“What do I do now, Tommo?” “Breathe in, Granddad. Then, slowly breathe out – as you release your grip.” “Why’s it shaking?” “Coz, you’re pulling too hard. Just relax a bit. There! Now, breathe in… Good. Now, slowly breathe out; then, let it go.” “Nothing’s ‘appened.” “You’re still gripping it tightly, Granddad.” “It’s me fuckin’ arthritis in me index finger, innit? I can’t straighten it quick enough.” “Look down, Granddad. Can you see what you’re doing wrong?” “I’m extending it too much?” “Correct. And you’re holding on to it with your middle finger. Your thumb should be tucked in, and you should be using both index and middle finger in the shape of the letter V .” “Like Winston Churchill used to do in the war to signify victory?” “Yes, Granddad. An ancient symbolic and iconic gesture of defiance. Subsequently adopted by the British population to animatedly demonstrate a way to express themselves when telling people to F-Off .” “One of the few good things that came out of the war. Churchill was good at stickin’ his fingers up at everyone.” “I know you’re old and melancholic, Granddad, but wasn’t the war over before you were born?” “Less of the old, you cheeky bugger, and yes, I was born after it ended. I grew up in a different world from yours. Didn’t have everything given to us. Didn’t have a television in our home, gas and electricity had to be paid for by putting coins in a meter in your hallway, and telephones were a luxury item with expensive bills. We had to work hard for what we earned.” “So you keep telling me.” “I mean, after the war, Britain was practically bankrupt. A third world country in a new world order. We ‘ad returning servicemen who couldn’t find work after fighting for their country, refugees creating food shortages, septics that stole our women – whisking them away to the land of Uncle Sam, chewing gum, and Coca Cola. Then, there was the Jewish problem.” “You’re not going to say anything bigoted, are you?” “Wot you take me for, Tommo? Everyone has a right to live free of tyranny, slavery, and persecution. Wot I’m talkin’ about is ‘ow the lost children of Zion were relocated to Palestine, cuckooing the natives out of their nests. I mean, it wasn’t their fault. It was the bloody British that created that mess, and they couldn’t just say, There you go . Your new home. Enjoy it . We’ll be keeping an eye on things from afar . No, the idiots in government decided to oversee the displaced Jews, rule them like subjects of an empire long lost, and treat them nearly as bad as the bloody Nazis did.” “What, our British government?” “No, you pillock. My British government. Your British government is too busy impinging on the rights of its people with CCTV, parking fines, tv licenses in the age of the Internet, VAT, low wages, and high taxes. George Orwell saw it all coming.” “Wasn’t he anti-Semitic, Granddad?” “Yeah, but not a lot of people know that. He once wrote that Jehovah was a tribal deity of the worst type .” “Wow! That must have been controversial to his fans.” “Confusing, more like it. He later wrote about being sympathetic to Holocaust Jews trying to get to the land of Israel – which doesn’t make sense. Poor buggers. No-one wanted the Jews. The Arabs hated ‘em. Then, after the Arab revolt – where they attacked the Jewish population, we went and fuckin’ partitioned the place and named one half, the state of Israel. No getting rid of them, then.” “But wasn’t Israel already a country?” “You know, I sometimes forget that for a history teacher, you know absolutely nothing, Tommo.” “Thanks, Granddad. My degree says otherwise.” “I know. I’ve read it. One of the easiest degrees to get.” “Who says?” “The tossers that fail English studies.” “I didn’t fail English. I switched majors.” “Pardonnez-moi, gentlemen. Shall we continue with your archery lesson, Monsieur. ‘ Arrees ?” “It’s Harris with an H.” “Then, excusez-moi, si’l-vous-plait, Monsieur. ‘ Arris . Ma English is not always H friendly.” “French, are we, Claude?” “Pierre, Monsieur. My name is Pierre. It is written on my name tag stuck to my chest – as you can clearly see.” “Not without me binsies on.” “You’re what, Monsieur?” “His glasses, Pierre.” “Oh, I ‘ave not ‘eard zat one before.” “Traditionally, there’s two English languages here, mate. One for the toffs and one for those born within the sound of the bow bells.” “Ah, I see, Monsieur ‘Arris. I know something of this Cockney rhyme and slang. Apples and pears - stairs , oui?” “Yeah, mate. Apples .” “The shortened version, oui! The nuances of your quaint language are a such a challenge to learn. It seems I am not the only one giving lessons, today.” “Perfect job for a Frenchie to have at an archery school, innit?” “Sorry, I don’t get it.” “You never ‘eard of Agincourt?” “Granddad.” “Perfectly innocent question, Tommo.” “If you are referring to zeh famous battle of the year Fourteen ‘undred and fifteen, then oui, it is as historical to us as it is to you, non?” “That’s where Churchill’s two-fingered salute originated, Tommo.” “He wasn’t at Agincourt, Granddad.” “I know that - you underqualified historian. You see, young Henry the Fifth had his longbows made from the yew tree. Lightweight, bendy, and powerful bows that helped blot out the sun when a couple of thousand arrows filled the sky. You know, the Frenchies used to cut the middle finger off of the captured English archers, so they couldn’t pluck the strings of their longbows properly.” “What did they do?” “Well, typical English behaving like the stereotypical English abroad, they’d pick up their chopped middle fingers and point it at their captors shouting, Pluck Yew, Pluck yew ! Heh heh heh.” “Is that a joke, Granddad, or did that really happen?” “If I may, Messieurs. I ‘ave it on the greatest of authority, zat zat is a complete myth.” “Henry the fifth, mate! Taught you frogs how to fight and win. None of that run away shit you do in every war.” “Granddad. You can’t say that.” “Wot, run away?” “You know what I mean.” “Yeah. Sorry, Pierre. My grandson constantly reminds us he’s awake.” “It’s Woke , Granddad.” “That’s wot we used to say about you when you was a baby – after you was done sleeping. It’s awoke, it’s awoke! On account of you looking a bit like Frankenstein with that oddly shaped head of yours and that mole on your neck that looks like the nut of a bolt.” “Woke, Granddad, is a state of awareness. A sensitivity to the bigotry and xenophobia your generation and the ones preceding it, carry like a badge of honour.” “Wot’s xenophobia – when it’s at home?” “It is like being a nationalist, Monsieur ‘Arris. One zat borders on being a racist.” “I’m not a racist! Tell him, Tommo. I’ve got nothin’ against anyone.” “No, you are not a racist, Granddad. But some of the things you say sometimes, come from an era when that was acceptable speech, and now is thought of as bigotry.” “Oui, Monsieur Tommo. My very own parents are close to your grandfather’s age, and they too speak like him.” “Wot, fuckin’ Cockney?” “Non, Monsieur. ‘Ow you say it… Ah, oui. I think it is referred to as, Jingoistic ! Born from extreme patriotism.” “Fuck me, Tommo. He knows bigger words than you, and you’re from ‘ere wif a failed English degree.” “History, Granddad. And I passed!” “Listen, mate.” “Pierre.” “Pierre. I don’t give a flying fig about nationalism or flag waving. This country went to shit long ago, the minute it opened its borders to people like you.” “What are people like me ?” “…Foreign!” “But you are also foreign, n’est-ce pas? Was this land not the realm of the Anglo-Saxons?” “Yeah, English, mate.” “But the Anglo-Saxons were a collection of people from places like Germany, the Netherlands, and Scandinavia. You know, the Vikings? So, Monsieur, you are just as foreign to zis land as this Frog that stands before you.” “He’s got a point, Granddad.” “…We finishin’ this archery lesson or wot?” “Oui, Monsieur. We can finish this demonstration just like the way in which your King Henry murdered French prisoners at Agincourt… Immediately!” “ O, ‘tis a gallant king .” “What is that, Monsieur ‘Arris? More witticism from the child of a failed empire?” “Shakespeare, Pierre. Tis certain there’s not a boy left alive; and the cowardly rascals that ran from the battle ha’ done this slaughter: besides, they have burned and carried away all that was in the king’s tent; wherefore king, most worthily, hath caused every soldier to cut his prisoner’s throat. O, ‘tis a gallant king! ” “Bravo, Monsieur ‘Arris. I would not have taken you for a fan of the Bard.” “Yeah, Granddad. Surprised me, too.” “Retirement, Tommo. Lots of time for learning something new. The Internet has provided many a snippet of information to be used when needed. I’m getting culturefied , Tommo.” “Is culturefied a word, Granddad?” “It will be when the Urban Dictionary accepts my entry to it.” “You’re full of surprises.” “Learning is not just for kids, Tommo. Remember that when you return to that school for the not-so-gifted you teach at.” “It’s a remedial school.” “Call it what you will, Tommo. In my day, it was called being held back. But these days you can’t do that for fear of stunting the child’s growth.” “Kids are sensitive.” “Kids are kids, Tommo. What’s wrong with a kick up the backside every now and then?” “It’s not an acceptable practice in today’s society.” “ Nambi-Pambi is what today’s society is. Everyone’s too afraid of hurting someone’s feelings. In my day..” “..I know. In your day kids were seen but not heard.” “Precisely. Oh, what’s that Junior? You got a C in English? Toughen up ya little..” “It was only a few years ago zat my country also banned corporal punishment in schools. So, England is not the only place accommodating modern societal growth.” “Growth? More like a step to the left, Pierre. Blame them and that wanker, Karl Marx, mate. Bunch of bloody spineless hypocrites, the lot of ‘em.” “How did we get onto this subject, Granddad?” “Dunno. I just felt like griping about something. It comes with age.” “Why don’t you raise your bow and point the arrow at that annoying bullseye down range. Pretend it’s the eye of Karl Marx.” “Don’t get me started on him, Tommo.” “Zat is good, Monsieur ‘Arris. Now breathe. Then, like your grandson instructed, breathe out slightly and let go of the string. Voila! You are a natural! Dead centre of the target.” “Nice one, Granddad.” “Like most things in life, Tommo. I just needed a little motivation. You know, this ain’t a bad pastime. I’ve never shot arrows before.” “Not even in the war, Granddad?” “Less cheek from you, please. In my day, it was catapults and pea shooters and tin cans as targets.” “You ‘ave one arrow remaining, Monsieur ‘Arris.” “Call me, Reggie, Pierre. It sounds younger.” “Okay, Monsieur Reggie. Load your arrow, pull back on the string with your index and middle finger.” “Yes yes. I’ve got it.” “Breathe, relax, and fire. Excellent! Bull’s eye again!” “It’s in the lineage, Pierre. That’s how we won Agincourt.” “Oui, you may ‘ave won the battle, but we ended up winning the war.” “It took you a hundred years.” “It was worth the wait.” “Yeah, but who came back to help you fight the Germans - twice?” “Touché, Reggie. Old combatants became new allies forever.” “Bloody hell, Granddad! There’s not many people that match you for world history and social commentary, but you’ve got to admit that Pierre is pretty good.” “For a Frenchie, oui?” “Yeah, well… You’re not all bad. Got some good footballers.” “Oui, zat is a fact. Who is your favourite player?” “Zidane.” “Ah, Zizou! A legend, oui. But why him?” “For the way he headbutted that Italian prick, Materazzi in the 2006 World Cup. He only headbutted him in the chest, but Materazzi went down like he’d been shot. You see, the real violence wasn’t the headbutt. It was the unheard words Materazzi said about Zidane’s sister.” “What’d he say, Granddad?” “Well, Materazzi was marking Zidane so tightly and holding on to him, that Zidane sarcastically offered him his shirt. Materazzi – being the prick he is – answered by telling Zidane that he would prefer his sister, so Zidane turned to face him and launched his version of a Glasgow kiss toward the Italian. Problem was that Zidane started too far away and ended up hitting Materazzi in the chest. You’d think he’d been hit by a train – the way he fell, clasping his face instead of his chest, like he’d been slapped by a wet fish. He succeeded in fooling the ref, and got Zidane red-carded and sent off.” “Oui. That was a sad moment for French football. It ended his career.” “I’ve had harder kisses on the lips from my missus.” “Thanks for that indelible image you just planted in my brain, Granddad.” “You’re not always young in this life, Tommo. But that don’t mean youth leaves you when you get older.” “Alors, Messieurs Reggie and Tommo! I’m afraid we are past our closing time. Please accept this voucher for a free future visit. I look forward to more stimulating conversations with you.” “Very kind of you, Pierre. Listen, do you fancy a pint with me and Tommo on your way home?” “I don’t see why not. Merci, Reggie.” “There’s a pub nearby that still has a dartboard. I’ll teach you how to play the Agincourt darts game.” “What’s that, Granddad?” “It’s a bit like 301, but you launch all three darts together and subtract your total score. First one to zero wins.” “What happens if any of your darts end up on the floor?” “Then, you play on with whatever darts that don’t – until, you get to zero or you run out of arrows. That’s called surrender . A French invention.” “That is fascinating, Monsieur Reggie. I didn’t realise that arrogance was an English invention. But tell me. What ‘appens if you go past zero?” “That’s called a Henry Five .” “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” “It’s considered a slaughter of all the points you have captured and game over.” “Ah, I see. But you forget that war is not won on one battle alone.” “Don’t worry, Pierre. I’ll give you another chance to lose. Just like the Germans did.” “Granddad…!”


