“ Two cannibals are sitting around an open spit, after killing and roasting a clown. Pulling a piece of meat from the julienned joker, one of the cannibals takes a bite, then recoils from the odd taste. How old do you think that clown was? Asked the first cannibal, before offering a taste of the stringed bicep to his companion. No idea, came the reply from his hungry friend. Why? “Does he taste funny to you…? Taking a bite of the barbecued human flesh, the second cannibal shakes his head. Then, with a gesture of masticated dissatisfaction, he spits out the meat. …No, not funny, was the delayed reply before asking. Why do you think that is? With a wry smile, the first cannibal paused a moment, then jokingly replied, Because it’s not the humerus …” “What was a clown doing in cannibal country?” Asked a short-statured man listening to the barroom tale. “It’s an anecdote,” the joke teller replied. “Maybe he got lost,” came an unsolicited suggestion from one of the other listeners-in. “Perhaps, he got kidnapped from a travelling circus,” a third man piped up. “Gentlemen, you’re missing the point,” the tall tale stretcher frustratingly tried to halt the unsolicited analysis of his joke. “ It’s not the humerus, you know , humorous ?” He repeated the punchline, unsuccessfully attempting to correlate the similarity between the two words. Charles D. Bonerz stood amongst a group of his peers in the auditorium bar at the second annual Doctors Of Gender Science Conference . Earlier in the evening, he had given a speech to a full house of several hundred peers from the medical science profession on the identifiable nature of bone gender – namely, the elbow. In his speech, he distinctly outlined how the degree of sexual dimorphism in the humerus, can positively identify the gender of human remains, and that the results unambiguously countered the non-binary gender claims of those seeking to not be exclusively labelled male or female. He further added fuel to the Woke ideology debate of there being more than two sexes by stating that the humerus results scientifically debunked the toxicity of the Woke gender identification, utilising modern medical and scientific testing to categorically prove it. “ Humerus gender identification was nothing to be laughed at ,” he concluded to a round of applause as he rushed off to get a well-earned drink. “How would the cannibals know it was the humerus?” The first inquisitive doctor sought further clarification. “Because it would have tasted funny!” Charles once again attempted to emphasise the punchline. “Sorry, you are?” Charles squinted to read the name tag of his socially inept heckler. “ Doctor William Stroker,” he accentuated the surname, then hesitated as some schoolboy humour tickled his brain. “Yep, Dr Willie Stroker . That’s funny. Seems I’m not the only comedian in the room. Where did you come up with that one?” “My parents,” was the unimpressed reply. “…Really? Oh, sorry,” Charles stifled a chuckle. "What was your father’s name then, Richard ?” “Yes, how did you know?” Bursting into hysterical laughter, Charles quickly controlled his spontaneous ridicule, as he noticed no-one else in the group was laughing. “Forgive me,” Charles apologised. “That was quite juvenile of me. In answer to your question on cannibal Osteology,” Charles again tried to lighten the mood. “I believe they have a history of studying old bones …” Waiting for the slightest of responses, Charles found himself disappointed at the lack of his group’s sense of humour. “That may be so,” said, Dr Stroker. “But it still doesn’t explain why a circus chose to tour a region widely known for its headhunters.” “If I may,” an older Asian-looking gentleman spoke up. “My name is Dr Anass Rhammar.” He briefly stopped as Charles’ inner schoolboy hung on for a giggle at the sound of the Indian doctor’s name. “Yes, it is a common reaction,” Dr Rhammer explained, before smilingly adding, “And I can see how humerus it is to you, Dr Bonerz.” Capturing Charles’ attention with a shared adage of humour, Dr Rhammer continued. “A little jocularity of my own, gentlemen. Perhaps, you have read my book, The Rhammercations of Indigenous Nomadic Life . I’ve spent many years studying the behaviours of indigenous tribes of the Mapuche people of Southern Chile and can attest to their love of the ritual of the clowns. I found that clowning is a sort of social commentary enacted by them in response to their own lack of agency amidst the suffocating Chilean colonialism they have had to face for centuries.” “You’re referring to their feeling of disempowerment, unable to act on their own behalf to control their own destiny. That, that sort of stuff?” Dr Stroker stammered. “Precisely, my esteemed colleague. Your analogy is as sharp as a curare-tipped dart . Let’s hope you never sit on one accidentally. My goodness gracious, it will take your breath away and make you shit yourself clean.” Before continuing his story, Dr Rhammer paused for the laugh that never materialised. “Moving on, I would imagine in the scenario of Dr Bonerz’ story of the poor misfortunate clown, he may have been completely cognisant of his own roasting, as curare doesn’t cross the blood brain barrier. The one consolation from being roasted alive, is that he wouldn’t have felt a thing.” The open mouths of Charles and the rest of the group prompted Dr Rhammer to quickly sum up his medical and social study of the remote Chileans, before he got labelled, a Quack . “My point is that the indigenous people of Southern Chile feel unengaged with matters relating to governance. A kind of moral indictment to their belief that they are denigrated as being too Mapuche . So, the ritual of becoming clown-white, allows them to come to terms with their own plight.” Head bowed and eyes closed, Charles had sincerely tried to listen to the conversation circumventing his joke, but the ineptitude to get past the fact that Willie Stroker was discussing indigenous culture with Anass Rhammer , clouded his interpretation of the earnest and intellectual discussion. “What do you think, Dr Bonerz?” The older doctor brought him back to the moment. “I think I need another drink.” “But wait. Dr Stroker requested – halting Charles’ exit. “That still doesn’t explain how the clown ended up being eaten.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Stroker.” Charles snapped. “Maybe they were hungry!” “Hungry? Hungry?” Interrupted another listener-in. “That’s my department,” the cheerful new member of the group announced as his face darted back and forth over the right shoulder of Charles. “Doctor Geremy Feelgood, at your service. Feelgood’s the name, feel good you will, when I make you feel good … Delighted to meet you all.” Restrained from leaving by Dr Feelgood’s arm around his shoulders, Charles remained tight-lipped as he fought off a case of indifference, and politely nodded his head, hoping the interruption was momentary. “What’s your specialty, Dr Feelgood?” Dr Stroker asked. “Nutrition, old chap,” was the enthusiastic reply. “ What’s hot in gut rot , is my motto.” “Nutritionists aren’t doctors,” Charles rudely mentioned – hoping he could deter Dr Feelgood from staying. “Nonsense, dear boy. Utter rubbish,” Feelgood replied – speaking in a rapid response. “Seven years as a Gastroenterologist led me to seek out the practice of why we should eat what we eat and not why the hell did we eat what we ate … Bit of a tongue twisting analogy, there. Give it a try after a few drinks. Heaps of fun. However, to toot my own horn, I’m a fully qualified professional. Certificates to prove it on my website, drfeelgood.com - abbreviated.” “Dr Feelgood, I’m Dr Rhammer. I studied a little nutrition during my last trip to the jungles of the Amazon, seeking out the similarities between indigenous people of the Amazon basin.” “Fascinating, Dr Rhammer. I wasn’t aware that Chile was included in that geographic range. Sorry, I was rudely eavesdropping on your earlier conversation. I’m a great fan of the Betel Nut.” “Your little compass is pointing straight at my wide geographic location, Dr Feelgood, but unfortunately, your nuts point elsewhere. Different continent, I’m afraid.” “Is it? My goodness. I’m always getting them mixed up with Brazilians,” he laughed. “Which one’s the rounder one?” “That would be the Areca Nut - commonly known as the Betel.” “No, I’m sure it’s the other one.” “Answering your question, Dr. Feelgood,” Dr Rhammer continued. “You are correct. Chile is not part of the Amazon Basin. My study was purely to ascertain what type of common denominators exist in the natives of that vast continent. I quickly discovered that my search uncovered similarities more so in social standing than in cultural practices. Indigenous is a label we like to tag native people from a certain region with. However, when you journey into the interior of the region, it becomes apparent that it is a vast area encompassing many interpretations of various cultures – some, hidden for centuries from the rest of the world.” “Lucky fellows,” Dr. Feelgood commented. “I would suffice to say that they’re better off unmolested from modern man.” “Your statement holds a certain degree of truth, my friend,” Dr. Rhammer responded. “However, civilisation is fast encroaching on all remote areas of this planet and if nothing is done to halt it, so many things will be lost to the benefit of medical science.” “Okay,” Charles took advantage of the thought-provoking pause in the conversation. “Anyone else care for a drink?” “Darling!” The loud female voice landed in the middle of the group. “What have I missed?” With the look of someone frozen in time, Charles managed to squeeze out a surprised, “ Sarah ?” “Charles, darling. Great speech earlier. Have a few things needed to be discussed, argued – in fact. A few small points of Tacitus interpretation. In your language, a bone of contention.” “Very amusing,” Dr Rhammer commented. “Perhaps next year, the conference could include an open mic night for doctors with droll. Nothing like humour to break the ice.” “Sarah Bonerz, everyone! Well, that’s ex-Bonerz, now. Was married to this pineapple head for a while, until I found my true self. You could say that I am the driving force behind Chuck’s pointless quest to prove that there are only two sexes in our gene pool.” “Delighted!” Dr Feelgood said. “Feelgood’s, the name, to feel good is the game. I help a lot of women your size deal with weight loss, while helping them onto the righteous path of nutrition health.” Charles saw the look on his ex-wife’s face change into a disdainful grimace from Dr Feelgood’s tactless and shameless solicitation for business, so acted quickly to diffuse any potential inbound retort. “Dr Feelgood…” “Call me Geremy, old chap. No need for us all to be on a formal basis. It’s all peer-to-peer here, I suspect.” “Yes, thank you, Geremy .” “Charles.” “Geremy…” “Charles.” “For fuck’s sake, man. I’m trying to tell you that my non-binary ex-wife does not identify with gender labelling. She made that abundantly clear in our divorce papers. I quote, Inseparable indifferences to gender identities .” “Most sorry for your marital troubles, Charles,” Dr Rhammer consoled. “Thank you, Anass.” “Non-binary is not something that has cursed my culture, yet. In fact, we have become such a technological force to be reckoned with, that binary or non-binary solely exists in the digital space only.” “ Cursed ?” Sarah asked. “It is not a curse. It is a way of life.” “It’s a life choice,” Dr Stroker interjected.” “What, like crocheting or yoga?” Sarah insultingly asked. “Treat loads like you, I do,” Dr Feelgood attempted another overture. “Word of mouth among your kind paid for my new plush offices.” “Loads like me? My kind?” A wounded Sarah repeated. “Yes, the unidentifiable ,” Dr Feelgood stated – not realising a level of ignorance beyond any modern-day comprehension. “Are all doctors blind to social change?” Asked Sarah in an accusatory tone of voice. “Or are you too busy bonding at events like this to notice the world evolving before your eyes?” Glad that he had been delayed from getting that drink, Charles felt a sarcastic smile envelop his face, while watching Sarah being put on the defensive. “You never could argue objectivity, could you, Sarah? You change your mindset and the whole world has to accept it, against all logic and common sense.” “Did you know that the right type of foods can help clear a muddled mind?” Dr Feelgood once again tried to drum up business. “Shut up,” Sarah barked. “I’m not staying here listening to you and all of your archaic ways of thinking.” “It’s a big room, Sarah,” said Charles. Find a corner and go brood in it. That’s what you always used to do with me.” “Fine,” she indignantly replied. “But first, let me leave this one with you Neanderthals, then… A doctor walks into an operating theatre for a life-saving surgery. Seeing the patient on the operating table, they turn to the anaesthetist and say, I can’t operate on this person, because this person is my son … Who is the surgeon?” “That is simple,” said Dr Rhammer. “It is his father!” “No, you Dinosaur.” “His Stepdad,” Dr Stroker guessed.” “How did you ever pass your medical exams?” Sarah bluntly asked. “I know, I know!” Dr Feelgood bounced around. “It’s his illegitimate father!” “How does that work?” “His parents didn’t get married?” “You are dim, Dr Feelgood,” Sarah insultingly stated. “But I must admit, feeling more intelligent than you has made me feel good, Feelgood .” Turning to Charles, Sarah waited for his answer to the operating room refusal. “Charles?” “No,” Charles declined. “I’m not taking the bait.” “Whatever! Then, do you know how to keep idiots in suspense?” Without anyone answering, Sarah turned to leave, then dismissively waving her hand at the group, she bid them all a curt farewell. “Goodbye!” Sauntering into the crowded bar, Sarah quickly disappeared among the revellers – leaving the group of men in a collective suspenseful state of mind. “Charles, do you know?” Dr Rhammer asked. “It’s his mother,” Charles revealed. “No, I meant do you know how to keep an idiot in suspense?” “Yes,” replied Charles. “I do.” “That’s rich, old chap,” Dr Feelgood changed the focus. “For someone not identifying with a gender, your ex-wife managed to easily label the refusing surgeon in that little riddle.” “Yes, that’s Sarah to a tee. It’s her way or the highway. I’ve spent the past three years trying to prove her wrong.” “How ironic, Charles,” said Dr Rhammer. “Sarah gave you the proverbial elbow and you dedicate your life to studying the humerus. Very funny, indeed!” “So, anyone for a drink?” Charles asked. Letting out a huge laugh, Dr Stroker energetically patted Charles on his back. “ Does this taste funny to you ?” Dr Stroker repeated. “I get it! He’s a clown!” “Well done, William,” Charles congratulated him as they all headed toward the bar. “You got there in the end…”


