Greg was living an enchanted life. He had a condo, a hot girlfriend, and a career that killed. He was at the top of his game and nothing was going to stop him. He walked down the cement that laid a foundation of his personal will, he was strong and able, that was bullet proof. The downtown area was a gem that had been restored and rectified to assure longevity and courage for every person that walked in it. A lullaby sounded from ahead. He walked this way often and had not come across such a song. He looked. Who was it? He saw a very old homeless man sitting on the walkway with a sign and harmonica. Greg stumbled. He was quite a distance still from the busker. The buildings were solid proof that god and man were real to Greg. They were inheritance of a strength and character passed on through generations to create a solid core of civilization. He looked up. The sun shined through the clouds and he was delighted by the Fall air. He spied a coffee shop. This was a perfect day for a cup of joe. He entered. Greg ordered himself a cup of the finest coffee in the downtown area. Its was hot, it was fresh, and it was surreal to drink, nearly every day. He smelled the cup. It was piping hot and fresh. He dropped two dollars to the worker. They had earned their lot in  life and Greg knew what it was like to work hard. They smiled. He left the coffee shop and re-entered the street. The nine o' clock walk way was too much. He smiled. It was his best friend, day after day, as his stocks continued to grow. It was a walk way to a secure and better retirement. He heard the music again. He looked. The homeless man was really interesting. To Greg he appeared ragged and loud but his music was anything but, it was captivating. Initially Greg was nearly in heaven at the sound of the music; like was said, he had not seen the busker before and he was nearly hypnotized by the sound. He stumbled again. The man stared down the sidewalk and they made eye contact. Greg was stunned and hypnotized. He was staring at him and it was having an impact on Greg. He felt odd and weak, he was immediately sickened in body and mind. He looked away. He drank from his coffee. He heard the music and felt sick to his stomach. He stopped. He took deep breathes and tried to stop the urge to vomit. He stood still. The music was playing loudly in his ears. He tried to breath deep and release. He did not want to lose his will on the sidewalk and vomit. He could not hold his stomach any longer. He vomited. The man continued to watch Greg. He put down his harmonica and began to sing. "The ones you see are you. The ones you see are you. When this day is over they are you. If you look hard enough you will see they are you." Greg could hear the man singing. He looked around. A couple of people tried to help him and he shooed them along to move along. He would be fine. He always was fine. He wiped off his mouth with a hankie that someone had given him. He continued to walk closer to the busker. "Yeah they are you. The ones you see are you. The ones you see are you. I am a prophet of the truth only the truth and they are you." Greg was agitated. He was woozy still and felt like stoning the man. How dare he sit in the middle of the greatest city in the world and collect the observations of other's wonder. He was a worker. He was an able citizen. He was a someone. Greg became infuriated as he continued to walk. He thought, "I will show him". He saw the busker's case. He kicked it away from the man. He asked him what he just said. The man looked up at him confused. He had not known that Greg was so close to where he was. He had been busy trying to make a dime. "Why you do that man, I just found this spot. I mean what's your problem? Why you hurting me? Why you fucks always hurting me?" The man started to cry. Greg picked up his harmonica and shot off a single note. People had stopped to watch him. Greg belted out, "The one that falls today falls everyday, the weak is the strong because we had this debate before. We've had this discussion. The one that falls is an age old tale." He laughed and grabbed his stomach. People were stunned at what they were seeing. Greg fell over and hit his head. The man continued to cry. The crowd was astounded. They tried to help Greg get up while others assisted the busker gather his things. The two men did not acknowledge each other and both received assistance from the crowd. Greg was passed out on the sidewalk. The busker was visibly shaken but gathered his change and dollars and straightened his little spot on the walkway. He was settled in and he knew this was just a first day in a long series of events. He had just arrived in town. He had just touched down. Greg was motionless. He was being escorted off by a small group of paramedics that had set up shop in a tall skyscraper. People began to drop 20s in the busker's basket. He smiled with his shiny face and eyes and thanked them. Most had not heard either of them and the words they spoke that day. Greg was carried off. The busker remained satisfied with his first day in the new town he knew he would have soft sheets and a drink in the skyscraper's hotel room system. This was a great surprise and he could not help but to think everything happens for a reason. He continued to play the harmonica as the street got back to normal.


Once upon a time, there was an old man that yelled at a glass of milk. The glass of milk didn’t do anything except being a simple glass of milk. The old man was lonely and lived in a small yurt in the backwoods of northern Michigan. One afternoon, he bought milk from his local grocers and poured himself a nice glass of ice-cold milk. When he took a sip, he started having casual conversations with the milk. It started with small talk such as asking about the weather and asking about its feelings. Then the conversations escalated to talking about the future, philosophy, and life. Two months later, the old man grew tired of the milk. He was still drinking out of that same glass of milk. Inside that glass was the same milk from two months ago. The old man took a sip out of the glass once a month. By now the milk would have turned nasty and smelly but it didn’t. The milk was immortal. It was ageless. That milk could go on for years and even decades without going bad. No one knows why. Even when it was super old and months past its expiration date, the milk still looked beautiful and white. The old man grew jealous of the milk. That piece of fluid could retain its youth and beauty but the old man himself couldn’t do that. Instead, as the old man aged, he had saggier wrinkles, more liver spots, and a receding hairline that went all the way to the back of his ears. The more jealous the old man became of the milk, the angrier he became. He yelled at the milk regularly. Everything irritated the old man about the milk. The angrier he became, the whiter and more beautiful the milk became. Next thing, the milk was glowing and developed a glittery rainbow aura around the glass. After seeing what this glass of milk was doing to his self-image, the old man grabbed the glass and tossed it against the wall but the glass never broke. The milk never poured out. The milk became prettier, whiter, shinier, and…stronger. It tasted better and creamier. It was the most beautiful glass of milk in the world. Odd enough, the old man’s wrinkles sagged even further down his face. He was beginning to look like a Bloodhound with a giant bald spot. The angrier he became, the glass of milk, in turn, became brighter, more vibrant, and more attractive. When the glass of milk became more attractive, the old man became uglier. Next thing, the old man couldn’t speak anymore. His ramblings were unrecognizable. His face was so saggy and wrinkly, he couldn’t speak without lifting his saggy upper lip and chin to speak. The old man eventually turned into a sagging sack of human meat while the glass of milk turned into…well nothing. It was still a glittery glass of beauty. Had the old man learned to shut up, controlled his jealousy over a piece of liquid, and drank his milk, he would’ve been just as beautiful as that glass of milk.


I try to be as descriptive as I can in this short time of leisure, since we're about to embark on our journy through the no man's land that lies behind our supply trench. I am writing this journal on parchment made from my own skin and with ink made out of my blood. My name is Mitten and I've been living in this hell for about 6 months now. Everyone who arrives here wakes up in one of the few dugouts with beds and every single one doesn't remember how he got here or who he is. The only form of identification is the name that's stitched on our clothing and collarbone, though we don't know if it's our own name. We fight an endless fight agains an enemy who just tries to flee from his own trench to ours. They are all mutilated, decaying or transformed into what is best describable as melted humans, probably caused by the mist that fills their side of the battlefield. One thing every enemy has in common is their lack of orifices to breathe through. Their mouths and noses are just gone. Some of them tried to rip open holes to breathe again but underneath their skin and muscles are just bones that won't allow you to breathe. They seem to be in constant agony. Constantly suffocating. Starving. Thirsty. Most of us don't want to fight but we have to. We have to stop them before they reach our frontlines because if they do, they just melt into the mud we stand in and everyone who would have been able to stop them develops some sort of dry gangrene that slowly takes over your whole body until you're just trapped in a body that can't regenerate and can't die. But the most disturbing thing about this whole ordeal is the fact that our enemies try their best to escape the horror that resides in their own trenches, knowing they will melt into a consciouss pool of mud. The first thing almost everyone tries is to kill himself with his rifle, only to live through his immortality and his inability to lose his consciousness for months on end until he regrows everything he needs to be able to move again. Those of us who lost their will to fight and can endure the unimaginable dread that grows in you if you don't fight, get carried away to the enemies lines by these winged beasts whose grotesque physique drives everyone mad who looks at them. To counteract these abductions, most of us who lost their hands and are unable to operate their rifles will have specially made iron rods rammed into their arms to be able to fight again, until their hands regrew. Every week a train comes by to supply us with ammunition and a thin broth we consider our food, so every week some of us has to go through 20km of mud and trenches, blood and organs to deliver the supplies to the front. Those of us who have lost their hands, and have yet to regrow them, get pickaxes stuck and bolted into their forearms and knees to act as some sort of mule capable of traversing the unforgiving land between the frontline and the supportline. Our day to day lives consist of sleeping for about 3 hours a day, eating our soup, trying to get rid of our illnesses like trenchfoot or typhus by amputating those parts if possible, even if that means we have to regenerate our whole body for months on end, and stopping the enemy from reaching our trenches. It is constantly dark in these lands, except for a singular, red flare that is shot up into the sky every 24 hours and acts as our sun. Most of us gave up on understanding this hell like me so I didn't even bother thinking about the origins or use of this flare. The weather is always cold and wet. At least our trenches are on the highground so most of the water that comes down goes to the enemylines. There aren't a lot of vehicles around here except for the occasional armored car that comes with the train and those flying behemoths made out of cloth and steel that float above us. They are connected to the ground by a few rope ladders. Some of us tried to climb them, most of them fell on their way up because they were too weak or it's gotten too cold for them. Those who made it up there never came back. I am currently waiting for Stiller to wake up. He thinks he found a way to escape this hell by traversing the no man's land behind us. He said that if we want to go home, we have to go back to our homeland. It's absurd but it's worth a try. He hopes we will get back to our lives again or finally die. I think we're currently in the first circle of hell and will just enter the next. I will keep this journal on my at all times but I will be unable to write in it when we go. He woke up. I hope we will finally be able to die.


