Ananya bit her cheek just hard enough for the salty sweetness of blood and saliva to wash across her tongue. The pain and swelling receded as she released the flesh to meditate on the flavours that skimmed across her tongue. “Eat, child.” Velka’s scolding was muffled through Ananya’s cotton-stuffed ears. “You will never learn the flavours of the world if you do not experience them.” Ananya focused on the coolness of air flowing across her tongue as she quelled her frustration with a deep breath. She was one-and-twenty this past spring. No longer a child, though the news had yet to reach Velka.

Eyes still closed, Ananya reached for a bowl in front of her. She’d caught a glimpse of the offering before she’d taken up her place in the small ceremonial hut, though that glimpse offered no clues. Each bowl bore a hodgepodge of foods that had been mixed and mashed and mixed again until its contents took on a shade of brown, grey, or beige. Ananya’s task was to identify the ingredients within each dish; to attune to the flavours of the world. Once she had distinguished the flavours and their sources, she would meditate on clan Gartvrung’s future alongside Velka and Naritsa. As one of the clan’s three oracles, their meditations would guide their dreams. Dreams that, if carefully nurtured, would steer Gartvrung from danger. Ananya was honoured to be an oracle. The Sensati—oracles of the five senses—were only born to the northern clans, and only one clan one hundred years ago had ever claimed all five senses among their Sensati. But Ananya was a Linguata, a Sensati of the tongue, and it was well-known that taste was the most useless faculty through which to divine a clan’s future. That did not stop Velka—the clan’s long-standing Aurata—from chastising Ananya to eat. Velka attuned to her divinations by listening to the fire crackling, cloth and skin chafing against the rough rugs on the packed-dirt floor, and the chatter of clansfolk passing by outside. Ananya’s attunement was not so pleasant. Holding her breath, Ananya took a delicate sip of the soup-mush in one of the bowls. She gagged.

There was something fatty and lumpy to the mix, a dried herb like thyme or rosemary and…she gingerly moved her tongue through the sickly silky mixture.

Yes, there was definitely something rancid in there, lending a sour, musky flavour to the slop that clung to her breath as she inhaled. It would not be the first time that the clan’s cook tossed a mish-mash of inedible scraps and long-forgotten dry goods into one of Ananya’s attunement soups. Hoping that Naritsa, the Vidata, was looking elsewhere, Ananya did her best to quietly spit the food back into the bowl.

Someone snorted—undoubtedly Naritsa—and Ananya felt heat crawl up her neck and cheeks. “If you are laughing, then you are not attuning,” Velka said with practiced disdain. “If you are not attuning your senses, child, then you are risking the safety of all that depend on you. What will you tell our people when someone lies dead because your sight was consumed elsewhere?”

“Forgive me, elder,” Naritsa whispered. Velka scoffed. “Ask not for forgiveness from me, but from Gartvrung.” “How do I—” “Shush, child! Focus on your attunement and stop disturbing mine.” Ananya did her utmost to conceal the smile blooming across her lips. She could not know if Naritsa saw but— “Eat, child!” Ananya prepared herself for dreams just as she did every night. She bathed with the other Sensati in the hot springs, plaited her hair, and stuffed her ears with cotton. Once the candles in her family’s hut were snuffed out, she began the Linguata meditations: drawing her tongue from cheek to tooth to palate. As she did so, she was meant to dwell upon the clan’s future: Would Gartvrung’s stores last through the coming winter? Would allies or enemies poison their elders or leaders?

For Ananya, the practice felt utterly futile. Assuming she predicted something more pivotal than a future meal, she had few means of determining when a prediction would occur. One year, she successfully predicted that the cook would serve stale bread for a feast. She realized the prediction was manifesting moments after the bread was served to over a hundred of their closest allies. She informed the cook, triggering an argument between said cook, who wanted the bread removed, and the chieftain, who didn’t want to appear disorganized or sloppy. Ultimately, Ananya and the cook were the only two who noticed the bread was stale. The chieftain had done his best to ignore her since. So, this night, when Ananya’s thoughts drifted away from clan matters, she held very little concern that it would lead to the Gartvrung’s downfall. In any case, her thoughts weren’t terribly unrelated to the clan’s future. Simply put, rather than meditating on the taste of her own mouth, she meditated on the taste of Darvik’s. The chieftain’s son had kissed her two days ago, and the memory of that kiss still glazed her tongue even as she drifted off to sleep. For as long as she could remember, Ananya tasted the future in her dreams. As a baby, she dreamt of the warmth and creamy sweetness of her mother’s milk. When she got older, she tasted dirt and snow and all the other things that young ones stick in their mouths. For the last five days, she had dreamt of herbal stews, the delicate sweetness of watered-down mead, and sour berry tarts drizzled with syrup. These predictions were always correct: the clan’s cook had served the same meal for dinner the past four days.

Tonight, though, she dreamt of something else. A salty, warm, musky flavour that coated and filled her mouth in an unfamiliar way. It clung to her tongue and palate long after, and was only washed away by a sweet, burning acidity that left her tongue numb. The numbness lingered for some time, until a burst of salt, heat, and metal washed her senses. The dream repeated itself twice more than night, broken once by her usual dream this week—this time with particularly tart berries and watered-down syrup, which indicated that the cook was finally running out of the provisions required for this week’s meals.

Ananya spent most of the next day puzzling over the new dream and each flavour it conjured. Her inspection of the cook’s stores revealed very little, though she was certain the second flavour was a particularly strong brandy concealed behind three barrels topped with bushels of sage. Ananya nearly missed the bottle, which, she surmised, must have been the goal: there was no dust on the bottle and it appeared half-drunk. This small victory gave her hope, but the other two flavours remained mysteries despite her best efforts. She considered speaking with Velka—the older woman had surely tasted many things in her fifty years—but that conversation would inevitably lead to an examination of Ananya’s thoughts and meditations. While this would not usually be an obstacle, Ananya would be forced to admit that she had not meditated on the clan’s future in quite some time. Unless, of course, the elder considered Darvik’s dimpled smile and broad shoulders to be of critical importance to Gartvrung’s future. No matter, Ananya’s dreams and predictions had never held any importance for the clan. She sorely doubted that would change anytime soon. Darvik returned from the hunt two days later. He was covered in blood, grime, and a dusting of snow, but Ananya saw only his beaming smile and the redness that dappled his cheeks. He winked at her as he passed, and she nuzzled into her scarf to hide the blush it elicited. She forgot the strange dream that plagued her sleep, her mind consumed with the curve of Darvik’s lips and the strength of his arms. That evening, as the sun gilded the snowcapped mountains and glittered across the frosted ground, Darvik led Ananya into the woods. “I’ve been thinking of nothing but you for the last four days,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers as he reclined against a towering pine far from the village outskirts. Ananya tasted his breath as it clouded the small space between them, the memory of their kiss a flurry across her tongue. He cupped her cheeks and brushed his lips against hers. Ananya’s heart fluttered like prairie grasses caught in the late autumn breeze.

“I want more, Ananya,” he said. Seduced by the savoury tang of his mouth and the heat radiating from his body, she nodded. She hadn’t a clue what ‘more’ entailed, but how could anything objectionable arise from something as sweet as this? Her breath caught as he traced her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “I want you to taste me, dream about tasting me,” he muttered, his breathing skimming her neck and jaw. A coy smile tugged at her lips. “We’d have to do a lot more kissing.” Her breath caught as he nipped her earlobe.

He chuckled into her ear. “It’s not my mouth I want you to dream of.” Ananya smoothed her skirts and ran her hands along her hair, patting away her frayed edges. She took a breath and sucked her tongue at the lingering taste of him. He’d taken his pleasure with her and then claimed business elsewhere, leaving Ananya hungry and wanting and empty. She swallowed her shame and picked her way back to the village, all the while mulling over their tryst with a hollow heart. Darvik was more interested in her dreams than in her .

That evening, as the other clansfolk prepared a feast, Ananya joined the Sensati in their attunement. She was just as distracted now as before, and despite Velka’s prodding and scolding, ate very little of her grey sludge. The elder shot her a look of concern before slipping out of the hut and into the dancing lights and music of the village centre.

“Let me guess,” Naritsa said, joining Ananya in the doorway. “Darvik lured you into the woods to act out one of his little fantasies?” Blood rushed furiously to Ananya’ cheeks. “There’s no shame in it. Well… not for you. He did the same to me last month.” She heaved a sigh. “I suspect that if Velka were a decade younger, he’d have tried with her, too. I swear that boy’s mother dropped him as an infant. If only I could see the past as well as the future, I would prove it.” Ananya snorted. “He does have a rather oddly shaped head.” Naritsa smirked and covered her mouth to suppress an obscene giggle. “That’s not the only part of him that’s oddly shaped.” At the feast that night, Ananya and Naritsa sat on a log by the bonfire, trading swigs of brandy stolen from the Cook’s kitchen and grimacing as it seared its way down their gullets. With time and inebriation, their snickered gossip about Darvik and the other young men of Gartvrung grew boisterous.

Eventually, Darvik could no longer pretend to ignore them. He appeared flattered, at first, but it soon became clear that they were not fawning over, but ridiculing, him. “Ladies,” he said on approach, sizing up the small women from the log they slouched on. “Sensati,” Naritsa corrected, drawing out the word. Ananya held back a drunken giggle and snorted loudly instead. Darvik noticed. “Sensati.” He began anew. “Whatever you are talking about seems unbelievably amusing. I’m sure we would all like to join in your merriment, if you would tell us what it is you find so entertaining.” He beamed as he spoke, but the stiffness in his eyes and jaw betrayed him.

“You would not find it so amusing,” Ananya said, her jaw clenched as stiff as ice. “Oh?” Darvik said, crouching down before them to meet her eyes. “Why so suddenly upset?” A wry smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “Something leave a nasty taste in your mouth?” Ananya’s nostrils flared, her heart raged against her chest, and she opened her mouth. The words on the tip of her tongue would have soured his mood and seared his pride. But she didn’t speak them. Because, suddenly, there was an arrow protruding from Darvik’s throat, his blood spurting into her mouth, across her chest, and over the glowing, fire-lit snow. Naritsa shrieked. Ananya froze, every hair raised at the familiar warm, salty, metallic flavour that coated her tongue. Darvik clutched at his throat before crumpling to the ground. As the chaos quickly unfolded around her, Ananya had a brief burst of pride: she’d finally predicted something useful.


