee and my packed lunch, I head down the steps and leave my office building. I walk into the courtyard that sits next to some sidewalk vendors. They too are out enjoying the lovely weather in hopes of drawing in customers.  I decided it really was a nice courtyard with several benches, memorial plaques, tables, chairs, and umbrellas all surrounded by beautiful flowering trees, manicured bushes, and flowers. I silently chastise myself for not enjoying this scenery more often. I tend to get engrossed with my work and realized my step count and neck and shoulder pain were tell-tale signs of this. Maybe I’ll go for a stroll too, I could use the leg stretching. But first, hunger prevails .

Opening my lunch, I remove my chicken salad wrap, yogurt, and carrots. I dig in as I realize I’m hungrier than I thought as my stomach starts to growl in anticipation. I eat,

enjoying the nice breeze and sunshine.

If I had a hammock…an after lunch nap wouldn’t be all that bad in lieu of a walk. Sighing, I finish my yogurt and swig the last of my leftover coffee. I need to get some water to chase the coffee down. Thinking I’ll go to a vendor I decide to buy a bottle of water rather than head back inside to my office…besides, I see my favorite quiet crush working today at the bookstore cafe.

I grab my trash and phone just as I hear an electronic ping. This could either mean another email or something else. Sighing, I look down at my phone and realize it isn’t an email, but a notification from a dating app stating that someone is interested in me.

Ah dating apps.

They are a humorous new way to get yourself back out in the dating scene.

Mostly comic relief for me.

I open up the notification and scroll to the interested party.

Sandy blonde wavy hair, chocolate brown eyes with a hint of mischief that you could get lost in.

Ball cap in one pic, riding a bike in another, holding a puppy (perks) in another, enjoys working out, quiet nights in and home projects.

Mathew is worth the like. He states that he also works and lives in town.

Another perk.

Feeling brave, I decided to send him a message…”I am impressed with your profile.

You have nice eyes”. I type out.

Pretty standard response.

Oh please be real and not a robot…  Not expecting a response back, I settle back in my chair and enjoy the sun.

Ooh this sun is making me so very drowsy…ugh my eyes are heavy… I hear another ping, and looking down at my phone,

I open the app.

There are bubbles as I can see he’s typing a response.

“Gee thanks!” He replies.

“I’m kind of new to the dating app scene and thought I’d give it a whirl.

I see that you too are in my town.

What sort of fitness activities/extracurricular activities do you enjoy?

I see from your profile that you run and also bike.

Plus you like dogs.

You seem great in my book!

And btw, you have great eyes too!” Leaning back in my chair I debate a response.

He seems perfect.

Definitely has a handsome face.

“Thank you!”

I replied.

“That is very kind of you. I do enjoy running but not long distances anymore.

I just do it for stress relief.

Power walking and hiking with great scenery and biking are also things I enjoy.

Love lifting weights too. So how long have you had your dog?

I’m a sucker for dog lovers.

So, since you live in town, maybe we could meet somewhere casual and public and see where things go?”

I’m amazed at my bravery, but I was feeling bold with Mr. handsome face dog lover. After a few more message exchanges, we decided to meet up Saturday for a fitness hike and a casual lunch in an open outdoor restaurant.

Saturday comes and I look forward to meeting Mathew aka handsome face dog lover.

We soon hit it off.

It was really easy to talk to him and I very much enjoyed our time together.

Our Saturday afternoon came to an end, but we agreed to go back out Saturday night.

This time to a nicer restaurant and a movie. We met again, and truly enjoyed the movie.

We laughed, talked and went to get coffee.

Just as I’m walking to my car, he gives me a hug then grabs my hand and says he has truly had a great time and hopes to continue seeing me.

I tell him I’d like that.

He reaches for my face and pulls me close…in for a kiss.

I can feel his face and his lips on mine.

He kisses me and I lean in for more.

His kisses are becoming wet.

Rather wet.

Like… dripping on my hand.

***************************************************************** What in the world?

Is that slobber on my hand?

Eww.

It’s at this moment I startle myself and shake my head, realizing that I had fallen asleep in my chair in the sun in the courtyard and drooled on my hand that was propped up against my face. I quickly look around to see if anyone saw me and feeling like a fool, I try to compose myself.

It was such a nice dream too!

Oh well.

Mr. Matthew aka dog lover in the dating app seems to have vanished from responding back to me.

Just as well.

I never have luck with these things anyway. Thirsty.

That’s what I remembered before I drifted off to sleep.

I need water. Oh yes….I was going to go grab a water bottle from the bookstore cafe and my quiet crush. I walk up to the cafe, and again notice that my quiet crush is busy working the lunch crowd.

He may not notice me.

But I’ve noticed him for a while.

He always seems so nice to everyone and so helpful.

I overheard him saying one day to a customer that it’s his 2nd job while going to pre-med.

So he’s also a hard worker.

It’s no surprise that I’ve got a quiet crush on him.

Sandy blonde wavy hair, chocolate brown eyes you could get lost in.

Sometimes wears a

ball cap.

Appears to work out. Maybe I’ll actually talk to him this time… I wonder if he likes dogs?


And yet another day. 7:00 AM, time to wake up. There’s this deep and uneasy feeling in the deepest depth of my chest, nothingness. Same as everyday I suppose. Shower today? Mmmm, nah I don’t feel like it. That’s totally okay, there's nothing wrong with skipping a few days worth of showers. The picture of Mom and Dad on the nightstand looks particularly sad today– miss them. Stepping out of bed was just as hard as it is any other day. Breakfast today? Mmmm, no I’m okay. You sure? It’s been a while since we’ve eaten anything. Yeah, I’m sure. Not really hungry anyways. What day is it today? Oh! Right, it’s Sunday. Or The Lord’s day as mom would call it– miss her a lot. Wonder what’s on TV today. 10:30 AM. We’ve been watching TV for a while, it’s a nice day outside. Maybe we should go for a nice drive to the cliff for a nice view of the ocean. You know what? I actually like that idea a lot. Let's do it! Hmmm what to wear? Let’s go with this nice light blue button up and this pair of khaki shorts! Mmmm, nah I think I’ll leave in these sweats and a hoodie. You sure? It’s going to be pretty warm out soon. Yeah the heat doesn’t bother me much. Oh, alright. 11:00 AM. Ohh, I just love nice long drives. Especially when our destination is so great and beautiful! We should listen to some music on the way! Mmmm, I think silence is good for now. Maybe in a little bit though. Oh okay. 12:15 PM. Boy it’s hot out here ain’t it? We should take this hoodie off at least. Why? I feel fine. Oh okay, nevermind. This view sure is beautiful don’t you think?! I wish we could be here everyday just to watch the waves dance among themselves and to listen to the seagulls yell at each other all day, ohhh and this smell! The salty ocean scent is so refreshing isn’t it? Yeah, it reminds me of home. I sure do miss mom, wish she were still here. Let’s get a closer look at the waves shall we? Ohhh yes please! I love watching them crash against the cliffside! The grass feels weirdly soft today, I wonder why. Hey, this is a little bit too close to the edge for me. Can we step back a little bit? Oh no, this is fine. We’re safe here. Oh okay. I feel numb. Hey, why are we crying? I don’t know, the world is so beautiful. We should go for a swim. Ohhh I love swimming! But this is a long way down, we could get hurt. I’m sure we’ll be fine. No I don’t think we will. Hey, did we take our meds today? Oh yeah, I must’ve forgotten. We should go back home then, the doctor said we need to take them everyday. Okay, just a few more hours here then we’ll leave. 5:00 PM. Back home finally! Let’s take those pills! Yeah yeah yeah, I know. Yuck, I hate this taste. Yeah me too. We should call dad! I’m sure he’d love to hear from us. Maybe tomorrow. Ohhh let's book a flight home to see him! You know we don’t have that kind of money right now. Oh, right. We should just go to bed okay? We had a long day. But I’m not tired yet? Well I am. Oh okay. I always forget how soft these pillows are! They’re alright I guess, please be quiet. Let’s sleep now. Hmph, fine. Hey, can we please call dad tomorrow? I miss him. Sure, maybe. Awesome! Goodnight! Night. 7:00 AM, time to wake up. The deep feeling in my chest remains. And yet, another day.


