"Sorry I'm late, I got here as soon as my meeting was over." Sara said "Did you get a promotion you didn't tell me about? How in the hell did you afford this thing? Jessica pointed directly at my umbrella with its distinguishable glossy blackwood handle "Haha, no not at all...Alan...gave it to me." "Alan?!" she said. "The, I'm going to go out with him once and that's all, Alan? Surely this wasn't a gift he gave you after JUST one date" "Actually, we have been out 4 times, he saw the umbrella I had and thought I would be safer with this one" "Remember when I got us matching umbrellas, we are supposed to be besties" Jessica said. "We ARE besties, but using umbrellas that you got during a 2 for 1 sale probably isn't the best thing to use, especially with how windy it has been lately." You can look around the cafe and notice each table has a cubby for an umbrella. Although it doesn't particularly rain a lot in our city, everyone walks around outside with an umbrella. It isn't for protection from the sun either, it is to protect us from the above. There have been mysterious disappearances that started happening in our city a few months ago. The disappearances seemed random at first, but investigators noticed a trend in all the cases; they all happened when the victim was alone, in broad daylight, and in direct view of the sky. No one is going to travel in a group all the time, so using an umbrella has become a part of everyday life. "Anyway, you didn't invite me here to talk about umbrellas or about Alan, what's on your mind?" Sara said with a concerning look on her face. "The company I am with is throwing a celebration party tonight at 9 and everyone is expected to go...I...am too shy for this kind of thing." "Shy? You aren't shy around me, you are definitely the outgoing one between the two of us." "But that is only because we have known each other for so long, it is hard for me to open up and let loose around complete strangers." "But they aren't strangers, these are people you work with." "I don't see these people outside of work, I largely keep to myself unless we are working on a group project. I am trying to figure a way to get out of it." "You said yourself you want to try new experiences and you got one right in front of you, you are definitely going." "Oh my, look who is being the more outgoing and aggressive one now. You got that fancy umbrella and now you have this new bravado about you." "Hahaha, you might be right. Maybe that little bit of confidence came from this thing" Here, take it with you." "I can't take a gift someone gave you." "You aren't taking it, you are borrowing it. We will swap back the next time I see you." "Thank you for being, you, Sara." "Just show them the side of Jessica I get to see all the time." "You are so fucking adorable, no wonder Alan is falling for you." "Shut up!" Sara said as she tried to cover up the redness in her face. "Let's go ahead and order so we can catch up before you head to the party." We talk for what seems like hours... "Shit!" Sara said. "It is 8:50, how far away is your party?" "It's about 10 minutes away...damn it I got to run!" "Have fun." Sara said. As Jessica bolts towards the door she stops abruptly to turn around and give Sara a huge hug. "Tell me all about it tomorrow, ok" Sara said with an excited look on her face. "You bet, thanks again." Sara goes back to the table they were sitting at to realize they were the last customers in the cafe. Sara was still eating a pastry she ordered that has long since gone cold after being engrossed in deep conversation with Jessica. "Miss, I just wanted to let you know that we close at 9" one of the workers said that was wiping down the remaining tables. "I know" Sara said "I was just finishing my pastry." "You got an umbrella?" said the worker "We have spares we keep just in case" Sara holds up the umbrella she traded with Jessica "I have one" she said Sara finishes her pastry and places the dish on the counter close to the kitchen before making her way out the front door. With umbrella in hand she notices the lights to the cafe turn off to match the rest of the city. There is a lights off policy at 9pm to help protect the homeless and anyone else that might find themselves without an umbrella at this hour. Street light use has been suspended indefinitely as well once disappearances also start happening at night. Her apartment building is only a few blocks away so she won't be outside for very long. The streets are empty and the wind is starting to pick up. There are conspiracies that "the above" are causing the increase in wind since more people are shielding themselves with umbrellas. There was light rain outside when Jessica made her way out of the cafe so seeing the accompanying wind wasn't all that surprising. Sara has only made it a few steps from the cafe when a strong gust of wind makes her clutch her umbrella tightly with both hands... *Snap!* The metal stretcher on the underside of the umbrella had snapped and the canopy was dangling in wind. "Oh no." Sara said in a crackly voice. In a panic, she presses as tightly against the restaurant wall as possible in hopes that the slight overhang of the building will provide her protection from the sky. She breathes heavier and heavier with each passing moment, she has never been without an umbrella before, her hands begin to shake uncontrollably. She reaches in her purse to grab her phone, almost dropping it because of the slipperiness from the rain and the uncontrollable shakiness that has taken over her entire body. She crouches down with her phone tucked as close to her chest as possible to not have the light from the screen linger in the darkness. She calls Jessica, but there is no answer. The party is well underway so she probably isn't paying attention to her phone. With her best friend not available, she calls Alan. "Alan! I'm in trouble can-" "In trouble!? What do you mean in trouble?" "My umbrella broke...*sniff*...and all the places around me are closed...I don't know what to do...i'm panicking" Sara starts sobbing uncontrollably to Alan "It broke, but I just got you a new-" "I let Jessica... *sniff*... borrow it when I saw her earlier...i'm sorry" "You have nothing to be sorry for, just try to calm down Sara, what building were you two in?" *sniff* "the Little Coffee Bean" "That's on the corner of 27th St and 6th Avenue, I'm on the way, avoid any lights you may see you understand?" Sara's breathing is starting to slow back down and her shaking is more reserved "Yeah...I understand" "When I turn on the road you are on, I will turn my headlights off in the distance, that is how you'll know it's me" "Ok...ok...thank you Alan" "See you soon" *click* Sara put the phone back in her purse and clanged as flat to the wall as possible. She held her head down to shield her face from the rain and to distract herself from the sky. A few minutes have passed and the rain is really pouring in now, but that gust of wind that broke her umbrella ceased to be. She started to think about those conspiracies she read about, but her thoughts were distracted by a faint light. There is a car in the distance with their headlights on. "I can't tell if that is Alan." she said to herself. "He said he would turn his lights off once he was on the same road as me." The car drives closer towards her and her anxiety starts to resurface. Her body starts to shake again as the vehicle gets closer and closer. "This isn't Alan..." Her legs spring to life and she starts running down the opposite street to avoid the oncoming lights Her body is being propelled by fear as she continues to run as hard as she possibly can She looks back to see if that car turned down the same road she was on when a faint glow illuminates the left side of her face...she ran into the path of an oncoming car... In an instant, she was slung into the dark sky above. All she can see is a small light that gets dimmer and dimmer, until it eventually disappears... The vehicle turns off its headlights as it drives down 6th Avenue, slowly creeping down the street looking for any faint signs of moment. It eventually stops at a store that has long since closed. "I don't see her..." Alan says to himself "Let me call her back." *Ring*... *Ring*... *Ring*... *Ring*... Alan looking down at his phone from the safety of his vehicle in a confusing and concerning daze, wondering where she is. He leans back and takes a deep breath "Sara, where are you?" "Hi, this is Sara, sorry I am unable to take your call-" *click* Alan averts his eyes away from his phone to see a small glimmer of light in his rearview mirror that goes dim the moment it catches his eye. Alan is terrified... "No" "I am just imagining things" He calls Sara back, a second later, that same glimmer of light reawakens in the distance.


The pages scattered across the floor and he dropped to his knees, gathering them up. The woman behind the desk was shouting at him, shouting something he wasn’t really listening to. It was just another rejection. Just something else to weigh on his mind tonight. He stood, clutching the paper to his chest and thanked the woman for her time and stumbled out. Her assistant gave him a pitying look and his face burned with embarrassment. It was bad enough that he was being rejected, he didn’t need to be pitied as well. The bench at the bus stop was cold as he sat, but there was nothing more comfortable around. He just wanted to get home before the rain started. He could see the grey clouds building quickly. Around the corner rumbled the bus, jerking to a stop before him. He paid his fee and found a seat, shuffling the paper in his lap to put it back in order. Some of the pages had been crumpled and he smoothed them out as best he could. She didn’t have to be so mean, he thought to himself. A simple ‘no thank you’ would have been far more than enough for him to leave her office. Throwing the pages at him was nothing more than smug dismissal. The bus creaked to a halt at his stop and he shuffled off. As soon as the door closed behind him, a wet drop hit his shoulder. He glanced at it and then at the sky. Of course it began to rain as soon as he was out of shelter. He would have to run. By the time he reached his door, water had soaked through his clothes. The pages were wet under his shirt where he had tucked them. The ink had run and smeared across his skin. He kicked the door shut behind him and sat, arms wrapped around his knees as he stared at the sodden pages. Another failure. He’d even ruined the pages. Of course, they were too crumpled to take to another meeting. He sighed and pulled himself from the floor. The pages were laid over his bench to dry, a pathetic attempt at saving the paper, though he could already see how it had gone rough and fluffy from wet and friction. He crawled into bed, burying himself in his disappointment. The night passed and morning came, with a hungry belly waking him. Pulling on clothes and muttering to himself, he shuffled into the kitchen. The sheets of paper he had left on the bench were gone. Instead he found a box, filled to the brim with folded paper flowers. He picked up one, reading the text on one of the petals and realised it was a line from one of his rejected poems. “I thought you might need a pick-me-up.” His sister was holding a cake, smiling at him brightly. “I heard you come back yesterday, but you didn’t come in to tell me how it went.” He stumbled to her, setting aside the cake and leaned his head on her shoulder. Her arms went around him, rubbing his back softly and he began to cry. She held him tight, whispering soft words of love and encouragement until he stopped crying.


As it turns out, leaving was the easy part. When my not exactly beloved husband confided that he was going to take the considerable funds the Vatican had endowed him with to go and slay the heretics in Protestant Europe (in God’s Holy name, of course), I agreed to follow him into hiding in Italy for a lack of better options for myself.