He waits outside, his breath short within his lungs and his hands constantly patting down his sides. It's cold outside, and he wore a heavy button up jacket he received from his mother for Christmas, though he had lost weight since he had last been home, and it was a little large. He seems to be a child dressing to play grown-up. The wind blows slow but steady, reaching his uncovered ears, but the blood stays settled throughout him. He refuses to give in to the cold and wait in the lobby. She'll be there soon anyways, he theorizes, as his heart pounds against his chest with the thought. He does not want to admit there is an inkling of doubt within the back of his mind. She walks out, and he acts like he wasn't watching the door. She smiles at him, though it seems out of place to him. She wears a bright red overcoat, with large buttons that remind of of a blood red moon he once saw when he was a young boy, on the farm. He smiles in exchange and opens the door to his car for her, trying his best to abide by the faltering rules of chivalry. The restaurant is quiet, and they sit at a table in an isolated corner, out of the sight of prying eyes. He orders quickly, not caring for the food here, but knowing she'll enjoy the atmosphere. She takes her time, politely chats with the waitress, an older lady who wishes she was anywhere else, but still smiles. They speak quietly, her eyes holding his attention more than he thought they would. Her eyes are a deep hazel, much deeper then his. He wishes his eyes were better suited to hers. Conversation is wide, with topics of family and life before the city drawing each others attention. He watches carefully as her lips form each word, the movement strangely mesmerizing him. The food arrives but neither takes notice, choosing to bid the waitress only a small smile and a passing "thank you". She has a salad, with all the parts looking as if the had just been freshly plucked from the garden, the greens being unnaturally tender and the tomatoes a full, bright red. They reflect up into her eyes, burning them brighter. His order is of less importance. The conversation continues, but slowly hollows out as he prefers just to watch her movements and subtilities that accompany her. He wishes he could be as attentive to the conversation as to her movements, but one must suffer, and her beauty is more engaging then his voice. He wishes his voice was more suitable. The meal passes as with the time, but he doesn't take any note of numbers. He notices her voice straining over the lack of response, and her eyes wishing for more then her own words, but he is unable to reciprocate. The red overcoat is put on, his over sized button up, and they head out the door. He positions himself to block her from the wind, but only by habit of attempted knightly practice, and she does not notice. The time is late, and she has to be off early the next day. The drive home is quiet, with conversation trickling out through obligation. His attempts to speak are obscured within his mind before given a chance to form. Her hands lay across her lap, and his thoughts of speech were sidetracked by the thoughts of holding those hands, and keeping her warm. They arrive at her place, and he leaves the car running. She undoes her seatbelt, and they bid farewells. She leans in, though it seems obligatory, and he follows her lead. Her lips are soft, and she tastes of nothing. They hold here, and he finds himself wishing to stay in this second. He pulls away, unsure why. She looks down, and exits the car. As she walks away, he watches. She does not notice. He pulls away from here grudgingly. Home is minutes away, but that does not matter. He continues to drive, constantly, throughout the night. There is no music or sound, just his thoughts. His thoughts are empty, thinking only of nothing. Thinking only of the unanticipated sweetness in nothing.


I thought he was dead, but there he was, right in front of me on the street, smiling at me. It can’t be. My mind was racing. I saw them bring his body up from the boat. It was a boating accident right before our wedding. He had insisted he wanted to have a bachelor party on a boat, middle of the sea. I wasn’t comfortable but he had insisted. Think about it, no naked girl would be popping out of any cake, he had laughed. There were eight on the boat and my brother was one of them. He had hired for a whole night, Friday. The plan was for the group to return on Saturday and our wedding was on Sunday. The relationship has not been easy for both of us. He was very good looking, had a high paying job as an investment analyst and an attitude to match. I was just a country girl, who had arrived at the city, lost. I was offered a job as junior copywriter at an advertising firm. It was a dream for me to work for the advertising firm. It was during one of the events organized by my firm for his investment company that I had met him. My dislike for him was instant. Maybe I just disliked handsome men. I was told that I needed to liaise with him for the press release for the event. Tried calling him a few days before but when the line got through, he just said that he was in a meeting and that I should call later. Many more calls and I still could not get the press release from him. I tried calling the firm’s PR lady, however, she was also unable to help as he was the person to approve the contents of the press release. Finally, when I got him on the line, he tried to brush me off again and that was when I said `Actually, I am standing outside your office and if I do not get that document now, I am barging in.’ It was a threat, no doubt, but it worked. He looked up through the glass door of his office, saw me standing with my hands on my hips and within next ten minutes I received the press release. `You must be very tired,’ I heard a voice and turned. There he was with a glass of champagne in his hand, giving me that cocky look. `You must be very tired for you have been running in my mind since that day,’ he completed his sentence and started laughing. Such arrogance! I just moved away to another corner. The event was going well. Guests were mingling, networking. I saw him talk to groups of men in rich suits. It was almost midnight. I went searching for my boss. She was talking to a few people from the investment firm. I called her aside and told her that I was leaving. She asked me to take a taxi as it was nearing midnight. I nodded and turned and wham! I bumped into him. He must have been eavesdropping, for standing that close. I apologized and walked out when I felt someone pulling me back. It was him. He smiled and started leading me out of the room, holding my elbow. I felt like a little child being dragged away after doing something naughty. Tried pulling my arm away but his hold was very tight. I didn’t like it but walked quietly. As soon as we were on the pavement outside the hotel I shrugged free. `What’s wrong with you?’ he demanded. `I just want to talk to you.’ Some girls who walked past us looked at him and whispered something among themselves. I felt a little jealous but kept a straight face. `I need to go home,’ I said. `I will drop you off,’ he said signalling the valet. In a few minutes, the valet brought a gleaming black BMW. He opened the front passenger side for me to enter then walked to the driver side and sat down. I told him where I lived and half hour later he dropped me outside the house that I shared with my housemates. As I was about to get down he casually leaned and kissed me, full on my lips. Shocked, I almost stumbled. The following few months saw him drop me off after work. My housemates were green with jealousy. He was like the hero out of Mills and Boons romance novel. Tall, handsome and rich plus he knew how to manipulate women. A few times he tried to get me to his house. I said no. He asked me why. I told him that in my family, the women do not go to men’s house before there were any type of ties. He understood, I presume, for the next day, he proposed with a diamond ring. I was shell shocked that it took me a good 60 seconds before I said `Yes’ to him. So, I was his fiancée. With the new relationship in place he asked me to move into his home, a sprawling home on fifteen acres of land outside the city. He had a stable full of high breed horses, a few more expensive cars. As soon as I started living in with him, things sort of changed. I had an expensive car to drive to and fro work so he didn’t drop me after work anymore. I also dined with many of his clients after work. Those people seemed to have some kind of business dealings with him. Many a night I had to be up to help him type documents or send emails. Although I was quite aware of what was going on, I did not have the full picture nor I bothered to ask him. Life was good and rich. I kept my salary aside and at times helped my parents and brother back home. My parents worked on our farm while my brother was pursuing his degree in engineering at the university in a city nearby. One night after sending off the last email, he sat beside me on the sofa and casually said let’s get married. I turned and looked at him. He raised an eyebrow. I said okay. The next few weeks saw me coordinating the wedding preparations. My best friend Debby was of great help.  He was immersed in work, that at times we hardly met for days. Something kept thugging at my heart for I felt it was strange that he spent long hours alone in the study, talking on the phone and at other times just sitting, staring at the night sky. The wedding drew closer. My mum was very happy. She had her own list of invitees. Dad had his, so did my brother. Then a week before the wedding, he told me that he wanted to have his bachelor party, at sea. At sea? I argued. He argued. Finally, I gave in when he promised to include my brother in his list of invitees for the party.  The group left on Friday evening from the city pier. I received a photo from my brother showing the group having fun under the night sky at sea. There were only men. No naked women prancing on the deck. My phone kept ringing but I didn’t hear. I had a very late night, putting things in place for the wedding the next day. Finally, I woke up from my deep slumber and picked up the phone. It was an unfamiliar number. Hello? The voice on the other side said so many things that my mind could not register. I only heard `Come to the city pier. You need to identify someone’. How I reached the city pier, I had no idea. There were ambulances and police cars everywhere. A Coastguard vessel had docked in. Paramedics were bringing someone on a stretcher. Oh, my God! It was my brother. My heart almost stopped. He had burn marks on his arms and they had put oxygen mask on his face. I stumbled and felt someone hold my arms, steadying me. I was in a daze. Then they brought him up. He was all burnt. I could only see the engagement ring on his left hand. That was his. The Coast Guard chief told me that they tried to revive him on their vessel but he had died on the way back to port. I was trembling. No, tomorrow was our wedding. How could he go like this? The next few days were all in a daze. Instead of a wedding we had a wake. His funeral ended and I moved out of his house. What happened after that, I have no idea. I returned to my parents’ farm and stayed there ever since. It has been two years. My brother had a difficult recovery but the family supported him. He did not want to talk about the incident. All he said was he was asleep when the boat went up in flames. Yesterday I returned to the city to attend a job interview. There he was, right in front of me on the street, smiling. He gestured me to walk with him. I paced faster and reached his side. He took my hand into his. We walked in silence for a moment, then he turned to me and asked,’ Have you moved on?’ `Do you think I could move on? I did not know what happened. Our wedding became a wake.’ `I came to put your mind to rest. You needed to know.’ We walked a good ten minutes. The street was crowded, so we had to weave through throngs of people. At times, allowing people to walk between us. He told me that the blast on the boat was planned. Something about an investment gone sour. The client was not happy. He found out that the client was linked to a cartel after the deal fell through. But it was too late to recover the investment. But when he discovered an unusual device on the boat,in the galley, he had covered it with his own body so the damage to others would be minimal. Yes, he was the only fatality that night. The rest seven including my brother survived, though some had bad burns. My eyes welled up. Tears started streaming down my cheek. I wanted to hug him badly. Two years of not knowing had finally come to a closure. I turned to hug him. Only I was there and the crowd. He wasn’t anywhere. I looked around. There were people everywhere but not him. Who did I just speak with?