Once, there lived an old farmer who spent most of his time ploughing the field ensuring good cultivation of crops with every single precautions he possibly could have taken, so that the possibility of crops being harmed by any insects was suppressed to its least magnitude. His motives behind the hard work he did everyday in bright and extremely hot conditions set by the sunlight, were not for his own sake, but for both the grandchildren of his, who were the only members he was left with in his family. The old man worked without any procrastination just to feed both of his loved ones. He didn't want his grandchildren to ever experience the feeling of not being able to feed themselves, unlike him - himself who spent his youth in search for food and barely got something because of some kind people who didn't discriminate between rich and poor. The grandchildren on the other hand, considered him a fool for working too much and they had a prejudice of generation which led them to have a brain filled with errors, discrimination and hatred. They often behaved rudely with the old man like they didn't even care if the old man took a relieved breath or not, and unfortunately the old man was too kind to scold them, so the only thing he did in response was the act of leaving or sit quietly as tears ran down his eyes in despair, but even though he faced this kind of plight, he never backed down from working and ensuring good health for his grand children. Not only was he treated like nothing, but also he had no-one to share his emotions and feel respected, except his good-old friend, Raman, who also was a farmer. Whenever, the old man faced rudeness and mischief of the grandchildren, Raman scolded the children, if possible, and then to cheer up the old man's mood, Raman took him to his (Raman's) house, so that both of them can appreciate the delicious food cooked by Raman's sister, who used to make the food with pure affection and cautions. Several years after, came a time when Raman left his best- friend, sister, and the unholy land of Earth, to permanently take his position in heaven. The old man was really sad about his loss of friendship and brotherhood shown by the most kind friend he ever met, Raman. On the other side, Raman's sister started to live her life with constant tears shredding from her eyes and her soul. Now considering the situation, the old man became in charge of an additional person, Raman's sister, whom he started taking care, and giving equal amount of affection towards her, just like his grandchildren. He took the responsibility, but the bones were too weak to hold his commitment, and eventually, the old man started to experience problems in his health, resulting him to only exist, and nothing else except that. The mischievous grandchildren didn't seem to have changed their views and they behaved the same way they always did. Seeing this, the one and only person who cared about the old man made her mission to collect as many edibles as she can. She worked in the fields and begged other people for food but the only things she gained was one person's food, and nothing. She tried convincing the children who were now in their youth, to help her collect food but they instantly denied it. The food which was collected by her everyday, was always taken from her by the cruel children to satisfy their own hunger regardless of the old man's health. The poor woman couldn't keep up with the increasing depth in the ill condition of the old man, and as a result, they both died one after the other, in a short period of time, but maybe that was not that bad after all, because at that point, casualties became casual to them. After the death of both, the grandchildren always fought each other to decide who would collect food which was like spending the whole day in planning what to do that same day. Then, they unwillingly started working together in the fields, and not even within 5 days, they understood what a drag it was to always stay in the field with the shining sun-rays pointing directly towards their eyes. They understood how difficult time their grandfather had in his lifetime and they extremely regretted their behaviour with a disappointment they felt in themselves, and they started to appreciate the greatness of their grandfather, his friend Raman, and Raman's sister, but does their undying love even matter after the death of all the great people they started cherishing now? of course not.


Their silence kills me, The dead gaze in their eyes. Do they live timidly? Have they drank their minds away? I once knew them, but then I left home for awhile. Loving and burning my way through my youth. I returned home an older man, they saw this themselves amongst their own wrinkled face. No parade, no song, and no kisses. Without response at my every effort for a fresh “Hello”, it tires my heart. Always amongst themselves in the wood line, their little tribe encircles all of me aside from my small vein to the rest of the world. Watchful eyes peer onto me, like knives into my skin. They do not utter a word, no dare to toss a stone, never a finger to leave their side. In my dreams they feast and dance on my grass under the full moon, I’m no where to be found I dread that I am the fire burning. Maybe these are nightmares, note to self, less wine before bed. Day by day I tend to my humble cabin, Without a woman’s touch i make a rough apple tart from the grains I grow and the apples that fall from wood line. I dare not pick what has not fallen in my respects. I attempt to look for someone as I near the border of our existence. “Hello?!” But not a breath exchanged. I walk the apples home to be sorted. Painting most days with my lunch, making new colors from ground up flowers and brushes from various rodents donated by my lovely feline. As I finish each canvas I leave it out for a full day in hopes for a response. Nothing. Slander me at least! But no, they leave me unbothered. It hurts the art. Yet one after the other I continue. I obsessed to evoke them, beginning to kill my own rodents as I frayed my brushes to their ends. Yanking fistfuls of roots, a massacre of wildflowers in the summer sun. I had finished my stock of wine before the solstice nearly sleeping on the hill each night. My hands now raw and blistered from the craft and sun, I struggled to make my final stroke dropping the worn brush off the edge of the hill. Unable to walk the distance home, I had my mule drag me on a slip of leather with a rope harnessed to his shoulders. I hugged my tools inside my arms watching the canvas disappear from sight, my boots dragging through the grass. I grinned with content at the marvel of my final piece. My tools were retired in a hole, burned with a bottle of my cheapest spirit, pulling from the bottle before it was gone. The fire kept my chest warm against the cold summer night. I looked for anyone peeking at the art but not a soul to be found. I stood up dropping my bathrobe from my shoulders. I took a step into flame until pulled back down to the ground. A woman with dark hair and eyes knelt next to me. Her hair had been up, but she let it down, the hair falling at her breast’s. On my chest she laid my brush from before. With a single finger she stopped me from uttering a thank you. She rolled me back up in my robe and held me as we watched the fire burn through the full moons glow. Song and dance echoed from the wood line, plumes of smoke whisked away in the wind. I cried myself to sleep like a little boy against her warm breast. By morning she had gone. Nothing but a drunken dream, fooling myself. I rode my mule across the pasture to the edge of my hill. The easel erect but naked without the canvas. I braved a brief ride into the wood line only to find it barren and deserted, as if the soil was unbothered. I rode through the pasture in tears once more, the easel in my left arm. The tears were of joy. An emotion had finally been stirred in them. I had been released. No more shackles on my mind. No more silence as the wind spoke to the drums in my ears. No more of there ego. All holds have disappeared. I was ready to leave once again, and so the mule carried me out onto the road where I cut him loose slapping his large rear towards home. Stuck out my thumb against the horizon and hitched a truck bed outward bound to let loose once more. It helps the art.