It was a really cold night, the sky was clear with no clouds in sight, but also no stars to be seen. I checked the time which led me to collapse in frustration on my bed. I couldn’t sleep and it was nearly 3:00 in the morning. I tried to think of boring things like math to help me sleep but I couldn’t help it, waiting kept me up until now and I thought to myself all of it would have been for nothing if I slept through the moment my phone received the message… it was from her after all. Checking the time again and realizing I might as well be productive waiting for the stupid reply rather than just wallowing on my bed so I stood up, turned on the desk lamp beside my bed then walked lazily towards the light switch of my room. Just as I was about to reach the switch, my phone rang and I suddenly felt a jolt of excitement within me, I was awake before but at that exact moment, the monotonous tune of my phone seemed to give me more energy than any cup of coffee could give me. Hastily I jump to my bed and immediately open my phone if it was the message I have been waiting since 4:00 in the afternoon for. My eyes scrolled through the countless other messages and notifications on my screen and then it hit me, feeling like my heart skipped a beat, I saw the message I have so anxiously been waiting for. My eyes were glued to the screen carefully reading the words on the message head, as I reached the end, it felt like my heart was going to burst… from anxiousness that is. The message shown was cut because it was longer than 15 words. At that point I didn’t know what to expect really, the only way of knowing whether or not I should be jumping from joy or moping in the corner in so early in the morning was through a simple tap of my thumb. The message head read “Hi! I’m so sorry for the late reply, I’ve been giving it some thought and…” and before I decided to open and read the entirety of the message, I thought about everything that happened the past events that happened today and whether or not they would remain as happy and warm memories or just moments of me merely being young and dumb. Early Morning the Previous Day It was 7:00 in the morning and my phone rang my alarm tune which was the most monotonous sound I have ever heard in my life. Nevertheless, I woke up because the tune seemed so routine and normal to me. This was because it was a company phone given out to all the interns for their first week waiting approval of whether or not they would get the job or not. We were required to answer all the calls made to the phone during working hours and so as not to disturb the other workers in the firm, the phone were programmed to only play one dull tune for every alarm or notification. It was the last day of my internship and we were required to be at the office by 9:00 for the announcement of those who made the cut. I quickly made my way to the kitchen, poured a bowl of cereal and milk, took a spoon from the counter drawer and sat down on the couch located in the living room just adjacent from the small dining area. I turned on the television then changed the channel to the news, there was nothing exciting enough to keep watching so I turned the TV off and quickly finished my breakfast, rushed to the bathroom to do the rest of my morning routine there. After everything was finished and I was neatly dressed in business casual attire, I went out of the room then walked down the hallway. The apartment building I was staying in had five floors, and my room was located on the fifth floor, ever since two weeks ago the elevator broke down and I had to walk down the stairs no matter how bad of an inconvenience it was. So I got down, to the lobby, opened the spinning doors and stepped outside to wait for a taxi. After 5 or so minutes of waiting, a yellow spotted car finally stopped by and gave me a ride. “Where to?” the driver said and replying with an uneasy voice I say “Just a few blocks pass the train station please”, it was after all the day I get to know if I landed the job, saying I was nervous would be an understatement. The next events would seem like a very cruel twist of fate, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way because they all led up to me meeting her. Anyway, after 12 minutes since my car ride started, the engine broke down abruptly and immediately cars behind us started sounding loud horns to get us moving. The driver tried turning on the ignition again and again, but the car just won’t start. This was when I got really jumpy and asked the driver if he has the situation under control “I’m doing my best kid” was what he replied with although clearly he wasn’t. In a bold and desperate action I took 5 dollars, dropped it onto the cushioned seat, opened the door and just walked my way through the ongoing traffic. As I finally reach the pavement I kid you not my phone starts ringing and as I checked to see, it was a call from the firm I was currently and intern in. I answered the call politely saying “Hello? This is Ryan, how may I help you?” the person who answered was the secretary and her reply was about the most frustrating thing I experienced that day, the taxi cab breaking down was nowhere near what I felt about what she said next. “Hi Ryan, we’re so sorry to inform you but unfortunately due to budget cuts in our firm, we can’t hire any new employees as of now, we hope you understand. If it’s any consolation, we are allowing you to keep the company phone as a reimbursement for all you spent in the internship training. Thank you and have a good day!” There were many reasons for me to feel frustrated and angry at the call because for one, I spent 6 days in that firm being an unpaid assistant doing errands for the workers who didn’t even bother to look at me in the eye when they were ordering me to do their dirty work. Another reason was that I had already spent about 200 dollars buying them coffees and snacks all of which remains unpaid because they told me they’d repay me when I finally join them when I land the job. The useless company phone was so old and obsolete that I wager it isn’t even worth more than 30 dollars. This was the moment that I wanted to scream and shout to the heavens to let out all of my steam, but that moment, I knew doing such a thing would be awkward and a little bit stupid considering I was in the middle of the walkway people walking by me not even having a care in the world for what I was doing standing still in the middle of the path. After this, I clenched my fists then resolved to just calm myself through a cup of coffee and maybe a jelly topped bagel at the pastry shop across the street. I waited by the street light post for the light to turn green so that I could walk safely towards the pastry shop. Feeling gloomy and irritated, I start to look around to pass the time and this was the moment I saw her. She had beautiful fiery hair that ran to her shoulders and freckles around her cute little nose, she was so pretty. And the most awkward thing about this incident was that she was standing next to me, in quilted jacket looking at her phone with the most magnificent smile I had ever seen right on her pale face. This immediately took my mind of off what had just happened to me and my internship. I admired her for some time and it was so long I think she noticed because I saw her flinch a little. Immediately I looked the other direction to poorly cover up the fact that I was looking at her for about a minute. After some time I looked ahead to see if the lights went green and they hadn’t, that time when the lights were still red were the longest minutes of my life because even though I admired and practically already had a crush on the girl standing next to me, I wanted to get away from the awkwardness, for me at least, and uneasiness because I don’t do well with girls, especially pretty ones, keeping what I just said in mind, the next thing to happen nearly gave me a heart attack. Still looking at the lights, she suddenly raised her head, also looked forward to check the lights and said the following words without looking at me “If you’re gonna stare at me all day at least do it after you buy me a cup of joe and maybe a bite over there at that pastry shop”. It took me sometime to realize what had just happened, I didn’t even think of the big coincidence that we both had our eyes set upon the small family owned pastry shop down the road. I panicked a little bit inside and slowly turned my eyes, without moving my head so it doesn’t seem obvious, to the left then to the right to check if anyone else was there to see if she was actually talking to me. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?” I looked at her in with wide panicked stricken eyes, a sweaty nose and softly asked “A-a-are y-y-you t-talking t-to me?” I swear it was the most embarrassing moment of my life, so far that is, and after some silence she chuckled softly “Dummy, do you see anyone else here with us? Much less anyone who’s staring at me in what could be the most obvious way to look at someone?” I didn’t know what to say so I simply smiled in the worst way possible, it was a half-smile with the right side of my mouth curled up, and the left side only opening a small bit. She laughed in what I can only say is the sweetest laugh imaginable and finally looked at me in the eyes “The light’s green prince charming, now are you gonna buy me a drink or not?” silence followed, my palms became sweaty and in what seemed like a surge of courage inside me I managed to say “Sure” in a voice that wasn’t sheepish at all. She smiled once more the nodded her head left to signal me that we should probably walk now, because we might end up waiting at another red light. After that conundrum, I thought to myself, what is the worst that could happen? I swear, that time, crossing the road was like walking on the tiniest tight rope if it was attached between the tips of two large mountains. My heart was pumping so fast that it probably could have won a tap dancing competition. In short, I was really nervous because one wrong move in that pastry shop and I could end all of my chances with the beautiful girl next to me, if there was any chance to begin with. Speaking of which, I tried ever so slightly to look at her in a non-creepy way to see how she was reacting to everything. Strange enough she was clam and composed, like she had done this thousands of times before. Maybe she just has really good people skills, maybe she just scams people into buying her free stuff because she’s pretty, maybe she’s secretly an assassin that was sent to kill me and the pastry shop was the perfect crime scene. All these ideas were bursting in my head and at that points I didn’t actually know what to do. I was so distraught with everything and my mind felt like it was elsewhere. Suddenly, I bumped hard against the glass pane of the pastry shop and it didn’t occur to me that we finally crossed the road and got to the shop, well I got to the shop at least. She was laughing behind me in the same intoxicating laugh as before. As reality got back to me, my face blushed bright red with embarrassment as I finally grasped the situation. I looked back and she was still laughing, so much so that it seemed like she was about to cry. I quickly looked down and shrugged my shoulders up then slowly entered the shop. As I went in, my face blushed even more as I look around and everybody was just staring at me, they saw what had just happened. I walked to the counter and she finally stopped laughing and went in the shop. I ordered an ice mocha latte and a bagel with jam on top, she put her hands on my shoulders and told me she wanted a Macha infused Cappuccino and a large blueberry muffin. I ordered that too and we sat down on the nearest table. I haven’t actually hung out with a girl before, I was the type of person to just sit in my room curled up on my couch eating ice cream watching cartoons for God knows how long every day, this was a totally new experience for me. “So… what’s your name?” she suddenly asked “G-graves, Ryan Graves” I replied quickly and softly only later finding out that I messed up saying my name right “Oh, so we’re introducing ourselves James Bond style eh? Well I’m…” then suddenly the waitress placed our orders on the table and she gave a quick smirk before meeting me with a big smile. “Well I guess that’s a topic for another time, anyway thank you so much!” She said “Normally, people don’t respond to me asking them to buy me a drink on the account that I caught them staring at me. So far you’ve been the only one to humor me with my request”. Thinking of a reply I took a bite of off my bagel then mumbled a few sounds making as if I was replying she asked “I’m sorry what?” while chuckling. I took this as a chance to chew my food slowly and thought of a reply. Finally swallowing the bite of bagel I answered “Well, I guess I’m just a nice person”. She smiled once more before proceeding to take a big bite of her muffin. After that moment, awkwardness seemed to kick in and at that moment I knew it was so strong that even she felt awkward. In a desperate attempt at ending the awkward silence I ironically said “I’m sorry. But I’m not really good with conversation… and social convention… and pretty much everything that has to do with other people” before proceeding to take a sip of my latte “I know, the moment I noticed you staring at me, I knew you’d be an awkward one” she said. This line almost lead me to spit out my coffee on my freshly laundered clothes. “Woah, cool down dude, it wasn’t in anyway an insult”. Thinking of a reply again I once more took a bite of my bagel, but this time she spoke up, “So why are you dressed like that? I mean it’s not like local pastry shops have a dress code or something…” with a sigh I told her “I was working as an unpaid intern at James and Barnes’ law firm five blocks down town just past the train station” “And what happened?” she said with a concerned look on her face somehow noticing I was distressed when I answered her question. “Well, actually, before we sort of “met” by the street light post, the taxi I was riding broke down and then I received a message from the firm secretary telling me they weren’t accepting new employees anymore”. With a sort of sadness on her face which I couldn’t distinguish neither true nor fake she replied “Oh my God! I’m so sorry”. I gave a small nod then looked down to my food before finally finishing my bagel. “Well, it’s probably about time I get going, thanks for the snack hot shot!” as she proceeded to do a small salute goodbye over her right eyebrow. I don’t know how I managed to do the following things I was about to do but I did and I’m proud of myself for doing them. Before she reached the door handle of the shop, I grabbed her wrist, she looked at me confused not knowing what was happening and then I asked her “Can I have your number?” It took some time for her to process what had just happened and she once again smiled, this time was the prettiest one though. She red hair glimmered in from the light shone through the glass panel of the store front. The light also shone on her face, exposing her cute little freckles on her nose and cheeks which looked like scattered stars in the night sky. It was also just this moment when I noticed she had heterochromia. In the magnificent lighting, her left eye was deep blue and her right eye was a brilliant emerald green. I couldn’t believe at what I was looking at, she was more than just pretty, she was gorgeous. She then took my hand, which was holding her wrist, took out the ball pen neatly hooked on my breast pocket then wrote something down on my arm all while saying “Never thought you’d ask”. After all of this she did the same small salute then finally walked out the door. Unsurprisingly I was looking at her up until the moment she walked out of sight outside. I then looked over to my arm and felt so much joy inside me I felt like I could shout inside the pastry shop with all the people inside. And I did, for a while, everybody looked at me wondering what on earth could possibly be the reason for me screaming, well she did write her number and I was so happy that it made me appreciate the fact that the company left the cell phone to me as a sorry gift for wasting my time. It didn’t matter though, what mattered was that I had her number and I had a phone to contact her. I coughed after shouting and quickly finished my food, tipped the waiter a full 5 dollars then walked happily to my apartment, even though it was 12 blocks away. . It was about noon when I got home to my apartment, given the time I spent walking from the pastry shop. Once I finally got to my room, strangely not tired I decided to lie on the couch and watch some TV, exactly what I would do on a regular day after work. I stood up, changed to my home clothes and ordered Pizza, which thankfully arrived 3 minutes late making the whole box free. I thought to myself, “This day couldn’t possibly get any better”. After eating Pizza in front of the TV for about three hours. I decided that I would take a nap. Then suddenly remembered everything that happened with her earlier. I smiled then remembered she gave me her number. Quickly, I look to my right arm to see if it was still there, because stupidly I forgot to save it. Unfortunately it was smudged, but I did my best to recognize the digits whilst creating a contact on my phone, of which there were only two contacts, the frim desk landline and her. I thought of something to text her but nothing would just come to my head. And there I spent hours pondering on what to message her when I finally resolved that I should tell her this “Hello, I’m sorry but I didn’t catch your name earlier. This is Ryan Graves from the pastry shop. I was wondering if you’d like to meet up tomorrow at the same pastry shop maybe around the same time? I really like hanging out with you and maybe we could be friends?” I sent the message at about 4:00 pm then decided that I had nothing better to do at that time so I went to my bedroom then waited for the reply. A few hours have passed and still no reply, different ideas once again surged through my mind, what if I noted down the wrong number? What if she thinks I’m a creep? What if she was an assassin and is just patiently waiting to take me out with a sniper rifle? These ideas sort of lowered my hopes of me ever getting a chance with her, or at least being friends with her, but I hadn’t given up yet. I was determined to wait until the message arrives. Finally, after hours upon hours of waiting, I finally got the message and the number wasn’t wrong, it really was from her. It was about 3:00 in the morning and the stupid phone wouldn’t show the full length of messages, only until 15 words so all I got to see were these words on the message head; “Hi! I’m so sorry for the late reply, I’ve been giving it some thought and…” I stopped for a bit and hesitated to even open the message because I was afraid that she rejected me and thought that I was weird. I thought that she might have just given me her number to get away from me as soon as possible and that all of it was just a con to get free food. I finally got the courage to open the message and I was shocked at was I read. “Hi! I’m so sorry for the late reply, I’ve been giving it some thought and sure why not? You seemed like a great and fun person to hang out with. My only condition though is that you buy me food again. Hahaha Jk, but if you want to then be my guest. Besides you’re cute.Well… see you there ;) P.S The name is Smith, Jacquelyn Smith, but you can call me Jackie for short” I looked up from my screen, smiled then finally went and tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. After all I have a big day tomorrow.