Wooden blocks and trains lay scattered across the living room rug. Danny Flores’ six-year-old granddaughter, Sophie, was obviously bored. She had abandoned the toys Danny had hoped would keep her entertained and was whimpering to her parents that she wanted to go home. “There’s nothing to do here,” cried Sophie. “How about we go for a walk?” suggested Danny. “I saw some pretty wildflowers growing on the ridge at the end of the road.” “Maybe we should be going home,” said Danny’s son. “Sophie likes her regular routine after dinner. Anything different can make her cranky.” Danny looked around for something that might interest a six-year-old. The walls of his house were meant to look rustic, like a log cabin. They were decorated with old saws and mining tools, but he knew those only scared Sophie. “Hold on a minute. I’ve got something to show you that I think Sophie will like,” said Danny, jumping to his feet and scurrying toward his bedroom. He came back carrying a heavy lockbox the size of a toaster oven. “I bet I know what’s in there,” said Danny’s son with an eyeroll. “Tell me you’re not going to get Sophie obsessed with the whole silver and gold thing.” Danny set the box on the living room’s coffee table and turned a dial to unlock it. “You know that gold and silver are the only things that hold their value,” Danny said to his son as he opened the box’s lid. “If the worst happens, a number on a bank statement won’t buy you anything. Same thing with your paper money.” “I know, I know,” said Danny’s son as if he was already bored with the conversation. “But I’m not here to give you a lecture,” said Danny. “I want to show Sophie some beautiful things she might like to hold.” Danny fished through the box and pulled out three large silver coins. He set them on the coffee table, one at a time. “These are one-ounce rounds. Sophie, come and look.” Sophie walked to the short table and stared down at the three coins. “You can pick them up if you want,” said Danny. Sophie examined each coin, turning them over in her hands to admire the designs on the front and back. She stacked the coins on top of each other and listened to the sound they made as she clanked them together. “What do you see on them?” asked Danny. “There’s a lady, like the Statue of Liberty. And there’s an eagle on the other side. And this one has a koala. And this one has a skier.” “That’s right,” said Danny. “The one with the koala came all the way from Australia. And the skier is to celebrate the winter Olympics.” Sophie continued to run her fingers over the coins as Danny described how silver was mined and how money used to be made from silver. “Which one of those coins do you like the best?” he asked his granddaughter. Sophie thought hard about it before saying, “The one with the koala.” “Would you like to keep it?” “Can I really?” “Sure,” said Danny, thrilled by the excitement in Sophie’s eyes. “You can’t give her that, Dad,” said Danny’s son. “It’s worth too much. How much does an ounce of silver cost these days? Twenty-five dollars?” “It’s okay. I want her to have it. Look how excited she it,” Danny said with a chuckle. “Now she’ll want to come over to her grandpa’s house more often. Won’t you Sophie?” Sophie nodded her head as she stood up, clutching the koala coin close to her chest. “How about you come over next week and I’ll have more coins to show you?” “Can we Dad? Can we Mom?” Sophie asked, turning from one parent to the other. “We’ll see,” said Sophie’s dad. “I better dig up some things she’ll like,” said Danny with an eager grin. “Now Sophie, don’t let your parents try to tell you that the roads are bad and you can’t visit next Sunday. It’s the middle of the summer and the roads are in great shape.” In the middle of the next week, Danny drove his pickup truck into downtown Bozeman to visit his favorite precious metals supplier. Liberty Coin was a small shop with bars over the windows and three long glass display cases. A thick metal door guarded most of the inventory, which was not on display to the general public and only revealed upon request. “Hey Pete,” Danny called to the store’s owner. “You looking to buy or sell?” Pete called back. “Buy. Something kind of special. I showed my granddaughter some silver rounds and she liked them so much, I give her one. So now I’m looking for more silver. Coins with interesting designs.” “You gonna keep giving them away?” “I was kind of planning on just showing them to her. Maybe I’ll give her one more.” “I’ve got some neat ones with tigers on them. Or how about a ?” Pete pulled out a few silver coins from one of his display cases. Danny picked them up carefully by their edges. “Yeah, these are perfect. Give me a Silver Dollar and a tiger. And now that I’m thinking about it, I’ve got a chance to teach my little Sophie some important lessons. Like how much more gold is worth and how bigger is not always better. Maybe she’ll listen better than her dad.” “What do you have in mind for these lessons?” asked Pete. “I’ve always wanted to get one of those quarter-ounce gold coins. I could use it to show Sophie that even if it’s way smaller, it’s still worth 20 times what an ounce of silver is worth.” “Pretty good lesson if you ask me,” said Pete. “I’ve got one of those quarter-ouncers right here.” As Danny held the small coin in his hand, he felt the same gold fever he always did when handling the glowing metal. He left the shop with over $500 worth of new gold and silver in his pockets. Sophie and her parents were back at Danny’s house on Sunday. Sophie asked to sit next to Danny during dinner. “Can you show me more silver?” asked Sophie sweetly, as she passed a plate of cornbread to her grandfather. “As soon as we’re done eating,” Danny answered excitedly. “You’re going to love what I found for you.” Sophie’s big brown eyes grew even bigger to show she could hardly wait. She and Danny moved to the living room coffee table while everyone else was still eating dessert. Danny carefully presented the Morgan Silver Dollar and the tiger coin. “What do you think of those?” asked Danny. “Oh, they’re pretty,” cried Sophie, picking up the silver circles and watching the light reflect from their surface. “That one used to be used as a dollar,” said Danny. “But now it’s worth a lot more. You see the lady on the front side? That’s Lady Liberty.” Sophie continued to play with the coins as Danny happily explained how a dollar used to be worth a dollar because of the amount of silver in it and how silver was mixed with copper to make the coin harder. “You know, a silver dollar is pretty big, but bigger isn’t always better. Now I’m going to show you something made out of gold.” Danny pulled the quarter-ounce gold coin from his pocket and laid it next to a one-ounce silver round. The gold circle looked small in comparison. “That’s real gold,” said Danny. “Wow! It’s pretty too,” cried Sophie. “If you look close, you can see Lady Liberty on the gold, but this time she’s standing. And on the back are a nest of eagles.” Sophie studied the gold carefully and said, “Yeah, I see them.” By this time, Danny’s son had moved over to the coffee table to listen to his father’s lesson. “Now gold costs more than silver. A lot more,” continued Danny. “So let’s see if you can figure out which one is most valuable. If I was to let you choose to take one of these coins, which one would you choose?” Sophie batted her big eyes at her grandfather and then studied the coins for almost a minute. Then she pointed to the Silver Dollar. “This one.” Danny laughed and said to his son, “I don’t think she understood my lesson.” “Were you actually going to give her what she picked?” his son asked him. Danny chuckled and said, “Well I guess it can’t hurt to give her the Silver Dollar.” He picked it up and handed it to Sophie. “Here you go.” “Oh, thank you, Grandpa,” said Sophie, rushing to drape her arms over him in a long hug. “Well, that’s the biggest hug you’ve ever given me,” gushed Danny. “I thought you’d gotten too old to give your grandpa hugs.” “No, not me,” replied Sophie. “Are you going to show me more about coins when I see you next week?” “If you want,” said Danny with another chuckle. “But you have to promise me you’ll read about gold and silver before then. Maybe your dad will help you.” Sophie promised she would learn all about gold and silver, but after the next week’s dinner, she did not have any answers when Danny quizzed her about values and weights of coins. He showed her gold and silver pieces anyway and let Sophie keep the silver coin she preferred. Sophie continued to loudly pester her parents about seeing her “Silver Grandpa” and family dinners became more regular than they had been in the past. Sometimes dinner was at Danny’s house and sometimes he had to pack up his precious metals and drive to his son’s place closer to town. He kept trying to get through to Sophie that gold was more valuable than silver. To drive the point home, he cleaned and polished his quarter-ounce gold coin until it glowed from across the room. Then he roughed up a silver coin, leaving it looking grimy. “Take a look at these,” he said to Sophie. “Look how shiny the little one is compared to the big one. Wouldn’t you rather have the gold?” Sophie took a close and thoughtful look. “No. I like the silver one.” Danny laughed and said, “If you weren’t so cute, you’d drive me crazy.” “So can I have the silver one?” Sophie asked sweetly. “Sure. Go ahead.” The Montana summer ended, the trees lost all their leaves, and the first snow fell. The slick and muddy roads did not bother Danny, especially when Sophie called to make sure he was coming to dinner. Liberty Coin continued to supply him with interesting silver rounds, and Danny continued turning them over to Sophie. “You ever known anyone who liked the look of silver more than gold?” Danny asked Pete, his coin supplier. “Can’t think of anybody,” said Pete. “Gold is special. Most people can’t tell the difference between silver and aluminum.” “That’s what I thought, but my little granddaughter is crazy about silver. She likes the look of it more than gold.” “You taught her your lesson about how gold is worth more?” “Lots of times, but she doesn’t seem to understand.” “Why don’t you buy a whole stack of silver coins and put them next to a little gold one. Tell her they’re worth the same. Then she’ll understand.” “Good idea. Give me your best deal on a stack of silver.” When Danny drove to his son’s house that Sunday, he put the tall stack of 25 coins in front of Sophie and then showed her the little piece of gold. “This gold coin costs as much as all of this silver,” he said to her. “So if you had to choose only one of the silver coins or the gold one, which one would you take?” Sophie reached over, and one by one, pulled each silver coin from the stack. She inspected the front and the back. Then she pointed to one decorated with the image of a horse. “I’ll take that one.” “But the gold one could buy you twenty-five of the silver ones.” “I like the horse,” said Sophie stubbornly. Danny smiled and shook his head. “I must not be a very good teacher. I don’t think I’m getting through to you.” “So can I have the horse?” “Sure, take the horse.” As much as Danny loved Sophie and the way she snuggled up to him, he began to worry there was something wrong in her head. What if she could not understand numbers? What was she going to be like as a teenager or a young adult? If she did not understand money or value, she would spend more than she had. People would take advantage of her. One weekend in December, he decided he would make one final attempt to reach her. “Are we going to play gold and silver?” Sophie asked him. “One last time,” replied Danny. On the table in front of him, he placed his gold coin next to a larger silver one. Danny made sure his son was watching and listening. “Now Sophie, since we started looking at coins, I’ve given you 23 ounces of silver. But I’m afraid you haven’t learned anything about what they’re worth.” Sophie stared back at him with eager, innocent eyes. “I’m going to let you choose one last time, okay?” “Okay.” “You understand that Grandpa’s been trying to teach you a lesson?” “Yes.” “And he’s been telling you that gold is more valuable than silver?” “Yes.” “Then why do you keep picking the silver?” Sophie’s face grew serious. “I don’t know if I should say.” Danny chuckled. “You can tell me. Don’t be afraid. Whatever it is, I’ll understand.” Sophie acted like it hurt to get the words out as she said, “If I picked the gold one, I knew you’d stop playing. You’d stop giving me the silver.” Danny leaned back in his chair as he realized what had been going on. He looked sheepishly at his son and then laughed at himself. “You know, I was actually worried people were going to take advantage of her. Yeah, I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.” Danny shook his head and laughed again. “You’re a shrewd one, Miss Sophie.” “If this is really the last time to play, I pick the gold one,” said Sophie. Danny pushed both the gold and silver coins toward her. “Add them to your collection. You’ve turned your Silver Grandpa into your Poor Grandpa.


