The barn itself isn’t all that peculiar. Pretty standard as barns go. Big, musty and partially filled with hay and broken tools. It should be noted that it is brown, not red. That is something I’ve noticed having lived in the country all these years. The barns aren’t usually red. Some are, of course. Probably painted by those so desperately trying to live a nostalgic fantasy they must surround themselves with the trappings of times gone bye. Jesus, just buy a painting. I would hate to be like that. My ability to let things go, move on, drop baggage, has always been a strong point. Sure, some would say it makes me cold and isolated from those around me. I like that though. Why would I want to “connect” with people? People are vile, broken, sick, immoral and selfish. People are the main problem with the whole human race. You eliminate people from the equation and what you have is a virtual paradise. Sometimes I’ll watch those movies you know, the end of the world ones and be so very envious. Could you imagine being the last person alive? Just you. No noise. No constant noise. No smell, no disappointment. That, my friend, is the promised land. It’s not to be though, no matter how hard I try I can’t get there. Eight billion is a lot of people. Too many, far, far too many. I thought moving out here would be good for me. Isolate myself a bit. Calm me down. I could teach some classes online to make a buck and rent this old farmhouse to rattle around in. I had hoped it would be haunted but no, just broken down. I should mention that I don’t farm, never could. Sure I’ll play the part. I drive the tractor. I put on the overalls and have even been known to chew some straw once and a while. I don’t farm but I do keep myself busy in this barn. Very much so. Just like now. Digging, digging. It’s surprisingly hot for this early in spring. I had to wait for the ground to thaw as I always do. Usually it’s much later but this year it’s early and I very much prefer this. It’s still dark when I have my chores to do. I like that. Not that anyone is watching but should they happen down this long driveway for whatever reason, the darkness assures no surprises for anyone concerned. I hate small talk. I think that sets me off more than anything. I don’t care about your aunt’s bad leg. I don’t care about your carrot crop. I don’t care about your kids, your mother, your anything. I don’t care at all and pretending is so testing. If I’m to make a mistake, that’ll be when it is. It is crazy hot. Maybe I’m just out of shape. Could be what it is. Farm life, ironically, has me lazy. Have to keep digging though. Maybe I should get a cow? Or chickens. I’d like some chickens. The idea of having someone, or in that case, lots of people to talk to. That is appealing. You see, there’s no small talk with chickens. It’s mostly just a one way conversation and that I like. Plus, chickens can keep a secret. Even if they can’t they make a delicious roasted snitch. Look at that pile of things. This part sucks. I mean, I get it has to be done but it’s like washing dishes after cooking a master piece of a meal. The let down. Oh well. You can’t make an omelette without breaking some eggs. You hear that chickens? Great, now I’m talking to imaginary chickens as well as myself. Best get to moving it into the hole. Deep enough now I figure. One more in the ground, seven billion, nine hundred and ninety nine million, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine to go. Then there will finally be no more small talk.


We were out of the blue and into the black. We had traveled such a long way and still found ourselves in the same spot as always. We sat on a bench. The air was cool and the sky was dark, neither of us knew how long we'd been out there. Only that by the time we returned we were asking for trouble. I could barely see the distance to the street light, yet the moon lit up your face perfectly. As though it were designed specifically to do so. Your eyes sparkled and reflected the light back into mine. The way they always had. The way they always pierced through darkness in order to find me. Your lips were purple and puckered around the butt of a cigarette. They way they too, always had. Your nose, a perfect ski slope. You knew entirely too well that you were my idol. That you were my friend. That I loved you more than anything else, including myself. I depended on you for life, because you had always been there to save it. I depended on you for clarity, because I spent too much time fogging up my lenses. You never questioned why I had the obsessions I did. You only asked to hear more. I told you about my life, my family, my dreams, my future, and my pain. You were more difficult. You basked in the mystery that your perm-frown gave off. You kept everything hidden. You spoke of things in a vague sense. The future would be great, but I'd never learn why. Nothing was ever fast enough for you. These nights, nights just like this, sitting on an icy bench in the middle of a cold November. This is what I lived for. Endless conversation, pure liberation. It was the one thing I always knew I could count on. You were the one person I always knew I could count on. If everything else turned to shit, we would still have us and this bench, those swings, this park. You needed more, and I always envied the drive. If you could embrace change and move on why couldn't I? What was it that kept me tied to this park bench for so many years? Why wasn't this the kind of thing I could force myself to get behind. Why I did place such a high importance on nostalgia? Why did everything that happened here, years before you, seem to have such a power over me? All of these questions lead to the excruciating one.


A long time ago, when the hills were green with fruit trees and nothing covered the earth but flowering shrubs and soft grass, two doves,

T’apat and Magiliw, fell in love. Their courtship was long and arduous, especially for T’apat, who had to best several suitors for the fair Magiliw. And since doves mated for life, Magiliw took her time in selecting a husband.

But she did choose the devoted T’apat in the end. Unfortunately, after five monsoons, the pair was still childless. The nest that T’apat carefully prepared every year, remained empty of eggs. And while the other breeding pairs’ dens were noisy with the chatter of chicks, Magiliw and T’apat’s remained silent. They gazed sadly at the hatchlings in the other nests, their tiny beaks wide open as they were fed by their parents.

A sixth monsoon passed and Magiliw was inconsolable; she had laid two tiny eggs at the start of the breeding season, but although she had taken such great care of them, the brittle shells had cracked after only two days – to reveal the spoiled yolks inside.

Her sorrow was so great that it filled her completely.

T’apat tried his best to cheer her up. He journeyed farther and farther from their nest to find the most delectable fruit for her to eat. He traveled past the hills that surrounded their forest home and found a great river whose banks were filled with strange and tasty insects which he caught and brought back for her to feast on. But Magiliw refused to eat; her once plump body began to waste away, her wings began to shrink.

She became so weak that she could barely lift her head; her magnificent plumage lost its sheen as the purple feathers turned dull and started to fall off. T’apat was afraid that he would lose her, so he flew to the middle of the forest where the goddess and earth mother,

Mariang

Makiling , lived. “Please help me,

Apong

Maria,” he pleaded, “my mate, Magiliw, has fallen into a strange and terrible sadness; she has stopped eating and has grown so weak that I fear she may die, but I do not know what to do.” The goddess looked at him with love and sadness. “Magiliw has lost more than just the will to live, T’apat, she has lost her heart.” “If that is so, Apong Maria, then tell me how to get her a new one.” “That will not be so easy, my son,” she replied, “it will mean great danger… for you.” “I am not afraid, Apong Maria, I will do anything to get her a new heart – anything at all.” “Will you be willing to give up your life for her, T’apat?” “In an instant,” he replied.

Mariang Makiling thought for a long time.

“The creatures in the forest are forbidden to harm each other, so you must fly past the great river and on to the valley where the mortals reside, only they can kill without remorse. Wait by the acacia trees outside their village. Once the moon comes out, the mortals will begin the hunt. Offer your naked breast to the arrow of the great hunter,

Lakan Palaso  – for he alone has not forgotten the ancient ways and so will remove your heart from your chest and offer it to me. I shall accept your heart and place it in Magiliw’s breast, where it will beat anew.” The brave little dove nodded and was about to fly off when he stopped and turned back. “Please tell Magiliw to begin a new life again, Apong Maria, and thank you.” T’apat flew across the forest, past the great river and into the valley where the mortals lived. He waited in one of the acacia trees until sunset.

One by one, the stars began to appear in the night sky; soon, there were too many to count. He knew that it would not be long before the moon – and the hunters – came out.

No sooner had he thought it, when he saw a small group of men coming towards him. It was easy to make out Lakan Palaso , he was the only one who wore the ancient amulets around his neck and wrists.  T’apat flew straight down toward the great hunter and called out: Strike me, brave warrior, for your aim is true Upon your arrow, salvation lies Cast away this worthless body but save my heart and Offer it to the goddess to give my love another life. Lakan Palaso heard the cry and the rustling of wings. He looked up and saw T’apat flying toward him. The hunter lifted his bow and took careful aim; he let loose his arrow – it flew straight and true – the brave little dove fell at his feet!

Later that night, when the other hunters had gone home, Lakan Palaso prepared T’apat’s body for the ritual sacrifice.

He started a small fire where he would burn the dove’s body, but first he had to cut out its heart and offer it to the goddess, Mariang Makiling , for she was the keeper of all life and to her, the heart of the first kill was always offered.

He took out his sharp blade and was about to slice into the bird’s chest, when he saw something strange – through the wound his arrow had made, he could see that the dove’s heart was still beating!  He ran his fingers gently over its body – it was still quite warm. Then he heard a soft voice behind him. "Give him to me, Lakan Palaso ." Turning around, he saw a woman whose beauty far outshone the moonlight that gilded the forest; her eyes and long hair were darker than midnight, her lips the color of rose and her gown was as white as starlight.

It was Mariang Makiling!

The warrior knelt and held up T’apat’s body. “I cannot offer you his heart, Apong Maria, the dove is still alive,” the hunter said. “I know, but there is someone who needs this dove’s heart far more than I,” the goddess answered as she gently took T’apat from him. “Do not fear, Lakan Palaso , for I will not hold your lack of offering tonight against you,” Apong Maria said, “I needed to find out how true this dove’s courage and love really were. Your arrow was straight, brave warrior, but it was no match against T’apat’s heart. Go back to the valley and your village and beg your people to never forget the ancient ways.” The goddess brought the brave little dove back to the nest where his mate, Magiliw, lay asleep. She placed him beside her. Then she bent over Magiliw and blew into her chest – a small wound appeared.

Apong Maria blew into it again – the wound grew deeper . She tenderly opened T’apat’s breast and took out his heart. She ran her fingers over it, breaking it in two. She placed one half back into T’apat and the other into Magiliw. Almost immediately, the two halves of the broken heart began to beat as one.

Then she blew into the wounds on the birds’ breasts, the wounds began to heal.