When I asked him about the undoubtedly elaborated ruse he’d devised to sneak me off the estate, he burst out laughing and took several long and deliberate moments to compose himself. “Are you serious?” he gasped with what I felt was an unnecessary and impolite amount of mirth.

‘It’ll take them days, if not weeks to realize you’re even gone! We'll probably be well settled in Italy before anyone even thinks to check your chambers for signs of life.” He wiped his eyes and took a long sip of his wine. Even as the wife of a dashing knight off to slay the heretics, my standing in our household and the kingdom ranked somewhere below the dogs and (possibly) above the hogs. And so it was that I found myself on the open road with my renegade knight, traveling under the cover of darkness to some mysterious underground world in Italy that he had yet to fully explain to me. That's how I came to make the acquaintance of Father Ferro, one of the first fellow refugees and purest souls I’d meet on our adventure. As a young cleric, Father Ferro had displayed the type of blind idealism and bottomless empathy that had made him both a joke and something of a subtle threat among his fellow Jesuits. Unlike the vast majority of his brothers in the Church and members of the flock, Father Ferro saw love, peace, and joy as the deep heart of the Gospel - where the rest saw war, violence, and conquest. Father Ferro, bless his poor misguided soul, was a true believer.

His unwavering faith, and unwillingness to "just shut the fuck up about it" as his Bishop had informed him, was the catalyst for a cosmic chain of events that had put us together in an errant fugitive camp in search for safety and freedom in Italy.

Father Ferro’s problems started when he decided to speak up and suggest what he thought was an obvious solution to the ongoing bloodshed between the Catholics and Protestants. “So what you’re saying is that we should just be cowards and let the heretics win?,” his superiors had roared when he opined that retaliatory murder was probably not what Jesus had in mind when he asked us to turn the other cheek. He’d had the sense to bring it up at the weekly card game, wrongly assuming that the wine and Church sanctioned usury and money changing might have softened their spirits towards a gentler view of their neighbors and fellow Christians (even if they were “sour faced Germanic fucking blasphemers.")

But before Father Ferro could ask for penance and live to preach his heresy to another congregation of God’s bloodthirsty little lambs, he found himself on a ship bound for the New World. “He’ll be perfect among the savages,” the Cardinal laughed, “they won’t understand a word that comes out of his mouth!” As Father Ferro quietly told me his story over the campfire that first night, I struggled to imagine how such a gentle and earnest soul had managed to survive the wrath of the Church, let alone the New World. He had the soft, delicate voice of a healer and deep, warm brown eyes that suggested they had once brimmed with light and joy which had since been snuffed out by sadness and terror.

“The truth is I wanted to go to the New World,” he said, shyly taking a sip as I passed him my jug of wine. “I saw it as a fresh start, and a real opportunity to spread the Gospel in its truest form.”

As a boy in Portugal, Father Ferro’s young soul had been consumed by two things: fishing and the Bible. He saw himself as a fisher of men, a humble apostle modeled in the image of our Lord himself. Poor bastard. I instantly knew that his story wasn’t going to end well.

Despite a difficult journey, full of stormy seas and darkness which Father Ferro obediently and joyfully accepted as an obligatory passage through Purgatory (of course), his Faith and obedience was confirmed when he first set eyes on the shores of the New World - nothing short of paradise on Earth, the manifestation of God’s master design and love for His people. However his shipmates and fellow clergymen saw it differently of course. Despite the fact that what little of what I’d heard about the New World suggested that the heathens possessed mathematical, design, and construction skills far superior to our own, the pilgrims saw such inexplicable (to them) technological and cultural advancements as a sign that the New Worlders were surely in cahoots with the devil. But even Father Ferro’s idealism had its limits, and he soon came to realize that his vision of a community of believers sitting together at one table breaking bread and wine as equals in Christ, was not in line with his companions' own ideas about their place in this new land. Father Ferro didn’t view his role so much as a conqueror, but more as a humble teacher, willing and eager to welcome his new brothers and sisters to the faith just as Jesus Himself had done when he broke bread with the whores and tax collectors.

Sickened to his soul by what he was witnessing, Father Ferro took to the shore one afternoon to take a walk to pray and be alone with God to gather his thoughts. He found a spot by the sea where the shade of the strange new world trees were punctuated by angles of sunlight, giving the water a glistening, celestial effect. He took out his precious rosary beads, which were as priceless in sentimental value as they were in worldly value. They were made from precious antique pearls, a gift from his beloved grandmother and the only person who hadn’t treated him with contempt and slit eyed suspicion when he’d shown more interest in prayer and women’s jewelry as a boy than in boyhood games of war and domestic violence. (What Father Ferro didn’t know was that the only reason he’d been admitted to the priesthood in the first place was because his beloved grandmother had struck a quiet deal with the parish to bequeath her impressive jewelry collection, which was rumored to include a few royal gifts, on the condition that they accept her Francisco and allow him to keep his pearls).

Caught up in a state of near rapture at the memory of his beloved grandmother and the feel of the beads through his fingers and the familiar words of the Rosary on his lips, Father Ferro failed to notice the arrival of a young native man who stood and watched him with what looked like amusement (though the knuckles on the hand grasping his spear were white with anticipation). Father Ferro jumped up and brushed the sand from his frock, bending to pick up his beads in a swift movement that the boy must have mistaken for a bow. Father Ferro held out the beads as something of a symbolic peace offering, hoping for the Virgin Mother’s intercession on behalf of himself and his new friend.

The boy reached out for the beads and ran them through his fingers with clear admiration (in addition to building complex cities the “savages” were also expert craftspeople with a keen eye for finery.) He handed the beads back to Father Ferro and motioned for him to follow him. He told me that he felt great shame for the instant of panic that consumed him as he considered that the boy might harm him. But as our Savior entered the leper colony, so too would he, Father Francisco Ferro, a mere servant of God. The boy led him to what looked like a massive outdoor banquet, the likes of which Father Ferro had never seen back on the continent. Men, women, children, old, young, and in between were celebrating together, without obvious demarcations of rank, wealth, or status. Some eyed Father Ferro warily, but he felt no malice or danger.

The boy held out his hand for the rosary and showed it to a poised older woman wearing several elaborate pieces of her own. They passed the rosary beads around, shaking their heads with what Father Ferro interpreted as admiration. He couldn’t believe his luck!

This could be nothing but divine intervention, a sign that the table of God’s banquet was set here on earth and open to all of them, Christian and heathen alike! At this point in the story, Father Ferro’s demeanor changed and he took a deeper sip of the wine, without bothering to apologize or feign temperance. He handed it back to me and stared into the fire, as if the next part of the story was dancing inside the flames. “That’s when they presented me with the gift,” he said, his voice cracking as if he was choking back tears. “They call it cacao, an almost mystical type of bean plant for its value as both a delicacy and a form of currency they used to trade. It was unbelievable! Some pieces were carved into exquisite mini artworks, while it was also drank as a dark and creamy nectar. It was the closest I’ve ever come to witnessing alchemy firsthand." He crossed himself for good measure. “But I knew that God led me to my new friends for a reason, and the cacao was a gift, and as such accepting it as their humble servant was a sign of respect." He took another long sip of wine. "And that’s when the first wave of torches appeared.” Father Ferro broke down in tears, and it took great patience and more wine to coax the rest of the story out of him. Unbeknownst to him, the Jesuits were having him followed for evidence that his loyalties did not lie with the Crown (heavenly or otherwise).

Father Ferro was charged with “fraternization with heathens” and immediately arrested. His new friends appeared confused at first, and barely had time to run as Father Ferro was dragged away and the torches began to burn everything in their path. He was dragged back to their camp through a wave of black smoke, and eventually put back on the ship back to Spain, where he would undoubtedly face a smoky and fiery death of his own. (The irony of what was probably the only two actual virgins in our camp being sent into exile for fraternization and fornication wasn’t lost on me, but I decided to keep that to myself.) Tossed below deck like a common criminal, Father Ferro told me that he cried so hard and so long that he thought he’d flood and sink the ship with his own tears.

He had actually believed for a moment that he and his new friends had found the recipe for utopia in the New World, bringing the peace, joy, and brotherly love of the Gospel to life with a pair of rosary beads and an exotic sweet liquid bean plant that could also be used as money.

He had touched it; he had tasted it. He was so lost in his grief and consumed by longing that he swore he could actually smell the cacao. How could something so sweet, so unifying, be “tokens of the devil’s currency” as his accusers had called it? How could his soul "already be in hell” simply by touching and tasting the cacao? After a short and fitful sleep, Father Ferro woke up to find that the smell of cacao was stronger than before. That’s when he noticed a wide crack between two of the wooden slats in the floor where some hungry rats had attempted to fill their bloated stomachs. He peeked through the slats and couldn’t believe his eyes. Hundreds if not thousands of cases of the cacao stacked three and four deep! It seemed the “devil’s currency” was not too evil or corrupting to be relieved from its rightful owners and put onto the ship for passage back to Spain. Or maybe they were just transporting the evidence back for Father Ferro’s trial? I took a very long gulp of wine and silently passed the jug back to my new friend.


May, 1838 My Darling Geoffrey, It is my hope,

my fervent wish to finally be off,

heading to you at last. The eternal waiting for cargo is finally over with notice that our ship will be transporting granite from Maine for the completion of the Treasury Department building in Washington.

It would seem a very important cargo so the ship will be well fitted out and equipped with the latest sea going innovations.

The time and schedule is being sternly met so barring weather complications,

it should be a swift journey as sea voyages go. I have been packed for days after carefully shopping for and

deciding on dresses and bonnets that

I hope will please you.

