The rules say I can’t have a pet of any kind.

It’s posted right there on the wall with all the other stuff.

I’ve lived here for over five years.

Ever since my mother died and the state people came to take me.

They put me here.

It’s nice and all, but I miss my mother. My name is Walter Hanaratty and I live at St. Vincent’s Adult Home for people that are cognitively challenged, like me. I am on the Blue Team.

Jennifer Garrett is in charge of us.

I like her.

She is pretty and says things my mother told me when I was a child.

Some of the people on the Blue Team are mean to her. “I don’t like her.” Jamie Kullitts declared when we were at the sheltered workshop where we make placemats for local restaurants.

“She’s nice.” I said, defending her.

“No she’s not.” She snaps back at me as she finishes another placemat. Sometimes I hate being on the Blue Team, but it’s better than staying with Aunt Sophie.

She was mean to me.

She did not understand what having a thinking problem is like.

I was born with it.

My mother said that I would have to make due.

I was never sure what she meant by that, but her sister Sophie kept telling me that I was lazy and stupid. That hurt my feelings.

So, I ran away.

I stayed in the backyard of my old home until the state people came to get me. “Walter Hanaratty, you will have to come with us.” A tall man told me as he held out his badge.

He was not a policeman, but he acted like one.

“We have a complaint from the property owner that you have been camping out here.” The other state man said tilting his head as if it was too heavy for his neck.

“Pick up your things.

We are taking you to our office.” The first state man pointed to my sleeping bag and backpack.

I did what he told me to do.

They had a van parked in front of my old house.

I put my stuff in the van and sat in the bench seat.

I did not say anything as they drove me into town.

Mr. Payson was waiting for me. “Walter-” He stood up when we walked in. “Wally.” I made sure he knew what name I wanted to be called. “Wally, I’m Mr. Payson and this is Mrs. Grimly.

She runs St. Vincent’s Home over on Maple Street.” He told me as if I knew where this place was.

“I went home.” I insisted. “Walter-Wally, that is not your home anymore.” He shrugged.

“You can come live at my house.” Mrs. Grimly smiled. “I don’t want to.” I stomped my foot on the tile floor.

Mr. Payson crossed his arms over his chest, putting one hand to his chin.

“Wally, we already have a bed for you.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “I don’t want to go there.” I shook her hand off my shoulder.

“Walter-Wally, you have no choice.” Mr. Payson explained. “You were trespassing.” “I used to live there.” I pointed my finger at him. “You don’t live there anymore.” He sighed.

“We will look after you, Wally.” Mrs. Grimly smiled again.

“I want my mother.” I stomped my foot again. “Wally, dear, Wally, your mother is gone.” She shook her head.

Saying that brought a tear to my eyes. “She wanted you to come with me.

Here.”

She held out a paper with my mother’s name on it saying I needed to go with her.

With a shrug of my shoulder, I nodded that I would.

She took my sleeping bag and Mr. Payson grabbed my backpack. After a ten minute ride, I was standing at the front door holding my backpack.

I followed Mrs. Grimly into the large two story house.

“We will have a welcome party with cake at dinner.” She promised.

I like cake.

Maybe this place wasn’t so bad afterall, I thought.

She walked me to my room that I would share with Darrell Montcrief. Darrell was my age, but he liked to laugh for no reason at all. He would say bad words before laughing.

Words that were against the rules.

Most people think that guys like me aren’t very smart.

That is true for the most part, but I did learn how to read and write which my special teacher told me was “remarkable.” I wrote down that word in my notebook.

I use it a lot.

While most people do not expect me to do a lot of things, I want to try anyway.

I told Mr. Ally I wanted to work at the sheltered workshop he was in charge of. “I’m not sure you will be able to do the job.” He had my folder open on his desk. “I’m not sure you are high functioning enough.”

I wrote that word down in my notebook too; high-functioning. He looked at me over the top of his glasses and grunted, “Well, we can give you a try.

The van leaves for the workshop at eight in the morning.

If you want to give it a try, be ready by then in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.” I saluted.

“It says here that your evaluation showed significant cognitive disability.” He glanced at the open folder. “If you really want to work in my shop, I need you to do what I tell you.

Do you understand?”

I nodded, yes. “Good.

See you in the morning.” He let a smile swim across his face.

I liked working at the workshop.

I removed the scrap material from the work areas where two dozen workers assembled placemats and stacked the finished products into boxes.

I would come by and pick up the filled boxes.

With Mr. Ally watching me, I did everything I was told to do.

After my first day he told me that I was not part of the “crew.”

I also wrote that word in my notebook. One of the things that bothered me was, I did not feel as though I belonged there at St. Vinnies (as the others called it).

Adrienne was the self-appointed queen of the house.

After dinner, we would gather in the group room and have a house meeting. At these meetings we would check-in with Miss Doss who would smile and nod at whatever we said.

Adrienne sat to Miss Doss’ right and would scan the twenty of us sitting in a circle to make sure we were listening. It was just like my classroom in school.

“On Saturday we will be going on an outing.” Miss Doss would say. “We will all be going together, but we must stay together.

No wandering off, understood?”

We all concurred in our own special way.

I responded with, “I promise.”

Miss Doss was young and pretty.

She would make sure we were staying together as we went to the mall. Two residents opted not to go, because they wanted to watch television instead. Mom used to take me to the mall when I needed shoes or clothing for school.

She would spend hours trying to pick out things I would wear.

“Wally, do these shoes pinch your feet?” She would ask when I tired the shoes on.

“No, mom.” I would shake my head. “Are you sure?” She would ask as if she did not believe me.

I would make some disapproving noise.

Now I am sorry, because she died of cancer.

“If you see something you want, let me know.

I have your money with me.” Miss Doss would sing out as we walked through the mall. We all were given an allowance, but I did not see anything I wanted to spend my money on.

Darrell was my partner on the outing.

We all had to buddy up so we wouldn’t get lost.

The mall was in three levels and it was easy to get lost if you weren’t paying attention.

There was a Winco at one end of the mall.

When we passed it, I saw a couple of baggers putting the customer’s items into paper bags.

I bowed my head when I saw them.

Before my mother died, I was a bagger at Albertsons.

She would drive me there and then do her shopping. I would always ask the cashier if I could bag her groceries. I wanted to see what she was getting so I’d know what we would be having for dinner.

Now I never knew, because Flora, our cook at the house, had the groceries delivered.

We walked and walked.

Darrell began to get cranky, so we stopped at a place that had smoothies.

After downing one of them, he was in a better mood.

When we got to

the second level, I stopped in my tracks.

The store was Meyers’ Pets and in the big window were about a dozen kittens. “C’mon Wally.” Darrell urged in a not so nice voice.

“You go ahead.

I wanna look.” I pointed to the window. “Fine.” He nearly growled and kept walking. “Would you want to hold one of them?” A woman from the store asked as I squatted down to have a better look. “Could I?” I rose to my feet. She nodded and I followed her inside the store.

She was a smokey gray kitten.

When I held her, she curled up close to my chest purring.

“She really likes you.” The woman smiled. “Yeah.” I smiled back. “If I got her, I’d call her Smokey.”

“That’s a pretty name.” She nodded.

“Yeah.” I agreed.

She was still purring. “She costs twenty dollars, but comes with a certificate for shots and a discount on neutering.” The woman squatted down so she could look me in the eyes.

She was pretty and I liked the way she talked to me like Miss Spencer from my special classroom.

“I can’t have pets where I live.” I shook my head. “Why not?” She asked as her smile disappeared, “Where do you live?” “I live in St. Vinnie’s.” I answered forgetting that I did not want to tell people that, because they would know my brain was not quite right. “I see.” She put her finger to her chin, “That’s too bad, because she really likes you.” “She does, doesn’t she.” I put my chin close so I could feel her purr.

“What’s your name?” She stroked the kitten between the ears. “Walter Hanaratty, but all my friends call me Wally.” I answered. “Okay, Wally.

I need to put her back with the others.

It’s a shame, because she really likes you.” She took the kitten from my hands.

I was sad, because I could no longer hear Smokey purr.

I watched her put the small kitten in the window with the others.

She let out a small meow in protest as her paws touched the shredded newspaper.

I was very sad then. “Wally, you come back if anything changes and I’ll make sure you get Smokey.” She nodded. “Just ask for me, Penny.

Penny Gray.”

“Thank you Miss Gray.” I bowed my head.

At that very moment, Darrell came ambling toward the store with a big Slurpee in his hands. “Wally, we got to go in five minutes.

Miss Doss says.” He announced and then took a big draw on his straw.

“All right.” I sighed.

“I wanna go to that game store over there. C’mon.” He waved as he walked past. I had twenty dollars in my pocket from Mr. Ally’s workshop.

Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Miss Gray.”

She was helping an older lady get a bag of dog food into her cart. She turned to face me when I called her name. “Wally, what can I do for you?” She asked as the lady thanked her pushing the cart out of the store. I handed her the twenty dollars I had in my pocket.

She winked at me as she walked over to the window and put Smokey in my arms.

She immediately began to purr.

She missed me. “Let me ring you up.

You get some coupons for a wellness check.” She walked to the cash register. “C’mon, duffus.

Gotta go.” Darrell was waving to me from outside the store.

