THE BOOK THAT CHANGED MY WORLDVIEW How do we know when something unexpected and momentous has happened in our lives, something that will change our thinking, our belief system, our understanding of the essential nature of things? Such things do not usually come with a flashing sign that says: This is it! Pay attention! But, sometimes, rare times, that is exactly the way it happens, and if we are truly paying attention, it is as if a door opens and we plunge through that door, and our lives are transformed. For me, one of those rare times happened one day when I was thirty years old in a small library in the town where I was then living and working as a substitute teacher. I have always loved libraries. They are magical places to me, capable of taking me anywhere. The smell of them coming from shelf upon shelf of books has always been almost intoxicating. The thrill of running my eyes along the titles on the spines of those books was the same thrill I felt gazing up at the stars and wondering. The flash in my mind when pulling a book from the shelf and upon opening it to a random page finding myself stunned by words on that page that call forth thoughts, questions, feelings of such intensity that I know beyond all doubt that I must read the book I am holding in my hands. Sometimes the feeling has been so strong that I would collapse into a nearby reading chair and begin to imbibe the book sip by sip: First, the tile page; second, the table of contents; third, the dedication (if present); fourth, the epigraph (if present, and always hoping there would be); fifth, the introduction or preface. At that point, with my appetite whetted, I would tremulously turn to the first page of the text and begin reading. What happened next would always depend upon the book itself. If it enchanted, intrigued, promised new vistas, then, I would know I would check it out of the library and take it home to read. There I stood on that day in that small town library when my eyes fell upon an intriguing title which was The Tao of Physics: An Exploration of the Parallels between Modern Physics and Eastern Mysticism (1975). I knew very little about physics or the Tao. But, that mind-spark had happened, and I knew enough to pay attention. I pulled the book from the shelf and did my usual survey of title page, dedication, table of contents, epigraph, becoming increasingly intrigued. Then, I started reading the preface and intuited I was possibly on the brink of some sort of transformative experience. I continued reading. Fritjof wrote: “This book is intended for the general reader with an interest in Eastern mysticism who need not necessarily know anything about physics.” (Capra, 1975, p. xvi) With a jolt, I realized he was describing me. I immediately rose, walked to the checkout desk and checked the book out, hurried home and devoured it, only stopping once to fix myself something to eat and make coffee. I stayed up most of the night. When I finished the book, many big thoughts and questions were swirling in my mind, and I knew I wanted to own a copy. I returned the library book and spent the next couple of weeks haunting 2 nd hand book shops and garage sales until I found a used copy in good condition that I could afford to buy. The year was 1976. I still have it, forty-five years later. Recently, and many life experiences later, I find myself avidly rereading it and thinking about the transformation of my worldview since my first reading and the ways that transformation developed and manifested over all that time between then and now. My first reading of The Tao of Physics when I was thirty planted many seeds. I had begun meditating a couple of years earlier, but was very much a novice. Reading Capra’s words about meditation as part of the Eastern mystics “tool kit” affirmed a deeper commitment within me to persevere with the practice, and I have done so right up to the present. Meditation became a life-long tool to use to probe and understand the connections of body, mind, and spirit in order to navigate daily life with all its ups and downs. Now, I cannot imagine living my life without the practice of meditation. I continue because it makes me feel calm, centered, and gifts me with unexplainable flashes of knowingness by developing within me the intuitive way of knowing. Capra makes the point that the essence of the worldview of Eastern mystics is the concept that all things and events are interrelated as part of one unified whole. This same concept is also one of the basic elements emerging from quantum physics (p.89). In my personal belief system, the concept of the unified whole has played out in efforts to ignore efforts to fragment and divide people as debilitating for the common good. Thus, I have tried to make decisions in my life that lead to harmony rather than disharmony. For instance, I strive to learn to listen to those who have grievances born of fragmentation and respond in such a way that does not feed those grievances. I also have learned that for me it is important to understand where and when to put attention on my thoughts, words, and actions because I realize that from both an Eastern mystic and quantum physics perspective, placement of one’s attention can actually aid or destroy manifestation of whatever it is upon which one is focused. Thus, intentional attention placement is a skill worth developing. Reading The Tao of Physics also lit a fire in me to know a lot more about Eastern mysticism and quantum physics. Over the years, I have steadily added more and more books on both topics to my personal library to read and ponder, to learn and grow in my understanding. I’ve inculcated the understandings I’ve gained into my personal belief system which has supported me in both good times and bad on my life journey. Continued study has brought deeper understandings of the writings of Eastern mystics and quantum physicists. I have become able to ride the waves of change so inevitable in life because the boundaries of my worldview have been expanded and are expanding still.


They’re all the same.

At first, you feel invincible, at one with the universe, so Zen that you’re certain you’ve found Enlightenment. The high reaches to the stratosphere, and the feeling is so warm and calming, it’s like being engulfed in the very essence of love itself.

But it doesn’t last.

I’ve tried so hard to find the perfect drug, but no matter what I try, I can’t find one that gives me a lasting high.

I’m not picky, either. I’ve gone to several different dealers, traveled the world searching for the next promise of finally satiating that need to find a fix. With each hit, I feel exhilaration, but only momentarily, and each time it takes more and more to get the same effect.

I fall off of my euphoric mountains with a cascade of broken hopes that this time would be the time. The time that I figure out the formula for a lasting effect, the time that I can retain the buzz, forget all of my pains and anxieties. I know this is possible, because of the countless examples of smiling faces that I see on social media. Family and friends, all finding the correct cocktail of their drugs of choice, and “living their best lives.” There are thousands of pictures and videos, all pointing to the one obvious, ultimate conclusion: everyone else is capable of sustaining the high, except me.

My apparent inadequacy only fuels my quest to find the next score.

Last year, I gave $12,000 to a dealer who swore his stuff was the purest, the cleanest, and would give the most lasting high. I spent two weeks wandering the wilderness, contorting into various unnatural poses, and attempting to “find the inner me.” I’ll admit, this high lasted the longest out of everything I ever tried, and it didn’t wear off for several weeks. But inevitably, I slowly slipped back to baseline. Half a year’s worth of mortgage money down the drain. My taste hasn’t always been this expensive. In the beginning, I was satisfied with quick, cheap thrills to fill my veins and make me feel alive again. It was so easy to feel good when I was a kid, and the smallest amount of product kept me going. There were ads for it all over TV, telling me that I could buy the high for 4 easy payments of $9.99, if I acted now.

Billboards taught a young me that bliss was just a bowlful of concentrated sugar cereal away, or that I was just one burger short of eternal happiness, and I wanted so much to believe it was true. Radio ads explained that the best of the drug that money could buy was at the latest theme park a few towns away. We went there twice as a family, looking for a fix, but it wore off before we even left. As I grew older, I searched for the high in relationships, with friends, with family, with lovers. It always felt that if I could just gain their approval, become the perfect me, do everything they asked, that I could attain my goal. But when the feel-good chemicals wore off, and I found myself in a lopsided exchange, where I was giving so much of myself for such little return on investment, I became incredibly discouraged.

 When it comes to trying to find satisfaction through other people’s opinions of me, the fall definitely outweighs the climb.

The local church purported to be the best source of the best drug on today’s market, so naturally I tried there, too. Everyone there was so high that they were singing and dancing in the aisles, arms raised, smiling and weeping and hugging. That drug had zero effect on me, which was very disappointing, because it seemed so efficient for everyone else there.

If anything, it made me uncomfortable and question my life choices. A university several states away hailed their drug, Accomplishment, as the next big thing that everyone would want. They guaranteed that you would leave there fully doped up and ready to find a job that would either keep you buzzed, or give you money to buy it elsewhere.

Talk about the world’s biggest sham.

I spent 6 years there, taking hit after hit of Accomplishment, but all it ever gave me was a bad trip and a wicked case of lifelong anxiety for not living up to standards. And finding a high at a job?

Yeah, good luck there.

I know some people who found a lasting high through their careers, but those people are few and far between. Most people that I know go down some dark rabbit holes because of the state of their employment options, taking hardcore stuff like Belittling Others, Overeating, or Doom Scrolling. I’ve never gotten mixed up with anything that serious. Okay, maybe once. …Twice, but that’s because I was out of cash and was jonesing. I swear that I haven’t touched the hard stuff in a long time.

I’m not saying the temptation isn’t there. What makes the hardcore stuff so malicious is that it feels really, really, really good when you’re taking it, that you don’t even realize the damage that’s done until it’s too late.

I won’t pretend I’m a saint, that doesn’t do me any favors. I’ve done some of the hard stuff, but mostly I’ve tried the usual things: Traveling, New Car, Self-Help Podcast, Spending Spree, New Phone, Fad Diet, People-Pleasing (that was a hard one to kick), Buying a House, Prestigious Job, New Year’s Resolution, Coffee, Avoidance, Denial, and Compartmentalizing.

These all seem to work for other people, but it’s never enough for me. A friend suggested that I try their current brand, they swear by it, but after everything else I’ve tried, I am skeptical. They are currently on Self Acceptance. Sounds like another scam to me. But they’ve been on it for 3 years now, and haven’t lost their high, so I might give it a try someday. The problem is that the high from Self Acceptance takes some effort, and I’m not really into working that hard for it. There isn’t a dealer where you can just pick that stuff up.