Anxiety, sweaty palms, too many bodies - so why do I feel like I’m backed into a corner with no where to go. How crowded can a train be at this time of day it’s only 6:00am. To hide behind the hoodie I wear, the bruises black and blue across my face. The sound of my heart slowly fading as I leave behind the life I once saw as my future. I see white what can it be, is that you nan i see. Why are you here? is this a dream, please talk to me. No words just pure silence from her, until I saw a little boy the size of a watermelon appeared before me. Who are you? Are you lost? lets go find your parents. He pointed his finger at me, confused as I was the words I heard was MUM!. He suddenly disappeared and I couldn’t come to terms of where I was. Until a light flash before my eyes as I watched a reflection of myself in the corner of the train. If I am here, who is that. Mysterious voice “It’s you” but I couldn’t understand how is that me. As I watched from above I saw the police officer announced me as dead and tapped the crime scene with the yellow tape. As a vision of what had happened made me realise I died the night before, HOW! I was raped and beaten by the man who said he loved me. I was murdered by the man who gave me the black and blue bruises. I was murdered by the man who gave me life.... MY DAD!!!!!! He took away the life I saw as my future and all because my step mother hated me. She never did love me the way my real mother loved me. But I assumed my real mother loved me despite her disappearing at the age of 5 years old. Why she left me with this man I would never know, cause he took away my chance to find the mother who birthed me. But as the police officer starts searching my body, he finds a piece of ID with the name (sara Burke) that’s me. As evidence is bagged in a clear seal bag, the sudden shock caused the officer to faint. As he stutters with the fear in his voice, he shouted with tears ”she was pregnant“. Everyone stood still as another officer came to examine me and cried “WHO WOULD DO THIS”. Yes! I was 16 and pregnant and the father was none another than my dad. I was raped my whole life and my step mum knew.She was jealous at the attention I got until I fell pregnant and wanted me gone for good. Don’t get me wrong I knew I had to leave before they got to me. But where was I meant to go, stories you hear about how the system fails us. Scared me to the core that I knew I was going to die, it was either I died or my step mother would leave my dad. I was given the opportunity to spend my last day however it pleased me and I sat down with my Mother Nature. Begging her to let the gods take me away instead of the brutal way I knew I was going to die. I watched the day turn into night within a matter of hours. I was angry with the gods cause I felt like no one was hearing my cry for help. I kneeled and prayed as my father repeatedly punched me 1 2 and 3 times in the head. Leaving me unconscious, eyes barely hanging onto life my step mother said “good riddance“. He ripped my clothes off and raped me til I bleed. I said “Dad before I leave this earth tell my real mum I love her and I will see her again”. SILENCE........... 6:00am he stuffed my body into a train, making sure he had no eye witnesses. I was gasping on to the last bit of air I had left. I told my dad karma would get him and whether I’m alive or dead I would get justice for me and my son. To his surprise he didn’t know I was pregnant but I wasn’t shocked. His twisted wife would have him wrapped under her thumb. As I turned my back I saw everyone I loved waiting for me including my son who was that watermelon. I knew the life I lived on that train was a life my dad put on me. But the life I have here in heaven will be the life i would make my own. But before I died the last thing I saw on earth before the angels himself took me. Was the sunsetting to shine through people window. The blue skies, the birds singing in harmony as I hum along with them. The leaves falling off the trees as autumn starts to sink in and my eyes close one last time. Mother Nature showed me life after death is just as beautiful as life now. The girl in the hoodie with the face painted in black and blue that was Sara Burke. That girl is me but I would never let that girl be defined as a victim. She was brave, strong, confident and had the humblest heart of gold. God knew he needed her more with him so he allowed her to watch the sun rise. As her sun was setting for a better and brighter future with the people she loved and who loved her. Sara burke knew the day would come where her dad would pay for her death. She never saw the bad in people despite being stood on like a roach. As she walked towards her loved ones, the light behind her started to fade. The life she knew in black and blue become nothing but full of colours. This is my story of the girl who cried black and blue .


As the family of five made their way to the beach, the sun shone brightly, and the waves crashed on the coast. The grandfather, a man in his eighties, walked behind his daughter, son-in-law, and two granddaughters, admiring the beauty of the tropical paradise where they were on vacation. The family had been looking forward to this trip for months and were eager to spend quality time together. Dark clouds began to move in as they settled into their beach chairs and relaxed. The wind increased, and soon a storm raged over them. The family immediately packed their belongings and fled to the nearest shelter, but the grandfather and his youngest granddaughter, a young woman in her twenties, separated from the rest of the family in the chaos. The two huddled together behind a little makeshift shelter, watching the storm rage on. The grandfather put on a brave face as he saw his granddaughter's concern and tried to distract her with conversation. "You've been buried in your phone for most of the vacation," Grandfather observed, looking into his granddaughter's eyes. "I want you to know I love you and am here for you." The young woman nodded, tears running down her cheeks. "I know, Grandpa," she said. "I've just been trying to get over my last relationship. I had a lot invested, and I can't move on from the hurt and anger I feel." The grandfather was all too aware. He had spent most of his life holding grudges and resentments, and it wasn't until he was much older that he learned how important it was to let go in order to move forward. "It's difficult to let go," he admitted. "Most people's mistakes have no long-term consequences; if we can let go of that first pain, we may be able to move on with our lives right away. On the other hand, we never do; we focus on what has occurred in the past. As a result, we sacrifice our own future." "I don't want to get hurt again." The grandfather shared that vulnerability was required for growth and that recognizing flaws might strengthen a relationship. "You limit the chance to experience joy if you cannot be vulnerable." "I want to move on, but everything reminds me of what could have been." He emphasized the importance of dealing with the present moment and shifting one's perspective rather than being absorbed in negative thoughts and feelings. "When you look inward and be present in your life, the memory fades and is distracted by living." "I don't want to get out of bed in the morning. I've spent the last five years sacrificing, investing time, and tying my entire identity as a person around what may have been. Now I'm left with nothing, and the clock keeps ticking." The granddaughter listened closely as the grandfather talked about his own challenges and the methods he used to overcome them, such as unconditional love for oneself, active love for others, and focusing on the reality of the present rather than the fantasy of the future. He also warned against the tendency to avoid discomfort. "Negative emotions will arise; it's part of the human condition; don't ignore them; instead, think on, feel, learn, and release them." "Life is nothing but suffering, unending uncertainty, and risk." The grandfather pointed out the importance of connections and self-awareness in achieving happiness. He encouraged his granddaughter to take ownership of her life and meet new people since they symbolize growth. "I've never told anyone, but I write to get to know my unconscious. This is where those negative thoughts can be found. Your brain is quite good at tricking you, setting traps, and getting lost in past hardships. Writing helped me to boost my self-esteem and shift my thinking in a positive direction." "I had everything I ever wanted, though; now it's gone, and I'll never have it back. The saddest part is that it's entirely my fault; I'm the one who destroyed my ideal life." The grandfather spoke about the illusion of a perfect life and the importance of focusing on the present and taking action rather than searching for an idealistic sense of purpose. "Happiness is gained in accepting that we will never know everything and that life is a journey rather than a goal or a moment to be reached. Once you've arrived at that point, the issue is that it's never as fulfilling as you had imagined, which can only lead to despair." What began as an attempt to distract his granddaughter from the storm evolved into a confessional from a man who had lived a long life and accumulated truths along the way. The grandfather would not make it home from that vacation; his body couldn't survive the stress that mother nature unleashed. His granddaughter remembered the philosophical truisms that her grandfather taught her that day. Still, these lessons can only be gained through living, working, and experiencing. There are no shortcuts; you must do the work.


“Want an Almond Joy?” the taxi driver said, leaning back toward me and shuffling through the bag––a monstrously large collection of little blue wrappers. “That’s very nice of you,” I mumbled, nodding my head. When I realized he didn’t see––he was looking straight ahead––I said, “yes, please,” so softly I could barely hear my own voice. I leaned toward the driver so he wouldn’t have to turn around. “Thank you very much.” As I nibbled at the Almond Joy, the driver scooped three more candies for himself. Plopped them in his mouth all at the same time and chomped.

My eyes swept over the view: as rice fields rolled by, I caught a glimpse of my nose in the window’s reflection. It glittered with sweat. And my blue eyes shone, overflowing with anticipation.

“I’m taking a longer route,” the driver said, adjusting his dashboard mirror, “because there’s traffic on the main road.” “No, no worries!” I settled into my seat, tracing a stain on the middle seat. “Whatever gets us to Boston,” I said. “I have a job interview at the university this afternoon,” I smiled, trying to imagine the dean. Would he be wearing glasses and a sweater vest? A suit? I looked down at my dress, black cotton, and smoothed it out a bit. I couldn’t remember if I had ironed it in the hotel room that morning––though I suppose it was too late to try to worry about it. The taxi driver laughed. “Whatever gets us to Boston, that’s a good one! I’m gonna start using that one from now on.” I spotted a porcelain white road sign, ordained with hand-painted blue, yellow, and green leaves to frame its contents: “Carrer del Destí,” it read. Street of Fate . When did they start translating road signs here into Catalan? I almost asked the driver, but found myself too embarrassed. Back when I lived in Massachusetts, all the road signs were in English. But there ’ s no official language in the United States, I told myself. Must have a large Catalan community here nowadays, I nodded. Yes, that must be it . “Would you like another?” the driver asked. “A what now?” “Would you like another Almond Joy?” “An Almond Joy?” “Yes.” “Why would I want an Almond Joy?” I shuffled in my seat.

“Well––” the driver fell into a silence so stupid I wanted to kick the back seat. “I have a lot here, and––” “Let me tell you something about Almond Joys,” I started. “Almond Joys are the only candies that tell you how to feel in the name... because biting into one isn’t clear enough. ” The driver let out a nervous laugh. “No, really,” I continued. “The insides are a pathetic attempt to capture the sad texture of some kind of coconut filling, and the chocolate is just waxy enough to remind you that the thing contains almonds. It almost makes you wish you were allergic to nuts, so your head could swell up and you could go the rest of your life without ever having to touch one again, or, better yet, dead.” “That’s a good one, hun,” the driver forced out the words through his chewing. The sound of his interminable, slushing saliva assaulted my ears. “Don’t call me hun if you want to keep the tires on your car.” Suddenly the phone rang––mine, thankfully, or I would’ve heaved the driver’s phone out the window--and I answered it after catching my breath. “A petty solace to the small talk,” I said into the phone without checking the caller ID. “Alice speaking. Now what is it?” “Penny, how many times have we been through this?” a shrill voice chirped on speaker. “Nobody knows who Alice is. Nobody has ever––called you that?” “Is that a question?” “Forget it, sis.” “So, then?” “Huh?” Her stupidity irritated me. “Your point. For calling.” With Elizabeth, everything had to be spelled out. Perfectly said and entirely literal. “Well…” she stumbled. There was a crackling sound, as if she were crumpling a paper on the other end to try to convince me we had a bad signal. “Roxy passed away this morning.” “That’s it?” “Penny––I’m sorry. I know how worried––how beside yourself you were last night.”