For the new-year Gregor had decided to give the woman who ran the restaurant he eats at every night a massive tip. Gregor had been saving up for this since the middle of October when it had become clear Sachi and her two children and 3 grandchildren were falling, perhaps they already had slipped and were only waiting with clenched teeth to hit the concrete, straight on their faces into the pavement of poverty. The grandchildren still don’t like Gregor much, but ever since winter fell upon New York the apartment Sachi lives in gets too cold for children to safely stay in for too long, unless they’re wrapped tightly with blankets, so nowadays the children sit in the restaurant and sometimes even eat with Gregor. Times like these, when the whole world feels so sad and desperate, leave Gregor vulnerable to fleeting bouts of good-will and charity, which is what had caused him to decide back in October he’d got to begin saving up for a gift. Every night, for what seems to be Gregor’s entire life, but really for the past two years, Gregor has gone to ‘The Winter Fly’, a restaurant owned by Sachi and run by her and her two children. Every night Gregor leaves work and walks, sometimes walks for quite some time, always going nowhere until he looks up from the ground in front of him, all too suddenly realizing how awful his stomach and head feel, remembering the too sweet smoothie he makes for himself every morning, wondering if tomorrow he’ll make himself a real breakfast of eggs and bacon. So by the time Gregor makes it to ‘The Winter Fly’ his body is drained to near emptiness, so tired his neck droops so low you can see the individual vertebrae running up his curved spine. One of the grandkids thinks, when Gregor slouches like this, he looks like a dinosaur. Always upon entering Gregor looks at Sachi, who used to always smile when he or anyone else would come in; she now only seems to smile. Her eyes move like she's smiling, but Gregor can’t see her mouth. Sachi used to not notice or pay any special attention to Gregor, he was simply another regular at a rather busy restaurant, but since March he slowly became Sachi’s sole patron. Some nights Gregor is the only person in all of New York to visit Sachi and her kin. Gregor has eaten something different every night since he’s gotten to know Sachi better. Ever since Sachi has had no one else to talk to, he’s been letting her just make whatever she thinks best at the moment he walks in. When waiting for his food he used to always order a can of Sprite, which would react poorly in a stomach empty save for milk and frozen fruit; but since Sachi became his friend he drinks the warm, refreshing tea she brings him when he sits down and takes off his mask. Gregor hates taking off his mask in public places, but he noticed a while ago it seems to make Sachi relax a little when he does it, so he does it despite his discomfort. Sachi’s daughter used to make most of what Gregor liked to eat. She somehow kept, even in the rotten streets of New York, an ocean air about her, this daughter. She was the only one out of Sachi’s family who showed any particular attention to Gregor before he was their only customer, an attention born from noticing that every night, at around 10 o’clock, she’d have to make her soup with oysters (this was before Sachi began deciding and preparing Gregor’s food for him, back when Gregor would eat the same thing every night), and an attention that led to some wonderful conversations between the two about the poetry of Masaoka Shiki, some of which Gregor kept on his body at all times, in his small pocket notebook. This daughter had mostly grown up in America, but despite her concrete world she had always dreamed of diving off sharp cliffs into ocean waves; she and the other woman of her imaginary village spending an eternity, day after day pulling oysters with pearls inside of them out from the sea. Even as an adult she’d pass her lonely hours by picturing her and her friends sparkling under the soon to be setting sun, catching their breaths and waving to their husbands and children who sit on the coastal grass, watching the divers, back and safe from the steep cliffs the woman leap from. This daughter used to always prepare the seafood at ‘The Winter Fly’, only she had to stop when she started spending her nights working somewhere where she would be able to make a consistent, guaranteed wage for her family. Since October this daughter has left her family every night to attend some minimum wage job in some awful, disgusting, upscale part of the city. Throughout the bitter autumn’s end and into winter this daughter could be found crunching dead leaves on Manhattan's pretty streets late into the night, traveling home to her mother and brother and sister and children and niece. And on the way home from the fancy restaurant she’s embarrassed to work at, she walks down a dim lit path along the river and stares at the un-lit penthouses towering above her, thinking about how happy her children and niece would be to fly up to the 200th floor of a skyscraper and enter a warm empty apartment; she sees in the high tower’s highest room a wooden bath filled with clear, nearly boiling water. Then she sees herself putting the three kids one by one into the water, and just laughing at how cute they look all lined up in the tub, which makes the kids laugh to see their mom and their aunt so happy, which makes this daughter laugh and smile so honestly she can’t keep up the fantasy any longer, returning to the cold night. ... In an apartment underneath some ugly building Gregor lives with his wife Daisy. He lives a perfectly miserable life. At only 24 years old he feels he has plenty of time to be miserable. But when he and Daisy walk through the park, led by their three pointing dogs who subtly but constantly pull their walkers forwards, Gregor can’t help but feel like he owes something more to life, as if he accepted too great a gift by just being born and now he must repay his debt. The pestilent lurid thoughts of the too conscious mind bother his wife too, to the point that at any given moment at least one of them is likely dealing with a searing headache; they’d met on a subway train when Daisy had noticed how brutally Gregor was shoving his thumbs into his eyes. If only they could spend more time with one another, but things keep them apart. Nowadays, Daisy feels it best to keep a safe distance from her husband, mentally speaking. Sometimes Gregor says things that make Daisy’s stomach sink; a seemingly arbitrary remark will fester into days or sometimes weeks of worry. Like when Gregor started reading about metaphysics and kept telling Daisy that ‘everything is meaningless’, which neither seemed true or important to her, but he kept saying it like it was some great discovery, and Daisy had noticed that since Gregor started telling her and anyone else who would listen that ‘everything is meaningless’, she reckons it's been since sometime in the fall, her husband’s whole posture has changed. Not as if his back has straightened out, but more as if his spine lost its will to fight and like a willow tree it’s left itself to blow the way the wind decides best. She can’t help but feel glad for Gregor, glad he’s finally seeming to leave whatever trance he’d entered when he woke up to life too late in his late teens; but more than that Daisy can’t help but loathe her husband’s willingness to leave her behind, still fighting for air. She thinks about this all the time, him leaving her to the lonely thoughts of depression. So, when they walk through the park Daisy looks at her husband like he’s a million miles away, straining to stare at the lips she loves and knows, familiar lips that spout something nonsensical and scary about how... ‘it’s not that there isn’t a self, I’m not saying you or I don't exist’. Daisy glances down at their dogs, her mind drifting to a picture of her and Gregor, along with their three headed best friend, fighting their way through hell. HS dark cloak covers from his ankles to his nose and the brim of his bucket hat droops so low his eyes are covered by a visor of shadow; she wears a kimono the color of moss, patterned with cherry blossoms. She stabs a sword that’s twice her body length straight into the neck of some infinite demon, she sees Gregor follow their Cerberus into a fiery cave filled with screaming violence, unafraid of the nightmare. ‘What I’m saying is that the self is an illusion, you see, as in, “You are a product of your own imagination.” A figment!’ ‘What did you just call me?’ ‘A figment!’ Every night Gregor gets home at around 11:30, giving the couple only a few hours together before Daisy must leave for work. Usually 3 and a half hours exactly. His visits to ‘The Winter Fly’ always give Gregor energy enough to smile and ask questions and be kind to Daisy, but she knows how hard and long his days are. All Gregor’s fried mind can process is basic entertainment, so the two spend most of their time together watching TV, and it just makes Daisy’s heart melt when she sees Gregor batting his eyes, trying to stay awake until his love must go, too tired to do anything but stare at his own blank mind. But they just watch TV, and sometimes Daisy watches Gregor not-sleep, and when it's raining she sits by their window and watches everything get washed and soaked and cleaned. And every night, the first thing he does when he walks inside their basement apartment, Gregor leaves a bag of food that slowly cools or warms to room temperature on the table by the front door, for his wife to take to work. The food used to always be that daughter's delicious oyster soup, but nowadays she eats whatever treat from the sea Sachi has prepared for her. On the train to work Daisy used to drink coffee, but now, when no one else is in her car, Daisy removes her mask to sip deeply from the tea she asks Gregor to buy her, but that Sachi always gives him. Gregor works for the New York Public Library’s cataloging department, and across town his wife works for one of the city's many hospitals. Gregor works late into the night, long hours, because he’s basically the only person in the city that can do his job. Although, you would think finding books in a modern library is as simple as typing a call number into a computer and then finding the appropriate section where your desired books wait for you. At the least you’d think you could like hire people to take requests from patrons and know the library well enough to quickly find the books. Not so at the public library on Eucalyptus Ave. There, somewhere in its corridors bent to all sorts of inhumane ways, a phantom waits for all who come to take. One time a persistent public school teacher had insisted on receiving a tour of the library’s attic, an idea which Gregor almost begged his department head to snip in the bud, but which ended up happening on a cold May day last year. The phantom had found the teacher, leading to an epic end of the tour: his students passively watching as their once sane instructor was dragged down the library’s front steps by two pale officers, screaming about some made-up government agency that was abducting him so they could inject radioactive liquid into his veins and neutralize/silence yet another enlightened, free soul. You surely want to know why Gregor and the children were not harmed by the phantom, and of course that is the key to it all. When Gregor came into ‘The Winter Fly’ tonight he was surprised to find a young man sitting in the restaurant, eating a claw, a can of diet coke unopened on the table he sits at. … Malcom’s mom had told him to get a can of diet coke for her from the restaurant down the block. Malcolm hates his mom. With tears just behind his wide young eyes he’d left her rundown apartment for the last time, holding a dollar and ten cents in coins in his hand. ‘I don’t give fuck’. Malcolm kept saying to himself. He likes to have his music at such a loud volume it hurts his ears to even listen. ‘I don’t give a fuck’. Malcolm is only fifteen years old and already he’s decided to kill himself. His mom is cruel and violent towards him, no one cares about him, his only friend is a fat ugly mean kid. When he can’t sleep at night he stares at his phone for hours on end, thinking about killing himself. At least since this last October, so for the past few months. He’d read a few books that mentioned slitting your wrists and lying in a tub, but Malcolm’s family doesn’t have a tub. Despite the obvious opportunities of living in New York, Malcolm thought jumping from anything, building or bridge, might be too much of a spectacle even for his own internal viewer, who was likely to be the only one to know about it anyway. If only he lived by the ocean so he could just walk out onto the beach, take as many of his mother’s pills as he could swallow, and swim out to sea. In his suicidal fantasy Malcolm imagined that when his body fell to the ocean’s floor it passed through some threshold, onto an entirely different life, one where he could swim all day and have friends and a wife and search for pearls beneath the crashing waves in an air of silence. ‘Are you sure that's all?’ the woman asked. Malcolm nodded. ‘Well, please stay as long as you like, it's too cold out there for a little boy!’ Malcolm stopped looking at the woman who kept bringing him food. It smelt so good, but he had to stop looking because both the woman and her food were just too warm, and he’d been out in the cold for just too long. So Malcolm stared at the ground, his music slowly bursting his eardrums, slowly deciding whether he should go back to his mom's apartment, or stay with this woman and her two silent grandkids, or just go starve out in the cold. Out the corner of his eye he noticed the woman leave the front of the store, then he checked to see if the children were still attending their coloring books. He immediately took the opportunity to grab some alien leg out from one of a half dozen delectable steaming bowls, not-smiling while he sucked white meat out from the boiling hot claw. As he prepared for the final bite from what was probably the most delicious thing he’d ever eaten a man walked into the store, and Malcolm immediately stopped eating. … In his hand is the red envelope containing the new-year’s gift of 1,000 dollars. Gregor notices the boy’s face quickly flush and a calm fade out his eyes. The boy is sitting at the table right next to the entrance and he seems to stare at Gregor with an intense hatred while Gregor listens to the soft music he can hear through the boy’s headphones; this despite the amplifiers being shoved deep into the boy’s ears. Gregor notices the soup the boy is not-eating, each bowl filled with urchin and eel and fish cakes, each steaming like a chimney, and it all reminds him of Sachi’s daughter and the loves she cooks with. Gregor stares at the leg of some twisted dead creature and imagines him and Daisy, with their three dogs pulling them along the way, walking along the high cliffs of lands’ end; above him a gray sky that always rains so the poetry they write gets wet and wrinkled; but that's no matter, he and Daisy write hundreds of poems every day, there’s no time to read them. Gregor walks over to the counter where he can’t tell if Sachi is smiling at him or not, he greets Sachi, accepts his tea, and asks if her children might be in the restaurant tonight. Even though the mask covers her mouth, Gregor now can tell Sachi is not smiling, he can tell she wants to cry. She starts telling Gregor about the boy sitting in the corner who had only just enough money for one soda, but he looked so cold and lonely. And so she’d told him to sit down with her grandchildren, and that she’d make him whatever he’d like so long as he’d stay a bit. In a flurry of excitement, since Sachi had barely spoken to anyone all day, she told Gregor how the boy had just stared at her. Clutching the diet coke he’d bought in his hand, after probably 20 or 30 seconds, he’d finally spoken, and what he’d said touched Sachi in her soul. "My grandmother once cooked us seafood". Sachi said she knew just what he meant, and so that's why, even though the boy won’t eat anything she brings him, she keeps trying to find something he might be interested in. As if that’s why this boy isn’t eating, as if just the smell of Sachi’s cooking isn’t killing him. Gregor glances at the boy once more, takes his food to go, then hands the red envelope to Sachi. The kid seemed to be staring at some blank horror, and Gregor notices the boy’s eyes look like Daisy’s, when the couple walk through the park. … Inside their apartment Daisy sits by the window, waiting for it to rain. She stares at her phone, scrolling aimlessly, upset by how much music there is out there and how much her friends seem to explore and expand their musical tastes. Daisy just listens to the same songs, over and over again. Tonight keeps listening to a really, quite incredibly sad one: *Candy says,* *I’ve come to hate my body* *And all that it requires* *In this world* On the street above her (she lives in a basement) people are hurrying by, trying to escape the coming rain. Daisy thinks about going for a long walk. *I’m gonna watch* *The blue birds fly* *Over my shoulder* *I'm gonna watch, them pass me by* *Maybe when I'm older* *What do you think I’d see* *If I could walk away from…* Daisy’s singing voice was once described to her by a friend as sounding like someone might sound if a bleeding ulcer rested next to their voice box, but she doesn’t hold back to sing: *“Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee’.* As the rain picks up, she writes a note to Gregor: she’s got to leave for work early and won’t see him tonight. She wraps herself in the poncho that she’d stolen from the National Gallery of Art’s museum gift shop a few years ago, its pattern a blurry looking picture of a stream. Daisy thinks about whether or not the fact that she stole something from a museum, when like normally you would think if someone stole something from a museum that’d be a major crime, is funny or not. On a train, deep underground, she tries to think of something. She tries to find a song she wants to listen to. But Daisy can’t do it, she doesn’t know what to do. At the hospital she works at people die every day, people die of viruses and cancers and accidents all the time, and here Daisy sits, a young married lady, pleased with the thought her train might stop at some station she’s never been to, hoping it will let her off by the sea. When she gets off the train her stomach growls at her. She has only a few hours till she must be at work. Often people say stuff like ‘you can’t get a bad slice of pizza in NY!’ or ‘even average pizza in NY is better than most pizza!’, but they’ve never had this pizza Daisy’s having right now. It’s not even that the pizza tastes bad, she barely tastes anything at all, just that sitting in some lonely late-night restaurant, terribly alone, tired but with your whole day ahead of you, your whole life just waiting to be lived... Picking at her terrible skin, Daisy doesn’t notice the proprietor of the pizza joint staring at her, watching her as she squeezes and plucks and examines all the tiny brownish , slightly translucent little bugs that grow in her face. While working on an exceptionally small, un-compromising blackhead she’s finally swept from herself by a dream of cold water that washes over her irritated thoughts like a wave; she's floating in a silent forest growing out the seafloor. Although she doesn’t remember it happening, she knows Gregor used to swim down here with her, but as she looks to the water’s bright surface she gazes at her love treading water, breathing in the sunny air above. Daisy looks at her barely eaten pizza, thinking about ‘The Winter Fly’ and what Gregor probably will bring home for her, but what she couldn’t wait to receive. … Malcolm watches them speak. He can’t believe what he sees or what he hears. The man hands the envelope to the woman, seeming to be thanking her for something. They speak in a tongue Malcolm doesn’t understand. He still was holding the claw he’d taken from the food the woman had been bringing to him, but he no longer ate it. It just hung in his hand, drooping boiling liquid onto the fluorescently lit floor. No one ever gives Malcolm presents, but he thinks ‘I don’t give a fuck’ and starts swiping through his phone to find a new song to listen to. He’d listened to the same 3 songs over 100 times today. But then a panicked voice, and it only gets more surprising when he looks up. Malcolm sees both the man and the woman with their mask pulled down, the man smiling at the woman aghast, the envelope now in the woman's hand and slightly open. Perhaps what came next was just too much to handle. ‘TOO MUCH!’ The woman yells, as she hands the envelope back to the man, but he just smiles and refuses to accept it. ‘It’s TOO MUCH! Please Gregor, my family will kill me! I can’t accept this money!’ ‘You Must!’ For once in his life, or at least for the first time in a long time, Gregor feels triumphant. Not like a king, but like a man satisfied with life, amused by its silliness. ‘Gregor! You are poor just like we are! You and your wife are our best customers! What are you thinking?!’ Malcolm listens closely but understands none of this. He just watches with open eyes as two people haggle over more cash than young poor Malcolm has ever seen in real life, but the oddest thing about an already unusual scene: They both seem to be trying to get rid of money. They don’t want it like it’s something someone is trying to sell you on the street. Only, with every passing second, things get stranger. ‘You Must Sachi!’ ‘But… I…. Gregor!’ Malcolm nearly drops the claw he's holding, watching the woman literally try to put the money in the bag of food the man is carrying out. ‘Sachi! Please listen. Me and my wife owe our lives to you and your family. Without the food you’ve made us, we wouldn't be poor, we'd be dead!’ While their voices calm down and the woman begins to smile and cry, the idea comes to Malcolm all at once. Loud in his ear drums his music bangs against his skull. No more living with mom, no more school. Suddenly Malcolm remembers his cousin even said once, all though it was maybe a year or two ago, that he could live with their family, if only Malcolm could make it out his mother grim place and somehow survive the journey across the country. Before this moment that idea of adventure was just a dream. Neither of them makes a sound, the woman just lets go when he grabs it, and then Malcolm is gone. He barely stops going forward for the next 30 years. He makes it to the west, and ever since and forever more there was and never will be a wilder soul across all the rolling roads of America than that kid Malcolm. He runs out of the restaurant so fast the only thing Gregor and Sachi can make of him, when they finally react, spinning to see the door already swung shut, is the thief’s shadow still moving across the bright white floor.