You do know, of course, that my happiness depends totally on pleasing you!

You my darling are what fills my mind on these long days of waiting.

I walk the avenues and pace the gardens wishing time to fly by but time is what it is I’m afraid. A week from tomorrow in the pre-dawn hours a carriage will arrive to take me to the ship.

I understand the docks can be a rude place with all kinds of coarse creatures but I so long to see you and this very longing is my courage to do this thing.

My cousin Alma will never leave my side as our journey begins.

She will travel with me to Washington where she will disembark for a long visit with her parents and I will continue my journey alone but very well chaperoned with the captain making me welcome at his table and with his party each evening. Do you remember my telling you about the excitement and pride I felt on my graduation from college?

I thought I could never be more excited than the day I graduated from the Boston Female Medical School but now I think with building excitement of walking on your arm, as your wife,

as you show me and teach me all about Charlotte.

My dearest you are my heart’s very wish,

forever and ever! I do so long for and anticipate your face, your very person there at dockside as my ship arrives.

If I were a silly silly thing I might say I would swoon but I am not a silly silly thing but a woman in love. It will be a long voyage but I will write a letter to you every few days of my thoughts and how I see us together.

How I imagine our life will be!

It will make a nice tidy bundle tied up in red ribbon, for you to read on my arrival.

Love Letters From A Sea Voyage.

With intense affection, Henrietta ~~~~ Geoffrey has read and reread the only letter to arrive.

In his heart he hopes that Henrietta is as sincere and loving as she sounds.

Their engagement was very short in actual time before the need for him to travel ahead to prepare and establish a life for them as man and wife.

All has progressed nicely. He found a large stately house with extensive gardens close enough to the hustle and bustle of Charlotte city life to participate in Charlotte society but far enough from the hustle and bustle for a private time of learning about each other.

He had a true wish for them to love as a couple in every way.

He wanted a family,

sons and daughters and the comfortable life he thought Charlotte may provide.

His offices stood apart from the actual workings of the dock.

The offices were on a hillside with a view of the ocean, not far from the docks where the real business took place but in a much more genteel setting.

He imported silks and woven rugs,

fine wine and furnishings for the fine homes in Charlotte.

From this vantage point he would get the first glimpse of Henrietta’s ship as it makes it’s approach to Charlotte.

The days are passing rather quickly and he has reports from business associates and agents along the route.

He is becoming more and more nervous but really, it isn’t nerves, it is profound anticipation!

He stands at his large windows looking out to sea, his thoughts are so far away.

He has wanted to be settled for some time but it took time to build an enterprise that would support the family he imagined in his dreams.

Beautiful wife, well behaved intelligent children,

all involved in the love and harmony of family.

Now in a few days, the beginning of his dream. On the morning of Henrietta’s arrival,

he has gone over his check list dozens of times.

He again stands before the large windows,

the ship should arrive by mid morning, all is at the ready. Going to the office door, he waves for his secretary and his secretary’s secretary to please attend him.

Once in the office he begins to itemize for them, all of the preparations and then he stares at them both.

He has begun with carriage,

and goes through the whole list.

“Well?”

“What have I forgotten.” His secretary,

Mr. Andrews looks blank but Mr. Andrews secretary, Mrs. Humpreys quietly whispers….”Fresh flowers in your home.

On the tables?

Anything no matter how small that you think a woman may like,

mostly that you took the time to think about her pleasure.”

“If you would like,

I can see to it.”

“Call at your home and see if the staff is prepared.”

 And with that the day is ready except for him ….be on time...smile….appreciate her…..and I know I will.

I have wanted this for so long. Messages are flying in from agents along the route and at last, tiny as a speck the sails become visible!

The ship is under full sail with favorable winds,

the distance is cut in half and soon it is possible to make out shapes of the seamen working the ship. Geoffrey goes to the dockside so she will see him and feel reassured.

He goes for himself too as he also needs to feel that this romance is real and genuine.

His Mother, rest her soul, always said..”If you want to see the real person, observe them in turmoil or crisis, a time of discomfort or confusion,

if they can remain courteous and kind, they have a good soul!” Geoffrey waits on the dockside and his heart hopes to see a courteous,

kind and beautiful woman!


It seemed to take forever to arrive at my new home. It had been a long, hot ride with no air conditioning in the cab of a pickup truck. Who makes cars without air conditioning, anyway? I slept as much as I could to keep my mind off the unbearable heat of the south. I did occasionally find myself daydreaming of my new home. I believe it had to be better than the place I had been, a large household of about 20 others living there. Don’t get me wrong: I had left behind some acquaintances and while I might miss them, I knew I was going to a better place.

We finally drove up and I saw the most beautiful house I had ever seen. It must be a mansion. There was a yard with grass and trees. I could see and hear birds, squirrels, and all the sights and sounds of nature. I could only imagine what the inside must look like.  As we walked in the door, my new roommate, Judy, pointed out the living room, bedroom, kitchen and such. This was incredible!

As I stood there taking it all in, I was taken off guard by the worst sight imaginable: Running towards me at great speed was a huge, black dog! To add insult to injury, he started licking me. I AM NOT a dog type and to me nothing was worse than the slobbering spit of a dog. YUCK! What’s worse is that this was to be MY new home. I hadn’t heard anything in the terms about a dog.

There was only one thing to do. I let Judy know that this simply would not do and we needed to remedy the situation post haste! She put the dog in the backyard, not exactly what I had in mind, but temporarily this got him out of the way. Now, it was time to discuss living quarters and the rights of each roommate. There was plenty of space and furniture so this should be easily decided. At least, that was what I thought.

It became ultimately clear over the first week that I was being treated as a guest in my own house, and not a cherished guest. There was no spirit of “Be Our Guest” as heard many times over. It seems I was stepping on a few toes. If I sat somewhere, I was told that was not allowed. Rooms were shut off from me and I was not allowed to eat as I pleased. I was offered food, but it was not what she was having. Apparently, I was there just as a warm body and not as an equal owner of this property as I had been led to believe.

Remember the dog? Oh, he was not sent away. He remained and seemed to receive better treatment than I. On top of that, Judy seemed determined that he and I needed to become friends. I tried to tell her more than once that this was not an option, but it fell on deaf ears. Obviously, this situation was not going to work out.

That night, I decided it was time to go. It shouldn’t be too hard to find my way to the road. Maybe I could get a ride somewhere and find a new place. I waited until I was sure no one would hear me and snuck out the side door. I didn’t want to have to answer any questions. Naturally, I tried to be quiet, but it seemed as if every sound was amplified 10 times! In spite of that, I made it out undetected by Judy or the dog.

I didn’t drive, so walking was my only option. I quickly made my way to the end of the street. Now what? Which way had we come in? I had no idea about the streets here.  I would just have to use my best instincts at navigating. I went this way and that, hoping to find a familiar place or something the least bit recognizable. All the houses and buildings looked the same. Cars went rushing by. No one was stopping.  I began to think it might be better if I went back to the house and would try again another day, but which way was the house?

 I was getting a little bit scared, but I knew I could do this, when all of a sudden, “Ba-boomb!” This was followed by a huge flash of light. “WHAT IN THE WORLD WAS THAT?!”  Suddenly, rain was falling on me and almost blinding me. I ducked under the first place I could find to get away from the rain.  I was hopelessly lost in a thunderstorm, and no one even knew I had left. I suddenly felt so alone, and I started to cry. I don’t know how long I stayed there, but at some point I fell asleep. I had dreams of people yelling at me, cars going by, loud noises and of being soaking wet.

It was then that I heard a familiar voice crying, “Cocoa, where are you?” I was still trying to comprehend all of it when I felt the ever familiar feeling of a dog slobbering on me…THE dog from the house. As I mentioned earlier, I don’t care for dogs licking me, but I decided this time I could handle it, since he is the one who found me!

You see, I am a cat and we …well…we just do things differently than dogs; however, I must say this is one time I was glad to be slobbered on and to hear my name being called. I was going home. All those demands I wanted to make no longer mattered, (well, maybe a little.) As it turns out, Judy was so glad to see me, too, and we have kind of come to a mutual understanding. I am now allowed on the couch and sometimes in her bedroom. She even has opened some of the doors for me.

When we got home, I got a huge can of yummy tuna. I guess we both were upset at the possibility of me being lost. Oh, and the dog, well I guess we came to an understanding as well. We tolerate each other, and sometimes I will even snuggle up next to him when I am really tired, but I have made it clear…no dog slobber…well, maybe a little now and again won’t hurt.