You’ve got to make that shit yourself.

No thank you, not after being burned so many times before. It’s a hell of a lot easier to just go buy a new watch and give that a try, you know what I mean? I’ll take a swing at it when it’s more convenient. When I have more time. Until then, I guess I’ll keep searching for my drug of choice elsewhere.

I heard that there’s a sale on Amazon this weekend…


Walking home from work I take my usual route, a shortcut that I take every day around this time but today is a little different, today there is someone taking this shortcut with me. There was a man waiting here today, waiting for me. He pulled a gun and said "Today I give you a choice, I can take your life, or I can take what your life is worth to you." I told him I will give him my lifes worth, as most of us would I imagine. I told him that I just need to get it from my bag, he didn't look very convinced and tightened his grip on his pistol as he nodded to me. From my bag I took a pen and a book, I always carry a book with me, there are always times when you find yourself with nothing to do and they are just the best for killing time. Oh, I didn't even realize then that i used those words in my head at a time like that, I even suprise myself sometimes. I opened the book and after a moments thought wrote, "A life for a life. In return for mine, I give you this. A life that neither of us can hope to have, but a life that we will both live. Every book you read, every game you play, is another life lived, another world experienced. I hope this life I have given to you is only the first of many that you will live." With this I handed him the book and bagged the pen. He opened the book and read what I wrote and the most astonished look came across his face. Without looking up from the book he said "You are the first person who did not throw money at me, but something that you believe to be worth your life." With no other words spoken, no eye contact given, with no hesitation he turned and started to walk away, only to vanish under the street light after a few steps had been taken. As I made my way home I was fighting with myself trying to figure out what had happened, was it real or something I had conjured, how could it even happen, who was he? None of these questions I could answer, not in the slightest and I fought with them as I lay in bed till I found myself drifting into a deep sleep. As I awoke the next morning I wrote it off as another crazy dream and went about my day as I usually do, I even took the same shortcut to and from work, just to prove to myself that it was a dream, that nothing happened. As I arrived home from work, fumbling with my keys as the sky was turning dark, I felt something, it's that feeling you get when somethings off, when the hair on your arms starts to stand up and your heart starts to beat faster, it's almost as if your body knows what's happening before your brain does. With the dream I had last night and the reaction my body was having, I admit I started to panic, and because of this my previous key fumbling turned into key dropping. Before I could reach down to pick them up another hand wrapped around them, my heart was beating out of my chest, I was sure they could hear it, it was the only thing I could hear, it was deafening. I followed the hand to the arm, and the arm to the chest and the chest to the face. It was the same man from my dream, from what I thought was a dream. "Hello again" he said with a sly half smile, "I was wondering if you have any more lives that you would mind sharing with me.


Sakura waved her hand slowly in front of her face, admiring the rainbow colors that followed the shadows of her fingers. Dr. Sato said there might be halos around lights and blurred vision, but if anything Sakura felt her vision becoming sharper. Except the things she saw, no one else could see. She was playing with Legos when her dad had come into the living room, swaying with the smell of sake on his breath. He tripped over her castle and roaring with pain, picked a Lego up and threw it in her face. Her mom ran in and took her away and put some ice on her eye, rocking her until she stopped crying and fell asleep. The next day she saw a dragonfly fluttering in the corner of the kitchen, its body studded with green gems. “Mom, do you see that? Do you see the dragonfly?” Her mom looked at where she was pointing and asked, “What dragonfly?” There were visits to Dr. Sato and she took her medicine regularly but the visions continued, sidling their way into her house. The doctors were baffled and the small Tokyo apartment became filled with an aura of gloom. Sakura stopped pointing out the things she saw. At first they lasted just a second; diamond birds would splash against the periphery of her vision with the glory of the sun shining through a stained-glass window. She’d be walking home from school and then, stunned by the vision, momentarily forget where she was. A near fatal accident at a road crossing caused Sakura’s mother to talk to the principal at Saragaku Elementary and take her home for home-schooling. One night, Sakura heard her dad yelling, her mom yelling, and then something fell and shattered in high-pitched protest. Her mom started crying, a soft, shuddering sound. Sakura shut her ears and slowed her breathing, holding her breath until the glowing blue halos increased, dancing bugs that hovered across her dim bedroom. Underneath her tenth-story window a thousand street lights bustled like magic bees. Eventually they did become bees, flying in through the open screen to play on her bedspread. With them she played and forgot about the crying. The weeks passed from autumn into winter. Her dad drank more and cursed more, and her mom ate less and said less. One day as Sakura watched the rain become silver meteor showers streaking down the window, a large droplet pushed its way through the glass into the room, and bloomed into the shape of a thin silver mantis, standing tall as a needle on the hardwood floor. In his face Sakura could see her own black pupils fractured like the eyes of the magic bees. “Come with me,” he said. “I can take you to next Spring.” She took his arm, and together they stepped through the window into the meteor shower, the starlit sky dropping cherry blossoms that surrounded her in warm, fragrant pink. Below her children ran in colorful yukatas, lanterns illuminating the floral designs of the dresses. Sakura closed her insect eyes and breathed the flowers in deep. \ More writings at r/ladyandthepen.


Weave all day. Weave all night. Weave every instant of your existence. That’s what the Spider Queen expected of her offspring. The dusty attic, filled with hoarded artifacts from multiple generations of homeowners, was already covered in cobwebs from ceiling to floor, but it was never enough. While the Queen was always eager to teach her children the technical intricacies of preying on flies, weaving transcended the mundane function of hunting for food. It was an art form, the supreme expression of spider skill. “Master the ancient craft of our kind,” repeated the Queen, “and you will learn to survive. Don’t, and you will forever be the weak link of this family. For the time being, we are blessed with peace from the human world. Should they come disturb us however, you must be prepared.” Aria simply assumed that’s what her life would be like. She would do like all the other spiders and weave away in the safety of the attic, where no one ever came. Indeed, not a soul had stepped in the gloomy room below the roof in years, and the arachnids were therefore free to wander it as if it was theirs to rule. They had some company, of course. The wooden planks covering the walls had played host to termites for a while now, and there were occasionally red ants crawling on the floor. Aria’s main companions, however, were boxes. Dozens and dozens of boxes were stacked right on top of each other into tall columns, to the point where they formed a giant metropolis for Aria to explore. She loved climbing the sides of the cardboard and venturing into the depths of the cubic structures, discovering new items with each new compartment. One box contained jewels and trinkets, almost overflowing with bedazzled necklaces and bracelets. Another contained old-fashioned stained-glass lamps, which Aria used to stare at her reflection. The most fascinating box of all, however, was one into which she fell by mistake. As she weaved a web along a longitudinal beam supporting the roof, her silk inexplicably broke, and she soon found herself crawling on a pile of papers bound together. It was a book, although she did not understand it at the time. The object was quite puzzling to her. There were many images on the cover, pictures of worlds she could not even conceive: trees, mountains, streets, even outer space. These all escaped her understanding, as to her, the world was the attic, and the attic was the world. She had to know more, to know what secrets were inside the pages. After carefully weaving her silk around the cover page, she pulled with Herculean strength at a spider scale. The silk broke. She started again, and again, and again, until the first page finally revealed itself. There were more images, this time with strange symbols beneath. The symbols were letters, and they formed words. After reading them many times, she successfully learned to associate the words with the pictures, page after page. After reaching the last page, Aria had built a strong sense of vocabulary. She now needed to put these words into sentences. Fortunately, the box contained three other stacks of books for her to learn. An illustrated children’s fairy tale collection lay on top of the pile to her left. Over the course of multiple days, she read through it and understood narratives. She then moved on to the top books on the other two piles, young adult novels that took more time but were definitely worth the effort. Every time the Queen’s attention faltered, Aria jumped on the opportunity to visit the box and read some more. Soon, the books had all been read, and she craved more, so much more. What if there was another box somewhere with volumes waiting to be read? Aria searched, but in vain. She fell into a deep lethargic state, barely able to weave anymore, longing for the stimulation that had now been denied from her. Fortunately, the day came. Vibrations were felt along the floor of the attic. All the spiders went into hiding, although Aria was not sure why. She picked the book box as her spot and waited. A trap door opened, and a woman with glorious red hair came in, sneezing from the clouds of displaced dust. “We really need to clean up this place once in a while,” the woman declared. She looked into every box, perhaps searching, just like Aria, for reading material. They both found it in the same place: the redhead picked up the spider’s favorite cardboard cube and appeared satisfied by its contents. “This will be perfect for the book drive! There you go.” Seconds later, Aria and the box were being carried away. To where, she did not know. *** After many hours of being transported left and right, the box finally settled. Aria deemed it safe to carefully venture outside. The surprise was immense: she found herself on a library counter, staring at endless rows of books lined up on hundreds of metallic shelves, more than she could ever read in her lifetime. Was this a sanctuary of knowledge, a safe haven far away from the dusty attic where she had been condemned to weave forever? Words could not express how exhilarating her presence in the library felt. No more hiding from the Queen. No more longing for something she couldn’t have. It was all right here. The sound made by her minuscule eight legs as she tapped along towards the edge of the counter seemed to echo against the walls; the sacred space was so peaceful that the slightest of noises could cause a disturbance. The young spider immediately crawled along the walls towards the shelves, reading at a breathless pace the countless titles on the volumes’ bindings. Moby Dick. A Farewell to Arms. To Kill a Mockingbird. The possibilities were infinite, and she did not know where to start. The answer was obvious. In the middle of the room was a gargantuan golden book resting on a shiny lectern, bathed in the sunset light filtering through the stained-glass windows. Whatever the opus was, it must have been very special. She instinctively flung herself with her silk towards the lectern and reveled in the multicolored rays of sunshine. This single moment was the greatest of her life, the one that heightened all of her senses to new peaks. Then the unexpected happened. Just as Aria was about to discover the contents of the golden book, the Librarian spotted her and smashed her with a copy of Don Quixote. Aria spent no more than five minutes in the library before her untimely demise, yet these five minutes were more wondrous than the two years she had spent in the attic, and certainly more exhilarating than the years of desperate yearning she would have spent there had fortune not decided to let her out. The destination was fateful, but the journey had been worth it. Her thread of life could not have been weaved any other way.