Kaylee opened her eyes. Before her, an infinite blackness stretched out in all directions, interrupted only by pinpricks of light from what she somehow knew were distant stars. She was dimly aware that something about her had changed, but couldn’t quite put a finger on it. It was then that she realized she didn’t have a finger; She had no body at all. She tried to remember where she had come from, but could conjure only hazy memories that flitted away almost as soon as they came. She realized she should panic, she should be afraid, but no such emotions would come to her. “Hello,” someone said in a voice that seemed to come from all around her and from nowhere. The voice was neither male nor female, loud nor soft, here nor there. ”Hello?” she responded. “Sorry about that” the voice said. “Sorry about … what?” “That existence. It wasn’t what I intended.” “Oh.” Kaylee was silent for what seemed like a long time, before venturing to speak again. “So are you… umm…” ”Yes.” She thought again for a long time, and realized she had always known there was something- some*one* out there. It was true. It was real. It was *all* real. Something was real. Kaylee couldn’t be sure how much time had passed before she spoke again. “How did I… uh… get here? What is… here?” The voice didn’t immediately respond, and she worried that it was gone. Long moments passed; or perhaps centuries. It was really impossible to tell. Finally, after what seemed like a very long time, came a response. “Well, there is no ‘here’ anymore. There isn’t much of anything for you anymore, I’m afraid. It’s very hard to explain. As for how you got here… your existence is at an end.” “Oh. So I’m dead?” “If you want to think of it that way.” From the tone of the voice, it sounded as if the being was shrugging. “Regardless, this is the end.” ”End of what?” ”Earth. Life. The Universe.” “Everything?” Kaylee was afraid just for the briefest of instances, before realizing there was nothing to be afraid of; Not anymore; Not ever again. “Everything except me” came the matter-of-fact response. ”Oh.” For a long time after that, Kaylee merely existed. Or perhaps she didn’t. She wasn’t sure about anything anymore. As she stared into the infinity ahead of her, one of the distant points of light blinked out. She stared at the spot where it used to be, then after another long wait, another one disappeared, then another, and another. Something like fear gripped her, though she was sure there was nothing to be afraid of. ”So what happens now?” she asked. Another long silence. “I will start over. Everything begins anew.” ”And… to me?” There was a momentary pause, as though the voice was considering how to respond. “Hmm… Do you remember where you were before you were born?” ”No...I guess not” Kaylee admitted. ”You’re going back.” ”Oh.” She focused on the little distant dying stars. They were going faster now, one or two a year. “When do I go?” she asked after a hundred centuries. “‘When’ is not a concept I deal in. To me, you are already gone and have been gone for longer than your mind can comprehend. ” “So…” Kaylee struggled to comprehend what she was being told. “I’m already gone?” ”Yes” “Then there’s not really anything to worry about” she concluded. “There never was” the voice assured her. After eons upon eons of watching, the last point of light diminished and disappeared. Every photon in the universe had been exhausted, leaving only black. After a millennium of utter darkness, Kaylee tried to remember what her existence was like before she came here, but her memories betrayed her, faded away just like the rest of the universe. Realizing there was nothing to hold on to anymore, that there was nothing to be afraid of, Kaylee let go at long last. As the energy that had once been Kaylee dissipated into nothingness, returning to the void from where it had come, she voiced the final thought of her existence to anyone or anything who was still listening. “Well, that’s the end of all that then, isn’t it?” And it was.