And to remind Magiliw of T’apat’s courage and love, Mariang Makiling left the marks of the wounds on their chests. That is why, to this day, whenever we behold the Luzon Bleeding Heart’s blood red breast, we are reminded of the little dove’s willingness to give up his heart so that his beloved could live.


SUSHILA AUNTY She had no relationship with our family but we called her auntie, Sushila Auntie. Our father was a dear elder brother to her. She once said to me, ‘what your father has done for me, only a true elder brother would do to his sister...he is my dear Bhai Jee.'

Sushila Auntie was a victim of India's partition and creation of Islamic Pakistan. She was from a town, known as a ‘city of wrestlers’ and famous for its food. She had built a one-room apartment in Himalayan town and named it ' Sushila Nivas'. It had only one room but was almost the size of a small hall. She also built a well adjutant to her house. It provided drinking water not only to her but to the entire locality. Once while playing, my small ball fell into the well. I was sad for many days for losing my favourite ball. Sushila Auntie was living with her younger sister Vimla who was a mental case and known in the area as a madwoman. People in the locality believed that Vimla lost her mental balance due to tortures she got during the turmoil on the division of the country. Vimla was married and her in-laws were rumored to be settled in another nearby town. There was no news about her husband. Was he a victim of Muslim rioters?

Sushila Auntie’s husband deserted her as she didn’t agree to him to leave her mad sister. Her husband said that Vimla was the responsibility of her in-laws. For every need Sushila auntie would call on my father for support. She always used to wear white Indian dress and a muslin long scarf around her chest and head. She was a strong believer of Hindu rituals. She liked absolute cleanliness in and around her house. We used to call her 'Chuchi Mai' as she was a crazy lady for purity and cleanliness. She had different clothing’s and slippers for the toilet. Inside the room and kitchen she would wear wooden slippers. Whenever we visited her she would insist we wash our hands and feet first before entering. For this a bucket of water and a small metal pot were kept at the door. She would then give us a sugar candy. Sometimes with one cardamom or two almonds. On my father's death, she cried and felt like an orphan. She would visit my mother almost every day. Though she was not in a position to help us financially, would inquire about our well-being and encourage us with kind words. She sometimes would give me some coins. As events turned, we were forced to sell out our house. Suddenly we were without a shelter. On hearing this Sushila Auntie was first to reach out to us. She told us to come to her house. My mother was hesitant as she knew her life in one room apartment. As a true Hindu Barahmani, she was a strict follower of daily rituals. But she was angry at my mother, ‘Oh! My brother's children have no shelter and you are asking me about my rituals? I have already taken permission from my Lord and made space for Him in one corner of the room... don’t worry... my Lord will be happy to see you there and help me to support you.’ She shifted us to her house. It was a big relief for us at that difficult time. We were there for around a year till we arranged another house. Such was our Sushila Auntie. Unknown people come into our lives, do great things towards us and go away silently. They leave behind nothing except memories and painful feelings of debt towards them. Some years later Sushila Auntie's sister Vimla’s in-laws came realizing their duty towards her and took back their daughter-in-law. Sushila Auntie's son who was with his father and got a government job in Delhi also came. Sushila Auntie sold her house and went with son. I never met my auntie again. But she had a permanent space in my memories. I tried to find a photo of her but no luck. Once while surfing on my mobile, I suddenly saw a picture on Facebook, paused for few seconds. Looked at it again and once again. It was not Sushila Auntie but resembled to her. People say social media is bad. But, I realized, it's a wonderful tool to keep you connected to your past and help you live with memories.   . This story would have ended here. But time was changing. India was set to be a huge economy. People were desperate to grab new opportunities. A mad rush to win. Emotions were getting defeated to profits and accumulations. I went to that locality after many years. It was changed and unrecognizable. New buildings came up. The locality of my childhood was not there but I recognized Sushila Auntie's house. The big main room was intact but the space around it was filled with construction of additional two rooms. The metal gate was changed to a large wooden gate. The stone with SUSHILA BHAWAN was still there on the wall. The owner of the house had built some commercial space there. A small grocery shop also came up. The cycle repair shop on the corner was now known as a motorcycle workshop. TV antennas were there on every roof. I looked for the library complex which was popular among elderly residents of the town. Library was confined to one room and other space was filled with a commercial institute.  Time was changing so was the attitude of people. After roaming for two hours and looking for some known faces, I could only find that big Mango tree whose surrounding was our playground. I sat on a broken bench there. It was a hot summer day. I was thirsty. I remembered this mango tree was a few yards away from Sushila Auntie's Well which was the only source of drinking water for the people of the locality. Well was filled up and a building had come up there. I purchased a bottle of water from the grocery shop, gulped water and realised I was standing on Sushila Auntie's Well. The water bottle was in my hand. Looking at it I felt my Sushila Auntie was around smiling. She said, ' Look at your water bottle...your ball is still floating...' Suddenly there was laughter. Mango tree was laughing with Sushila Auntie. I was hesitant for a moment. Looked around and then joined them in laughter.


The snow day is loaded with children making snowmen and teenagers sleeping in. Fifteen-year-old Abby isn’t sleepy. Safe and warm in her bedroom, clothed in her favorite pajamas, she stands on a chair rearranging books on her beloved bookshelf. Her dad made it for her tenth birthday. It’s her favorite thing in the entire world and every time she looks at it, she thinks of him. "Your father couldn't read," her mom blurts out of nowhere.  Startled, Abby turns and drops the book she was holding. Her mom is standing in the doorway, wearing one of her hideous Christmas sweaters. She's carrying a Christmas themed plate of cookies in one hand and a mug of hot chocolate in the other. "What did you say?" Abby asks staring into her mom's brown eyes. They're filled with the familiar sadness she often gets when she talks about Abby's father. Her mom sets the snack down on the desk and sits on the unmade bed. "I said, your father couldn't read." She shrugs her tiny shoulders. "Daddy couldn't read? That can't be true. How is that possible? We used to read together every Saturday at the kitchen table.”  Abby is dumbfounded and hopes this is a bad joke. She cuddles up next to her mom waiting for her to explain. "Let me rephrase that. Your father couldn't read above a second-grade level,” she says, pulling Abby close and tucking her underneath her chin. "I don't understand how that's possible. How did he get through school and life?" "He slipped through the educational cracks. His childhood was unstable and his family moved all the time. When he worked his friends would help him. I would help him at home. He could write his name, pay bills, and read enough to get by,” she said. "Why didn't he ever try to learn?" "I tried to teach him and he went to a few adult literacy classes but, he would get frustrated and quit.  He loved spending Saturday mornings with you. Listening to you read,” she says, picking up the plate of cookies and offering it to her. Abby loves her mother dearly but the woman cannot cook or bake. They both know it. Her mom keeps trying anyway. Abby swipes one and bites into it. It’s terrible but she schools her face into a smile. It's sweet that her mom tried to soften the blow with cookies. "I followed the recipe." "Sure, you did,” Abby says, rolling her eyes.  "Ok, so why'd you wait so long to tell me this?" "He didn't want you to know. He was embarrassed.  Then one day you came home with an A on your book report. You were so excited but, he couldn’t read it. After that, he was determined to learn. You do have a gift.” "Of course, you're going to say that, you're my mom.” "Maybe but, I love everything you write because you put your whole heart into it. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. I guess I wasn't ready yet and I didn't want to change the way you remember your dad. But I think you needed to know. Why don’t you take some time and think about it? I’m going to finish the rest of the cookies.” Her mom gives her a tight hug, grabs the plate of burned cookies, and disappears downstairs. Abby didn't know her father couldn't read and now she doesn't know what to feel. Her mom just dropped this bomb on her and then went to burn more cookies. What is she supposed to do with this information? When she was five, she asked her parents to get her a library card. Every week they'd take a trip to the library. She would listen to storytime with the other children. Mrs. Cook was her favorite Librarian. She did all the best voices. After storytime, she'd take her time choosing several books to read. Mrs. Cook would always give her colorful book-marks.  She would always save one book for Saturday mornings. She would read and sometimes stutter through new words while her mother corrected her. Her dad would sit there quietly, with a cup of coffee and smile. When she was finished reading, he would tell stories about his week. It's strange knowing that he could tell the most colorful stories but he couldn't read or write them. Throughout her childhood, the storybooks with pictures disappeared and gave way to novels that got thicker and thicker. Still, every Saturday for an hour or two she would read to her father just like Mrs. Cook. As she got older, she didn't need help with the words anymore but, it was still something special between them.

Her father died when she was twelve. Saturday mornings were never the same. She stopped reading at the kitchen table. She missed her father and the strong smell of his coffee too much. Thinking back on that time seems different now. Her father was illiterate. Abby can't imagine not being able to get lost in someone else's adventures or nightmares and cheer them on as they pull themselves out of a hairy situation, or read on in terror. No one should ever be deprived of that feeling. If her father was alive, she with the help of her mother and anyone else willing to help would make sure he learned to read. You're never too old to learn. Suddenly, Abby thinks about the school book drives she volunteers for, the school paper that she writes for, and the time she spends helping the school librarians during her free period. There is no literacy program for adults at the local or surrounding libraries that she knows of. She'll have to ask Mrs. Cook about that next Saturday. She may be too old for storytime but she still spends her Saturday mornings there. Although knowing all of the history, wonderful journeys, and funny stories her father missed out on, she's glad that she knows his secret. She’s been thinking of pursuing a teaching career on and off. She can’t think of anything more satisfying than helping others travel to different worlds within the pages of a book and maybe create some of their own. It’s something to think about.