I had an idea rolling around in my head. To stop the rolling, I took the idea and turned it into a story. This is the result. I hope you enjoy it. The old man rubbed his knotted hands over the smooth head of his cane as his grandsons sat before him. The boys knocked their feet against each other and giggled as they played with the edge of the blanket they were sharing. The old man rubbed his hand over his sparse hair as he prepared to tell his story. He told the boys “Tonight I will tell you a story about two brothers just like you two. Their names were Ahmed and Samir.” The older child piped up, “grandpa, your name is Samir but you don’t have a brother.” The old man gazed at the boy and replied, “it’s just a story, my child. Just a story, but remember that in all stories hides a grain of truth…” The old man tucked the boys in tighter and told his tale. Once upon a time in a land far, far away, there lived a fisherman and his wife in a small fishing village. The fisherman and his wife lived a simple life until one day their lives were changed forever when the wife found out she was expecting a child. Their joy was complete and their hearts full. After some time the fisherman's wife went into labour and a beautiful baby boy was born. They named him Ahmed.The child was cherubic and beautiful to behold with large, dark, sparkling eyes and a mop of curly brown hair. He gazed into his mother's eyes and from then was the joy of her life. A few minutes later the wife felt another contraction and this was truly a surprise for it did not occur to her that there might be a second child. From the moment his mother went into labour, this second born child was a torment for his mother. While Ahmed's birth had been quick and uneventful, this second child took his time entering the world. His mother toiled through a long and difficult labour and once he entered the world the child screamed his discontent at his undignified entrance. He was smaller than his brother and was born with a clubbed foot. While Ahmed cooed contentedly, this second child scrunched up his tiny face and screamed his displeasure at the world. He screamed from the moment he was born and continued to scream, refusing to be consoled for the next 3 months. He was named Samir and by the time he stopped screaming, the damage was already done. He was labeled a difficult child and a difficult child he would be. Ahmed and Samir grew up together in the fishing village but their lives were very different. From the very beginning Ahmed was the favourite while his brother Samir was a burden to his family and himself. Ahmed was a charming boy beloved by all, and in their eyes he could do no wrong. Samir was quiet, introverted and preferred to hide in his brother's shadow. His eyes slanted down in the outer corners which gave him a mournful expression, and while Ahmed was quick to smile and had a sparkling personality, Samir kept his eyes downcast as if afraid of being noticed. To compound matters Samir became self conscious of his clubbed foot and he developed a habit of hiding his misformed foot behind his other leg as he followed in his brother's wake. In this way he could never quite catch up to his brother's confident strides no matter how hard he tried. The fisherman's wife favored her firstborn and it was clear he was her treasure. Sensing this unfortunate truth and not knowing what else to do, Samir avoided his mother and snuck into shadowed corners at her passing. He only scuttled out when nobody else was near and even if he did happen to meet someone he kept his eyes down and hurried past ignoring their worried stares. When they were at home Ahmed was constantly surrounded by a group of friends who hovered around him like moths to a lamp. He passed the days surrounded by laughter and cheer. Samir on the other hand took to hiding himself behind the large pistachio tree in their yard and gazing at his ebullient brother and his charmed life. At first when Ahmed saw his brother’s shadow he would call him over but as time passed and Samir failed to join the group, Ahmed was at first disappointed, and then frustrated and finally disdainful of his brother. He developed the habit of flicking his wrist in a dismissive gesture so that only Samir noticed and it was clear what Ahmed thought of his brother. Samir took to spending long hours alone inside the family home and there above the mantle in a place of honour hung a beautiful, intricately decorated calf-skin belt. The belt was a remnant of a life his mother no longer spoke of. Long ago, before Ahmed and Samir, even before the fishing village and everything that came with it, the fisherman’s wife was the daughter of a wealthy man. This man was the head tailor for the wealthiest families in the city where the family lived. This man created the best clothes for all the wealthy families and his skills were sought after far and wide. His daughter lived a life of leisure and her life was expected to be happy and easy. The man betrothed his daughter to the son of a wealthy neighbour. He was a handsome lad with dark curly hair and the tailor’s daughter blushed when she thought of him. All was well in her world until one day civil war broke out in the country. Rich and poor alike the citizens of the city were affected by the changes dictated by war. The value of a bowl of rice was greater than the need for silk jackets. The previously wealthy families of the city no longer had any need for new clothes. Fine garments became an unaffordable luxury and the tailor had no choice but to close his business. The once well to do tailor found himself struggling to support his family. Regretfully and despite his daughter’s pleading, the engagement was cancelled and a hurried marriage was arranged for the once spoiled tailor’s daughter. She was married to the son of a fisherman and from then on her life was full of mending nets and she could never quite get the smell of fish off her once silky white skin. This calf-skin belt was the last beautiful piece of her past world and was the last item of any great value in the household. Samir spent many hours silently tracing the scalloped edges of the belt and hoped to one day wear it with pride. As the boys grew older, the fisherman's wife kept Ahmed close by her side and had him sit by her as she worked on mending the nets. She could not tolerate the thought of her precious Ahmed being buffeted by the rough winds of the ocean where her husband caught fish for a living. She smoothed her hand over his rounded cheek and told him he was the light of her life. Ahmed was only too happy to sit by his mother as he kept her company. Samir, having no place in the bubble Ahmed and his mother created around themselves, naturally gravitated to his father's side and after some initial hesitation and concern over the slight boy, the fisherman warily invited Samir aboard his boat and to their mutual surprise realized that Samir had a singular talent on the water. A brusk man not given to displays of emotion, the fisherman worked Samir hard but no matter how hard he pushed, Samir put his head down and got the job done. Over time Samir won his father’s grudging respect as a boatsman. Day after day, with his father’s coaching, Samir worked hard on learning the trade. He was unaware of it at the time but his father’s shoulders stiffened with pride whenever the villagers mentioned how diligently Samir worked. How every time his knuckles cracked and chafed, he merely rubbed his aching hands and kept going because his son was by his side working just as hard. Though their life was simple and they worked from dawn to dusk every day, Samir’s father was proud of the life he had built. His own father had been a fisherman all his life but had been unable to afford his own vessel and had worked for other fishermen. The day Samir’s father was able to purchase a run down boat of his own was a proud moment. He worked hard to make that boat seaworthy and was never prouder than when his son Samir expertly sailed the vessel out to sea for the first time. As Samir engrossed himself in learning the secrets of the sea, Ahmed often leaned one shoulder against the rough bark of the pistachio tree in their yard and watched as Samir and their father worked side by side. With a hard stare he watched as they worked in tandem to ready the boat. Their wordless synchropathy was fluid and effortless and in this Ahmed felt inadequate and could not compare to his brother. He watched as Samir expertly wrapped the line around his forearm, knotting it neatly together. He watched in silence as his father’s mouth curled up in a half smile so fleeting he wondered if he had imagined it. Day after day, Ahmed kept his mother company while Samir learned the trade at his father's side. Ahmed was such a beautiful and naturally lovable child that his laziness and vanity was overlooked by everyone. Ahmed spent his days ruling the village square and keeping the villagers entertained with his cocky demeanour and cheeky antics while Samir worked long and hard hours on his father's boat. Over time, Samir learned how to read the waves, where the best fishing spots were and most of all he learned how to be patient. As the boys grew into adolescence, their uneven relationship solidified as Ahmed grew increasingly more handsome. The sweet rounded cheeks of his childhood became a chiseled jaw and high cheekbones with the healthy flush of youth. His sparkling eyes became hooded and knowing when the young ladies of the village glanced in his direction. They whispered behind shielded hands to each other when he passed and he was only too happy to run his fingers through his full curly hair when he noticed them looking. Samir was still smaller of stature than his brother and he never outgrew his awkward nature amongst the villagers. While Ahmed grew tall and lean, Samir’s shoulders stooped from his long hours working on the boat. While Ahmed’s naturally olive skin retained it’s suppleness, Samir’s became roughened from the salty ocean air. Ahmed, the golden child grew up into a handsome young man admired by the villagers for his physical beauty and adored by the young ladies of the village, while Samir grew into an introspective young man who preferred to spend his days on the dock kept company by the seagulls. As the boys neared their 17th birthday Ahmed grew closer to a particularly beautiful young lady named Laila. Laila was as fair and beautiful as Ahmed was dark and handsome. The young couple was the talk of the village and their lives were destined to be full of happiness and joy. As Ahmed reveled in the throes of young love, his brother Samir blended into shadows and gazed at the beautiful couple for as much as he tried to ignore it, he knew that he too was in love with the beautiful Laila. He tried to ignore these feelings but Laila was as kind hearted as she was beautiful. Laila showed nothing but kindness toward Samir. The more silent and gruff Samir was toward her, the harder she tried to be kind to him. Her kindness towards him made it impossible for Samir to hate her and hating her would have been infinitely easier to bear than to witness her falling in love with another. One day Samir left the dock at the end of a long day and ran through the village square through a dense drizzle. There, under the canopy of an old almond tree, he saw Laila waiting out the rain. She dipped her hand out to catch the rain then shook the water off. It was one of the few times he saw her alone, without his brother by her side. Before he could talk himself out of it, he detoured towards her and jogged to where she stood. Laila smiled widely when she saw him coming and shifted to the side to make room for him. Samir stood awkwardly in silence then startled when she placed her hand lightly on his arm. He looked down and saw that she was offering him a neatly folded kerchief. Gingerly, he accepted it and ineffectually dabbed at his face. Laila laughed good naturedly at his wet hair stuck to his forehead. Haltingly, Samir spoke first and asked her about her day. Cheerfully, Laila launched into an entertaining tale about her family goat and how he had escaped through a gate she had carelessly left open. She regalled him with the story of how she spent most of the afternoon chasing him through the village, only to return home to find him calmly grazing on the grass in her yard. Her friendliness was so infectious that Samir found himself relaxing in her presence. He realized that while until now he had kept his distance from her, that was mostly to do with his brother and had nothing to do with her. Samir ached to tell her how he felt. He started to speak then stopped numerous times until finally, out tumbled the one question he most wanted answered. Unable to look at her, he finally asked if there was anyone else she would consider being with other than his brother. He bit his lip hard as he focused all his attention on hearing her answer. Finally, softly and with an unmistakable apology in her voice she merely whispered, “my heart belongs to him.” Numbly, Samir stood under the almond tree even as with a fleeting look behind her shoulder, Laila darted into the rain and jogged away. Samir stood under the tree until the moon shone high and bright in the sky. In his hand he crushed the kerchief Laila had handed him. From that day, Samir ensured he could not be seen as Laila and his brother courted. He melted into darkened shadows and could do nothing but close his eyes every time he saw her almond shaped green eyes crinkle at the corners as she laughed at something his brother said. Samir scraped his nails against the rough bark of the tree when he witnessed the young couple hesitantly link their fingers together. He flushed and strangled an outraged cry when he saw the young pair bow their heads together like two graceful swans. Samir tried to hide his feelings but it killed a small part of