CW: bears and swears “You sure we’re going the right way?” Jon asks as the Land Rover bumps along the rutted dirt road. Though it’s only late afternoon, the tops of the trees stretch overhead, their limbs intertwining like fingers to form a dark canopy that filters out the light. “I’m fairly certain,” Andreas says, with a hint of a Swiss accent. “Though…” he pauses as he holds his phone closer to the Rover’s moonroof. “I’m not getting any signal here.” “Kara,” Jon says, glancing in the rear-view mirror to the red-headed, thirty-something woman the backseat. “What do the directions say?” Kara unfolds a piece of paper and scans it. Join the Dartmoor Company Retreat We’ve arranged an exclusive, private campsite, only 1 mile from the Cheat River launch site. Authentic backwoods ambiance on the border of West Virginia and Pennsylvania. Food, fun, and teambuilding, plus a wild ride on class IV rapids! Directions: Take Cheat River exit, Right on Hemlock Hollow for 15 miles Turn left onto dirt track (look for sign ‘Naskar Park’) for 5 miles “We’re going in the right direction, we passed the Naskar Park sign a while back,” Kara says, meeting Jon’s brown eyes in the mirror for a second, before he looks back to the track, slowing the Rover to make a tight turn in the road. “How many miles to you think—" “Shit!” Jon breaths out as he slams on the breaks. The Rover’s front bumper rests a few feet from a large tree laying across the track. “Can we get around it?” Andreas asks. “No. There’s not enough—” BOOM! “Christ!” Andreas says, his head level with the glove box as he crouches down in the passenger seat. “What was that?” “I think it was a gun. A shotgun,” Jon says, as he slowly sits up from his hiding place behind the steering wheel. TAP tap Heads swivel to the driver side window, where a gun barrel raps against the glass. “Eh, didn’t mean to scare you,” The man with the gun smiles broadly. His gaunt face is topped with a camouflage hunting cap and anchored by a wiry red beard flecked with grey. “You here for the campsite? It’s not far.” He says, slinging the gun over his back. “I’m Ned, the caretaker, I’ll take you there.” The Dartmoor team exits the vehicle, stretching after the 3-hour drive. They introduce themselves to Ned as they shoulder their backpacks. “What are you hunting?” Andreas asks. “Oh, well I wasn’t so much hunting, as protecting,” Ned says, as he climbs over the trunk of the tree blocking the road. “Protecting? What are you…” Jon’s voice trails off as he straddles the tree trunk. Four deep grooves, about six inches long are etched into the tree. Dark red droplets run from the grooves onto the ground. “What is that?” “Eh?” says Ned, returning to the tree to see what Jon is staring at. “Oh, well, that’s most likely Nokomis, the Werebear. She gets ornery during a full moon, like a werewolf. So the locals have taken to calling her the Werebear.” “Oh, right, of course. There’s a fanatical bear roaming the woods, near our campsite,” Jon guffaws as he slaps Andrea’s back. “This your prank, Andy?” “It most certainly is not.” Andreas says. “I already did my prank for this year, and it scored very highly indeed. This…” he points to the fallen log and bloody claw marks, “seems more like your kind of thing, Jon.” Jon scratches behind his ear, mussing his wavy brown hair. “Could be Kara.” “I told you, I’m not participating in your stupid prank contest. It’s so juvenile. I hope Andreas wins, so you’ll finally be dethroned," she says, mock bowing at Jon, “Captain Maturity.” They follow Ned for a few minutes until they reach a small campsite with a firepit and a six-person tent. “You can put your gear in there, “ Ned says, pointing the nylon dome. “Just make sure you don’t have any food or smelly stuff, like chewing gum or coconut-scented lotion.” “Is this the only tent?” Kara asks. “I was hoping I’d have my own.” “Uh, yup.” Ned replies. “Your boss said she’d join you tomorrow, for the Whitewater rafting. So it’s just the three of you in there for tonight. It’s good for camaraderie and team-building, is what she said.“ He continues, “It will be getting dark in a few hours. If you want, you can take a walk. Stick to the trail though, and be back before the sun sets.” They dump their backpacks in the tent and head down the trail, boots crunching the leaves and snapping small sticks. Kara inhales the earthy and slightly musty smell of wet foliage. "It's good to breathe fresh air.	" "Hmm. Yes, though it's not as pure as the air in the Alps," Andreas says. "That whole Werebear thing," Jon says, kicking a pinecone down the trail, "that's a prank for sure. And Kara, you only have a few weeks left to get your prank in. You must want to get Andy and me back for what we did." "I beg your pardon," Andreas says. "My prank was very tasteful, and quite beautiful." "I was picking fake snow flakes out of my hair and keyboard for weeks," Kara says. "It was totally biodegradable paper," Andreas says. "It's not as if I bruised your ego like Jon did. With that fake journalist interviewing you about your fascinating sourdough recipe." "Whatever, I'm not interested in your stupid games any....oh look!" Kara says, “Puffballs!” A cluster of spherical brown mushrooms, the size of small tangerines hunker on the right side of the trail, each with a black dot in the center of its dome, like a small puckered mouth. Kara picks up a stick and pokes at one. A sickly yellow-green smoke rises out of the black dot, spewing spores into the air. “Is that safe?” Andreas asks. “Yeah, I think so.” Kara says. “I mean, I don’t think they’re hallucinogenic or anything.” She rocks a rotting log with her boot. “As a kid I loved walking in the woods. Finding puffballs and weird insects, like roly-polys and thousand-leggers.” The log rolls aside, making doodle bugs and millipedes scurry for cover. The rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker on the trunk of pine tree is interrupted by an eerie wail, like a dove and coyote duetting in the distance. A flash of movement between the tightly packed pines catches Jon’s eye. “What was that?” he asks. “What?” Andreas and Kara ask in tandem. “You didn’t see it?” “What did it look like?” Andreas asks. “I only caught a glimpse. Looked like a person with dark, braided hair, wearing some kind of animal skin outfit, maybe?” The wailing sound echoes softly, again. “We should be getting back,” Kara says, “It’s getting dark.” When they reach camp, a crackling fire burns in the pit, sparks spiralling up to the full moon. Ned serves chili and cornbread on metal plates as they sit on logs circling the pit. Jon breaks out a bottle of whiskey, pouring large shots into tin mugs and handing them round. “How was your walk?” Ned asks. “Really good, I saw puffballs," Kara answers. “But we heard something strange, like sad singing, and Jon saw something that might have been a person, with a black braid, moving through the pines.” “That so?” Ned says. “Well, that was probably Nokomis, daughter of the moon. Pour me some more whiskey and I’ll tell you a story.” “Nokomis belonged to ‘those who keep records of a vision,’ the Chippewa, clan of the Nooke," Ned says. "They had travelled many moons from the Land of the Dawn, where the sun rises from the salty sea. Here they found fish, and deer and bear. On a full moon night, Abeque gave birth to a girl, Nokomis. Nokomis grew strong and tall, and talked with the animals in the wood, the birds, the stag, the bear. One day the chief said, 'she is a witch’ and he chased her into the forest.” Ned takes a slug of whiskey, before continuing. “He hunted her for seven nights. Then on the night of a full moon, he saw her standing in a small clearing, and readied his bow and arrow. Sensing danger, Nokomis shape-shifted into a bear. The arrow struck her chest, but did not kill her. Though she bleeds from her heart every full moon, and wanders the wood in a rage, seeking revenge on brown-haired men.” Andreas and Jon look at each other, wondering whose hair is browner. “Well, you’d best turn in, you have an early start tomorrow.” Ned says, standing up and handing them a flashlight. "I'll come back in the morning." Jon flicks the flashlight on, shining an unsteady beam toward the tent. He unzips the front flap and they duck through the opening. Kara, the last in, zips the flap as the men remove their boots. They sit on their sleeping bags drinking the last of the whiskey while watching the shadows jump and dance along the nylon walls as the fire burns lower. Eventually they settle into their sleeping bags and close their eyes. An hour later, Jon sits up quickly. “You hear that?” “Go back to sleep.” Andreas says, groggily, turning in his sleeping bag. Aaaa waaa aaah laaanaa layaa Andreas and Kara sit up, holding their breath as they listen to the strange lament. “It’s getting closer,” Kara whispers. A crack of branches breaking just outside their tent. A snuffling sound as something heavy paws at the ground nearest Jon. A hulking shadow stretches up one side of the tent, outlined by the dying embers of the fire. Steam rises in small puffs from the creature’s mouth, as its heavy, laboured breathing fills the ears of the occupants. "Land Rover, now," Jon says as he pulls on his coat and fishes in the pockets for the key. A thundering roar shakes the tent, filling it with the putrid smell of rotting flesh. Kara’s fingers slip as she tries to unzip the front flap. Jon's side of the tent shreds in long strips as four sharp claws puncture the nylon and draw downwards. "Kara, open the damn tent!" Jon screams as they huddle round her. She finally unzips the flap and they stumble over each other, running barefoot in the dark towards the Land Rover. The ghostly song follows them as they trip over branches and rocks. They reach the Rover and pile in. Jon starts the engine, turns on the headlights and backs down the narrow track. At last they reach the sign at the top of the road. Naskar Park In the backseat, Kara is laughing hard, doubling over. “Oh, oh man. If you could SEE your faces.” Andreas and Jon turn to look back at her. Then Andreas starts laughing. “What’s so damn funny?” Jon asks. “It’s an anagram,” Andreas says pointing to the sign, illuminated by the Rover's high beams. Jon considers the letters, arranging them mentally into possible words. “Shit," he laughs, “Kara's Prank."