“First of all, don’t call me Penny,” I said. “Penny is the name of a coin, and the worst one, at that. Second of all, I never worry. That’s a lie. I’m never ‘beside myself,’ not for you, or anyone, let alone a goddamn chihuahua named Roxy.” I hung up the phone, and the driver blinked, and it rang again. I picked it up on the third ring––the best ring, and the only ring, at that, that doesn’t look like you’re desperate for human connection. “Elizabeth, what in the hell don’t you understand about someone hanging up the phone on you? I don’t want to talk.” “Listen, sis,” the voice on the other end dipped into a baritone. “Elizabeth asked me to call you. I wanted to…check in.” “David!” I squealed. “David! Who’s my favorite baby brother?” I smiled, cupping the microphone as if it were a rotary phone. “David is my little brother,” I explained to the taxi driver. “He’s about to turn six.” “Penny…I’m…almost thirty-seven,” David said. “Ohh, right,” I smiled, cupping the phone again. “David likes to play pretend,” I shouted to the taxi driver, whose eyes seemed too wide for him to still be dead-silent. “I think he’s gonna grow up and become an actor!” “I’m in a taxi right now,” I shouted into the phone. “Can you call me back in a bit?” “Penny, I know. I was the one who called you the…Uber. Listen,” I could hear David swallow. “This is important.”

“Uber! Davie, you have such a way with words.” I couldn’t help it. Even though David was already a kid, I spoke to him as if he were still my baby. The perfect doll Mom and Dad brought home from the hospital just for me . “Penny…” David’s voice was hushed, though more out of kindness than out of secretiveness. “Is Author changing you again?” “Hmm,” I said. “Give me a minute.” I thought for a moment, now growing pensive.

“Penny, are you still there?” I didn’t know how long it had been. “Wait a bit, David. It’s a good question. Give me a couple more minutes, I think Author had to go to the bathroom.” “Let’s hope she’s not constipated today,” I could hear David mutter to someone on the other end. After a few minutes had passed, I hissed into the phone. “Daaaavid?” “Penelope.” “You’re right,” I sighed. “Author did change me again.”

I glanced at myself in the window’s reflection. My black eyes glittered, and a tear rolled down my cheek. “She has me looking at my reflection in a window,” I said, slow and steady. “And she has a tear rolling down my cheek like a third-rate novelist.” “Penny, take a breath.” “I am breathing.” “Good, now I want you to tell me one thing.” “What’s that?” “What color are your eyes right now?” “Black,” I said.

“You’re sure?” “Yes.” “It’s not the worst edit Author’s ever made––” I heard David whisper to someone on the other end. “The worst edit Author’s ever made was making the whites go yellow. I was there for that. Had to take her to the hospital for cirrhosis of the liver and they didn’t believe me when I told them there was no family history and she had only just started drinking on her 21st birthday, a few days prior.” “Listen, Penny, I want you to ask the driver where you’re going.” I asked him. “Andorra,” I reported to David. “What’s that?” “I’m starting to hate her,” David said in another hushed tone.

“I’m sorry.” I said it as if it were a reflex.

“Not you, Penny,” David sighed, “I’m starting to hate Author.” “Everything Author does is for a reason,” I replied, again more out of a reflex than out of a conscious thought. My words were just words––devoid of all meaning. “Well maybe Author should start using her intuition more because reason doesn’t seem to be working out,” David said, and my phone went black. The battery’s dead. I looked over to the driver, and then to the Halloween-candy-sized bag of Almond Joys on his passenger seat.

I leaned over. “Hey, can I have one?”

“Take them all,” he handed them to me so quickly (almost nervously?), that I was touched. The kindness of strangers, I mused, munching on the chocolate, sweet and soft and gooey as if it’d been sitting out in the heat, waiting, waiting for the perfect moment––waiting just for me. “I want…eh, to apologize,” the driver said. “For taking the long road. I––I––there wasn’t actually that much traffic ahead, you see?” “No, I can’t see because we didn’t go that way,” I tried to remain matter-of-fact. It was the least I could do for him. “No, I mean,” the driver hesitated. “It’s just that I haven’t been getting many rides, and I thought if I showed you around the countryside I could get a better tip.” “Oh! Well, that is silly,” I replied in a laugh. “Yes,” he mirrored my laugh uneasily. “I mean, I don’t even have any money on me!” The car went silent, so silent I could hear the driver’s belabored swallowing.

“You pay…on the app,” he explained, “any time throughout the ride or just after it. Would you like a phone charger?” “No, thanks,” I said, sifting through the bag of Almond Joys. “I think it would make Author pretty mad. She’s a big fan of all those plays that involve a miscommunication because a letter or something isn’t properly delivered, you know, like Romeo and Juliet?” “Uh-huh.” Although I interpreted it as the driver agreeing, I could hear him roll his eyes. “I’m pretty sure she’d just crash the car into a ravine if I took the charger,” I laughed. “She’s not very creative.” “Oh?” “Yeah.” “Well––take the charger––for my sake.” “Really?” “I insist.” “Okay!” Somehow I agreed before Author could change me––could change my mind again––and as the battery signal on my phone lit up, the driver laughed. “ Que turista més boja ,*” he said. *[“What a crazy tourist”] I would later tell David, as he hovered over my hospital bed with a line of worry permanently carved into his forehead, that those were the very last words I heard before the whole world went black.


I walk around campus on a busy day, where the streets are flooded with people instead of cars. I wander to find my friends in the hope I find reprieve of the loneliness, but whoever I try to find is missing or long gone.  I give up and start walking home, but with no purpose as to why I am going there. What would be better once I got home? Nobody is there, no shows to watch, no games to play, what's the point? Choosing a destination gave me purpose in the moment, so I started off towards a convenience store. I strolled in silence, despite all the bustling around me. Time seemed to move like a movie in fast forward, and I was stuck playing at a normal pace. Everyone had a purpose, a goal, and I was a lone wanderer. I reached the store with no errand, but decided that getting food would at least be an activity that would bring me a short burst of purpose. I got a sandwich from the deli, and as I was walking back toward the register, I caught my reflection off one of the refrigerator doors.  I stopped and stared at myself, a ghostly figure in front of sushi and salad. I pulled out a nine millimeter handgun and raised it up. Slowly opening my mouth, I slid the cold metal of the barrel into my mouth. So cold, as if I was the reflection in the fridge. As I slid the barrel toward the back of my mouth, I welcomed death and prepared to leave this Earth. Waiting to pull the trigger, I suddenly heard an echoed voice call out to me.  This voice brought me out of the world I was in, and made me realize the cold gun was not real. I was in my own head, living a vision of a swift death for myself. I looked over at the source of the voice to see who pulled me through the ether, and there stood a pretty blonde clad in school spirit. In that moment, I realized what she had said a few seconds earlier.  "What are you contemplating?" she asked. It took me a moment, but I realized that her inquiry was not about my dark thoughts, but rather what was behind my reflection. I looked through the fridge door for the first time and saw the food options that it outwardly seemed I was staring at.  "Uh, chicken salad or pasta salad", I said hastily to keep up the facade that she believed. I don't know why she asked me the question, but then again I don't know how long I was standing there staring straight ahead and not moving. It could have been minutes, but when does one person ask about another's shopping habits? I truly had no idea but I answered without question.  "Chicken salad for sure, too many carbs in pasta", she decided for me. I reached into the fridge and took a package of it, and thanked her after giving a quick chuckle. Once I thanked her, she took off and I didn't see her again. I looked back into the refrigerator door and didn't see myself anymore, the man with a gun that looked like me was gone. I walked toward the register at the exit and with a slight smile purchased my food; my sandwich and the chicken salad.