I was just getting home and there was a light on in the top left corner window with two silhouettes in it. One was tall and one was short. The short one I could barely see coming up over the window sill. I thought someone had broken into my house as I was the only one home for the weekend. I opened my front door as quietly as I could, then I stopped and thought, “Wait! It is unlocked.” I then shut the door quietly and picked up my baseball bat from beside the door. I quietly went up to the room with the two shadows in it. When I got to the door, I heard two oddly familiar voices, but one of them gruffer than the other. I slowly turned the knob and I jumped into the room, but neither of the two were surprised. There was a confused kid, sitting on the bed and an old man sitting in the chair. The kid looked to be no more than 7 or 8 years old and the man’s age I wasn’t able to tell. I then pointed the bat at the man and said, “Who do you think you are? How did you get into my house? And who is the kid? Are you some kind of kidnapper?” The old man answered, “I don’t know how to answer your first question. The second question is easy. I got the key out of the flowerbed. Though I can’t explain who the kid is…” The kid interjects, “I am you.” I looked back at the man and he was shaking his head with his hand on his face. I then said to the man, laying the sarcasm on heavily, “Are you serious?” He responded to me with, “Well, yes and no.” I opened my mouth to say something, but then the man jumped back in, “Yes, he is you, but from another time and dimension.” I said to him, “Do you really think that I am going to buy that?” “Yes, you are,” said the man. “Why do you say that?” I questioned sarcastically. “Because I am you, but I also am from another time and dimension,” the old man replied. “So what, did you go and kidnap yourself when you were like seven?” I asked daringly. The little kid pipes up, “He… I didn’t kidnap me. I had thought a wish that I had someone there with me, and he…I appeared, and then he said that he needed to take me somewhere…” “That’s right,” injected the old man. “I needed to come talk to you about something that is going to happen really soon. What happens may change the course of the future if you get it right.” ”Okay, this is all really confusing,” I said shocked. “I am just going to go to bed,” while backing towards the door. I will just pretend that none of this ever happened. The old man flew across the room and I really mean he flew. He caught me by the shoulder of my shirt and said, “You can’t. It will be too late.” Scared, I asked, “Too late for what?” “I can’t tell you just yet, but I went through the same thing you are going through now,” whispered the old man. Then jerking with his head towards the kid, who was now asleep, “he will go through the same thing in seven years from his own time. And seven years from now, you will be doing what I am doing.” I said with a shocked look on my face, “I will look like an old dude….” “I am not that old,” roared the old man. “I am only…” “What? Only 50…” I countered. “No, I am only…” the old man said getting annoyed. “60 tops.” I interjected sarcastically. “No, I am only 21 !!,” he roared. “You can’t be 21, you look at least 50,” I said shocked. “I look this way because of the decision I made. The decision you’re going to have to figure out, but let me show you what happens if you choose wrong,” he said while walking to the closet. I said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, what are you doing?” “I am going to take you to where I came from,” he said calmly. “My closet?” I asked mockingly. “No, it is through your closet,” he said while opening the door. Then a bright flash of red light came from my closet followed by the sweet smell of vanilla and oranges. “Wow, that is cool,” I said, “but what about him?” gesturing over my shoulder at the kid sleeping on the bed. “He will be fine,” said the old man. “Now come on,” he said grabbing my wrist and pulling me into the closet. After the initial shock, I looked around me to see everything in fast forward. When we stopped it was in a completely run down area that you could hear the wind rushing down the streets and through the buildings. I turned to the old man and asked, “Where are we?” He replied, “38 South Becker Street.” After sitting there, looking like an opened-mouth fish, I said, “What… that’s my address.” He said, “I know, we are at Mom and Dad’s house just seven years into the future.” “I don’t believe you,” I yelled. “Shhh” he said harshly, “They will hear you.” “Who will hear me? There is no one else around?” I asked gesturing with my arm. “The Others,” said the old man whispering. “The Whose?” I whispered back. “The Others are the ones who took over the world.” He said with a hint of fear in his voice. “Okay,” I said. “When we get back to your time, you are going to get a phone call. You have two choices. One is to answer it. Two you can leave it. I can’t tell you which one I did because then you will choose the other,” he stated pulling me back through the closet. When we appeared back in the room with the kid, the kid was already standing by the closet. The old man grabbed the kid by the hand and said, “Remember what I have told you and showed you. We now have to leave and we will not see you again. Goodbye and I hope you make the right choice.” He waved. “Bye,” said the little kid as he got pulled through the closet.


Reedsy Prompt: Start your story with someone looking out a train window The Final Journey Raghavan strode through the compartment of the Vellore to Bangalore train, ticket in hand, looking for his allotted seat. Thankfully, it was by the window. He sat down with a sigh of relief. His escort Ramu, took charge of stowing his small suitcase in the berth above his head. “I will come back and check on you a little later, saami,” he said, folding his hands together. Raghavan nodded, and Ramu went back to his seat in the third class carriage behind this one, interconnected by a short swaying bridge. Raghavan stretched out his long legs and stared with unseeing eyes at the melee outside the window. Typical of most Indian train stations in 1942, the dimly-lit platform was crowded with people rushing about, trying to find their seats on the train. Skinny, dark skinned coolies with luggage piled high on their heads and holding more bags in their hands darted in and out of the crowds, frantically keeping track of their customers. I am glad I was able find a seat in a first class compartment thought Raghavan to himself, observing the din and confusion outside. Looking around he observed the other occupant of the coupe. It was an elderly gentleman dressed in a dark coat and pants, and wearing a white turban. Probably a high ranking government employee , guessed Raghavan, who can afford to travel by first class. He returned to his own thoughts, staring out the window. The events of the past few weeks played out in his mind. He had had to resign his post as the stenographer to Lord Linlithgow, one of the last Viceroys of India in 1942, because of his ill health. The cold climate of Simla, situated in the northern state of Himachal Pradesh, exacerbated his asthma symptoms. He had returned to Madras where his wife Kamala had stayed behind with their large and growing family. “Your asthma is getting worse,” Dr. Krishnan said. “Why don’t you go to Vellore Medical Center, they may have some better options?”