Jameson pushes the curtain back with the barrel of his gun, he glances out at the sea of white. The snow has stopped for now but it is a stark reminder of how unforgiving this land is. He looks over his family, trying to ensure confidence with his protective stare but the feeling of desperation creeps in like the frigid draft from between the cracks. The tales of the mythical stranger appearing this time of year plagued Jameson's thoughts. How was he to know when? At what time of the night does this demon come. The sun had been down for at least two logs now, it was late, but he could not let the flames die, nevermind banking the coals for the cold, cold night ahead. "How long do we have to wait husband? The kids are exhausted." "Send them to bed mother, Garrison and I will keep watch." Jameson replies, motioning to the sleeping area. "You know the little ones are terrified, they won't be able to sleep at all." Mary Elisabeth replies in a whisper, adjusting the blanket surrounding the baby in her arms. Garrison enters the dimly lit room after scouting the sleeping room. With axe in hand he stands at attention by the fire. "Father, you should lay with Mother and the children, I will keep watch, we can take shifts." Garrison's tall, limber body glides over to the window and peers out. Jameson contemplates this strategy for a moment when his concentration is broken by Emma, the middle child. "Who is it Father? Who is coming for us?" "It's nothing!" Snaps Jameson "It's just a tale from the old country, theres nothing to be worried about." Jameson places his musket next to his station by the window. He picks up Emma and tries to comfort her. "Hows this young one? Mother will tell you an amazing story about our travels across the great sea to start our brand new life and you can fall asleep while your brother and I make sure we have something warm to eat in the morning, we'll sit and watch the fire tonight." Emma leaning on Jameson's shoulder replies "But I don't want to go to sleep, I'm scared he will come get me in my dreams." "Come now lass, no more scary stories." Jameson demands "That is but an old tale of the Kruger from the old country, he cannot get you here so far away." "He comes in your dreams Father, you could be anywhere and he can still get you." Emma resists. Jameson reaches out his hand to the seated Mary Elisabeth. "Come now ladies, time for bed, your brother and I will keep the fire lit." After ushering Mary Elisabeth with baby into the bed, Jameson lays Emma down next to them. He kneels down face to face with his daughter and in a soothing voice promises "Now you be a big girl and stay here with Mother and your sister. Theres nothing to be scared of, you have your brother and I out there watching over." "Yes Father." Emma timidly replies. Jameson exits the room, pulling over the curtain as Mary Elisabeth and children get situated in their beds. Jameson returns to his post by the window and glances out again, noticing the snow has started once again. Garrison stares intently at his father, taking a hefty gulp from his horn of whiskey. Observing the fear in Jameson's eyes, Garrison wonders what could possibly terrify a man who had spent days out in the freezing wilderness, tracking a deer to feed his family. Who knows what horrors he saw out there ponders Garrison as he takes another pull, passing along the vessel to his father. "What is it Father, really?" Garrison pleads. "No one knows son, not really anyway, it comes in the night." "So it is the Kruger!" Exclaims Garrison. No, no son, tis a tale as old as time but goes by many names. Old Stewart said that a shipmate had seen it once when they were out on a merchant ship, in the vast of night. The shipmate told Old Stewart that this demon flies from house to house in one night, on the wings of devil dogs in a sled made of bones." Jameson continues "This Demon steals your provisions and brings coal. No one knows what it wants or why it does such things." "He brings coal?" Questions Garrison "But we can use that right?" "No son, this coal is said to burn only smoke as black as pitch, tis of no use to us." "How do we kill it?" Garrison asks resolutely. "I'm not sure we can son." Jameson states as a matter of fact. Jameson takes another pull from the whiskey and passes it back to his son and sits back for a moment. The fire begins to burn a little brighter casting an intense light throughout the room. A distant sound brings the men to their feet. Garrison tightens his grip on the axe handle, motioning the head of the rusty axe towards the fire, alerting his tired Father. Garrison now realizing that his Father had been up for days with this routine, watching over his family every night for weeks. Jameson stares blankly up towards the ceiling trying to see with his ears. He looks over at his confused son "It is like the Angelus of the church, a thousand of them!" Garrison exclaims, staring intently at the window. "I know this sound." Jameson recalls. "The Hessian immigrants had them in their dances in the town square back in Shoreditch." "Stand fast! It comes as but a specter!" Jameson grabs his musket and props it to his shoulder. The flames of the hearth are crawling higher and higher, a welcoming column up the radiant chimney. The men standing wide-eyed and unsure of what to do next. Emma, startled by the noise, peers out behind the curtain. Her eyes become fixated on the size of the dancing flames. "Back into the room with your Mother!!" Jameson demands, shouting at his hypnotized daughter. Garrison lashes over and pushes Emma into the room. He holds his finger up to his mouth desperately trying to command silence from his erratic Father. Garrison points to the ceiling with the axe as they hear footsteps on the roof. Jameson's eyes are nearly popping out of his head, trying to be quiet "It must be a hundred men up there...an army...we are no match." The men are still as they wait in terror. A silence washes over the house for a moment then a maniacal laugh rips through the air. "HO HO HO!" It screams A rock bounces down the chimney and the fire explodes outward from the hearth, a plume of black smoke engulfs the room. Garrison lunges toward the fire and takes a mighty swing with his axe, chops through the smoke, and hacks at the stone as the head of his axe flies off. Jameson flies back to his musket, knowing it was a mistake to leave it by the window. He hurriedly cocks the hammer and unloads a screaming blast in the air. In an instant, almost as soon as the muzzle flash has rescinded, the tumult is over. A portion of the wall between the rooms has a hole blasted through it and Jameson becomes terrified of what he might have done. He drops the weapon as he rushes to the threshold, pushing Garrison out of the way. Garrison, reels around and is quick behind his father, also weighing the possibility that his father might have just shot his mother and sisters. Jameson opens his mouth to call out but is taken aback with such confusion and relief that he cannot believe what he is looking at. Garrison pushes his father to the side to get a clearer look. He takes a step forward and with his footfall his sleeping sister awakens, raises her head and with a rub of her eyes asks "Father is it still night time?" Emma is now cradling a doll that he cannot remember ever seeing before. Mary Elisabeth and the baby are still asleep but now the baby is clutching a small carved wooden dog. The men try to regain themselves. "Back to sleep little one, it will be morning soon." Jameson whispers as Emma is happy to lay her head back down. The men turn from the bedroom and try to look around the house, trying to asses any damages and perhaps find a meaning to what just transpired. Jameson heads to the kitchen area to inspect any changes. The carrots and biscuits have been taken but beside the shelving unit lies a shiny new axe. Jameson picks it up and walks toward Garrison with the handle extended. He hands it over to Garrison knowing in his heart that it was granted to his son. They hear the bells once again and run to the window to see if theres anything of their visitor that they can still see. They can't see anything from the window so they rush outside. They observe no tracks in the snow and stare once again at the roof to see if theres anything from all the footsteps they heard. The bells jingle again and Jameson and Garrison locate the sound from beyond the roof. That laugh rings out again. "HO HO HO!" This time it seems more jovial. They wonder if it was like that before, might they have heard it differently? Up in the distance they see the silhouette of a sled being pulled by reindeer through the sky. A large man sits gracefully in the sled and raises his hand, waiving at the astonished men. Standing frozen in the snow Jameson and Garrison are beyond comprehension of what they are seeing, all they can do is wave back.