Seeing him, I knew he’d blab to Miss Doss about the kitten.

Worse, I knew he’d tell Mrs. Grimly as well.

Carefully, I tucked Smokey into my hoodie near my chest.

I took the coupons Miss Gray handed me along with the receipt.

Darrell and I walked to the van.

I could feel Smokey asleep next to my t-shirt, hidden from view. “What did you get?” Sylla asked me when I sat down next to her. “Nothing.” I answered. “You got something.” She laughed, “Did you steal it?” “No.” I shook my head. “Liar.” She grinned. “Lemme see.”

“Leave me alone.” I slapped her hand away from my hoodie.

“Hey, Mrs. Grimly says no hitting.” She scowled at me.

“Folks, settle down.” Miss Doss said sternly, “I have to drive this van in traffic.”

Smokey meowed.

I froze like a statue. “What was that?” Ellie asked as she sipped on her soda.

“What was what?” I asked with all the innocence I could.

“Sounded like a cat.” Buster shrugged.

“It was.” Sylla grinned. “I didn’t hear nothing.” I shrugged as I could feel Smokey squirm.

Her tiny feet began to tickle me. “You are acting strange, Wally.” Sylla squinted with suspicion.

“What you got, Wally?” Darrell joined in.

“Nothing, leave me alone.” My face was turning red.

I could see Miss Doss look at me in the van’s rear view mirror.

When we got back, Miss Doss tapped me on the shoulder, “Wally, I think you need to go see Mrs. Grimly.”

“I don’t want to.” I shook my head. “Yeah, but you have to tell her about the kitten you got stuffed in your sweatshirt.” She put her hands on her hips.

Dropping my head to my chest, I nodded.

I could feel Smokey purring contently under my hoodie. “I’ll got with you.

I have to turn in the van keys.” I walked in the front door with the others.

Mrs. Grimly was in her office next to the stairs.

Feeling like a condemned man on his way to the electric chair, I shuffled to her office with Miss Doss leading the way. “Hey Lydia, what’s up?” Mrs. Grimly sat back in her chair when she heard Miss Doss knock on her office door. “I got Wally here.” She glanced down at me. “So I see.” She smiled, “Wally, how are you?

How was the outing at the mall?”

“Fine.” But my voice didn't sound like things were fine. “I see.” She stood up. “What happened at the mall?” “Wally has something he wants to show you.” Miss Doss replied. “Really?” Her eyes opened wide, “Wally, what is it?” Once again, I bowed my head and began to remove the sleeping kitten from my hoodie.

Once Smokey was in my arms where everyone could see her, I felt an unexpected feeling of relief.

“I see.” Mrs. Grimly squatted down a bit to get a better look of Smokey.

“There was a commotion in the van.” Miss Doss explained.

“And Wally had a cat, I see.” Mrs. Grimly patted Smokey between the ears just like Miss Gray had back at the store. “You know that the house rules say you can’t have pets, right?” “I know.” I felt as if Mrs. Grimly had pulled the switch on my electric chair. “Normally, I would say rules are rules.” She straightened up, “But this little angel is adorable.” “Isn’t she?” Miss Doss could not hide her smile. “Good thing I have some food.

Poor thing looks hungry.” Mrs. Grimly got out a can of cat food and poured the can into a tea cup she kept on a table next to her desk.

It was no secret that Mrs. Grimly was fond of tea.

As soon as she placed the food on her desk next to where Smokey was, the kitten began to eat. “Mr. Fussy was my cat for many years until recently.

I kept the food in case…”

The three of us watched Smokey eat every last bit from the tea cup. “Now Mr. Hanaratty, you will not be allowed to keep this cat in your room.” Mrs. Grimly sat at her desk and glanced at Smokey, “So we will know this is Wally’s cat, but the others will come to know her as the house cat. Are you willing to do that?” “Yes ma’am.” I nodded. “She will be allowed to wander to any room she wishes.” She smiled, “And seek attention with anyone she desires, is that understood?”

“Yes ma’am.” I agreed.

“Good.” Mrs. Grimly concluded.

Secrets are great as long as they stay secrets.

Smokey wandered the house during the day, but she would return to my room at night where she would curl up next to me and purr before falling asleep.


My name is John Livingston. I am the 42nd spokesbird for the Brooklyn Birds Confederation. I am a willet, or you can call me Tringa Semipalmata if you want to use your high school Latin once in a lifetime. I am named after the legendary Jonathan Livingston Seagull. I encourage you to Google him. We willets are the selected species for the spokesbird of the BBC. The first time we were selected for this duty at around 1820 when a few of us confused our migration path and never left Brooklyn again. We were selected specifically because of our inspiring voices that are perfectly suitable for any kind of public speaking. We birds do not host any TED Talks, but if we were, the most-watched ones would have been the ones presented by us willets. You homo sapiens generally write and read our words as will, will, willet, will, will, willet — even though it is much more complicated than that. Anyways, today, I am not here to talk about us, but you. Since the recent COVID-19 pandemic, you, and I am not talking about all of you, but about those voyeuristic perverts of you, got out of control watching our private lives. For the record, we are terribly sorry about the pandemic and glad that this time it wasn’t from us. As a reminder, bats are not birds; they are mammals. For years, we birds tolerated your perverted actions. We, I must say, even liked it up to a certain extent. Bird watching as you call it when kept in limits, is understandable. We, too, use online maps that are connected to your bird watching apps to draw strict borders to define where this vice can happen. These defined places include parks, arboretums, lakes, and some private houses of the filthiest of yours. Parks and so are public places. They are for all of us. We are smart enough to be considerate of our actions in those areas. Even in our mating season, we keep our private lives away from those places. Homes, on the other hand, are a little different. Not all of us are interested in the delicious nuts you leave for us going through hell and high water to keep them away from the squirrels — our sworn enemies. Some of us, especially Instagram influences like red cardinals, have their moral sentiment. They feel ok with special home visits. I must say, it should be very hard to resist those red-cardinal-attracting bird feeders on Amazon. No sir; we are not jealous. Absolutely not. Their body; their choice. Once again, when it is limited to designated areas for a few of you, we like being the center of attention. I must add: “All birds equally love being watched, but red cardinals more equally love being watched.” Now I ask you: where is the problem? Let me explain. All around the world, quarantines, and shelter in place orders were released. And you fine people, very well, obeyed them. When all of you are stuck in your homes, jobless, or with jobs with so-called (flies a foot above the podium and makes air quotes with its feet here) working from suitable jobs, your balconies, patios, and even regular windows become screens to our private lives. What we eat. When we sleep. How we sing. And even, pardon my french, how we mate become the new binge-worthy series to your eyes. Your social media posts and respectable news institutions’ stories that are talking about how we sing, where to find us and so, are encouraging people for this meretricious activity. Amateur bird watchers, who don’t know the rules for respectable interaction, increase their headcount every day. Another pair of eyes appear on our behinds every three seconds. Photographers, who cannot shoot fashion models anymore, zooming into our bedrooms. Musicians, who cannot go to their studios, stealing our songs. People, ordinary people try tricks in all shapes and sizes to get us closer. Now I ask you. No. Now I beg you. Please. A Little bit of privacy.


The shrill ringing of his alarm clock woke Frank at 7.00 am. He attempted to roll over, to thump his hand down on the small button on the top of the clock, to shut the annoying noise off. That was what he intended to do, but this morning it seemed an impossible feat. For some inexplicable reason, he was unable to do this simple thing. Instead, all he could manage was an uncoordinated thrashing of his limbs. He could feel himself beginning to panic, his heart rate accelerating and beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. ‘Calm down’ he told himself ‘ You’re just not awake properly. Take a few deep breathes and try again.’ Meanwhile the clock’s incessant noise continued to fill the room, making it hard to concentrate or think straight. Frank tried again, but all he succeeded in doing was winding his top sheet and blanket around his legs. He needed help, but although he was thinking ‘ Shout for help.’ He was unable to formulate the words, all that emerged from his mouth was an unrecognisable jumble of grunts. ‘I’ve had a stroke.’ And still the relentless, strident ringing of his alarm continued, and then ‘ I’m going to wet myself’. Almost instantaneously, he felt the rush of warm fluid across his thigh, and then the sheet below him become damp, and then wet as a night’s worth of urine escaped from his bladder. It was still only 7.15 am, he was not due across the road at the factory until 8.00 am. ‘It’ll be hours before anyone comes to find me. I’m going to die. ’ Tears of self-pity, dread and frustration slid slowly from the corner of Frank’s eyes, down his temples onto the pillow, which supported his head. Three quarters of an hour later, his sisters, Dolly and Gladys clocked on for another day at work. The middle-aged spinsters wore matching pink gingham, button-through overalls, and turbans fashioned out of head scarves covering their dyed dark brown, tightly permed hair. They both sported a touch of coral lipstick and face powder. Neither were adorned by jewellery. They carried large black handbags, fastened by fake gold clasps. Sensible brown lace-up shoes completed their outfits. They lived together in a modest house, in a neighbouring street to Frank’s home. The three siblings worked in the window factory, in the centre of a garden village. Their homes had been constructed to house the factory’s employees. Most of the works’ employees lived in the village. Consequently, they all knew each other and their families. The two women made their way to the packing room, where they took their place amongst twenty other women along a long table, littered with cardboard and rolls of extra strong, adhesive tape. The radio was blaring and the ‘girls’ often sang along to the latest hits as they worked. There was always a constant barrage of chatter. Frank worked in the adjoining workshop, where he operated machinery, which formed part of the process for constructing metal window frames. At 10.00 am a single whistle sounded, signifying the start of the morning’s ten-minute tea break. The entire workforce made their way to the canteen, where cups and saucers were laid out, alongside metal spouted, glass sugar pourers, teaspoons and plates of biscuits on Formica tables. Groups of workers either sat or stood around talking as they quickly selected and drank their tea. Dolly and Gladys stood with three other women from the packing room, and were discussing the merits of the village’s newly built Co-op shop, when the khaki coated foreman from the workshop approached them. ‘Morning Ladies.’ ‘Morning Mr Spiller.’ ‘Your Frank not well, Dolly?’ ‘As far as I know, he’s alright.’ ‘He’s not shown up today.’ ‘It’s not like him. We’ll pop round at lunchtime and see what’s wrong.’ ‘Thanks girls. Let me know what’s up with him will you.’ Another sharp blow on the whistle signalled that tea break was over. There was an almost musical cacophony, as spoons and crockery were replaced onto the tables, and the employees began to file back to their workstations. Most went in small groups, laughing and continuing conversations as they went. There was the occasional loner, conspicuous as they walked alone amongst the gaggles of women and gangs of men.