November 13th, 2020 It had only started out as a small sneeze in the eastern countries in late march. What could one expect when it was allergy season? People’s eyes started itching and their sneezes soon turned into coughs, then coughs turned into wheezing. Not only was it a constant lack of airflow to the lungs, there soon was a rise in fevers. What could be worse; feeling like you're burning up in a cold sleep, or not being able to breathe? On April 4th, scientists released information that the name of the virus was MAV-19 as it was discovered on March 19th. In the reports, MAV-19 came from a strain of the rabies virus. What others didn’t already know was that it was airborne. We all had it, only some of us, including myself didn’t show symptoms. Those who were in the heart of ground zero fled in fear, unaware that their selfish decisions carried the virus across the globe. No matter how many times the CDC told us to stay inside, people kept on traveling and traveling and traveling. You must stay six feet apart at all times they said, but you can’t do that on a plane. Just passing through in an airport, thousands became further contaminated.

By the time it was May 23, just over a million people were infected with their bloodshot veiny eyes. Often you’d see people walking around with sunglasses as their condition worsened over the weeks. Their skin became frail and pale like rice paper. The report then was that more than 240,000 had died across the globe. Countries shut down completely. Long ago they told us to stock up on food and water while many stocked up on toilet paper instead, fighting each other till the last roll. For a nuclear family, 30 rolls of toilet paper should last them 3 weeks. What could one nuclear family do with 200 rolls of toilet paper?

Some at the time thought it was funny, a waste of time to hoard, just a conspiracy, but that was until a lady collapsed at the Sam’s Club in Saint Cloud. A video was uploaded to Youtube by one of the shoppers. The lady had started laughing hysterically, tearing off the produce from their shelves. She then started coughing up blood. Her wheezing could be heard echoing from across the store. Before she knew it she had collapsed. Her bones cracked, popping out of place as if made of gelatin. Shoppers screamed, dispersing from the scene. A man crouched down beside her to see if she was still breathing. Only a moment later she grabbed him by the hair and tore open his neck. I just remember that there was lots and lots of blood. It was only hours after this incident that the public knew she was tagged as a patient who had escaped her treatment facility. She was the first of many who had mutated into the deadly ones. That was just the beginning of the end. The woman was of Asian descent and because of this the Asian community became the targets of outward racism. The president was a fool who tried to tell all of us that it would be fine. The video is a fake, don’t listen to the fake news, lies, lies, lies, lies, that’s all he ever had to say. He wouldn’t even stand up for his own citizens that were being harassed just for being themselves. We never got to elect a new president before this all went down. It would’ve happened 10 days ago.

Now it is November 13th, 2020, 174 days after the incident. After that video people called this virus Garnet 1, after the woman. Her name was Garnet Jones, a mother of two. It was never said what happened to her after the video ended. Maybe it was best that we didn’t know.