"Stop crying already," Aunty May said. "Sometimes it just happens." "I hate it when you say that!" She ran out the door. "Bree! Come back this instant!" “You’re not my real mom!” she yelled. Before Aunty May could come up with a stick, Bree was already down the path, and into the dark forest. It wasn’t till a while later that she began to slow down. She stopped at an old oak tree and sat under it. She ran her hands over the soil, and came across an acorn, which she picked up and rubbed between her fingers, soothed by its glossy smooth coat. She sat there for a while, and found herself nodding off. Nadezhda was alive, and floated down onto Bree’s lap, and she could feel the kitten’s fur under her fingers. But when she awoke, her fingers were empty. She grabbed a fistful of dirt and flung it at a squirrel above her, missing by far, and the dirt fell back down into her eyes and her hair. She blinked and rubbed her eyes hastily, spitting out specks of dirt. She looked up again. The squirrel stared at her. “What are you looking at,” she said. “Go home to your family. I know you’ve got one.” Aunty May and Uncle Son and the kids treated her well enough, but she still felt like an outsider, and not just because of her wavy copper hair, which she kept as short as a boy’s. Nadezhda had been hers. Truly hers. She’d fed and watered and bathed the flea-ridden thing until its fur was clean and white again, and it had been fine till yesterday. Despite her best efforts to nurse it back to health it had died. Aunty and Uncle would shrug their shoulders, not getting why she was crying over an animal, and the kids, content and dull, would ignore her and fight each other. Bree could remember very little of her father and mother. A moonlit flash. Blue eyes as clear as the sky. A taller, rugged form with autumn-colored hair. She had a feeling that was why autumn was her favorite season. The rusty reds and deep oranges calmed her, and she could feel the warmth of the sun in the brilliance of the falling leaves. But it was a gentle warmth, not the aggressively hot and bright kind of the summer. This warmth reminded her of her parents. Aunty said they had died of some illness way back. She wouldn’t say anything more, and when pestered said that she hadn’t known them that well, and that Bree better go on and live a good life and make them proud, and start by washing the basin of the dirty dishes, or there’d be a good whooping for her waiting in the present life. Bree turned for home, but went a roundabout route, till she reached the old bridge by the abandoned mill. They said that no one lived there, but she saw now an old woman, round-faced with skin that was tinged green, and barely taller than her, toddling past her to the frayed wooden bridge that still arched from forest to mill and who-knew-where-else. “Hey there girlie? Would you come and help me cross the bridge?” she said, turning and smiling at Bree, with a toothy grin. She walked over and took the woman's hand. It was clammy and slimy, and smelled of fish and seaweed. Bree made a face, but stood firmly for support as the woman slowly toddled with her across the bridge. The old woman’s walk made her think of Baby Shrimp, just beginning to hoist himself up using the low stools so he could be on all two's. It made her smile a little. The older children treated her friendly but they knew what she was. Baby Shrimp didn’t know. To him, her touch was just as much warmth and comfort as the breast of Aunty May. "Thank you," the woman said. Bree blinked and looked around. They were across the bridge. "You're welcome," she said, as the woman let go of her arm. The woman looked around, feeling in the pockets of her mossy brown coat. "Well, there's nothing I can give you." “Oh, there's no need," the girl said, turning to leave. “Wait!” The old woman stopped digging in her pockets. "I have just the thing," she said, and fished out a piece of what looked like a black gooey lump. The girl stared at the strange black lump. It drew her in, and made her want to hold it. It was pulsing, like the veins on her wrist, but how could that be? She stared at the black void that sucked all color around it into itself. “Just black licorice,” the old woman winked and took a bite. "See? Not poisonous." “Go on," she said. "Take it." Normally Bree would have been more cautious, but her grief and resulting absentmindedness let her reach forward and stuff the licorice into her mouth. She chewed it. It was sweet with herbal notes. As she chewed it she felt a void ballooning up inside her, a void where once had been a friend in her arms. She felt like throwing up. She was going to throw up. Her eyes watered and poured. She wanted to stop but she couldn't. It was like a waterfall was pouring from her very soul. Was it raining? Was that rain on her skin and her forehead? The water rushed around her, soaked through her dress and hair and pushed her down. The woman’s clammy, slimy hand tightened around her arm, leading her down into the torrent of rain. She felt far from her body. A rainbow flashed across her eyes, and the rain cleared. She was underwater. When she swam in the lake with her uncle and dived for shells and edible clams, she could see very little. The lake was then opaque and particle-filled as sand roiled around her moving body. But now, she saw the underwater world as clear as if the water were air. The water stretched around her vast, and the whole world glowed, the sun above, a molten egg sending its rays down into the core of the earth, illuminating the seaweed columns that towered above her like mighty giants, and the sandy bed way down below. Every boulder and stone was sharp and in focus. Tendrils of algae coiled around little clams and sea snails clustered on the tops of the boulders. Hadn't it been late evening when she reached the bridge? Yet it seemed now as bright as the middle of a summer day. The giant strands of seaweed, stretching from the waterbed to the very top of the water hundreds of feet above her, swayed around her like graceful dancers, and in front of her, holding her by the wrist, was a woman, mostly. Bree could see long dark hair like strands of seaweed floating from the woman’s head, but whoever was holding her now was propelling them downward by means of a tail slightly longer than an adult human’s legs, glittering with scales, and ending in a long blue fish’s fan that was as thin and delicate as gauzy silk ribbons. The glittering tail undulated up and down as it drew them down toward the mouth of an underwater cave. Bree felt her lungs felt lacking, and the awareness was terrible and startled her to action. She pulled at the hand, trying to loosen its grip. But the woman was strong, and pulled her down, until Bree’s vision darkened, and her thoughts became murky, then gray. The next thing she knew she found herself bursting out of a small pool. She gasped for air, grateful for the air that rushed into her lungs. As she crawled forward further onto the dark, water-stained rocks, she could see beautiful stained glass lamps, lighting the walls of the cave with brilliant flashes of red, blue, purple and green. The cave itself was as large and vast as a cathedral, the ceiling submerged in complete darkness. On the bottom of the cave stood a stone table on one side, and various other instruments and shelves of things. She lifted her head to look at the woman, who was clearing some space on the stone table. "Who are you?" Bree sputtered. "Where's the old woman?" "Not here," the woman said in a voice musical and bubbling, and stroked her long shiny green hair satisfyingly. Her skin was tinged green, and she had very round cheeks. A faint smell of fish and seaweed lingered in the air. It was the old woman. But leaner and taller. And beautiful, in an unearthly way. Her tail was now a pair of long, slender human legs, ending with two thin, flat feet. A translucent webbing stretched between her elongated toes. “What’s your name?” the woman asked her. “B-Bree,” the girl sputtered. "I’m Mrs. Vodyanova,” the woman said, taking some seaweed and chopping it with a big butcher’s knife. “But you can call me Vodya.” "Are you a mermaid?” Mrs. Vodyanova turned and scowled, her face puffing up like a puffer fish, her odd, eerie beauty suddenly transforming into a flash of anger. "Don't call me that! It's not our fault the mermaids flaunt themselves at every sailor that passes, the saucy…never mind. No, I'm an amphibian." "What's a plebeian?" Bree asked. "An *amphibian* is someone who can live both on land and in water," Mrs. Vodyanova said, deflating, her face returning to normal. "Like a frog…you know a frog?” Bree said, "I know what a frog is." “Well, I’m not exactly a frog. I’m a special type of amphibian, a vodyanitsa.” Bree stared at her. “I bridge two worlds,” the woman said. “On one side land, the other, water.” "So…why did you take me here?" Bree asked. Now that the initial rush was over, and she sat here breathing properly and talking to this vodya-whatever, she felt tired again. This was a weird dream indeed, but she just wanted to go to sleep. She wanted to roll over in bed, pull the covers over her head and never come out. "You cried your heart out," Mrs. Vodyanova said. She took from the inside of her black vest a small red gem, glowing with a feeble fire. "What?" Bree said, and her hand jumped to her chest, "My heart?" "It was a little dirty," said Mrs. Vodyanova, "so the licorice helped you cry it out. Now that I’ve got your heart here, I can clean it. " Upon hearing that, Bree’s heart would have fallen out of her chest, if she still had one. Mrs. Vodyanitsa put the gem on the table and rummaged through some shelves on the side of the cave. She grabbed some glass vials of strange things unknown to Bree's eyes and started throwing them in a cauldron. “Well, make the fire, girl,” she said. Bree complied, starting to take some logs from the ground and stuffing them into the fire pit under the cauldron. “Then can I have my heart back?” she asked, afraid of the answer. “Just a second,” the woman said, throwing a snail's shell and a small human toe into the cauldron. She stirred it. She took the ruby and waved it in the smoke drifting up from the cauldron, and then dropped it into a small glass cup. Slowly, the ruby dissolved into a glowing red liquid. "Drink it," she said. "I flavored it with cherries and a spider’s eye." Bree tilted her head back and gulped the drink entirely till it was gone. She looked at the woman. "What now?" She said, "I don't feel anything." Mrs. Vodyanova took her face, and looked into Bree’s blue eyes with her own yellow eyes, the pupils vertical and alien. “You were born of fire and water. You were born to bridge worlds. Come to me, when it begins.” “What?” Bree said. “What begins?” “Don’t worry,” Mrs. Vodyanova said, waving. “All will become clear in time. In the meantime, be a good girl! Be kind and follow your heart!” Water rushed up from the pool into the cave, and Bree was swept up into the current. "See you soon, darling!" Mrs. Vodyanova’s voice echoed and became faint. Bree slipped out of consciousness for the second time that day. She woke up next to the bridge, the setting sun painting brazen orange and red strokes above the water. Near her feet a brownish-green frog about the size of her big toe hopped into the water. **The Nightmare** Over the next few weeks she had a lot to do. It was harvesting season so she and her cousins were hard at work in the fields with Uncle Son, reaping and collecting the wheat before the winter chill could overtake them. She almost forgot about Nadezhda sometimes. Or rather, Nadezhda became a murky dream, rather than a living pain in her consciousness. There was once when she saw a stray calico in the chicken coop and fell into a trance as her other cousins shooed it away, but for the most part she felt an odd thing happening, called a smile. She had always been a serious child, and once Aunty May had called her cold. Now she smiled, just a little, when she played with Baby Shrimp, now progressing from toddling to running little steps and tripping over himself. She smiled when the dogs came to slobber their affection all over her. And she smiled, ever so slightly, when she was sleeping, and had a dream about her parents. Aunt May saw the change and rewarded her in the middle of August with a slab of apple cake and ushered her to go into the forest and play. “I worry about her sometimes,” she said quietly to her husband, as they watched the child sitting on the porch, eating the apple cake, lost in thought. “She’s not of our stock. And both of them being who they were! What if she ends up–” “It’s too late for her, we would have known by now,” Uncle Son said, looking around furtively. “Hush woman, we mustn’t grow careless. The woods were watching then, they could be watching now.” May bit her lip and said nothing. “With time she’ll be like anyone else here,” Son consoled her. “I hope so,” May said. “For her sake.” "This year looks to be good," Son said, changing the subject. It was a peaceful October day, when the winds were asleep and the sun was just right, and the brown droopy-lipped dogs with equally droopy brows basked in their spot on the front of the porch. May smiled and pressed his hand that was on her shoulder, and they watched their children grow. So the weeks, then months, then years passed, and by the time Bree was tall and grown, entering the first blooms of womanhood, she had forgotten about the vodyanitsa in the lake under the old bridge. Or so it seemed. Something happened that made her remember again. It was on Hallows’ Eve, sometime after her sixteenth birthday. She was lying on the hammock under the apple trees, now stripped of their last apples and with their last leaves falling, and reading a book. It was the only book on the residence of the Nguyen family, and she was the only one who could read it. She’d been taught by a grateful circus family a year back. They’d been passing through, and Uncle Son had let them stay in the barn for one dreadfully stormy night. They’d ended up staying for another week, and then a month, and had proved to be welcome help on the fields during the day and amazing entertainment during the night. The father, broad-chested and brown in skin and hair, had been an expert juggler of knives, and a firebreather. Meanwhile the two girls played music on tambourines and fiddles, and then later the father took over the music, and the girls took a rope in each hand, a rope that ended in a metallic ball of some kind, and lit the ball on fire. They started dancing, and everyone became quiet, for the rhythmic way they looped the fire across the sky and around their bodies was nothing short of entrancing. For days afterwards all the children had found themselves preoccupied with learning how to swing the balls of fire, including Bree, who mastered a few basic turns with the practice balls, made of a softer woody material, by the time the circus family had left. But that was not all they taught her. Bree was quite taken with the man of the circus, and it was for something else than fire-dancing. He also proved to be a great reader, with a deep and sonorous voice, filling both the heroes’ and villains’ voices with just the correct note, and he read every night to the children from a dusty tome that was gorgeously decorated with illustrations of the tales he told. Afterwards Bree had taken to following him covertly around the place, until he’d turned and asked what she wanted, and she’d shyly asked him to teach her how to read the stories. And so he had, in between work times. Beyond that, he taught her about the stars, and how to find heroes in the sky, and lions, and he told her many things from his life that had passed, with his daughters on his shoulders excitedly interjecting about pirates they’d once bribed and taken passage with, and other things she could barely imagine. She liked the daughters too. They were bright and sprightly, slightly younger than her, and taught her a multitude of card games that challenged her and left her hungry for more. They were also brilliant practitioners of fire-dancing, which indeed helped fuel Bree’s admiration. When they all were about to leave, father and daughters alike, Bree found herself immensely sad. The father, by now familiarly called upon by everyone as Ali, called her to him and said, “I want you to have this.” It was the storybook. She stared at it. “Really?” “Yes,” he said. “We have read this book through and through. Now it is for you to enjoy. And someday maybe you can give it to someone else to enjoy.” “Thank you,” she stammered. He smiled. “You’re welcome, Curious One.” Curious One. He’d said it like that, like it was a name. Whenever she opened the book and read, she’d think of him and his daughters and hope she’d have adventures like them too. She’d live a life worth writing about. A year had passed between then and now. She read much faster now, and the words flowed more easily like they hadn’t when she was just beginning to learn. Right now she was reading about a boy trapped in a cave of wonders while looking for an ancient lamp for the evil wizard. The autumn sky was ripening to a warm pumpkin orange with a touch of gray at its periphery, and the evening was cool and gentle with its soft whispering wind in her ear, and the book slowly slipped from her hand and fell quietly onto the ground below. “Mara,” she heard. “Mara.” “Go away…I’m sleeping,” she said, batting at the annoying voice, and letting her hand rest over her eyes. “Mara.” The voice was right above her, loud and resonant, and she opened her eyes. She saw a sky of stars deep and dark, and the moon hanging above her, impossibly bright and white. The moon uncoiled into the silver shape of a dragon, which flew down and came towards Bree. The dragon’s mane was ink-black and glossy as it leaned over Bree, its eyes blue as a stream, looking lovingly down at Bree. The dragon kissed her on the forehead, and behind it was the sun now in the shape of another dragon, as fiery red as autumn copper leaves. The two dragons encircled Bree and lifted her higher into the sky. She felt inexplicably loved and safe as she lay cradled between these celestial giants. Then something else happened. Men crumbled up from the ground. Faceless men stretched out their bony fingers, and Bree felt herself being pulled away and down by human fingers, rough fingers that grasped around her throat and– She woke up choking and gasping, her heart thudding in her chest.