him every time he saw Laila and his brother falling deeper in love. Samir's misery was magnified when, one day Ahmed announced his intentions to marry Laila the following spring. The boy's parents, and especially their mother was overjoyed at this news. Her treasured Ahmed would marry the most beautiful and kind hearted girl in the village. The boy's mother jumped up, ran to the mantle and took down the fine crafted calf-skin belt that Samir had so admired. Without hesitation she presented this gift to Ahmed in celebration of his upcoming nuptials. Samir’s face paled as he realized that even this, a whispered wish, a fleeting desire for something beautiful was not his to have. The one thing his mother treasured, she had now gifted to her most cherished. Ahmed had no inclination of how Samir felt, he only saw something of great beauty and he smiled widely as he put the belt on and swore never to take it off. Following this exchange, Samir receded into the shadows and walked to the far end of the beach where his village met the ocean. There, with the crashing of the waves drowning out his voice, finally shed tears of frustration and loneliness. The rough wind stung his eyes as his thin chest heaved. The seagulls wheeled overhead watching this odd spectacle until they too flew away, leaving him truly alone. One crisp autumn morning, Ahmed strolled onto the dock where his father and Samir were preparing to set sail . He announced to his father and brother that he would be taking the boat out this day for he wished to catch a bounty of fish to present to the family of his bride to be. He wished to show them that he would be able to support Laila and for them to bless the union. Samir grew concerned at this because Ahmed had not been out on the boat in some time and at the best of times was a mediocre boatsman. Samir on the other hand spent most of his days out on the water and was well acquainted with the hidden violence of the ocean. He warily looked up at the overcast skies and spoke up. Samir suggested that Ahmed wait a couple of days for the weather to clear to attempt his fishing trip. He worried that the weather was not predictable during that time of year and the ocean was surprisingly cold beyond the breakers. However, unlike Samir, Ahmed had not learned to be patient. He was used to getting what he wanted and had not learned to wait and bide his time. With a dismissive wave Ahmed insisted he would be fine and despite repeated requests to delay the trip, prepared to set sail. Ahmed's boat slid smooth and sure across the glittering water and with a sense of trepidation Samir followed his brother to the end of the dock. At the last moment before the boat cleared the dock, Samir leaned forward and jumped into the boat, rocking it from side to side. Ahmed whipped around in surprise but Samir would not meet his eyes, he merely collected the anchor lines, and pushed off the dock. The boys set off towards Samir's favourite fishing spot and as the day progressed, the clouds grew heavier and the air held a definite chill. Ahmed kept up a cheerful chatter about his upcoming wedding to the girl of his dreams as they rowed further and further from shore. Ahmed was not an experienced boatsman so left most of the maneuvering of the boat to Samir. Samir’s arms strained and his muscles bunched as he worked the oars through the choppy water as Ahmed sat back, leaning out to graze his fingers through the water. Finally they reached the fishing spot but since Samir had done most of the rowing by himself they arrived later than anticipated and it was already mid afternoon. Once again Samir pointed to the increasingly heavy clouds and suggested to Ahmed that they head back and return another day. Undeterred Ahmed insisted they still had a couple of hours left in which to fish and cast his line. Samir shook his head but followed suit. A few hours later the sun hovered on the horizon as finally, Ahmed stretched his back and suggested to Samir that they head back home. Frustrated at Ahmed’s lackadaisical attitude, Samir hurried to get the boat ready as the clouds loomed heavy and dark overhead. As the boys started their return trip, without warning the skies opened up and pelted them with heavy rain and soon the boys were both soaked through. Samir shouted at Ahmed to help him row the boat back to shore. His resentment towards his brother’s irresponsible actions boiled over as the boat was buffeted by high winds. As a particularly sharp gust of rain rocked the boat violently Samir shouted at Ahmed that he should have listened to him. Wrestling with the unfamiliar weight of the oars, Ahmed turned around in his seat and snapped at Samir that it wasn’t his fault he didn’t have as much experience as a boatsman. Unexpectedly, Ahmed launched into Samid about how he was never given a chance to prove his worth. Years of hidden resentment came to the surface as the boys fought to stabilize the boat and their emotions. The storm hit without warning and with such ferocity it took all Samir had to keep the boat upright. Samir fought against the biting wind as he wrestled the sails together and tried to get the oars in place. Again, he yelled above the din of the downpour for Ahmed to help him but his words were whipped away by the wind and all Ahmed could hear was the anger in his heart. Unfamiliar with the oars, Ahmed let them go and hung onto the rigging with a white knuckled grip as the rain plastered his hair to his face as Samir struggled on. As the boys crested a wave, Ahmed lost his grip on the ropes and fell face down, tossing hard on the bottom of the boat as the vessel rocked. Samir squinted his eyes to see beyond the driving wind and shouted at Ahmed to hang on. Ahmed struggled up but was dazed and winded by the hard fall. He had barely dragged himself back up when another wave hit the boat and this time he didn't have a chance to grab hold of the line and was shoved hard against the side of the boat. Samir saw his brother's form slam against the side of the boat and reached out to grab him. In that instant the boat careened hard to the right and Samir grabbed the lines again to right the vessel as he braced himself against the violent rocking. Samir was torn between the fight to help his brother and the fight to keep the boat from capsizing. In that moment of indecision, Ahmed teetered on the edge grappling for a hold but the rain slicked ropes slid from his frantic hands. Ahmed's eyes widened as he tilted back over the side of the boat. Ahmed's mouth gaped open in silent terror as his feet slid out from under him. All of a sudden with a great shudder he felt himself being pulled back. With a grimace on his face Samir grabbed hold of the belt around Ahmed's waist. The one their mother had given to him. Samir pulled back with all his body weight but he was outweighed by his brother and the momentum of the boat shifting was too much. With a horrifying tear the belt snapped in half and Samir fell backwards into the boat as Ahmed tumbled into the great chasm of the ocean. The waves engulfed him in a momentary flash as Samir scrambled to the side of the boat. Samir strained to see into the inky churning darkness of the ocean for signs of his brother. Samir screamed Ahmed's name as the wind and rain rushed around him in a cacophony. Samir let the ropes go and screamed until his voice grew hoarse. He screamed until he could no longer hear his own guilt. As quickly as it had started, the storm died down. Samir let himself drift on the waves until finally, dawn broke over the horizon. Stretching his aching body, he slowly rowed back to the docks. As he got closer he saw the shadowy figure of his father in the morning mist standing on the dock waiting for him. His shoulders dropped but he thought to himself, at least he would not have to face his mother yet. That is, until his mother's frantic form materialized from behind his father's shadow. Samir heard the searching cries of his mother above the drumming of his own heart. As he got closer, his mother raced down the dock towards the boat. On her face he saw the moment she realized Ahmed was not on the boat with him. His mother immediately started a keening wail as she pounded her fist against her chest as if to restart the beating of her broken heart. As soon as he cleared the dock he simply sat back as his father scrambled aboard and searched frantically for Ahmed for surely he must be hiding somewhere. Surely the unthinkable had not actually happened. Samir sat silent even as his father shook him hard, demanding to know what had happened. He sat unmoving even as his mother begged on her knees, holding his hands in a hard grip, tears flowing from her eyes asking where her precious Ahmed was. As chaos erupted around him all he could see was the scalloped edge of a belt sitting amidst the debris on the bottom of the boat. In the days following the accident the news of Ahmed's accident travelled around the village. At first there was disbelief for how could such a bright life be snuffed out so unexpectedly? One by one the villagers came by the family home, and one only had to look at the faces of Ahmed's parents to know that as unfathomable as it was, the rumours were true. The villagers whispered amongst themselves about the dangers of the ocean. How they knew someone who knew someone who had also been lost at sea. They shook their heads and clicked their tongues when Samir walked through the village square. That poor boy who lost his brother, that poor awkward child was all that family had left. Even as some villagers pitied the ill fate of the family, others cast wary glances at Samir. They knew him to be a capable boatsman and wondered how it was that such an accident took place. They had all admired his stalwart fortitude even in the worst weather conditions. The villagers shushed each other when these thoughts were uttered out loud. Of course Samir had tried his best, of course it was an accident. Afterall, he was still just a seventeen year old boy. The boy's father became even more silent than he already was. He rented another boat from another villager and fished out on the ocean for even longer than he usually had. He often did not come home until it was dark and the village was asleep. The villagers worried for him but his hard stoicism did not welcome their concern. He left his fishing boat tied to the dock where Samir had last stepped foot in it and never touched it again. Their mother simply took up residence in Ahmed's old room. She created a small spot for herself by the pallet where Ahmed had slept and spent her days and nights there. Samir didn't care about what the villagers said about him and tried not to worry about his parents, but he did care about what happened to Laila. The once fine and beautiful Laila became a recluse. She retreated into herself and became a shell of her former self. Her concerned parents told her she would meet another, but to anyone who looked closely, it was as if her spirit were broken. She took to taking long walks along the cliffs at the edge of the village overlooking the vast ocean where her beloved had been lost to her. One day, as Samir sat in his yard mending the nets his mother no longer cared for, he saw Laila walk past his house as she headed for the cliffs as was her new habit. Samir started to call out to her but bit back the words as he realized he didn't know what he could possibly say to her to lessen her pain. That day she did not return from her walk and in the evening her broken body was found at the foot of the cliffs. It was unclear whether the fall had been accidental or intended. The day after Laila's accident, Samir packed a satchel with a hard knot of bread, a hunk of cheese and salted dried fish. He slung the satchel on his shoulder and silently walked away from his family home. Samir had come to the conclusion that he was the curse that tainted everything and everyone he touched. From the moment of his birth he had been a source of frustration for his family and he could tolerate this no longer. He would walk away and hope to spare what was left of the lives of those he loved. As he walked away from his village, he looked back one last time towards the dock where he could see the shape of his father’s boat gently rocking on the calm water. Samir eventually settled in another fishing village and earned a living there. He married the hard working daughter of another fisherman and together they had a son. Samir's son grew up and had children of his own. The old man tucked the boys in closer as they had fallen asleep long ago, with their small rounded arms wrapped around each other in slumber. He whispered his calloused fingers over the sweep of their cheeks as he sighed, for he was weary. With some difficulty he stood up and with cane in hand thumped his way outside to stand in front of his small cabin. He looked up at the clear sky and wondered when the passage of time had worn away the bitter sharpness of the memory of that night. As if in a dream he could still remember the shape of the rough ropes on the boat. He could remember the sting of the ocean breeze on his skin. he remembered seeing the relaxed sweep of his brother's back as he spoke of his beloved and his enchanted life. He could still remember pulling out the small tub of lard he always kept on him to smooth on his face to protect his skin from the rough salty wind. He could still remember hesitating before he smoothed the lard on the ropes of the boat. He could still remember wanting to teach his brother a lesson. He could still remember thinking a small slip would be enough and Ahmed would never dismiss him again. A small slip and Ahmed would take him seriously. A small slip and he would save his brother and be a hero for once in his life. A small slip he had thought as the lard glistened on his skin. The old man rubbed his calloused fingers together and remembered.