There aren’t many of us left in Saint Paul, if any at all. The city has been infested with those devils. I remember when we used to go back to school shopping in September, how we all used to be excited to see each other. Now you wouldn’t dare walk up to another person without the risk of being infected or caught. They still look human from afar and it scares me everytime I think about it.

I’ve found a home in the abandoned train carts along the outskirts of the city. My father had just come back from his morning hunting trip and asked me to pick up my younger brother and sister from school. He left all of his hunting gear including a knife, his bow, arrows, and rifle in the trunk of the van. I had just picked them up and was already on my way back on Highway 61 when everything stopped. Screams shattered as the cars piled up on the bridge. No one could get through. It happened in such a commotion I still can’t process how we got from the car to trains. All I know is that we ran. The caboose was the only place I could hide before they found us too.

The sun set licks my heels over the cracked concrete pavement. I’ve stayed out for too long. Under the Wabasha Bridge a small pack of Garnets congregate, waiting for the fallen sun. I’ve heard them communicate before. Broken words of English mixed with grunting. If they spoke more, they would end up wheezing. Somewhere inside I know they still have their humanity, I just don’t know where.

It's only a matter of time before the Garnets come hunting for the night. It's never safe to be out in the dark. No matter how much I want to believe that we’re not the only survivors here, the hope is starting to fade more and more by the day. I tighten my backpack straps and make a dash to the train tracks. My scoliosis must hate me with the heavy load from today. I jump over debris from broken cars, careful to watch my feet near the bottom of cars. People got out of their car once the pileup happened and they got snatched from Garnets hiding under vehicles. I climb the ladder of the caboose and knock three times on the hatch. Little footsteps echo, climbing the ladder to unlock it from the inside.

“Mae, is that you?” a little voice whispers.

“Yes, Darin. Hurry, it’s getting dark.” I glance back over to the bridge. “I got something that I think you’ll like.” The Garnets from the bridge haven’t noticed me and I intend to keep it that way. I've raided the last shop from the outer stores of the east side. Darin pops open the hatch and I climb in quickly. My sister Elaina sleeps on the makeshift bed of couch cushions I found in the back alleyways. Her long black hair tangles over her small face. A pile of her drawings and color pencils scatter on the makeshift table in the middle of the room.

“What did you find?” Darin fixes the blanket over Elaina.

I lay down my backpack, waving for him to open it. Carefully he opens the bag to not let the zipper make a loud rip. One by one he counts and sorts each item into piles.

“Lets see. You got six cans of chicken noodle soup, a can of beans, a gallon of water, a mini hand sanitizer keychain, four ramen noodle cups, three lighters, and finally a walkie talkie?”

“Someone left it behind in the shop. If you look at the bottom, it says ‘Madeline’. I had a friend in college named Madeline. It would be something if that Madeline was my friend. I was hoping that maybe I could try to contact the group if they’re still in the city. Nothing too fantastic was left to pick up beside that, but it's enough to survive for another two weeks.

Soon I will have to go searching on the other side of town to scavenge cans and medicine.” I've never been over there during these times. If I go and don’t come back, who will take care of them? There is no shelter that is safe.

During the day, you'll never see the Garnets roaming the streets in the light. I figured out quickly that it's their weakness. It rots and burns their skin faster than it already is, blinding their eyes. No matter how long you linger in the streets to mock them, most will never touch you. It's a stupid idea though. The ones who are braver will jump out at you, disregarding their burning flesh. You will burn with them. The Garnets know where to hide during the day light so their prey are unsuspected. It’s clear that they are highly intelligent creatures but they are not mindless creatures. Everyone who was left months ago has either gone missing or turned into one of them. The military flamed the city not long after. I should say that I'm lucky to even have survived this long by myself considering that I have no one left. Before everything happened, it was my first year in college. I had made the Dean's Honor Roll my first semester and was headed for another great second semester, but then we were told to go home. It’s for your safety, they said. Online classes didn’t last for very long. I'll tell you that. “I’ve seen these walkie talkies that came in a pack of 4 with a range of 5 miles last I saw from Cabela’s. Should we turn it on?” I nod in agreement. The glowing screen says that it still has 50% of battery left. If there is one way to find someone out there, this would be our chance.

“Is anyone out there? I have Madeline’s walkie talkie,” I call out and release the button.

Please, someone answer! Anywhere else would be better than this caboose. I can’t protect them here forever. We wait for two minutes and no one answers back. Out of 300,000 people in Saint Paul, there really is no one left.

“I don’t think anyone is going to answer. I suppose I should make some food. Would noodles be okay for tonight?” Darin picks up two cups of noodles.

“That would be fine.” I give him a reassuring smile.

I can see the sadness in his eyes. I need to get enough supplies so we can move somewhere further away from the city. Winter will come soon and it’s important to find as much as possible. It is unknown whether the Garnets can survive the winter here in Minnesota. I don’t even know if we’ll

be able to survive this winter. Sunlight is being cut shorter and shorter as the days go by.

Maybe if I try just once more, someone might answer. I won’t let them die out here alone. They deserve better than to be out here like this. I pick up the walkie talkie once more and press the button.

“Hello, are there any survivors out there? I have Madeline’s walkie talkie.” “Yeah, we heard you the first time and we know your location. Pack up your bags and come to the river. We’re leaving in 10 minute with or without you,” a deep voice answers back.

And there was no reply after that. Have they gone mad? The shadows of the night have already engulfed the caboose.

It is the start of the hunting hour. This could be the only chance. Am I risking Darin’s and Elaina’s life for a group of strangers, or are we finally going to find our freedom?


She could feel her skin prickle with goosebumps as she rose out of the warm water of the tub, the sunlight had finally hit the ideal angle through the bathroom window to start taking photos. She called in Joe to begin taking the shots. Pose this way, now that way he said. Often times she felt like the poses weren't so much for the benefit of the camera as they were for Joe himself. This wasn't the first time she had regretted signing that contract, but the money was required and even if Joe was creepy, at least he wasn't like her last client. That guy had some deep seated issues to work out. She kept shifting around for the poses, oftentimes dipping her body back into the warmth of the bath. Joe was an artiste, and he would often forget the simple things like making sure his models were actually comfortable during the longer photo shoots. Finally, she pulled the plug, the bathwater draining down, she was on her knees still from the last position which had felt like it was about a pull a muscle in her back. Stretching with her arms crossed above her shoulders, she arched back, the gentle curve of her back had the dual effect of releasing some stress as well as pushing her breasts up into what some would call a perky position. After a second of this stretch she heard the click of a camera. Thinking that Joe was done she lowered her arms and saw surprise in his eyes. He was looking at the camera, at the photo he had just taken. The strange thing was the look on his face, she was used to that look that many had when attempting to hide their own arousal, but this, this was new. He looked at the camera with a tinge of awe. Unfortunately she couldn't find out why. Joe was always secretive with his photos, it was part of her contract that all pictures taken by him belonged to him and he would never release them unless he wanted to, and so far he hadn't. The next morning as she was packing her bags to move on to the next client, Joe came up to her and handed her an envelope. It was one of those larger ones designed to keep letters flat, that off yellow in colour with a USB taped to the outside. Hesitantly, Joe spoke, "This one is yours" he said. "I know that you have reached a point in this career where you think nobody sees you, I mean truly sees you, and I get it. If i had to deal with people like me all the time i'd be pretty jaded too. I just wanted you to see this photo, and to hang on to it. The USB has the original raw image file, but i stayed up late last night and processed this for you. I want you to put it up somewhere, somewhere that you can see it often, so that you can be reminded of just how beautiful you truly are." He walked back out to the hallway and turned towards his studio, feet shuffling on the floor like always. She grabbed her bags and left, payment had been made and there was another client waiting. Some time later she heard through a friend of a friend that Joe's apartment had burned down, with him inside. She wasn't sure what to feel about that. She never did put that photo up, hell, after the initial glance at it, she'd never even looked at it again. More time went by and she was walking home from the corner store, a loaf of bread under one arm and a bottle of whiskey under the other, it was the fifth bottle that week. Her phone beeped with a message, setting down the bottle she pulled it out of her pocket and looked. It had a few messages from a blocked number, she opened them up and saw Joe's smiling face in a selfie taken at a stunning beach. The message underneath said: "That photo changed my life, I was in a bad place and needed a change, it was the perfect catalyst, so i faked my death and moved to Mexico and haven't regretted a day since, I hope it's done you good as well." It wasn't until she shivered from cold that she realised she had been standing there long enough for the sun to have gone down. The top of her blouse was damp from tears. Using her sleeve she wiped her face and broke out in a smile at the image of Joe with such a happy grin. After a moment she started walking again, not even realising she had never picked the whiskey bottle back up. But she knew, she knew that change was coming. She doubted she'd need to fake her death like Joe did, she didn't owe any money and wasn't under anyone's control. For the first time in years, she was looking forward to the next day.


