1175 As I wrap a shawl around my shoulders, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Lines etch my face whispering of a life long-lived. I shake my head and leave my small home. Neighbors nod to me in greeting but say nothing and that is the way I prefer it. Especially today. Today was not a day for talking but for remembering. Even if I was the only one who did. 1135 The echo of the dropped platter rings in the hall. Everyone looks at me. I do not look at them but drop to the floor. I’m supposed to be invisible; not drawing attention to myself. I scramble to pick up the fallen fruit as the conversation in the hall grows again. I am already forgotten. A pair of boots enters my vision, followed by knees. A hand holds out two dropped apples. In the reflection of the polished tray, I see the blurred image of a man. I glance up at him as I grab the apples. “My apologies, my lord.” I speak quickly, hoping to avoid any scolding. “It was an accident. No harm done.” He helps me gather the fruit. When the tray full once more, he stands, taking it with him. No knight should be helping like this. I stand, and make to take the tray but he does not let go. “I am Sir Alfred.” I’m not sure what he wants me to do with that information. I’m a servant; not his equal. Like everyone else in the room, he should be ignoring my existence until he was in need of something. “This is the point where you tell me your name.” The corners of his mouth pull up into a smile. “Sarah.” I reach for the tray again and this time he lets it go. He inclines his head. “It’s nice to meet you Sarah.” He turns away and I’m left watching him go. 1175 The hill is steep. It takes a long time and a great deal of energy to climb. Time I have, but these days my energy is lacking. Each step takes more effort than the last one but I plant my walking stick and continue on. No hill will stop me. 1135 This hill is going to kill me. I just hope it does before my arms fall off. Already they ache from carrying a picnic basket for the hunting party. I glance at the men struggling with carrying tables up the hill. At least I’m not one of them. “Quickly!” Master Collins shouts. “Quickly. We need to be ready before the lords and ladies are done with their ride.” “Maybe they should ride slower.” A servant girl beside me mutters. I press my lips together, trying not laugh. She catches my look and grins. I can’t help but smile back. “I’m Mary.” “Sarah.” I say. “What are you carrying?” “Blankets. The heavens help them if they feel a small chill.” She rolls her eyes and I bite back a giggle. “And what about you?” “All the bread.” It was surprisingly heavy. We crest the hill and we both give a sigh of relief. We look at each other and laugh. 1175 Wind whips at my skirts, tugs at my hair, and stings my face. Still, I press on. 1135 Lady Carin storms through the kitchen gardens. Mary and I exchange wide-eyed looks. The lady was known for unpredictability. As changeable as the wind, I’d heard others whisper. Furious as a storm one moment and as gentle as a breeze the next. “You two.” She points at us as if she were the queen of the country. And considering we were only servants, she might as well have been. “What are you doing?” Mary glances at me and then answers. “Pulling the weeds, my lady.” Lady Carin drops to her knees. I stare at her in horror. Her lady’s maid will have a field day if her dress is stained. She merely lifts an eyebrow at our stunned looks. “Which ones are the weeds?” I silently point to one. She nods and starts pulling; acting as if this is the most natural thing in the world for her to be doing. Mary shrugs and we both go back to work. 1175 I crest the hill. Standing atop the hill is a tall stone. Most in the village don’t know why it’s here or what it means. But I do. And it means everything to me. 1135 “Father is a fool.” Lady Carin mutters from her spot on the bench; her chin perched in her hand. The day is warm and we are all outside under the shade of a tree. Neither Mary nor I say anything. Mary weaves flowers into a garland for the summer festival while I work on stitching a sleeve together. After the day in the kitchen garden, Lady Carin had appointed us as her personal servants, claiming we were the only two she had ever met who had taken her in stride. There had been quite the to do though when she had announced it- everyone protesting from her mother to the chamberlain while the other servants gave both Mary and me dirty looks. Lady Carin, however, had stormed and everyone had bent to her desire. “No comment?” She asks. I lift an eyebrow at her. What were we to say to that? Sir Alfred stalks over to us, his hands clenched, and his jaw tight. He’s a distant cousin of Lady Carin’s but they look like they could be brother and sister. “You father is a fool,” He announces in much the same tone as Lady Carin had. The lady gives us a look, as if saying, “See? I’m not the only one.” I shake my head and focus on the stitches. I have no desire to undo them later because of my lack of attention now. Sir Alfred paces in front of us. “He is going to get us all killed.” “Or worse. Married.” Lady Carin’s nose wrinkles in disgust. I had seen her potential suitors and I heartily agreed with her. All of them looked at Lady Carin like she was a piece of meat they were ready to devour. “Marriage won’t stop the coming carnage.” Sir Alfred says. Mary’s brow furrows as she lays aside a finished garland. “What do you mean?” “The battle lines have already been drawn. Whatever side my lord chooses, will only determine who we are fighting against.” I glance at my lady and she nods. “So either way, we’ve lost?” Mary asks. Sir Alfred nods and my stomach twists. War was coming to Tingel Castle whether we wanted it or not. Now, all we could hope to do was survive. 1175 I trace the markings on the rock. The Tingel seal and our names. The only known survivors. It had taken Alfred days to cut deeply into the rock to ensure that the markings would not easily be worn away; that they would withstand the test of time. A testament to the ones who had survived. Carin, Alfred, Mary, and Sarah. 1135 We stand on the hill watching Tingel burn in the distance. We had had no warning. The castle had been set on fire. So many of the escape routes had been cut off by our enemies. But Sir Alfred and Lady Carin had known of the castle’s secret passages and had gotten us out. A miracle. But now it was only the four of us. Lady Carin, Sir Alfred, Mary, and me. 1175 I close my eyes and off up a prayer of gratitude. We had survived that horrendous night. We had hidden, later fought, but most of all we had lived. 1135 It has been three nights since the attack on Tingel. Three nights since we had all lost everything save each other. I cup water in my hands, disturbing my reflection in the stream. It’s the closest thing anyone had to a mirror these days. We all look horrible- tired, hungry, dirty, and grief-stricken. “Do you think we’ll even make it?” Lady Carin’s voice is soft, gentler than a breeze caressing a face. We all look at each other. It would be so easy to give up. Turn ourselves over to Tingel’s enemies and die. “I’m not giving up.” Sir Alfred says. “Me either.” Mary crosses her arms determinedly. Lady Carin looks at me. I smile softly, a truth settling deep in my heart. “We’re going to live.”


Jaanvi had moved to Solnit islands a week ago and the brunch was her first Saturday outing. The café had a long table at the center to enable people to mingle. Jaanvi sat next to a handsome man with blue eyes, soft hair and a toned stomach. As she sat down, he turned towards her and initiated conversation. As she reached the end of her explanation about 16 th century technology with rapt attention from him, something clicked. His hand started contracting and pulsing. His eyes bulged and sprang back, deep into his head. His hair separated from his scalp and flew away, looking not very different from a swarm of birds. His stomach morphed into a blue heart. She shook her head and then all that was left sitting in front of her was a giant, warm, blue heart. “Are you okay? Why did you stop mid-sentence?” he asked. “Are you okay?” was her response. “Of course, what do you mean?” he sounded confused. “Are you sure you’re okay?” “Yes, yes, never mind. I think I have to go.” “Hey. Wait, did something happen? Can I help?” “No, I’ll be okay. Don’t worry. Thanks. Bye.” As she left the café, she looked closer at the pedestrians and breathed a sigh of relief to see normal anatomical parts and proportions. She decided to take a stroll along the lake. There was a beautiful park around the lake. As Jaanvi walked, she noticed a woman with her child. She was reading out of a book with animated voices and gestures. Jaanvi stood there, enjoying the story as much as the child. When the woman noticed Jaanvi, she asked her to join them and offered her a Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich, which brought a huge smile on her face. As she took a bite and looked up, the woman had somehow transformed into a giant blue heart too. She shrieked and her sandwich fell on the ground. A huge, panting Labrador came along and ate the sandwich before anyone could think of doing anything about it. Jaanvi couldn’t help catching hold of the dog and snuggling with it. The well fed dog happily allowed the cuddles. When Jaanvi let go and opened her eyes to ask the dog where it had come from, she screamed. The dog had also transformed into a big, blue heart. Jaanvi got up and started running away. Once she had gotten far enough, she sat down on a bench and stared into the lake. It was calm. The day was bright. And she could hear a sweet melody which further helped her even her breathing. She could hear the melody come closer. Soon she could hear the words, “She looked like a bright sunny day Her firy red hair, oh how it swayed Her hazel eyes so bright Made me feel warm and light And in love!” And he made eye contact with her. “She was big and soft Blue, oh so blue On this bright sunny day All I want is her smile And that’s what I’m going to do” He sat down on the bench next to her. She smiled at him and asked the million-color question, “Why did you say I was blue?” “Because I fell in love with you!” “What?” “I mean that in the nicest way. No creepiness, no stalking. I’ll walk away right now if you want me to. But you made me feel like sunshine and smiles! And I loved you for that.” “Okay, so whenever you love someone they turn blue?” “Yes, blue pulsing hearts. Have you never fallen in love?” “Of course I have! But I just moved here last week.” “Oh then I’ll let you explore the magic of Solnit islands by yourself. Just keep your eyes and your heart open!” Jaanvi sat on the bench for a long time. She wanted to figure out what the man meant? When exactly do people turn into big blue hearts? And do they turn back? And well, how do you get used to just looking at big blue hearts? This is so stupid. Will she look like an ugly big heart to other people too? Then what is the point of having such good looks that she had spent so much time and money over? And she likes seeing beautiful, aesthetic things, especially faces and bodies. The idea of seeing a big blue heart all the time unnerved her. An obese man with shaggy facial hair sat next to Jaanvi on the bench. He was panting from the strain of the walk. Jaanvi looked away from him. After he had caught his breath, he said, “Thanks for waiting for me to catch my breath. That was mighty kind of you. I’m Harry.” She turned, “I’m Jaanvi, Hi” and turned away again. “Mighty pretty day, isn’t it?” “Yes, yes it is.” Jaanvi did not turn. “Are you waiting for someone?” Loneliness and homesickness were a cocktail that did not sit well in Jaanvi’s stomach. She looked towards her lap and mumbled, “No, I just moved here last week. I’m just out exploring I guess.”  “Oh that’s mighty good then! I would love to show you around. Would you let me show you around?” Jaanvi looked him up and down and the said, “Yes, sure, I’d like that.” Both of them got off the bench and Jaanvi said, “Thanks for doing this.” “Oh no, thank you, for helping me see this place with fresh eyes!” Jaanvi rolled her eyes at that, then smiled. “The place I’d like to take you to is a 15 minute walk away. Is that alright?” “I love walking, especially in such nice weather!” “Perfect! I love walking too!” “Oh really?” Harry turned towards her. Jaanvi looked up, “Oh I’m sorry I did not mean it like that. I did not intend for it to come out so snarky. I just saw you panting before. So I Guess I assume dyou did not enjoy something that tires you and hurts you so much. Sorry I assumed.” “Oh there’s no need to apologize. Yes, walking is hard and tiring. But it is so beautiful and I love looking around and talking to companions. So it’s totally worth it. After all, aren’t all worthy things really hard and tiring?” Jaanvi flashed him a big smile and held his hand as they walked. Harry led the way to a library. Jaanvi broke into a giggled as she twirled around, taking it all in. It was like a library from Instagram, complete with pretty motifs, high ceilings and that beautiful feeling of being immersed in books. Jaanvi loved reading fiction. She read a gorgeous illustration on the wall, reading gives us someplace to go when we have to stay where we are. She pointed it to Harry and then walked towards the aisle with the latest books. Harry laughed, “I figured you’d love this place!” “I do, I do!” “Is this another marriage in the library?” was overheard and they both blushed. When Jaanvi looked up, she saw a big blue heart where Harry was. Two hours can change so much. They walked out of the library with one book each that they had chosen for the other. Harry said, “Next, may I interest you in a cozy ice cream place that will whip up any flavor you wish for?” “I’d love that!” They walked to the bus stop and chatted as they waited. “Hey hot stuff, why are you with an oaf like him?” Both of them turned towards the voice. “How could you want to be with such an ugly thing? Oh right must be that idiotic blue heart nonsense. But I’m sure you can see me. And my soft golden curls, my very well defined stomach and biceps and look at these dimples!” Jaanvi turned away and tried to ignore him by continuing her conversation with Harry. “As usual. This is so stupid. I wish this thing looked less cheesy but here, it is a bow and arrow. The arrow of bias and the bow of discrimination. And I can burst any blue heart with it. So well, will you give in now and come with me or will you do it after I burst the heart and you see his ugly old self again?” Out of instinct, Jaanvi dragged Harry and went into the library. The man with the bow and arrow followed. “Really, you’re quite stupid for someone who claims to read.” He dragged the arrow on the bow and aimed it at Harry. Jaanvi blocked the arrow with a book and it deflected. He tried again and failed again. “What is happening? These arrows aren’t supposed to be deflected by anything!” An attendant ducked from another aisle, “Librarians are always at your service, and answering questions that Google cannot. Well, the bow and arrow is powered by biases and superficiality. These books of fiction make readers empathetic; they provide people with mirrors to themselves and windows into other worlds. So fiction and empathy win over biases.” And she ducks out. The man pulls another arrow onto the bow, looks at Harry, looks at Jaanvi, and then shakes his head and walks away, putting the arrow back. “Not worth it. Stupid stories, making people feel things. Eww.”