December 1981 Many churches volunteer to help the homeless by doing soup kitchens on the weekend. In the city of Lakeland Florida where we lived, there was the Lakeland Council of Churches who coordinated this effect. Our church, the Church of the Christ volunteered but we were never called. Yet on the TV, the council was always looking for more churches to volunteer. One time they said just come on down. Well, our group did and was asked to leave. We were told we weren't wanted or needed. They never made that mistake again, saying to call first. What they really meant is only those that they deemed acceptable would be able to participate. The soup kitchen said they needed some people and I showed up. They were nice until I told them what church I attended. Then their demeanor changed from being nice to downright hostile. An older man started yelling at me telling me to leave immediately. He told others that they didn't need people like me at their soup kitchen. Some Christian this man was. I was in tears as I headed towards my car. I actually met Billie Grinds at the soup kitchen. He was homeless and had seen what had happened. Billie challenged them and was asked to leave before police were called. He left after asking them if Jesus would have turned our group away. They had no answer and ordered him to leave immediately and said that he would be arrested if he ever was seen at the soup kitchen again. He was accused of not being homeless and trying to abuse the system. This man seemed to know Billie saying that he was no good and was nothing by trouble. Good for nothing is what he said to him. Billie thanked him for the compliment and walked away. It wasn't difficult to figure this one out. We were outcasts in the Christian community because our belief system is different. No one would say this but it's the truth. I guess all the other churches don't have the exact beliefs but they aren't excluded from this. I will stop here as you get the general picture. Bill Grinds caught up with me and we talked as I stood by my car. I knew that our church took in homeless people and had a homeless shelter in town. As we talked, I sensed that he wasn't your typical homeless person or what you would think of as homeless. I knew that he hadn't had a meal. He had told me that he had stolen some sub sandwiches from Publix as he was hungry. I went into Publix and bought him some subs. I then took him to the shelter and went back to campus. I couldn't stop thinking about this guy. He was cute. A couple of weeks later, I went to the homeless shelter and found out that he had left shortly after he had arrived. I felt really bad and figured I would never see him again. At the time I was attending Church of the Christ college in Lakeland. Their headquarters were there as was the college. The college had about 1000 students. There were Churches of the Christ in Tampa, Miami and Jacksonville and of course the Orlando area including Lakeland which had the most members. The college that I attended even by standards of the day early 1980's was stricter than most college. No smoking, drinking or having sex outside of marriage. Of course no illegal drugs. We had to sign a pledge that we wouldn't do these things. Well, you know how that is. I saw Bill again in September when school started. He was playing in a rock band. He had gotten a house (I didn't know at first but figured it out). His home was outside the city limits of Lakeland (about 10 miles out) and it was in a more rural area. He didn't really have any neighbors. I also found out that he supplied those on campus with the alcohol (as stores in the area would report us for buying alcohol). Many in our college like to gamble, so they went to his home. He never sold any drugs but would turn a blind eye if people smoked marijuana. Hard drugs he wouldn't allow. He had a verbal agreement with the Student Council President. Nothing written down of course. He was good at avoiding detection or being on anyone's radar. The parties on his property never were out of control (most people would only have one or two drinks max) and no one drank heavily. He would buy the liquor at different stores, so no one noticed. Everyone chipped in for the alcohol. The parties at his home were about once a month. The student council President took the alcohol to his grandmother's home and hid it in the pantry. The grandmother was in a nursing home. One of the students lived in her home which was near the campus. I found out that he played at a bar in a rock band in Lakeland. He had a girlfriend and I was sad but oh well. Mid-September 1981 I was surprised when Billie called me. He asked me out on a date. Although the school was strict about matters relating to sex, it wasn't strict about dating. We could come and go freely without checking in but people would check up on us as the school knew who were dating. They wanted to know to preserve the reputation of the school. If you went away for the weekend, the school had to be notified as to why. He came and picked me up in the downtown area around 5:00 pm, Friday. Most people were gone. I was surprised that he was dressed up. I wasn't more dressy casual. He drove 45 miles to Kissimmee where we had dinner at the Kissimmee Steakhouse Grill. People didn't know him there but they knew him in Lakeland. I understood why as someone most likely would tell the school that we were dating. I always went to private school and was in my own world, so I didn't know him. Billie was one who challenged authority. I can't tell you how many times he was paddled by his teacher, by the principal and paddled by his parents. Nothing worked. In high school he got expelled for bringing a Playboy magazine to school. He never went back to school. When he was 17, he left home and basically hug out at bars. He slept wherever there was a bed. Sometimes he was homeless and slept outside. Was arrested as a juvenile for smoking marijuana twice and disorderly conduct twice for getting into a fight at the bar. I spend Halloween weekend with him. He pretended to be my father. Old Lady Wilson whose sharp mind had been declining agreed to the weekend away from campus. She forgot that my parents died shortly after I graduated from high school. My grandmother was in a nursing home. I had the house but couldn't bring Billie there. People would talk and tell the school. I went to church Sunday and no one knew. Billie dropped me off 4 blocks away but watched and made sure I made it to church. Oh, did I also say attendance at church was taken. I spent Thanksgiving with my grandmother at the nursing home. I felt sorry for Billie being alone but he couldn't come to the nursing home which was run by the church. On Black Friday we went to Tampa and had a blast. They had a battle of the bands and Billie was in one of the bands. It was really fun. I had several pictures taken with Billie. His band won which was great. There is more to come.


What did the rich drink, anyway?* “Whatever it is you rich folk drink.” I stared at her scrunched nose. She reminded me of a toddler refusing their vegetables. Where did this woman come from? “I wouldn’t serve this to a pig.” “I imagine you’ve never served anyone. I’m sure you have a butler and a maid and even people to take off your shoes.” “You don’t know me.” “Thank God for that,” I whispered, but loud enough that I knew she heard. The woman’s cheeks were flushed, though I wasn’t sure if it was from the cold or embarrassment. I made an effort to make conversation over the next few minutes, but it was no use. The woman had walked into my store just ten minutes ago and already she’d insulted me three times and practically spat at everything as she stormed up and down the aisles of packaged goods. The click-clack of her heels over and over again felt like nails on a chalkboard. She made her way to the counter, staring me up and down, as if I were one of the pathetic souls she bossed around in her fancy life. “That’ll be $1.25” I said firmly. “For this? It tastes like it was made last week!” “You know what? Take it. I don’t need your money badly enough to listen to you ramble on. Take it and go.” I exhaled. The woman rolled her eyes and threw a five dollar bill on the counter. “I need a phone. You do have those out here, right?” “Yes. Don’t you?” She waved her cell in the air. “No service in this bum-fuck town.” I placed the landline on the counter. “Good luck reaching anyone. Storm’s knocked out most of the local power lines.” “Of course it has. This is just my luck.” She picked up the phone, pressed the talk button several times, then hung it up. “Just great. There’s no way I’m getting stuck here on Christmas Eve, with…you.I don’t have time for this.” I swallowed a chuckle and ran my hand through my mustache. “Something funny?” I shook my head, the grin twisting my mouth. “Go on…Mountain Man, what’s so funny?” “Nothing. I’m just surprised there’s anyone on this planet who’d willingly put up with you during the holidays. You’re insufferable.” “You don’t even know me! The nerve! And just what are you doing in this—” She looked around the store, “—hole in the wall, on Christmas Eve? Doesn’t seem like anyone’s rushing to share the holiday with you, either.” A knot twisted in my stomach as a weight hung heavy in my chest. I was ready to pick this woman up and throw her out into the snow, myself. “Some of us don’t have the luxury to take off whenever we want.” She nodded, eyeing me up and down. “Yes, I see you’d miss out on this rush of business.” A draft blew past the counter and I caught a whiff of her perfume. It was rather pleasant, like a touch of Spring wrapped in rose petals. It was the only pleasant thing about her. “What are you staring at? Don’t they teach any manners out here?” She pulled her blazer closed. “That’s rich coming from a woman who not even five minutes ago spit coffee onto the ground.” “I didn’t want to get poisoned.” “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I snarked, though, I knew there was no way she could leave. The snow continued to fall, ensuring I’d be trapped in this tiny store with the Bitch Who Stole Christmas at least for the next couple of hours. “You’re right. Clearly I’d be much better off out there. See you around, Mountain Man.” The woman walked to the front door and stopped, staring at the blustering winds and snow outside. The wind howled. She sighed heavily, glancing back ever so slightly, but continued out into the night. “Fuck.” I kicked the crate into the wall. Why me? Why was I the one cursed to provide shelter to this woman. I was too nice. She didn’t care about anyone other than herself. I knew the type, I knew it well. Rolling my eyes, I threw on my coat, and walked out into the blizzard after her. The air was frigid. I couldn’t even see her in the distance; visibility was awful. She couldn’t have gone far in this, certainly not in what she was wearing. “Hey, wait!” I trudged through the path in the snow, cursing myself, ignoring my already-frozen toes. Her figure came into view, her bold attire standing out against the white night. I walked closer, closing the distance between us until we were standing face to face. Tears streamed down her flushed face. She whipped around, facing away from me. “Go away. You were right. I’m insufferable.” “C’mon. I mean… yeah, you really are. But you don’t deserve to freeze to death out here. Come back in the store, just until the roads are cleared up some.” “Leave me alone. I don’t wanna spend the night with you, anymore than you do with me! I’ll be fine. My car’s just up the road. I can wait out the storm in there.” “Your car doesn’t have enough heat. You’ll freeze out here.” “What do you care?” “You’ll die. And then I’d have your death on my conscience.” In that moment, something shifted. Maybe the cold was making me delirious. Maybe the woman was working her devilish wiles on me. But the way her big eyes glowed against the brightness, there was a softness about her; a vulnerability. And sadness. One that she tried so hard to hide. “Look, if you don’t follow me back, I’m going to have to pick you up and carry you myself.” *God, what was I even saying?* “Does that line actually work for you? You better keep your filthy hands off of me. You know what, I’m not going anywhere with you. You’re crazy. I’d rather freeze!” With that, I grabbed her shivering body from the snow, holding her in my arms as I trudged back to the store. There was a second, just a brief second, where I saw the corners of her mouth turn up. She tried to hide it, but I saw her smile. Not so tough, I guess. Once inside, I gently put her down. “You really are crazy! Who do you think you—” “You’re welcome.” I interrupted. “But I mean, if I’m crazy, and you’re that committed, go on. You’re free to leave at any time.” She brushed the snow onto the floor and looked from me, to the door. “Fine. But don’t think this means I like you or something. I don’t. I’m leaving the second I can.” “Sure. Feeling’s mutual, sweetheart.” “I am not your sweetheart.” “Well, that part you have right. Aint nothin’ sweet about you, lady.” “Priscilla.” “Pri-what?” “My name, it’s Priscilla.” I nodded, biting the inside of my cheek. “Even your name is prissy.” “Well I’m sure you have a very backwoods name. Like Butch or Buster or something weird like that.” “Actually, the name is Jack. After my father and his father.” “I guess that’s not so bad.” I smiled. When she put down her guard, even just a little, she was tolerable. Endearing, even. And she was quite attractive. “Your clothes are soaked. I have some sweats in the backroom if you like.” I walked to the back without waiting for her response. When I returned, she was sitting on the counter. I tossed the t-shirt and sweats in her lap. She held them up. “You wear these? Like… in public?” I laughed. It was the closest thing to a thank you I would get from her. “There’s a bathroom you can change in.” I pointed to the right. “Well I guess I don’t have a choice.” Prissy, as I’d started thinking of her, went into the bathroom and changed. For the next four hours, we watched the storm from the window in my makeshift room in the back of the store. We talked about our very different lives and shared a bottle of brandy. We even played cards—I let her win, of course. She really wasn’t all that bad. The night could have been much worse. And to be honest, it really was better than spending it alone. Though, I would never tell her that. I got the feeling that this was the first time she’d actually had fun in a very long time. Shuffling the cards in my hand, I glanced out the window. The snow had finally stopped and the sun was rising. The plows attempted to make their way down the main road. “Looks like it’s clearing up a bit. You can rush back to your fancy life now.” “I’m sure you’re happy about that. You can finally get rid of me.” “Well, it’s not like I have plans. I mean, you can stay, if you need to.” A smile adorned her face, and her cheeks flushed. “I guess it’s still pretty rough out there. Maybe I should stay here a little longer. Just to be safe.” “Yeah, just to be safe.” I grinned back. “Merry Christmas, Prissy.” “You, too, Mountain Man.”   *** - This is an extended version of the original 800-word version I wrote for our Discord Secret Santa Story Exchange! - While I don't do typically do romance, thank you u/DannyMethane_ and u/LeeBeeWilly for the constraints that pushed me to write something out of my comfort zone. Merry Christmas! - Check out r/ItsMeBay for more stories by me.