Author’s Note: I like this plotline, but I’m not sure if it has enough action or not. Let me know in a comment, please. Also, this is my second story. So, go me, I guess. :D Anyways, I hope that you all enjoy it! “Mom!” Asher, my son, calls. “I’m busy!” I yelled back. “Dad!” I smirk, pleased with myself. My kids have learned that when I say that I’m busy, I’m genuinely busy with my drawing. You see, I am a freelance animator. It’s an exciting job, and I get to work from home. My kids like to “help”, but we all know how that goes. So, I have taught them not to.

I resume my storyboard sketching of a new upcoming movie. The company that I was currently working for had told me that I had to go to the studio and show them what I had finished the next day. Therefore, I was cramming in a whole bunch of work. Anyway, I began scribbling away when my phone blared the theme song of Ghostbusters . I sighed, exasperated, before picking up my phone, putting it up to my ear, and saying hello. “Hi. Is this Kelly Jopky?” Who is this lady? I thought. Her voice sounded familiar, yet I couldn’t tell exactly who it was. Maybe it was the new employee at the aforementioned company. “Uh… Yes. Who is this?” I asked. There was a moment of silence before the woman responded. “Kelly, I-I’m Leylah Lokman,” Leylah responded. Leylah Lokman… not the new employee… not a friend that I know… not any previous coworker… What was she to me? “I’m sorry, Leylah, but I’m still not sure who you are. I don’t mean to rude,” I said. My mind raced, thinking of any Leylah that I knew. Not one person came to mind. “Kelly, I’m your mother. Now, before you hang up, I want you to know that I’m sorry. I should’ve been there for you throughout your life, but I couldn’t take care of you, Kel. I didn’t have a job, the landlord was going to take away my house, and I just didn’t have the right mindset to raise a child. Please, please, please forgive me. I know I don’t deserve it, but… please…” Leylah trailed off. I didn’t say anything. Hot tears rolled down my face. Now I recognized the voice. I remember her voice singing to me when I was first born, and when she spoke softly to me when she dropped me off… --- Five-year-old me shivered in the biting temperatures. I wrapped my coat tighter around my lanky body. Momma walked two steps ahead of me, my tiny legs trying to keep up. Tears began rolling down my face, but they pretty much froze the second they escaped my eyes. I knew what was happening; I just didn’t want it to. “Momma! Why are you taking me to that place? I don’t wanna go, Momma,” I whined. I was practically yelling over the howl of the wind. Momma didn’t respond for a moment. “Kelly Ann, stop asking questions that you don’t want the answers to. Now, hurry up. I want to get you there before they close. It’s already five-thirty,” Momma snapped. She snatched my hand and started pulling me along. The tears came so fast now that they raced down. ‘There’ was Miss Joy’s Hope for Kids. AKA the local orphanage, and from what I knew, there was nothing that had to do with hope there. Momma and I continued our brisk walking, my crying turning into sobbing. The only thought that ran through my mind was: Momma’s leaving me. That thought just raced around my head. I couldn’t get it out. Finally, the two of us reached the doors of the Miss Joy’s. Momma took a deep breath before knocking. --- “Hi, Leylah,” I greet, sliding into the booth across from her. She had invited me to lunch at Olive Garden with her. I was nervous about it. When Leylah had called me before, she had asked me to forgive her. I had avoided the question, changing the subject. Now, I knew that I would have to either forgive her or ignore my mother forever. “Hey, Kel. The breadsticks and salad should be here in a minute. And I didn’t know what you wanted to drink, so I didn’t order you anything,” Leylah said. “Oh, that’s fine.” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. The two of us waited for the server to come before speaking again. I ordered a Diet Coke, then glanced at Leylah. “Look, Kelly, I don’t mean to pressure you or anything, but I want to know if you’ll forgive me. It’s been 32 years, so I know it’s hard, and you probably don’t think I deserve it, but… God, I just want to be able to make up for the time that I lost with you,” Leylah rambled. Everything she said reigned true. I realized that I was being selfish, but I didn’t think she deserved it. It was hard. And I didn’t know what I would do. Countless thoughts dashed around my mind. Unbelievable emotions coursed through my blood. My hands shook. I lightly scratched my cheek, even though it wasn’t itchy. I could feel Leylah’s eyes on my head, but I kept my eyes on an interesting spot on the table. I grabbed my phone and looked at the time, although it was irrelevant. “Leylah… You caused my depression, the bullies that hurt me, the teachers who put me in detention every day. You were the start of all of it. You weren’t there for me, Leylah,” I said. “I know. I know that. And I’m so sorry for that. And I’m hoping that you’ll remember what I did do for you. The good I did when you were little. Please remember,” Leylah pleaded. I shook my head. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Leylah, but I can’t.” Grabbing my purse and phone, I headed out of the restaurant.


A nice night for a chat 39/10/2019 Ella enjoyed her night walks in the Pembleton Cemetery. Despite a name that invoked stately residences, Pembleton was not an upmarket zone. The grid of unadorned streets was lined with 50’s wooden boxes in various states of dilapidation, high fences boasted a variety of graffiti; some bordered on art, others sported ugly botches and ill spelled profanity. The pavements were cracked, in parts weeds were winning the battle to regain control. Not the path to the cemetery though. Age worn well-attended cobbles led to a set of grand iron gates that led her through a stone wall of gothic proportions. The cemetery was a gentle hill of manicured grass and elegant gardens presided over by stately elms and an aura of dignity. This cemetery had been here long before the suburb had decayed around it; even before the time when the streets were promises of quiet family life in neatly matching boxes and white picket fences. A time when a village had dreamed big. Cemeteries old or new; ancient and revered or military squares of lined up plaques all tend to offer one thing. Silence. The people here are at peace. Many of those in Pembleton’s cemetery had been at peace for over a hundred a century. A warm blanket of security settled over her. Coco was asleep with her Nan. Rob may or may not be back from wherever he had stormed off to. Ella needed the solitude of the nigh time cemetery to think. She was a little surprised to see two elderly men chatting on a bench, it was rare to see anyone there during the day, less likely so late. She gave them a nod and walked on. “That is her.”

“That is who?” “My granddaughter. They still live here you know. He got a new car last week. One of those modern sleek things. Looks like a suppository.”

“Ahh… (chuckles). My family have gone. But what brings you here tonight old friend? It is so long since we sat here together wagging our chins.”

“It just seems like a nice night for a chat.”

“Yes. It does.”