Part 3. His hand was held out to me steady and strong. A sword, his sword, rested across his palm. My eyes went from his to the sword and back again. It was then I noticed how thin he had become, how grey his hair was now. His face, once smooth and strong, was now spotted and wrinkled with age and worry. But worry for what? For who? For me? But why, I was to be believed as dead these past two years. I opened my mouth to ask why, but he shook his head and nodded at the sword. I took it and belted it to my hip. Turning, I faced my opponent, unnamed, and unknown to me but as an abuser of innocent men. I drew the sword slowly, cherishing its weight and the slow nearly silent hiss as it left the waxed sheath. Its blade was thin, light in my hands, and perfectly balanced. Exactly as I remembered my father's blade from so many years ago. The tall man had had enough and yelled, "At you then!" And rushed me with his outstretched sword point. My training flooded back to me after years of neglect, and I barely slapped the blade aside with the flat of my own. He cut across my abdomen, and I wasn't fast enough to deflect it all. A thin cut opened on my shirt, and a bead of blood appeared on my bare chest. He grinned at me then, surely thinking the fight would be a quick one. He was correct in thinking so. I had stumbled as I had tried to move back from his cut, my legs not working as I knew I needed them to. But in that moment, I felt more strength in them than i had thought i ever would again. Again and again, he struck at me. Cut, thrust, cut, slash, thrust, thrust again. Each time, he nicked me in some small way. But each time, I equally found my footing more sure. I was certain I would never be what I once was, though certain also that I would always be better than this fool of a man. Only a scant few moments had passed, and I found my body warming to the thrill of the fight. I stepped left, dripping the tip of my blade. He followed to the right, lashing out at my neck. My tip came up under his strike and cut his wrist lightly. My feint was a success, and now he was fearful of me. I pushed him then, striking low, then high. Forcing his guard out wide, I took my opening and thrust my father's sword through his belly and out through his spine. He went down like a sack and died groaning and whimpering in his own blood. I stood over him, gasping for air. My legs trembled and burned from the effort. A feeble hand grasped my arm, and a weather worn and tanned face of the farmed loomed up at me with tears flowing. "Thank you, young master! Thank you! Thank you!" I smiled down at him, "Think not of it at all good, sir. We are all men. If we don't stand for each other, we will fall together." I turned from him then and stepped to my father again. "Son," he said, his voice low and somber. "Your mother was worried for you." I felt tears well in my eyes and could scant force them away. "Mother," I asked with a broken voice, "Is she?" He nodded gravely, "Aye, and your sister and younger brother too. We've been looking for you for a long time, boy." I shook my head in disbelief. "How?" Is all I could utter. For the first time i could remember, my father laughed. He laughed long and hard. When he had settled some, he brushed an uncharacteristic tear from his eye and spoke. "Boy, you need to work on your forgery. A blind man could've seen that your handwriting was multitudes worse than the general's adjutant." I couldn't help but laugh myself. For all the years I'd been running from my past and my shame. My family had never once been ashamed, only concerned, and they had found me when I needed them most. "Well, I will have to work on that then." I said as my father looped an arm around my shoulder, and I sheathed his sword. Together, we walked away to find my family. One day, maybe, I could teach my son to be Worthy by Deed Alone.