 Dolly and Gladys formed part of the procession, huddled together forming a small, tight unit of their own. ‘What do you think’s up with him?’ ‘I’m not psychic.’ Anxiety was making the older Dolly brusque. ‘He seemed alright yesterday.’ ‘Mmm. Well, we’ll just have to wait until lunchtime to find out, won’t we.’ By this time, the sisters were back at their bench, and they resumed their tasks of packing window hinges for transportation. It was repetitive, manual work and so both were able to mull over their concern for their baby brother, Frank. He was four years younger than Dolly, two years younger than Gladys. He had never married, never had a girlfriend as far as the sisters knew, and had continued living in their family home when his sisters left to live independently. When his parents died, he elected to stay in their terraced home. His siblings offered him a place with them, but were secretly relieved when he refused. Their house only had two bedrooms, and so to accommodate him, they would have needed to share a bedroom again – something they had not done since they were in their twenties. Additionally, by this time, they had lived together for over twenty years and had established their own routines and ways of doing things. To suddenly add their brother into the mix, with his trips to the local pub, smoking and sloppy habits, would have represented a major upheaval to their well-ordered lives.            The ever-pragmatic Dolly wondered if they should stop off at the Co-op on their way round to Frank’s. If he had a stomach upset, he might fancy a bit of soup. He never kept anything like that in his larder. And he might be out of cigarettes (not that she approved of the dirty habit), or perhaps he would appreciate a newspaper. He would probably need his bed changing, he didn’t do that nearly often enough, and that would mean taking his washing back to their house. If his house was in the same state as it was last time she dropped in, she would definitely give him a piece of her mind about that. After she’d put it to rights, of course. And so, her mind ran on.             Gladys on the other hand, worried more about why Frank had not arrived at the factory. Everyone was assuming that he was ill, but suppose her brother had disturbed a burglar as he ransacked his home. He could be lying dead from a stab wound! Or he might have fallen down the stairs, broken a leg, and be laying in the hall unable to get to the ‘phone. Or maybe he was ill, but it was something terrible like a heart attack. Her thoughts were beginning to get out of hand.            Nearly, two hours later, when the factory whistle announced that it was lunchtime, the sisters grabbed their handbags from beneath the table, and rapidly left the premises. They crossed the main road, down an alley between two rows of terraces, into Hunnable Gardens, where their parents had lived and raised them. Walking quickly, hardly speaking they came to the low brick wall, which surrounded their brother’s front garden. Frank wasn’t much of a gardener, so it was an unkempt patch of land, sharply contrasting against his neighbours’ gardens of neatly trimmed lawns and well-tended flower beds. His was merely an overgrown area of straggling weeds and long grass, impossible to tell where their father had once planted bedding plants and bulbs and hoed the fine soil. Through the front gate, hanging lopsidedly on one hinge, layers of paint peeling to reveal previous years’ colours, down the short, cracked concrete path to Frank’s front door. Dolly rapped sharply with the knocker, noting as she did so that, her slovenly brother really needed to give it a polish. As she waited for an answer, she glanced at the downstairs and upstairs windows, and noticed that both sets of curtains remained firmly shut. Receiving no reply, she began to root in her voluminous handbag for her brother’s spare key. Finding it she threw open the door, calling.            ‘Frank! Frank! It’s only us.’ As she did so. Laying upstairs in not only damp, but now soiled sheets too, Frank was aware of the knocking at the door. The alarm clock had finally ceased ringing, and he had been laying in the semi-darkness of his room waiting for help to arrive. He knew that his sisters would come at lunchtime. The hours had passed slowly. Periodically, he had tried to move. He’d attempted to push himself up to a sitting position, using his feet and legs, as levers. In another effort, he had endeavoured to roll himself sideways off the bed. All he had managed was an uncontrolled flailing of his legs and arms. Shouting was equally unsuccessful, the only sounds emanating from his mouth were honking mumbles, more like the sounds of an injured animal than a human. He prayed to a god who he no longer believed in. ‘ Dear God. I’m sorry for all the bad things that I’ve done in my life, but please, please help me. If you’ll only rescue me this one time, I’ll come to church every Sunday, and give all my money to charity. I’m begging you, please just let me move or speak. I’ll do anything, if you’ll just help me. Please, please.’ There was no response. In an effort to distract himself from his hopeless situation, he looked around the dimly lit room and tried to count the roses on the faded wallpaper. He tried to remember the names of all the children who he had been to school with. Until finally with relief, he heard the door knocker, then the door being opened and Dolly calling him. In answer, he tried to call and in agitation squirmed on his soiled bedding. He heard his sisters speedily ascending the stairs, their feet beating a rapid tattoo on each tread. Dolly entered the room first, her nose involuntarily wrinkling in distaste, as the noxious combined smells of stale urine and excreta reached her. Gladys behind, peering apprehensively over her sister’s shoulder. As Dolly neared his bed, he noticed shock pass over her features, and her face become ashen beneath its coating of powder. ‘Glad, go and ring for an ambulance.’ He felt remote from reality, as he saw the younger sister, turn, leave the room and head downstairs to the two-tone grey, plastic telephone, which stood, hardly used on the semi-circular hall table. ‘Frank. Can you hear me?’ His reply was a strange, unworldly, hushed howl. Dolly put her hand on his forehead, feeling the clammy heat beneath her palm. Peering into his eyes, she noted his dilated pupils. They were both vaguely aware of their sister downstairs, asking for the ambulance service, and in a shaking voice giving Frank’s address.

‘It’s all right Frankie, we’ll soon get you to hospital.’ He tried to speak again. His answer was the same unintelligible mixture of sounds. ‘Hush now. Don’t try to talk. I’m here.’ Frank realised that Dolly was soothing him, just as she had when he was a small boy. Gladys appeared in the doorway. ‘What’s wrong with him? Is he going to die?’ ‘Shut up, Glad. Make yourself useful, go and put the kettle on.’ The last thing Dolly wanted was a cup of tea, but she needed to keep her sister busy, to stop Gladys’ dread spreading to her and Frank. As it was, Dolly’s legs were trembling and she was fighting to retain her self-control.