That day was supposed to be like any other and my curiosity as a child created grand ideas of a magical adventure. Were there goblins hiding under the city well? When will I be able to learn magic? I picked up a stick with my right hand and started to wave it around like I saw in that one movie. I had hoped a spell would come out, but the only thing the stick did was make a swish noise through the air. I noticed another sound as well, the sound of dripping. I had my mind focused on a lot of things and didn’t notice my melting popsicle! It soon slipped off the stick and became food for ants. I had wished a melting treat was my biggest worry that day, but I was wrong. I was in the fenced-in backyard of my house when it happened. I saw a thick plume of smoke coming from somewhere in the city. Was there a fire? I thought. Sirens soon started to blare from firetrucks and disappeared into the distance. I was about to forget about it when I heard another noise. It was the muffled sound of guns firing in the city! Fear and anxiety overwhelmed me as I looked on with horror. More and more buildings started to smoke as they eventually ignited into flames.

I could see the devastation from the suburbs while another horror came to mind. My parents were in the city! I didn’t have long to decide what to do as I noticed something speed towards my house from the sky! I mustered up the courage to run, and run I did. I was able to get inside my house when it struck. Everything went black soon after as I lost consciousness. *** That was the last memory I had of my old life. They say that day was the day World War Three started. I had long since forgotten the cause of it. Even though It was finally over after all these years, the devastation of the pure chaos still left a wound on the world. The fate of humanity relied on the future, but the horrors of the past called me back. I was standing in that same yard where my old life stopped, while the hellish one began. The grass was overgrown, and thick vines crept up the side of the house and fence. However, the thing that stood out the most was the massive hole where the backdoor used to be. I suffered severe injuries that day but was eventually nursed back to health. I never understand why they helped me; maybe they wanted to condition me into the perfect warrior. Regardless, I fought well and hard. I was happy the chaos came to an end, but it felt like I was still grasping at dust. I didn’t know what I was doing anymore. I thought this city could provide me some direction. I stepped into the house and looked around. The windows were shattered, with broken glass littering the floor. Nature had swept in from the massive hole and covered nearly everything in green. As I looked at the living room, memories flooded in of movie nights filled with laughter and fun. I remembered the feeling, but it felt foreign and strange. I looked around once again and saw something that nature hadn’t reclaimed; it was our family picture. I picked up the frame and wiped the dust off. A ten-year-old me was in between my mother and father as we all smiled. None of us ever thought something like this would happen when we posed in front of the camera all those years ago. I never got to say goodbye. I set the picture down and looked around once more. I saw the entrance to my bedroom and stepped in with a hint of hesitation. I walked in with my eyes closed and only opened them after a long moment. The view that reached my vision wasn’t what I expected! Much of it was how I left it as various action figures populated the shelves while posters adorned the walls. I sat on my bed and grabbed a nearby comic. I blew thick dust off the cover and flipped through the pages. I never really understood these superheroes, but I loved the pictures back then.

After a while of reading, I sat up and put the comic down. It was nice to remember the past, but I needed to search the city before it got dark; I was looking for something. I got out of the room and exited the house using the front door. As soon as I stepped out, a cold breeze swept through the empty street. I got out my map and had to hold onto it tightly as the wind tried to take it away. I traced the route to the city and headed towards it with anticipation and fear of what I might find.

Like a slowly marching caterpillar, I advanced towards the city step by step. I could always see the tall skyscrapers from the suburbs, but stepping right up to them made me feel smaller than any ant. I was now at the mouth of the abandoned city and scanned my surroundings. Multiple buildings were charred black and had crumbling supports. The roads weren’t any better as rusted cars cluttered them. I took out my map once again and focused on my destination. There was an old general store around here that I was trying to find. I carefully compared the map with the city and planned out a route. The debris of fallen buildings and pilled up cars required me to make a detour. With my map in hand, I cautiously navigated the apocalyptic jungle. The sounds of my footsteps clashed against the forgotten city and reminded me I was truly alone. Places like this appealed to me as a kid, but that was before the war gave them any meaning. Now, they served as a reminder of the death and destruction that took place. I weaved and shuffled my way through the city before I finally came up to a square building. I checked my map to verify if this was the right place. The shopping building was scorched but was in good shape overall. I stepped forward with a tense body and entered it. A little bit of light spilled in from the outside, but it wasn’t enough to light up everything. I fumbled through my pack and brought out a flashlight. I turned it on and shined it through the empty void. At first, there was nothing. Empty shelves and boxes littered the floor. I carefully stepped over them and walked towards the back of the store. The dust was slowly cascading through the beam of my flashlight; It was so thick that I ran into something. I waved my hand through the air to clear the dust. That was when I saw it, a skeleton! It was still wearing its work clothes as if business was still open. You didn’t deserve this, none of us did.

I stepped around the skeleton and the ones that came after. I eventually made it towards the back of the store and stood before a locked door. I made an audible gulp as I took a key from my pocket and struggled to open it. My hands were shaking slightly, but I was able to unlock it. Click ! The door opened with a creak as I stepped inside. The rectangle room wasn’t as spacious as I remembered. I scanned around with my flashlight, hoping I wouldn’t find anything. I had almost searched the whole room when I found something I didn’t want to. In the far-left corner of the room were two skeletons! They were clutching onto an old photograph; it was a copy of the same one we had in our house.

I fell to my knees as an emotion I hadn’t felt for a long time welled up inside me. I had hoped that they were able to get out somehow. I always feared it, but never got the chance to see for myself until now. I sat there for a while as the tears streamed down my face. I was overwhelmed with sadness but felt slightly relieved at the same time. Now I could say goodbye. I got up and walked over to my parents. I wouldn’t let this be their final resting place. I carefully moved their remains outside and towards the back of the building. I went back inside for a shovel and started to dig. The wind blew away any tears that tried to form. I didn’t know how long I had dug for, but I knew it was enough when a large grave started to form. I carefully placed them into the grave along with the picture they were holding. Bit by bit, I covered the hole with dirt. It was harder than anything I had done in the war. I filled the grave in the end and said two things. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, you can rest easy now.” With my last words, I slowly turned around and headed out of the city. I finally got to say goodbye.