I meet Maud Lancaster for the second time on the steps of Pembroke College in early September 1962. She’s easily recognizable with her characteristic argyle vest and braided hair, but I must not hold the same level of memorability because she asks, “I’m sorry, have we met?” And I tell her that we exchanged pleasantries at Convocation, and that we’re also in the same American History course with Professor Peterson and I’ve seen her from across the lecture hall. And that’s that, all the basic requisites for a friendship apparently fulfilled. The next time we see each other, it’s Maud who approaches first, jogging up to me on my way to calculus and asking me how I’ve been and hasn’t the weather been great lately and what other classes I have today. We have lunch together on the green and discover that we live in the same dorm, only one floor and half a hallway apart. Her roommate is “disastrous” and mine seems to only come back to sleep and shower, so she’s soon started inviting herself over to my room, occasionally at first, more often than not before long. By sophomore year, she’s both my new roommate and easily one of the most well-known women on campus. There aren’t all that many of us to begin with and we’re all intelligent and studious, working hard to preserve the Pembroke reputation of outshining the Brown University men, no matter how apparently undateable that renders us. Still, Maud seems to shine brightest amongst us, fearless and forward, her name known by every professor who has had her in his lectures, already a shoo-in for class president come senior year. She becomes the pinnacle of the Pembroker that one Ought Not To Date, but eventually some of the boys come to their senses and stop chasing after the nearby Wheaton College girls to chase after her instead. She dates a few, breaks the hearts of several more, and all the while she’s living with me, coming back every night to our room, her bed only a few feet away from mine, close enough for us to whisper secrets deep into the night. A few weeks after the start of our senior year, she meets Paul Kilmer, a fellow Poli. Sci. student and pompous prick of a man who, for some incomprehensible reason, decides that he should like to try and convince Maud of the female gender’s inherent unsuitability to politics. I’m not present for their discussion, but she gives him a most sound verbal thrashing that is witnessed by several other students and recounted to me later with glee. Over the next few months Paul becomes an increasingly frequent topic of conversation, mostly by virtue of their numerous arguments and hardly ever in complimentary terms, but by Thanksgiving there’s an odd gleam in her eye when she talks about him and I experience a sudden jolt of panic. She’s invited to his home in Greenwich for Christmas, comes back with a delicate amethyst pendant and talks of “maybe”. It’s all happening so fast, too fast, and all the thoughts I’ve never voiced suddenly come clawing up my throat before I’ve even had the chance to recognise them for what they really mean. For a brief and feverish moment I think that I should tell her exactly how I feel about her and Paul fucking Kilmer, but then I notice the hope in her gaze, the aching desire to hear me say that I am happy for her, and I cannot bring myself to let her down. I try to think of her as Mrs. Kilmer. I can’t. Mrs. Kilmer. Mrs. Kilmer. It feels viscerally, objectively wrong, but I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who thinks that. Mrs. Kilmer. • • • The two of them move to New York City shortly after graduation, and I linger in Rhode Island for a little while before heading in the opposite direction, up to Boston. I find myself a condo in the South End that’s nice enough; much too small for the nuclear family my mother is eager for me to procure posthaste, but more than sufficient for my needs. One and a half bedrooms, white walls, a small kitchen, bay windows onto the street, a stoop whose landing has been anointed with an indelible stain of undeterminable origin. I try dating on for size and find I can’t get it to fit. I do my best to make it, I really do, but there’s always something missing, something I can’t quite articulate. My time spent with men is pleasant for the most part, but struggles to grow into anything more. The butterflies in my stomach remain dormant, the desire for physical affection never manifests itself, the inevitability of breakup is hardly upsetting. When my third boyfriend, in an eerie echo of the two before him, begins to complain incessantly about my lack of intimacy, I give up on dating altogether. Maud calls often, at first. I visit her and Paul in New York several times, and she returns the favor whenever Paul travels to Boston for work. She wears her hair loose now, long and fair and feathered, has graduated from her argyled college look, transitioned from skirts to cigarette pants now that she’s no longer constrained by the Pembroke dress code. The feelings that I used to ignore with such ease, their true natures having since been uncovered, now refuse to be disregarded. It’s impossible to look at her the way I used to, as an ex-roommate or simply another young woman my age. Her laugh is too intoxicating, my name from her mouth feels like something unspeakably precious, her rapt gaze as I talk drives me to distraction, the way she crosses her legs demands my attention. She asks me to promise I’ll be her maid of honor when the day comes, and I do, of course I do. They get married in October, scarcely two years after they first met. I make good on my promise, standing next to her in a sage green chiffon number in almost every photograph, and there are nearly as many of just the two of us as there are of the two of them. Maud is unaware or perhaps indifferent to Paul’s apparent displeasure at this; I find a strange satisfaction in the knowledge that he perceives me, to some extent, as a threat. In these moments, it almost feels like nothing has changed and it’s still just the two of us, Maud’s boyfriends bearing no greater significance than the late-night anecdotes they inspire. But at the end of the day it’s now Paul to whom she returns, not our dorm room, and in the weeks after the wedding Maud’s calls become increasingly infrequent until they cease altogether. Paul answers the phone every time I ring, tersely informing me that Maud is unavailable and that he’ll tell her I called again, but I never hear back from her. • • • The next time I meet Maud she is standing on my doorstep, hair escaping from her chignon, suitcase in hand. It is half past ten at night and I have not seen or heard from her in three and a half years. I stand frozen for a moment at the sight, then let her in without a word. She’s silent at first, clearly exhausted from her trip. I brew her a cup of chamomile, make up the sofa bed while she showers. She asks me to join her under the covers, like we used to at Pembroke when in need of comfort, and I oblige. In short, she tells me, she is no longer Mrs. Kilmer. I hold her close as she talks about what he did to her and why we haven’t spoken in so long, powerless to do much else.

We upgrade my twin bed, which I previously had no good reason for replacing, to a king, large enough to fit the both of us and then some. It feels strange at first, a slight but unshakeable misgiving that we’re doing something wrong, but Maud says that she always sleeps sounder in my presence and feels relieved to wake up beside me, and I’m certainly not about to try and convince her otherwise.

She's out of sorts for those first few weeks, but ultimately Maud is nothing if not resilient. Before long she's found herself a new job, and with it comes a fresh pool of romantic prospects. I watch her primp for every new suitor, welcome her back home only a few hours later and listen to an exhaustive list of their shortcomings — not that she’s specifically looking for flaws, she says, she just can’t help but notice anyway. Still, she always gives them the benefit of the doubt, gives them numerous opportunities to redeem themselves, but they never do. The men here, she laments, seem to be quite substandard. If only they had the sensibilities, the kindness, the sophistication of women, perhaps she would not be so unlucky in love. After the fifth or sixth round of hearing her quip about how she should like to date a man with a woman’s soul, my nerves have become so frayed that I can no longer hold my tongue. She won’t find a man like that, I tell her, so she should either lower her standards, or date a woman instead. And then I make the bold — and perhaps unsubstantiated — claim that I would be a better partner than any of the men she could possibly meet in Boston, maybe even the entire country, if only she would have me. Silence. I can’t look at her. Voice quivering, I begin a half-hearted recontextualization of my words, when she lifts my chin and kisses me. • • • In the following months, I can hardly tell if I’m dreaming or awake. We are hesitant at first, unsure how to approach a situation neither of us is at all familiar with. But there’s something that clicks, has always clicked, and whatever reservations we hold soon burn off like morning mist. Our relationship remains fundamentally unchanged and yet evolves into something intrinsically different. We become a series of “but now also”s: we are still friends but now also lovers, still sleep in the same bed but now also “sleep” in that bed,  still mean the world to each other but now also are each other’s world, are still as we were but now also more. And that more is ineffably glorious in the potential it holds.

Unsurprisingly, my twenties never yield the marriage my mother so desperately desires for me, nor do my thirties, and by the advent of my forties even she can no longer will away the implications of Maud’s perpetual presence in my life — Maud, who is also, what a coincidence, happily unmarried. Maud’s parents are even less receptive to our relationship, which stings, of course it does, but we are too busy being happy for it to sting overmuch. In our mid-thirties we pool our finances to buy a brownstone in Back Bay. We decorate it whimsically, with colorful wallpaper and the most bizarre pop art prints we can find and a patchwork sofa and far too many lamps. We hunt down strawberry-themed crockery in thrift stores and garage sales, take pottery classes and display our misshapen creations as though they are Ming vases. We watch the Boston Pride parade one year, march in it the next and every year after. I write the occasional article for the Gay Community News, while she lends her legal expertise to the Gay & Lesbian Advocates and Defenders. We travel to Spain and France and Greece — Lesbos, of course, quoting and misquoting Sappho the entire time: Sweet Maud, I cannot weave – slender Aphrodite has overcome me with longing for you. We go down to New York one year to welcome the start of a new decade; watch the ball as it drops, cheer when the clock strikes midnight, kiss long and slow among the throng of people doing the same. Later, as we’re making our way out of Times Square, someone says, “Maud?” She almost doesn’t hear him, but I do and we turn to see who it is. He’s older, paunchier, and balder, but the man in front of us is unmistakably Paul Kilmer. His eyes flicker down to her hand where it rests snug in the crook of my elbow and something sours in the set of his mouth. Maud doesn’t even twitch an eyebrow, just regards him coolly and says, “I’m sorry, have we met?” And before he has the wherewithal to respond, she whirls back around, pulling me flush against her and leaning her head on my shoulder as we continue to weave through the crowd, giggling like schoolgirls. • • • She is seventy-eight and I am making my way up the ramp of the nursing home to see her. The home is tastefully decorated and sunny and the staff are always kind, greeting me by name and telling me to go on through, that she’s doing very well today and has just finished her breakfast.

Not for the first time, I’m attacked by the guilt, the fear that I might have stolen something from her. I can’t help but wonder if, were it not for me, she could have happily remarried, experienced the joys of motherhood. If now she would have had her children or grandchildren visiting her, taking care of her, telling her about their lives and sharing accomplishments. Instead, the only family she has left is an old biddy who may very well be bound for the nursing home herself in a few years. And then who will be there for her? I find her sitting by the window, her usual spot. She smiles when she sees me — 60 years on, and her smile is just as beautiful as when we first met. We sip tea and contemplate a jigsaw puzzle; I update her on the status of my latest manuscript, show her pictures of the neighbor’s cat.

As always, it happens without warning. I see the confusion cloud her eyes for a moment, the change in the way she looks at me. She blinks twice and, polite and warm and charming as ever, asks, “I’m sorry, have we met?” And I tell her that we have, and she asks me to remind her, and I do, again.


The sun dies its days death leaving a humid evening in its wake. The air is thick and oppressive heavy on the nose and damp in the mouth. A man sits at a hotel bar, he’s waiting for somebody to arrive. Somebody important. He takes a draw on his cigarette and knocks back the dregs of his bourbon. He signals the bartender for another. His eye catch on a dame in a red dress. All golden hair, curves and legs as far as the eye could see. Damn, she’s a pretty one. Strangely familiar, yet unknown, mysterious and alluring. Her high heels clack on the marble floor, she pauses for a split second and her head turns - red lips curve in a devilish smile as her eyes meet his. And then she’s gone. The man at the bar remembers another red dress. Twenty years past and no name to the memory, although her lips were still fresh as yesterday. She’d had that look, a Hollywood starlet, a diamond amongst river pebbles. He’d been taken with her from the moment he’d had eyes on her. A doll dizzy kid, he’d never stood a chance. His life changed forever. A dance, a kiss, she’d introduced him to a man in a fine grey suit. A man who drank Champaign with a cigarette ever-present in his mouth. A man with a flashing smile and the brightest baby blues you’d ever seen. A man with a smooth voice who held the whole room in the palm of his hand.