I've lived a hundred lives in one life, no telling how many before. Time has always been an illusion, and one I am not too fond of. My first life was as an awful child, perhaps my second, considering I was once a babe; even a third, as the womb was my first home, though I remember it not. You know how the progression goes. Why should I miss any of it?

Why does anyone tarry in nostalgia? Perhaps to hold onto a past they carry in their hearts anyway? Trinkets and trivial weight they unnecessarily burden themselves with, making each step forward more rigid and inflexible. Nostalgia affirms you to only one path, preventing sight of the less beaten tracks of risk and adventure. Holding on to what is gone can only hold you back. The race is hard enough without the pain of remembrance. Each life is nothing more than the lesson of the day. Occurrences are to be studied and transversed into knowledge to pass the test of tomorrow, which will be another lesson unto itself. Each lesson is harder than the lesson before, constantly reaching for a graduation that is always out of grasp.

I say this as if you don't realize it's true, but you do. The words don't come from judgment because I have been where you are. I struggled to reach a destination burdened by nostalgia, leaving parts of my soul along a weary well-worn path. I can only hope that the discarded remnants of my past were found by other weary travelers, who admired the pain I endured and grew from it as I did. Life is nothing more than a journey of these lessons, each one building upon the last. It's crucial to recognize that the past can be a valuable source of knowledge, but dwelling on it can hold you back from achieving your full potential. I've learned from my struggles, but discarded hanging on to the wound itself. I have learned that holding onto what's gone will only hinder my progress toward a brighter future.

The key to success is to use the lessons of the past to move forward confidently and embrace new challenges with an open mind. I encourage you to take risks, explore new opportunities, and focus on the present and future. The road may not always be smooth, but with the right mindset, you can accomplish anything you set your mind to. "Is this nostalgia or did I create it?" Reflecting on the nature of life also means reminiscing. The difference lies in whether you learn from the knowledge gained and move forward, or get stuck in it. For me, the choice has always been crystal clear, unlike the rose-tinted versions of the past. Could I have learned to walk if I had not crawled first? After I learned to walk, I did not go back to crawling. Similarly, I did not continue wearing the same soiled diapers from my past. As I grew older, I no longer relied on the milk of youth, but instead learned to digest the meat that was necessary for my growth. I value the process of growth and the lessons I have learned along the way. I know how to nourish my soul and thrive. That is where the true challenge lies. Once I began my walk, I explored with abandon. Fire was hot, and water was wet, when combined they diminished each other. These are things I learned, and I became cautious with my steps...but I touched them both again. I became aware of their necessity and powers. I learned that childhood is necessary as well. An existence covered in the illusion of protection but harmed despite them. We are walking wounds until we are healed, but at least we have learned not to run. Understanding we are constantly evolving into a higher form of ourselves is essential to healthy growth. Shedding the wounds of the past set us free to grow into the healthy individuals we were meant to be. Nostalgia brings sorrow to the heart. It's like walking backward on a twisted trail. You can only navigate the path by visualizing it before you. By walking backwards you are doomed to trip and stumble over things you would have seen if facing forward. Avoid new wounds and scars by embracing the future before you. The simple definition of nostalgia is a sentimental longing. Being sentimental is walking around drenched in your emotions. It sparks deep compassion and exposes you to both pain and joy. It's part of the process of awareness. Understanding others and yourself. It is your path, the steps you've taken to get where you are. It is not where you are now. You long for something you can never have back, the past. There are better ways to experience your emotions. Express them, don't suppress them. They will burn like a fire until they ignite a bomb you cannot extinguish. Let go of the chains that hold you back or you will be caught in the explosion. Move forward like a prisoner who has finally been set free and explore the future you deserve. Remember that nostalgia is just a fleeting sentiment. Store the lesson in your heart but move boldly forward leaving the past where it belongs. Behind you. I can't afford to be nostalgic. The cost is too much, too painful, too unchangeable for me to waste my time. Although we live many lives, each one is fleeting and barely passes like a breath before it ends. The true question is who you are within that fragile breath. Nostalgia locks you into becoming nothing but your past. How much more could you have been if you had simply let go of the invisible hands that held you back? There is still time. Live the life you've been given and move forward confident about the future. At the very least, when you take that last breath, there will be no regrets. Isn't that enough?


It arrived in a box on a cold Tuesday morning.

Amelia's sock-clad feet padded quickly down the stairs and she pulled her cardigan more tightly around her as she went to open the door. The frigid winter breeze tickled the base of her neck and she watched in dismay as the delivery driver made off in his van down the street. She had wanted to ask him about the mysterious sender of this parcel; not that she had expected any sort of clarity, of course. But it wouldn't have hurt. The whole thing was an enigma surrounded in a thick cloud of intrigue and she was dying for answers. As it was, Helga wouldn't tell her anything.