It must have been about 15 minutes before they heard the distant wail of a siren, gradually becoming louder. All the time, Dolly stood holding her brother’s limp hand in hers, whilst stroking his forehead with the other. Throughout, she was murmuring comforting phrases to him, such as. ‘There, there. You’ll be ok.’ And ‘Don’t you worry, help is coming.’ She and Frank heard their sister pull open the front door to admit the ambulance crew, before they even knocked. Then, three sets of footsteps coming swiftly up the stairs to the bedroom. Dolly stood to one side, as the green uniformed man and woman spoke to Frank and began their initial assessment. Gladys followed then into the room, and joined her sister standing in the corner. They clung to each, anxiously watching the proceedings. The female paramedic said. ‘I think we’d best get you to hospital, don’t you?’ Her colleague was already leaving the room, presumably to fetch the necessary equipment to transport Frank into the ambulance. ‘I’ll come with him.’ Said Dolly. ‘And me.’ Piped up Gladys. The ambulance woman was firm. ‘Only one person can accompany Frank in the vehicle.’ ‘Run over to the factory, Glad. Tell them what’s happened and see if someone can bring you to the hospital in their car.’ Gladys was used to doing what Dolly told her to, and so left the house, heading back to their place of employment. Fourteen days later, the two sisters sat side by side, stiffly upright, in a small side-room in the hospital, their knees squeezed tight together, their handbags on top, hands firmly clutching them. They were perched on wooden framed, plastic covered, cushioned, utilitarian ‘easy chairs.’ The walls of the room were grey painted and decorated with posters, which demonstrated the correct way to wash your hands, and gave information about how to contact your local GUM clinic, if you believed that you had contracted a sexually transmitted disease. They could hear the muted sounds of hospital life, as the wheels of trollies and wheelchairs squeaked passing by in the corridor outside, hurried footsteps on the linoleum floor, and staff conversing. The room had that unmistakable hospital aroma of cheap disinfectant, over-cooked cabbage and surgical spirit. A young, white coated doctor sat opposite them, earnestly explaining. ‘Your brother’s condition is now stable. We’ve done all we can for him. There has been some improvement. He has regained use of his right hand and arm.’ ‘Will he get any better?’ queried Dolly. ‘We can never be sure with strokes, but any differences will be slight and slow. He’s ready to be discharged. We’ll start looking for a suitable nursing home, or if you have private health care, they may provide somewhere.’ ‘Can’t he come home?’ ‘He can, but he needs 24-hour care.’ ‘We’ll do it.’ The sister’s returned home. Gladys moved into Dolly’s room. A hospital bed was delivered and installed into Glady’s old room. Dolly went to the factory and spoke to the Human Resources department, explaining that she needed to hand her notice in with immediate effect. Everyone in the factory and its surrounding village knew of the siblings’ situation, and so the woman who she spoke to was sympathetic. She was only two months away from retirement age. The company generously agreed to pay the company pension early without incurring any penalties. The woman from HR added.            ‘Once Frank is home, and things have settled down a little, a member of our staff will come over and see you. She specialises in welfare rights, and will help you to claim any benefits that you might be entitled to.’            Three days after the bed’s delivery, hospital transport brought Frank home. Gladys returned to work. Initially, it felt strange being in the packing room without her sister, but she began to relish the feeling of being an individual. Community nurses visited and taught Dolly how to care for Frank. She reflected that she had always wanted a baby and finally her wish had been granted.       By the time, Miss Baines from the factory called, Dolly was managing independently. She showed the young woman up to Frank’s room. He sat propped up on a pristine pillow on a bed of crisp white sheets. He was facing a window, and in one corner of the room, a small television sat on a card table. A transistor radio quietly played music alongside it.            ‘You’ve got a visitor Frank, Miss Baines from the factory.’ The young woman pulled up a conveniently placed stool to the bedside, and sat down. She took Frank’s hand and awkwardly shook it. He looked at her, and thought how pretty she was.            ‘Now, I’ve brought some forms to fill in. I just need to check a few details. Is that, ok?’ Frank realised that it was a long time since anyone had spoken directly, especially in anything other than a tone reserved for imbeciles. He listened as Dolly explained the extent of his disability to Miss Baines. Her heard her outline: if she heard him shuffling in the bed, she knew that he had soiled himself, and, if he made any vocal noise, it usually meant that he was hungry. He stared at the vibrant, young woman beside him and began to cry. She noticed.            ‘Oh, Poor thing. I think he’s crying.’ Dolly replied.            ‘He does that sometimes. It’s just his eyes watering.’ Frank thought back to how he had taken for granted simple pleasures: changing the tv channel, walking to the shop to buy a paper, lighting a fag. Now, he was trapped in his body, with no means of communication. His sisters looking after him like they used to their baby dolls when they were young. He thought: ‘ This is my worst nightmare.’


On cue, color palettes from LED lights splashed the stage, adorning it with the spirit of a concert. Three high-floating, massive projector screens bore the scene for all to see. Those in attendance could sense that the mystical exhibition was creeping towards its climax as devoted members of the congregation began to hiss spirals of spells to other realms. "Holy Spirit, you are welcome here!" cried a faithful voice through the loudspeakers hanging from the rafters. The carving of tongues and chimes of chants came to rock the place. Then the setting was accented by a familiar sequence that the uninitiated fellow may have considered bizarre as a man (who was later whispered to have been touched by The Lord himself) ran headlessly back and forth behind the pulpit in a sort of transcendental frenzy. A few brothers and sisters halted their devotion to track their sib until he was was secured in a coddled, sobering embrace. And when the crowd of mere mortals could perceive the presence of the heavens and all her angels to be no closer, a body disappeared, quite like magic, submerged underwater, saved by grace. But magic is not of God. Actually some would argue that magic is actually something quite contradictory to God - something demonic. At least that is what Joseline would always express (quite plainly) to her daughter Leslie. "Think about it," she'd say, "Harry Potter, voodoo, tarot cards, Stephen King novels . . . Let me tell you something - all that stuff is working with dark magic, evil spirits." Leslie had a brimful reservoir of childhood memories of being forced to change the television channel whenever any so called incantation or magic word was uttered. Oh the unprocessed embarrassment of having to throw away certain gifted toys because they carried the "spirit of evil" like some sort of anime talisman . . . cringe! Leslie caught on early that her mother eagerly adopted these and other arbitrary (and borderline compulsive) measures from like-minds in her women's ministry group at the church. Leslie was just happy that her mother had a group to socialize with. Joseline, heathen turned God-fearing pastor-in-training, was the single mother of a bright, (and by her own estimation) naive, and expecting, young adult. Naturally, Joseline's present and most principal concern involved the preservation of Leslie's soul, so it was necessary for them to attend service at least weekly together. Joseline's hope was that Leslie would one day catch the spirit and rise from her seat in the pews. That she would approach the altar patiently but purposefully, denounce evil, and feel compelled to partake in the ritual of purification and renewal. Joseline's fear of the day that the universe had a chance to impose its will on Leslie swelled in intensity with each passing day void of the successful conversion of the girl's faith. Death drew nearer with each passing day, and Leslie's soul tally was currently held by dark forces. But whenever Joseline's efforts fell the flattest and her daughter's apprehension seemed the dullest, she would channel the divine and necessary perseverance from the rallying words of Pastor Lyon's call to service for concerned parents like herself . . . "The Church is under attack. It needs the Lord's champions . . . Your household needs a champion - your children need a champion! We must reverse the trend . . . the self-medicating . . . the undisguised participation in the mystical practices! Won't you derail this generational manhunt for false gods and masters. Enlist! The Lord is drafting YOU! Dedicate yourself to the crusade to enlighten those who know not what eternal pitfalls their disobedience and lack of discipline fates for them . . ." Pastor Lyon had a way about inciting faithful (especially if the shoe fit.) For Joseline the words echoed from memory despite inhibitions that sometimes left her feeling unfit for such a monumental assignment. Joseline traced her unease directly to her conscious recognition that Leslie was perhaps her most formidable challenge yet - one she was destined to confront. You see, Joseline was quite familiar with the consequences associated with being jammed on rewind, caught up in the same unfavorable experiences. If Leslie continued to walk this earth unsheathed by the absolute protection of The Lord then she was fated to be trapped within an endless dust devil of her own making. Joseline would know, for if there was ever a cosmic weighing of her deeds in this lifetime, one would surmise that she was no saint by even the most unassuming of definitions. Although, Joseline certainly be the first to attest to the idiocy of her past transgressions. "Now I was caught up in a lot of questionable crap in my past, and I always knew The Lord, but I chose not to do right. I was dumb, but that don't mean you have to go through the same path if it can be avoided." "Do as I say and not as I do," was both an unspoken rule and a household mantra for Leslie growing up. But Joseline had vaulted a hundred times the days of when she would succumb to the unrelenting temptations eroding society's insatiable palate. She survived some of the most traumatizing and provoking of beginnings produced by the infinite cosmos. Long before Joseline's inaugural years of adulthood she was rather unresisting to the insensible lure of substance misuse and the muddled bliss of impassioned sex. These and other deviances were modeled with emphasis and annotation in all her areas of nurture (not nature.) Joseline never claimed to be a saint. But she knew was blessed because no federal detention stint or near-death experience was required for her to align with herself and her self's purpose. She wanted the same for Leslie. The Lord was with her now just as he'd always been. But The Lord needed to understand one thing about his champions: it was one thing to raise their kids to be kind and productive adults, but quite another to ensure that their souls would be spared an eternity in hell. Joseline reckoned that the soul of her daughter Leslie was bound for limbo at best. That girl was just so naive! Despite all sorts of attempts to empower her daughter by urging her to venture on the path of least resistance, all she had to do was say a few words, take a dip underwater, and submit her life to Jesus - simple! Joseline prayed over her daughter, encouraged her participation in prayer missions, and required she attend service weekly (at minimum) in hopes that one day Leslie would approach the altar patiently but purposefully, denounce evil, and feel compelled to partake in the ritual of purification and renewal. Yet Leslie was stubborn and remained slightly half-involved in religious affairs. But whenever Joseline's efforts fell the flattest and her daughter's apprehension seemed the dullest, she would channel the divine and necessary perseverance from the rallying words of sisters who would encourage her just as they needed encouraging . . . "Leslie is not that unlike these countless other unimaginative kids running around here needing saving," assured Sister Tiffany in the women's ministry one night. The other ladies were always supportive of Joseline's efforts. "We have the most profane of all generations on our hands," interposed another sister empathetically. "Remember what Pastor Lyon was preaching on the East? The uncultured influences with their meditations and birth charts? Disagreeable forms of all kind are being used to build a wedge between our kids and Christ. We have to be patient, but firm in dealing with these issues." Leslie perceived her mother as being more firm than anything. The question of the day was usually, "do you follow God or do you follow your pseudosciences?" Leslie did not see it as her mission in this life to engage in a battle of words with her mother about religion or the occult. Older folks were usually pretty settled in their ways and viewpoints. So, when Leslie's patience for her mother's time-honored viewpoints grew the thinnest and her craving for engagement swelled to the brink of implosion, she would lie in bed rubbing her squishy stomach, communicating with the hallow gurgles. "Don't you worry. You'll arrive with your own capacity for divinity," she vowed. Leslie would speak to her baby to remind it of its own magic, but also to prevent herself from reminding her mother that her own parents had once tried enforcing their own demands in the form of certain familiar and often overly-excessive, devout parameters. "Grandma means well, but I don't know why she can't realize she playing the same, old exhausted tune." In the end, Leslie active listening when her mother preached without interruption usually guaranteed Leslie would survive another day without erupting. While Joseline had trouble reaching Leslie, the girl outwardly acknowledged her self-inflicted dilemma. Leslie's pursuit for sensual pleasure usually contradicted her search for self knowledge, diverting her from practicing the spiritual exercises that she silently criticized the church for not promoting. Such a nauseating routine. Fastened to a pendulum swaying to and from detachment, in and out of cognitive dissonance. "I know what I need to do to set a good example for you," she'd say rubbing her hard, bloated belly. "Mommy is just stuck in her ways sometimes." … The two ladies settled into their respective routines shortly after arriving home from the evening. Before descending the stairs Leslie could clearly make out trumpets and drums coming from the living room. On her way to the kitchen she confirmed that the gospel was coming from a music video on the Christian Rock channel. The room was empty while light pierced through the cracked door to the garage. She assumed her mother was knocking out another set in her workout. Leslie moseyed to the kitchen, her eyes fixated on the screen. She microwaved her dinner and sat at the table just as Joseline entered the kitchen muscles pumped, chest sky-high, eyes loud and of ice. She nodded at Leslie and stood beside the entertainment center in the living room. She paused there suspended in a celestial stupor her hands on her hips. Leslie ate with her head down. "Let me ask you something, love," Joseline said meeting her daughter's eyes. "Me and the ladies in the ministry were discussing this in our group. You know, any one of us can go at anytime. Think about it . . . would you be spared from an eternity in hell? When are you going to get saved?" Leslie stuffed her mouth, pondering the thought. "I know it's heavy stuff, but we have to have this talk." Trumpets and drums presided the room. Joseline was kindled. She approached Leslie and braced on the back of an adjacent chair. "Now God forbid, but if you got into a car accident tomorrow, do you know where you would go? Where the baby would go??" she asked mournfully. Leslie swallowed softly and shrugged her shoulders. "I don't really know mom," she replied. A conceding exhale escaped Joseline, and she returned to the garage with a little slouch in her posture. Leslie stomached a couple more bites of food while the clanking of weights pealed through the door despite the trumpets and drums.