The man at the hotel bar wonders for a second if by some miracle or trick of fate it could be her. But no, the woman in the red dress would be his age now, not the fresh young thing here tonight. He stands and checks his watch. He has an hour by his reckoning, he makes his way to the restroom, splashes cold water over his face then raises his head to meet his reflection. His suit is immaculate, made by the best tailor in town. Shoes shiny. Cufflinks polished. He dons his hat and winks at the mirror. Not long now. He can feel the excitement running through his veins like a hit of the Docs’ cocaine. He returns to his stool and drums his fingers on the bar, knocks back another bourbon and lights another cigarette. He feels uneasy, something deep inside him. Like cockroaches crawling over his toes. He’s sweating but doesn’t take off his jacket, he needs the protection it provides, hard metal pressed reassuringly into his side like a soothing hand to a fevered brow. The city stirs from its slumber. Between the bedsheets of darkness, the slime and bugs of the city emerged from their dens or crawled from beneath their rocks. Ornamental women with diamonds on their necks and coldness in their eyes on the arms of men in fancy suits. Weighted handshakes as laughter rang in the bars and saloons of the city; not from mirth but for another purpose altogether, to hide the fear that yaps at the heals of its master. The man at the hotel bar loses himself in memory once again. He was six, maybe seven holding onto the skirt of his mother as they watched a parade pass through the streets. Folks had been yelling, a brass band played. Giants crowded the streets, for every man was a giant to him. He fell and lost his mother. He screamed and called out her name. The fear of a child filled his heart and he began to sob as the crowd carried him away. It seemed a hundred years and a hundred faces passed him by. A hummingbird trapped in his chest as he imagined monsters in the eyes of men. That was when she found him. He couldn’t remember her face - his only coming to her waist. A girl in a red polka-dot dress. She scooped him up in her arms, laughter in her eyes and brushed away his tears. Carried him safely back into his mother’s embrace. To him, she seemed a beautiful angel with honey hair and red lips, the most beautiful thing his young eyes had ever seen. The man at the hotel bar thought again of the woman in the red dress from a time passed. She’d raised him up from the graveyard of normality into the world of the lavish and extraordinary. He’d kissed the hand of the king that night in that smokey lounge.

Over-there in the grey suit, she’d pointed. Come she’d said, and he’d followed the woman in the red dress as she introduced him to his future. Champagne poured and there were girls, dozen to the dime. He was seduced as much by the lifestyle he saw as by her red dress and slow smiles. It was power. Those men, they weren’t afraid of nothin', they owned the city and they lived in style but more than that they had freedom. Class and abundance flowed from their fingers. Danger shone in their eyes. They were quick to smile and quicker to laugh. They seemed untouchable. That night when he followed her to bed he was as much following the man in the grey suit. Again he mused at fate. Wondered what his life would be if he hadn’t met her. Would he still be sitting here waiting to play God? The man in the hotel bar rouses himself from the past, it was time. The elevator doors opened and a short portly man steps out. He is slightly balding, a fuddy-duddy if ever there was- he walks quickly, eager to reach his destination. The man at the bar slips off his stool as quiet and sly as a jungle cat in pursuit of its prey. Not a soul notices his departure.

Music and voices blended into the constant thunder of traffic. Sirens and car horns combine in the fantasia of the city - climaxing in a crescendo as the adolescent night reaches adulthood. The pavement radiates the heat of the day rising with the smell of fast food and garbage, the bouquet completed with the faintest trace of ladies perfume. A heavy and suffocating stink that catches in the back of the throat. The man from the hotel bar walks at a leisurely pace concealing himself between the residents of the sidewalk. He stops and tips his hat to a pretty girl, with a fleeting Good evening Mam, his hat obscuring his face just as the portly man glances over his shoulder checking for anyone in pursuit. The pair continued in this fashion for some three or four blocks until the portly man turns onto the corner of 52nd Street. Bars and clubs line the sidewalk, sultry voices singing of lost love fight against jaunty big band tunes in a battle to dominate the night. A showgirl lights a cigarette under a harsh yellow streetlamp, taking a break from an already long night. The man from the hotel bar pauses, he looked up and notices the pale half moon dangling haphazardly in the dirty sky. He knows the portly man’s intended destination now, he recognises the lounge and street corner. He’s been here before. That night, the night with the woman in the red dress two decades earlier. It looks the same. Here where it began so shall it end, fate makes for an odd mistress he muses. He walks down a dimly lit corridor pushing past a scantily dressed cigar girl and slipping into a smokey room which swells with a crooning voice telling of longing and tragedy. The man from the hotel bar knows that voice, it awakens a half-forgotten dust-covered memory. Running through the lanes of boyhood in the baking summer heat. Cracked mud-pies abandoned to a parched and desiccated fate. His fathers’ voice ringing after him ignored in the pursuit of a golden pigtail tied with a red ribbon. Laughter on the breeze and mischief afoot. Who had she been? He couldn’t remember. Or perhaps he’d never known.

On a small stage in the centre of the room, the same room the man had danced long ago, she stands. In her red dress with her golden hair. The Dame from the lobby. Her voice is something special straight out of heaven and matched with a body wrapped in sin. Every man in the room has eyes for only her. He turns his attention to each table searching until he finds what he’s looking for. The portly man. No longer alone but sat at a table in the far left corner and accompanied by a handsome man in a grey suit. A bright smile flashes, hair turned to salt n' pepper with the years but eyes as true blue as they’d always been. The man from the hotel bar settles at a watchful distance, he orders another drink as he waits. He won’t move again until the night begins to fade. The hours slither past as tough guys, wise guys, cool cats and wannabes come and go in front of the man in the grey suit. The show finishes, the court closes and the man in the grey suit takes his leave off his subjects exiting out a side door to a dingy alleyway. The man from the hotel bar rises, one last lingering look at the dame in the red dress and then he too exits out of the side door. Two men stand in the night under the light of a pathetic waxy grey moon, too far away and too smog poisoned to cast even the faintest shadow on the grimy pavement. Two gunshots swallowed by the stale night. The side door opens again throwing a rectangle of golden haze onto a bloody tableau. One man splayed on the pavement a red hallo forming around his motionless head. The other man stands over him, smoking gun, limp in his hand. The woman in the red dress steps into the alleyway. You don’t look so hot. She says, her manner indicating she is simply picking up an old interrupted conversation.

A chuckle which ends in a wince of pain as the man from the hotel bar leans against the opposing wall of the alleyway. Gun_free hand pressed to his side, fingers match her dress in sticky colour. Gettin shot ain't so fun doll.

The woman in the red dress smiles. I wasn’t sure you’d remember me, been a while. Her voice is soft and gentle and that smile, the same one that drifted through his memories and heated his dreams. Impossible to forget even under the fog of time. Couldn’t forget you if I wanted, a man never forgets his first love, nor his childhood friend. Name or no name. The man from the hotel bar slumps against the wall, body sliding to the ground. How about I give you a name now then?

I’ve had many but I guess you can call me Fate if you’d like. The man from the hotel bar considers her for a moment and then nods. Well doll, I seem to have played my part here tonight. I reckon the rest is in your hands now. The man from the hotel bar turns his gaze away from the woman in the red dress and glances up towards the sky. The waxy moon doesn’t look so far away now, he closes his eyes and the last thing he feels is her lips against his cheek.


This my friends is a marvelous tale! The tale of the glorious frog city! Our story begins in a land not far from town. A beautiful oasis of tall trees, lush grass and soothing smooth sugar sand. The sound of the birds chirping and the locusts in the maples muffled the sounds of glass breaking and mommy's drunken rambling / screaming.. but I digress An enchanting land to be sure. And in this enchanting wonderful land there lived a young boy. Now this wasn't some ordinary boy no this boy was special... he had big dreams! " I wanna be king of the frog people!" The boy yelled into the canopy of his personal piss tree slave. So he set out across the vast territory that was to be his new kingdom in search of the perfect piece of junk in the yard to be his newfound holy grounds. "Ah this will do nicely" said the boy as he found an old plastic pool filled with stagnant emerald green alge water. The boy drug the pool out from under the trees and into the heat of the summer sun. "Yes! this is where I shall become GOD" smirked the boy Now for some frogs The boy set back out on a new quest. A quest to find his new subjects. He had a burning passion in his heart.. a passion to be GOD. High and low he searched for the amphibians of his desire. Until finally he had acquired a good number of new villagers of his kingdom. And all was well. Until the first escape attempt After about 2 days of tending to his frogy subjects He noticed not all were loyal to there gracious new lord. Several frogs tried to flee his courtship. Now as we know desertion is a treasonous crime punishable by no less then capital punishment. This made the new found God of the frog people vary agery. "AM I NOT ENOUGH FOR YOU? YOU SHALL PAY WITH YOUR BLOOD" the yelled as he ran to the kitchen and grabbed mommy's wooden kebab sticks. 1 by 1 he impaled the frogs atop the sacrificial slide of doom. This will show ALL who oppose me! The boy then felt hurt by the frogs betrayal. Heart broken even. So he took off the cover he had over the pool protecting the towns folk from the ravages of the star in the sky. "I... I don't care anymore" he said as he walked off to do something else. Now the frog city wasn't the only project this king had in store. A king need lots of prisoners. And one of them was none other then a raggity ann dole he had nailed to a tree.... The boy picked up his hatchet and continued chopping up the doll. The boy loved taking his time slowly copping away at the vintage doll. And frog city slowly dried up and withered along with all of its prisoners. And the forsaken city was eventually discovered along with the chopped up remains of the ann doll by the boys alcoholic mother.


“Rawr! I'm a tiger!” the little girl squealed, chasing her playmates around the large suburban backyard. The face paint, or rather warpaint, on her nose and cheeks shone those familiar orange, white and black stripes with whiskers. “Roaarrr!” the six-year-old giggled as she gently smacked one of her friends on the back. “Not so hard, Kaley,” her mother scolded the birthday girl. “She’s fine,” her dad said, bringing out the cups and plasticware from the kitchen. “They’re just playing around, babe.” A soft kiss on warm cheek. One of the mother’s hairs stuck to his lips. “I just don’t want her to get it in her head that it’s okay to hit people.” “I hear ya. But I don’t think that qualifies as hitting. They’re basically playing tag.” He put the cups and spoons down, then began spreading them out over the large picnic table. “You did a great job on the face paint,” the mom said, setting out the paper plates for the cake. “What can I say? I'm a true artist at heart.” “Uh-huh. Sure thing, Mr. Artist.” A giggle.