She bent down and scooped up the package, which was lighter than she had thought it would be. The door closed firmly behind her, she made her way to the sitting room and turned on a tableside lamp so she could see better. In this lighting, the box looked nothing but ordinary: about two feet in length, the cardboard smeared with grime from its journey. She wasn't entirely sure what she had been hoping for, but it offered no clues. A quick glance at the clock told her it was already a quarter past four, and Helga wouldn't be awake for at least another half hour. Damn, she thought. As curious as she was, this parcel wasn't for her. She had waited almost a month to find out what was inside, and another 30 minutes wouldn't kill her.

It had all started when they had received that phone call four weeks prior. Helga had just sat down to breakfast when the ancient corded phone had shrieked the alarm of an incoming call. "I'll get it," Amelia had said, just like she always did, but Helga had wrapped a gnarled hand around her arm and quietly said,

"That's alright dear. I'll get it."

She hadn't been sure her dear Grandmother would even make it to the phone in time, but the one-sided conversation she'd been privy to had been...peculiar. Helga had answered in her typical, soft spoken manner, and whoever was on the other end had spoken for ages. Amelia was already halfway through her own meal before she had spoken again, only muttering out, “How long will it take?" Silence once more. By that point, Amelia's ears had perked up and she sat intent, watching her Grandmother's features remain unchanged. But the old woman only nodded, her bright blue eyes fixed steadily on the wall in front of her. "Same address. Yes. I do so appreciate it. Bye now."

And just like that, she had hung up the phone and sat back down at the breakfast table, daintily sipping her tea.

"So..." Amelia leaned forward, eyebrows raised. "Who was that?"

"Just an old friend," Helga had responded. Her eyes had then taken on a faraway look, the one that arose when she was recalling something from the past. It was no use pestering her about it; her memory wasn't what it once was and there was a good chance it had been a telemarketer or a wrong call on the other end of the phone.

Or so she had thought, up until that man had shown up at the door.

He'd introduced himself as Trevor Baker, a friend of Helga's paying a long overdue visit. Even now, Amelia could not recall the last time anyone had come to see her Grandmother at her house; she'd been living here for a year and outside of a church member or the like, Helga kept a small social circle. She'd never made mention of this Trevor fellow, and Amelia had initially been hesitant to let him inside. But Helga had come 'round the stairwell and ushered him in, a warm smile overtaking her wrinkled features. The two had gone into the Parlor and shut the door, leaving Amelia beyond bewildered for the next hour and a half.

She'd been back in the kitchen loading the dishwasher when the sound of the front door slamming had caught her attention. By the time she'd made her way to the foyer the man was gone, but Helga was standing at the window, watching him depart. "Who was that?" she couldn't help but blurt out; this followed by the strange phone call had her positively hooked. But her Grandma was the quiet sort who kept to herself, and she had only smiled at her over her shoulder with a little twinkle in her eye.

"You'll see," was what she had said. "In a few short weeks, a parcel will be arriving that will explain everything."

And now it was here. Tempted as she was to open it, she had the feeling whatever was inside would do little to answer her questions without Helga's aid.

"Mama? What was that?" Amelia turned her head at the sound of her daughter's voice, smiling a bit as the 9-year-old yawned, rubbing her still-sleepy eyes as she padded into the room.

"It's a package honey." Amelia beckoned her in for a hug, and the small girl tucked herself into her mother's arms.

"Is it for me?" Amelia laughed and tousled her hair.

"It's for your Bubbe. But I'm sure she'll let us know what's inside."

"Maybe candy." Maya nodded, her voice still nasal from her cold. Instinctively, Amelia pressed her lips to her daughter's forehead, grateful that her fever had finally seemed to abate.

"Maybe so. How was your nap? Are you feeling any better?" Maya nodded again, her eyes still fixated on the box.

"Yeah. It was good. And my head doesn't hurt anymore."

"Good." Amelia rubbed her back and found her own gaze was fixed on the mysterious package. "How about some juice?"

"Yes please!" Maya did a happy little dance and Amelia chuckled as she stood, heading back towards the kitchen. It was a joy to see her sparkle returning; after the unexpected death of her husband, and Maya's father, the young girl's demeanor had become withdrawn and skittish. It was only since Maya had reformed a connection with her great grandmother that things had begun to improve. Young lives were so easily marred, yet also mended if only proper care was taken.

The snow outside was beginning to fall more steadily now, and Amelia took a moment to ponder its beauty as she poured Maya a cup of apple juice. Helga made mention at the start of every winter how much she hated the snow; how it only served to remind her of darkness and starvation and the end of the promise of light. But she could never truly see it that way. For herself, a fresh blanket of snow promised nothing but new beginnings, a blank slate. A well-earned rest after a season of light and life.

She was surprised to discover Helga sitting with Maya by the time she made it back to the living room. "Bubbe!" she said warmly, handing off the juice to her daughter as she came to sit with her. "I didn't know you were up too."

"I heard the doorbell," she said, motioning towards the wall. "It just took me this long to get in here." A soft chuckle escaped from her throat and Amelia laughed along with her. "It's finally come."

"What is it, Bubbe?" Helga reached out for it, groaning softly, and Amelia quickly sprang to fetch it for her. Setting it carefully on her lap, she watched as her eyes filled with some unknown emotion, her knobbed, arthritic hands running softly up and down the box.

"Would you open it?" she asked softly, looking down at it as if it was made of pure gold. Amelia cast a quick glance over at her daughter who had downed the apple juice and was staring expectedly at them both.

"Of course. Here." She took it once more in her arms and settled on the floor, sliding her fingers beneath the tabs. Amelia felt compelled to treat it like a fragile bundle, especially once she discovered that the goodies were wrapped with packing peanuts and bubble wrap. The curiosity nearly killing her, she slowly pulled the object from the box and carefully unwrapped the protections.

"A doll!" Maya softly exclaimed. And right she was; there in her hands was a delicate porcelain doll, wrapped in a paisley cotton dress. Amelia stared at it for a moment, transfixed by the rosy cheeks, the soft blonde curls, the slash of crimson that represented her delicate lips. She looked antique, but well taken care of, and the question was on the tip of her tongue when Helga finally spoke.

"She was mine." Her mouth turned upward in a half-smile though her eyes, still fixed on the doll, were sad. "Many, many years ago." Wordlessly, Amelia lifted her towards her grandmother, a thousand questions sifting through her mind.

"Why is she here?" Maya asked, her eyes blown wide in wonder. Amelia couldn't help but smile; from the mouths of babes!

"She's here to bring joy," Bubbe answered carefully, as if she were weighing each word before speaking them. "Or so I hope, at least." She was drifting again, her bright blue eyes looking back on a past neither Amelia nor her daughter could see. This little doll had clearly triggered something and Amelia wasn't certain what the situation called for. Helga inhaled sharply all of a sudden, and locked eyes with her. Her heart spoke for her.

"What are you thinking, Bubbe?" Her eyes watered, and Amelia found the sight somewhat foreign. She could not bring to mind the last time she'd ever seen her cry.

"The last time I held her," she replied, eyes once more taking on that faraway look. "I had just stepped off of a cattle car."

*** Ravensbrück Concentration Camp Fürstenberg, Germany February 1943 "Ama? Have we arrived?" Helga could see nothing, but could feel the overwhelming press of the bodies packed in around her. She could hear nothing, save the muffled shouts from outside the car and the sporadic gasps, moans, and sobs of her fellow passengers. Ama had told her over and over again that if she was a good girl and didn't vomit, didn't speak, didn't cry until they arrived, then she would get a special treat. And she had waited a good ten minutes after the car had stopped moving to ask anything, lest she get in trouble when it actually counted.

"I believe we have, my darling." Ama's voice in the darkness comforted her somewhat, but the stench of human waste filling her nostrils sent a roll of nausea through her empty stomach. She could not remember the last time she had eaten or had a drop of water on her lips, but still it felt like she would be sick at any moment.

"Are we going to get off?" Her question hung in the air and remained unanswered for a few beats too long, and she cradled Eloise in her arms, pulling her tight against her chest. When the angry men had come, there had been no time to gather any needed belongings. As it was, Eloise was the only worldly possession she had in her care, save the clothes upon her back.

"Give me Eloise, Helga." The words were blunt, a far cry from her mother's soft tone but a few seconds before. She responded by squeezing her doll ever tighter against her, a lifeline in the midst of all this darkness. "Helga. Give her to me now."

"Why?" She spoke in a whisper, afraid of what the others might think of her naughtiness. Ama's hands found her shoulders, and pulled her in close, and she found a moment of respite there in her arms.

"Remember what I've told you?" Ama whispered back. "How old are you, Helga?"

"Fourteen," she responded, but still it seemed odd to lie. She had turned twelve just two months ago.

"You're big for your age, aren't you? Big and strong. Strong enough to do all that is asked of you. Isn't that right, my girl?"

"Yes Ama."

"And when you are asked if you want to work, what will you say?"

"I will say yes, Ama. I want to work."

"Good girl. Good, good girl. But workers don't have time to play, my darling. They do not have time for dollies." Ama's voice was picking up in speed, a frantic whisper as the sound of shouting and sliding doors resounded outside their car. "So you must give me Eloise, alright? And you mustn’t cry."

"But..." Ama's hands tugged at Eloise and Helga couldn't stop the swell of tears. "But what if -" "Out! Out! Now!" The demand fell harsh and brutal upon her ears as the doors slid open. A rush of cold air swept through at the exact moment Ama snatched Eloise from her hands and shoved the doll into the arms of a much younger girl.

"Remember what I've told you," Ama said as the passengers began moving in tandem outside. "Do not be afraid. Be a good girl."

Any response died on her lips the moment one of the angry men grabbed her by the arm and shoved her outside into the snow, screaming orders until her ears rang with it.