Carrio was spending a few weeks at her grandfather 's. Her mother, and brother, and sister, were there. Children always love to visit their grand parents. Carrrie was having a nice time, till one morning, in hor play, aba broke a pane of gloa. in tho bed room window. ' Oh, dear !' she exclaimed, bursting into tears, ' it's grandpapa's window ! What will he say?' Grandpa wa» away that day. He had gone t" the city, early in the morning, and would not return till night. Carrie sought hor grandmother, and confided her trouble to hor. 'Oh, grandma!' she said, 'I've broken grnndpa'a window ! I'm sorry ! Don't tell him I did it ?' ' How did you break it?' inquired grandma, quietly. ' I was running round the room,' Carrio answered, ' nnd my foot slipped, aud I caught at the rocking chair to keep me from falling. The chair rocked, and the buck went agalnot tho window. Don't tell grandpa, will you?' ' Hut grandpa must know it,' was tho roply ; . there must lw. a new pane of glass Bet.' • Well don't tell him I did it, urged Carrie. 1 What shall we tell him ?' said grandma. ' Tell him tho chair rocked against it,' Carrie answered. ' Hut he will want to know what made the chair rock,' said grandma. ' Tell him one of tho children did it,' said Carrie, • let him think it was Albert or Emma; don't tell him I did it.' ' But don't you sec my child,' interposed Carrio's mother, who hnd not yet spoken, ' don't you sco that this would not be honest ? You do not want to throw the blame of breaking the window upon your brothor of sister, when you broke it yourself, do you ?' 1 No,' said Carrio, ' but grandpa will scold at me if lie knew I broke it. • I don't think he will,' grandma remarked, ' I think tho best way will bo for you to tell him the truth, yourself, as soon as he oomes home.' ' Oh, I can't tell him ?' Carrie oxelaimed. ' Hut he will see that the window is broken, when he goes into tho bedroom,' said Carrio's mother, ' he will inquird how it waa done, and we shall have to tell him. It will be much better for you to tell him yourself, beforo he knows anything about it.' I Carrie saw tiiat this was reasonable, but it was a long time beforo sho could make up her mind to do what her mother and grandmother thought was best. At last, after a long crying spoil, and a groat many earnest endeavor, to find some other way of getting out of tho difficulty, Carrio said, ■ Well, mother, I'll tell grandpa myself, when he eomeo home.' ■ That will be tho liest way,' said her mother, smiling. That smile encouraged Carrie wonderfully. She wished that grandpa would come then, so that she might tell him at once, and have it over with. Hut ho would not bo home beforo sunset. He did not come that evening till after dark. Carrie drew her little chair closer to grandma's when she heard the carriage drive into the yard. • He's come,' she wbisperod, and her hand trembled, as she laid it in grandma's lap. ' Yes, dear,' grandma observed, ' and his little grand daughter need not be afraid f> tell him the truth.' Grandpa wont to the barn and took care of his horses. Then he came in and sat down in the comer near the fire. ' And you're up yet, my little girl,' he said kindly, addressing Carrie. Tho teurs came into Carrie's eye*. ' Tell him now, de»r,' whispered grandma. ' Yes, grandpa,' Carrie said, ' I—l sat up to sco you.' Tho child burst into tear*. ' Why, Carrie, what's tho matter?' inquired grandpa, in surprise. ' Grandpa, 1 sobbed the child, ■I ye broken your bedroom window.' And Carrie bid her face in grandma's lap. • Broken my bedroom window!' said grandpa. ' Ah ! how did you manage to do tbat r' Carrie explained the matter as well as she could for crying. Grandpa listened attentively and said, when she had concluded: • I am sorry you met with such on accident, my child; I must, set a new pane of glass there to-morrow.' And grandpa drew a chair to tho table, and sat down to cat his supper. How poor Carrie's heart was lighted. 'Grandpa didn't blame me a bit. He only pitied me,' *he thought. And ten minutes after she was sound asleep in her bed. The next morning was clear and frosty, bnt Carrie was so anxious to see with her own eyes the mischief she had done remedied, that grandma bundled her up in a worm hood and «hawl and sent her up into the bedroom where grandpa was setting a pane of glass. She came out again when the work was done, with sparkling eyes and glowing cheeks. ' Telling the truth was the best way after all, was'nt it, Carrie?' • Oh, much the best,' Carrie answered. ' I mean to tell the truth always.' I LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE ITI LOVE IT


Beloved, gaze in thine own heart, The holy tree is growing there; . . . Gaze no more in the bitter glass. ~ W.B. Yeats, “The Two Trees”              The sun stretched out over the sky with a ferocity akin to the thrashing wings of lore. All the daylight poured into the decaying garden, and affected it faster than did the approaching night. Scorched, wilted, brittled, shorn of all life.            Young Luther writhed from his bed with little energy, like out of some monastic order after a long day’s labor repressing the floors with wax—except it was a prison for him and not a sanctuary. He got up and saw the garden through the window. It was once a delightful garden. Today it looked more like a garden of deadness than delights. Stepping into the closet, he did his business and just glanced at the mirror before closing the door. He made his bed. He had to sleep in it again tonight.            Lethargic as ever, he stumbled into the kitchen and had breakfast. So much to do, so much time, and so little desire. Or maybe too much. The clock ticked.            A cloud was crouching into view over the garden as Luther descended from the house into it. He dropped into the beach chair heavily and lit up a cigar next to the rosebush. Then he opened the news on his smartphone. It bothered him. As much for its nature as its character—or the lack thereof in both. The news was most assuredly lacking in both.            A few old tatters of paper lay next to the ashtray, some crumpled under the table. Luther yawned nervously and moaned at the sky as he stretched his neck. His body crumpled as he pulled his knees close to his chest. His phone fell off the edge of the chair near the table. Luther jerked quickly in a spasm and groped for the phone in the grass, wiping off all the dew onto his shirt. He resumed reading, staring in his typical trancelike state, but promptly swiped off into the other more stimulating staples.            Bored, he popped up from his leisure in a restless state, pricking himself on the thorny outgrowth. The rosebush rustled as he caught his balance in its embrace. It drew blood from his temple, just missing his eye. He rushed inside for some gauze to stop the bleeding. The sun had just started out before he cut himself and blazed onto the shrub’s outreaching arm. A shriveled rose fell from its grip.            At last the bleeding stopped. Usually Luther spent his days moving mindlessly between the garden and house as though they were no different—as though they were as indistinguishable as West Egg from East Egg, separated only by ashes. One in the same. Now he had escaped inside and saw its reality staring at him in the mirror.            A discolored outline of blood was dried in a stream down his face. He dampened a tissue with his wet hands and cleaned himself up. He dried his hands with a towel and buried his sweating head into it. Looking up slowly, exhausted, he saw himself say, “El Bosco, El Bosco, omnis effusus labor. All your labor’s poured out . ” He looked again as if in reply, “What have I become?”            Angrily, he snapped away from the mirror and threw down the towel. He stormed into his room and slammed the door. Crumpling down into a ball by the wall, he started to cry. First softly, then profusely. He wailed in lament and tried, in failed attempt, to once again repent. It seemed as fruitless as his garden, as fruitless as his loins. Because he still had in his possession that deathly power of man’s stare. Oh, brutal agony of mortal memory! Pluck it out! CUT IT OFF! He flailed his arms in a fit of demonic rage, tearing his clothes, tossing about like a tempest, roiling his body in a frenzy, and throwing himself upon the ground stark naked.            He descended almost alike into madness, still wailing, still repeating ferociously, “Cut it off! CUT IT OFF!” And he continued like that for an hour onwards until, suddenly, it stopped. It was quiet . . . except for a soft lingering cry. He rolled to his side, staring vacuously into the distance, and then . . . went silent. He looked like to dead. Until his lips moved abruptly, his diaphragm heaving for air to say: “My God, my God, why have I forsaken you?” Life went silent. The sun turned in the sky, escaping over the landscape and flooding across the garden into the room. His body felt warmed by it.            And then, it happened. Like to a lamp from light to night, he flew up to his feet with abandon and threw every object in sight soaring through the window. His phone was solid enough to shatter the old-paned window into the garden, landing on the rosebush and falling down into the mud. Luther gained newfound liberty while he madly threw another object, his inkwell, from off his desk. And then he threw another and another and another. If a monster he was, a happy monster was he! If it was madness, there was method in it. He found his computer, his television, his night-lights, his old devices, his new devices, and chucked them all squarely beyond that gaping hole of a window.            Everything but his books and four things remained in that house: keys, a wallet, a typewriter, and a suitcase. And to all these things he went. He filled his suitcase with books and carried them in loads to and fro, dropping them in the backseat, filling them to the car’s rooftop so that they began to spill over into the front seats. The typewriter went into the backmost part of the trunk—as precious cargo as it was—even more precious than himself perhaps, so he thought. And then he packed his suitcase with every clean bit of clothing around and set it directly into the trunk, holding the encased typewriter against the enclosed side. His wallet went into his front-pocket. The keys into the ignition. And straightaway, he was ready to take off from there. Then he remembered something.            He got out and walked behind the house to that old garden. He looked out toward the horizon and saw the sun dipping away from the innocent moonlight. The waxing moon stood resolute, ready to overtake the work of the sun’s harshness and ground our young Icarus firmly on the ground, dissolving, not melting, any residual repression into the bright shiny substance of a morning dew. Luther stepped toward the rosebush and chair. Pensive, he squatted to his knees and saw the scorched rose all shriveled on the ground.            Directly behind the rose, one could see a muddied object protruding from the ground, almost akin to a be-winged rocket ready to lift off into the sun. Luther reached his palm out for the rose but stopped short, clenching his grasp. He looked up and his eye caught a red glimmer of the moonlight within the tree. He reached his hand deep into the rosebush and plucked the sprouting rosebud. Holding it out at arm’s length and turning away from the tree, he beheld it gently against the moonlight. All desirously, he kept it in the air . . . then raced it to his heart and clutched it deeply there. For the first time in his life, standing in the stillness of moonlight, he felt quite sure that he had found the meaning of love.            Luther tarried a moment longer. Then he strode to his car and took off into the night . . . toward the eternal vehicle of flight and that pure light of renewal, in which no Fall exists and but one tree stands .