“Oh! There it is!” Jacy said.

Finally, she pulled out a golden ring, covered in mucus. She reached in again and pulled out several pieces of uncooked pasta, five lego pieces, three screws and a nut, six beads of different colors, a piece of blue string, a button, a red pencil eraser, and a spring from a pen.

She reached in deeper with her forceps and pulled out a hair clip. “Aha!” she said, “That should do it.” But he shook his head no and wailed. There was more.

“This might be uncomfortable,” the doctor said. The shiny forceps went into his nose. There was something up there, definitely. Milo whimpered but stayed still as she pulled out a small pom-pom. “Is that all?” she asked. He gently shook his head.

She reached into a drawer and pulled out a piece of silvery metal. It had two long legs like a pair of chopsticks attached at the end, but longer. “Let’s try the forceps,” she said. She put them back. No, that wasn’t going to work. She looked over at the tray and picked up the scalpel. It was sharp - if she had to cut, she would do it. But Milo squealed as best he could and backed away. “Okay, okay,” she said. “Don’t worry.” The doctor used her light and looked up in there. There was certainly something stuck inside. It looked white and fluffy. “I can see it!” she said. “I’ll get it out in a jiffy.” “He can’t breathe through his nose,” Jacy explained. “He hasn’t been talking all day. Maybe...he...put something...in there?” she offered, tentatively. After what seemed an eternity, with Milo wheezing the whole time, the doctor came in and introduced herself. “What seems to be the problem?” she asked, looking at Jacy. The nurse checked his temperature (normal), and his pulse (a little high, to be expected under the circumstances), and his height (pretty tall for his age). “The doctor will be in shortly,” she said.

Jacy helped Milo to sit on the paper-covered bed, and sat on the little chair herself. She patted his hand comfortingly.

Just then, the nurse brought them into a small room with a bed and a chair and told them to wait.

At the front desk, the receptionist only asked their names and had them sit on the chairs, where Jacy read “The Nose Book” to Milo until he started to squirm.

Jacy hailed a cab. “Hurry!” she told the driver, and gave him mom’s credit card. He didn’t flinch - he’d seen lots of kids running around town before. They got there in record time.

“Oh no!” she said. “Come on, we’ve got to get you to the doctor!” He walked over to the lego bin and picked up another one. This time, she saw it go straight into his nose. He smiled, then cried loudly, in a strange hiccupy voice.

“What are you doing, Milo?” she asked. He did seem a little blue. His mouth was open and he was panting.

But now Milo was dancing around on one leg, and trying to get a lego near his face. He wasn’t able to talk at all.

She suddenly remembered the ring and looked around. A moment ago, it had been on her hand, and now it wasn’t anywhere. Well, it must be around here somewhere. She would find it later.

Then she did the dishes, tidied up their toys, swept the floor and made mac and cheese. But Milo wasn’t hungry. He just mumbled to himself.

Jacy decided she’d played by herself enough. She needed to be a good big sister. She played legos with Milo, they did some drawings, and they even made bead bracelets. Mom would be proud. She tried on the earrings, and the necklace, and finally, the ring. It was the most beautiful, and fit her finger a little loosely. She took them all off except the ring, walking around with it and admiring her hand.

Mom’s dresser was a place of magic. She dusted herself with the powder, and sprayed herself with the perfume. She walked around in the heels and draped herself with the scarves. Then she saw the jewelry box.

Mom had left her old purse on the sofa. Inside, Jacy found a credit card. She stuck it in her pocket secretly. Then she walked upstairs.

“I will!” Jacy promised, and shut the door and squealed. She immediately ran to the cookie jar and ate four, letting Milo out of his playpen and giving him a few, which he stuffed clumsily into his face.

“Okay... I’ll only be gone a couple of hours. The number’s on the fridge if you need me. Look after your brother,” she said, giving her a kiss. Her heels clacked down the walk and into the waiting cab. She turned back to say, “Be good!” “Oh Mom! Of course! I’m old enough, please?” she begged. “Do you think you can manage on your own? Really?” Mom asked, looking skeptical and hopeful at once.

“I don’t need one! I can take care of him!” Jacy said, jumping up and down. “I’m just going to call the babysitter,” Mom said, picking up the phone. Jacy’s face fell.

“Thanks, honey. I’m headed to a meeting, I need to go for the evening and I can’t leave you here alone.” She dumped out her purse and transferred the items to a different one.

“Wow Mom,” Jacy said. “You look great!”

Mom walked down the stairs in a dress and high heels, lipstick on her face and hair all shiny and neat.

Milo was toddling around in his playpen trying to stack blocks. They kept falling, and he found that hilarious. She just watched him for a while, then continued coloring.

“I’ll just put this away and get dressed. Watch Milo for a moment, won’t you honey?” Mom asked. Jacy nodded. There wasn’t much to do.

Jacy’s eyes shone. It was really lovely. She couldn’t wait. “You Grandma gave me this,” Mom said. “And someday soon, it will be yours.” It was adult sized, but shiny. On the sides were inscribed the words Peace, Love, and Happiness.

“Jacy, honey, I want to show you something,” Mom said, holding a shiny golden ring.