"Ama?" she questioned, the shock of his violence pulling the strength from her throat. A tall, wicked fence stood before her and she gulped down a sob, shielding her eyes from the bright lights cutting through the frigid night air. Wretched faces surrounded her, none of them familiar, and she fought to keep the terror from crawling up her throat. She needed to be a good girl. For Ama. Someone suddenly took her by the arm again, thrusting her into a forming line. "All children to the left! All women to the right! Now!" By instinct, she moved towards the left, only to be grabbed once more and pulled to the line of haggard, terrified women.

"You're a big girl, Helga." The soft voice of her mother, and for that single moment, the terror dimmed. "Stay with me. That's it." The line of children made their way through the snow, tears pouring as their mothers screamed for them to no avail; they were forced to walk in the opposite direction. Helga caught one last fleeting glimpse of the little girl who had taken her doll, heart sinking as each step took her further and further away. Ama was speaking but she was no longer listening as they marched through the gates. She wanted Eloise. She wanted to be with the children.

Two lines. Two fates. She hadn't known it then.

"Take heart, my child." Ama was looking over her shoulder at her, offering a warm smile. "This will all be over soon." Warmth blossomed in her chest and she smiled back, not knowing those would be the last words she would ever hear her speak.

Less than an hour later, they put a bullet in her mother's head.

*** Silence reigned, as hushed as the snowfall outside. Tears pooled in Amelia's eyes as she sat breathless on the floor, her heart crumpled in on itself. She never talked about her time in the camp. Not even once.

"There is a foundation that in some way or another, finds the belongings they stole from the people as they arrived at the camps and returns them to the families when possible." Bubbe sighed, twirling one finger around Eloise's curl. "Most are in museums now. Many have been lost to time. But some..." She stroked the doll's cheek. "Some find their way home." Amelia swallowed the lump in her throat, turning to watch her own daughter playing by the fireplace, having lost interest halfway through the story. To be faced with such a decision...to have no way to protect yourself, or your child... "Little one," Bubbe called out. "Come here child." Maya tossed a smile over her shoulder before scrambling to her feet, coming to stand in front of her great grandmother. Her eyes were on the doll. "I want to give her to you, little one. Would you like that?" Maya's eyes filled with a warm glow and she nodded excitedly.

"Yeah! I love her!"

"Her name is Eloise," Helga said quietly. "And she needs to be taken special care of. She needs the love of a little girl. Can you do that for me?" Maya seemed to grasp the seriousness of the moment and laced her fingers together, nodding once more.

"I can, Bubbe. I promise." Amelia watched with some level of amazement as the doll passed hands, from one generation to the next. Considering all that had led to this moment, it was nothing short of a miracle. Both women watched as Maya skipped off to the fireplace, cradling the doll in her arms, singing softly to herself. Amelia sob-laughed, turning to look at the woman she admired, she adored, but was beginning to understand didn't know as well as she ought to.

"Did you always plan on giving it to her?" Helga nodded.

"Yes. I wanted her to have it."

"Why?"

Helga pondered the snow now falling on a quiet earth, the warmth of the fire in the hearth, the gentle sounds of a child playing who knew she was safe. "Sometimes," she said, leaning back in her chair without taking her eyes off the girl. "We need to see the essence of hope for ourselves. To remind us that it still exists." She leaned back, a smile in her eyes. "To know that darkness, however rampant, can never truly overcome the light."


                                                           The Code Talker                                                            Suzanne Marsh

           The young boy entered the hogan, where his grandfather Charlie (Two Shirts) Palmer lived. Charlie was something of a novelty among the Navajo, he had been a Code Talker on Iwo Jima during World War II. The boy knew that his grandfather was a hero among the people but now he wanted to hear the words of the story from his grandfather. The hogan, with its dirt floors, held together with mud and twigs, woven branches forming the roof.  The young boy lived in Phoenix, today was the first time he would meet his grandfather. When he entered he found his grandfather sitting cross legged in front of some sort of steam. Charlie motioned his grandson to sit across from him.  “The Great Spirit will tell you about Iwo Jima. First you must concentrate on the steam that will fill the hogan. If the Great Spirit chooses to, he will tell the story through me.” Charlies' grandson nodded. Charlie, began his chant as he pulled the steam toward the two of them. He spoke once again, now in a dream like state:            “so, my grandson you want to have knowledge of the Code Talkers, I was one             as was my brother Jimmy. It was many years ago during World War II, the             Marines were recruiting men from the Navajo Nation. We were not told why             just that we were going to fight the enemy of all Americans, the Japanese.  I was fifteen and             Jimmy was seventeen. We told a lie to become Marines. We wanted to fight for our             country despite the way the Navajo Nation had been treated by the white man.            The smoke inside the hogan, began to swirl as if the wind were beckoning. Charlie began his chant to summon his memories of Iwo Jima.  The boy did as his grandfather did, inhaling the smoke and motioning it toward him. A strange looked crossed Charlies' face as he began:            It was February 13 th , 1945, the first marines landed on Iwo Jima. I was part of the 5 th Marines. I was surprised to see that this rock reminded me of Arizona, Navajo land, the mountain had a name; Suribachi. Bullets were flying at us from all directions as we landed.

We jumped out of the Higgins boats as quickly as we could.

I ran quickly for cover, with my radio strapped to my back.

I was a prime target and Sergeant Marks had the job of keeping me safe.

The Japanese were intent on keeping Iwo Jima, we were just as determined to fight for this piece of rock. The Marines were told to protect us at all costs, those were orders from the high command, we were very important, we code talkers. I was frightened by the killing that was taking place. Jimmy, went with his company, while I stayed with mine. We had come into together had seen each other for the last time.

We waded ashore as I held my rifle above my head, Jimmy did the same. We wished each other luck; went our separate ways. Our company headed toward Suribachi, while Jimmy's company headed toward the Lee side of the island, it was the last time I saw Jimmy alive.

           The Japanese were entrenched, in tunnels all over this miserable hunk of rock. Our platoon had just begun to set up when we heard the roar of planes. I quickly got my radio off of my back, placed it in the fox hole and began to send a coded message. “Da-ha-th-hi” which means Hummingbird translated fighter planes. I sent that messages several times. Then the Japanese began bombing and strafing the area. I could make out clearly the huge orange circle on the planes. I remember yelling frantically: “jay-sho” which is Navajo for Buzzard, that always seemed to me to be very appropriate since buzzards circle then swoop down. I sent the number of planes it was all coded in Navajo.

           Late that night, we could hear movement, the Japanese were emerging from their tunnels. They would begin their patrols soon. I sent a message to the decoder informing him of our need for “jay-sho and gini, which were the dive bombers. Very soon after that the bombs rained down on the Japanese patrol. Thus far we were safe. The next morning we moved toward a pill box the Japanese had built. We used flame throwers on them. We could hear their screams as they burned. This is not something I am proud of but it was necessary. Any time we would find a tunnel we used flame throwers.

To you it must seem barbaric, but when your life is at stake and you are fighting the enemy, then it does not seem so; at least at the time.            Bullets once again began to whiz over our heads. Fear filled me as I told myself I was a Navajo warrior. We fought off the Japanese patrol, the Army Air Force did a job getting them away from us. Then we settled down for a little shut eye. The following morning dawned gray, just like our spirits. Suddenly , bombs began to fall from the sky. I grabbed my radio and began to send our code as rapidly as possible. The whirr of the bombs coming down is a sound I will never forget. I could see those orange circles. The code talker that I sent the message to was your Uncle Jimmy. I could hear the bombs over the radio, his platoon was in bigger trouble than ours. He kept saying gini over and over. Then the radio went dead. I had no to time to consider anything other than to get the message out we needed da-ha-th-hi immediately. Very soon, our silver birds arrived and rescued us.  I knew in my heart that Jimmy was dead. I could not cry, not then, but I cry now for my brother, he was only seventeen, when he went to be with the Great Spirit.

           Look, my grandson, into the smoke. Jimmy's face is there as is mine, soon I will join him and             the Great Spirit. These things happen. Jimmy two shirts was returned to my mother and             father after the war. His remains are in the desert.” The old man, came out of the memories then. He was not sure exactly what he had shared with his grandson. Charlies' grandson smiled at him.            “Grandfather, you have given me a great gift of your memories. I shall not forget             the story of your bravery and Uncle Jimmy's. Someday Grandfather I will pass             this memory to my sons, we will keep your bravery alive.”     Several weeks later, Charlie Two Shirts Palmer received his Congressional Medal of Honor, long over due. He passed quietly in his Hogan.

We was the last of the code talkers, today the people will sing his praise. All the original code talkers are gone now but their bravery lives on.


     As New Year’s Eve approached Wilson felt he had little to look forward to–another boring party with inane gossip, too-loud music and endless repetition of resolutions that everyone knew they wouldn’t keep but that they still invented year after year supposedly “to carry on the tradition,” but, more likely to cut through the annual boredom fest.       A bright spot, however, had emerged three years ago and repeated itself two times since–the appearance of the stunningly beautiful and intelligent blonde lady who engaged several of the party guests in conversation that one actually could rate above the junior high school level in intelligence.

      Wilson, however, must not have travelled in her social orbit, for, despite their annual game of locking eyes across the room, she never seemed interested in approaching him.

He, of course, could have approached her, but he found her appearance extremely intimidating.      Additionally, shortly after the third year’s festivities, three mysterious men dressed in black apparel from head to toe followed Wilson to the area of his apartment. The men never closed to more than a block of him, but they still seemed very interested in his every movement. Also, for a good half hour after he entered his apartment they stood on the sidewalk in front of his building staring up at his living room window.       He could not, of course, directly link the fact that the “men in black” seemed to pop up and suddenly follow him to the apparition of the blonde bombshell, but the timing seemed much more than just coincidental.       Finally, Wilson could take the suspense no more. Although by nature extremely faint of heart, he decided to swallow his fears and confront the trio.      However, when he got within a couple of feet of the men, one of them raised what looked like a .357 magnum and aimed it in his direction.