Kaley roared her triumphant roar, much to the delight of her friends. Their faces held similar markings of rabbits, mice, cats, and even a turtle—nothing capable of withstanding a tiger, however. So, they ran. Kaley’s favorite stuffed animal, a little monkey in tan shorts and white t-shirt, dangled with its arms wrapped around her waist using a hook and loop grip. “Raawwrrr!” “I got juice for you guys if you get thirsty!” Dad called out, half-filling cups with orange, apple and grape juice. “My mommy says you should smoothie juice, not squeeze it,” the mouse yelled, running circles around the playset. “And your ‘mommy’ also believes rocks cure IBS…” Dad muttered under his breath. “Shush. And its crystals, duh.” Mom poked him in the ribs with a playful grin. “Ow, who’s being violent now?” he snickered, planting another kiss on her cheek. That was when Mom paused for a brief moment. “Oh, I put down ten plates. We only need nine. Silly me.” Dad looked at her with soft eyes. “Yeah, just nine, babe. But might want to leave out extras in case they want more cake and destroy their plates.” “Like they always do, heheh.” “Little monsters.” “Mommy, Daddy!” Kaley yelled out from behind the slide. “When do we get cake? I want cake!” “In a bit, baby. Your Mom and I still have to set up the table. Quick, one of the rabbits is getting away!” Dad pointed to the little boy who was attempting to hide behind the outdoor toy bin. “Rarrr!!” Kaley exposed her teeth and held up her claws, stalking over to the unsuspecting rabbit. More happy squeals. Tiger and rabbit came running from around the bin, joyous laughter abound. “Should we wait for the ice cream when I come out with the cake, or you want me to bring it out now?” Dad asked his wife, scratching his head as he looked over the large table they bought for this specific purpose. “We got plenty of room for all the boogers, at least.” “Guess we can wait. Pretty warm out here, don’t want it melting. Not sure if I should’ve bought it in the first place. Think that cake is enough sugar to last a lifetime.” “Every once in a while won't hurt. Besides, we get the benefit of the sugar crash, leaving sweet silence for all to enjoy,” Dad grinned maliciously. “Oh god. Leave it to you to drug all the kids.” “Just doing my job ma’am; just doing my job. Okay, I'm gonna go put the candles on the cake. Would you gather up all the barn animals, please?” “Not sure tigers are barn animals.” “Fair enough.” He squeezed her hips before heading back into the kitchen. “Okay everybody!” Mom yelled to the bundles of perpetual energy. “Come and sit down for cake. Yay!” A bout of merry shouts erupted amongst the young animals as they herded to the table.

But suddenly Kaley stopped running and stood in place, a look of confusion on her whiskered face. “Mommy?” “Yes sweety?” Mom replied, now placing napkins at each plate. “Where’s my pony?” “Your what?” “My pony.” Her eyes stared at the ground. One of the mice was holding her hand, trying to coax her along. “What pony, honey?” “My pink pony.” Mom froze again, holding napkin in hand over the table. “Sweety—you don’t like ponies.” Kaley stayed focused on the ground, unblinking, before blurting out a hearty, “Oh!” Then she giggled and ran to her spot at the head of the table. Mom sniffed, and finished placing the napkins down at each seat. Then came that familiar orange hue from inside the shadows of their home. It illuminated the bearded face of Dad, who was now wearing a sparkly blue party hat. “Happy birthday to you…” and the rest joined in, each with their own party hat and horn. Kaley’s smile was wide and bubbly. Her eyes growing bright at the six candles melting before them. Then, when the song’s climax dissipated, she closed them, making her wish before blowing out the candles in a triumphant gust of breath. Dad pursed his lips a bit upon seeing the spittle accompanying said breath. “All right, good job kiddo!” he clapped with the others. The party horns danced and filled the warm evening air with their wailing. Then the cutting of the cake commenced. Naturally, the birthday girl received the first slice. But upon seeing the dark cake, she became confused. “Why is it chocolate? I don’t like chocolate! Yuck!” Kaley screamed, pushing her plate away. “Huh? Honey, chocolate is your favorite. It’s always been your favorite.” Dad continued cutting pieces for the other kids.

“No! I want white cake!” “Sweety,” Mom joined in, “you’ve always liked chocolate. Last year we had chocolate too.” “No, last year we had white cake! I want white cake!” “Well,” Dad spoke to Mom now, “we did have white cake last year too.” “I know,” Mom replied. “But she didn’t eat the white, only the chocolate like she always does. The white was for…” “I know, babe. I know.” Dad scooped some ice cream onto a plate. “You just want ice cream then, hun?” When he turned back to Kaley, she was already scarfing down the chocolate cake with big smiles and damp eyes. “I want ice cream!” “Uh, okay. Here you go, kiddo.” Dad plopped the ice cream down on her plate. The cake crumbs latched onto it like ants to honey. Dad leaned over to Mom. “Crisis averted.” The rest of the kids got their share, and soon the table was filled with a bunch of messy faces and hands covered in smears of chocolate frosting and various flavors of ice cream. “Funny thing happened earlier too. When you were inside,” Mom said, resting her chin on her knuckles. “She asked for her pink pony.” “Really? She hates pink.” “And she never cared for ponies either.” “Oh man. Could it be…” “I think so. This is the first birthday party since then.” Mom’s eyes began welling up a bit. She had to turn from the children, not wanting to frighten them. “It’s okay babe. You can go inside for a bit. I’ll take over here.” “No, I'm fine. It’s just…all those memories come rushing back at times, ya know?” “Yeah, I get that too sometimes.” The couple stood there quietly for a moment, reminiscing of days past. But then a splatter of ice cream landed at Dad’s feet. He looked up to see Kaley using her spoon as a catapult, sending chunks of ice cream across the table. “Rawr!” “Oh god,” he couldn’t help but chuckle. “Kaley, don’t—” “Come on now, babe. Let her have some fun. It’s her birthday. Here…” Dad picked up his own scoop of ice cream and catapulted it at his daughter. It landed directly on her shirt, bringing involuntary laughter from the birthday girl. “Have at thee!” “Oh geeze. Look at the mess!” Mom couldn’t help but laugh, despite squeezing her forehead with her hand. “It’s fine, babe. I’ll just hose them off later, heh.” Another spoonful flew across the table, hitting turtle boy in the cheek. “Oh! Hahaha!” the green-faced tike laughed as well, picking up a small handful of cake and throwing it at rabbit girl.  Chaos ensued. Cake and ice cream became instruments of war. The battlefield a deluge of sugared flour, iced dairy and fruit nectar; a massacre of just desserts. The carnage of treats left those involved in a stupor, succumbing to the inevitable energy crash. “Okay guys, why don’t we get you all cleaned up.” Dad began piling the paper plates and napkins in the middle of the table. The exhausted kids, veterans of the Battle of Sweets, slowly began wiping themselves clean to the best of their abilities. The giggling never stopped. “Whoa. Good thing I told your parents to dress you in something they wouldn’t mind getting dirty. Look at you guys!” Some of the kids headed to the playset, attempting to have more fun with what little energy they had. Some stayed to help with the cleaning, much to Mom and Dad’s praise. Kaley was one such helper, despite the party being for her. “Honey, you can go play if you want,” Mom patted her on the head as she emptied some of the remaining drink cups. “I’ll help you, Mommy.” Kaley picked the napkins off the backyard lawn. Ice cream and cake littered the area, but nothing they couldn’t handle. “Worth it,” Dad said, nudging Kaley with an elbow. “Uh-huh,” she giggled, tossing a bunch of soiled napkins on the table pile. “I bet Kaley liked the chocolate cake. I don’t like it.” This time, it was Dad who froze. “But baby, you’re Kaley.” “Huh?” “You’re Kaley.” “Yes. My name is Kaley. Kaley! Kaley!” she hopped up and down, licking her fingers after dipping them in the leftover massacred chocolate cake. “I…okay, baby. That’s right. You’re Kaley.” “Kaley! Kaley!” she ran off and joined her playmates, leaving the remainder of the cleaning to Mom and Dad. Dad simply shook his head before grabbing all the corners of the disposable tablecloth and tying them in the middle. The colorful sack of paper plates, half-melted ice cream and crushed cake swung over his shoulder as he headed to the trash bin on the side of the house. At that point, Mom was sitting on one of the patio chairs, observing the little miscreants running rampant. “How you guys get all that energy, I’ll never know.” The doorbell could be heard from inside the house. “I got it, babe!” Dad called out from the side. In less than a minute, he walked into the backyard with one of the kids’ mothers in tow. “Mommy!” it was one of the mouse girls. She ran up, hugging her mother who hoisted her up to her chest. “Hi hun. It’s getting late, so we have to go home now, okay?” her mother said, patting her on the back. “Aw, okay.” The mouse girl waved to her friends. “Bye Kaley! Happy Birthday!” “Bye bye!” Kaley yelled back from atop the playset. “They got pretty hammered on cake and ice cream. They crashed a little but then bounced back,” Dad chuckled, rustling mouse girl’s hair. “Nature’s little wonders,” the girl’s mother quipped. “Okay guys, thanks for having her. I’ll see you at the park tomorrow?” “For sure. Take care, drive safe.” “Have a good night,” Mom waved goodbye to child and parent, just before another ring of the doorbell echoed from inside the house. Over the next hour, all of the visiting children were gone, leaving Kaley alone with her parents. The three of them were still in the backyard, Mom and Dad cleaning, with Kaley exerting the rest of her energy on the playset. Mom was picking up the leftover confetti strewn across the lawn, when she noticed Kaley sitting at the top the slide, staring down it with a blank look on her face. “Honey? You okay?” Mom asked. No reply. Only unblinking eyes focused on the bottom of the slide. “Sweety?” Dad took notice as well, dumping the used party hats and horns in a plastic bag. “Baby, your mom’s calling you. Kaley?” No answer. Both parents walked up to her, Dad placing his arm around Mom’s waist. She was trembling slightly. “Kaley, are you alright?” she asked once more. Without looking away from the slide, Kaley mumbled, “Where’s Kaley?” Mom and Dad’s hearts careened into a pool of sorrow. “Sweety. You’re Kaley. Remember?” That familiar salty liquid welled up in Mom’s eyes. Dad held her close, sniffing back his own tears. “No, I'm Anna,” Kaley still didn’t look up. “Kaley was supposed to be here. That’s why we had the chocolate cake. But I don’t remember having any white cake…” “Oh god,” Dad held his hand to his mouth, no longer able to hold back as salty streams burned down his cheeks. “Okay baby. Come on down. Let’s go inside.” Kaley nodded and pushed off, hurtling down the slide. She walked to them; her eyes still focused on the ground. Dad held out his hand. She took it, and the three of them walked back to the house, leaving the rest of the cleanup for later. Once inside, Mom washed the paint off Kaley’s face in the bathtub. The birthday girl didn’t say much, only occasionally asking where Kaley was. By the time Dad laid her in bed, the sun was down and she was fast asleep. Mom and Dad continued their evening ritual in silence. Late snack, shower, teeth brushing and a kiss goodnight. But this time, as they laid in bed, Dad turned on the TV and inserted that flash drive they kept so dear, yet rarely touched. Up popped the image of a birthday party. And there on screen was Kaley, grasping her little stuffed monkey in a death grip. This time, her cake read, ‘Kaley 5.’ She was all smiles and wonder. And next to her sat another girl, holding a pink pony with a cake in front of her that read, ‘Anna 5.’  They were identical, the two girls. With the exception of the one holding the pony having much paler skin, and she was thinner with various bruises up and down her arms. They were laughing and screeching at the day’s festivities. The t-shirt and pajama top Mom and Dad wore became soaked with tears. They held each other close, ever so tightly as if letting go would send them both plummeting into a dark cavern of despair. The laughter from their little girls filled the dimly lit room, bouncing off the walls like trills of joyous ghosts. They squeezed each other tighter, trying to constrict the sobs. But no amount of strength could choke out the pain. Then they head a voice at their bedroom door. Little did they know that Kaley had opened it and now stood there, rubbing her eyes, stuffed monkey in hand. “Mommy? Daddy? I heard Anna.” “Oh,” Dad cleared his throat, immediately fumbling with the remote to the TV. “Wait,” Mom put a hand on his. “Let her watch. Come here sweety.” Mom opened her arms and Kaley rushed over, climbing onto the big bed and nestling between them. “You sure?” Dad asked, his reddened eyes darting back and forth between the woman and child he loved. “Yeah. I think it’ll be fine. She should see her. We all should see her—together.” Dad nodded, a teary smile creeping up his face. The click of the remote sent a shiver through his body. But that subsided when he heard the laughter of his two little girls. Kaley’s eyes glued to the scene. Shining bright in the light of the TV. She held onto her monkey, gently biting the top of its head. But no tears came forth. No sobs or even sniffles. Unblinking, she simply stared at the footage, squeezing her stuffed animal harder and harder. “Are you okay sweety?” Mom asked, not sure if she had made the right decision. But after a few seconds, Kaley answered. “Yeah. I just miss Anna.” Nothing else was said. She simply laid her head on Dad’s arm and slowly drifted back to sleep to the sounds of her and her sister’s laughter. “We do too, sweet thing. We do too.” Dad brushed her hair with his hand and leaned his head against Mom’s. The three of them sat there in each other’s warm embrace. Never forgetting, but never relenting. Three pillars standing strong in a sea of torment. No matter how many waves came crashing onto their stony faces, they need only lean against each other. What better way to weather the storm?