I lived in a tent in some woods on land that wasn't mine. No one knew that I was there save for the birds and squirrels and deer and one hunter who passed through but thought I was just camping. Self-reliance had been my modus operandi ever since high school failed me for skipping a year and my parents disowned me for stealing their savings. It'd been a rough decade full of long winters and longer treks to the grocery store at the precise time of the week they set out stale bread and soured milk and barely-past-expiration can goods. My clothes were custom repaired name brands that people threw away because of the never-ending onslaught of fashion trends. In fact, my tent was the last thing I ever bought. It was the peak of summer's wet heat when an idea struck me. Specifically, it was a large enough branch that had been dead for several seasons but held on by the still living, still healthy, still well-maintained wood of the trunk. My head was sore for days but with the pain came the realization that timber lay all around me for the greatest expression of self-reliance mankind had ever devised. I decided to build a house. It was so obvious and easy and in accordance with my modus operandi that I felt silly for wasting ten years in a tent that bore the stench of exchange. All through July I gathered branches and limbs and uprooted some saplings and collected vines. My vision called for an ultra-spiritual, all-natural hut that would be the envy of hermits everywhere. It was going to be a squat dome nestled against a cluster of trees to minimize rain damage and soil erosion. I had envisioned a marvel of underbrush engineering that would baffle future archeologists. "How did he align them just so," they'd say, "and make the whole thing watertight?" But when the pieces came together and the vines were tied the whole thing looked . . . shabby. I don't think even the most inept hermit was going to be envious. July became August and the latter brought the heaviest rains I'd ever seen outside of my first year of self-reliance when I almost drowned in the dried creek bed I had chosen to camp in. Thumb-sized holes littered my roof and turned the dirt floor abode into a literal mud room. Luckily, I hadn't transferred many things from the tent yet so the damage was nothing to call the insurers about. So there I was, facing another winter with an untrusty tent and an opinion of anything less than a house soured. How could I possibly keep my thoughts from turning toward another attempt? But I had learned my lesson and would go contemporary this time. At first this meant using my hacksaw and knife to provide some homogeny to the otherwise unscrupulous boughs and build a thin-walled box. That fell through mid-September with only four limbs being anywhere near the quality of cut lumber. The design I'd drawn up on the back of a pastry wrapper started to feel like a pipe dream. With an exhausted body and a depressed mind I made my weekly run into town. Here there was a bit of relief as I walked away with unusual spoils. My coat pocket held greedily to the special treat of discolored chocolate I had found among the throwaway, while my fingers clutched two jugs of soured summertime lemonade unsuited for the changing weather. On my way back a little stack of recently stripped wooden siding caught my eye. The wrapper blueprint filled my vision and my mind slapped the new exterior over it. Vanity overrode sense and I dropped the jugs to pick up the stack. My arms went numb from carrying that much, but the blood rush afterwards brought forth a wonderful idea: What if I built my home from the salvage yard that was society? After all, nothing exemplified self-reliance more than creating treasures from the trash of one's surroundings. Fall began prematurely and my wanderings were filled with the crunch of leaves underfoot. Every house in town was either ancient and leaning or ancient and fallen. From the occupied abodes I gained siding, roofing tiles, and nails. From the abandoned ones I tore whole pieces of thigh-thick black lumber. After a few discouraging looks from passers-by I decided that night would be the best time to operate my recycling program. This became easier as winter approached and the sun relinquished more and more of its territory. I was puffing like a steam engine all Halloween night, dragging a crossbeam whose weight was at least the equal of my body. When I stopped to gasp, a gang of masked adolescents jumped me with rocks almost as sharp as their cruel remarks. Fortunately, they scattered once my sobs became loud enough to attract attention. I wanted to chase them down and give them the sternest explanation of my modus operandi I'd ever conceived. But the spirit of the holiday and presence of my heavy prize kept my head cool and my legs moving inexorably toward the wilderness. The blueprint hung nailed to a nearby tree as I erected its chocolate-smeared vision. My wood pile was stretched to the limit but my determination knew no bounds. Speaking of bounds, the creek that made two out of the wood's four borders turned out to be full of the most useful refuse. Bungee straps, nylon rope, and one very handy ball bearing that I used to check if things were level. The cold had already started to set in but I stayed warm working nonstop to make my dream home. By the first frost its walls were up. By the first snow I was layering a mix of shingles and wet prairie grass on the few overhead beams my scavenging had secured. Mud is a great insulator so I didn't hesitate to stuff it into every nook and cranny where I felt even the gentlest breeze. To complete the creature comforts I installed an old Franklin stove I'd found in a collapsed farmhouse and ran a pipe through the roof to vent it. Don't ask how I got the stove out into the woods, just follow the long trail of sled marks. With that installed, I had built everything to the blueprint's specifications and then some before Santa arrived. It was such a change from my previous winters. I cooked my can goods without fear of the wind blowing my little stick fire out, slept without fear of an animal outside my tent, and had room to stretch out after my weekly commute. I even started to consider inviting a guest over to admire my work and socialize. The grocery trek of New Year's Eve contained this last hope. I knew of only one other person who lived the life of a true frontiersman, though his frontier was the train yard on the opposite side of town. I would have to entice him with food, so I headed for the back of the grocery store. My journey there was slowed by the sight of fluorescent curiosities sticking out of all my former salvage sites. In the yards of occupied homes stood signs that said "No Trespassing" or "Neighborhood Watch." The abandoned ones had yellow tape strung all over their ruins: "Police Line - Do Not Cross." I wondered what kind of awful crimes had been committed in my former stomping grounds, but the chill in the air hurried me to complete my task and return to my forest manor. What surprise I felt when the train yard frontiersman was waiting at the back of the grocery store. He came up to me with the most congenial toothless smile and told how my exploits had reached his ears some weeks ago. Elated at my own notoriety, I invited him over at once and at once he accepted. Carrying our spoils in a shopping cart he'd acquired, we chatted and slapped each other's back all the way to the woods. In a last-second spark of vanity, I made him close his eyes as he passed through my home's threshold. Only when he was surrounded by the warmly lit cabin did I allow him to open them. I saw the emotion I desired: envy. We sat across from each other in twin folding chairs I had dredged from the creek and launched into philosophical discussion while the stew came to a boil. That's when a knock at the door interrupted us. I opened it to find a police officer standing there in an oversized winter coat, with his hand on an oversized pistol. Behind him stood three more men, all civilians, but armed nonetheless. Behind these men were dozens more people of every sex and age. It seemed like the whole town had come out to marvel at my work. The train yard frontiersman pushed me aside and squeezed past the officer without the latter moving a muscle. He ran up to one of the three men who then placed a wad of money in the frontiersman's hand. The police officer refocused my attention by inviting himself inside. Envy filled him so that he immediately kicked over the stew into the fire below. The cabin descended into darkness and winter's chill soon followed. I was thrust out into the arms of the three men, who then threw me onto the ground. The crowd beyond moved upon my home with tools in their hands. Hammers of every size, crowbars of every color, and expletives of every flavor tore at my work. I pleaded until I was hoarse, yet they continued unabated. What took me months to build took them an hour to destroy. A pickup was brought in to haul the pieces they found valuable. As quickly as they had arrived, so too did they depart. Cars and trucks started in the distance and carried the mob away. I was left on the hard earth, crawling around to pick up the splinters. My original blueprint stuck out of the ground like a fallen banner. I pocketed it and journeyed into the wreckage. The stove was gone. The food was gone. The roof was gone. The walls were gone. The floor was gone. They had even punctured my tent. Nothing, I was left with nothing. A pickup returned at dusk. I had settled on curling up to die from frostbite and was very upset by the interruption. I leaped to my feet, really and truly angry for the first time. With pocket knife in hand I ventured out to meet the returning intruder before I realized that she hadn't been with the last group. I put away my knife and approached her with as many salutations and verbal niceties as I could think of under pressure. She said that word had gotten to her concerning a cabin of the most ingenious design. I replied that such an assessment was correct, an understatement even, but that the lauded structure was no more. She let out an expletive and confessed that she had really hoped to see inside. I felt that I had offended a fellow architectural connoisseur. Without stopping to breathe I recounted the pillaging of my home by the barbarian townspeople. She shook her head and told me they were just envious of my self-reliance, adding that an assault against a man's modus operandi should be against the law. Tears stung my eyes in the bitter cold as thanks poured out of my hoarse throat. Then something passed her lips that sounded quite foreign to me. I must have stood there looking dumbfounded because she said it again and again and again. She got back in her truck and opened the passenger door. When she spoke again the words finally became real: "Last chance, the spare room is yours if you want it.


We need to start eating insects, and I mean right fricken now. There can be no delay. We have the knowledge and technology to be farming house flies instead of cattle and swapping out mutant chickens for earthworms. Insects are proven to be far more nutritionally good for you, it’s really a common fact. No, this isn’t some kind of deranged door to door joke. I’m pleading with you, I’m pleading to the world, I’m pleading on behalf of Mother Nature and for the sake of all mankind. If we lose this existential battle we will ultimately let the viruses win. Do you understand what I’m saying here? Are you reading me? Viruses don’t even have a consciousness. What a shame it would be if we let that happen, what a fricken shame it would be. Honestly, don’t you think? Here’s what I can promise you, right here and now. A real solution to a real problem. Look at me, I’ve been living off a rigorous diet of water and insects for close to fifteen years. No soda pop, no McBeachChicken, no KFC boiled owl, no processed garbage, just my own home grown insects and tap water. Yes, you’re looking at 200lbs of twisted steel and sex appeal. I weigh as much as a full grown kangaroo. This isn’t a beer gut, it’s an insect gut. Or, what my ex-wife liked to call it, her “dippy do.” She said that because my gut hangs out further than my “dippy do”. I didn’t get it either. Anyway, I would also like to say for the record that I am fifty two years old, and I don’t give a flying care about what that woman has to say anymore. But what I do have a real strong care about is using the latest innovations in science to help my farm grow the tastiest insects. I take my insect farming to what some would say a very serious level. My insects, of course, are of a very very high quality. I’m proud to say, I house somewhere around 2 million earthworms and close to a billion common house flies on just under an acre of land. Insect farmers like myself can end human hunger and only if people were not such fricken picky eaters. We could actually end hunger tomorrow. It’s all those foodies you know, they seem to be the ones that mess it all up for us. It’s their false online reviews and magazine articles that are hindering mankind’s transition into the future. They’re all fricken paid by the meat industry, too. Any common John Henry knows that. Geez, the real sad part is that I can guarantee you my insects taste great and despite what all those foodies are paid to say. I can make earthworms and common house flies taste like anything you want. And when I say anything, I mean anything. Say you and your girl, or maybe even your man are feeling like fish and chips tonight? Or say, how about a juicy burger with some greasy onion rings? Or even maybe a steak and baked potato is your fancy? Hell, maybe you’re feeling real crazy and would like breakfast for dinner, or something fricked up like that. You name it, we can make them taste like anything. It’s a miracle of modern science. So, what do you say? Do you feel like saving mankind today? It honestly could not be any easier, my friend. For only one small payment of $19.99 on the 1st and the 15th of each month we can end world hunger together. Insects are our future. Insects for life.


I wear a designer, tailored, three-piece charcoal suit with golden cufflinks and a silk tie dad gave me from a Turkish bazaar when I was ten. You wear a pin-striped dinner jacket with jeans. I wait in my car for more people to arrive before entering. You were here long before anyone else. I greet some old friends and tell them all about my six-week holiday across Southeast Asia, recommending that they avoid tour groups and soak in the culture on a solo voyage. They hang on every word and give me numbers to call sometime soon, which I promptly delete. You vaguely listen with a vacant gaze. I take a swig from my flask while no one is looking. My sponsor congratulates me on being two years sober with a heart emoji and a gif saying ‘Keep it up!’. You see everything from your corner of the gathering. I turn down an offering of tiny quiches, lying to the caterer that I’m lactose intolerant. I haven’t eaten in days. You politely take one, then another, before wrapping them in a napkin and stuffing them down your front jean pocket. I lock the door of the bathroom and splash my face with water. I stare at myself blankly in the mirror and try to recite the speech clutched in my trembling hands. You knock on the door, asking if everything’s alright. I open the door, giving you a dismissive grimace as I re-join the assembly. The host beckons to me and insists we make our way outside as soon as possible before the rain comes. I forgot to bring an umbrella, but I’m optimistic we’ll stay dry when looking at the clouds. You clutch a black umbrella. I let out a strong wolf whistle that I learned from a street vendor in Phnom Penh, bringing the foyer to a hush. I try cheerily to convince everyone to make their way to the lawns, but I’m interrupted by soft chattering. You let out a definitive ‘Oi!’ and tell everyone to shut up before nodding at me to continue. I don’t nod back. Everyone gingerly makes their way outside, umbrellas in hand. You wait for everyone to step out until it’s just us, alone. You go to open your mouth. I brush past you to join the others. You walk towards the procession of black suits, black dresses, black umbrellas and dripping black eyeliner. I can’t look his mum in the eye. You can’t even look at his coffin. I take a deep breath and take a seat with the family. The celebrant says a few words before inviting me to begin the eulogy. I face my former colleagues, teammates, girlfriends, friends, and you. It starts raining, soiling the last-minute words I wrote for him and I struggle to speak. You hand me your umbrella. The service ends, the mourning crowd disperses, and we’re alone again. We lock eyes in silence. We used to have staring contests that would last what felt like hours, all three of us. You offer a teary smile and nod. I drop my stoic veneer and smile back. You grieve. I grieve.