She stood at the granite counter-top, slowly and carefully chopping the carrots. The recipe called for them to be cut julienne, something she always had difficulty achieving- these were turning out much more cube-like; squat and thick, as opposed to the long, elegant cuts the recipe mandated. She frowned and lowered the volume of the podcast that was emitting from her nearby phone, as though the noise was hindering her concentration. It wasn’t- and even if it were, she didn’t really need to concentrate at all. She’d already reread the text four times, each time scouring it as if some sort of new information would appear. *“It still hasn’t hit me yet! I feel like I have to see it before I can get excited. Please work with him and make sure I have my nails done before he does it lol”* She felt her eyes tearing up and she widened them, hoping the air would dry them. She knew she must have looked deranged, standing at the counter with a butcher knife, surrounded by mutilated carrots, and bulging her eyes out as far as they would go. In spite of herself, she gave a small chuckle. She straightened up when she heard him approaching from the hallway- as much as she prided herself on how open they were with each other, this was one thing she was NOT going to tell him. It was already an open wound on their relationship and she didn’t want to remove the Band-Aid. Just the week before, she had cried to him (on him, really) regarding this very thing. It had been a completely different couple that time, but it hurt all the same. *“It’s just a piece of paper,” he’d said. He took her hand and squeezed it. “Why does it matter so much? We will one day, just not right now. I’m still paying off student loans and finishing school. It doesn’t make sense for us.”* *She took her time to respond, weighing each answer that crossed her mind. “If it’s just a piece of paper, then why not? Especially when you know how much it matters to me?”* In the end, they both agreed to table the discussion for another day when they (she) weren’t so emotional; it was a shaky but welcomed armistice. They weren’t used to fighting and it felt unnatural. It hadn’t always bothered her- she prided herself on being independent- but it had somehow eroded her over time. As the years came and went and they both got older, each engagement started to sting with an increasing intensity. Family members that used to inquire about their future plans had stopped asking altogether- something that both pleased and saddened her, as if even distant family members realized it wasn’t going to happen. So, no. She wasn’t going to tell him. She would make a point not to, partly out of pride and partially from a desire to maintain the peaceful status quo they’d achieved. “Well, hey there! Need a hand?” He had walked up to her and wrapped his arms around her back, pulling her hair from her neck. He gave her a small kiss on her the top of her head. “I’m good, but thank you.” She forced a smile, looking away so he wouldn’t notice her eyes. She wasn’t sure if they were still red. She felt his eyes studying her and purposely avoided his gaze, pretending to busy herself with the carrots again. Eventually he gave up and walked away, heading back to the living room. “B?” She asked, setting down the knife and turning towards him. He looked back at her and stopped. “Yeah?” She thought for a second. What would she even say? That it was happening to their friends again, and how happy she was for them? That even though she was sad and scared and now almost certain it wouldn’t happen for her, that she still wanted them to be happy? Or that maybe he was right all along, and this yearning desire was just the result of being brain-washing by the wedding industrial complex. That weddings were stupid and a waste of money- it didn’t matter in the end, as long as they were together. Or she could tell him the truth. That his reasons were valid, and she understood them. But it hurt that after all these years, she still hadn’t been “picked.” That she worried that he only agreed to it as an abstract idea, and would always find a reason to put it off. That she was getting older, and it wasn't fair to keep her waiting. “I forgot what I was going to say,” she said, forcing a laugh. She turned back to the counter and began chopping the carrots. They were still coming out cubed, but maybe after enough practice they would look like they were supposed to.


Strangling limbs cover any sight of my plastic. Seas of fluorescent green, chrome, red, blue, white, bright yellow and matte black swirl above my painted-on eyes. Slightly, soft streams of night light blue and warm gold-bulb drip between the narrow gaps. I can't breathe. I am drowning. Waves of hardened coloured oil brushes against my skin - coloured and textured like a uniform. Like a uniform which isn't mine, this isn't my skin, I can't take it off even if I tried. I was burnt, melted and frozen in the wrong shape. Material meant for long dandy stilt legs; squeezed into blocky tight lumps. Material meant to be plain so I could have flare, stained by dull patterns and dark colours. Material meant to be elsewhere. The long halls of metal logoed trees; row after row reaching up constantly. Stilts of iron reflecting behind themselves over and over and over. Such sore scaring images of where I was bought. Clear but impenetrable solid walls separate this flood of silently proud play things from touching the grass of wool. Masses of mustard cream fields stretch from the wall to the tall moving mountain. I scramble through the bodies. I was burnt, melted and frozen in the wrong shape. Tall, skinny and plain coloured. Curved, slender and dazzling. To be dressed up in flowing dresses with plastic dogs yapping at my plastic heels. To be pink and drink from imaginary cups. Not grey and damaged from real action. Peering passingly through the glass outwards to the room of my buyer. The one who puts me here after having his fun with me. I gasp for air as I reach the surface. He sleeps in black and white circle framed bed with posters of those in here bolted religiously on the wall. A shrine to them, the thing he wants me to be. I wish I was sometimes. At least I wouldn’t feel wrong, this alien about this feeling… Eyes and mouths and ears and grins and stares. I am surrounded. Watching, with all their attention, quiet crawling of sight picking me apart before they even grab me. I slowly, gently, swam through the sea to the shoreline . They are following me. Their drawn expressionless eyes follow my every small jolt forward. They are following me. Little claws, fingers, fist and guns raise to my movement. They are following me. I hear them in their heads. Welcome to the 'glorious' marine Corp of forever war land. We are all soldiers, dying for the child maniac god. Because that's our purpose, we live to fight, to die, to play, to die, to fight, to die... That's the mantra of this box. We are either allies or enemies. Doesn't matter if we like it or not. I grab the hard transparent sand. The clawing, gnarling, snarling sound behind me inspires a leap of faith into the long strides of cotton. I am brought into the warm embrace of fabric. Is this it? I wonder. Do I feel different? I ask myself. What now? I ponder. Tiles of stone. One foot by one foot and repeat outwards. Fitting the pattern of the design endlessly further than the inked eyes can glare. Maybe the right hand is where I should be. The house of dreams with those I wish to look like. Will they be welcoming despite my design flaw? I bravely venture out. Pushing passed the glades. Pacing strongly. Onwards to the mountain which moves. Bright golden rays line the opening. A gap. A hole. A way out. It'll do. Give me pink. Give me roses. Give me fairy lights. Give me a pool of glitter. Take my gun. My poor skin. My shape. The light dangles from the sky above like a falling sun. Cream roots like ropes hang the star above. Large royal sized frames encrusted on the solid plane walls. The paintings of gods from the steel eye leaves their likeness still in the ink. Are they watching me? The thought stops me in my tracks and I freeze. A shiver overcomes me. What if they are right and I am just designed to fight the make believe war for the rotten little ruler.

My painted eyes felt almost as if they’d fall off. I dreamt of a dreamhouse. Not the box. But before the build up could run off the paint I see something else in the picture though. Gentle, kind, soft eyes. Rosey chump cheeks, long flowing locks of bright blonde. Narrow pointy chinned face. Bright pink plump pronounced lips.

And holding her was another god. A kinder one maybe. Maybe she will

play with me the way I was supposed to be.

A determination and reassessment set me back on my path onwards. Even if these gods see me they see that I am going to them.

Onwards through smaller glades of cotton coloured in deep red and dark purple. I come to another mountain as I end my travel through the world between worlds. This one was wide, welcoming. Glitter on the walls. Hanging photos and there is the sleeping god. Resting draped in fluffy clouds and sleeping on a plastic long throne fitted with an adorably small but jewelled tiara.

I really hope she is kind and not cruel like the boy-god of war. I'm here, I'm where I was supposed to be. Finally, Relief passes into me finally for once. I gaze upon the pink castle, pink cars and pink slide. Pinstripe walls like waterfalls of shallow indigo. Glades of grey cotton almost pull me in further. A white unicorn with long bright rainbow hair strides up to me. I'm home! The welcome party of long dolls exit the dream house and look at me. I'm home. But their expressions are dull, uninviting and piercing. Cruel and disgusted. I would have hoped they’d be kind but they are as hurtful in their judgement over my faults as the war crazies in the box. But, at least it's home...