His name was Steve, and he couldn’t take it anymore. He pictured himself growing old with her, while she grew old with him too. But he couldn’t grow old. Being immortal had its downsides. Now was his seven hundred years birthday and he was staring at her picture. He begged her to come back. He thought he heard her voice when he shed a single tear and a slight breeze called him from the sea. **Two** He thought he heard her voice when he shed a single tear and a slight breeze called him from the sea. The windows of the room were open, and it would be a beautiful sight if he weren’t dying. But he was dying. He was alone in the room, with wires spread all along his arms, and needles through his skin. He had that heart surgery, but apparently that new heart wasn’t working either and no doctor was able to tell the reason. The heart was beating irregularly, like a disabled man trying to walk. The heart was broken, so they tossed it out. The man watched the sun go down as he breathed his last breath. **Three** The man watched the sun go down as he breathed his last breath. He woke up and the room was full of light. There was something unrecognizably fluffy under his feet, like he was walking on cotton. A woman dressed in white was staring at him. “Is she here?” he asked. “No, she’s not”. “Where is she?” “She’s never been around.” “I’m coming back.” “You can’t go back.” “I can’t stay here either. I have to go back to her. I have to go home.” She smiled. “Don’t be silly” she said. “Home is where your heart is.” **Four** “Don’t be silly” she said. “Home is where your heart is.” He smiled to her, remembering an old song from U2 that had a verse somewhat like that one. He was holding his sweatshirt – which he didn’t even recall having. It had been with her for months. -You sure you can’t stay with this? – He asked, shaking the sweatshirt stupidly – I won’t ever be able to use it again. -I haven’t stretched it that much. – She said, pretending to be offended and repressing a smile, which he noticed. -It’s not about that. There’s your perfume all over it. She blushed and her eyes filled with tears. -Nah, you’re gonna work it out. – Now she pretended to smile, repressing a tear. Which he noticed. -Yeah, you’re right. See you later. – He said unleashing a smirk. Once she turned her back, he started crying. **Five** Once she turned her back, he started crying. He couldn’t let her leave like that. He wouldn’t let her leave like that. -Please, please. – He yelled, running after her and grabbing her suitcases. – Stay. Please. -Not anymore, Henry. I can’t do this anymore. -I’ll change. -You can’t – She turned to him, picking up her baggage. – Neither can I. I’m sorry. – Her voice was hurt, and that was what truly hurt him. It cut his heart and soul and left him stranded by the door while she got in the cab and left. He would never see her again. **Six** He would never see her again, and that was why he was holding her so tight. -Do you swear you’ll come back? – She wouldn’t. -I do, honey. It’s only for six months. – It wasn’t. -Do you promise to remember me every day? – She wouldn’t. -Of course I do. There’s nothing or anyone who can get you outta my head. – There was. -No French guy? – No. -No, you silly, no French guy, or American guy or any other kind of guy. – Yes. -I’ll miss you. – True. -I’ll miss you too. – True. She had a nice life in Paris. **Seven** She had a nice life in Paris. She had a boyfriend and a dog; she was living with her parents and hanging around with good friends. Nothing could go wrong and she would never get hurt because she couldn’t feel anything. Till a night a guy came along, and he had a broken heart. She realized she also had a heart, and her heart didn’t fit in Paris. Then her heart didn’t fit in the world. But her heart fit on his. But he was broken, then so got she. Then he left her back in Paris, and she hoped Paris would be enough again someday. He left back to the world, wandering brokenly ever after.


Albany, New York. 2018

“Now you’re sure you want to give up the house, Mr. Butler?” The older man smiled at the question and nodded. “None of my siblings are around anymore and the kids don’t want it. I can’t take care of it anymore, I know mom and dad would want it to go to a nice couple like you. Especially with your baby on the way.” I smiled as I shook his hand and he handed me the keys to the house. The farmhouse was a gorgeous yellow color with grey accents. The house was surrounded by beautiful trees, though one stood out to me. “That tree looks younger than the others,” Noah commented. My husband was an expert on all things nature, especially trees. “There’s something else about it. I just don’t know yet.” He shrugged as he carried our things into the house. The inside had been recently redone to look more modern, but Mr. Butler left some older paintings on the wall.

“Isn’t it crazy, Evie? The man said that four generations of his family have grown up here,” My husband asked me. I nodded, thinking of all the stories that must’ve happened here.

Noah started to put things up inside, while I looked around outside. I looked up at the tree I had noticed before and it felt like it was calling to me. I examined it carefully when I spotted a sliver of gold inside a crevice high in the tree. Determined, I started to scale it, reaching for whatever was there. I grabbed a hold of it and pulled it out to discover a very weathered book. I opened it up to discover the name Alice Rioux written within, the Rioux was crossed out and Butler was underneath. I smiled to myself, realising it must belong to Mr. Butler’s mother. I turned the page to see a journal entry with the date, ‘April 5th, 1939.’ I sat there, reading through the pages until my husband called for me then returned it to its resting place. “You won’t believe what I found, Noah. He smirked, “What?” I told him about the journal I had found. “I guess that tree was special.” After we had unpacked everything and had takeout, I returned to the tree and continued reading. “You shouldn’t climb like that when pregnant,” Noah called out from the kitchen window. I just shook my head and kept reading. I had already read halfway through the journal from sitting there for only half an hour. I had learned that she lived her entire life in France, before moving to America when she was 21 and marrying her husband. She had a sister who lived in America as well, though she didn’t seem too fond of her.

I also found out that the tree I sat in was the tree they planted together, and I couldn’t help but feel connected to her.

As I continued to read, I found out that she got pregnant at twenty-two, the same age as me, and had a daughter, Violet. She had a total of four children, Mr. Butler was the youngest of them. Everything about her intrigued me, and she just felt so special to me. I was interrupted from my thoughts by my husband shouting my name. This time I brought the journal with me so I wouldn’t have to climb. “You enjoy your day of reading,” He chuckled as he kissed me on the cheek. I nodded and handed him the journal. “I’ve been thinking about names,” I stated confidently. “And what are you thinking, love?” “I want to name her Alice, Noah.” He smiled and nodded, “I like that name. Alice.” Albany, New York. 1939 “Not what you expected, Ms. Alice,” A local farm boy chuckled behind me. I sighed. The breeze hit my face harshly as I walked up to the falling apart farmhouse. “Edith called it a fixer upper but I would be better just tearing it down and building it up again,” I muttered. A good portion of the roof had caved in and the porch looked like it was rotting.

I looked back at the boy, smiling like a fool, before I finally decided to enter the house. The inside was just as bad. Mold and rot were everywhere. There was a couch, which I guessed was older than me, falling through the floor.

“So where are you staying till this place is fixed?” I took a deep breath, since Edith didn’t mention the state of the house I had planned on moving in immediately. “I have no idea,” I told him. I was starting to tear up, realizing how lost I was. Edith would never let me stay with her. She probably planned this out as a way to make me go back to France and leave her alone. “Hey, don’t cry, you can stay with me on my farm,” The boy piped up. I looked at him in confusion, this kid looked sixteen, he must’ve meant his family’s farm. Noticing my confusion he spoke up,” I’m not that young. I’m eighteen and I inherited it when my parents died.” I thought about it before realizing how insane it was. This boy was a stranger, and I hate the outdoors so why would I want to live on a farm. However, I didn’t have many other options. “What’s your name?” He smiled at me, “My name is Mickey. Mickey Butler.” “Well, Mickey, we should head home, “ I grinned at him and opened the door of my car for him. He seemed starstruck for a second after entering the car. “This is pretty fancy, Ms. Alice.” I chuckled. “Thank you and please just call me Alice.” He gave directions to his farm, which was only a mile away from the house.

His house stood on a top of a hill, surrounded by trees with fields below it. It was painted a faint yellow with white accents and was in much better condition than the home I just left. As the two of us left the car, I could hear barking as three dogs ambushed us. “You three quit it, we got guests,” Mick scolded them. He ushered me towards the door, shooing the dogs away. The house was decorated beautifully, with rose colored walls and paintings I would expect to find on display in France. All the furniture had intricate carvings, and everything was cleaned perfectly. “Everything here is beautiful,” I exclaimed. I could see Mickey getting red from the compliment. “My mama brought everything with her when she moved here from France.” I smiled, “Your mother was French.” He nodded as he took my bags upstairs. I followed him to a small room with a twin sized bed and couch. It was simple but I couldn’t complain since he offered me his home for no few.

I got all my things settled into my new room, and once I was happy with my new setup, I headed downstairs. “Hey, I’m making dinner. Are scrambled eggs alright with you?” I nodded before taking a seat at the table. “Oh, over on the counter there’s a seed for you.” I stood up, thinking I misheard him, and walked over to discover there in fact was a seed. “Why is there a seed for me,” I puzzled. He served dinner and replied, “Papa said you should plant a seed when you have new beginnings. Thought you could plant it on your new land.” I thanked him before eating my dinner. After we ate dinner, I went straight to bed since I had a long day ahead of me.

I woke up with the sun and packed my day bag. I went downstairs to find Mickey already awake. “Good morning,” he greeted me as he headed out to the fields. I followed him, letting him know I would be gone for the day before driving off to where my sister lived. She shared a small apartment intown with an older man, who she said was never home. She seemed almost a little shocked when she opened the door and I was there. “I thought you got on the first boat back to France, Ali.” I smirked, “After discovering the ‘perfect’ house in ruins, a local boy agreed to let me stay with him till I have things together.” She rolled her eyes and groaned, “It’ll take months to fix up that place. You’re better off in France.” “Well, I’ll hire people to take care of it and I’ll get a job to help pay for it and pay Mickey back for letting me stay with him.” She laughed, “No job you get is going to pay for all that and you told mom and dad you didn’t need your money.” I could feel myself getting angry and decided to leave. I got even angrier when I realized that she was right. I decided to return defeated to Mickey’s farm.

He waved from the fields as I drove up, and it made me feel a small bit better. I would miss him when I went back to France. Edith was right, I couldn’t live here, I had no idea how she managed to live here without our parent’s help. “Is everything okay, Alice?” I hadn’t even noticed him come up to me. “I’m afraid not. I can’t afford to get the house repaired or live anywhere else so I’m going to sell it and go back home. He looked shocked. “Absolutely not. You could’ve just asked, I’ll help you fix up the house.” I shook my head, “You’ve done too much already without me paying you.” He thought for a second, “ You can help around the farm. That’ll be your payment to me.” I knew he wasn’t going to let it go so I agreed.

So this is how Mickey and I worked for the next six months. I would tend to the farm while he worked on the house. He made me dinner every night when he got back, and we repeated this everyday except for Sundays, when he wouldn’t let either of us work. He started taking me to farmers markets to sell produce and we would go out to eat using some of our earnings afterwards. We got very close over this time, so close that he proposed to me. I said yes and we got married soon after. We sold the old farmhouse, and used the money to renovate the house.

I found the seed in one of my bags one time and remembered what Mick had said. I feel like the seed really did represent new beginnings, and I thanked it for the fortunate turn of events. Mickey and I planted it together next to the house, in the midst of the other trees. “It's a dogwood tree,” he told me as he planted it, “They’re beautiful in the spring.” He rubbed a bit of dirt on my face as I swatted away his muddy hands. “I love you, Mick.” “Love you too, Alice.”