Vellore was the southern city that boasted the largest medical facility in India at that time – the Vellore Medical Center and Medical College. It had been established by an American woman, Ida Scudder, in 1902—her father was a Christian Missionary Doctor there. Raghavan thought fondly of his wife and children, and the patience with which they had handled his frequent asthma attacks as he sat up in bed every night, his body racked by severe coughing. There were no antibiotics, inhalers or other medications available at the time for treating asthma. At his wife’s urging Raghavan decided to follow the doctor’s advice and make a short trip to Vellore by himself. He would stay in a rented house and the cook, Ramu, would accompany him for safety as parts of the country were still under air raid warnings – when the shrill siren sounded everyone had to dive under the table for shelter. Kamala could not go with him as the children were not old enough to be left alone. Raghavan consulted several eminent doctors that had been recommended to him in Vellore. They all shook their heads when they read his prognosis notes. “Our options are very limited”, said Dr. Pillai, supposedly an expert in asthma treatments. “You’ve already tried everything that your doctor in Madras had recommended. We have nothing new to offer. But we can try again and see if anything works.” After a week of treatment the asthma symptoms were not much better. The doctors had run out of options. Raghavan sent a telegram to Kamala to say that he would be coming back in a few days. He got an immediate and terse reply. “Go to Bangalore”, it said. “Letter follows”. Raghavan knew that his wife did not know enough English to be able to write a longer reply. But the postal system in India then -- and now-- is excellent – there are three deliveries a day and even the remotest village is connected. A few days later he got a long letter, written in Tamil. Apparently Kamala had been in touch with her brother Srinivasan, a doctor in the British Army who was stationed in Bangalore, informing him of her husband’s ill-health. He had urged her to tell Raghavan to come to Bangalore, where he would personally supervise his treatment. Kamala told her husband to go to Bangalore immediately. Srinivasan would meet him at the station. xxx The engine driver sounded the first warning hoot. The loud speakers crackled and then a stentorian voice announced in English, Hindi and Tamil--as was customary--that the train was departing soon. There was a flurry of activity on the platform outside as people said their last goodbyes and hurried to their carriages. The station master, wearing his black hat and white uniform and holding a green flag under his arm strode up and down the platform, urging the malingerers to board. With two more long hoots and a sudden jerk the train began to move—slowly at first and then picking up speed as the Station Master waved his green flag back and forth. The waving passengers, the Railway waiting room and the news vendors and tea shops soon became a blur as the train hurtled towards Bangalore. xxx Raghavan shifted his body and watched dusk rapidly settle into night. He looked forward to arriving in Bangalore and resolving his health problems. He thought again of his wife and children—they had been alone long enough while he worked far away in Simla—they deserved to have him come home and take charge of everything. The first class carriage attendant came by and offered him a dinner menu. Raghavan waved him away—he had already eaten before boarding. The train had now settled into a steady clacking rhythm and everything was quiet. The lights in the compartment had been automatically dimmed. His neighbor in the other seat was already asleep, his head resting on his chest. Lulled by the solitude Raghavan relaxed his head and fell asleep. Sometime later he was awakened by a strange feeling. Struggling to breathe, he pulled out his handkerchief and tried to stifle his coughing. Everything seemed out of control – he wanted to shout for help but his body wouldn’t move. He slumped down in the corner of his seat. He did not see Ramu come in to check on him in the middle of the night. He did not feel him touch his shoulder and realize that he was dead. He did not see him check the breast pocket of his suit and take out the wad of notes. He did not see Ramu quickly and stealthily go back to his third class compartment, from which he would alight at the next station and melt into the crowd. xxx The train slowed down and stopped with a jerk at the next small station before Bangalore. As the sky turned pink a uniformed Ticket Collector boarded the compartment and knocked on the swinging doors before entering. Ticket Please! He announced loudly, waking up the gentleman with the white turban. The man roused himself and handed over his ticket with a dazed look. Punching a hole in it the Ticket Collector handed it back. Ticket Please! He repeated to Raghavan, but there was no response. He seemed to be sleeping with his head slumped on his chest. The Ticket Collector touched Raghavan’s shoulder to shake him awake. His whole body tilted to the side. The engine driver gave a warning hoot. The Ticket Collector reached up and gave a firm pull on the Emergency Brake handle, to stop the train from moving. Telegram! The postman called out in a loud voice the next morning. Kamala opened the telegram from her brother with trembling fingers. Her legs almost buckled under her as she realized the implications. She was now a widow at 38 years, responsible for a large family of seven minor children. She stared at the telegram for a few minutes. A single tear rolled down her cheek. With her usual pragmatism she squared her shoulders and called the family in to tell them that she was now the matriarch of the family. Susheela Narayanan


I know how. The sheets stinks. Its me. Its my life. My urine, and the damned sweat. The bed's drenched with it. My feet reek of dead corpses, they're... not mine! My toes are cold. On the left, on the right, at the rear of this goddamned bed they're gathered. Sad, distant people. Some relatives with blank faces I don't care a bit about. Another three or four disappointed persons I used to call friends. We've got a company! And who the hell asked the priest to come over?

All right, Boss. It is time for da confession. You've busted me. Not one - two cancers. Both terminal. Hey, hey, listen up! - that's not the end. My right foot gangrenes, but the doctor is happy: he ain't gonna chop it off. No point digging in. There's a tumor in my throat and another one, smaller – in the first mother fucker. Is it lurid? Hell no! A logic symbiosis. Day after day I'd hammer myself with tobacco fumes, cold beverages in empty rooms, useless promises. I'll change. Oh, but I will! On a sunny day like this surely I gonna do it.

I didn't have to. God got sick and tired of waiting. Too bad. Detective Chinasky crushed a fly on the table and moved on. I did the same to the ant who had the audacity to crawl onto the laptop while I typed my story. These patient creatures have visited our house three summers. My Mother believed their crusade had something to do with the icebergs down South.

Willie's got cancer, and he still... hates Her. The good old blast, weed, coke WITH speed, promiscuous broads, drinking till you forget what hour of the day, the damned day itself – it doesn't matter was it on Monday morning or Saturday evening you've started rolling down the hill... The saddest part is – I don't have books. I don't need them. I don't read for three years. At all. Those few authors did push me further. I've lost the only desire I had. And here I am strapped into the rag of death like some stupidly fallen angel. Pathetically poetic. Dear Bukowski – damn you were right! There are too many of us: the over-drunk poets, those poor never ever published poets. Some of them are good, really good, but the lame writers, the dull writers I hate in my bones. You Starbuck miscreants, you obedient serfs! Please! Stop, cease to exist. Die today horribly and terribly. I'm begging you! I should add – hallucinated editors, de-caffeinated agents, oh, you! Your Twitter feeds... I hate chu all!!! Too bad? Visit Amazon's bestseller list. You know what you are. Those faces carry the burden of a man I've once been. They don't have to. Told them many a time. What can I do? Even if you could teach a monkey to wash potatoes, still - she'd be a monkey. Not a sous-chef, right? On the neck of our eldest-one coils that stupid know-all snake. Yin and Yang? Fuck me. Nadia likes to smoke. On her left arm, or shoulder, or both, hangs-on her partner. I donno, man. Damn tired of making everyone happy. Named Cindy. That name alone... Stop punishing me, God! I'm dying. The internet personalities care for a bunch of dogs and a team of cats. Both species get along better than the citizens. Cindy's mother did loose a bet against breast cancer, and her daddy went down due to domestic drinking. These zoomers, well, they're happy. They should be! Cindy's father last will wasn't modest as mine. A castle on the hill, a bag of gold and a responsible daily routine. Among those replete animals they keep three or four maids. Rich fellas, huh? To hoover the corners and nurture foster-kids. Geez, they have adopted four of them. Brad Pitt must be proud... Fight, goddamn it! What – have you lost your balls??? Unchain your demons as I didn't mine. Too bad. Cindy donates to charities for Africa, my stepdaughter's donated her life to Cindy. Or sacrificed. Cindy likes to inhale deep, Nadia likes Cindy. The lover of my stepdaughter shreds her tears harder than my blood and kin... ¬ They live somewhere in Palm Springs. Yep, we're close. My little brother, the infamous wino's here. All right! Married the second time. Could chu believe that? He's brought out into the daylight a 5-year-old son with his mommy. Their snot – from the first verbal marriage. The biological-one pulled-off an act of bravery, the cunt. She had left Ted for good, she decamped Los Angeles also, so my brother didn't have a chance to think things through. Ted doesn't slap Bobby. He's still moved by discounted liquids as our daddy, and nobody could deny... Fucking hell, man! His wife's name is Cheryl. Okay. Both of you - do your thing. I wish you luck.

Dear Gretchen's left the stock player. She did catch the stock player with someone. He did drag that someone home. Whooo-hoo! In the shadow my sister hides her son. Down syndrome. And tears on her face.

Our middle one's taller than her mother. She's a dancer. Her moans I'm afraid of the most. Diva had managed to unchain Snapchat afterall. She rents a studio, makes good money, gets thousands of propositions for a deep-throat. Nothing serious. Her last hubby did find someone taller something. That name, I know. That name suits perfectly perfect for her studio. 'Diva's Street Dance'. Should you expect more, be my guest. Too bad.

My Little-One's sleeping in the stroller. I'm trying not to think about Her. Well, yeah. I've been a shitty father. Here's the thing. This one's been adopted. I've managed to convince my wife there are better things in life than being sucked into IKEAian discount vouchers. She believed me. She did it three years ago, just before the Great Fall. Why, why? Weren't there three enough???

What about Amanda, my biological daughter, my own kid? She's here, She's five and a half... Could I've made things worse? Why are you here? Those weary palms, those tired eyes, exhausted presence. They say mother's love is the strongest thing in the world. My birth-giver, my dream-crasher is sitting all shoulders, a small, crumbled creature. Throughout those years She's changed, changed completely unrecognizable, gotten old, the life has abandoned Her. But I see something else. I sense guilt mixed with hatred. She's screaming at me, praying. My Mother's soul got grey surpassing the hair. She blames me, my Mother blames Her son for he didn't manage to become the person She had believed he would.

Mother, its not your fault.

PLEASE, FORGIVE ME. Your glance is tearing me apart. I know I'll go soon, I feel dandy: the sight of Yours makes me cower. Donno what it means. All kind of folks crouch down in fear, in cold. Your eyes, that glance. An immeasurably bottomless abyss. An invisible wall overwhelmed between us. The wall we have built ourselves.

My entire life I honoured You with my lips, but my heart were far from You.

The One and Only, my Magnificent Little Woman, my sweet Wife, the Mother of our daughter, my Warmth, my Shelter, my Rage. There's this lonely despair in Your eyes, a way worse than my Mother's. She had stopped fighting Herself years ago, that's true, but You – You're just getting there. I have lost You for ever. Please, have mercy on me.

Is it the right time to ask for it – both of them! - when one deteriorates into a half-dead? Stupid idiot.