BANANA JOE.[Bananas are for eating]                         Joe Keen was seven years of age and felt that he was his own man, in charge of the house when his father was absent. He still had a lot to learn about people and places. One day he had the television on loud in the sitting room. Sarah his mother had a headache, she did not mean to shout at Joe. “You’re driving me bananas.” What is that supposed to mean? ’’Bananas grow in Jamaica; teacher showed us the map at school.’’ “Don’t argue Joe.” Replied, his mother Sarah. It was so hard being a one parent family with Joes father away at sea. Keeping a job down to fit in with Joe’s school; hours. Joe was an intelligent and popular lad at Merryvale School. She would regret shouting at him. It was not his fault she had a headache. Later she would give him an extra cuddle and take him into town to try on the new trainers he liked at Hills Store. Once her headache had ceased,                  Thinking about things, Joe made his way to see Nick two doors away Nick was polishing his car a blue Mustang. “Mom says I’m driving her bananas.”          “Do not worry son your moms probably having a bad day adults say strange things sometime without thinking, if their not well. Bananas are good for you look at the nice banana cake Ethel my wife makes.” You always enjoy Ethels cakes Joe. “Yes, and bananas come from Jamaica there are yellow and green ones.’’  “Yes, there are all nice and ripe,” said Nick.     “Then why did Mum say that?”    “Well sometimes people say the first thing that comes into their heads. She probably thought about a bunch of bananas, did you do anything to upset her Joe?   “I had the telly on.”    “Well maybe it was too loud?” I have heard people say “You’re driving me bananas if they don’t like something.” Joe went quite trying to see the reason behind Nicks wise words. After all he was only seven and the whole incident having his mother shout had taken him by surprize.   “So that’s it?” I never meant to upset my mom, like that Nick.  “Yes.” Son that is it your mother will rest and feel better when you get home. You can always help with the car and visit Ethel and myself.   “Thanks Nick.”  “That’s ok son.” Nick then smiled and patted Joe on the back, handing him a sponge to use on the car, Joe helped Nick clean the car. He enjoyed the company of Nick, watching the lather trickle down the car windscreen. It was hard work and Nick made that old Mustang shine. Sometimes they went out together in the old car, and people stared when the car blew out blue smoke. Today Joe stayed for tea with Nick and his wife Ethel. There was no Banana Cake. Joe had settled for coffee and Ginger cake instead.   Nick and Ethel were his best buddies. They always found time for him, explaining, and showing him things, in story books, cars and any other things Joe felt that he needed to know about. Maybe when he grew up, he would become a car mechanic like Nick. A smile appeared on Joes small face. After tea with Nick and Ethel, Joe made his way home.  Sarah, gave Joe a big hug “Sorry I shouted at you.”  That is fine.” replied Joe. Hugging his mother back, he knew she would not stay angry for long. They went for walks together weekends. Sarah had showed him squirrels and how to use his new library card in the library to learn from books. Later lying awake in bed that night Joe thought about his day, well that is something new to tell teacher there are two types of bananas the ones you eat and the ones that get you cross.        When Joe had gone Nick was deep in thought he hoped he had helped Joe. Ethel had agreed that it was difficult to make a small boy understand, adults sometimes. They both knew that Joe would come through okay. They were always there to give advice. Sarah did not have it easy with Joes Pa away in the navy. Maybe next time she would be more careful what she said to Joe? Growing up an only child wasn’t easy for the lad. Although when his father came on shore leave the three of them went every where together. Such a shame that sometimes the lad’s father was away months at a time. He and Ethel were always there to give a helping hand with Joe if needed.    Three days later Sarah had been called into the head teachers office at Joes prep school, she had said how sorry she was about shouting at Joe and would be more careful with her choice of words, regarding what she said in future to Joe. Mr Prince the head knew Joe came from a good family and that no harm had been intended. He could not have, Joe going around school telling others they were bananas. He smiled once Sarah had left the office it was all in a day’s work.   His thoughts went back to Joe trying to explain to his form teacher that there were angry bananas that gave you a headache. His mother would explain to Joe that it was just a slip of the tongue. If only all problems came down to a banana. The head had to smile, at least Joe had not gone around hitting the other kids with bananas.  In teaching one learnt all the time, even from those so small. Joe was a very intelligent little boy and he was sure that in years to come he would do well. He may well become an engineer like his father. They just had to watch him more closely as he had ideas way beyond his years. Poor Joe trying to solve a problem that should not have been there in the first place. Mothers had bad days, like everyone else.


October 4, 2019        Daniel Alderman walked into his bedroom after a short walk from school on a cool Friday afternoon. The leaves- changing color from deep green to a soft orange- scratched against the window softly in the breeze under a grey sky.        The floorboard in the exact middle of the room creaks as he steps on it, he usually avoids that floorboard because of the horrible noise that gives him goosebumps, but he had been too lost in thought to remember it.        “Uck,” he groans and rubs his arms until the tiny bumps subside, “I hate this house.” Daniel didn’t actually hate the house- a brick Victorian sitting on two acres of land that backed up to a whole forest- he was mostly just angry with his life at the moment.

       At sixteen-years-old, he had been forced to move from the big city he had spent his whole life into this boring small town when his dad was transferred to supervise finances at a new plant the company he worked for opened. They had been here since August and Daniel still had yet to make friends. Boxes still lined the walls as he held onto hope that they would move back. ***

October 4, 1949

Elizabeth Warren screamed into her pillow, tears pooling into the soft fabric. This was awful!        Sixteen and had to leave the small town she grew up in to go to the big city with her family because the farm had finally gone under. Four years of hearing about financial problems because of this stupid “bad harvest” her dad kept having since he came home from the Pacific. She knew her family was poor but why did she have to go? Couldn’t her dad just go and send the money back to the family?        Just when the leaves were changing and the town got ready for the sixth annual Harvest Fair next week. It was something that the entire town participated in to bring treats, music, costumes, a dance, and the Harvest King and Queen. Even a few rides were brought in and set up in the park for adults to drop their kids off to go dance to the musicians playing. She knew who would be crowned already- Caroline McCann, who lived in a massive white mansion on the most successful farm in the state, and Joseph Ryder, whose dad was the only doctor in a sixty-mile radius. Still, though, the harvest had enough going on to not want to enjoy.  ***  “Daniel,” Cindy Alderman, Daniel’s mom knocked on the door.        “Open,” he answered in a harsh voice. Cindy walked in and sighed at her soon when she saw him lying in bed with a sour expression on his face.        “How was school today?” she asked in a tone that she hoped sounded cheerful and friendly.        “Bad.”        Cindy frowned but tried again, “Make any friends or meet anyone who could be a friend?”        “No,” in a school of only three hundred people who had all grown up together, how was some city kid supposed to make friends with any of these hicks?        “Well, you’ll meet some eventually,” Daniel snorted rudely at that, but Cindy kept her anger down- she did feel bad that her son had had to leave everything he knew behind against his choice. “Are you going to the football game?”        “They’re away tonight,” Daniel told her in a monotone way. Not that he would have gone anyway, why would he support a school he hardly even knew?        “Well, the town’s annual Harvest Fair is starting tomorrow, want to come with your dad and me to that?” Cindy hoped something would bring her son out of his funk, “There’s supposed to be rides and music- might even be some cute girls,” she added with a raised eyebrow.        Daniel rolled his eyes, “I don’t care about rides and girls- I want to go back to the city where there’s actually stuff to do.”  ***        A knock came at the door, “Can I come in, hun?” her mother asked.        Elizabeth didn’t answer, her mom must have taken the silence as a welcome because the door opened.        Margaret Warren surveyed the room. It looked nothing like it had even just a week prior. Everything except a few choice items had been cleared in preparation for the move tomorrow.        “I know you’re upset, dear, but this is best for the family,” Margaret told her weeping daughter. “Besides, maybe you’ll like the city, there will be so many interesting people and so much more to do.”        “I’ve got all I want right here. Mama,” Elizabeth squeaked. “We couldn’t at least stay for the Harvest Fair?”        “I know it’s hard, Elizabeth, but we just can’t afford the house and farm anymore.”        “I’m right in the middle of school, though!” Elizabeth’s sorrow turned to anger, “What if I’m behind the other kids? I won’t know anyone! There are crazy people and murderers in the city!”        “Oh, hun,” Margaret spoke calmly, “that’s just what people say. The city isn’t bad.”        ‘The city isn’t bad” yeah right. Elizabeth had heard the horror stories of people just getting killed for walking down the wrong street or for having a pair of shoes that someone wanted- she was never going to make it.        She liked the openness of her town. It felt freeing and comforting. How was she ever going to survive being packed like a sardine in a tiny apartment in a building that a hundred other people lived in? How was she going to feel free with traffic and crowded sidewalks? She would miss the tress, reading with her back against the trunk of some great big oak, the only sounds being the wind and birds. Now, she was going to have to deal with horns, yelling, engine noises, it was too much.  ***

Cindy left the room, leaving the door open. He sighed and got up to close it back up. Grabbing his book off the desk by the door, he tripped on the loose floorboard.        “Sonuva-“ he grunted instead of finishing his phrase. His toe ached, but something else had caught his attention. ***        Margaret departed her daughter to make dinner. Elizabeth had to do something to take her mind of leaving home during her favorite time of the year.