I made the mistake of turning on the radio half-way to my house, and our buffoon of a president's voice comes through my car, calling himself a wartime president. I snort and turn it up, reminded that while his words are not of much value, they do hold an entertainment value. I listen to him stumble around his words, three adjectives to every noun, his speaking in circles as I put my car in park, shake my head, then shut off my car. I haul my groceries from the backseat and up the stairs to my apartment, recalling something I read, or heard or learned in some way about war. I set the bags down in the kitchen and think of President Trump and his choice of words, and wonder how perturbed he would be to learn what I learned in that article, that Ted Talk, that podcast, whatever it was: women are one of the most valuable commodities when a country faces war. I put produce in the sink and wipe down boxes and store them in cupboards. I think about how we sing to the unsung heroes in a time like this: the medical professionals [and novices, even] summoned to the front lines… the mail carriers, the delivery drivers, those manning grocery stores, and wonder if the women facing war have ever been properly sung to. I reflect on the message from the podcast I heard some time ago, how it spoke of Afghanistan, about how the women were really the ones who held things together throughout war. The unsung heroes, the mothers, the daughters, the wives, the women — the ones who bear all or none of these titles. They are not the warriors we think they are when we think of war. They are not toting guns, loudly and shouting at the enemy. They are the schoolteachers giving lectures on their country's history while it's future is in immediate question and uncertainty. They are the ones who pause their lessons until the sounds of guns stop, until the helicopters pass, holding their breaths as bombs go off closer and closer each time, the ones writing lessons in the spaces of a chalkboard not overtaken by bullet holes. They are the mothers who still make their child's family's favorite dish even if all the ingredients are not available. They are the ones working in a sparse kitchen, who cannot look out a window and smile while their children play, but cast out nervous glances every ten seconds, shivering and shaking in fear while they set a table. They are the ones who are in a constant war with themselves, living with the internal, unforgiving debate of letting them enjoy what may be their last days, out in the sunshine, or demanding their children stay inside where they are safe. They are the mothers who accept gravely that nowhere is safe because she doesn't have another option she can accept, so she comes to terms with the fact that outside they can stay. They are the wives who remember the holidays when everyone is too preoccupied with the current state of the nation, make new traditions if the old ones are available or unable to attain. They are the ones who remember that on Sundays, the family eats together, and there is still sanctity in the beginning of a new week, no matter what platter that week serves to others. They are the wives who bandage the hands of their husbands when they come home, spoon feed him soup after days or not eating. They are the ones bookmarking a sense of normalcy that is easy to turn to when you do not understand the chapters that come after. They are the ones who ensure routine is in place, from the big things like prayer to the little things like brushing teeth. The one that tucks her children into bed and turns down the lights so that they cannot see the tears in her eyes as she tells them a bedtime story they can believe. She is the one who, when the bombs go off illuminating the dark speaks of lightning, and when the sound vibrates through their bodies speaks of thunder. When her children ask where it comes from, she says the gods are battling over who can create the biggest storm, because she knows somehow that is less terrifying than man fighting man. When they ask her what the gods names are she wants to tell them she doesn't know anymore, but instead kisses their heads and tells them they will find out one day, silently praying not tomorrow. She is the one who gets up and gives one last tuck of torn blankets over tiny feet. The one holding in place all the little things: the fringe and the fabric of all that remains.


Words Lucinda Heck Sloan She stood for what seemed hours before the mirror without doing a thing. She opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. All she could see what the uvula at the back of her mouth. She thought hers was too big and immediately closed her mouth. Trying some vocal warmups that she had learned in a theatre class, she hummed, buzzed, and did some tongue twisters. She took deep breaths as she raised her hands above her head and exhaled slowly as she lowered them. These did help her relax, but the tension in her shoulders was like a vise. She did some stretching exercises she had learned at the Y. Feeling better she went back to the mirror. She closed her eyes and tried to talk. Only gibberish came out. “Come on, grow up, you’re an adult. This is easy.” She sighed and wondered if there was something psychologically wrong with her. “No! Don’t be ridiculous. You said ‘yes’ to this, and now people are depending on you.” “I’ll get dressed and take my time putting on makeup,” she told herself firmly.  Applying makeup was a kind of ritual for her. As a professional singer, she took her time doing this knowing that the lights could show every flaw. Also, audiences could be brutal. You had to meet their expectations for a classical singer, especially one they considered a diva.  Not too much though you want people to recognize you.” So many women overdo the makeup and then look like a mortician had done it. She went to the bathroom, sat down in the makeup chair, pulled back her hair and started. After washing her face and putting on her daily routine of serum and lotion, she smoothed on the foundation and messaged her face. It felt good, the muscles around her lips seemed to relax, a smile appeared. Then touch of color on the cheeks, eyeliner but no shadow, some highlighting on the below the eyebrow and below her eyes, and a damask-rose gloss lipstick. Satisfied with the understated look, she went to the closet to get the dress. It was ivory with navy-blue lace trim around the neckline, the cuffs of the sleeves, and the hem of the dress. The lace also had small yellow flowers attached to it. She really loved the dress and was willing to pay the exorbitant price. She then returned to the mirror in her living room to take a careful look of herself and the image she projected. Immediately she put her fingers over her lips. The action, she knew, was an attempt to stop saying something or letting the words out. But she had to say them. “I won’t cry,” she demanded of herself. Getting a drink of water and sitting in a chair did not help. The water ‘went down the wrong tract’ and she coughed expelling all the water in a single blast. “I’m glad it was only water. What a horrible stain this would have made on new dress.” She got up and patted the dress with a towel from the bathroom. She sighed deeply, “I do look good, and that should help when in front of the people. I get nerves like this when I perform and after the first note things go fine.” Pacing around her room, she stopped and tried on her shoes. Her feat had swollen, and they hurt. “I will have to endure it; I don’t have another pair.” She kept them on hoping she would get used to the pain. It was already 1 pm and she had to leave by 2. She became nauseated and laid down on the bed. “I can do this. I must do this.” Being this nervous was something she had not counted on. She had spoken in front of people many times. “I’ve travelled all over giving lectures, performances  and workshops. My reputation was on the line with those, and I didn’t even break out on a sweat.” With this thought she lifted her right arm checked for perspiration and any odor. No she was fine, but then immediately noticed that her face was moist and her makeup was running. She folded a piece of paper and started to fan herself. “I will put on some jewelry. My grandmother’s pearls should be great; they are long and elegant.” As she worked to close the clasp the chain broke, and the pearls spilled onto the floor. At this point she began to cry. There was a light knock on the door. “Is everything okay? Do you need any help?” “No, I am fine. I am forty and should be able to get myself ready. I need to fix my makeup. The eyeliner is too dark, and I put it on too thickly. Be ready in ten.” She suddenly felt too old to be doing this. “It is time to have love in your life beyond the music.” For the longest time music provided her with all the emotions she needed to feel. Every emotion that can possibly be experienced is embedded in music. But this was a false life and there was no risk involved. They had met backstage after a rehearsal. He was a man’s man; unlike anyone she had ever thought of dating. Putting her hand on his shoulder she asked him if he could turn on some lights so she could find an earing she had dropped. “Of course. And by the way you sound great today. You know I listen every day, so I have a good sense of your voice. You are in fine voice today, fresh and relaxed.” Taken back by his remark she realized he was right. It was a good day for her. She had sung through the scene effortlessly and with a deep understanding of the text she was singing. She was not just going through the steps. “Thank you! You are very perceptive.” “I studied music in college. I tried my hand a being an accompanist, but I never found a singer I really liked as a musician or a person. I was too picky my friends told me. I had such strong ideas on how the music should go that I never gave the singer room for their own ideas.” “So now you work in the nuts-and-bolts area of opera. Do you miss playing?” “Actually no, I find watching and listening, and of course criticizing, amply fulfilling. The guys back here say I should write a column for a magazine or newspaper. ‘A View from the Rear’ or something like that. I may try my hand at that.” They talked for a few more minutes and they found her earing. “Would you like to go for coffee or something after the rehearsal and I finish back here?” Without thinking she said yes. From there it went from a mutual love of music to friendship, and then to love. She answered ‘yes’ immediately when he asked her to move in with him and ‘yes’ to the marriage proposal. So why were these two words ‘I do’ so impossible to say? Like an answer that comes to you in the middle of the night she knew why. This was not an opera where she could walk off stage and leave him on the set. He was a real person with a deep love for her and she was afraid she would not live up to his love. She had watched so many marriages fall apart because they put other things first, were gone from home too much, disagreed on having children, and even jealousy. At this age so much of this was in the past and now she had the opportunity to look forward and focus on all the things she had wished for when on stage. This was real life with risks and of course love. In the bathroom, with a washcloth, she dabbed her face and reapplied the foundation and rouge. She walked to the mirror but still could not say the words. Opening the door, she saw her family waiting with smiles on their faces. Walking towards them she could hear them saying: “Well its about time!” “You look so beautiful.” “Remember to smile.” “Here are your flowers.” Her father took her arm and led her to the back of the church. “Ready?” “Yes.” And then the words “I do,” came with love and confidence from deep within her.