“So what have you been up to Reginald?” “Ah Bill! I have been having fun! Of course. I rather like visiting the Nortons. They brought our place on Edgar St. I pop in. Enjoy a cuppa. Let them know what I think of their lack of improvements of the old house. They don’t know what to make of me!” He chuckles. “You old shyster Reg! “So what do you do with your time then, William?” “I hang with family mostly, keeping an eye on them.” You got to have a bit of fun. I still pop down to Benny’s sometimes. Remember Benny’s?” “Hahahaha! How can we forget! We had a few rumbles there back in the day. What are they up to in there Reg? I gotta come in with you one night!”” “It’s bigger, noisier. All parked up with big dirty road bikes outside. A lot more rumbles. No honest flying fists these days.” Reg scowled. They get mean. Mean drunk and mean fists. Sometimes knives. Hard looking girls. Not like Bessy and Pats! Still, I will give them a pat on those tight butts and they have no idea where to look hahahah!” “Ahhh! There is some nostalgia for you. Back when bad girls were good!” He chuckled wryly. Those gals knew how to make a man feel good. Until I met my Elizabeth of course. And you settled down with Katherine. Or pretended to.” “Heheh! Don’t get me wrong, I loved my sweet Katherine. A good girl. A good mother. But, I reckon it just did a good man good to pick up Bess in the old Ford once a month or so.” Reg grinned salaciously. “My Lizzie was everything. Sure I thought of Bessy and Pats from time to time, like recalling a childhood sweet you no longer want. Like those milk bottle candy when they were good. They just aren’t so good no more. I reckon I would have one of those again if I could.” “What happened to your boys Reg? You had a couple didn’t you?” His brow creases, trying to recall. “Good as I far as I know, gone off to Australia. Land of sand and weird critters. Too far for me to go. No idea even how.” Clouds had rolled over the moon immersing the cemetery in a velvet cloak. The air was a little chiller. The two men did not notice as they sat quiet for a time in their memories. “Your granddaughter’s a fine looking lass. No ‘semblance to Lizzie though.” “No, but you should see her wee girl! Just three months old. The spit of my Lizzie. She looks at me and her eyes light up, gives a smile that’d melt an iceberg. She knows me! Ella thinks little Coco is looking at her; but no, it’s me she’s seeing.” Bill settles back with a happy grin. His grin fades as his thoughts take a darker turn. “I reckon her man is no good. Not a stupid old coot like you, nasty. Sometimes I see a bruise on her that don’t look like she banged into a door. Come to think of it I hang around there a lot and I hardly see him. Maybe I better pop into Benny’s with you, mayhaps that is where he’s lurking.” He thinks for a bit. “It’s good this chat Reg. It’s waking me up. Making me think. Living in this dump how did that man of hers buy that fancy car? And why does she walk up here all on her own?” “Yes old friend. I think we been woke up for a reason.” “It has been a nice night for a chat.” The two men shook hands. Ella completed her circuit; as she walked down the curved path toward the gates, the moon shone briefly through a thin patch of cloud bathing the two old men in a luminescent glow for a few seconds, before they disappeared altogether. Ella shook her head. She was seeing things. Pembleton Star 1/11/2019 Last night local man, Robert Drake, was declared deceased after a fall from Denny’s balcony. Why he stumbled backwards over the high rail is a mystery; but observer Candy Floss said “He looked like he had seen a ghost.”


Silence Is Golden       The waiter asked, “Would you care for more wine, Sir?”

He smiled and waited for my response. I nodded and looked around the restaurant. I lifted my wine glass. The waiter took it from me, poured the Riesling into my glass then handed it back to me. I smiled and nodded to imply a thank you. The waiter grinned and left my table. I wiped the bottom of the glass with a napkin and placed it in front of me next to the glass of ice water.       I was sitting alone in a room full of people at a restaurant that seemed to be designed for couples. I felt out of place but enjoyed myself, nevertheless. I never had a problem eating or drinking alone. Solitude became something I cherished in a busy day of people asking me questions and wanting this and that. It was nice to have companionship, but I'd become used to sitting and watching people talk, laugh and even cry when they were with someone. Being with someone is usually nice as long as you can manage to keep your individuality. Stored like something in a shoe box hidden under the bed or placed high on shelf in a closet. You could bring it out whenever you want someone to show more pieces of you. Needless to say, I needed a very, very large shoe box.       I was trying to get myself back from a mental trip I’ve taken for a year or so. Being with someone that was very needy was exhausting. I never minded helping someone, and probably still would, not hesitate to stop listen and do whatever I can to help somebody I care about. This time was different, though. I was strong enough to take on the situation but not smart enough to realize that it would take more than strength to get where we needed to go. It would take respect and that would have to come from both of us. I did my part. I got tired of waiting for mine to arrive. I felt used, angry, sad and thirsty.       I looked at the glass of wine and it was almost gone already. I’ve sipped it without tasting the great taste. I couldn’t seem to taste anything but that bad, bitter taste I had from the relationship that ended a couple of months ago. I looked around to find the waiter but noticed someone entering the restaurant with some guy whom I didn’t recognize.       She looked as I remembered. Tall, chestnut-colored hair, slim and elegant. Her shoulders didn’t seem quite as stiff as they once were, however. The weight of the world seemed to be lifted from her. She walked with poise and her feet looked to move across the floor lighter and balanced. Her heels always made her legs and everything above seem very sexy and inviting. Her smile and beautiful brown eyes were the things that captured me some years ago. Her intelligence and integrity held me hostage. Then, her generosity is what set me free to do what I had to do in a place I had to be.       Memories flooded my mind like a dam breaking from an anxious river looking for a place to flow. She caught me staring at her and stopped in her path. She didn’t say hello but her eyes gave me the once over and she grinned with approval. I think my mouth was open because my throat felt really dry and the wine glass in my hand was still empty. I placed the glass on the table and leaned back.       She and some guy sat at an adjoining table. The man's back was in front of me as she sat across from him. I moved my chair a bit to the right so I could see her beautiful face. She looked incredible but that was merely being normal for her.       The waiter finally arrived and filled my glass. When he left, I raised my glass slightly to toast my long-lost love. She grinned from her seat and I took a sip.       The guy she was with seemed too busy with his phone to realize she was slipping away. She ordered nachos and some wine also, just as I remembered... she loved white wine. ‘Mr. Cell Phone’ asked for a mixed drink I’d never heard of.       It wasn’t long before the waiter returned with their order. She smiled her beautiful smile and thanked the waiter, but her friend said nothing as the waiter placed his drink in front of him. She gave ‘Mr. Rude’ a bad stare but he was too busy messing with his phone to notice or probably care. She sipped her wine and I shook my head.       I motioned for the waiter to come over and when he arrived, I asked for some coffee with Baileys Irish Cream. The waiter nodded and walked to the bar in the back.       When he came back with my order, ‘Cell Phone Guy’ called for the him. The poor waiter had to listen to the guy complain about his mixed drink having too much ice. I imagined dumping the drink on the guy’s head, but that thought was interrupted when she apologized to the waiter and handed him a twenty-dollar bill.       The waiter walked by my table and rolled his eyes. I grinned and overheard the beauty tell ‘Mr. Rude’ that he had better apologize to the waiter or he would soon discover how she deals about rudeness. I heard her also explain that the waiter was not responsible for making drinks and that he shouldn’t have to take any rude behavior.       I nodded and kept myself from getting up, walking over to their table and smacking the guy in the back of the head by envisioning the waiter doing that very thing. ‘Rude’ shook his head, shrugged at her suggestion then answered his cell phone on the third ring. She sighed with disgust and looked at me. I slowly shook my head again and sipped my coffee.       When the waiter returned to their table with the food, he did not move to make room for the waiter to place their food on the table. Instead, he went to her side and placed the food down staring at the guy. I was hoping the waiter would hit himwith the tray but he didn’t. That made me sad.       The thought of shoving the guy’s phone deep down his throat existed when she was ignoring his plea ‘to just listen to him’ after she said she should have just canceled their dinner.       I recognized that tone. I remembered her using it when I explained that I had to leave her because to work. I was too busy to enjoy any time with her. The question of why I had to handle so many things at once entered our relationship more than it should. It was never truly answered but the final result proved to be the consequence of it all. I was watching it again and I felt her hurt and anger. I sipped my coffee, listened to her tell ‘Clueless’ to just forget it and watched her stab the food on her plate.       The waiter brought another drink to their table. ‘Mr. Moron’said an empty apology to the waiter and she smiled her beautiful smile as a plea of acceptance. The waiter grinned at her, nodded at the guy and assured him that it was quite alright. The waiter apologized for the previous drink then walked toward my table. I laughed to myself when I noticed the waiter mouth an unfavorable word about the jerk while walking by.

      My coffee was almost gone. The Baileys disappeared faster than the coffee as I kept pouring more to get a sense of enjoyment from the liquor.       I overheard her claim that ‘too much has happened and it’s just not the same.’