The car hums to life at the push of a button and slips out of the garage into a wet night. The garage door closes behind it as I drive through the apartment complex and onto one of the side roads. It was near midnight, and a storm was moving east. I turned east, knowing the roads I would take well. It was the first time in a long time, nearly a year since I had made one of these drives. Family was staying in my small apartment and the needs of work required me to stay up all night, something I couldn’t do without disturbing my guests. The air was still warm and sticky, but the air conditioning was kicking in as I stopped at a light on one of the main roads. I waited for it to change, then I took to the side roads to slip around the side of the town. Illumination from street lamps drifted lazily through the sunroof and windows of my economy grocery-getter as I rejoined a road I had taken and a hundred dozen times before. This junction didn’t mean much. I was still in the town and it was only natural that I had been down this road before. I stayed silent as my radio played off my aging ipod quietly. I didn’t look at the speedometer as I let the car cruise at a natural place. For a time, my mind was blank of all except for the task of driving. This was my meditation. A reset. A few moments alone where I could gather my thoughts and reflect on myself in inner peace. It wasn’t that my family or even my life was stressing me out, life was good compared to twelve months ago. A man simply needs a little time to himself to be alone. I made another turn at another light, clipping through on a yellow to turn onto the highway heading east. Nights like this always took me back in time, but the nostalgia hadn’t hit me yet. I was still on the well-known roads of my home town and not yet to my destination. I crossed the Little Muddy and turned my head to the left to see the twinkling of the town lights before I passed the Haliburton and Red River yards and crossed the bridge over the train tack. As the car climbed the hill out of the town and the buildings grew further apart, I couldn’t help thinking back to how many times I had to take this road, not for indulgence, but for obligation. I pushed those thoughts out of my head. The location and timing weren’t correct. For now, I focussed on the road and the increasing rain as I caught up to the storm. I did my best to focus only on the road and the radio as I drove down the highway. It wouldn’t be much longer now. I passed county road eleven and thought back even further to hot summer days years before when I had worked for the county. I was close now. The only hint that I had reached my destination was a black oil pad and the light of a farm-house porch a quarter mile down a dirt road. I glanced at the clock on the dashboard as I continued down the highway. It was twelve-thirty now, and I felt comfortable. I may have been in my near-silent economy car, but now I could remember back three years to my first real oilfield job, running the eight twenty-one route. I could almost hear the exhaust roar of my old and beaten work truck. I could feel its uncomfortable seats, and I could feel that old feeling of having completed my middle run and being on the return leg to the P-Evitt disposal. I had run that route a hundred dozen times in the year that I was assigned to it. It was my safe space. Six disposals across twenty or so county roads and a highway. Six sites I was responsible for, that gave me pride and built up the career I still had. I fancied I could feel the ruts worn into the tarmac from my work truck as my car glided through the sheets of rain, creating a mirror sheen on the two-year-old blacktop. I relaxed as I followed the road, letting the memories of those times wash over me. I passed by a crossroad, and remembered the half dozen times I had taken it to avoid potholes and road work, thinking of the Bowling for Soup song that always seemed to play when I did my mid run down it. But on I drove. I passed a farmhouse and its barn, ringed by trees with the highway running through its yard. I flipped on my turn signal and trundled onto highway forty-two, the lights of a disposal I knew nothing about filling my rearview as I dropped down the first hill towards the cooly. The car flowed down into the dip and dropped on for endless hours, or so it seemed. I had been down this road two, it was the way from the P-Paulson and P-Evans to the P-Thomas. Part of the old route. I skipped a song on my ipod to one that I would have heard on this road. I couldn’t help but think back. My old company truck was at the apartment, registered in my wife’s name and retired to the leisure of being a daily driver, no longer seeing the miles or the dirt roads or the rushes to various emergencies. A fitting life for a loyal companion. A truck I loved as if I had bought it new and put all of its hundred sixty thousand miles on it. The truck was gone from the company, I was gone from the company, my best friend was gone from them as well, and none of us had run the route in years. How things change. The car rose up the other side of the valley and the lights of the Pankowski came into sight. It wasn’t one of my disposals, and I remember when they installed it, it wasn’t even managed by the company that contracted my employer, but my employer did have workers on it. I never met them, never spoke to them, but was under the impression that my P-Thomas handled overflow from the Pankowski when it was down, and that was quite often. It took everything in me not to turn left at the Pankowski and cruise down county road fifteen to the lease road leading to P-Thomas. But, I was in my Hyundai and not in my company truck, and I was not with Celestial Oil Services anymore, and I was not on the eight twenty-one anymore, though part of me always would be. I traveled another mile up the road and pulled into a field access and stopped the car. The clouds of the storm lingered and the night was black, but from my perch on the top of the hill, I could see for miles, across a plane and down to the lake, including the distorted light of the P-Thomas. Though the night was black, the plane twinkled with manmade constellations, oil flares and site lights lit up the ground as beautiful as any star-speckled sky. I was never an astronomer, I could only name three constellations, but below me was a cosmos I had sailed through and knew like my own backyard. For one night, for a few hours, once more, I was king of my domain, a monarch ruling six saltwater disposals over twenty miles of road, lord of changing filters, duke of sending reports, baron of cleaning triplex pumps. Home at last. From my ethereal memory built castle of a company truck, I saw inverted stars, the same I had sailed for endless aeons as a god.


The glow of the Harvest Moon did nothing to guide his way into the Silentwoods. Mirth and joy still rang in his ears as he stumbled over twisted roots and jagged stones. He clung to it, held it in his breast hoping to steel himself for the task at hand. At the festival he had found peace. He ate heartily, laughed loudly, and smiled wide with his family and friends. The Silverbeards, Halguer, and even the Daromir turned out for the event. Assembled with his clan, the four families lined the river for a quarter mile. The smell of roasting meats, the sound of drinking and contest, and most of all the roaring laughter was carried downstream with the breeze. It had been decades since the dwarves had come down the mountain and truly celebrated as one in the verdant hills. His reasons for the gathering were lost and forgotten amidst the revelry.

Belegrim Ironjaw of the Silverbeards had even set up a forge and seemed to be making some handsome coin. The sound of his hammer driving home set the tune for many of their dances and songs. Late in the evening, one of the forgemaster’s axes caught his eye. Not an axe for cutting trees, but men. It shined like the sun, the mirrored surface gleaming brilliantly.

“You’ve got good taste lad.” said the elder dwarf. “At’ll cut a dwarf in full plate from shoulder to hip.” He felt its weight, tested the edge with his thumb, and swung it casually through the air. Everything from head to haft was perfect. He slid the handle through one of the loops on his belt and handed the dwarf his well earned coin. Even his son was enamored with the weapon, asking how the etching of their gods had been done so precisely and the leather on the grip tanned so finely. His wife cast her judgment but kept it to herself. It was not in his nature to be impulsive, so she was shocked when he took her hand in his abruptly and awkwardly. Their marriage had been filled with love of a kind, but intimacy and gentleness had not been a strong suit of his. So often he avoided it. Traila had known him better than any other for the better part of a century now and he could feel her unease when his skin pressed against hers. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. “I love you.” he whispered so that only she could hear.

The moment felt poised to swallow him. Her gaze was too much for him to bear as he watched her try to form a response. “Just tell me so we might face it together.” he could imagine her saying.

She did not get the chance. Friends bombarded them, cajoling and cracking jokes about how he was going soft after all these years. They surrounded him and his wife, carrying him away for games and stories and drinks together.

They had been his companions since he was young. From them, he had learned much. The man he had become, and the man he wanted to be, he often saw in them. Part of him yearned for their aid, to unshoulder his burden at their feet so that they might help him bear it. Instead he drank more, he ate more, and he was rowdier and more boisterous than any other. Of all the things he wanted to be, today, he would be the dwarf he wanted them to remember.

After night had fallen, and the others had begun the trek back to their mountain abodes, he returned to the place he had been most often as of late. He readied himself, his muscles groaning and pleading for mercy. He swung his axe with measured cadence, burying it in the ancient, gnarled wood. Every few swings he would pause, catch his breath, and drink from the flask at his hip. The dull thud as his axe struck was the only sound that echoed between the trees. The moon was full above him and dim shafts of light pierced the canopy, guiding his aim. A blessing to hunters. A blessing to harvesters. Tonight though, this frigid and solitary stretch of time that seemed to skulk between dusk and dawn, there would be no song or prayers of thanks. Only curses haunted this dead and festering grove. The flask draped his belt since his father had passed. A gift ungiven, inherited from his late father who had received it in the same fashion. Passed down by countless other dwarves as far back as time’s grasping talons could reach. Or so the story went. A memento from the dead, to the dying. Vice given form, unassuming and cold. Forged of iron that would never rust, it was a well of spirits that would never run dry. Only, he knew some- thing had infused the drink. Smoke would billow out of the vessel when uncorked, and a voice would creep through the porous stopper, imploring any who held the thing to drink fully and freely.

As he worked, he drank. His body was warm, but the mouth of the flask was ice on his lips. It was a lover’s kiss, begging him to stay and drown in its embrace. Had he been a weaker dwarf, his son would have buried him amongst the tombs of his fathers. Instead, he resisted the call and replaced the flask on his belt, swinging the axe once more.

He might never have known the nature of his metal companion, had it not been for a scrap of text found and unbound from its ancient leather wrappings. A year ago now, he found himself lost within the bowels of tunnels that his clan had sealed long ago for reasons forgotten by. It was there, miles further than any had dug in centuries, he stumbled upon the truth.