       Taking her diary that she kept hidden in the floorboards, she dated the top of the empty page and wrote:

This is so childish, I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I have to do something. No one will probably even read this. ***

       Daniel pulled the floorboard back, careful not to snap it in half. In the gap, he found an old, rusted tin box, just fitting the slot it was placed in.        Being a fan of mysteries and fantasy novels, Daniel felt the excitement grow in him like a balloon being filled with air. It was the first time he had felt anything but anger for the last two months, and though he wouldn’t even admit it to himself, it did feel good.        The snaps on the container took some strength to open. The once light blue paint had chipped off in places and left ugly splotches on corrosion where it did. The lid opened it a dull

creaaak .        The first thing that caught Daniel’s eye was a small black and white polaroid. The back was dated

July 4, 1948 . The girl was cute. She had wavy dark hair, done up sweetly with a charming smile displaying dimples on both cheeks. She wore a dress that looked like it was plaid, Daniel wondered what colors the clothes had been. The image must have been taken at an Independence Day celebration because there were tons of blurry figures in the background running around.        The next thing Daniel’s hands found was a soft pack of cigarettes. The once white paper was now a sickly yellow with hints of dark brown everywhere left from the tobacco staining it for so long. The brand didn’t even exist anymore as far as he knew. Most of the paper had died away, leaving just a clump of dried-out shredded leaves that still held on to the offensive odor.

`The rest of the mementos were just little trinkets. A small cross necklace on a dainty chain, a matchbox containing a few matches with the brand worn off, some pennies and dimes dated from the mid-1930s, and a small tan seashell. Sitting on the bottom, was a folded note. ***

       Elizabeth finished the letter she wrote. Tearing the pages out of her diary, she neatly folded them and placed them in the box she kept under her diary on the floorboard. The box had once contained some makeup that her aunt had given her, but Elizabeth now used it as storage for things she didn’t want to be left in the open. She poured the contents out and placed the letter at the bottom of her treasure chest. Deciding that she couldn’t just leave a note for some future residents, she added some other things from the box. A few coins- it was more money than she would have liked to have given up, but maybe the person that found her stuff could use the thirty-nine cents to buy some candy and a soda or two. She also left the pack of cigarettes Tommy Barese lifted from his dad’s corner store for her. She tried one, but it had made her sick as a dog all night- maybe the person who found this would like smoking though. She also left the matchbook so he could light them if he needed to. Elizabeth also decided to leave the small cross necklace she found eight years ago on the floor of the church. She hadn’t worn it since she was nine and figured it would make a good addition to the time capsule. The last two things placed in the box were the hardest to part with, but Elizabeth figured that two more things on top of her childhood home left behind wouldn’t matter. After flipping through the small stack of photographs for a few minutes, she decided on one from last year’s Fourth of July celebration that the American Legion Post of the town always put on. Rebecca Thompson had been taking everyone’s picture that day and Elizabeth thought that it would be a good way for whoever found the box to know what she looked like. The last item was the small seashell she had found at the beach on a Florida vacation as a little girl when the family’s farm did much better.        She snapped the lid shut on the box with a heavy heart, wondering what the person who found the treasures would look like? From what time would they be from when they found it? Would the house be torn down before it was ever discovered? She placed the box back into the little hole under the floorboard and stomped the wood back in place. ***

Daniel read the first two sentences of the letter thinking, “Yes, I am reading it.” He read on, the letter was written by the girl in the photograph exactly seventy years ago. He wondered how small a chance that would be to find it on the exact day it was written. My name is Elizabeth Warren and I have lived in this house my entire life. I was even born in the master bedroom down the hall on December 23, 1933.

Chills ran through Daniel’s spine for the third time in ten minutes. His birthday was December 16. He was starting to wish he could talk to Elizabeth Warren and let her know that he had found her box and had close birthdays.

I am so heartbroken today. My family is moving to the big city. Have you ever been to the big city? It will be my first time tomorrow and I know that I will hate it. Also, the Harvest Fair is next week and it’s my favorite thing in the world but I have to miss it. Do they still do the fair every year? If so, who were the king and queen last time? Not that you will be able to tell me anyway.

       Anyway, how long have you lived in this house? My dad and grandpa built this house when he married my momma back in 1931 with the help of some of my uncles and a few friends? What year is it when you found this? Do they have any cool technology? Can cars fly yet? What is the future like? I mean, I suppose I’ll know for myself as it happens, but what if you’re from like a hundred years from now? I’ll probably be dead by that time, but I wish I could know what you look like?

Are you a boy or girl? How old are you? What do you look like? I hope the picture I left gives you a good idea of what I look like as I write this, it’s over a year old but I haven’t changed too much since it was taken?        Do you like to read? My favorite book is Jane Eyre. Have you read it? There’s a tree outside, you can see it directly out the window of my- well, our- room. The big oak tree that stands just before the forest, you should try it out, there’s the small nook on the far side of it that’s perfect to sit in. I’m sure you’ve already found what I left in this box since the letter is sitting under it all, but the necklace was from when I was a little girl. I found it in church and don’t wear it anymore, but maybe you might like it. The photograph was taken at the American Legion’s Fourth of July party (do they still do that too?), the money is for if you want to buy some candy or a book or something

(Daniel chuckled at what Elizabeth’s reaction would be if she knew how expensive the world had gotten since she wrote this) , and a seashell I found in Florida when I was little.

Anyway, I hope someone does read this one day. I hope you enjoy this house and our bedroom because it is the best place in the world. Treat it nicely and have a good time at the next Harvest Fair for me if it still goes on. I really wish I could meet whoever reads this, but I guess I never will.

Warmest Regards, Elizabeth Mary Warren P. S. I left you a pack of cigarettes in case you smoke. They made me sick.

Tears formed that he wiped away from his face as he finished the letter. A painful lump had appeared in his throat with an ache in his heart. He would have given everything to answer Elizabeth Warren’s questions. He wanted to tell her about his time and let her know that his favorite book was

Nine Stories  by J. D. Salinger. He wanted to tell her that no, flying cars did not exist unfortunately and that he found it on the exact day that she wrote it. He decided right then and there that he would try to appreciate the house as Elizabeth did and that he would enjoy the fair tomorrow and the rest of the week for her. A hollow feeling took over his body as he crawled into bed and read the letter over again. ***

Elizabeth crawled into bed and hugged her pillow. Darkness was encroaching on the sky as the sun fell lower and lower behind the earth. She would see this house one last time before leaving it forever tomorrow. Silent tears streamed down her eyes as she cried herself to sleep, wondering who would find her secret letter.


This would make a great once upon a time story,  Michel thought . Except,

I’m  in it.