Her last comment before she gave him the cold shoulder was, “You should have canceled that meeting if you knew you had plans with me!”       He became the source of my violent imaginary visions. She was frustrated and at her limit. I knew how it felt to be at the other end of that conversation. I was waiting for the ultimate maneuver by her. The classic ‘do-whatever-the-hell-you-want’ pose of hers... waving her hand in front of her with the slight tilt of her head to the right. Her disengaging eye contact would make anyone seem unimportant because of the topic at hand.       I sipped my coffee thinking to myself, “Wait for it… wait for it...”       The moment arrived when he answered his phone a few moments later. I wanted to walk over to him and tell him, “You’re way past your time, Buddy. She’s long gone now!” Instead, I sat and thought about the last conversation I had with her. She was brushing my dog and ignoring my attempts to say any rationalization of leaving. She was sitting on the floor in our apartment and I was standing in the doorway. I felt like I had already left but yet I was still there just a few feet away.

      The way she looked at this guy seemed all too familiar. The feeling of emptiness came back to me when I remembered how that night ended. I heard my dog bark when I shut the door behind me to got in my car to drive off for awhile. After I started the engine, I recalled seeing her standing on the porch. That scene was more than I could stand. A couple of hours later, when I returned to see my faithful dog laying on my bed, I noticed her and her belongings were gone. The apartment seemed smaller that particular night. I didn’t sleep too well and heard every noise around me… especially my dog snorting and snoring.       I turned my glass of ice water and noticed she was watching me. I looked over the rim of the glass while drinking. The water left me thirsty for relief of the memories and the guilt I kept inside for years.       Her eyes were wet and she dropped the napkin on her plate. He was sitting quietly at their table. I waited for words to be thrown out in desperation but he was awkwardly quiet.       When the waiter appeared out of nowhere and asked me if I needed anything, I stared at her. She was angry and sad.

I softly replied, “I had all I needed but never had enough time to enjoy it!”

He looked confused and stood beside me a bit longer before I told him I just needed the check.       When the check arrived, I stood and noticed that she was watching me again. I grabbed my coat from the back of my chair, handed him some cash, thanked him then told him to keep the change. He thanked me then walked off to tend to other guests.       As I was putting my coat on, I noticed she was reaching for her purse. I walked passed the loser still pleading for her to listen to him. I took her coat, helped her put it on then followed her out of the restaurant as the guy shouted something she didn’t care to hear or reply to. I didn’t pay any attention to it, either.       We stepped outside and she asked me if I still had the place near the restaurant. I told her I did. So, we walked through the Boston Common, then The Public Garden and arrived at my place near the pub named, “Cheers.”       When I opened the door, my apartment was dark but a faint snore could be heard from my room. She laughed and quietly walked over to the bedroom door. I closed the door and watched her staring at my dog in my bed.       A few hours later, I was watching her sleep in my bed with my dog, also asleep, wedged between us.


The Anderson gene pool is extensive. Just about everyone knows at least one Anderson of some variation, so it is pretty safe to say that I probably have multitudes of cousins I have never met from nearly every continent. It shouldn’t have been too surprising to me that I should receive a call that my cousin Helen had passed away suddenly, and that I was expected to fly to Illinois and attend her funeral.

The surprise was that I had never heard of a Cousin Helen before, and she had apparently left me something in her will.

Now, from what I was able to figure out from good old Ancestry, Cousin Helen was my father’s uncle’s granddaughter. She was a ripe thirty when she died, which made it sadder when I learned that her young daughter had also died only about a year beforehand. Everything that I discovered when digging up info on who this woman could have been just intrigued me more. I never met her in my life, even though we were close in age. We lived hundreds of miles apart. Family reunions were not something a family our size typically did. Unless it was for a funeral or a wedding.

“I know all of this must be overwhelming for you, losing a family member so young,” Mr. Schwartz broke my train of thought with a clearing of his throat and a voice that didn’t seem to match his stocky appearance. Not that it mattered too much to me. I was still trying to figure out if I was actually sitting there in his small office or if I was just imagining this. Did I really just fly from Arizona to Illinois on a whim and a mysterious inheritance? “Honestly, I know nothing about her. Or why she wanted to leave me anything. We’ve never even met,” I declared, finally breaking my own silence.

“I see. Sometimes this happens, especially if the deceased had no close relatives. She did have a brother and a nephew, but nothing was left to them. Miss Anderson was known to be a bit of an oddball in life.” “Again, I wouldn’t know. I hate to rush things here, but I do need to start heading back home.” I could see a spark of irritation, but he couldn’t really be too shocked. I have a business to run and wasting time with this nonsense was all ready a bit too ridiculous.

“There is a stipulation in order to receive the inheritance –” “Naturally. What is it, a donation to some sort of charity? I should have known,” I chuckled and opened my purse to dig for my checkbook. I was an idiot, of course that’s why I was there. I had discovered that before her death, Helen was a psychiatric nurse for a children’s home in the middle of nowhere. She must have heard that I was successful and figured I could afford to make some brat’s Christmas a little jollier at the expense of her untimely demise. I really fell into the trap this time.

Schwartz waved his hands and shook his head. “No, no, nothing like that! The details of the stipulation are sealed in this envelope. She only wanted you to know what was needed and never discussed it further with me except to tell me that the inheritance could be released to you once you verbally tell me that it is done.” He then held up a red envelope, the kind that might have contained a Christmas card.

“That’s all? Well, what’s to stop me from just telling you I did whatever it is to get the stupid thing? This feels like a sick joke…”

He continued to hold the envelope out to me, not once wavering. “She said that you are too noble to lie in order to receive something unearned,” was his unwavering answer. I couldn’t help but scoff. She knew nothing about me, except my name and maybe my net worth. I snatched the envelope from his ruddy hand and made my way to the door. “I imagine this is probably the exact scenario you envisioned you’d find yourself while you studied for the bar,” I muttered with the shrill of the hinges. He forced a laugh, not moving from his desk. “Nothing ever prepared me for the death of Helen Anderson.” Snow was falling in slight drifts carried by the wind when I stepped out of Schwartz’s building. I detested the cold and I certainly despised snow, which was one of many reasons I preferred Arizona. The sooner I finished this silly business I could get on the next plane home and end the year on a positive note. After I climbed into my rental car and started the engine for the heat, I carefully opened the red envelope. Amusingly enough, it actually did contain a Christmas card, featuring a shocked child peeking through a staircase banister at a shadow that apparently belonged to Santa Claus busily placing gifts under a tree. When I opened the card, a small brass key fell into my lap. It was nothing special, but it did have the number 134 inscribed in its center.

Merry Christmas, Michelle. I hate that we had to meet under these circumstances, but better late than never. I also hate that just after meeting I must ask you for a favor. Trust me, I’m generally not someone who would ask favors from a stranger, but I’ll make an exception just this once. This key belongs to a safe deposit box at First Financial here in town, box 134. Inside that box is something extremely important, far more important than you can possibly imagine. All that I need you to do is take the contents to the address you will find once you open the box. The less that you know the better, and please trust me on this. No, it’s nothing illegal so you don’t have to worry about getting mixed up with my affairs or have it affect your internet business. By the way, I checked out your website before, well, dying. I must say I’m impressed! Not that it matters much to you what a dead relative should think. Thank you for coming this far, I knew that I could count on you. I assure you that the reward matches the effort that you will put into finishing this task for me.

Helen Elizabeth Anderson November 29, 2014 This woman was insane. This had to be a prank! I looked around to see if anyone was filming me for my reaction, but as far as I could see I was the only one parked and the road was empty. It didn’t make any sense… why me? Of all of the people in the world, why would she send for me, a distant cousin on the other side of the country, to do something that she could have just had a neighbor or her own brother finish? My head was beginning to throb at the reality that I might have very well been putting myself into a bad situation. All for an inheritance that might not have even existed! This was too much… And then, I took a deep breath and read the card again. I searched it for any clues, capital letters, or odd phrases. The entire thing was odd. She said that the less that I know the better. If that didn’t sound like dirty dealings then I don’t know what did. The smartest thing that I could do was take this key right back to that smarmy Schwartz and head home right away.

Instead, I plugged the directions for the bank into my navigator and put the rental into reverse. I came this far, I had to at least know what was in this mysterious safe deposit box. If it was something dangerous, I would return the key and leave and pretend I never made this trip. I would move on with my life and never think about Helen or this stupid request again.