Luckily, Wilson took shelter behind a parked car and the “bullet” only grazed his head.      “Wait, who are you and why are you shooting at me?” he shouted.      “The annual party you have attended is open only to a very exclusive guest list,” the apparent leader of the group yelled back. “Those who approach our female colleague must either be a member of her team or

one of our enemies. We cannot tell you more until you come with us.

        “Should you decide to turn down our kind invitation and appear at our annual meeting next year, at that appearance you will be finished. It will do you no good consulting any authorities because we have spies at every level. Their instructions are to eliminate anyone who interferes with our mission.”      The statement peaked Wilson’s curiosity while at the same time putting his sense of self-preservation on high alert.       He approached the men, thinking that they would stick to their word, fill in the details of their mysterious mission and, perhaps, reunite him with their stunningly beautiful and intelligent leader.      The trio then grabbed him, tied him up, blindfolded him and threw him into the back of a windowless van, which then sped away down the street and onto what sounded to Wilson like a major multi-lane highway.      After driving around for what Wilson estimated at about an hour, the van stopped in front of a rundown motel and dragged him up to the second floor before throwing him onto the bed and removing his blindfold and the ropes that bound him.      Standing in front of him in a skin-tight leather outfit was the beautiful blonde from the annual New Year’s Eve parties.      “I have done nothing wrong or illegal,” Wilson shouted. “Why did you and your henchmen bring me here? What do you hope to accomplish by kidnapping an ordinary software salesman and roughing him up like this?”      “Enough of this insolence,” the blonde replied.

“I am Zelda, mistress of the silver global kingdom. Your so-called fulltime occupation is of no interest to us.

Your value to us lies in the second life you have lived for at least the last three years, if not longer.

You have information we need and we intend to extract it from you–either the easy way or the hard way.”       “I have nothing that you possibly could want,” Wilson replied, “unless you need software to upgrade your computer system or want to learn new techniques for hacking into the systems of a rival gang. In either of those cases, I can probably make you a very reasonable offer.”       “You have absolutely nothing with which to bargain,” the blonde shouted. “We have all the chips on our side, and, if you do not follow our rules it will result in the endgame for you.

Now, completely outline your strategy and tell us what we need to know to accomplish all our objectives.”        “Okay, you win,” Wilson said. “Have your men take me back out to their van and I will lead them to the place that contains all the answers that you seek.”       The three mysterious men then roughly loaded their captive back into the van.

They rode around for about three hours along many darkened local streets and back onto a major highway before entering the parking lot of one of the most gaudy looking buildings they had ever seen. The building looked to them like an oversized pinball machine.        Wilson opened the door to the building by activating what looked like a giant pinball machine flipper with an app on his Smartphone.       To the surprise of the three henchmen, however, from four sidedoors in the weird building emerged four robotic creatures wielding huge paintball guns.

      “Don’t underestimate the firepower of their guns,” Wilson shouted. “They can wipe you all out with one squeeze of their triggers.”        With that the robotic creatures led each of the henchmen into what looked like a convoluted section of a pinball machine.

Then Wilson pushed a button on his Smartphone and each of the three men was forced along a path until they stood before a huge sign reading “Game controller champ–one million points.”        Then the entire “pinball machine” lit up and Wilson and his captors and supporters found themselves standing on a huge, glitzy stage.        From another side door a larger robotic creature led the blonde bombshell, now blindfolded and tied up, to the center of the stage.       A man who looked like a 1960s gameshow host then appeared in the center of the stage.

He presented Wilson with a gold trophy and announced, “You have won the New Year’s Eve Paintball-Pinball Competition and the prize of $1 million.”      He ordered one of his men to free Zelda and declared, “for three years, Zelda and her team have put up a valiant fight. They have come in second and they have earned the second-placed prize of $500,000.”       The curtain then closed on the presentation as “Auld Lang Syne” blared from speakers on the sides of the stage.