I was once known as the luckiest man in West Chester. Everything I touched turned to gold. I had the Midas touch, people would say. Luck just seemed to follow me around I have won every hand of poker I have ever played. Nowadays it's hard to find a place to let me play. It can get quite boring winning all the time anyway. I bought the winning scratcher every time. They soon got sick of me down the lottery headquarters. They even tried to investigate me. They thought I was scamming the system. I have never lost a coin toss. Never even lost an argument I didn't know what bad luck was. It had its drawbacks though. Didn't have many friends, because people would be too envious of me. Jealousy is a strange emotion. People love to see you down. Then hate you when you are up. It also brought me unwarranted attention from a few unsavoury characters. Fellas wanting to cash in on my luck. The luck didn't seem to work in that way. Bad things happened to the people who benefited from my luck. A couple of gangsters got wind of my good fortune and wanted in. One evening when I was getting into my car. I get jumped from behind and the next thing I remember I was being led into a casino by two fairly large, bald, Russian gangsters. To put a bet on a number on the roulette table. If I didn't do it, my wife was getting shot, if I lost me and my wife were getting shot. They hand me 200 thousand dollars. I pick my luckiest of numbers, twenty-one. As I watched the wheel going around. I suddenly found myself doubting my luck. The ball bounced eight times before it came to a rest. My heart began beating out through my chest as the number landed on twelve. I look up at the two Russians and they were celebrating. I look at the wheel again, twenty-one. I feel an enormous weight lift off my chest. I hand the money over to the two Russians. They told me they would be in contact with me for some future fun. They slap me on the back as they went skipping out of the casino. A group of rival gangster were waiting for them outside. As soon as they stepped outside they open fire. Gunning down my two kidnappers in a hail of bullets. Stray bullets hitting the innocent people who just so happen to bet on my number as well. Killing them as they collected their winnings When I think back on it, everyone around me fell on hard times. Everyone around me was miserable, while everything just fell into place for me. No wonder my family hated me. The best thing my luck brought me was my wife Amy. She was the most beautiful women I had ever seen. She had the most angelic face with the most beautiful brown eyes I had ever seen. The one and only time I ever got rear-ended by another car. The woman driving so happened to be my future wife. Things didn't start out too well for her though. Not long after we got married her parents died. Then the miscarriages started happening. Doctors couldn't find a reason for it, just bad luck they said. Then came the lottery win. 6.5 million dollars. I thought this was what my wife needed to lift her from this terrible depression she found herself in. We decided to go on a holiday to France. Ever since she was a child she longed to see Paris. That dream soon turned into a nightmare. We decided to go for a romantic meal in the city and after we went for a stroll. As we walk down Rue de la Paix, she told me things were starting to feel fussy in her head and then she just collapsed. The doctors told me it was cancer. It had already progressed aggressively and she had a week at best. Both our families had flown in. We had decided to let her spend her dying days in Paris, just make her comfortable and let her rest. Since the families paid their own way over I decided to treat them with some of my lottery winnings. I booked them into the fanciest hotels and treated them to dinner in the finest restaurants. I even booked out the whole first class cabin for their journey home. I had to stay behind to finalise some issues with the hospital. When I got back to my hotel room I flicked on the news to a breaking news report about a plane crash that only killed all the first class passengers of the plane. As the news of the plane crash was sinking in, I get a message to my phone. My wife's life insurance policy was just credited to my account. 2.3 million dollars. Even when I'm down, I'm up. The story of my life.