You drape a silk cloth over your dining room table and marvel over how smooth it is, like water flowing through your fingers. You rub your hands over it and press your ear to it, listening, as if it still had a heartbeat. You pick it up again and fold yourself into it, pretending you are a fantastical king and it is your cape, dancing through the room with it, you transform into a marvelous princess, from a time long passed, exploring unfamiliar lands outside of a well-protected castle. An alarm buzzes, your first warning. You put the cloth down. It isn’t a tablecloth, you don’t have one, it’s made of a dress you used to own. A dress you used to wear in the summer, dancing amongst sunflowers, with a chorus of voices singing to the rhythm of your sway. You cut it apart in order to make this tablecloth, it shed tears of embroidered emotions and tasted of fragrant memories. When you turn your back to the table, the cloth dies. You set out metal spoons, all your other cutlery is plastic, free gifts from the thousands of delivery meals you’ve ordered over the years. You light candles. One candle is thick and short, emitting aromas of vanilla and chocolate, with a hint of mint. You bought that candle at a ski slope, watching snow falling from the sky, like feathers from the burst pillows of clouds. You were drinking hot chocolate after a long winter day. You had raced the highest slope, going up with no idea of how to ski and no plan for getting down. It was an adventure, you thought. You had no guide, yet you did not hesitate before stepping onto the steep slope and plummeting down, down, and down. You sprayed snow in your wake, and the harsh winds obstructed your vision. You crashed onto a skier and smiled at him, a vague, sorry, hanging in the air. He told you you were going too fast and instructed you to sit on the snow and wriggle your way down. You laughed as you did so, imagining you were a clumsy butterfly having just emerged from its cocoon. The mint was snow, refreshing and clear, hard yet soft, the chocolate was your hot chocolate, the vanilla was the scent of the skier you crashed into. The candle was an echo. It’s essence engulfing you, pushing you back into the comfortable mould of memory which you slipped into like Cinderella into her slipper. Another candle is tall and smells of saffron and citrus. When you first bought it, you engraved it with patterns of seashells. When you light it, the sounds of cracking fire reminds you of the crashing of ocean waves. You had been surfing. You had taken surfing lessons for a year when you were younger. You always wanted to try for bigger waves, to stand as an equal in the presence of the ocean, to touch mother earth as you surfed through a tunnel of water, running your hands through the liquid that had, under your command, become a vessel. Your instructors told you that you should’ve tried for poetry, that surfing requires patience. What is patience, you thought. The answer came to you when you were picking seashells. An orchestra full of sounds emanated from the shell and the answer was only a hoarse whisper, but you could hear it clearly. Patience is talking to the sea and waiting for its response. When you told your instructors this, they laughed. Your parents glared at them, a silent warning. You told them later that laughter was music, your instructors did not need to agree with you to make music. You simply wished everyone to keep laughing. You told your parents laughter sounded like flutes and windchimes. When you surfed alone, you called for mother earth and the ocean responded to you, after all, you were it’s child. After you had finished surfing, you ate pineapple ice cream. You bought three cones, one for yourself, one for a child you had seen stare wistfully at the ice cream booth, and another for the child’s mother. They looked at you gratefully. The flavour exploded in your mouth, it made you blush and scream in joy. At night, you raced the waves. Trying to leave a footprint as close to the water as possible, so that when the waves surged, they would cover your footprints and wipe them clean from the sand. There were eight more candles, bought by him, your husband, the man for whom you had set the table. His candles were purely white, bleached of soul and emotions, like bathroom floors scrubbed clean of all traces of dirt. You placed those candles as far away from you as possible. You sighed a sigh of sympathy when you looked at them. You felt a deep longing to coat the candles with paint, to etch it with words and give it a soul, but you knew your husband, so you whispered a sorry to the candles and left to get dinner. Alphabet soup. Your husband laughed when you bought it for the first time. You married him partly for his laugh, an intergalactic market place with colourful stalls, a white mushroom is a lush forest, the feeling of snow on your tongue. That is what his laugh sounded like. A picture, a feeling. Your husband had been laughing at you, but you were captivated. When he realised you actually planned on eating the alphabet pasta, he stopped laughing. His silence was like bad soap, paper labels that you couldn’t get off no matter how hard you tried, you wanted him to laugh again, you spent the rest of the shopping trip trying. You boiled the alphabet pasta, and as you did so, you imagined the pan was a hot spring. You breathed in the steam of the hot spring and allowed your tense muscles to relax in the calm water. You had not been in a hot spring for four years, your husband thought they were “silly” and “unnecessary.” When you agreed, you heard him laugh again, the magic of his laughter was enough to cover up the rotting lie. By the time you got the alphabet soup onto the plate, the alarm had rung again, signaling five minutes before he was due to arrive. You arranged four letters in the soup, putting them gently onto the spoon so that their order would not be changed. The letters L, O, V, and E were arranged to spell love. You used to marvel at the word, waiting for your Prince Charming, I suppose. You thought love held so much power, and you longed for it, even though you were already happy. When you met him, you were desperate to find someone you could love, just to tick that last box on your imagined bucket list. You had let him tie you down, telling yourself he was keeping you grounded. You had continuously tried to please him, bringing him on adventures, you thought you were letting him fly. This, the dinner, the candles, the tablecloth are — although you can’t quite admit it to yourself — just another elaborate scheme to lift him up in the air. His birthday, which happened to coincide with Valentine’s Day, was just another day, another eternity, of you trying too hard, and him tying you down again and again. Even though this day has happened a million times, even though you can see a million shards of memories mirroring what will happen tonight, you are impatient. You don’t like waiting. Your hands longed to paint and your legs longed to dance. Your face longed to act out a play, to recite Shakespeare or Euripides. Your eyes longed to stargaze, to pinpoint stars and create your own constellations. You wanted to move, to run, to feel a fresh breeze of air. Instead, you stand opposite the clock. Watching it move like a predator watches their prey, no, like a prey watching the predator come closer, knowing that it can’t escape. But you can, a voice whispers. Those three words had been your motto before you met him. It was your morals and worldview squashed into one. You had not thought like that for four years. Four years since you skied. Four years since you surfed. Four years since you really lived. The realisation comes to you like a flurry of snow being blown into your face by a chilling wind. You shiver, and goosebumps appear on your skin. You stare at your wedding photo. You got married on top of a mountain, with the backdrop of a cliff. It was windy, and the veil had been blown away from your face, but it settled just in time for the photo. Your dress was stained muddy green from dirt and leaves but your husband’s suit was crisp and clean. After the wedding, you had wanted to throw your veil over the cliff, but you could not. The photo is not particularly remarkable. It’s not luminous, alight with the glow of memory like your ruined dress. It doesn’t smell of faint nostalgia like your candles. But when you look at it, you see everything that could have been between you and your husband. As the sound of the front door opening reaches your ears, you rip the photo apart. It rips in the middle, through the veil. Crumpled pieces of paper fall onto the mahogany floor.