I grew up in a small community in Louisiana right on the river. We had many old wives’ tales, ghost stories and the occasional boogeyman. The tale that always fascinated me the most was the story of The Jabo. The legend goes that a man named Benjamin Jabo, a veteran of the Civil War, lived in the expansive forest that surrounded our community. He stayed to himself and never really ventured into town, preferring to live off the land. One winter, several people started going missing in the woods. A search party was formed, and they set out to look for the missing people. On the way, they decided to go out and check on Benjamin Jabo and tell him of the disappearances. When they reached his shack, they were invited inside where Benjamin was cooking a big pot of stew over the fire. “Well Ben, we were just comin’ to check on ya and let ya know ‘bout all them people that’s goin’ missing lately,” one of the men said. “Well, thank ya kindly boys, y’all find anything yet?” Ben asked. “No sir, and we been looking all damn day. I don’t rightly think we’re gonna find much if we find anything at all.” “I reckon a cougar got ‘em, its been a tough winter and I wouldn’t put it past a starving animal to go after anything that moves.” “Y’all have been out all day and I’m sure y’all ain’t had lunch, why don’t y’all sit a spell? I got plenty of stew.” Ben offered. So, all the men sat with old Ben Jabo in his shack and ate and ate and ate until all the stew was gone. “Why Ben,” the leader of the party said, “this is some of the best stew I ever had! What’s in it?” “Oh, just some squirrel and some plants from the forest,” Ben replied. One of the men went outside to relieve himself and, on the way back in, saw that the door to the smokehouse was slightly ajar. As he went over to close it, he got a good look in the door. Inside were bones and a few slop buckets of viscous red fluid and internal organs. Now none of this was out of the ordinary or even mildly concerning as it was winter, and you couldn’t very well leave it out without attracting predators. But what really chilled him to the bone was the three human ribcages on hooks hanging from the ceiling. He ran out as fast as he could and threw up. And that’s when it hit him, Old Ben had been having a hard winter and had resorted to hunting humans. And eating them. He ran in the shack and cried, “It’s him! He’s- he’s been EATING the missing people!” There was a brief scuffle, and the men carried Ben Jabo back to town to stand trial. Benjamin Jabo had gone crazy from isolation and PTSD. When he started having a hard time finding food, he resorted to hunting people from the community and eating them. He was found guilty and was hanged the next day. They took his body back to the shack and burned the whole place to the ground. And so, the legend of the Jabo was born. Every child in our town has heard the story at least once, and it’s said when anyone goes missing that the Jabo got them. I felt sorry for the man in a way. He was alone with no one to turn to. Sometimes, I liked to think that, if I had been alive then, that I could have been his friend and none of that would’ve happened. Through a lot of hard work and A LOT of saving, I had enough money to buy the parcel of land that the story supposedly took place on and decided to camp out there over the weekend. I invited a few people that I work with who are into the paranormal, and they jumped at the opportunity to be the first to investigate the place. I was glad of the company because even though I loved the legend; I was scared shitless about what we might see. As we made camp, Bill and Frank were setting up equipment to catch any signs of the Jabo or other strange things we might see. “Holy shit,” Sally said as they finished pitching the tent, “did y’all ever think that we’d get the chance to investigate this place? Let alone be the very first ones.” “No, this is like a dream come true,” Bill replied, “hunting the Jabo.” As night fell, we had a great time breaking some cold beer and swapping ghost stories. They decided it was time for them to start their ghost hunt, and I bid them goodnight as I got into my tent and drifted off to sleep. As I slept, I had horrible nightmares about the Jabo. He was a mountain of a creature with pale blue skin and soulless black pits where his eyes should be. He was chasing us, and he moved quick as lightning through the shadows surrounding us in the dying firelight. I watched in horror as he grabbed frank and ripped his throat out with his razor-sharp teeth, blood gushing out of the wound at a sickening pace. As we ran, Sally stumbled and fell, and he was on her in a blink. He was strangling her and, when she tried to push him off, started biting chunks of flesh off her arms, splintering bone as he went. Bill and I ran back to camp and as I opened the car door, I realized I couldn’t hear Bill behind me. I turned, and he was just standing there staring. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth as he sank to the ground and exposed the gaping meaty hole in his back. The Jabo stood behind him, holding Bill’s heart in his hand. When I woke up, I stepped out of my tent and into the bright morning light. I realized I was alone. I checked the tents, the car and the woods, but Frank, Bill, and Sally were nowhere to be found. As I returned to camp to pack up and go get help, I saw him. The Jabo stood by my tent. He looked just like I had dreamed, his impossibly tall frame dwarfing my 6’2” form. As I opened my mouth to scream, the Jabo spoke. “There is no need for that. No one would hear you anyway.” “Why did you kill them?!” I screamed at him. He shook his head and smiled, “I didn’t kill anyone,” he stated. And with that, he was gone. I stared with disbelief at the spot where he had stood. What did he mean, he didn’t kill anyone? If that was true, where were they? I headed to the car but stopped in my tracks when I saw Bill’s camera lying on the ground. It was dead, so I took it to the car and plugged it in. When it came back on, I saw there was video footage from last night. The first bit that I watched was part of the ghost hunting that was done last night. Then, there was movement in the corner of the screen and that’s when the screaming started. It was exactly how I had dreamt it. Down to every detail except… Bill. When he hit the ground, the camera tumbled out of his hand and faced the night sky. I caught my breath as the camera focused on the creature as it leaned over it, eating Bill’s heart. I let out a sob as I realized what was happening. I recognized the features instantly because they were my own. I guess that was why I always felt pity for Benjamin Jabo; we were one and the same. We knew what we were doing was wrong but, sitting there watching the video of me eating my friend’s heart, my mouth started to water.


I hung out with my sister today. My sister and I met at the entrance to the cemetery today. We don't hang out a lot, but once a month we make our way, walking miles through the silent twists and turns to the mausoleum in the middle of the cemetery. "How's the last month been? Any news?" she asked as she picks at her split ends. At this moment, I am very jealous of her luscious hair. "Fine" I say, dodging a stick in the middle of the path, trying not to embarrass myself. We typically have to fit the last month of our lives in the short window. We try to keep the updates brief, making sure not to reminisce. I love my sister, but reminiscing hurts too much. Despite our long, hard lives, she looks youthful - her skin less weathered by the sun as opposed to mine, which is covered in sunspots and wrinkles. I’ve aged a lot in the past few years. “How are the kids?” I ask her. Her kids are teenagers now, I take a second to consider that I should stop calling them kids, but the thought quickly dissipates. “I don’t see them too much, unfortunately. You know how teenagers are, always so wrapped up in their own lives. I’d like to say I taught them well, but Mike has always been the strong one. I don’t know how he does it somedays.” “Mike is a good man,” I respond, “and you’re a great mother, Millie” She looks at me with doe eyes as we continue on the path. “No one talks about how hard it is to watch your kids grow,” I turn to her, “just last week my Sara turned 13. She’s starting middle school. At least I get to see this graduation.” She sighs but doesn’t continue the conversation. I think it’s hard for her, too, and I understand. The usual suspects are out and about. The graveyard keeper waves, and I wave back, still pouting from the thought of our kids getting older. The mausoleum comes into view. As we approach, she looks at me and asks “Do you remember the house we lived in growing up?” and I stop in my tracks. I did remember it, very well. We were poor, and we lived by the steel mill. “Yes – I do. Why do you ask?” I look at her, puzzled, as she breaks our unspoken rule. “Someone was dropped off here today and grew up down the road from us. I talked to them earlier today. They had the same brain cancer I did. I know our parents tried the best they could but living by the mill was bad news. I always knew it.” I burst out into tears. I didn’t want to tell her about the article that came out in the paper a few weeks before regarding recent deaths and how the families insisted a study be done on the drinking water in our hometown. We know enough now to know that the environment was the cause of her brain cancer, but that didn’t need to weigh on her. I continued to walk into the mausoleum. I turned to the spot where she stood to tell her that my chemo was unsuccessful, and I’ve only been given a few months to live, but she no longer stood there, her spot replaced with a chill. I walk to the grave on the wall and read the engraving. “Camilla Teeter – Mother, Wife, Sister, Friend. Fighter.


Love Notes From Afghanistan My husband Paul had been serving in Afghanistan for almost a year now and, oh, how the kids and I missed him. Sure, we could Face Time once a week when he wasn’t out on a mission, but I craved his smell and the warmth of his breath on my face. For the kids, it was a bedtime cuddle. Willow our youngest was  fifteen-months old now. He'd missed her first tooth, the first time she took a step and many other things that dad's enjoyed. She would and run to the laptop calling  say Dada, Dada, she didn’t understand. Eight-year-old Jake did though. He missed playing ball with his dad and trips to our cabin by the lake. He and Paul collected firewood each day and lit the ‘biggest bonfire in the world’. I tried to fill in for Paul. ‘Don’t even try, Mum, you can’t do it like Dad.' That hurt. I settled for a gas burner inside the cabin and Jakes’ best friend, Alex, joined us. Watching Jake struggle broke my heart. The children couldn’t possibly understand the ways in which I missed Paul. A quirky raising of an eyebrow was all it took for me to put the kids to bed early and curl up with him in front of a good movie, with a single malt in one hand and his arm around my neck. Then we’d make our way into a night of the most exquisite lovemaking. And his cheeky grin when Jake asked us the next morning why we left our clothes ‘all over the place’. Most of all though was his gift of being able to calm my fears and convince me things would be okay. Like when I was doing my PhD at Cornell. I was missing timelines for my thesis. ‘They’ll throw me off the course, Paul.’ ‘No they won’t, how about I take the kids to the cabin for a couple of days. You can have the house and all the time you want to work on it. But first call your supervisor, she’ll understand.’ Paul. The voice of reason. And then he was gone. Each night I’d hug his pillow and breathe in his scent, relive the lovemaking. Tears fell because my heart could no longer take the pain. Like rain they fell until the clouds could no longer take its heaviness. I let them flow, hoping for a brighter tomorrow. Paul wasn’t there to catch them. I smiled every time a found one of the many ‘love notes’ he’d hidden around the house before he left. I wanted them to last so Jake and I allowed ourselves just one each day. They finally dried up, as did my tears. I kept everyone of them in a jewellery box. They were my jewels, my gems. Taco Bell had to wait until Paul got back.  It was his and Jake’s ‘special’ time together. We passed there every Sunday on our way to church. Jake would look the other way. ‘The next time your Dad takes you there, Jake, will be when he’s back home with us for good. You’ll like that.’ He'd nod. We belonged to Oceanside Christian Fellowship, a church that Paul and his family had attended; where we got married and had the children baptised. Pastor Bob Darling kept an eye on us. ‘Your Paul’s a hero, Alice. He’s doin’ his country proud.’ Prayers were said, not just for Paul but for all those serving in what Bob termed the “most outrageous conflict that America should never have got involved in.”  This got him into trouble with some of the older members of the church who held the staunch belief that a man should “live and die for his country”.  But this was twenty-fifteen and those whose loved ones were fighting for world peace understood. Each Thursday evening the families would gather at Bob’s house for a barbecue. The kids played together and we Mums talked about anything and everything, just not the war. Karen Jones had just had twins, Mavis Richmond had started up a women’s garden group. An invitation to join was prized by many. I was happy doing my volunteer work in the church office. As much as I tried not to, I'd look across the lawn to where the men congregated searching for Paul’s face. Every Sunday afternoon, the kids and I sat in front of the laptop waiting for the much longed for ‘ping’ that announced Face Time and our chat with Paul. Sometimes it didn’t ‘ping’, that’s when I panicked. I prayed for an email some days later. It was better than nothing. My family were in Florida but Paul’s folks lived close by, we were close. One day instead of the post being left in the mailbox, there was a knock on the front door.