A small lady led me to the safe deposit room and left me alone after bringing me to box 134. From first appearances it seemed like just an average box. It was larger than the rest, so that was initially interesting. I inserted and turned the key. Once I opened it, I was greeted by something that I was not expecting: a small shoebox that had once contained light up tennis shoes for a little girl. A large sticky note was placed on the lid. Hello Michelle, long time no write! You are doing well and are nearly at the end of this short journey. Please take this box to 441 Yellow Ln. The lady there will know what to do with it and you will be free to go back to Schwartz for your inheritance.

Don’t open the box. I understand you are curious, so I’ll just tell you what it contains. It’s a novel that I wrote. It took me a long time to put it together because it had to be done in secret. Now it’s finally finished and it is your job to take it to the publisher. Make sure the lady knows that it must have a red cover. I don’t care how it’s formatted or if it has pictures, but make sure it has a red cover.

All the best in life and death, H.E.A. December 12, 2014 A novel. All of this work to take a manuscript to a publisher. I couldn’t help laughing right there in the middle of the silent room. Would I take a shoebox supposedly containing a finished novel to a publisher? You are damn right I would. I honestly would have done just about anything at this point just for the closure. Yes, I did exactly as I was told. I carried the small shoebox to an elderly woman who greeted me with surprise at the door. As the note said, she was expecting me and took the box gratefully. She mentioned knowing Helen for some time before and was happy to know that she was finally at peace. It was a strange conversation. How peaceful could a death like that have been? She was mangled and hardly recognizable when she was found, and from everything I learned today she fully expected to die, and soon. What healthy thirty-year-old has a Last Will and Testament prepared along with a scavenger hunt for a distant relative to complete? None other than Helen Elizabeth Anderson.

It was nearly five when I arrived back at Schwartz’s building. The street lights illuminated the street and walk, glistening with that freshly fallen snow that still carried on the wind like a whisper in the twilight. I had made it just in time, I could see him through the frosted window of the door grabbing his coat from the hall tree when he spotted me and waved for me to come in.

“I wasn’t sure I would ever see you again,” he smiled and unlocked his office door.

“Neither was I, but I figured what the hell… might as well go on an adventure or else let her haunt me for the rest of my days,” I answered with a shrug and followed him. He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a final red envelope, this time a bit larger than the last.

“Congratulations for completing the stipulation. Deepest condolences on your loss.” I decided not to open the envelope until I was back home. How I withstood the curiosity the entire flight and ride back I’ll never fully understand, except I was too wrapped up with my thoughts to really worry about it. I found myself wondering more and more about Helen’s short life, how she could have pressed forward after her daughter’s death and continued to work through what must have been unbearable grief. I wanted more than anything to know how she died, was it really suicide or something more grim? However it happened she knew that it was coming, that much I was certain.

It was good to be home, to shake the cold and stress at the door and relax in familiarity again. I took the red envelope from my purse and sat on the couch. Finally, it was time to see what Cousin Helen had left me in her will.

There were three things in the envelope. The first was a final note from Helen. You did it, Michelle. Unlike me, you didn’t buckle under the pressure and you did the one thing that I couldn’t do. For that, I am immensely grateful. You will never truly know what you have done for me, so I reward you with my most prized possessions.

The first is a check written to you for the amount of $12,665. To someone like you I’m sure this is meager pocket change, but to me this was the exact amount I had socked away to escape a horribly toxic situation with my daughter. But life and fate didn’t work in our favor and my little girl was taken from me before we could leave. I hope that this money might help you accomplish a dream you might have. I wish you all of the happiness this nasty world affords you, and I hope with enough time and good news you might forget that cold day in Illinois and wipe me completely from your mind. Despite everything, I did have an interesting life filled with enough wonder and amazement than I’ll ever be able to carry to the next life. Oh, and the last thing I leave you is a bauble that fulfilled its purpose long ago. I don’t need it anymore. Just looking at it brings me pain. Perhaps it could aid you in some way, I don’t know. Its existence might have chained me to a lifetime of mystery, but as I said, it did serve quite a purpose in the end.

Goodbye, noble cousin, H.E.A. December 12, 2014 She was right, there was a check for $12,665 written to me and dated 12/12/2014. There was also a necklace at the bottom of the envelope, a small crystal vial stained a strange red color internally on a silver chain.

I felt a chill run through me as I clasped the chain around my neck. December 12, 2014. Only three days before her body would be found. What a gruesome inheritance.


Thirty thousand feet up in the air, why decide that this row was the right one to move him to. Certainly, there’s more legroom, but there’s also the sensation. Looking to the left, ideas begin to form. The little voice says, “Do it. Do it and let yourself go.” But he can’t. Thinking about the plunge. The sensation of falling. Stomach dropping, G-forces rippling his face, tearing at his eyes, his clothes. Attempting to rip him apart before he inevitably strikes the ground at hundreds of miles per hour. And after the impact, darkness. The end. Yet that can’t happen. As the stewardess hands him his peanuts, he returns his attention to page twenty-three of the financial report he owes his boss when he lands. He pours himself a drink. A four and a half hour flight with two-hour delay, three hours to his office because of traffic, twenty minutes of listening to his boss yell at him because he’s such a failure and another hour home. Drinking his scotch, his mind returns to the row. The sensation that almost overwhelmed him. That almost forced him to leap from thirty thousand feet. That almost ended him. Here it was again. Dragging himself to the balcony he looks over the edge. The people seem so small and insignificant from his vantage point, as if they were ants, following their daily routines. He gazes up at the iconic statue, stationed in the harbor, which once welcomed his great-grandparents to the home of the brave. He climbs up onto the railing; still undecided. A flag whips about in the gust of wind. And a woman screams.


Frank sits down at his desk in his home office. He pulls out some paper and his favorite fountain pen. He looks outside his window to the large flower garden that his wife has spent much time growing. He admires all the different types of lilies and chrysanthemums, among others, and the various blooms each one produces. He watches his wife, Wendy, as she meticulously trims one at a time. Frank looks at the paper in front of him and starts to write his will. I, Franklin P. Daniels, being of sound mind and body, hereby declare this document to by my last will and testament. He sat there for a moment and thought about everything he had that he wanted to leave to his loved ones. His large home in the country with a hundred acres; the bank account that keeps him and his wife financially stable; and the investments that continues to load the bank account with more money. All his earthly possessions added up to well over ten-million dollars, according to Stan, his accountant and best friend. “To list each possession will be a chore,” Frank thought to himself. He started to write down the name of each person that he wanted to leave something to – His wife, the two children, and Stan. Each person meant a lot to Frank, and each would get what he believed they deserved. He met Wendy 40 years ago and has been married to her for thirty-seven of those years. His oldest son, Steven, is thirty-eight has never once questioned why he was older than they were married. The youngest, Michelle, is thirty-one, and she did the math in her head a long time ago. Frank remembers when she came to him in his office and asked why Steven was a year older than we were married. Frank’s answer was a lie. He told Michelle that he and her mother were together one last time before he had left for the war. It was a couple of months later that he found out she was pregnant. They would be married when he returned, after Steven was born. Frank never did tell Michelle the truth that Steven was not his son. He thought it would bring up more questions than he had answers for at the time. Wendy was the only other person to know this, and they never spoke of it. Not even Steven’s real father knew the truth about him. Frank believed both of his children were fantastic kids. Each one graduated Magna Cum Laude and ended up with wonderful careers and families. He could not be more proud of them. Stan was Franks best friend and had been since elementary school. They met in the sixth grade when his family moved next door. They quickly became comrades and have been for sixty years. Stan was there for Frank’s graduation from high school, and then his college roommate in Stanford. When Frank got married to Wendy, Stan was his best man. Stan was more like a brother to Frank than a friend. They had been through a lot together and nothing ever tore them apart. Frank remembered when he had found out about his pancreatic cancer, Stan was the first one he told. He helped him come up with the words to tell Wendy and the kids and stood by his side when he did. Frank looked down at the paper again and started to write. To my wife, I leave the home and all the investments. To my children, Steven and Michelle, I leave my bank accounts divided evenly amongst the two of you. To Stan, I leave one cent. To all of you, I leave you with this knowledge… Back in 1968, the year Steven was conceived, and I was in Europe on business, I know Wendy was “comforted” by someone other than me. (Wendy knows who.) During my absence, Wendy fell into temptation of a great man. Someone better than myself. Someone that I have admired for years. From that brief encounter, Steven was conceived and born.