It slowly comes into view when her horse crests over the final incline of the mountainside. The rocky slope leads her and her steed around a corner tucked away between large boulders and a steep treeline. She’s stopped in her tracks and holds her horse’s reins in one hand, the other pulling the thick woollen scarf away from her face so she can take in fresh air. This trail has given way to a thick forest of pine trees reaching their spindly trunks up towards a dull grey sky, the first snowfall of the year beginning to drift down past her face as she stands slack-jawed for a moment longer. There’s a part of her that’s convinced it will all vanish the second she looks away for too long, closes her eyes and doesn’t open them quick enough.

She hasn’t seen the valley in so long, after all. A million footsteps led her right back to where she started.

The mountains arrive at a collision, walls of black rock etched with crevices as old as time. The land dips downwards to cradle a clearing hidden away among the dark green of the pines and the gnarled surface of the rocks that enclose it, the earth’s hands gently holding steady the remains of what was once a thriving village in the biting wind. She can truly see it all from up here, even the weathered and withering houses that look minuscule from this far away. A river - her river and her family’s river and their families’ river - curves through the clearing just beyond the village itself, a snake with frosted scales that hasn’t fully frozen over yet. Winter’s coated everything in a layer of white by now. She counts her lucky stars that she made it before the whole scene became buried and unrecognizable. Most of it is already hard enough for her to stomach. She’s trying to knit together the snow-covered landscape of today and the green pastures that once stood in their place, eyebrows furrowing in consideration when the pieces don’t reconnect like she wants them to. It’s a feeling somewhere between shock and longing, and it settles stone-heavy and frantic at the pit of her stomach. Another feeling grips her underneath it as well, a different sort that doesn’t want her to move forward or want to face what her home became. Her horse snorts impatiently on the other hand - it’s cold , he seems to tell her. They’re both bone-tired, the smell of sweat and wood-smoke has long since tangled itself in the dark coils of her hair. It’s sensible to travel towards the village rather than continue along the mountains, if not for the waves of homesickness that crash over her then for the possibility of shelter before nightfall.

There’s no smoke curling up from any of the chimneys, however. She keeps a tight grip on her horse’s reins and keeps a keen eye out for any movement other than their own, but there’s nothing in that regard either. The path twists downward, and she can see no new tracks leading in or out of the valley, her horse’s hooves and her own boots the first to leave imprints in the cold mud.

So, no. Not exactly as she left it.

Then again, perhaps it just depends on the memories she settles on. Her mind often delves into the softer ones first anyways, childhood lullabies and fresh bread. Someone's hands holding her face. They’re still vibrantly warm in her mind’s eye even after so many years. The village briefly disappears from view when the path curves down into the trees, and she clings to those memories in the temporary shade of the woods. Now that she has begun moving, she finds herself unable to stop. It’s a desperation of sorts. She hasn’t felt this need to travel so urgently in quite a while, but her horse keeps them steady the whole way down opposed to the break-neck pace her own feet wish for.

Warm memories. Not the cold metal of the sword resting against her hip in its hilt, nor the ache of the leather armour across her shoulders and back. The other memories taste of iron and charcoal, make a sound of roaring embers and the collision of sword against shield whenever she dares to look their way, so she keeps those pressed up against the very back of her thoughts. Those ones burn to the touch in comparison. They will do her no good anymore, she tells herself often.

Her other hip is heavy with a different burden. She tries not to think about that either, not now, yet the thoughts have a funny way of creeping up regardless. They break through the trees once more and the village comes back into her sight. Its silence welcomes her when she follows what remains of the stone pathways through the fields. What once held crops now sits unused and died out. She can still see the farmers and their plows if she squints hard enough. Otherwise, things remain quiet and abandoned. Entering the village makes her stomach drop. Not a single sign of anyone living under a single one of these roofs since the day she left, each house bending at odd angles and missing bits and pieces of themselves from years of neglect. No footsteps down here, either. No light in the broken windows, no voices, just warping wood and cracking stone. The well at the village’s centre has been reduced to more of a mound with a large hole in its middle. When the houses around her groan in the howling wind, she feels for them in a way she didn’t as a child. She’s older, that’s it. She would have once scoffed at the elders of the village and their wisdom of creaky joints and greying hair.