In a world where light was powered by the Sun and stored by the Moon, a lunar eclipse was the blackout. * The right night to catch the wild animal had come. The Shaman told them. “Why?” One of the hunters asked. “Because Silver Ball is full. Look how perfectly round it is! Look how it floats in the blue-dark waters above your head,” the Shaman said. “You will see, when its silver claws will stretch on the wild animal; you will catch it, wherever it will try to hide,” he added rubbing his hands greedily. The hunters moved among low bushes and cluster of rocks, speeding up their steps when a tree showed up nearby; to hide for a while behind its trunk, before starting crawling again. Under the shadows cast by Silver Ball, behind the giant mountain, Kalaky -the city built in stone- waited for them. They had to cross it; the forest where the wild animal lurked was just beyond its walls. They entered the main arch, making sure their boots sounded like silk. Smaller arches let the Ball piercing the walls with its silver light; standing on columns, stone by stone, they guarded hundreds of dwellings and its sleepy inhabitants. The stony path ran clear under their feet, drawn by Silver Ball’s light. Shadows were casting soft lines of pottery belonging to solid clay jugs. A man shaped shadow stood from behind a corner; they had to run away; nobody had to know they were about hunting: that night was one of the Kalaky’s twelve sacred nights; no one had to be killed. One of the hunters peered from the wall bending the corner, “it’s a statue; let’s move on,” he whispered to the others. Beyond the corner, under porches and between high columns, a row of warriors looked at them, standing still in their bodies made from stone. An invisible eraser must have bumped into the warriors, if one by one they started to fade before the hunter’s eyes. At first shadows began to shrink; then they disappeared, dragging with them the stone and the clay bodies they belonged to. Darkness was felling around. Dwellings, arches, columns, walls were swallowed by nothingness. Neither floated Silver Ball. Its  shape slowly decreased into something less round and less bright until it disappeared behind a cloud growing darker, dragging with it the North Star, the queen of the compass. It was when a howl uttered from the forest, echoed by the giant mountain behind the city. The hunters froze. The Shaman had told them something else. The only shades the wild animal’s eyes could detect were black and white; in the darkness this sharped its sight. It could see them. The other way around was not true. Beneath their feet the insects of the darkness grew bigger and bigger, crawling slowly, slithering slower and creeping faster from a corner to another looking for food. Among the tiny legs and wings, some of the Kalaky’s inhabitants were taking advantage from the sudden darkness; the unexpected blanket of nothingness was apt to cover up all sorts of misdeed. And forbidden love as well. A tallow candle blinked. That was the sign. From behind her window Kaleeka’s tallow candle replied back to her secret love. Only the darkness knew how many prohibited kisses were exchanged from window to window that moonless night, from mute lips shaped by tiny flames. FIRE If the sight was limited, their smell was still working fine. The scent was telling them that something was burning. Their noses led them to the center of Kalaky. At the corner wall of what had to be the main square, reddish fingers stretched upwards. It was fire, and it cast light and shadows against the darkness. Around it one man stood in contemplation; leaning against a frescoed column, his shadow was twice his size. He saw them peering at him. A cough faded among the crackle from the fire. “Not the right night for hunting, isn’t it?” The man shouted. The hunters needed light, and that fire had light. They could not disappoint the Shaman. They had to catch the wild animal, despite Silver Ball’s light was gone. “If you want it, you have to take me with you,” the man around the fire added. “We are not going to a trip; let us take a burning ember.”- “You will burn everything around to have light, isn’t it? I’ll give you fire, but at one condition: I have to come with you. This fire will not last forever by the way, you need me to reach the forest; I will lead you, so I said.” So they did. The hunters crossed Kalaky’s stony streets, turned at several corners, and listened to the sleepy inhabitants’ s snoring. If someone woke up and peered from the windows, at first they would realize that Silver Ball was missing, despite the calendar drawn on the sacred wheel said it had to be full and round; then they would see a small man walking with a flaming tree branch, waving it among his leather gloved fists; half a dozen of hunters following him. On the stony floor the insects of the darkness ran away in madness looking for the darkest corner and for the thinnest gaps between two stones, escaping from the reddish light cast by that walking fire. WATER In the distance high trees gleamed under the fire; the wild animal lurked in the forest from that direction.  They moved farther, crossing more arches and turning at more corners; the flames grew smaller, just in time to cast the last flash of light into clear water laying into a stone basin. Standing nearby a well a fountain poured new water into the basin, the last flame told them before fading in the dark. A cough faded among the gurgling water.  “Come here; look,” the small men said. “You promised to lead us to the forest. The fire is dead, and to the forest still a long way to go.” The hunters’ patience was almost gone. “Come here; look,” the small men said again. “Look into this water, before it’s too late,” he urged. The hunters did as he asked, and they caught a glimpse of blue lights floating into the water. “So?” One of the hunters asked, patience all gone. “You don’t understand! The last flame of fire is showing you something! Blue lights, aren’t they? They are not running from the fountain; they only mirror themselves into the water. We must follow them. We will find other light.” The small men said raising his nose from the fountain and pointing it to the east, where the blue lights gathered under the water; his feet took the same direction. AIR The hunters followed him to the furthest east part of the city. They reached the place where the blue lights had their source. Thousands of spheres were dancing at mid-air; sometimes they looked like floating candles. A cough faded among the popping sound from the moving lights. “Will-o'-the-wisp,” the small men said. “Welcome to Kalaky’s graveyard. Despite Silver Ball has floated away tonight, there’s light here. The souls’ light, we believe.” Before their mesmerized eyes, the hunters saw the blue lights landing on the spartan tombstones. Under fading blue halos handwritten signs read the Kalaky’s language; engraved on the stone were the memories of past lives. After the tribute, the blue lights gathered in one single point in the air. Up, where air floats in the lack of gravity, the dark sky knew that Silver Ball had moved into the planet Earth's shadow. It knew even more: Golden Ball, Earth, Silver Ball and Earth were on the same line somewhere in the Universe. Down, stem by stem jumping fireflies queued drawing a golden line in the dirt. The wings spread open and flew among the blue lights. The blue-golden arrow they shaped in the air pointed at one direction, not north, not south, not even east neither west. It pointed to the ground, before disappearing and leaving Kalaky in the full darkness again. EARTH Their eyes landed on the earth beneath their feet. Dirt and grass and small rocks shared the space with less and less stones. Looking closer, reddish light sparkled among the grass. That was the only light left. The lunar eclipse was casting a long-lasting darkness over a huge part of the world; but to the hunters and to the small man this was unknown. A cough faded among the pawing sound raising from their boots against the dirt. “I hope you will catch the wild animal,” the small man shouted, leaning against a tombstone. “You promised to lead us to the forest! Are you trapping us?” One of the hunters said, raising his fists against the man. He started for him when his feet got frozen. There was no small man anymore. Only a grey shadow swirling among the tombstones that grew darker and darker. They were alone, swallowed by darkness. One of the hunters started to kick his boots against small rocks; mud and dirt flew around together wit his anger. One of his hunting arrows jumped from the lather backpack, landing steady on the ground; its bronze head thrust on something that felt like a molten rock under his hand trying pulling it away. Pulsing rubies snaked in a trail on the ground. It felt warm. It cast light. They followed it. “This must be the giant mountain’s blood,” one of the hunters said, remembering what the Shaman told them. The path drawn by the reddish lines on the earth started to fade under their feet. Suddenly it stopped. * The wild animal might be just behind the trees, peering at them; at those creatures standing on two legs and suddenly blind and powerless under the longest lunar eclipse of their times. “You came late.” That was the Shaman’s husky voice. “Who did it?” One of the hunters asked. “Did what?” The husky voice thundered in the darkness. “Who did kill the wild animal?”- “Killed? It’s not dead. And it is not thanks to you. It’s her you should thank.” The smell of fresh blood grew stronger under the hunters’ noses. Fear grew in their mind as darkness got thicker around them. The Shaman’s voice sounded closer. He was before them, invisible as everything was. “The wild animal got trapped tonight. Haven’t you heard its howl? It called for help. And I did call for your help… and you came late.” His voice was full of disappointment, and sadness. A cough raised as his sentence ended. A voice struggled to find the right words, to sound steady despite fear trembled from young lips. “I… I was following you with the idea to lead you from Kalaky to the forest. I tried to catch your attention.” A cough came from the same voice.  “B… But you were too busy to…” “Who are you? Where are you?” The hunters asked in terror, only now remembering those fading coughs. They had assumed it was the small man who coughed. The young voice muted. Instead the Shaman spoke: “she is Lakira; and it is thanks to her if the wild animal is sill alive. I sent you to rescue it; all these years of training and lessons, and you… came late.” “How could we know she was behind us? Everything got dark! Don’ t you see it? Where is Silver Ball gone tonight?” One of the hunters said angrily.” “Is it dark?” The Shaman asked, then he went on, “is it dark Lakira?” The young voice struggled again looking for steadiness, “I don’t know. What is dark? What does it mean?” “Are you blind, young lady?” One of the hunters asked not even trying to hide sarcasm from his tone. “Is she? Lakira are you blind?” This time the Shaman’s voice sounded furious. “Lakira’s sight is impaired, yes, since she was born.” “How did she manage to…” The hunter who just spoke tried to ask. “This is a question I must ask to all of you. How despite her impairment did Lakira manage to reach the forest and rescue the wild animal and you did not?” The Shaman asked. The hunters felt confused. Their understanding of that odd nightly task was they had to kill the wild animal; never thought about rescuing it from some trap. Darkness had made things difficult to achieve. * “You focused on one skill only. Sight! The lack of light made you focus just on sight, isn’t it?” The Shaman asked calmly. “Desperately looking for something unavailable. And what about all your other skills? What about your feelings? What about smell, tactile sensation, instinct? Has Silver Ball erased all of them from you?” The hunters had forgotten their strengths and believed in false assumptions, under the lunar eclipse which for one night had erased the visible world from them. They closed their eyes, opening their heart to the invisibility of the darkness. Before them, like in a black and white movie, white shadows lined the body of a young girl. She sat under a tree; among her arms a wolf was looking at her with sparkling eyes. Blood had spotted its fur with white flowers.  It was safe.