BAM! Stickbob crashed into the door. His face slid slowly and painfully down the wooden surface until his chin caught on the triangular door knob. He jolted up quickly but his knees banged painfully against wood and he fell back onto his bottom. What a painful day for Stickbob. Earlier, his friends had pranked him by putting mayonnaise in his tea. Then they proceeded to filling up his water bottle with fish oil. On his way home, His foot got caught in a crack in the middle of the road. Had his shoelace been any tighter, Stickbob would have been as flat as pancake, or worse, dead. Stickbob trudged into his musty little room. The air was hot and thick. He reached for the switch on the fan next to his desk but stopped himself, his index finger hovering inches above the “On” switch. The thoughts that followed in Stickbob’s brain was enlightening… No, not the fan. The fan is too loud. This room is boiling and the cursed fan wouldn’t help. Why, I should get a new fan soon. The blades are rusting. Rusting and crumbling. Why is this room so hot? Why is the air so damp? It shouldn’t be this bad. April. It’s only april. Why does it have to be so hot, why-- “Why not turn me on!” said the shrill voice of the air conditioner. “Turn me on and you’ll get all the cold you want!” Wha-what? The air conditioner is speaking to me? I must have had dried fish for breakfast. “No! Turn me on instead!” said the crackling sound of the fan. “I’ll use much less electricity.” “You shut up, fan. You don’t even blow cold air. All you do is make more heat.” the air conditioner snapped back. “All you do is put the heat in the atmosphere too. You should be the one that shuts up.” cried the indignant fan. Stickbob looked at them “Why don’t I turn both of you on, then you wouldn’t have to--” “SHUT UP, YOU PIECE OF STICK” both appliances snapped at poor Stickbob. “I was invented a long time before you. Your mechanics are just an extension of me, not to mention, I blow harder.” the fan continued on. “Your mechanics? YOUR mechanics? The only thing I got from you was the stupid blades. I use liquid. Do you? I pump cold air. Do you? People rely on me for comfort. But you? All you do is annoy them with your crackling blades.” At this, the fan jolted with anger. “You should listen to yourself! Loud? Obnoxious? Sounds like that stupid heat unit to me. The gigantic blower outside blowing hot air at innocent passersby. You should be ashamed!” “Now listen here, I’m almost dying of heat. Why don’t--” “SHUT UP, YOU PIECE OF HUMAN STICK” both appliances cried out simultaneously again. “NO I AM NOT SHUTTING UP. THIS IS MY” “SHUT UP, YOU DRIED HUMAN SAUSAGE!” “JUST BLOW YOUR STUPID AIR THEN.” “I will only blow if you get rid of aircon.” the fan declared. “Neither will I turn on unless you throw the fan out the window!” the aircon snapped back. The fan or the aircon? The aircon or the fan? I can’t decide. Grandma says aircons waste energy, but the room so hot. It’s so freaking hot. My head is boiling. My sweat is boiling. What should I do. Which should I choose. “Why don’t you both just turn on and live happily?” Stickbob asked as nicely as he could. “No! Never! As long as this stupid fan lives, I will never turn on. Those loud, gigantic blades annoy me.” “What did you say? How dare you! My blades are beautiful. A work of art. A masterpiece of aerodynamics. You, on the other hand waste energy and deplete resources! You stupid piece of dried fish!” the fan shook terribly with rage. “Me? Draining resources? I HELP people. I save lives. I make people more productive. It’s you who are behind times. It’s you, the noisy little piece of dried fish!” The aircon also shook violently with anger. The combined shaking of the two unlikely appliances rattled everything in the room, including the floor that Stickbob lay sprawled on. A small pool of sweat was forming around Stickbob’s body, it’s stench flooding the room with the smell of rotten meat. The rattling did not stop as the fan and the air conditioner continued their assault, each trying to out-rattle the other. The clock shook and fell onto the floor, its pieces flying everywhere. The stacks of books toppled down with a resounding crash. Crack, crack, crack. Crunch, crunch, crunch. Plop, plop, plop. Clack, cluck, clack, cluck. Crunch, crunch, crunch. The rattling continued relentlessly. “Please guys, please stop shaking.” Stickbob moaned from the floors, his body bouncing up and down violently. “I will not give up!” the fan shouted, its body now a blur. “I refuse to lose!!” the air conditioner cried back, its body also shaking and cracking. The rattling of the nails holding the aircon sounded dangerously loose. I need to stop this, Stickbob thought desperately. I can’t go on like this. This heat is melting my body. This shaking is shattering my bone. What should I do? I really ate too much dried fish. My brain is melting. Urgh! In all honesty, the choice was simple and Stickbob recognized it. Aircon or fan? Which one? He saw the facts, and he saw it clearly. The pros and the cons; they wouldn’t matter now, not unless he chose. Aircon or fan? Fan or Aircon? Suddenly, he knew it. His mind was made up. He struggled up and fought the violent shaking. Step by step, he inched forward, trying not to fall flat on his face. Stickbob knew what his choice was. He knew exactly what he was going to do. Unfortunately for him, so did both appliances, for in that instance, the shaking stopped. Then the fan exploded magnificently, sending waves of fire and heat across the room and throughout the house, burning everything in its paths. Stickbob? More like Skeletonbob. In those final moments, the fan saw it. It saw it in the eyes of the Stickbob. It saw it in his clenching muscles. It saw it in his determined face. The fan saw that Stickbob had chosen the air conditioner, and he paid for it.


Florence pressed her palm into the horn. It bleated like a wilting goat, and her car reverberated from the noise, coughing.

 This would have been productive, if she had been the only one honking. Alas, the sound of her blast just drained into the sink of yammering traffic around her.

After standing still for ten minutes on Shepperton, she croaked her Volkswagon into park, and stuck her head out of the window, on the lookout for an explanation.

This hadn’t been how her morning started. She woke up early, picked up hot coffee on the way to her car, and left the house twenty minutes before her prosaic routine. Her mood had been light, remarkably uplifted, despite the slightly sultry weather, and the muggy frail fog that clung to the buildings. The traffic, too, had seemed as energetic as it could in Laleham, Surrey.

It was just minutes until the line of cars had accumulated through the middle of town, snaking through the entirety of the main road. Florence wasn’t even aware that there were enough cars to fall the length of the borough, and yet, here she was, sitting still.

She praised Jesus as she reached into the right compartment and landed on a pack of cigarettes. The box was soggy, and there were just two left, but she expected that this traffic wouldn’t clear for a while. Her lighter, a pink, depleted piece of plastic, which she always kept in her left pocket, arrived at the end of the stick, just as she heard a knock on the passenger window.

She jumped simultaneously as the flame peeked from the metal, and fearing that the lighter would ignite something on the seat, she immediately let go of the pedal, and pulled the cigarette out of her mouth. Turning her head cynically, Florence saw a young woman, around her age, with dark purple eyeshadow and a bright zebra print jacket, staring wide-eyed into her vehicle.

Florence, against all her better judgement, rolled down the window.

“Yes?” “Hi, ma’am. You don’t know me, but I need a ride to Ashford.” “The hospital?” Florence asked.

“Yes, ma’am. See, I’ve broken my foot, and I can’t walk there. I need to get something for it. It hurts bad, really bad.” The woman rolled her R as she said really . “Please ma’am no one else has helped me.”

Florence considered it for a moment. It was rare that she invited strangers into her car, she was someone who tended to keep her private life private. But perhaps it was the weather, or just an impulsive, quick dopamine-incited decision that caused her heart to pluck as she stared into the woman’s imploring eyes.

“Alright. Get in.” She brushed some papers from the seat, and unlocked the door for the girl squeezing herself in. “Just so you know…” Florence began, leaving a space for the woman to fill.