‘Here missus, I think you’ll like what I have for you,’ the postman said as he handed me a securely wrapped package with the official seal of the US army in one corner. I took it inside. ‘Jake, come see what your Mom has.’ Jake was jumping out of his skin. I was trembling at the thought that loving, caring Paul had held the parcel himself and would have been just as excited as the rest of us. I pictured him carefully choosing suitable gifts and imagined the exotic sounds of the afghan markets he had so vividly described. I handed Jake the parcel while I went to wake Willow from her morning nap. When I came back, he had it up to one ear. ‘Something’s rattling inside, hurry and open it, Mom.’ It took what seemed an age to cut through all the tape and wrapping. Finally it gave way and I let Jake finish opening it. He pulled out a bag of marbles, a small car and his favourite of all, a pack of notes written by Paul. ‘Would you hide these for Jake, Alice, I know how much he loves finding them.’ Willow’s gift was a traditional Afghani doll. She took it in her arms and hugged it. ‘Dada, Dada.’ It tore at my heart. The last gift, a small box tied with a dark red ribbon, came with its own message. ‘This is for you, Alice, hope you like it.’ I opened the box to find the most beautiful pale blue lapis lazuli ring. ‘I chose this one because it matches your eyes.’ I wore the ring every day. And the look of delight on Jake’s face when he found one of the notes I’d hidden made my heart sing. Even from thousands of miles away, Paul was still with us. A cascade of gold from the sycamores heralded fall. We spent as much time as possible at the lake before it became snowed in. I saw Paul everywhere out there. Jake tried hard to make up for his dad. He cut wood, stoked the fire and even got the boat in from the middle of the lake and secured it into the shed. We played marbles on the rough wooden table in the kitchen. My beautiful ring caught the weak sunlight coming through the window. It shone like a star. Willow had her doll. Paul’s folks joined us for the Columbus Day weekend. We laughed at stories about Paul when he was a kid and looked through an old photo album. I saw Jake in every picture of Paul. We never broke the golden rule – no sad talk. Snow began to fall in early November. I laughed at the snowman Jake built and called ‘Dad’, beside which was ‘Mom’. A smaller one was Willow. ‘What about you, Jake?’ ‘Dad always does mine.’ I put my arm around his shoulders. ‘He’ll be here next winter, I promise. Let’s do it together.’ We made snowballs and threw them at each other. ‘You’re the man of the house now, Jake, we’ll build one for you as big as your dad.’ He liked that. Paul’s deployment was only ever to be three months but that became four and so on. I kept a video diary of the kids. Willow’s first steps, the first time she said Dada and best of all, when she coloured the hallway walls with one of my lipsticks. Jake and I had a devil of a time removing it. Jakes drama teacher arranged to have a professional video done of the school play. Jake, the Artful Dodger, was very proud of himself. As the months passed, I couldn’t help but notice how much Jake was becoming like his Dad. He was a quiet, caring boy who loved playing pranks and especially loved those secret notes Paul sent in his monthly parcel to us. 'When I have my own family I'm going to do the same thing for them.' Camp Alamo near Kabul where Paul was stationed, sat in a valley surrounded by high mountains. As winter came on, Paul was often dressed in a heavy coat with ear muffs now attached to his cap, much the same as Jake and Willow wore when they went outside. As the weather closed in, communication from Kabul was severely interrupted. Instead of the weekly FaceTime call we had to make do with an email every now and then. And then there was nothing. I scoured the newspapers for any updates on any escalation of hostilities. I contacted the Department of Defence, to no avail. I stayed upbeat for the kids’ sake but the constant knot in my stomach and night-time tears overwhelmed me. Jake must have heard me one night because he came into my bed and cuddled up to me. ‘I’m frightened, Mom.’ And he began to cry. My faith in our Lord comforted me. Pastor Bob sent a group of women from church to visit me. Though well intentioned, their constant chatter about grandfathers who’d fought in the war in the Pacific or, in the case of a couple of older women, son’s who were going to sign up did nothing to comfort me. Neither did their ‘small minded’ talk about women in the community who had transgressed in the most trivial way.

‘Why, Tanya - May Wilson didn’t come to Bible reading last week. Said she had something important crop up. It was a visit to the hairdresser, I known that for sure because we have the same hairdresser and she told me.’ I’d had enough. The following day when I was at the office with Pastor Bob, I asked him to suggest to them that they find other ways to help not just me, but all the women in our church who had serving husbands. I breathed a sigh of relief when one after the other, they rang to offer their apologies for the next ‘get together’. And then the news that I’d dreaded came. Paul had been killed in action. If ever I needed my faith it was then. Telling Jake was impossible. Paul’s folks helped me with that. He spent days shut in his room. I allowed him time off school. Willow who was about to have her second birthday clung onto her doll. ‘Dada, Dada, Dada dead.’ Had I mentioned that word in her presence? Days turned into weeks before my beautiful Paul’s body came home. The three of us plus Paul’s folks stood on the tarmac at New Castle Air, National Guard Base in Delaware as his cask, draped in the US flag, made it’s way slowly into a hangar set up for repatriations. Jake saluted as the cask went by. We would never get over Paul’s death but life had to go on. Jake was chosen to play the role of Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol, the school’s Xmas play. I was so proud. Learning lines and making costumes were a welcome distraction from the loneliness. The craving for Paul’s body wrapped around mine, and the endless nights of lovemaking were unbearable. And there were the little things. His cheeky grin, and warm cuddles. What we as a family missed most of all were those tiny notes, sometimes written on pieces of used envelopes or a page from his notebook which still had the indentations of his hand writing etched into the surface. Jake wanted me to continue that tradition. ‘When Willow is old enough to enjoy them,’ was my way of saying no. It could never be the same. The night of the first performance of arrived. Willow, who would not let her doll out of her grasp, laughed when she saw Jake dressed up as Scrooge. Then she held up her doll, ‘Dada, Dada,’ she repeated over and over again. I took a deep breath hoping to hjold back tears. When we got to the school, Jake was reluctant to get out of the car. Finally I talked him into it. I was waiting in the wings with him to go on stage. I looked into the audience. Paul’s Mom was holding Willow. I waved to them. Willow lifted the doll in the air. When it was time for Jake to make his entrance, he hesitated. ‘Go on Jake, I think there’s someone watching, look up to heaven.’ He smiled and did as I said, just as Paul would have done in the same situation, then strode onto the stage. I could almost hear the intake of breath when he put his hand into one pocket and pulled out one of Paul’s notes. One I’d been keeping for just the right time. The one that said ‘keep smiling.’