Maybe the next time someone tells you a place is haunted you’ll believe it,

said a voice inside him. If there was a next time which seemed doubtful, considering who was screaming at him right this very moment. All because he’d dared to ask why he’d been captured.

“Why are you in this cell?” roared the monster. “Because you stole my flowers!”

Michel was amazed he could look at him without screaming himself. Monsters weren’t supposed to exist. Everyone in England was too enlightened for that. Yet here was one. He, or so Michel assumed, was large, standing seven feet tall. He had the horns of a bull and a face like a bear. He stood upright, with paws instead of hands and a bull’s feet. He worn velvet blue pants ripped and patched. Michel rubbed his shoulder and winced. The damned monster had almost pulled it out of socket dragging him here.

The pain was how he knew he wasn’t dreaming.

 “It was just a flower, sir, for my daughter’s grave. In all honesty, you seem far too angry over this.”

Good God almighty did you just say that?

he thought, watching the monster’s jaw open, showing sharp fangs.

Can you blame me?  Michel asked himself. It didn’t help that the merchant ship he’d been expecting still wasn’t in port. With his luck, the damned thing probably sank and he'd have no wares to sell. Coming home in the pouring rain he had seen the castle and ran to take shelter in an archway. Then afterward, he’d seen the rose garden. So many Michel had figured it wouldn’t hurt to take just one. It had been so red, almost like blood, brilliant in the twilight, sweet-smelling as a spring breeze. But still, it wasn’t the only one. Now here he was imprisoned by a crazed monster-gardener.

“How dare you talk to me this way!” it spoke in a furious growl.

“What more can you do to me?” Michel looked around him. “I’m in this cell. I suppose you could kill me but I’m fine with that.”

The monster stared at him. “What?” His eyes widened. Michel saw they were green.

The things you notice at a time like this .

 “You want to die?”

“Not really,” Michel smiled. “But it wouldn’t be the worst thing. I’d see my wife and daughter again.”

I hope.

Given his past history that was also doubtful. But after all the priest said Jesus forgave a murderer on a cross so who knew?

The monster frowned.” I don’t understand,” he said at last. "Most people are frightened of me.”

“Oh, trust me, sir, I am. But also curious. Why all this over a flower?”

The monster simply turned and left.

Humph. Well, at least I’m alive.

For now,

Michel thought. He coughed and put his hand on the wall, Damp, cold stone. One barred window, and a barred door. A torch burned a few feet away, lighting a stone hallway leading to stairs.

Do all prison cells have to be alike?

Michel pulled his picks out of his pocket. He was struggling with the lock when the door swung open.

My Lord Jesus, help me.

 He wasn’t a praying man, but this seemed a fitting occasion.

For a ghostly figure stood there. In life, he might have been handsome, if one liked men with ringlets and thick mustaches.

 “Come with me,” he said. Oddly, his hollow voice had a French accent.

“Ah,” said Michel, “I see. There is an enchantment here.”

“Hush,” said the ghost. “The master doesn’t like too many questions.”

“I noticed,” said Michel. “Look, I honestly meant no harm. How about you help a poor peasant and get me out of here, Sir…?”

“Just call me Louis. And I can’t let you escape.”

“I’ll take you with me if you’d like. Maybe you’ll become...um… more solid?”

“I’m not leaving. Neither are you.”

“Thanks a lot,” Michel said.

“Do you want out of this cell, or not?”

Michel pulled his coat tighter around him. “That would be nice.”

“Then come and be silent.” Louis led him down some staircases and into the servant’s quarters. He took Michel to a bedroom that contained a small lumpy-looking bed and a dresser. It was dusty but it wasn’t a cell either.

“So,” Michel asked, “What’s the story?”

Louis shook his head as if annoyed. “Don’t ask questions I said. Boy!” he called out, startling Michel. A ghostly child brought in a cart. Obviously, their state didn’t stop them from handling objects. On it was indeed a bowl of stew. Michel ate and while it was plain it was hot and hearty.

Now, let’s see about getting out.

Michel went to the door which was unlocked. He looked out. Louis and Boy seemed to be gone.

This might be a trap. They could be invisible.

Only one way to find out.

Michel crept out of the bedroom, through the kitchen, and back up the stairs. At the top was a wooden door that led into a great hallway. At one time the place must have been beautiful. Now it was cobwebby and smelled of dirty tapestries. But Michel barely noticed because there was the front door. He was just turning the knob when a growly voice spoke from the shadows.

“I can smell you. Also, there are wolves. You’re better off with me.’

Michel rubbed his shoulder again. “I doubt that. No offense.”

“Maybe I should kill you, as you wished.” The monster strode to Michel who did his best not to flinch. His breath really was overpowering.  But what he said next surprised both of them. “Why do you want to die, anyway?”

Michel sighed. “I told you why. I’m old and weary. That last barber-surgeon I saw said judging by the sound my heart won’t last much longer. He bled me but I only got worse. I don’t particularly want to die but it wouldn’t be-“

“The worse thing,” the monster said. ‘So, it seems better to keep you alive. A greater punishment.” He sighed, which was more like a hot wind in Michel’s face. “I suppose Louis let you out. I’ll need to... talk to him.”

The things I do for people,

Michel thought, not knowing if Louis could be hurt. He showed his picks, which the monster snatched. “Should have known, you being a thief and all. Get back to the servant’s quarters. And consider that better than you deserve.”

Michel did just that. He slept in the lumpy bed and awoke at dawn. Once again, he slipped past Louis and back up the stairs.

Maybe I can find some other way out of here.

But the castle was more like a fortress, ruined as it was. The windows were shuttered against the bright sunlight, the front doors locked. So was a few side doors Michel tried. Eventually, he found a door that wasn’t locked. This led to a library that smelled greatly of wet dog mixed with bear.

Wonderful,

Michel thought. The monster spent time here. He should leave. But something drew him to the middle of the room. For in a vase was a single rose. It was as white as snow with pink-edged petals, nothing like Michel ever saw before. Drops of water sparkled on the petals as if it had just been freshly watered. And the smell! It reminded him of his daughter’s cakes, sweet and nourishing. But yet it had a faint smell underneath. It was of something dying.

This flower is at the center of this enchantment,  Michel thought.

And if I was smart, I’d get the hell out of here.

A snarl told him it was too late for that. He spun and backed away from the flower, towards the far wall, and away from the monster.

“M-My apologies, M-Milord,” he said. “I-I merely wished to find a book. To pass the time.”

“I’m no longer any lord,” the monster growled. “But you’re a liar. You probably can’t even read.”

 Actually, I

can.”  Michel shouted back. “Not all us peasants are unlearned. And while we’re at it I was more than a common thief. Throw in heretic, assassin, and thug for hire. All for a good cause though. We were fighting against the Inquisition,” he said. “So at least now you can kill me with a clear conscience.”

“I have-a

heretic  in my house?”

“ You  imprisoned me,” Michel replied. He saw the monster’s eyes narrow. Then he growled. But his body also shook in such a way Michel wondered if he was... laughing.

“ You have balls, I’ll give you that,” he said. “Bigger than is good for you.”

“So I’ve been told,” Michel muttered to himself.

The monster stared for a long moment while Michel wondered for the thousandth time if he was about to die. Finally, he said, “if you really can read, help yourself to the books. Touch the flower, and-” at this point, he drew a claw across his throat. Michel swallowed and nodded.

*****

“So,” Michel asked one night. ‘What should I call you, if you don’t like milord?”

“Bestia will do.”

Lousy name but so be it. “ So. Who did you piss off?”