Henry pours me a decent amount of it. As if I cared. Nadia and her mother helps to sit the daddy up. Your eyes are dry. Nadia's face overclouds due the stench. A green mucus I cough out on her sleeve. Cindy's about to throw up. Yeaaaah! Welcome to the SkidRow, bitch! I hit the glass. Damn, my last booze. Can't believe what I've become. But? No but! Look at me, Ma - I'm dying. Leave those regrets for me. I don't need your permission. Father, I've never been the same since you died. Is it a good thing? You tell me. If we meet. Red Label melts down smoothly. Red Label! What a taste. Hell, why can't chu bring with cha the treasures of this world downstairs? Oh, Holy Cat, take me to Your cradle: cuddle me, murk for me, kiss me. Kiss my eyes, lick my nose, and moan, moan! Let's moan together for those who had lost their toes in the Crusade. Pray for me! Beware of sharp bends, my pervert companions, my freaks and accomplices, my filthy devils. I love some of you, I do, though I hate pretty much everybody. Yet, follow me through if there's no way out.

But! But beware of sharp edges here and there. Keep an eye on them day and night. Don't forget your closets. Don't clean your closets. Long for the time with your closets.

Love your closets! It is easy to drown in the Jordan river, so damn easy to dive in and never come back. Are you with me? Do you hear the birds chirping? The torn birds. Morning already It is the morning. Its 4:53 AM, again. Fucking great.

Shit! Almost forgot: Shave me. Shave my face, my legs, my armpits also. Don't touch my beer-tits. Put on a black Armani suit, a grey tie, a white shirt, no sleeves. Fuck sleeves! Shoes – black only. Cover down my face with a yellow fedora. Arrange expensive oils - I donnno what for - ignite candles, but don't pray. Keep rolling the best beat of THE WU TANG CLAN, "It's Yourz."

My last wish goes like this: “Throw my body on the curb. Leave it on the curb. Summon up the ravens. Scatter out the remains in TikTok.” Engrave on the tombstone these: “The faster it comes...” Now I'm ready to die.


Eira purrs on my lap, soft and light, and I lift her to my face. Her body is loose and trusting as I bury my face into her mottled fur and breathe in the warm scent of home she carries with her. My heart swells as she nuzzles my cheek, her rasping tongue drying the sweat from my morning run. — I think I’m starting to like Ellis, — I tell her as I lean back into the chair and lower her back into my lap. She pads at my thighs in approval. Ellis. My boyfriend of three years. The man I smile at every morning I stay over at his house, the man I learned to act in love for. I think I’m starting to like him. I sigh. I think about his eyes. A training exercise; find three physical things in him to admire. Then three about his personality. — His eyes are brown, — I tell her — and they reflect amber in the morning sun. In the dark, they are a rich dark colour, but the flecks of hazel scattered in his irises, and the dark brown, almost black ring that circles them makes them look like honey when the light hits them. — He has a crooked smile. It’s one of my favourite things about him. It makes him look kind, breaking his face out of its usual serious lines, creasing it into something new and soft. — He has nice hands. They’re calloused and freckled, with strong fingers that love to trace shapes on my back. She blinks at me, slow and unjudgmental. — He’s a romantic. — I offer. She meows, a long burbling sound — You’re right, I used that one last week. I take a moment to think. — He’s good at his job — I say. Three years in, countless hours of building trust between whispered fake secrets and selective truths, he still hasn’t shared an inch of his project with me. Nothing but a knowing smile and a deep distracting kiss after teasing me for poking. Most days I wonder if I’ll ever complete the mission. Maybe I’ll have to marry him before he complies. The thought of giving up this place makes me shudder. The one place where it’s just me. Just me and my beautiful cat and no one calls me Anwir. The name that is both mine, and has never been mine. I scoop Eira up again and press her to my chest where the vibration of her purring echoes off my ribcage. I press her tight against me hoping it’s true that a cat’s love can heal you. That her purring is enough to fill the hollow ache. — He loves his friends fiercely — the loyalty he shows his friends, he shows me, is staggering. He’s there for those he loves in an instant. He remembers all our favourite foods, our favourite shows, our favourite places to go. He takes us there when we’re feeling overwhelmed and tired and just need someone to listen, to not offer anything but pure unjudgmental kindness. It must be exhausting. His favourite spot is the oasis. It’s not really an oasis but he calls it that. I think, if he ever proposed to me, it would be there. It’s hidden behind a wooden fence with a metal warning sign, rusted by the years and the water in the air. You have to jump over the sun-bleached fence to get to the rock fall and climb over the crumbled mountain that paves the way down. Stairs made of rock hide beneath the rubble and become visible the deeper down you go. The first thing you hear is the sound of rushing water. It fills the air, blending with the rustling of leaves and the distant cicada chirps that hush as you get closer. The smell of wildflowers and damp earth envelops you; it’s intoxicating. The path weaves its way, guiding you, and then finally, the magnificent waterfall, a torrent of crystal-clear water thundering into the pool below, where mist rises, carrying tiny droplets that glisten in the sunlight. Sunlight that filters through the canopy above, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow. Moss and ferns cling to every crevice. Towering trees reach toward the sky. Time seems to stand still. He took me there on our third date. I stroke Eira’s fur, absentminded. I really do think I’m starting to like him. Would that be so bad? It might make the job easier if there was a little bit of truth in it. It might make it harder. She jumps off my lap, claws making tiny pinpricks on my trousers as she bears her weight down before the jump. She bumps her forehead against my ankle, an affectionate gesture of impatience, before strolling into the kitchen. I follow. — He’s in love with me, — I say as I open the cupboard. She stares expectantly at my hands as they pull her breakfast out from where she can’t reach it. — and he shows it in the most beautiful ways. He doesn’t say it often, those words that are supposed to mean so much, but he makes me food every single time we're together, without fail, because I mentioned one time, three years ago, that I didn’t like cooking. He never asks, he just does, making sure to stock the things I like, even when I’m not going to be there. Just in case. He waits to watch the shows he’s most excited to see so as to share them. He re-watches old favourites with me in my mother tongue even though it’s not his first language so I enjoy them as much as he does. I’ve never had to ask for that either, he just does. He kisses me three times when we say goodbye because once isn’t enough, and three times again the next time he sees me to bridge the gap between visits. Eira crunches on her cat food, even as I’m pouring it, and no longer paying any attention, turns her back on me. — How like a cat — I say and scratch her soft white head. She burbles, disgruntled, between mouthfuls for me to leave her to her breakfast in peace. The hallway to the bathroom stretches before me, and I peel the t-shirt from my body on my way to it and ball it up in my fist for the hamper. The edge of the bath is hard and cold through my trousers, but I sit on it anyway, feeling it dig into my aching thigh muscle as I reach for the tap. The water thunders into the tub, almost as loud as the waterfall, almost loud enough for me to miss my phone, ringing, forgotten on the sink. The name that flashes on my screen makes my heart drop just a little. Emlyn. The name of the sister I don’t have. I turn the water off and the silence is almost as deafening, pierced only by my breathing and the shrill ring of my phone. I swipe my screen and try to mask the deep breath I’m taking before I answer. — Good morning, Director, how can I help you?