Now, it’s as if she and the valley are the same. Tired. Forgotten. A silver lining pokes through one way or another. Her house is...somewhat a house, still. It's able to be made out among all the others simply because she knows its location relative to the well, a bit back to the left and closer to the paths that lead out to the river. She hadn't been expecting there to be a roof on it anyways, that had been burned up a long time ago. It does have enough shelter for her to settle and rest up when the night comes though, four walls standing with decent protection from the wind. The stable in the back remains untouched if not overgrown with weeds and tall grass. Suitable. She’s slept in worse before. It’s quick work to sweep away debris, lay down blankets and furs for the night to come, and build up the start of what will later be a nice fire. Her horse seems content to stay behind in the far warmer stable as she settles him in, brushes the tangles from his mane, and finally relieves him of his saddle after a long day's journey. She is just as content to continue off towards the river alone. Any of the older dirt paths that would have led to the riverbanks have been overtaken, hidden beneath the flow of time. The effort it takes to travel through the tall grass is an excellent way to ground herself in the present. She’ll need that for what is to come. One hand goes instinctively to her hip at the reminder. Not the sword like it’s done many times before, but to a round bundle wrapped in cloth and rope. She slides down a slight incline and arrives at the water’s edge, pebbles and sand crunching underneath her boots before she finally comes to a halt. The river is only partially frozen over, a winding length of it still flows freely in between the patches of ice beginning to form.

The small clay pot tied to the belt around her waist rests comfortably in her hands now that it’s unwrapped. She cups it like the earth has cupped her village for so long, takes in the swirled engravings carved deep into its surface and traces them idly with her thumbs. It remains unscratched and smooth unlike the callouses that cover her own fingers and the lighter scar tissue that stands out against the deep brown of her skin. Years of scrapes and cuts hastily tended to.

Still, the sight of it brings the slightest of smiles across her face. Her wife was the one who shaped it after all, though that had been for far simpler purposes. Collecting spare coins, perhaps. Something pretty and delicate that had sat in their windowsill through the final few months of peace they hadn’t even known would be final. One of the only things salvaged from the rubble. The ashes laying within it for six years have been shockingly well-protected, to say the least. Her wife deserves nothing less than the best, even in death. Ah, yes. Those memories pushed away earlier are bleeding back into the forefront of her mind now. They sting worse than the biting chill of the wind here, dig deep under her skin and remind her of just how exhausted she is.

When the first signs of war had breached into the valley, no one was exactly prepared for it. It had only been some riders on horseback the first time around, fully dressed in battle gear and armed to the teeth who did nothing the first time they arrived beyond circling around the village before going back the way they came. That was that. The next time they came by, it was far more of them. Things blur into a mess of bloodshed and fire beyond that. A lot of fire, ash and steel. The taste of iron in her mouth. Screaming. Her wife lying in a slash of crimson just on their doorstep and the blood won’t stop flowing and - Deep breaths.

She forces herself to blink away the dizziness that has suddenly overcome her, instead focusing on the mountains surrounding her as they loom in the distance. She remembers enough, even if she doesn’t want to. It had been simpler - or so it had felt at the time - to pick up a sword and charge after them than it had to sit back and grieve. The deepest of anger had been easier than the darkest of sadness, the restlessness of it all spurring her forward. So far forward in fact, that eventually the way home became an afterthought. Until she felt as if she couldn’t even turn around and head back even if she wanted to. Six long, long years spent with a rage brewing so deeply within her that it blocked out the agony - and most other things along with it. Something’s changed, though. Like the landscape, like the village, like herself. Wildfires are bound to extinguish themselves eventually, and so did that rage which fuelled her for so long. Puttering out as the war between two selfish kingdoms came to an end that she only witnessed on the outskirts, and then all she found herself left with again was her grief again. A widow, not a mercenary. Tarnished sword at one hip and clay pot at the other, two burdens balancing each other out and slowing her down. Never mattered where she travelled or how many rolling fields she crossed, or cities she walked through, or corpses she walked over as their armour still gleamed in the dying sunlight. So many steps taken forward, yet she doesn’t feel like she’s gotten anywhere different. The world's moved on without her. In the end, the village finds her one more time, and she is no less shattered than the day she poured ashes into a small pot found on what remained of her windowsill. She knows now that walking a million miles more won’t take her any farther away from the pain. Not if she doesn’t let go first.

Her grip on the pot tightens ever-so-slightly, as if she’ll feel familiar hands clutch her own in return. The air in her lungs hurts to breathe in, and out, and in... It was a custom of sorts, to have one’s ashes thrown into the river after death. She and her wife never lingered on the topic of death too long when it seemed so far away at the time. The pot’s tightly-fit seal pops off after some gentle force. The wind beckons her closer to the flow of the river, as if offering to take this weight and hold it instead. Her wife had said she would want nothing more than to be laid to rest in the same place that raised her. Unlike herself, her wife never ran away. Her hands hesitate. They hover uncertainly with a minuscule shake to them, the pot held out to the cold surrounding the valley but not quite tipped forward. She is nothing if not fearful these days. Somehow the act of forcing her grip to loosen and allowing the ashes to spill past the lip of the pot takes more strength than swinging the heaviest of swords. They pour downwards in a cascade. The ashes settle onto the river’s surface, swept away within seconds down the current. It's finally done. She takes a deep breath, tilts her head back and closes her eyes to the sky above, chokes down the burning lump forming in her throat. There's still much to do. This is a temporary resting spot for the night in the long run, nothing more. She’s a long way from the next town on her map if the coordinates turn out to be true. When the morning comes, only the ghost of her presence will remain among all the others.


It was impossible to tell the smoke from the dust, great plumes billowing into the sky above. The coal was burning in earnest now, consuming the oxygen in the shaft like the wick of a candle. It would burn for decades to come. The floor under my bare feet was hot to the touch. *Why would something be alive down there?* I stumbled. The cuts across the soles of my feet were too many to count now, and although the lightning pain begged me to tend to my wounds the little voice of fear in my heart pressed me onward*.* *Away, get away, get away from the mine!* it begged me. In that moment it was louder that the voice of pain but I suspected that – if I lived long enough – the opposite would become true. My legs ached from the climb, not just in my feet, and my shoulder felt like it might be broken from where an explosion had thrown me against the wall. *But something was alive down there.* I looked behind for survivors. All I’d seen were fingers moving amidst the coal. Maybe we’d dug too deep. Maybe it had been waiting for us. I was the only one left, but how could that be? Seventy were down there when the fires broke out. At least half of those managed to get to the emergency respirators before the lifts failed. Hell, even when the central shaft caved there were at least fifteen who avoided the worst of it. That felt like moments ago. How could I be the only one left? Moisture coated the inside of the respirator’s mask. Without thinking I reached up and drew my dirty fingers across the lense to try to wipe it away, leaving long smudge marks like runways along the visor. A dark shape stirred amongst the haze, beyond the runways. At first I thought it was a tree or a bush, but then it stumbled. A man. Another survivor. I nearly stumbled myself as I bolted towards him; the ground was uneven, and *hot.* So burning hot it felt like I was walking on the sun. There was a road somewhere around the mine but in the chaos I’d gotten turned around. Maybe that’s why I hadn’t found the others. A young face fell through the wisps of smoke towards me, landing cradled between my hands. I had often thought of Paolo as cherubic, even beautiful. Less so now, although there was something entirely messianic about him. Even in this state. Blood plastered his long hair to his face in dried rivers, and one of his handsome eyebrows was split in two. He wasn’t wearing a respirator, and his eyes seemed to focus on a point in the middle of nothing as he drew each laboured, rattling breath. Something clear and viscous was leaking from his eyes, bubbling away and rolling like thick tears to meet the corner of his mouth. “Paolo!” I cried, my voice strangled by the respirator. “Paolo, it’s Eduardo! Where is your respirator?” He stirred, dark pupils locking with mine as I cradled him on the ground. For a second there was something in them, some recognition of the person he was staring at. Then it was gone. “I saw,” he wheezed. I shook my head. “You’re delirious from hypoxia. Save your breath-” “I *saw,”* he pressed, as if the words carried something urgent. I nodded. He didn’t look well. These could have well been his final words. “Okay, what did you see?” For a second he just stared, transfixed on that point behind me as his lungs rattled for air. Bubbles formed in the corners of his eyes and between his lips and that stuff kept dripping and *dripping.* What was it? Liquid from his sinuses, or some effect from inhaling the burning particles of coal? I thought I was losing him as the colour drained away from his face. His eyes relaxed and his fingers uncurled, but then he locked his vision with mine and hissed a defiant intake of air. *“How long have we forgotten the nightmares that lie beneath our feet?”* The ground shook as he slipped from the world, his head rolling sideways at an angle that would have been too uncomfortable for a living man to maintain. I figured more of the mine was collapsing, but the way he lay there in my arms reminded me of our crucified lord as the earth rumbled and tore the temple in half. Slowly it dawned on me that my friend – a man to whom I had once drunkenly confessed attraction – was dead in my arms. Paolo, beautiful Paolo, was gone. And then something moved. My face whipped to where it had been, wisps of smoke curling in the empty space that it had left behind. Something had been standing there, watching me. I was sure of it. Something fast enough to disappear before I could lay eyes on it. Could a human do that? Or an animal, maybe a deer or a horse? I felt Paolo’s body twitching in my arms, his face smacking the stones beneath as I recoiled away from the fluid pouring from every orifice in his head. What the fuck was happening to him? He shook and convulsed but as if it weren’t his own muscles doing the moving. It was like something was *inside* of him trying to get out. I had to get away from this place. I had to find the others, and the emergency crews that had to at least be on their way. I turned and limped back in the direction I’d come from, tracing my own bloody footprints until I came to the shaft entrance, still billowing smoke like a volcano. Good. At least the building was still there, even if the fire had warped it beyond recognition. If I walked around the building like so, I might be able to… “There!” I exclaimed, pointing at my discovery of a sealed road. Who was I talking to? I shuffled forward, to where I imagined emergency crews were gathering to take us away from this hellhole. The bitumen was hot, even torrid, searing the exposed flesh in my cuts as I shambled but that little voice was still in my head. Go, it said. Go. *Run. Get away. Never come back. Don’t look behind you.* Somehow I knew that all hope was forsaken. I felt like I was stuck in one of those dreams you thank God for awakening you from, only somehow I knew there was no God to be found here. But I found the others. Fifteen, maybe twenty of them, crouched with their faces pressed to the ground. Why weren’t they fleeing or tending to the wounded? None of this made any fucking sense! When they rose, kneeling in formation, I noticed the bald head of my supervisor, a heavy man named Nicolás. Nobody looked at me as I scuttled towards him, skidding to my knees at his side before I even had a chance to count the others. There was something wrong with him but the mines were burning. There had to be something wrong with all of us. “Nicolás? Nicolás! It’s Eduardo! We have to get to safety. We can’t stop here to-” I fell backwards, jamming my feet underneath me as I threw myself away from him. The same viscous goo was pouring from his face, roiling and bubbling as it flowed down his chest and onto the ground. His mouth moved in the shape of words, but all that came out was more of that *stuff.* BREATHE. The word rang through my head like a struck gong. I looked up, to where something towered over us with arms outstretched. It was so big. It looked like the cross of our lord Himself. How had I not seen it? Had it always been there? BREATHE. My left hand reached up for the respirator before I realised what I was doing, my fingers pawing at the straps holding it to my head. Some disembodied voice sounded in my mind, commanding me to take it off. The air felt so hot, so claustrophobic. I longed to breathe the cool air outside my mask but it all felt so *wrong.* I scuttled to my feet with a roar, vaguely aware that something was trying to trick me. I didn’t get far. Hands closed around my shoulders before I had a chance to get more than a metre, and I saw the angelic face of Paolo and the viscous tears he wept for me. I wanted to embrace him, to wrap his arms around me and forget any of this had happened, and a dark cool settled over my mind as I watched his lips forming silent words. *Breathe,* he said. “Breathe,” I repeated, offering my head to him so he could undo the straps. The mask fell away, slapping my shins as it caught the line that attached it to my air supply, but it was not cool air that I inhaled. I was tricked. It was sickly, and warm with something acidic that assaulted the walls of my lungs. My body protested my decision with coughs, heaving and choking in its futile attempts to respire as the burning crept out of my chest and towards my limbs. Tears welled up in my eyes, but all I could think was that one, horrible word. BREATHE. It was not my voice, nor a voice of my subconscious. It was something else. Something *outside.* Not spoken with sounds but with some dark, guttural language of thoughts and impulses. In obedience, I drew deeply and ignored the urge to vomit. Eduardo reached down for me and I caressed his forearms as he pulled me to my feet. Finally, my love, we will be together. He led me to a place at the back of the formation, glyphs and nightmares forming in the back of my mind as if someone were reading a grimoire to me, and I saw that thing smile at me through the haze. I couldn’t see it through the dust but I knew that it was happy with me, and that made me *glad.* Smile at me, my Lord, for I am your willing sacrifice! SUCH LITTLE THINGS, the voice boomed. SUCH FRAIL, LITTLE BODIES YOU HAVE. My lips moved, though I knew not the words. Wetness formed in the corners of my eyes like spittle, and I could feel the fluid boiling up from the bottom of my lungs, forcing its way through my larynx as the nightmare became my reality. The ground rose up to meet me, and I realised in the shrinking parts of my free mind that I had bowed without intention. Again, that thing smiled. *Yes, Lord,* I thought. *I will obey.