The memory still burned in his mind. Statuary lined the passage as his footsteps echoed onward, heralding him to the nothing that lay before. He could not say how far or fast he walked, only that he came to a twisted iron door that had been blown off of its hinges. Its snarling face was melted so that only one glaring eye and a mouth full of jagged teeth remained. The eye seemed to follow him as he entered the chamber. Reflexively he grabbed the flask, then released it and drew the hammer from his belt. The light from his torch flickered across the walls. The air was stale.  It was some sort of dark wizard's domain or the lair of an unknown evil. Bones lay haphazardly, clothes still clinging to their frames. Something had scorched large sections of the walls and floor, setting the room alight. Ancient tomes were scattered about, burned and torn asunder, their text largely illegible. There were carvings on the floor, deliberate markings that spread in a strange and alien pattern. The South-East corner of the room was a messy pile of rubble and debris from where the ceiling had collapsed. A support pillar lay in fragmented pieces all across the room. In the center of it all lay a podium, untouched by whatever catastrophe struck this place, and unweathered by age. Atop the podium lie a tome which he tried to make sense of., And though the words swirled and morphed in shape. Their meaning was imparted to him.

A curse. A demon, ancient and powerful, had been bound here. It had been destined to be woven into the sword which lie mangled near his feet, but something had gone awry. He could feel the enmity radiating outwards from the flask, a blistering hatred that made sense of his family’s history. It had been bound to the flask, trapped in the vessel by folly. The cold iron of the flask had been a far better conduit for magic than the steel of the blade. At least, for this magic. All he could think of was that writhing essence, attempting to bend his will. How it was not his own weakness, but something that had willfully been the bane of his line for untold centuries. It filled him with a fire hotter than any warmth within the little flask could imbue him with. It filled him with dreams.

He was roused from his memories by shouting and lights bobbing through the trees towards him. His friends trudged into view, weapons in hand, cursing and spitting. Sweat poured from their brows and their eyes darted to and fro before finally locking onto him. Explanations were short. His story did not shake their resolve and they made no effort to turn him from his course. They helped him load lumber onto the small cart of his, and they pulled it up the hill and into the mountain. The calluses on his hands had worn off. His palms began to bleed, his fingers were tight and the ache in his muscles only fled him when he drew from the flask.

They were not alone. They could feel it. The flasks aura had been drawing them nearer night after night. He had tried to imagine that it was a trick of the mind, some horrid illusion that the darkness had manifested to steer him from his task. Now they gathered, huddling in throngs near the edge of their torch’s light. If they wandered about these woods on any other night, he had no doubt they would have descended upon him and his friends leaving nothing but gnawed bones and bits of clothing.

They weren’t here for him. No, their eyes followed his hand as he drew from the flask which shone gold and crimson, reflecting the light from the torches and the moon overhead. The light kept the creatures at bay but did nothing to ease his nerves.

As they approached the ritual site, they all coiled their hands tightly around their weapons. Frangen, his oldest and dearest friend, made a sign to the gods when he first laid eyes on the scene. They began piling wood around the pedestal, drenching the hastily formed pyre in oil that he had carried with him on the cart. When they were finished someone made a joke, trying to ease the nerves but he barely heard it. Others laughed though he didn’t see it. There was a pounding in his head as his friends fanned out, lighting the oil with their torches. A great gust of heat washed over him as the fire began devouring the oxygen in the room, but his blood ran cold.

I will kill you.

Clear as still water, the voice he had been hearing all his life warned him from the place on his belt. One final time, he drank greedily from it, grateful for the thing at last. It was heavy in his hand. He lobbed the flask into the flames and readied his axe.

“Perhaps.”


It has been years since I am a teenager now. I am here alive and breathing but she’s not. I still remember that sweet peach smell she gave off. I tried looking for every product with the peach smell but none of them were like the enchanting smell she gave off. But who am I kidding with? I am standing here alone at the bus station; the exact location where she had her accident.

I wouldn’t have blurted out my feelings for her if I had known what was about to happen that day. Only if I knew that my life was going to be tangled right here on this road. My one-sided crush died here. The weird thing is that today I still have a crush on her who is dead for seven years now. Every day I wake up I think about her, thinking what if I had kept my mouth shut at that time. Today is my mother’s birthday so I had to return to my hometown. I would have never set my foot in this town; if it hadn’t been for my mother.

As I was deep into my thought; the bus driver honked at me. "Are you getting on or not?". Thank god, the bus driver honked at me, or else I would have missed my last bus to my town. I hopped on the bus and took a seat. Suddenly I got a call. "Hey. I found a perfect date for you. Forget about that girl, I have a really nice dude to set you up on a blind date and forget that crush of your’s." "Well, you can never forget your first love I guess. But thank you for the blind date. Text me his number."; I spoke and immediately hung up.

Visiting this town was giving me anxiety with all those flashbacks. I was depressed and just wanted to fall asleep. After a good nap thankfully I woke up at the right stop. I hurriedly ran to the exit door which was already crowded. "Jesus, bring some patience to these people.";I thought to myself.

As I walked through that door I smelled something quite unusual. I was taken aback because I got the smell of the same kind of peaches my crush, Emma had. I told myself I was going crazy after visiting my hometown but I still had hope that this was Emma.

All those flashbacks came in my head as I looked back again and again thinking if I met Emma here actually. I know I am going crazy but god I still love her and I have to go look for her. But I was a coward from the beginning so I couldn’t go look for her and just walked as all those flashbacks continued.

It was after the summer break, my senior year of high school. As I walked through the door with all the papers my homeroom teacher assigned me to distribute to all my classmates, I saw a girl walk by. My heart was going crazy as if I had seen a cute little puppy. At that moment I didn’t know I was into both guys and girls so I just thought I was jealous of her beauty.

I wish it was the first and the last time I met her. But fate had something else written for me. We met again and again. We had almost all of our classes together except for chemistry and photography. She had studied literature and economics which I learned later after approaching her. Since we had so many classes together and us running to each other constantly at the school compound, our slight smile with a nod came to "hi" and then to a great bond of friendship. My stomach still had all these butterflies but I ignored it thinking something was wrong with me.

She had a boyfriend and I don’t know why I kind of hated him for no reason. One day Emma called me. "Hey, Emma. What’s up. You normally just text me. Anything’s wrong?"; I asked but I was not really that concerned.

"Let’s have a girls’ night. Let’s go shopping and chill at my place for the night. No further questions I will be at your home in 10 minutes. Love you bye."; Emma hung up on me. Gosh, I was so messy, I still remember putting my makeup on even though I was so bad at it. Emma was all about the horrible makeup during the night. Never thought any of her laughs would have been the last one. I forgot how much of a rich spoiled kid she is until she came back to her shopping obsession. This situation only meant that she went through something that made her uncomfortable or sad or both. But I waited until I spent overnight at her house to ask her. Finally, we both were on our PJs so I asked Emma what was wrong. Her somber sound broke out as she said the words any girl in 90% of the relationship would say. "We broke up." I don’t know why but I was really happy. I just hugged her comforting her. I don’t remember if it was the drink we had in those plastic cups that were stolen or the drunk heart lost in lust. We ended up kissing and stripping. The rest of the night is a blur in my memory but the next morning we were next to each other with no clothes on. I was confused about what I was doing, I was embarrassed by this fact so I just put on my clothes and ran home. I ended my weekend thinking about what it was. I had no clue why I did that. All I could say to myself was, "I am supposed to like boys and have this lust for boys. What is wrong? Why am I not regretting what happened with Emma ." Emma and I didn’t contact each other the entire weekend. On Monday I went to school, I still had to discuss it with Emma. But when I called her in the hallway she just ignored me. I thought she didn’t hear me. I passed a note to her during class asking her if we were still cool. But she threw it away without even taking a glance at it. I was hurt. I was angry at myself thinking why I was hurt of she just ditched our friendship. It was common for me anyway. After an entire week of me trying to approach her I gave up. I lost hope for our friendship. I walked home alone with a disappointed face and it suddenly poured. I ran and took shelter until the rain stopped. I don’t know if it was fate or mere coincidence, but a homeless man was sitting beside me. He had a radio in his hand. He was listening to some kind of love broadcasting.

"Love is not something magical. You have to follow the butterflies in your stomach and instinct of your heart. You may not love her or you may not be the best fit. But if you are lonely and depressed without that one person, go for it. It’s worth a try." I don’t know why he was listening to such kind of nonsense. I would have thought such a thing but I realized what I was looking for. I thanked the homeless guy and gave him so many changes I was carrying and ran in the pouring rain to Emma’s house. I didn’t have to rehearse or anything. At that moment I knew what I was going to say. I called Emma running as I called her.

"We need to talk"; we both said as soon as she picked up the call.

"Meet me at the bus station. Let’s talk"; she said and hung up.

I ran there and saw her standing there. She looked brighter than others. And she was looking alluring and bewitching as always. I ran to her and spoke wheezily. "Look I don’t know what you feel. I like your peachy smell and I don’t know how but you smell different. This is new for me but I don’t know I was into girls too. I just realized what I feel and I wanna tell you. I freaking love you, Emma Churchill. And not even you can change my decision to like you. I may not be the best fit for you but I will not give up on you." Emma was speechless. I don’t know what her expression meant. Was she regretting, was she happy or shocked? Emma told me, "look I don’t know what you mean by that. That night was a mistake. I like only boys. We were drunk and fulled around a little bit. please stop acting as if something happened between us in school. It’s embarrassing." She ran away as I stood there watching her go. My heart ached and I wanted to go grab her hand and ask her again that she didn’t feel the same. But I was having cold feet so I stood as she ran away crossing the road. I didn’t realize it but she was running through a crowd of vehicles. And just after a blink, she was on the ground covered in blood. Her umbrella in front of me. I ran crying and screaming her name towards the dead body of my first ever love.

I never smelled anyone like her again. And I guess I wanted closure. That smell on the bus stop became the closure and this flashback hopefully becomes a nightmare. It was nice not knowing who that person with a smell like Emma. Or else I might have never had closure.