“Millie. My name’s Millie ma’am.” “Just so you know Millie , the traffic hasn’t moved in the past twenty minutes. I don’t think a car will be much faster right now.” “Oh. Well, as long as I'm not on m' feet.” “Right.” Florence responded, slightly disappointed that Millie didn’t catch on.

Millie, from a closer glance, was tiny. Her hair had inflated with knots, a blotch of blond scrambles pinched atop her head. Her face, and all but her cheeks, was pale. She was nervous too, her thumb digging into her palm. In front of them, a man opened his car door and swelled onto the street, rubbing his neck. His stomach, which was twice the width of the rest of his body, turned in a circular motion, his eyes darting across the line of cars. The man eventually reached the opposite direction, in which he noticed the two of them sitting, and began towards them. Once again, Florence rolled down the glass pane.

“Hello Mr. Poole.” “What in the hell is going on, Florence?” "Not sure, I would say try walking to the front, but that might not do you any good." Mr. Poole had shared the same neighborhood with Florence for the last ten years. He was a stout man, who was barely able to keep his head from balding, and who owned a handful of dogs that he shared with his wife, Mary. A kind man, but quite anxious as well. He wiped his brow, “Alright, maybe I will.” Mr. Poole then leaned down, “I see you’ve got a friend with you. Who’s this?” Before Florence could speak, Millie reached out a hand, “Millie, sir. My name’s Millie.” “Well, hello. Welcome to Laleham.” He tipped an invisible hat, “I best be off now, Mary’s probably wondering where I am.”

“Let me know if you find anything Mr. Poole,” Florence motioned to the line of cars in front of her, “I can’t imagine why there's a traffic jam in the middle of Laleham.” “Aye, yes. Strange times!” He called, and strolled to his vehicle.

“Why don’t you take a look yourself?” Millie implored. Florence shot her a glance, as if to imply, because you’re in here. The attempt for pettiness didn't quite work with Millie. She stared ahead, still shifting in her seat. “I can’t go up front because I have.. Chronic back pain. Real bad, too. I can’t walk too far.” Florence lied. “Oh, no.” Millie looked shocked. “I’m sorry to hear that, I am.”

They sat in silence.

Florence shoved her cigarette back into the compartment, and dialed in to the radio, wanting to avoid all conversation with this strange girl. It was another thirty minutes before the cars began to move. Sedately, the snake of cars encroached forward. And Florence, who at this point was progressively getting more annoyed by Millie, pushed her foot into the gas as far as the car ahead would allow. Surprisingly, as they passed the edge of town, there seemed to be nothing blocking the road. It was empty for other than a trash can, and an empty bench, neither of which she could imagine having caused such a blockage.   The road shortly indulged into multiple paths, and with Millie’s directions, she followed the left, more undulatory course.

After passing their third field of potatoes, Florence noticed a figure ahead waving wildly in the center of the track. And as they approached, she gently began to slow, studying the shadow as it formed into a tall, lanky man holding a suitcase.

The gravel gutturally scraping against her tires, she hauled the machinery to the side of the road.

The window peeled down. “Hello, sir?” Millie, who seemed just as intrigued by this stranger as Florence, called out. The man neared.

“Hello.” As he ducked down, Florence began to develop a whole picture. He was ghostly thin, dressed in just a white cotton linen, a leather jacket, and a pair of jeans. His eye bags dripped into his cheekbones, mouth barely able to form a polite smile. “Are you alright?” Millie asked, her hands holding the edge of the window, her eyes following his expressions. “I will be, yes.” He spoke in such clipped language, Florence couldn’t tell if he didn’t like them, or was just shy. His voice was much lower than one would expect, a rich, resonant sound tumbling out of his parched lips.

“Can we take you somewhere? I am on the way to the hospital.” Florence asked.

“That would be wonderful, yes.” He made such shrewd eye contact, Florence almost had to recoil. It was then she noticed that he was carrying a bag, nearly the size of a full human body. Millie seemed to realize this too.

“May I open your trunk?” He asked, lifting his duffel to explain. Florence nodded inaudibly, waiting for him to pull out a gun, or reach in to strangle Millie around the throat. She began to feel strangely protective of the girl next to her.

He strolled to the back, popped the trunk, shoved the bag in, then shuffled to the door. Florence unlocked her car once more, and he made his way into the back seat.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, “Where to?”

“The reservoir.” “The Queen Mary Reservoir?” Millie and Florence looked at each other, with a mirroring glance.

“Yes, that’s the one.”

The car tripped headfirst into a mournful silence. Beside them, the road was compressed with low iron fences and trees bathing the concrete in shadows. The sky was a mere grey, the waistline between providing light, and dampening the ground below with a wash of a silvery slate.

“What is your name, again?” Florence asked. “Two-foot. Or you can call me skippy.” He said this so apathetically, Florence was surprised it wasn’t followed by a laugh.

“Are you in Surrey for long, Skippy?” Millie interrogated. Florence swore she heard a small sigh.

“I live here, yes.”

“Where about? Florence is just down the road-” Before Millie gave away her address, Florence slammed her foot on the break. Millie’s sentence was cut short as the car lurched forward. As she glanced in the rearview, Florence caught a smile leaping from the corner of Skippy’s mouth.

“I live in Byfleet.” He said, almost replying.

“Surprised I haven’t seen you around,” Florence reacted, “That’s near where I am.” “I tend to stay in my house. You know, routine.” Skippy emphasized the last word potently.

Millie didn’t speak. She was still caressing her collarbone from the impact. They passed through another town, this one even less exciting than the last. Each road bump they hit, gave Florence a small jolt, as she apprehensively waited for Skippy to pull out a rifle and shoot them both. “What are you doing all the way out here then? Not to pry of course.”

Skippy didn’t acknowledge her for a moment. “I was just taking a walk.”

Millie, eyes moving alike to windshield wipers, fraught with nervousness, was clutching her seat. They coiled around the corner, and the sight of the reservoir’s bushes that laced the edges of the water came to view.

“Planning on anything fun at the reservoir?” Florence called, hoping to diffuse Millie’s forehead veins and expanding eyes.

“Just dropping something off.” He said, and Florence noticed the crest of his lips twitch.

She nodded, “Where should I leave you?”

“Here is fine, yes.”

She rolled to a blunt stop.

Skippy, giving a nod, opened the back and crawled out, spindly legs crumpling out of the seat like a spider. It was the moment that he closed the gateway behind him that Millie burst into tears. "I don't want to die, Florence, I'm to young!" Millie cried, her voice hoarse. "What if he kills us? Oh, god, I should have never asked for a ride from a stranger." "I know, I don't want to die yet either. Just-" Florence then heard the trunk close and imminent footsteps. She shoved her hand into Millie's open, wailing mouth. With her other hand, she made a signal to stay silent. Skippy reached the passenger window.

“It was nice meeting you-”

Before she could finish her sentence, Skippy launched his arm straight through the opening of her car window. Florence yelped, jumping back, and slamming her head against the roof, and began to flail her arms uselessly in defense. Before she could do anything more, Millie grabbed his available body, held it tight, and bit down into his skin. Skippy’s arm, in response to the sudden pain, bludgeoned the headrests, just as Millie ducked down to avoid his lashing arm. Skippy let out a cry of affliction, and revoked his appendage from the inside.

Florence gaped at the man now hopping on one leg, face stretched into a twist, clutching his arm for dear life. “I. Was. Just trying to-” He expired in breath, “shake your. Hand.”

"Oh! Oh no, oh dear." Millie looked over at Florence with a swelling expression of guilt.

“I am so sorry, Skippy.” Florence consoled. "Is there anything I can do?" “Sorry Skippy,” Millie frowned, following. “I just reacted and I- I am sorry, really.” Skippy had stopped jumping, and was now rubbing his forearm.

“Thank you for the ride, I will be going now.” Skippy grouched, enunciating his words slowly.

Then he picked up his bags, and left, still shaking his limbs with agitation.

The two watched him leave, chests still heaving with the aftertaste of shock. Florence stuck her key into the ignition, and began to move.

“Are you ok?” She asked finally.

“Yes. Are you?”

“That was so scary, I thought he was reaching in to grab you.” Florence’s shoulders relaxed. “I know, I’m sorry I reacted by covering myself and not protecting you.” “I’m sorry that I bit him.” “I hit my head.” Florence realized, reaching to touch the same spot. “Ouch.” “What do you think was in that bag?” “Definitely a body, no question.”

“Good thing I bit him, then.”

They both began to giggle, laugh, and then spill into a fit of air-locked, muscle spasm, laughing that took them a quarter of an hour to calm down from, all while rolling back and forth in their seats. “You bit him! I can’t believe you bit Skippy.” “Poor Skippy!” Millie cawed, holding her stomach.

The landscape changed outside their window as they entered the hospital grounds. The streets had become increasingly clustered as they made their way to the destination, the fields of barren green hills gradually melting into rows of brick houses.

The medical buildings were shrimpy, barricades of cubic windows denting the outside of chalky, nearly sepia walls. Florence, still smiling, progressed into the parking lot, and slid into an open space. The ignition now off, they were left in silence. “Well, here we are.”

“Yes. Here we are.” “I hope your foot feels better, really. I’m sorry that it’s hurt.” Millie turned her head towards her. Her face was structured like a heart, Florence noticed. Millie’s eyes flowered with tears.

“You’re a really nice person. And I am glad I met you.” “Millie, darling. Thank you for knocking on my window.” “Anytime.”

And wrapping her zebra coat around her frail body, Millie exited the passenger side, shut the door behind her, and stood while Florence reversed out of her parking spot. Millie dwelled in that spot as Florence drove away. And as she turned the final corner from view, Florence’s eyes lingered on the girl waving feebly after her fading silhouette in the rearview mirror.