so when you asked what happened in kentucky i thought you meant like what made Kentucky Kentucky lol but you meant what happened when i had guns pulled on me maybe? **8:50 PM** yeah! 😩 that's why i was confused genuinely interested bc thats a fun story post hoc (vocab word of the day! someone used it in class and im using it now in probably the wrong context) **8:52pm** lol, i was confused too clearly i was like, how the fuck do i explain Kentucky to a New Yorker and why am I being asked to **9:51pm** wait i wanna know what happened wit da guns in kentucky **12:25am** i'll tell the story tomorrow i don't want to tell it in a way that plays into stereotypes or paints Kentucky as a negative place because it's one of my favorite places on Earth  **7:07am** so first things first there was a pretty girl the prettiest think roll out of bed without makeup on pretty think a wardrobe full of things she bought in India pretty think no bra millenial hippy pretty think positive vibes and a longtime interest in Jainism pretty think 24 years old and slightly obnoxious in 2009  her boyfriend was a friend of mine a skinny affluent suburban kid from the northside of Columbus, Ohio  he liked to play video games the pro-social kind like Minecraft and he'd talk to me about how they could maybe save the world by bringing nerds together for good  he'd tell me this over craft beers in a Unitarian Church on Bardstown Road  you know the kind of church with taps and bartenders and salvaged wood tables with mason jars for water  the kind that got converted into a for profit company because the progressives who built it don't need God anymore  and besides their children were more interested in witchcraft pokemon and the understandable joys of dancing naked in same gender company in the thick dark woods  anyway, it's through these two people the pretty girl and her boyfriend that I met Andrew the girl's older brother  since he is the first character with a name i think it should be clear that we immediately hit it off due to a shared love of anti-civilization philosophy and anarcho-communist ideals  besides I knew how to farm organically and could strike up a wallet-opening harlequin smile at the St. Matthew's farmer's market  Andrew, for his worth, knew how to operate and repair machinery produce high quality bourbon and install gravity powered-irrigation systems on land his family had owned since the early 1970s  the land was a few hours south of all of these immaculately maintained victorian mansions in Old Louisville and the Highlands  it was also just a few hours south of where *we* lived at the time in a shotgun cohabitation with a large yard in Schnitzelberg  keep in mind, this is 2009 and I am an appropriate technology anarcho-communist on a farm hand's income so my directions were written down with pen and paper and there was no GPS in my car or on my phone  on the drive down, I listened to music loudly alone in the car but I didn't let Okkervil River, Neil Young, or Fleetwood Mac distract me i simply followed Andrew's written word like I was a fresh Biblical Scholar at Southern on the verge of losing my inerrant convictions through my sincere, devote attention to every serif and san of a higher power's life-directional >!lack of clarity!<  i got off I-65 the winding two lane road became a straight one lane road that one lane road became gravel then dirt and finally it stopped at tall grass and a small break in the trees  this was the end but something didn't look right i didn't see a large back-to-the-land yurt in a secluded clearing with three palimino horses drinking from a crystal clear, cold spring fed unpolluted creek  i saw a doublewide in decent condition with a mix of tobacco and weed growing in the backyard and shagbark hickory and dying ash in the front  i pulled into this dirt driveway slowly to turn around and briefly check my directions  however, that's when it hit me that i was driving a 2002 Saturn Ion well off the well-travelled roads and I was in a drug grower's driveway in a part of the country that is notoriously suspicious of *their own family members* let alone longhaired outsiders in India-import cowboy western buttondowns with big city, Jefferson County plates  i claim no great stroke of wisdom for this humble realization the dogs, the nine pitbulls, they helped me  so did the three adult men bearded, strong, healthy on their porch with shotguns pointed my way and words heading toward me that i couldn't hear  as dumb and clueless as I might be sometimes, I am the reckless, wayward son of Quaker missionaries and this was not the scariest thing that's ever happened to me not close  I simply raised my hands and slowly moved my left one to lower my window  the first thing i hear is WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING HERE but against reason, i laugh i say: isn't it obvious? *i'm* *lost* I was *invited* to see Gerry Dickens do you know him?  at this, they laugh louder and harder than I had in my profound fear and vulnerability "*You* want to see *that* crazy old man who never wears clothes?"  (they lower their guns)  "See where the dirt road ends and turns into a skinny driveway of unmowed grass between those rows of mostly beech and elm trees *that's* where you go."  "But, first, let me guess... you're dating his daughter, aren't you?"  **5:10pm** i liked the way you told that very memoir-y like it could be a cool nostalgic bit in a lil memoir or book or whatever also thats not at all how i imagined it also is it not taboo to talk abotu how beautiful a girl is when ur friend is dating her? ALSO i see a pattern in guys liking the hippie no makeup kinda pretty bc all my guy friends (including you i suppose) have expressed this specific aesthetic  **8:52pm** haha, yeah idk i like people when they are comfortable like pjs over a fancy dress 99/100 times but this is Kentucky as I understand it or this is a slice of Kentucky i wanted to give the sense of a deeply rooted people who are comfortable with who they are and who like being outside and like doing things themselves and are a little romantic and kooky and it's not a joke i saw so many naked people in Kentucky and it's not necessarily a sexual thing it's just people don't think they need to be ashamed of their bodies or awkward about it even if they are women who haven't bothered to shave anything in 11 days \-not so bad, right? like not for everyone, but not a nuclear wasteland in need of other people's intervention and charity \-like fuck. this is the horse capital of the world and horses aren't exactly for beggers \-oh, and yeah.


Their eyes meet and he smiles, his face illuminated and bright. He has never seen anyone so beautiful in his life. She has plain features and limp drab hair, but to him she is perfect. Framed in shadow, she sees him and a look of shock transforms her face. The happiness in his face flickers; maybe he shouldn’t put his burdens on her. But no, it’s too late to go back. Thoughts race and build inside him, the noise around him bringing up latent memories. He is six years old, standing behind a door and quietly crying as his parents scream at each other. He remembers the heavy sting of alcohol filling his nostrils and the crack of his father’s hand across his mothers face. He is twelve, a failing test grade in one hand and a crumpled cigarette in the other as his mother tells him that he is the reason his father left. Fifteen, dropped out of high school, working two jobs just to eat, while his mother lies passed out on the couch, still clutching the syringe that she traded the food stamps for. This is all he knows of life, a hardness that grew up with him, grew inside him. He has never trusted anyone until now. As he gazes towards her, he knows that she can help, knows that she can erase the twenty-two years of hell. A tear trickles down his cheek, shining in the headlights of her pre-owned mid-size sedan as it hits him at 43 miles per hour and sets him free.