With this flashback, I already reached my apartment. I took a shower and went straight to bed and slept soundly finally, after the death of Emma. The morning came and I got ready for my date at 1 pm after a heavenly sleep until 10.

I waited for the bus as I called my blind date.

"HELLO?"; I initiated the call. "Lift your hand if your name is Ashley."; My blind date giggled as he spoke.

I awkwardly lifted my hand up in the sky and someone poked me from behind. I turned around with a confused yet angry look.

"Hey, I am your blind date. Nice to meet you. Thank god your friend gave me your photo."; A handsome man was standing in front of me. Beside him, there was Emma smiling and suddenly the man started smelling like the peaches like Emma did. I smiled to myself as Emma telepathically said, "just think of me and I will be somewhere near you."


Out in the middle of western Arizona sits a lonesome little town called Saddlesore. Founded in 1864 by a couple of prospectors looking for copper and gold, it eventually grew to a population of one hundred and ten. It consists of a general store that sells just about anything a person could need, as well as a small five-pew Baptist church that hardly anyone attends. There is also Chinese laundry and a schoolhouse. At one end of the street is the Sheriff’s office.  At the other is the most prominent building in town- The Glass Slipper Saloon. One hot and dusty August day, a man wearing a three-piece suit and a derby rides into town on a burro. His name is Stanley Miles. As he ties his minuscule beast to the hitching post, he spots a sign advertising the need for a bartender. “Looky there, Hercules, I think we found ourselves a job!” He straightens up his five foot four frame, dusts the trail dust from his clothes, and wipes the tip of his shoes on the back of his pants legs before entering the saloon.  Just as he is about to push open the swinging doors, he must step aside for a funeral procession passing through. Out of respect, he places his derby over his heart. The last person in line stops to blow his nose and wipe away tears.

“ I’m so sorry,” Miles says. “Was he a good friend of yours?” The man finishes wiping his large red nose, “He was a friend to everybody. He was the bartender.” The man snuffles, and when he sees the procession is far enough away, he races back inside the saloon and starts finishing all the drinks left on the bar. Miles approaches him and asks, “ How did the bartender die?” “Sa-Same as all the others. Shot by a st-stray(hic) bullet during a gunfight.” He then smacks his lips as he looks up and down the bar for another drink. Miles snaps his head around. “Gus, you worthless drunk, you’re gonna pay for them drinks!” Shouts the owner of the saloon. “Don’t got to! Them drinks was already-ready paid for. (hic) Gus then starts going from table to table, looking for more. The owner screws up his face and growls. Turning his attention to Miles, he looks him up and down and barks, “And who are you, stranger?” Snapping to attention, Miles replies, “I, Sir, am Stanley Miles, and my mighty stead, Hercules and I have presently arrived but a few minutes ago.” The owner squints through the saloon’s stained glass window to see the little burro tied up. Hitching his thumb in that direction, he sneers, “You mean that fat little long-eared dog out there?”                                                                         “ Hercules is a wonderful and reliable friend; we’ve traveled far together.” The owner scratches his head.  “Well, I just can’t imagine what could have lured you to come all the way out here to the hottest, dustiest, most miserable hell-hole on earth. You look more suited for a tellers box or perhaps a preacher’s box back east.” “Presently, I’m looking for work. That’s when I saw your ad in the window there.” The man stifles a laugh.

           Miles asks indignantly, “I beg your pardon, but are you the proprietor by any chance?”     “Yeah, I’m Roland James Baker. And quite frankly, I don’t think you’re suited for the job. As you just witnessed, it is somewhat dangerous and demanding. “Did the Sheriff arrest the man that did it? Miles asked.                                                     Gus snorts, “Twas the Sheriff that done shot him. The man the Sheriff was playing poker with said he-he was cheating! (hic) That’s wh-when the gun fi-fi-fight started. The Sheriff took a p-p-potshot at the guy but missed and(hic) shot the bartender.” “That’s right,” confirms Baker. “ When those boys come back from Boot Hill and take a look at you, well, let’s just say I see no need to remove the ad from the window.” “If you feel that way, why not test me?” “Alright, I will. Go grab Gus over there and throw him out of here by the set of his pants.” Miles approaches Gus and politely asks him to leave. Gus ignores him. Baker shouts, “I said to throw him out. You’re not a waiter at some tea party!”  Miles nods and rubs his hands together in preparation to grab Gus. But as intoxicated as Gus is, he still manages to artfully dodge every attempt. “Whatcha doing? Leave me alone! Get away from me!” Gus complains and pushes Miles so hard in the chest as to send him flying across the saloon floor, where he lands at Baker’s feet. Baker looks down at Miles and says only one word, “Pitiful.” Miles scrambles to his feet, “Let me have one more try.” Turning, he calls to Gus sweetly, “Oh, Gus, would you come here, please?” Gus squints suspiciously at Miles through red and watery eyes. “What you want now?” “I just what to talk with you for a moment.” Miles crooks his finger repeatedly, “Come.” Gus staggers over and stops in front of Miles, swaying slightly. “Would you be so kind as to bend down further?” Gus adopts a foolish grin and bends down to Miles’ level. Miles hits Gus with a mighty uppercut with no warning whatsoever, knocking the unsuspecting drunk out cold. He then grabs Gus’s collar, drags him into the street, and leaves him in the dirt. Miles returns, dusting his hand together, “Well? Is that more of what you had in mind?” Satisfied, Baker nobs his head. “You got a place to stay?” Miles shakes his head no. “Alright, then. You can use the room behind the bar. Your job is to serve drinks, keep the money in the cash drawer safe, and wash the dirty glasses. I’ll give you the room and all the pickled eggs and sandwiches you can eat.” “What about pay?” What about it?’

“Do I get any?” “No. But you can keep all the tips you’ll be getting from serving drinks.” Baker smiles to himself because he knows that these boys don’t tip. “You’ll be on your own, so, what do say, is it a deal?” “Deal!” Miles smiles.

… Miles fetches Hercules and brings him around back to the stable. He puts him in a small stall in the back and gives him hay and water. Then, untieing his saddlebags and he enters the saloon through the back door. Walking down the hall, he comes to a storage room that would be his living quarters. After Miles unpacks, he finds a green visor, some arm garters, and a white apron that comes down to his ankles. He returns to the front of the saloon and takes his place behind the bar just as the men return from the funeral. Big Mac Maclaughlin, who stands six foot seven, approaches the bar and, looking this way and that, yells to Baker, “Say, RJ. When I seen the sign was gone, I thought maybe you had hired a new bartender. So, how come I don’t see one?” Standing directly in front of Big Mac, Miles looks up and clears his throat. Big Mac’s eyes grow wide, and his mouth drops open. “RJ! You hiring kids now? Aw, that ain’t right!” Miles reaches under the bar, grabs a sizeable wooden mallet, crooks his finger, and calls Big Mac closer. When Mac leans down, Miles smashes his head with the mallet, dropping him to the floor. “A little respect, if you please!” Miles shouts. Then looking up, he observes six pistols pointing at him. Miles glares at the men and barks, “What?” Confused, the men start mumbling to one another. “What does he mean “what”? Does he expect us to answer? Answer what? Right! Giving up, the men return their guns to their holsters and order drinks. Things are going well for Miles until one day toward the end of October when a man comes rushing in, all excited. “Barkeep! Three shots of whiskey, I’m in a terrible hurry!” Miles pours the three drinks without spilling a drop. “So, why in such a rush?” “Don’t cha know? It’s starting to snow in the mountains, and the prospector Mean Moses Malone will be heading down soon. He’s the meanest, nastiest, most horrible man in the world! Mean Moses hates all people or any manner of civilization there is. He has destroyed entire towns in a night! And the thing Mean Moses Malone hates the most is bartenders.”  Miles’s jaw drops. “Bartenders? Why bartenders of all people?” “Don’t know,” says the stranger while grabbing the bottle off the bar. “Bye.” Miles watches him run into the street, yelling, “Mean Moses Malone is coming! Run for your lives!” Immediately the saloon empties. Baker comes up behind Miles and puts his hand on Miles’s shoulder to comfort him. “Don’t pay no mind to that fella. He’s just trying to scare you.” “Then why did everyone else leave so suddenly?” “Can’t say. Maybe there’s a church meeting tonight or something.” Miles stares at Baker dubiously. “Bye the way, I may have forgotten to tell you, but I’ll be away until the end of the month visiting my sick aunt in Tucson. I expect you to be here when I get back!”  Baker leaves, and Miles looks out through the swinging doors. The town is empty, with nothing but the wind blowing dust and tumbleweeds down the street. The next day Miles is alone in the bar when he hears the sound of thundering hooves beating a path toward the saloon. He runs to the front window and looks out and sees a mountain of a man riding a wild buffalo while cracking two rattlesnakes like bullwhips! Instead of tying it up, he reins the buffalo into a skidding stop and punches it in the jaw, knocking it out. Pointing at it, he commands, “Stay!”                                                                                Miles races back to the bar and ducks down. The colossal man kicks in the swinging doors, knocking one off its hinges. Miles feels the floorboards rattle with each step the man takes. Peering over the edge of his apron, Miles sees thick fingers grab the top of the mahogany bar and tip it away. The giant looks down at Miles and roars, “WHISKEY!” Miles grabs the stepstool and reaches for the best bottle of whiskey in the house. Swallowing hard, Miles hands it to him. Miles watches in awe, for the giant doesn’t pull the cork out with his teeth but bites the glass neck from the bottle and spits it out! The brute drains the entire bottle in one gulp. Then the man turns to leave without paying! Miles grips the bar in an attempt to quell his knocking knees. “Hey!” His voice cracks. “Just a minute! You can’t just come in here and drink up all my whiskey and not pay! That’s stealing!”  The man turns and slams the bar with his fist so hard you can hear the wood split. “I ain’t got no money.” “Then you shouldn’t have drunk my whiskey!” Miles squeaks. “You know what I think? I think of how disappointed your poor sainted mother must be seeing you act like this.” “She was a whore.” This somewhat stymies Miles, but he pushes on. “Well, despite that, she was still your mother. A mother who loved her little baby boy.  Who scrapped by trying to make a living at any cost and devoted all her efforts to see that you had a better life than she did. You were her hope and dream for a better future, but look what you’ve done to those hopes and dreams.” The whiskey is starting to kick in, and the mammoth of a man is feeling sentimental. As a tear escapes his eye, he whispers in a low and quavering voice, “I miss my Mommy.” Miles sees he has gained the upper hand and strikes home. “It’s not too late !” his voice rises in a crescendo. “You can change your ways and make your mother proud of you again. She can hold her head up and say, “That’s my Boy ! Then in time, people will stop calling you Mean Moses Malone and call you friend instead.” The man’s head springs up, “What’d you just call me?” He whirls around and looks out the single-hanging swinging door to the street beyond. When he turns back to Miles, Miles can see his eyes are full of terror. “I almost forgot! I have to get out of here!  Mean Moses Malone will be here any minute!” Miles’s eyes roll up into his head as he collapses to the floor.