The first thing Avery realizes is that an extraordinarily large fist— connected to an extraordinarily large man— is descending towards her head. She leaps backwards, just out of his reach, and lets loose a string of very creative French expletives. The next thing she registers is the fact that her eardrums have been nearly blown out by an incredibly loud boom, and that the asphalt has cracked into a million pieces as a result of the wannabe-supervillain-of-the-week’s blow connecting with the ground. Her fists light up with flames, and she draws her arm back to deliver a punch (hopefully, one that’ll invert Mr. Rage Issues’ nose and set him on fire). It’s a pity that fire-related powers are so goddamn visible, because Lara catches sight of her movement as she runs towards Rage Issues. “Avery, non-violent!” “How am I supposed to be non-violent—” and great, Rage Issues is trying to hit her again— except this time, Lara slides between the two of them like she’s stealing a base, a glowing shield materializing around her arm just in time for Rage Issues’ fist to land on it— “when all I have to use is goddamn pyrokinesis?” The reverberation from Rage Issues’ assault on Lara’s shield makes him stumble back. Lara stands, the shield disappearing into wisps of light, and summons a lasso in its place. She tosses it around the man— casually, like she’s roping in a runaway horse instead of fighting a guy with superstrength— and calls out, “Tell that to the Department, then!” Rage Issues bellows incoherently. “Shut up,” Avery tells him. He spares Avery one incredulous (and rage-filled) glance before he begins to thrash violently, his momentum almost making him fall backwards. To Lara’s credit, she manages to keep a hold on the rope for a solid eight seconds before it’s yanked out of her hands. You should try mechanical bull riding, Avery wants to say. However, there’s a more pressing fact to address: Lara’s glowing weapons all disintegrate after they lose contact with her. (Kind of a critical flaw, in Avery’s opinion.) Which means the eight-feet-tall man is charging towards them again. Lara conjures another shield, and the man suddenly changes course. He grabs Avery’s shoulders, lifts her into the air, and squeezes. Hard. Like, bone-breakingly hard. She estimates she’s got three seconds before her ribs give. She looks him directly in the eyes. “Dude, really?” she manages to wheeze. And then she bursts into flames. He howls and drops her, and Lara, coming from behind, lassos him again. The flames surrounding Avery flicker out as she hits the ground. She inhales deep lungfuls of air. Crisse, her ribs hurt. She watches, black spots peppering her vision, as Lara yanks the rope and brings Rage Issues crashing down. “Don’t think the Department will mind a few burns on his hands,” Avery says, staggering over. Lara pulls the power-dampening cuffs out of her pocket and hooks them around his wrists. “Somehow, I don’t think so either.” “Screw you—” is all that Rage Issues manages before Avery crouches down unsteadily and decks him in the temple. His eyelids slam shut. “What’re we even picking him up for?” Avery asks, accepting Lara’s proffered hand and standing. “Avery, do you even read the dossiers?” Avery squints at her, partly because why in the fresh hell would she read the dossiers and partly because there are still black spots in her vision. “Why would I? We go in, we capture the violent criminal, we get paid. That’s kind of a job of a bounty hunter.” “And you don’t follow the news, either?” “Just tell me. The suspense is killing me.” Lara pinches the bridge of her nose. “Uh, he breaks into houses, snaps the occupants’— well, he’s got superstrength, you saw it. And then he grabs all the valuables.” “Damn.” “Yeah.” “Now I don’t feel so bad about the burns.” “Did you feel bad in the first place?” Avery snorts. “No.” They both look down at Rage Issues, and Avery flips him off. … Avery and Lara drag Rage Issues (his actual name is Bradley Henderson, but Avery can’t be arsed to remember that) up to the entrance of the portable Department-issued holding cells. The guards on duty nod as they grab Rage Issues by the arms. “Now that that’s taken care of, let’s go get a drink," Avery says. “Your mother would very much not approve.” “I don’t give a single solitary shit about her approval, and since when do you?” “Since she hired me, which means she writes my paychecks.” “She won’t notice if you don’t tell her.” “Actually,” comes a cheery third voice, making Avery’s entire body catch fire in surprise, “she has a direct feed of the security cameras. She’ll notice.” “Jesus Christ, Greenthorne, we need to put a bell on you,” Lara says. “Avery, could you—” she motions at Avery’s body, which is still blazing with fire— “it’s really bright.” Avery lets the fire die down. “Thanks. Anyway. Why are you here?” Greenthorne shifts. "No reason." Lara narrows her eyes. “Are you going to ask the prisoner to be your test subject?” “No.” Greenthorne fidgets with her cuffs. “Are you sure?” "Why would I not be?" Greenthorne asks. “That was rhetorical.” Greenthorne furrows her brow. “We should ban rhetorical questions.” Lara snorts derisively, and Avery has to agree with her. “Lare-bear’s right. My mother would have a stroke.” … While this conversation is happening downstairs, Eleanor Knight is in her top-floor office, proving her daughter right. She is perched in her blood-red leather chair; across the (massive, heart-of-oak) desk from her sit Department of Extraordinary Crimes agents Lila Reid and Matthew Clark, clearly uncomfortable. Whether this stems from their view of the multitude of taxidermied animals on the wall behind Eleanor, or from the fact that they're sitting on chairs meant for kindergarteners, it's uncertain. “Do I look like a fool to you?” Eleanor asks. “You think you can take advantage of me?” Clark opens his mouth. A mistake. “Ms. Knight—” “Do not interrupt me!” “Sorry—” “What did I just say? Ugh. Tell the Department to send smarter agents next time. Now, I will not accept a penny less than fifty thousand for this exquisite catch.” “Well, the Department only authorized forty-five grand,” Reid says, even though they go through this routine practically every week (for all her bitchiness, Eleanor Knight runs the best bounty-hunting organization on the East Coast). “Ha! That’s a joke.” “I’m afraid not,” Clark says. Another mistake. A howling noise fills the room, and Eleanor’s irises disappear as bone-white specters start to swirl around her. “What?” Eleanor asks, the specters congealing into one malevolent mass. “I’m sure we can cut into overhead,” Reid says hurriedly. The specters dissolve, and Reid and Clark release their death grips on their tiny little chairs. Clark cautiously lifts his briefcase onto the table, and Eleanor pops it open and pokes her raccoon-like hands through the contents. “I knew the Department would see it my way. You two can see yourselves to the holding cells, can’t you? And before you try to answer that, Matthew, that was rhetorical.” She relaxes in her chair, and Reid and Clark stand up and leave. “Gotta get down there quick so her delinquent kid doesn’t scorch the guy’s face off again, eh?” Reid whispers to her partner. “What was that?” Eleanor calls, her icy voice even frostier than normal. “Pleasure doing business as always, Ms. Knight!” Clark replies. If they walk out of there faster than before, then nobody can blame them. … Reid and Clark arrive downstairs in record time, and when Avery turns and sees them, her nose wrinkles like she’s just stepped into a field covered in horse manure. Well, at least they’re giving her a chance to prove a point. “Hey, assfaces, how many rhetorical questions did my mother use in your little negotiation? It’s for science,” she says, pointing at Greenthorne. Reid rolls her eyes. Clark’s a little more subtle in his disdain, electing to simply cross his arms. Reid ignores her question in favor of asking, “Is the prisoner’s face intact this time?” “Hey, that particular prisoner was trying to choke me to death!” Avery says. Reid scoffs. “You are just a pile of excuses.” Avery’s hair catches on fire (well, the quick-to-anger thing does run in the family), and it takes all her restraint to keep it from spreading to the rest of her body. Reid recoils the tiniest bit. “Don’t make me arrest you, too,” she snaps. Clark frowns. “Hey, ignoring Knight’s bullshit, wasn't there another person here, like, a second ago?” Avery turns, her fire flickering out. Lara doesn’t even bother to look— she just pinches the bridge of her nose and says “God damn it.” Avery snorts. She’s got more than an inkling of what’s going on, and she loves it. Stick it to the man, Greenthorne! “What the hell is going on?” Clark asks. Comprehension slowly dawns on Reid’s face. “Christ. Where’s the prisoner?” “If it were up to me to assume?” Avery says, unable and unwilling to hide her grin. “Stashed somewhere in one of the labs.” Clark and Reid both look absolutely pissed. “Find him, and find him before two hours are up, or you won’t get paid,” Clark hisses. “Wait. You mean you haven’t paid us already?” Avery asks, putting her hand to her mouth in an Oopsie! motion. Pissed has turned into full-blown murderous. Avery can tell that Lara’s struggling to contain her smile. “FIND HIM!” Clark bellows. “Or you’ll never work for the Department again,” Reid tacks on, her voice venomous. Oh, merde, that’s a curveball, Avery thinks, her self-satisfied grin falling. “That’s what I thought,” Reid snarls. “You have two hours.” ... The hallways of T.I.G.R.I.S. are long and high-ceilinged, even below ground, where the labs are. Avery rounds a corner— and walks straight into Lara. “And why exactly are you on the floor I'm supposed to be searching?” Lara asks, completely unfazed. “Got bored. Figured I'd come find you,” Avery replies. Lara shoots Avery an inscrutable look. “Well, you can help me look—” —and then comes the sound of an oh-so-familiar voice, echoing through the halls. “WHERE IS SHE?” Avery and Lara look at each other. Lara’s expression is much more easy to decipher this time. It reads: Shit. “Which one of us d'you think he's talking about?” Avery asks. “Well, given that you set him on fire—” Their discussion is cut short by Rage Issues thundering around the corner. His eyes blaze with— well, rage, and every single vein on his body seems to be popping out. Avery frowns. “Is it just me, or…” “Greenthorne definitely did something to him,” Lara says. “YOU!” Rage Issues roars. “Which— dude, we still don't know which one of us you're talking about.” The man doesn't respond— instead, he charges at the two of them. Lara charges straight back, dropping into another baseball slide and summoning a lance, her standard technique, meant to take out the knees. Personally, Avery prefers just punching and burning, but she can't deny that Lara's method works. Except for when it doesn't. The second Lara's lance touches Rage Issues' legs, it flickers out, and she goes sliding past without touching him. Rage Issues whips around and focuses on Lara— “YOU!” “Her?” Avery says— —and then he's thundering in the direction he came from, towards Lara. Adrenaline shoots through Avery, and she dashes down the hall. The benefit of being a hundred pounds lighter is that she catches up quickly. She lets her arms catch fire as she leaps into the air, trying to trap him in a stranglehold and kick his knees out at the same time, except— oh, merde, she thinks as he whips around and catches her around the stomach. Her fire's out. When did her fire go out? “Aves!” Lara calls. He throws her into the ground. She groans through her gritted teeth— all the trouble she'd gone to earlier to avoid broken ribs was for naught. Something has definitely cracked. Her vision starts to swim, black spots flashing in and out. She rolls to the side on instinct, hissing from the pain, just in time to dodge Rage Issues' fist. His hand comes down again, but this time it's open— and her split second of confusion is all that he needs to get an advantage. His palm slams into her shirt collar with enough force to knock the wind out of her. She tries to set herself alight. It doesn't work. It's as if she's wrapped in whatever the non-flammable version of cotton is. She tries again and again, and nothing happens. Icy fear spears her heart. His fist careens towards her face again, and then— CLANG! A fire extinguisher hits the side of his head with enough force to knock him off of Avery entirely, and she crawls backwards, her ribs burning. Lara offers Avery her non-fire-extinguisher-occupied hand and pulls her up— “Owwww—” to which Lara replies with a glance that’s half sorry sorry sorry and half let’s go, idiot. They limp a few feet away. “Hey, quick Q,” Lara says, watching Rage Issues slowly haul himself up. “Yeah, shoot.” Talking hurts. “Are you just— like, unable use your powers when you're near him? By any chance?” “Yeah. Terrifying, eh?” “Nooooo.” “Sarcasm, that's— ow, my ribs.” Lara shoots her yet another indecipherable glance before hefting the fire extinguisher. She takes two steps towards Rage Issues, brings the fire extinguisher down towards his head— “No!” someone, whose peculiar Central European accent identifies as Greenthorne calls— —Lara's attention divides for a millisecond, and Rage Issues bats the fire extinguisher away. Something in his arm cracks as it connects— Avery feels a sense of smug satisfaction at that, she won't lie— and he howls. Avery darts forwards, doing her best to ignore her ribs screaming and her vision wobbling, and delivers a roundhouse kick to his face. He topples. “Don't kill him, he's our test subject!” Greenthorne calls, reminding Avery of her presence. “Oh. Right. That idiot is here,” Lara says. “What the hell did you do to him, moron?” Avery wheezes. She trains her eyes on Rage Issues, who rises from the ground once again. Crisse, he's like the Hulk. “I'd argue that—” “Shut up and tell us what—” Avery jumps backwards, out of reach of his wild swing, and her world tilts on its axis— “the hell you did!” “Well, I altered the particles in his bloodstream—” Lara ducks under another punch. “What does that mean?!” “Why can't I roast him like a marshmallow?!” He swings again, even more uncoordinated, and as Avery stumbles away, the black spots coalesce at the corner of her eyes. She's never been good at staying on the defensive— maybe this is her body's way of reiterating that point. “He's shielded from your abilities!” Greenthorne hollers. “WHAT?!” Lara cries. Avery would nod, but she’s not sure her brain could handle it. “Basically immune. It's like another superpower.” “WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?!” Something in Avery’s mind clicks. “Hey, if it's basically another superpower—” —he swings again, grunting like a hog, and grabs Lara around the shoulder. He drags her towards him, and wraps one enormous arm around her throat. “Nobody move!” Avery freezes. “Y'know, I think—” Lara’s voice comes out strangled as she says, “Just—” “Lare-bear, shut up, let me—” Greenthorne takes a step forwards. “I need to take some more of your blood, though—” “Don't move!” Rage Issues roars. “Sweet Jesus,” Avery whispers, exasperated. Her ribs are broken, for Christ's sake, and she is having a hard time thinking, and nobody is letting her ask the one question she has. And on top of all that, her closest friend in the world is being held hostage by some idiot pumped full of steroids. God, she is so angry. “Lare-bear, get your ducks in a row.” Lara's eyes widen minutely. Avery can't blame her— get your ducks in a row is the keyword for one of their most potentially disastrous tactics. No shield, idiot! Lara mouths. Avery raises her eyebrows and presses her lips together— I know that, moron! She raises her foot a centimeter and then grinds her heel into the ground. Lara's eyes follow the motion and then widen even further. Do it, Avery mouths. Lara pauses. Trust me, Avery thinks. Lara nods. In this exact moment, Avery is sure of three things. One: if Rage Issues' shield is "another superpower" of his, then using it with too much intensity will make him pass out. Two: He may be on steroids, but she's trained herself (i.e. tried to see how many Molotov cocktails she could make and then drink in the span of three minutes) enough to be just as strong. Three: If something happens to Lara, she will literally, not figuratively, exile herself to a cave in Iceland and never return. Avery gives her a thumbs up, sets herself on fire, and leaps towards him. She's not fully aware of whatever Lara is doing, but she hears howling and bones crunching (both someone else’s and hers— she’ll be surprised if she makes it through this conscious). She throws her arms around Rage Issues' neck like a child hugging her father and brings up her knees to hit him in the chest like a very vicious child attacking said father. That same suffocating sensation presses down on her skin. She wills herself to burn even hotter in response, to burn through whatever's choking her fire. One of them is going to break, and it will not be her. Her vision fades away completely. A buzzing sound fills her eardrums. She keeps trying. For a second, she loses faith— —and then her skin is ablaze, and Rage Issues is falling to the ground. She extinguishes her fire, her eyesight slowly restoring itself. "I win," she says, grinning dazedly. "Suck it."