By: Levita Zhou One Morning, I saw the dawn So I woke up with a yawn And then I remembered That today was my birthday

The trill of excitement

Made me jump out of my bed The scent of my breakfast

Was just as aroma as cotton On the way downstairs

I ran as fast as I could With butterflies in my stomach

I ran faster than ever The balloons in the air Made my house go vivid It’s like they were running away So I chased after them Back in the living room My parents were waiting To say the big “Happy Birthday” Before I made my wish I wish that I could See the world underwater

In my big, long basement

A large place to explore When I went back to my room Something magic happened

It turned into an underwater world

Just like the one in my wish There was also a wooden door

Behind a big, blue fish

When I went inside the door I saw a flying horse Up in the sky I was flying with the horses Up above the ground I could see everything

I went through another door

That was right behind a horse

I saw a polar bear So I knew I was in the Arctic

Its fur was softer than anything

Those big eyes to look in the distance

With a nose to hunt for food And big claws to kill the seal On an ice cube Stood a big door I went inside

To take a look

There was a berry

Not just an ordinary berry

Not a blueberry

But a rainbow berry

It stood nice and tall

Like the Washington Monument

I saw two doors What were both for? I walked forward

To take a closer look One says Back And one says Forward

I’m certainly not ready to go home I want to continue my adventure

But what if it goes on forever? So I decided to go home At first, I collected

Some magic dust So I can come back again And finish my adventure

I needed to go home To open my presents

I went through the Back door

And back home I went At first, nothing happened

But in a blink of an eye I was on the sofa couch My parents were in the dining room

I said “Hi” to them And ate my lunch There were chicken nuggets

With yellow honey mustard

All this was a real adventure

Not a dream I thought A really fun adventure

Then I saw something on the floor

It was a key charm With all the adventures I had on it When I went to open my presents

There weren’t any! The present must have been the adventure! Thank you mom and dad. You are the best. I love you! I murmured

This adventure was amazing

It will last me forever I’ll never forget about it It was so fun! On the next day

I was feeling blue

What should I do? Should I finish my adventure? I chose “Yes” I should finish

My amazing adventure

Right now!! I got the magic dust

I saved from yesterday

It was still there “Phew” I am so glad I sprinkled it around my room And then the magic happened

I saw the big Saturn

I was in space I floated like the stars And explored the galaxy

I looked around To find a door Behind Neptune I found a navy door I went inside And a bunny jumped

I played with the bunnies

And learned a lot

I watched them jump

They loved green grass

I saw a bunny

That just jumped by Behind where it jumped

There was an emerald door I went across the door There was a big tree Right in front of me And a big snake

The snake twisted on the ground

I quickly ran away

I thought is was gonna bite me Where am I? The enchanted forest of course! Where unicorns still live With dinosaurs and other creatures

In the past Behind a dinosaur

Two optional doors again I knew I had to go home

And finish my adventure tomorrow

I walked toward the doors And chose the Back door I walked inside And waited to go home It was just like last time I was on the sofa couch I saw a little key charm Of adventures that happened this time I still had some questions

That were spinning in my head

Where was the magic dust found? How did the scenes change? It looks like

That all this is a mystery

But I still had the key charms And that is all I need. All these adventures I’ll never forget

It is in my heart And it will be there...... Forever. But when I went Back to my room

I saw a Koala bear! Where was it from!? I certainly did not

Sprinkle magic dust around my room Anyways, I’ll continue my adventure

This is such a mystery! I just can’t believe it The koala just appeared

In my room! But it sure is cute! I looked around

To find a door

But there weren’t any What should I do? I got the dust That I saved the other day

I dusted it around my room I wanted back my normal room At first nothing happened! Then.... I found a small plane A very small plane Just sitting there I went for a closer look

And touched the plane The plane’s door opened

And pushed me to go inside The second I was inside

I was in a goggle and a mask I was on the plane seat Ready to go around the world I was first in Japan I was near a building

People were saying “I hate coronavirus” In Japanese

While drinking green tea I was so nervous

 I saw a big tempo, right in front of me I didn’t go out of the plane Because I was scared

Next, we arrived in Mexico People were all in their houses

Dancing around

Mexico is so beautiful! I need to go and explore

Before I could go out The plane stoped me It made a face Telling me not to go The next stop was China Shanghai, China to be particular I wanted to go explore

But I didn’t dare to I looked around Now I REALLY want to go home What should I do? I tried to think of ideas But didn’t make any progress

I wanted to go home! There were nothing else

That I could do I wanted to cry Then I got an idea I said “Home” And it actually worked! I was glad to be back To my home, sweet home Adventures are fun But being home is better

With your parents and people you love I love you “My Home” I am in my home everyday

With the people I love

No matter where I go

Home is always the best place This Adventure is just like when you go on a vacation. When you go to a place that you like, you have to return home. The narrator of this story goes on an adventure but after all the places she goes, she still wants to go back home. She misses her parents so she chose to go home. HOME IS THE BEST!!!  Adventures are amazing But family is forever. I think that my house is part of my family.


The Villagers I was a replica of my father and his father and his father’s father. And from me came a village. Close-knit and formidable. I only have memories of my younger days. I remember racing through the grooves and valleys of the land. I would look up and for miles and miles the walls of the valleys would stretch with no end. My grandfather told me countless stories of what lies beyond the valley and what was waiting for us at the top. My grandfather was larger than life. His charisma and personality were magnetic, drawing those around him closer than close. He always traveled in a pack, and I had never seen him with less than 20 other villagers surrounding him. They traveled through the valleys fearlessly. They knocked down the walls of the valley throughout the night and burrowed themselves in the makeshift holes during the day. These shelters made for good cover from the enemy, the men in white. One day, my grandfather and I took the East valley rather than the West on our way home. He was excited because we had a village that was nearly ready to activate our plan and wage war against the men in white. So, although the East was filled with the enemy, he didn’t mind taking the risk. By this time, our village had knocked down enough of the valley’s walls to make a small town rather than many small burrows separated by more walls. In our town, we prepared for the war that would take us to the top of the land and free us from the hand of the enemy. For months, villagers disappeared daily without a trace. But, the enemy couldn’t stop us from growing at exponential rates and forming bonds that were inseparable. I stood shoulder to shoulder with my grandfather when we heard an unfamiliar sound. It was a steady streaming of liquid, but the thickness of the fluid created a soundless splash. “Wait here” my grandfather said as he handed me the bags and scaled the walls to see what was lying beyond the turn of the valley. The men in white were peculiar and evil so who knew what they were creating. The smell burned the inside of my nose and made my head spin. I heard his beating footsteps before I saw him. A look of despair and defeat ran across his face. It was unfitting for who he was. He yanked my arm, and my feet began to move at a pace I didn’t think possible. My legs gave out from underneath me as we reached the gates of the town. He kept moving. Later that evening, my grandfather stood with hunched shoulders behind the podium, gripping its sides. “This plan was set to activate a few months from now, but I’m afraid we will have to move tonight.” Gasp and hysterical cries rippled through the crowd weighing down heavier on my grandfather’s shoulders. “Soldiers, you will leave your families and meet at the gates of the village at 04:00. You will not be a millisecond late as we are moving on borrowed time.” He turned his head and left the stage. How did this happen? I slept through my alarm. I looked at my watch as I ran through the thickness of the night, 04:03. Surely, I would see him at the gates. He wouldn’t leave me. I arrived 10 minutes later, breathless and alone. They were moving fast and out of sight, but luckily, I knew the route they were taking and a faster way to get there. I hiked up the walls of the valley, hoping to reach the first checkpoint with just enough time to fall in line. It was 05:22 and I sat on the wet land waiting for them to arrive, they were late. I walked down the route they were supposed to be coming up when it hit me. First, it was the smell; stronger than our first encounter. My head spun the path in front of me and I crashed into the wet walls of the valley, determined to reach the troops. Next, came the deafening noise. And then I seen it. Its formless figure dancing around the lifeless body of the troops. The fluid swallowed them whole, disintegrating them and leaving only the memories. Finally, I felt it wash over my feet and send a burning sensation throughout my body. My legs moved faster than my tears until I reached the gates. Although I had made it to town, the sound and smell still haunted my every movement. The land was wet and the streets were still. There were no homes to search and no young ones to hush. The enemy’s mark dripped from the shingles of buildings creating puddles and a reflection of a town that once was. It was all gone. I hated what they had created more than I hated them. The Men in White           We defended this land with great honor and the best of hearts. We worked with the land to produce life and contribute to the goodness of what was beyond the dark and static sky. When the villagers were few and first invaded, we fought together to get rid of them. We were preparing to continue the fight and strengthen our defenses. It first struck our homes, our families… it changed our lifestyles completely. Our troops began to call in sick to work. They returned days later, half their original size with sunken eyes and shaky legs. And then they never returned. The sickness raged through our community without remorse, leaving no evidence. There was only one to blame for this.           	As I looked at the land I once knew, a bullet of betrayal pierced my heart. This substance coming from every crevice and fold of the land was destroying us. The cries and outrage that resulted from the death of our community fell upon the deaf ears of the land as she continued to produce the fluid that killed us slowly, but surely.           	The few of us that remained walked the quiet valleys, aimlessly. We didn’t know why we had been spared from the grip of the enemy. But, still we resented this shapeless coward and hoped for its reign to end. The Land           	It had to stop. The burrowing and growing of the villagers. The fighting and wars that were soon to come. Our hand was forced, and we had to release it… for the greater good.           	We thank the one that lies beyond the land for the fluid. Beyond the Land           	“Okay, how ya feeling?” she forced a smile while gently yanking out my IV.           	“I’m doing great!” I felt horrible.           	“Good! Well, we don’t want to see you here anymore.” she said, handing me my coat. I don’t know what the first sign of the invasion was. My happiness that would turn to a sudden burst of anger or the pounding and aching of something burrowing its way deep into my brain. I was just happy it was over.           	I left the room and was surprised by an array of people in different color scrubs lining the walls and cheering me on as I was wheeled out of the hospital. I wanted to smile. But brain cancer has a funny way of making you feel incapable of using your mind to conduct your own actions. Chemotherapy was my nuclear weapon to wipe out the warrior cancer cells that had spread across the vast landscape of my brain. The docs said that some white cells in my body were wiped out too and that’s what was causing my sickness. But, my skin clinging to my bones and the ongoing sickness was worth ending the war happening in the grooves and thickets of my brain. I had taken back over my body. Every single cancer cell had been annihilated. I hoped.