I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. “I can do this,” I said out loud. I can say goodbye. I’m only going to a different country. 5031 miles, to be precise. No biggie. And leaving behind my friends, home, the comfort of growing up in a place and knowing it is, in some way, your’s? No big deal. I walked up to Alrys. “Hey,” I said. I hid my fidgeting fingers behind my back. “Hi, Isabelle!” she replied. She always called me by my full name, even though everyone else, including my parents, call me Izzy. “What’s up?” “Nothing,” I lied. I wish it was nothing. “Um, so I have something to tell you.” Alrys slung her phone in her back pocket, where it performed some sort of gravitational miracle and balanced precariously there. “Yeah?” I can do this, I reminded myself. “I, uh, have something to tell you,” I mumbled, half-hoping that she wouldn’t hear me.

“Oh?” Her interest is piqued. I wondered if that were good or bad. In a normal situation, it would be good, of course. I loved Alrys as much as I loved myself, if not more. She was the sun to my moon, forever shining and eternally beloved in life. Her’s was worth much more than mine. Everyone expected great things from Alrys- cancer cures, shuttling off into space, ruling a country and leading it to glory- these were all possible roles she would play, as discussed by adults. Only I knew the effort it took to maintain a pleasing smile even as anxiety tore at it, the worry that gnawed at her when she got a less-than-perfect grade, the strain of having to constantly appear all-knowing. “I-” I began, only to be interrupted by Mia barreling into Alrys. “Alrys!” she gasped, almost falling over herself in an effort to get the words out of her mouth. “Alrys! Diana fell from the monkey bars and now her leg’s broken!” Alrys took three deep breaths, calming herself down. “Is there blood?”

“No.” “A bit of bone sticking out?” “No.” “A clean break, then,” she said to herself. “Tell the teacher,” she commanded to Mia. She ran off. I followed Alrys, hoping that all this would blow over soon and I would be free to make my statement. Alrys had calmed Diana down by the time Mia had returned with Mrs Hemmingway and an ambulance. As Diana was loaded up, she even looked distinctly cheerful. “Alrys reminded me that I could pick the colour of my cast,” she told me as the ambulance women strapped her leg in. “And that I can have people drawing on my leg. Well, my cast.”

That’s Alrys, I thought fondly. She always knows the right thing to do. “Alrys,” I whispered at Math. She didn’t look up but nodded at her math book, which I knew was a sign. As I opened my mouth, our math teacher, Mrs Langford, called, “Everyone focus, now! This is very important for your exams!” And the moment was lost. “Hey,” I said at break, the same time as Mike blurted, “I need help with my homework!” Alrys just couldn’t say no- it went against her very nature. She went off, pored over the maths books, gently explaining everything while Mike nodded intently. She returned just as the bell rang, signalling the end of break. “Um,” I began at lunch as a five-year-old sobbed into Alrys skirt about her mother’s passing. She scooped Michelle up and cradled her in her arms, murmuring words of comfort. Michelle didn’t look much better at the end, but at least she had stopped crying. The only sign that she had been was her dark, spiked eyelashes and tear-tracks, cutting a swathe through her cheeks. “So, Alrys,” I started at the bus stop where we waited for her’s to come.

“Oh! Yeah, you were about to tell me something?” she remembered. “Sorry. I don’t know why I’m so busy today- I don’t even have any time for my best friend!” She smiled at me. People argue over whether pen or swords is more powerful, but I disagree with both. Alrys’s smile is the most powerful- enchanting as a fairie’s promise, warm as a blanket on a winter’s day. “It’s just that- uh, I don’t know how to put this,” I said. I almost backed out. I wiped my palms on my school skirt. It didn’t do much to help the liquid pouring out of my pores.

“Oh, Isabelle, I’m so sorry,” she interrupted apologetically, “but my bus is here. I gotta go. Tell me tomorrow?” I nodded, the worry in my stomach dissipating. For now. “Yeah. Tell you tomorrow.” When tomorrow’s morning dawned, it seemed the wrong type of day for my news. It was sunny, the type of day that inspired couch potatoes like me to go out for a walk in the crisply cool spring air. Lost in thought, I pulled on my uniform and ate my breakfast, relying on muscle memory. Then I began my walk to school. Each step I took sent another swirl of nausea in my stomach. When I reached there, the school was abuzz. I pushed my way to the front. My eyes widened. In front of me was the teachers, sobbing into their colleagues’ shoulders. "What? What happened?" I asked, bewildered. One of my classmates- Lila- turned to me. "Don't you know?" she replied. Tears were flowing freely down her cheeks and she made no attempt to brush them away. "Alrys died last night. A car crashed exactly where she was sitting on the bus. And no one else was hurt, because, you know, the bus she rides in is usually pretty empty. The bus driver was cut badly, but he'll live." I staggered back in shock, hands flying to my mouth. I expect tears, inconsolable grief, an Alrys shaped hole in my heart. Instead, there is grief at the loss the world just suffered, and happiness that we would be united, this time forever. After all, the trip? It was not just 5031 miles; it was hope.

Hope my parents held that my stage four cancer could be cured with better machinery. How ironic that I hope for the opposite.