Blog Post #1- My reflection is dead Dear Reader, I have seen death. No, that isn’t clickbait! For once, I am at a loss for words. This morning I woke up (nothing funny there and I don’t like to start my posts with it, but it’s the only normal thing that happened) and I went into the bathroom to get ready for the day. I was twiddling with the end of my hair, still contained in a sleep braid to keep my curls within reason (check out previous posts for haircare advice). I already had toothpaste on the toothbrush and lifted it up to my mouth when I noticed I had no reflection. At first, I thought it might be some sort of prank. Last month that was all the rage and I know I prank quite a few people myself. I have no idea how someone would get a reflection not to reflect… if you do, maybe shoot me a DM. Anyhow, back on point, I’m feeling a bit scattered by all this. Everything else in the mirror was reflecting correctly. Even the toothbrush showed up as I lifted it up. Thinking something might be wrong with the mirror, I picked up my hand mirror and focused it on my face. Nothing. No matter how I twisted or turned the angle I stood in, I couldn't catch my reflection at all. I always like to see myself in the morning, pretty certain that’s normal, but somehow not being able to view my reflection made it truly desperate that I get a glimpse. I’m sure you remember from my post last month that I had those full-length mirrors installed in the living room so I could focus on my dancing form better. This morning, I decided to skip the toothbrushing, and I hurried out to give my dancer’s mirrors another use—giving me peace of mind. I was hoping to see my reflection there. Maybe I should have hoped more carefully, because while I saw my reflection, it wasn’t exactly soothing. What I actually saw was my reflection lying dead on the floor. Not proud of it, but I kind of froze at that point, just staring. Did this mean that I was dead? Maybe I was a ghost and just didn’t know it yet wandering around my house, but without a physical body, I couldn’t reflect. And the me lying on the floor was obviously dead. Pasty pale skin, limbs stiff, eyes glazed and mouth white. Seeing myself dead was a very surreal sort of thing and not a heartening experience. But I felt real and alive. Just to assure myself, I pressed a finger to my neck and there was a pulse. My mouth tasted sort of bitter and swampy… you know, like I’d skipped brushing my teeth that morning. I pinched my arm and the bite of my nails hurt. There aren’t a lot of facts about ghosts to check against, but I didn’t think I fit the bill. Let me know if you have any pertinent facts! My first reaction was to run out of the house, but something about my dead reflection called to me. In the reflection, I was wearing my pajamas and my hair was still in my sleep braid. Pretty much exactly as I looked physically in real life except, my reflection was holding this scrap of paper with neat black writing on it. Her dead fingers were clamped tightly on the paper. I recognized the handwriting as my own and moved closer, trying to get a peak at what mirror-me had written. No matter how I turned or twisted, or adjusted the light, I couldn’t make it out. And I didn’t really have time to figure it out. It’s a workday after all, though… I’m not sure what the precedent for skipping work after seeing your dead reflection is, but I know my boss wouldn’t like it. More on this later. I’m off to work. But I feel like there’s something on that paper that I need to discover, something important. Blog Post #2- Following the clues Dear Reader, Okay, back for another entry. Two posts a day won’t become my new normal, but just this once it seems justified! My reflection wasn’t in any of the mirrors at work or on any reflective surfaces. I thought I could power through and just have a normal day, but that didn’t work. I haven’t even gotten around to answering all of your comments—sorry about that. It was just too weird seeing myself absent from the windows I walked by and the bathroom mirrors. I haven’t been able to focus on anything else. So I bowed out of work, sick. Everyone believed me. I must look a fright. Not like I can tell since I can’t see myself. And no… I’m not posting any pictures. I’m a little afraid I won’t show up there either, so I’m not looking! Not being able to see myself is just awful, though. Except… that’s a lie. I *can* see myself, just I can only do that in the one reflection in the dancer’s mirrors in the living room. I’m glancing over at her now. She’s still in her pajamas and sleep braid. And that paper is still clutched in her hand. I admit that by the time I bailed on work and saw all of your curious comments from this morning’s post, I was committed to reading what that paper said. But no matter what I tried, I couldn’t make it out. I even attempted bringing in a magnifying glass, but that reflected in the mirror and blocked the paper entirely. That attempt failed and without some sort of aid, the angle was just too bad and the words too distant. Luck was on my side (was it? I mean, if luck was really on my side, none of this would be happening!) And when I went to get some fresh air, my hair blew up in my face, tickling at my nose and cheeks. I had an idea. Despite what some of the trolls on this page think, I do have those on occasion. The wind was really kicking outside and if that was true here, maybe it was true for my reflection’s reality. After all, everything else from the room I was in was still reflecting properly. Once I was back inside the house, I opened the window and let the wind rustle the paper in my reflection’s hand. The first attempt didn’t really help. The second attempt knocked the paper loose just a little, freeing one corner of the paper to rustle and wave as the gusts of air hit. After a few tries of opening and closing the window, I got the note into a position that was readable. I had to squint, but I made out the text. I’m almost afraid to record what it said here. I’ll sleep on it. Blog Post #3- The message on the paper Dear Reader, Stop with the comments, please. Some things are serious. I’ve already called in sick to work and honestly, I almost didn’t sit down here to write. A lot of you have commented about the note and yesterday’s posts. I’m not sure how to feel about what you are saying… I’m a little insulted honestly. This isn’t some goofy prank. I’m attaching a picture (turns out I do show up on camera). I tried to get my reflection in the shot. You can kind of see her there in the corner, lying on the carpet. See? You can see that, right? Once I took the picture, I threw a blanket over the spot where my reflection is lying. I hoped it would cover her up on her side. She looks more and more dead by the hour… but my attempt with the blanket didn’t do much. It appeared underneath her on the reflection. Maybe because on this side she isn’t here. I can’t manipulate her directly. I lit a candle and said a little prayer but that felt off. Like who am I mourning exactly? She’s me. I’m her. There really isn’t a clear way to proceed at this point. Whatever else is true, people seem interested in the note and I can’t stop going over the words, so I decided to share a little more. I need to share something. My head is spinning, and I feel oddly alone. You don’t think of your reflections as being a part of you or as being a friend… but I think she was. I miss her. The note in my reflection’s hand said: I apologize for the shock. The end of your plane (of existence) is near, but you can save yourself by traversing to my side of the reflection. I thought long and hard about how to save you and I could find no perfect option. As we can’t coexist in the same place at the same time, I killed myself for you to have a chance to live. I’m also giving you instructions on how to trespass between planes through the mirror when the time arrives. You will know when the moment has come. Wish you a long and happy life. Love you... That’s it. Or that isn’t it… there is quite a bit more. But I’m not sharing anything beyond that. She did leave instructions, but I feel weird sharing them. Somehow, I know that they were only meant for me to see. Giving you access is a trespass that feels unforgivable. However, I do feel I owe my readers something. The instructions are strange and very specific… not the sort of instructions I ever would have deemed necessary to cross planes. I know that I couldn’t have made them up. This is the second day of no reflections and I admit it’s affecting my head. I can’t really tell anyone but you since I’d probably just be bundled off into a straitjacket. I’m trying to laugh it off and hoping that tomorrow, when I wake up, everything will be back to normal. Maybe I’ll be able to forget about all of this like a bad dream. But nothing feels right. My own dead face stares back at me. Blog Post #4- Don’t you feel it? Dear Reader, I realize it has been days and I haven’t written but… well, this blog seems kind of pointless. And I have been reading your (often nasty) comments. No, this is still not a joke and no, I have not lost my mind. I have never been more certain of anything. I wish there was a way I could make you see how serious this is. It is a shock that all of you can’t feel the dark aura wafting over the world. The air feels different. Everything is different. The end is upon us. I feel it in the air, moving on the wind, in the hollow sound of people’s voices. No one else seems to notice. They just go on with their lives, completely oblivious to the ominous shadows that are slowly but surely embracing the world. Certainly, your comments don’t reflect any sort of awareness… reflect… how odd to use that word so casually. Before now, I never pondered reflections much at all, but now, I think often of what a reflection is and of what it would mean to live in a world of reflected objects. Is the light different there? Is there sound? Smell? If I’m going to live there, I suppose I’ll find out, but it is worrisome not knowing. What happens in the reflections’ plane of existence when the reflection isn’t in use? Do they act on their own or just wait for us? If I’m a reflection, but I no longer exist in this plane of existence… what does that mean? Finding out is both exciting and terrifying. This is similar to what I always imagined a bride felt like on her wedding day. I’ll never get married now (will I? Maybe that happens where I’m going too… don’t know.) But these nerves are spot on to what I imagined, which makes me think something good is waiting for me… a new life is going to start. I must leave this plane of existence. I’ve gone over my reflection’s instructions for gaining access to an alternate plane again and again. I know the way, and I’m prepared to follow each step. I really don’t know why I haven’t already. Even typing this feels hollow and empty. I guess I just want to wish my friends and family good luck. I want to see if any of you out there reading this have the same experience… maybe I can hope to meet some of you on the other side. I really don’t know what will happen to those left behind, to those who can’t feel the doom in the air. I’m afraid to go alone. That’s the truth. Yet the body in the mirror is rotting now, little mold patches mar my face. I feel I owe it to my reflection to help her somehow, but… I’m afraid. What is on that side? Doom is all that remains here, but what awaits me there? There is something about the unknown that is terrifying, that humanity has hidden from for its entire existence. We like to understand, but sometimes understanding is not in the cards. Sometimes, we need to have faith. Blog Post #5- Peace Dear Reader, All doubt has fled. I am on the only path possible for me to take. Even reading your comments now leaves me with a slow, sad feeling, as if even in the impersonal medium of the internet I can feel the clouds swooping in and drowning out the edges of this plane of existence. You mean nothing. Or you mean everything, but that version of everything is fading. This will be my last blog post. I apologize, but your comments will go unread. This is the last time I will sit at this computer and reach across the electronic void. A new home will welcome me soon. I am certain that peace, serenity, and beauty awaits me. I hope you also find peace in whatever is coming. Farewell and may we meet again on the other side.