“You dare to ask-”

“Yeah, I know. I’d ask Louis but all he does is tell me to go away.”

“If you must know, an old woman came to my door seeking shelter. I had Louis push her out. Before she left, she gave me that.” Bestia gestured to the rose. “An apology for disturbing us, she said. It was no apology.”

“In fairy tales, you never turn away beggar women,” Michel said.

“This isn’t a story,” Bestia answered. “Sometimes beggars are assassins. You know all about that, don’t you?”

“I do,” Michel said very softly.

Bestia nodded. “My father had already been killed by such. Besides,” he spat this out. “Don’t you think she could make her own shelter?”

“And how do you break the curse? Perhaps I can help.”

Bestia didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “What about you?”

“The inquisition killed my brother,” Michel said. “Because he questioned if Galileo was right. No more than that.”

“So,” Bestia said. “you wanted revenge.”

“Yes. And I had it. Until...”

“Until what?” In the darkness, Bestia could just see Michel’s face. His mouth was twisted as if haunted. He watched Michel walk to the flower. He almost cried out but all the man did was pick up a fallen, wilted petal. Then Michel spoke to the flower.

 “One night, we captured a man. A boy really, studying with the wrong kind of

holy

men .

He begged for our forgiveness, that he only did it because he was sickly and had to earn money somehow. And for that,” he looked back at Bestia. “We tortured and killed him. After that, I ran. Came here to start a new life.”

“Why?” Bestia said.

“I saw,” Michel swallowed, “we were becoming that we wished to destroy.”

****

Michel opened the garden’s gate. Bestia turned, stared as if surprised by the man. “Why have you come back?”

“You gave me money for bread and wine,” Michel said. “And bid me return at dusk.”

“And anyone else would’ve stayed lost. What can I do? Hunt you down and kill you? The villagers would kill

me  this very night.”

“I’m not anyone else,” Michel said with a smile. “Plus that cell of yours is better than a cold dark house full of ghosts.”

Bestia nodded, thinking how far he’d fallen. His companion was a

peasant . Worse, a

heretic .

He didn’t have to come back.

 “Take that to the table,” he said. “Let’s eat.”

That night, Bestia talked about his father punishing those who couldn’t pay taxes, his cruel ways. “If you had run across

him,”

he said, “you’d still be in the cell, if not dead. He felt he had to rule this way.”

“But over a flower?” Michel asked, coughing. He glanced at the rose. It seemed as if mold was growing on it, blackness creeping up its petals. “This enchantment-” but he was interrupted.

“Yes,” Bestia said. “He’d say today a rose, but tomorrow money or jewels.”

“Not necessarily,”

“I know, now,”  Bestia grunted. “When he died, I didn’t mourn. You see, it was too late for my mother. But me...I was finally free.”

Michel held up the bottle. “A toast to that,” he said.

Many times Michel went to town, bringing back wine, bread, and fruits. And nights they would talk in the library, often laughing. Sometimes they played chess, for Michel was a quick learner. Louis listened, wondering.

“You should try to leave,” Bestia told him one day. “Before it’s too late. Take Boy with you.”

“No,” Louis said. “It’s my fault too,” He thought about fairy tales and lonely men. And a dying rose.

She never specified what kind it should be,  Louis thought.

Or who.

***

The ghost pounded on the library door. “What is wrong, my friend?” Bestia said, opening it.

“Michel’s back. And he’s sick.”

“What? I told him to stay in town if the weather got bad”

Louis looked at the flower. Only the faintest white remained upon it.

So,

he thought.

It’s nearly the end. Almost a relief. “ Michel isn’t good at listening,” he said.

Bestia ran through the great hallway where Michel leaned against a wall, coughing hard and deep. Bestia caught him as he fell. He lifted the thin, small man and carried him into the library, the only room with a fire. He laid him on the couch. “Bring blankets and the brandy,” he said to Louis. When he returned, Bestia put the bottle to the man’s lips. He glanced at Louis, but he only shook his head.

“Leave us,” Bestia said, then turned back to Michel. “Why? Why did you come back?”

“Your hospitality,” Michel said, trying to laugh.

“No!” said Bestia. “Even last week you were breathing harder than usual. I saw! You must have known! Why did you come in this snow?” For all his anger he was gentle as he lifted Michel’s head to put pillows underneath it. This, plus the brandy helped his breathing somewhat. “Why! Why did you come when you were so sick!” He rose and paced to the fire. The rose trembled but neither noticed. “You addled fool!”

“I had to,” Michel spoke so softly Bestia had to walk back and bend over to hear him. His breath was still hot and smelled like a dog’s, but not as bad. Since Michel had been here Bestia had been taking better care of himself.

“ Why?”

“ To tell you...how much all this meant to me.”

Bestia just stared at him. In his eyes, Michel saw utter disbelief. “It’s true.”

“I was wrong,” Bestia whispered.

“About?”

“You're not addled. You’re insane!”  Bestia paced again. He stopped at glared at Michel “You wanted to spend time- with me! A monster! For that alone, I thought you were insane. Now I know it’s true!”

Michel smiled and coughed. He laid back on the pillows. “Possibly...but listen.”

“Rest. Don’t try to talk. Save your breath. I don’t want you dying this night.”

“I’m going to try not to. But I can’t...make promises...”

Bestia growled angrily. “When you first came here you said you wanted to die! That was also true?” He slammed his paw into a statue on a stand and sent it flying to shatter against a wall.

“The flower,” Michel whispered.

 Bestia turned back, breathing nearly as hard as Michel. “Who cares about it?”

“I...do. I wanted...to break...your enchantment.”

“I told you I gave up on the cure long ago,” Bestia said. He pointed at the black rose with its decaying smell. “Tonight it will die and so be it. But you...” he walked to the wall and drew his arm back as if to hit it. Instead, he rested his paw on brick. “Why did you not stay in town this night?”

“To say...you alone...accepted me...knowing what I was. A heretic...a murderer...even though I couldn't… break your...curse.”

“Who am I,” growled Bestia, “to do no less, my friend?” He walked back to Michel. The tears were beginning to fall now. “No, you didn't break my curse,” he said, turning towards the flower. As softly as his gravelly voice would allow him he said, “Instead, you did so much more. You were like the brother I never had. And you were the only one to come back.”

 Michel’s reply was so soft, Bestia could barely hear. “Louis.”

“Is only here out of guilt. He blames himself for my predicament. The servant-boy always stays with him. No, Michel, the curse never mattered. You alone came back, of your own free will. And I love you.” He turned, but wouldn’t meet the man’s eyes. Instead, he looked at the portrait above the couch. It was of some elderly aunt but he could never remember her name. “Whatever that means coming from the likes of me.”

“The world,” Michel managed, before coughing long and hard again. Bestia walked swiftly to him. He knelt and laid his paw on Michel’s chest. Michel grasped it. Both were openly crying now.

“No,’ he said.

“Yes.” Michel closed his eyes. “You...had me...at your table....” The rose trembled and as it did, Michel managed to whisper, “For that...I love you.”

“ What?”  Bestia’s cry echoed in the library. Then there was the sweet smell of sunshine, the perfume that reminded Michel of his daughter’s food, of spring. He barely noticed for smelling Bestia’s breath on his cheek. It was no longer heavy and dog-like.

And now he was grasping a hand.

Michel opened his eyes and saw a man with long blond hair. Tears fell from green eyes. “Michel,” he said.

Through blurred vision, Michel saw the rose was in living bloom. He gently touched the man’s cheek, saying, with his last breaths, “So, that was... how to...end the curse.” And he smiled.