The metal grid of a spring frame is the first thing I see when I wake up; it rests along the wall that my mattress is laid on the floor in front of. My new mattress is a dream but it’s too big for my trundle -I don’t have a storage unit and so that’s just what my room has become. Funny, I’ve been here before; I actually have taken naps in a storage unit I rented when I didn’t yet have a place to room in. By the grace of some God, I had a friend that loaned his van to me while he was out of town. I would drive around aimlessly, piecing together remnants of a past social life to live in just to have a way to kill time before my next life move presented itself. I wish I could say I was seeking career opportunities or creative ventures to determine the stepping stones for my new move. Unfortunately I had tunnel vision on finding a lover, my ideal life move at the time was to move in with somebody and make a plan about what life we would create together. Sometimes I would get sleepy in the hot day. My storage unit was air conditioned and a lot quieter than parking lots. Unfortunately I learned that it wasn’t a perfect solution- my naps were timed since I would wake up struggling for air as the unit was pretty full and small to begin with. I positioned myself as close to the crack under the door as possible. I had a cell, a literal cell in a metaphorical prison. So you see the grid is like a jail cell, like a repetitive cosmic joke so thick it presents itself almost literally right before me as an incessant reminder that perhaps there’s no escape; because in both cases I created it and how do you escape yourself? I could decide to put it out on the street but I’m holding on to the idea that this far into my life I wouldn’t have to throw something I want away just because I live in a shoe box. I have fantasies of having a house and having my fancy brass scroll trundle as a guest bed. It’s a small dream but if I get rid of every little dream like swimming in an ocean storm and removing heavy jewelry off of me to be lighter, then I’d have to admit I’m desperately staying afloat and that’s unacceptable at this age. I rolled over on my twin mattress to meet another unpleasant haunting-time, 10:53am. I have nowhere to be and nothing to do but I am jobless and I can’t live in assisted living forever so I muster the strength to get out of bed. Something about starting from the floor seems dolefully appropriate. I don’t bother brushing my teeth because I know how fleeting low ambition can be so I got dressed promptly and headed to the coffee shop where I can "people watch" as I apply for jobs. If you haven’t already figured, I’m in the thick of doom and gloom, the kind of depressed where you want to grab someone’s arm and tug for mercy to help you by sharing some of their happiness but thankfully my scruples are still in tack so I quietly observe like a student. My walk to Cheer Ups is already medicinal. The name gives shape and location to an emotion I’m trying to find, plus, I hadn’t realized how stale my apartment is until the outside air hit me and produced an involuntary deep breath -as though my body was waiting to detect a more suitable supply to breath. I took out my notebook and jotted down “breathing”. There’s often a sweet little white squirrel I call “Loops”, that lives in one of the trees lining the sidewalk, it’s always a treat to witness him circling the tree elated and fluffing his tail about but he’s not there; Instead, a lady tends a wheeled rack that she’s selling simple cloth bags off of. She’s sitting on a blanket sewing them in real time. That, was more impressive than the finished product. I viewed the whole scene more as performance art of her story but I do hope someone buys some. I suddenly realize that I’m having a positive thought for someone else. Perhaps I relate to her, I sense desperation in that act but she’s doing something about it and that’s admirable. I jotted down “well wishes for others”. The smell of warm roasted coffee seductively swirls the building, so intoxicating it pulls me at the waist to come inside. I jot down “sex”, immediately scratching it out to write “coffee scented candle”. I’m met with an attractive couple wearing glasses that matches in cuteness and style, I slip out of their way as he holds the door open for her and their precious bouncing baby. That stung a bit, I do some heavy math on the way to the couch, while unpacking my things I ask why did I feel a sharp visceral sadness creeping up to my eyes and how can I prevent that? I make up a mantra and jot down “let others be, what they have is not for me-Acceptance”. I recalibrate my focus to inhaling the smell of coffee and releasing that pain. To my delight I look up and Javier is smiling at his computer, he’s not even on a call, he’s genuinely smiling at spread sheets. This man is always smiling with the consistency and conviction I’ve only seen in hula dancing. Though he’s got an eye catching set of teeth and a sweet boys face, his black hair with a modest sprinkling of salt is telling that he’s probably in his early 40s. I don’t know him, we have not met but I’ve heard him introduce himself to others, that’s how I know his name and that he has a thick South American accent. I assume he moved away from his roots. I’ve never see him in here with anyone. I wonder if he’s lonely too and if so, how does he produce such a sincere smile that radiates a chain reaction in me to smile. He is a valuable stranger to me, a happiness booster like my charming albino squirrel neighbor. He re-ups me by just being. You sir, make me forget I was sad. Before I go up to order I make sure how much money I have in my cloth coin purse. Rummaging around I feel a balled up piece of masking tape that became loose, it has “Carmen” written on it in pen. I recall when I got the purse at a natural foods store, they had a section of coin bags made with a variety of patterns. The tag said Liberty and Luz and describes the makers to be a group of women from El Salvador. The shopkeeper noticed me browsing and told me a man drops them off every so often. I wondered about the fairness of the profiting hierarchy and hoped they were making as much as he was if not more. In this collection an earthy brown with subtle blue inter-weaved, stood out to me, this had my name on it too. When I read her name off the tape, my first thought was that Carmen and I both understand the beauty of brown and blue as a unit. I walked into that store on an entirely different season when new bags were put up to choose from and just like the last I was drawn to a particular pattern out of all the rest. This time, a bright white one with neon pink and blue lines with an alternating band of navy diamond shapes, I opened it and saw that it was another one of Carmen’s, we have the same taste even in different moods. The combination of reading her hand written name on the tape in addition to noting our similar style choices was like meeting a friend, it was a clue that spoke something to me about them like putting your ear to a conch shell to hear a sound from somewhere else. The name tag in the lining made me feel connected to this person and curious to know their story and how important this job is for them, side cash or complete livelihood? I kept her name in there because the illusion of this special type of invisible friend helps me feel less alone. Unfortunately, the tape is becoming worn. Before I could get up, a bright movement of light swept by the window in my periphery, Maybel- no one’s hair makes a statement quite like Maybel’s. She’s a woman in her late 50s that is of Irish descent so her hair is naturally platinum blonde and wildy voluptuous and curly, it’s blinding under the sun. My instinct was correct as she just turned a few heads stepping in through the door in her red pumps, black panty hose with the line up the middle and a red polka dotted tight white dress with a slit in the back. She even had short lace gloves and a vintage pill cap pinned on her head. She’s often an eccentric dresser but never this “to the 9’s” for a casual coffee. She seemed to be ordering something other than a drink. I went over to say hi then noticed she was more sullen than usual. She turns to me “Dotty died, I’m just getting a mincemeat pie. She would always beg me for mine. I had her turned to ash so I could bury her quickly at a spot in her favorite park.” Dotty was Maybel’s beloved dog, they’ve lived down the street from me for three years now, we chat sporadically when we see each other out. I’ve been over to her single roomed shack; it was a bit of an Alice in Wonderland trick the way she would fit into her own place, tall and thin but big hipped and with a large pit pull. She had a mini old diner style napkin dispenser in 70’s ochre. Her kitchen had an island the size of a trapper keeper, we’d drink out of thimbles and she used upright tree trunks as side tables. I can tell she was a cooley in the 90’s by the relics surrounding the place and how she’s regaled me in her personal relationships with rock musicians I’ve heard on the radio. She shared her rough beginnings about how her mother would threaten to pull and quarter her. I had my own grievances with parental abuse and it was interesting to compare cultural differences in it. As far as I know Maybel doesn’t have children or doesn’t date and is perfectly fine living alone, she makes it look cozy and safe. Of course she never felt alone with her pets, this isn’t the first dog that’s passed, it’s her life companion of choice and she’ll likely get another dog after some time and go through the motions all over again. Maybe she has the same fate as me where the right people never stuck around. Despite the tragedy in today she managing to celebrate Dotty’s life in style and not sink in a bed. She’s about 20 years older than me and I forget her age because she didn’t hang up her cutoff jeans, low snap button tanks, cowboy boots or red lipstick. Pondering the life and nature of Maybel just energized me, If I must continue down my lonely path just ask what would Maybel do to get through. I hold that thought to respond, “I’m so sorry Maybel, can I join you”? She nods yes with her periwinkle blues. “Ok, I’ll meet you at your place in an hour”. I quickly went back to the couch to pack up keeping my notebook and pencil in hand, taking one more dose of Javier’s smile with me before I head home. I pass Maybel again and give a sympathetic wave and jot down “WWMD”. Once I come to the tree where Loops is playing with another squirrel, I’m so happy to see him even for just small moments out of the day. I would have forgotten about the lady that was selling bags there earlier except a tag must have drifted off one of them and stayed behind. It says Liberty and Luz. I knew they sold in town but a man normally distributes and this time it was a lady, might it have been Carmen? As I walk home spinning inspiring possibilities about Carmen’s work ethic driven journey. It’s not lost on me that I only left my apartment a little over an hour ago with a full desire to not move from my bed until sun down but since I did I’m now wearing a smile with an excuse to get glitzed up and be of useful company to somebody. I don’t have to know what everyone is going through to know that they also experience sorrow of their own, whether crippling or light rain, hope can be produced from observing how others deal and cope and I am so grateful for that hope today. Seeing people carrying on and taking on life’s challenges with either a smile on their face or begrudged but still kicking, is impactful and motivating. There are endless components in our surroundings that we can have gratitude for. Collectively the characters in just an hour into my day demonstrated positivity, playfulness, ambition and strength that pulled me out of a funk. I now feel less alone and just as capable. As I get to the steps of my apartment I jot down “Get out, talk to other lonely people, relate”.


TW: Allusion to trauma, abuse, neglect. Most people who have been through a traumatic event, have a tendency to blame themselves at one point or another. More often than we care to count, we utter the phrase, “This is all my fault.” It reverberates through our actions and thoughts, like ripples on a pond. These ripples distort what is true, what we think is real. This is natural and, luckily, we stop taking responsibility for things beyond our control that happened to us… hopefully. What happens when there is a seemingly unending series of events that make us say, “This is all my fault.”? What we were taught is that we are undeserving of protection. When they hurt us, they not only forsook their responsibility to protect us, but also their right to protection. We searched for a fault within ourselves, coming to the conclusion that there must be something wrong with us, that we are at fault somehow. This is all my fault. What we come to believe is that we do not matter, that we just have to bear it, however heavy that burden may be. They make us believe that they can get away with anything, that the only thing we can do is keep quiet… and we do. They are undeserving of our silence, yet our agony is trapped behind tightly pursed lips. Our screams are muffled, smothered by the threat of worse things to come. We were taught to believe that we were undeserving of love. They hold all the power. They hold our very existence – past, present and future – in their hands. We have no control. They make us feel like we have relinquished all our power. This is all my fault. As we grow up, we respond in one of two ways: look for that love in all the wrong places, hoping that we are worthy; or we shut out everything and everyone, so that we do not get hurt again. When experience teaches us, is that we matter less than the ones who caused these wounds. I do not like using the word scars, because that implies a healed injury; seemingly insignificant triggers can feel like a wire brush scouring exposed flesh, reminding us of how raw that hurt still is. It is easier to think that they did not know what they were doing was wrong, but they knew… they fucking knew . Behind closed doors, hidden away from the world, they did what they wanted. We were taught that we were undeserving of being seen; we taught ourselves that it is safer to hide. No, the irony does not escape me. Why was no-one looking out for us? Did they not see that 12 year old shrink into herself whenever anyone came near? Were they so blind that they did not notice the oversized sweaters in summer, the baggy clothes in muted tones, the hypervigilance, the shallow breathing, the instinctive flinch? Did they choose not to see or were we taught to hide ourselves and our shame and our hurt from all the world? This is all my fault. The years pass; the danger slowly dissipates. What is left? A body that remembers… horrendously vivid nightmares… the reflex to recoil… aversions to all manner of things. We cannot speak their names. We cannot bear to think of looking them in the eye. The prospect of being in their presence fills us with an all-consuming dread. It feels like a shadow with claws that creeps up from your very soul, grasping at your insides, pulling you away from yourself, enveloping you… smothering you. This is all my fault. You can’t breathe; you can’t think. The wire brush is back, scrubbing away at that wound, making you feel raw and exposed. It’s like you’re back there… with them, undeserving of love, of protection, of anything good. I’m not good enough. This is all my fault. We teach ourselves to remain silent, because we think that saying its name out loud will somehow make it more real. We blame ourselves for that which we were forced to bear witness to, forced to bear . We teach ourselves that we are unworthy of being heard. They get to live their lives, free of guilt, free of shame, and somehow we are shouldered with that burden. Do they ever pay for it? Do they ever show remorse? Did we matter so little? This is all my fault. Were we even undeserving of a second thought?

We are so scared to tarnish their “good” name. We convince ourselves that we are in the wrong, because that way, we have some semblance of control, some hope of avoiding the worst of the horrors we have not yet endured. We are so scared of saying something that will get us into trouble. We are so scared of making it worse by calling them out. When they broke us, those cracks were filled with fear that would stay with us for a long time. We were too afraid to say something, too afraid to run, too afraid to question what was happening, too afraid to ask for help. This is all my fault. We were undeserving of tenderness, of love, of safety, of belonging, of life itself. As these words materialise, I feel like I am reclaiming a lot of what was taken from me. I am unlearning habits that were formed deep within my being. I put pen to paper, because they are undeserving of my silence, of protection, of being blameless. Their actions deserve to be aired, to be spoken of… not so that I may dwell on it, but that I can regain control. There is a part of myself that was subjected to so many terrors, that it felt like it had been trampled… like it had withered just a little more with each horror I had to endure. None of this is my fault, whatsoever.

I am not to blame.

That is the part I’m taking back. I am deserving of love.