“Hurry up, it’s cold!” “I’m coming, I’m coming.” “Get your ass in here and shut the door, I’m wasting all the heat. Damn, it’s cold!” “I feel fine.” “I would too if I was sitting there with those on my lap. What’s that smell?” “Pepperoni and onion. I’m the pep, dad’s the onion.” “One topping on each?” “No, both on both.” “Not my favorite combination, but I wouldn’t complain.” “What would you add to balance out the flavors for your taste buds? Turn right on Elm.” “I would if this idiot in front of me would move. C’mon, Jack! Move it! … And to answer your question, I would add black olives.” “Really?” “Yeah. They create a nice balance between the pepperoni and onion.” “Huh. I’ll mention it to my dad, maybe he’ll wanna give it a try…. Mind if I change the music?” “Don’t touch the radio. Never touch another man’s radio.” “Okay, well then will you change the music? I can’t stand all this old crap.” “Hey, you better watch what you say. Without this old crap you’d never have your synthesized, voice manipulated, patchwork shit you call music today. You want to hear real music by real musicians who actually knew how to play and create, then you listen to the classics.” “Fine, I get it, and don’t get me wrong there are old bands I like but do we have to listen to the Beatles? They’re like the oldest band ever.” “Not true. The oldest band ever or rather the very first band was the Original Dixieland Jass Band.” “… Why do you know that?” “What? I like music. Excuse me for wanting to know more about it than the name of a song or two.” “No, what I mean is what made you want to know that piece of trivia?” “I don’t know … one day the question popped into my head, ‘What was the name of the first music band?’ So I decided to look it up. Why?” “I find things like that interesting about people. Why they know certain things or why they want to know certain things. It tells you a lot about them. You can pull up to the curb here. Mine’s the one with the blue truck in the driveway.” “How old is that truck?” “Seven years.” “Looks good for its age.” “That’s dad for you, ‘Take care of your tools, and they’ll take care of you.’ Well, thanks for the ride. I promise I’ll give you gas money as soon as I get my first check.” “Yeah no problem. I’ll see ya tomorrow.” “Catch ya later.” “… You gonna stand out in the cold all night or are you gonna bring in the food?” “Dad, get back inside before you catch a cold.” “I’m only sticking my head out the door, and I don’t feel a damn thing — now get in here, I’m hungry.” “Okay, okay, I’m here, now can we close the door, it’s freezing.” “Give me these, I’ll take them to the kitchen, and you can close the door. So who dropped you off?” “That was Wendell. He does deliveries. Offered me a ride home.” “Well you give him some gas money when you get the chance, that was awfully nice of him.” “Don’t worry dad, I already told him I’d take care of him once I get my check.” “Good. Means you actually listen to me once in a while.” “What was that dad? I didn’t hear you.” “Shut up and grab some plates.” “Get the milk out, I’ll grab the glasses.” “Mmmm-smells good.” “Yeah, I give us two weeks before we get sick to death of the smell. Both the benefit and the burden of working in fast food.” “No reason to knock free food. If Grandpa were here he’d tell of his days growing up in the Great Depression. How him and his family — and they were a big family — how they and a thousand other families would have killed to have food like this every day during those years. Don’t take things for granted.” “I know, and I’’m not. I was just saying that in two weeks one of us will be commenting on how we’re getting tired of eating this, that’s all.” “Maybe, but you should still appreciate it.” “I do. Pass the napkins.” “There’s something wrong with Netflix, you need to take a look at it.” “What’d you do?” “Nothing! I tried to turn it on and get back to the show I was watching, but it won’t let me in. Keeps asking for some code or something.” “You probably logged out the wrong way, again. I’ll have to put in the password to get us back in.” “Well why don’t they make it so you don’t have to do that every time?” “They do! But for some reason out of all the people on this planet you’re the only one who doesn’t know how to turn off Netflix properly. It baffles the mind how you were able to raise a family.” “I had help. Your mother’s just as much responsible for you and your brother’s upbringing as I am.” “Yeah, and Jerry got all of Mom’s smarts while I —“ “While you got her sarcastic wit and passion for story telling.” “I can’t complain about the sarcastic wit, it serves me well.” “Can’t complain about your passion either.” “That hasn’t served me as well, though I wish it would.” “What are you talking about? I see you when you write, I see you lost in thought dreaming of new worlds. You love it.” “I just figured by now I would have sold something. It’s frustrating.” “Well you got your stuff posted on those websites, and the people who commented liked your work.” “Yeah but those are websites that don’t pay.” “They still have to choose your work over others before they post it.” “I know, I know, but it’s not the same as someone offering you money for your work. To have someone say, ‘Hey, your work is good, and I’m willing to pay for it’.” “Give it time … give it time.” “That’s the one thing I’ve got — time … and a mountain of debt, and a fast food job…. Hurray!” “… You done feeling sorry for yourself?” “… I’m gonna go fix Netflix, so you can watch your show. I’ll cleanup the dishes when I’m done.” “… Davy.” “… Yeah.” “Your mother always believed in you. Perhaps that’s something else you need to take from her.” “… Perhaps you’re right…. Thanks dad.” END


Aella. Torches lined the walls of the cobblestone chamber, waves of smoke lifting from them. Charred meats and disappointing ale had been placed along the length of the council table, but none were tasted. Lord Aella sat uneasy at the large table with the other nine men whom he called brothers, the men waited patiently for the Queen to arrive. Lord Pomeran Royk paced back and forth on the far side of the room, refusing to take his seat. “It’s death,” Lord Pomeran insisted, “What other reason does she have for summoning the council so late.” Pomeran’s words had been in Aella’s thoughts, though he dared not speak them into existence. A summoning this late could only mean death and the only death worth the worry of the council was the Kings. The large oak door of the chamber rattled for a moment before being eased open, four guards entered; knights of the kingdom. Their polished steel armor was emblazoned with the sigil of the Kraken, each man wore their reinforced helms, completely covering their faces. They kept their hands on the hilts of the swords and the chamber grew even more uneasy. The Queen entered behind the guards in a long flowing black dress, she wore a darkened vail that had been pushed back to show her face, the faces of all the men of the council dropped at the sight of the vail. “Her face looks ready for a tourney,” Aella thought to himself, “She keeps us waiting at this hour to do her bloody hair?” Four more guards entered the chamber behind the Queen and toke their places against the walls of the chamber, the silver trim on their black cloaks caught the light as they stood between the torch placements. Two of the guards ushered a rather nervous looking Pomeran to his chair at the table. Each of the seated Lords rose to greet the Queen, bowing their heads and waiting for her to take her seat. “The King is dead.” She sighed as she eased down into her seat, “We must sort out the succession at once.” The chamber fell completely silent, Aella glanced up and down the table trying not to draw attention to himself, no man made eye contact and none dared to speak. “Damn that bloody oath.” Aella sighed before raising his hand slightly, “What must be sorted?” Aella asked with a crack in his voice, “Prince Tarhun should be summoned from down South at once.” “I love Tarhun as if her were my own son.” The Queen insisted, “But he is no King. I am the King’s lawful wife and my son; the first son of your King and your Queen should seat the throne. Tarhun is thousands of miles away, my son Nadarr shall be named King.” Aella gripped the arm rest of his chair tight, his jaw tensed, he was unsure if he would be able to find the words to speak but tried nonetheless, “We swore a vow.” Aella reminded the men at the table, Aella looked up and down at his fellow Lords, meeting each of their eyes, “The King had us pledge our swords to Tarhun, he is the King’s first son and from a lawful marriage.” Aella looked over to the Queen, her face showed no emotion, “Fine.” The Queen said plainly, “We should have a vote.” Hushed mutterings began to break out amongst the Lords at the table, “Who else here believes Tarhun should be summoned for the throne?” The Queen asked. Aella raised his hand, so did two others. There was a rattle of chain behind him, Aella felt cold steel press against his neck, a brief moment past before Aella’s throat began to burn and his vision fade.


“ I’m drunk and I’m sad and it’s 1:00 in the morning, I’m so sorry,” I sob into the phone. “ I shouldn’t be calling so late. I shouldn’t be such a baby.” Nobody sees me cry, except maybe my husband and even that’s only been a handful of times in our 26 years of marriage. Not my counselor, or counselors I should say.Years of counseling actually. Not my foster parents. Not even my children.  “It’s ok,” Richard responds, “you can call me anytime, and you’re not a baby.”  “I just hate her so much!”  “I understand,” he says. His voice is low and his speech slow. It’s always been like that He speaks with the same speed as molasses in winter. Now his voice has gotten gravelly as his illness has progressed and it is interjected with bouts of coughing.

 “That’s not true, I don’t hate her. I want to hate her but I try so hard not to. Because not hating her Is the right thing to do. No one ‘normal’ hates their mother. So everyday I make up my mind to forgive her. It’s a constant battle,” I confess. Although that’s not actually true. Most days I don’t think of her at all. I think of her on my birthday or Mother’s Day. Or when I see my kids achieve something she should have been there for. Mostly I think of her when I have to fill out the section on the medical forms that asks for family history or when I’m drunk. Richard’s the only person besides my husband I’ve ever told how much I hate her. Mostly I don’t tell anyone anything about her, unless I’m drunk and weepy. There’s a theme there I guess. If I have to tell someone something about my mother I pretend I’m over it. I pretend I’m well adjusted. I pretend I’m normal. My brother and I continue to talk and cry and laugh for close to 3 hours. It feels good. Cathartic. We’ve never been close. Not really. She prevented us from being close. She made choices for us that we couldn’t change. Or let other people make choices for us. Despite her, we love each other. We always have a connection to home. So it feels good to tell him how I feel, what I remember. He’s surprised, I think, by all that I remember. I remember Detroit, our hometown. I remember the streets and the smells. I remember our cat, our house, our life. Before we say goodbye he asks the question I’ve been dreading.  “Are you coming for the funeral?”  “Yes of course I am. I would never let my feelings for her stop me from mourning the loss of our brother. It’s just us now, we have to stick together.”  “She’s going to be there..” he reminds me.  “I know. Gabe said he would like to come. He misses you.”  “I’d like to see him, we miss him too.”  “I just wish she wasn’t going to be there. She was and is a shitty mother and she doesn’t deserve to lay her eyes on my son,” I stress. My children have never met my mother. They are all adults now. They could meet her if they wanted to, I’d never stop them. I don’t encourage them though.  “I know, you’re right. But you’ll still come, right?” He asks. Like he even needs to ask. Of course I’m coming. It seems the only reason I come home anymore is for funerals. I was born in Detroit. The city of Detroit's motto is We hope for better things; it will rise from the ashes. That’s where my mother left me on the side of the road, in Detroit, when I was 4. Those are the ashes I’ve risen from. A home burnt to the ground by the home maker. I think she was always a terrible mother. If I’m being honest, I think she is a terrible person. She let men rule her life. They were always more important than her kids. She would always choose men over her kids. She would do whatever it took to be “loved” and taken care of. Financially that is. Even letting her children be used and abused. Then there was the drugs, the drinking, and the whores. The parties, the stealing, and the homelessness. If she couldn’t sell herself she’d sell her belongings and that included us. But I digress. Detroit is where the funeral will be. It’s where my oldest brother, Richard, still lives. It’s where Gary and Marty lived. All 3 of her boys stayed close to home. I was in and out of foster care for the next 14 years after she dumped me and my older brothers on the side of the road. My childhood was nothing but cinder and ash left from the bad decisions she made. Terrible “parents”, more abuse, and trauma.I met and married my husband, we made our own family. I rose from the ashes. I made a better life. I never went home again.

 I’ve lost 2 brothers now. Marty from a heroin overdose when he was 35 and Gary from a meningitis infection that spread to his brain. He was 51. Richard’s not far behind. He has something wrong with his lungs. Won’t tell me what, but he’s on oxygen now. He can’t walk from his bedroom to the living room without it. I blame her. Marty never would have been an addict if it weren’t for her. Maybe Richard and Gary would’ve taken better care of their health. If she had been around, maybe they would’ve known to go to the dr. Maybe they would’ve made better choices. Sometimes I think, no I know, that this way of thinking is ridiculous. I have boys. I’ve taught them as well as I could’ve. They still make bad choices. But at least they can always come home.  Of course I’ve been back to Detroit. Detroit has so much to offer. I've been to the Eastern Market, the Vernor’s plant, and the Institute of Art. But I’ve not been “home”. As a matter of fact I arranged for Marty’s funeral to be at my church. As far away from home as I could get. In hopes she wouldn’t come. But she was there. She tried to get me to come home, but I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t even look at her. Richard and Gary flanked me, one on each side so she couldn’t sit next to me. That was the day I realized I hated her. I didn’t hate her because of the men or the booze. I hated her because of what she did to them. I hated her because of what she did to us. We were just children.  I don’t think I can avoid coming home this time. I’ve been thinking about that a lot. I’ve been trying to figure out what I’m going to say. How I’m going to act. How do I introduce her to the adult grandson she’s never met. I should come up with a snarky comment. I should take the high road. I always take the high road. I won’t become her. All that aside, I still decide against taking the high road. I deserve a little fun, a little payback. So maybe I’ll burn the whole damn house down. Richard won’t care. Gary and Marty are dead. They were the only ones that really loved her. They were the most messed up but also the most loyal to her. Maybe that’s why they were so messed up. They always defended her. Marty wanted nothing more than to be a family again. He could never wrap his head around the fact that that would never happen for us. We could never go home again. And just like that I had decided to burn it all down. All the pretending, all the hopes I had of being normal, and all the ideals of being a family. Until Richard calls.  “You don’t have to worry. She’s not coming.” He says.

 “Of course she’s not,” I laugh.

 I guess I won’t be going “home” after all.


###"There is no respect for others without humility in one's self." —Henri Frederic Amiel *** *** #Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, song, theme word, sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Humility ** *Bonus Constraint (worth 5 extra pts.): Setting includes a waterfall.* This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘humility’ in your story. It (or the idea) should appear in some way within the story. You may use if you need additional inspiration, but it is by no means required. You may include the theme word if you wish, but it is not necessary. Use of the bonus constraint is also not required. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST.** - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied Rankings work on a point-based system. Here is the current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 10 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 40 pts for first, 30 pts for second, and 20 pts for third (plus regular nominations) - **Bonus:** Up to 10 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints and making user nominations)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week As promised—though a little later than I’d hoped—I present you with this week’s rankings. Thank you so much for your patience! Everyone did a wonderful job, and votes get harder and harder to make each week. You should be proud of taking on the challenge each week. I love seeing the wonderful worlds built each week and the way the prompts are interpreted. - - Submitted by u/DmonRth   - - Submitted by u/NotMuchChop   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   - - Submitted by u/Sch0larite   *** ###Subreddit News - Our sister sub, r/WritingPrompts, now has a ! - Try your hand at serial writing with - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


I know the title doesn't sound that scary, but don't worry.  *T’was the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even the mouse. Santa was coming, kids opened their eyes, to get a glimpse of the fat man, but to their surprise, the huffledinger approached them, and every kid died.* That’s the story my dad always told me before bed throughout December, but I always thought it was some big prank. I lift my head off my pillow, trying to avoid the creaky step as I tip-toe downstairs. I slide my hand against the wall, pausing when my mom ceases snoring for a second and relaxing when she begins again. I grab the cookies and milk that we left out for Santa and decide to make the final test to see if he’s real. Poisoned cookies. I put two drops of the homemade poison I found on the internet on each cookie, and pour the rest of it in the milk. Now if Santa’s real, I won’t get a present, and if not, one of my parents will die. So, it’s a win for me only if Santa isn’t real. Mom and dad are too controlling together. I hear a creak-- someone stepping on the creaky stair. I quickly replace the cookies and start to open the fridge to grab myself some water. “Luke, what are you up to?” croaks my mom, watching me as I grab a water bottle from the fridge and point to it. “I got thirsty, duh,” I mutter, my face (hopefully) void of emotion. My mom nods, before walking back upstairs and plopping onto her bed once more. I grin. All according to plan. I take a sip of my water before putting it back and jogging upstairs. ‘*Santa, come on out to play!*’ I think, my face stretched into a grin. I look at the ceiling, lying in bed, pondering about what I might dream about when I hear a jingle from downstairs. It must be Santa Claus! I slide my robe on as the *thump* echoes downstairs. I peek down, but I don’t see a man dressed in red with a red-tipped nose, instead, I see a slim, tall, shadowy figure. It moves like a gaseous substance throughout my living room, sliding like a shadow across the wall. I slowly step down the stairs and squeeze my eyes shut when my bare foot lands on the creaky stair. The noise echoes through the hall, and the creature stops. It hovers over Santa’s dead body, foam bubbling out of the man in red’s open mouth. I cover my mouth as bile rises in my throat. I small gasp escapes me when I see the figure turn towards me and widen its already wide smile. I recognize it from dozens of nights, looking at the illustrations of a book. It’s the huffledinger. I scream for my parents, my eyes and mouth widening simultaneously. No sound comes from their bedroom, not even my dad snoring. I sprint back up and turn into their room, my face paling when I see the very same foam bubbling out of their mouths. I hear a creak on the staircase, and my face goes white. The shadowed figure smiles at me as its eyes roll back into its head, turning a bloody red. I scream, but no one hears me. As the huffledinger approaches, I remember the nursery rhyme. *And every kid died.* Oh god. I’m going to die, and it’s all because of one little experiment. I feel tears prickling at my eyes. I’m going to die. *I mean, death is inevitable, right?* I think as I close my eyes. But instead of the sharp pain of death, I hear a high pitched voice with a rasp singing. “Lucas, Lucas, not the first, try it again, and you’ll be the worst. No one kills him, except for me, so Lucas, on a killing spree!” The voice grows louder with every verse. “Lucas, Lucas, very bad boy, what would your mother think, if she were alive? You paid the price, don’t pay it twice, Lucas, don’t try to roll the dice!” I cover my ears, and it all but muffles the horrendous sounds coming from the creature in front of me. I know that as soon as I open my eyes, I will die, so I do. My eyes blink open, and the huffledinger’s mouth opens wide, swallowing me whole in one giant bite. *Lucas, Lucas,* I think. *You are dead, you opened your eyes, so he took your head.


He had been going to the same coffee shop for nearly a year now. All for her. She was his everything. He thought about her while working. He thought about her while eating. Hell, he even thought about her while thinking about her. To him, she was perfect. And he had never even said so much as a single word to her. He first saw her clearing tables across the restaurant; her tight black skirt giving the perfect outline of her backside. The way she had glanced back as if she could feel his eyes burning holes in the fabric made his heart race. Her raven colored hair and rounded, black eyeglasses made her porcelain skin glow even more. He could remember it like it happened mere seconds ago. A taut white blouse, black skirt, and glossy black sneakers. She always wore the same outfit to work. It was the same attire the others wore, but he never paid enough attention to them to make the connection. When he was in the coffee shop, he only had eyes for her. Each day he went to the coffee shop to see her. He noticed she was quite shy and even when nearing his section, she kept her head down. This never bothered him, so long as she was close by he would take what he could get. He noticed she was being trained to replace an elderly server retiring soon. If only she would come by his table, he would be able to profess his love for her. Then one day, he got his wish. She seemed to glide as she made her way to his table. “I’m Amy. I’ll be your waitress today,” she breathed, as she looked up from the checkered tile floor toward his expectant gaze. Finally, their eyes met. Her beautiful smile was the perfect match to his glowing face. As she brushed her hair softly behind her ear, she slowly pulled her glasses down from her face. In that moment, his heart seemed to burst from his chest, for she had a lazy eye. “Welp, plenty of fish,” he murmured to himself as he exited the shop.