Stan, I know that you were that man. I have known since 1968.

Steven, I give to you your real father, Stan. And Stan, I give to you your son, Steven. Wendy, I know you did not want anyone to know, but if you are reading this, then I am no longer around to hide it any longer. I thought it would be best if you were honest with Stan and Steven. They each deserve to know the truth. Frank knew putting this in his will would be the only way the truth would get out. Frank loved Stan like a brother, and he did not want to bring up that he knew without knowing how he would react.

When you find out your best friend had an affair with your wife while you were away is bad, discovering that she got pregnant from it is even worse. While Frank was finishing his will, a knock came on his office door. “Yes. Come in,” Frank said. Steven walks in. “Ah, Steven, how are you?” “I’m fine, dad. How about you?” Ever since Frank was diagnosed with cancer, Steven was always there for him. The love and respect they had for each other could only be compared to that of the bond Frank had for Stan. There was nothing that could tear it apart, no matter what challenges were faced. “What can I do for you, son?” Frank said. “Mom just asked me to check on you,” Steven said. “I guess you’ve been in here all morning and she was just worried.” “I’m fine,” Frank said with a smile. “Your mom is probably just worried because of this dam disease.” “Do you blame her, dad?” Steven said. “We all know it’s getting close to the end. I want you to know I’m here for you. Don’t go and hide on us when it’s time. You need us to help you through this.” “You’re right, son,” Frank said. “I promise I will let you know if I’m not doing well.” “Can I ask what you’re working on?” Steven said. Frank thought for a moment. “I guess I can tell you. I’m working on my will.” “You’re will?” Steven said. “I thought you had already done that?” “I did,” Frank said. “There were a couple of changes I had to make. Nothing major. Just something I wanted to add for everyone.” Frank stood from his desk and walked into the living room with Steven. Two days later, Frank would die. The reading of the will took place the next day. Things would never be the same afterwards.


It was a cold night. Snow wouldn’t fall for another six weeks. The earth was still soft. Clumps of dirt clung onto the man’s shovel. He was three feet deep in a two by six foot hole. Black mounds of fresh dirt grew with each swift motion of the shovel. He was of slender build, but muscular. His face was neither handsome nor ugly; one that you would see often and confuse for an acquaintance. However his eyes you could not forget. They were windows into an unblinking abyss The shovel completed its purpose and was temporarily discarded atop the detritus. The man crawled out the pit and in the darkness fumbled to find a large plastic bag. He gripped the edges tightly and dragged it back into his work. It slipped inside, the sounds of splashing liquids and wet things emanating from inside. The man abandoned the hole and grasped his tool once more. With precise motions he began to fill the pit. When the task was completed he turned and walked into the darkness The night enveloped all things. A normal person would’ve become lost, but the man walked with an almost supernatural sense of direction. He avoided trees, rocks and half frozen puddles. The wilderness soon gave way to cultivation then a dirt road. He walked up the road until he came upon a parked car. He opened the trunk and threw the shovel among the various tools inside. Then took possession of his vehicle and began to drive up the road towards lights in the distance As the car approached the lights the familiar structures of a gas station became visible. The man glanced at his fuel gauge, quarter tank. He gripped the wheel tightly with both hands and slowly turned towards the pump. He pulled in and cut the engine. The fuel cap popped open and he stepped out into the desolate business. A single flickering light illuminated the solitary pump. A small shack a few meters from it had a small neon red “OPEN” sign. He did his business, sixty liters straight not a drop more He returned the pump to its holster and walked over to the shack. Before he could open the door it flung open and a small woman stepped out. As she did the “OPEN” sign faded. The man and the woman silently looked at each other as the door closed shut behind her “Who are you?” she asked “Nobody; I just filled up my tank. Wanted to get a snack for the road” “Tough luck I just locked up” “I see” the man answered slowly. He looked behind the woman then glanced around the empty gas station. “Are you all alone?” The woman slowly began to walk away from the man keeping her eyes on him. “No, I suggest you get going. There are some strange things in these parts” The man’s face contorted into a sinister smile. “But I haven’t had my snack” he chuckled The woman quickly turned and began sprinting away from him. The man didn’t move a muscle. He silently looked as the woman ran up the road. When she was no longer visible, he took in a deep breath with his nostrils and hunched over. Lowering his body to the dirt he stretched out his hands as his smile grew ever larger. The skin began rip and blood flowed from the cracks. His eyes glowed yellow in the dark. Then suddenly he began to run The woman had made it some distance from the gas station when he caught sight of her. She had tried to stay silent in the dark but as he had approached she began to scream. “HELP, OH GOD HELP” The man or the creature wearing the skin of a man stayed silent. It moved with a frightening speed. Tears and blood stained urine fell from the woman. The creature stretched out its hand and took hold of her. She screamed and thrashed violently like a fish out of water. But the creatures hand only dug deeper into her soft skin, its nails drawing blood. It violently forced her to face it. Yellow eyes glared into brown and the woman fell silent. The woman stopped moving, as if in a trance she slowly opened her mouth. The creature opened its own wider ripping its disguise. Hair began to fall in clumps onto the road. Then the ears and the nose fell in a bloody mess. As the skin and flesh peeled away the skeleton underneath was revealed. The white of the skeleton was covered in roots. Black pulsating tendrils coiled around them. They held the frame of the man together and commanded it to hold the hypnotized woman However the yellow eyes stayed glowing in a faceless skull. The tendrils began to writhe, moving slowly towards the woman’s open mouth. They crawled up from the legs up the spine and down the arms into her mouth. As they did the light from the eyes faded. Then eventually they went dark as the last of the roots made their way into their new host. The wet skeleton fell atop the flesh that once covered it. The woman was motionless for a moment then her eyes glowed yellow She smiled and began walking towards the gas station. She opened up the shack and took any cash she could find. Then locked up and drove the man’s car to his remains. She opened up the trunk and took out the shovel and a large plastic bag. The man went into the bag with a little dirt. Once she was finished she threw her previous host in the trunk and drove back down the road. Stopping near where the man had originally taken it. She took the bag and shovel through the woods back to the clearing.


Some of my friends say I’m odd. They all probably think it. But they make a point of saying that it’s nice  odd. It’s not the kind of odd that’s embarrassing or awkward.      “Sometimes I can’t quite make you out, Irene,” my friend Sonia said the other day. “You’re a conundrum. A contradiction.” Irene is an aspiring writer and a darned good writer too, but she does sometimes seem to feel compelled to prove the fact by over-use of alliteration!      “How so?” I asked, though of course I knew the answer.      “Well, sometimes you seem to be miles away, and yet you have a capacity for getting things done quickly, too.”      Such a practical reply was both reassuring and vaguely disappointing. Deciding there was no harm in recycling a good phrase, I said, “Well, perhaps in some ways every one of us is a conundrum and a contradiction.”      I think Irene and I would probably have been friends anyway, but we also, well, at least on the surface, have a great deal in common. We’re both mature students, but unlike some of our fellow mature students, we don’t have commitments to care for children or elderly relatives. The best of both worlds, you might say. But it also means we don’t necessarily “fit” into the convenient groupings. My Grandma, a golden-hearted but plain talking Yorkshire woman (sometimes the stereotypes are right!) used to describe such things as Neither t’other nor Which . At least, I always used to think that was what she said. I bear a certain resemblance to her. The unusually high forehead, and the figure that kinder folk call “rounded”. There’s a lot to be said for fringes and loose tops.

     It was quite a difficult decision for me to leave my job in the Health Food store (though the owner, Merle, never liked that term) and take up my interrupted education. I was happy there. I had found my niche, and Merle knew perfectly well, and acknowledged, that I knew more than she did about – well, let’s say certain elements of the work than she did, but I had no interest in the admin side, so was quite content to remain her assistant. But I suppose it was something that I’d known all along I was going to do. “And I won’t stand in your way, or try to,” she said, “I know what you’re like with your history, and if you don’t take this chance you’ll always regret you didn’t.” Perhaps I should explain what she meant by this chance . There was a window when the local council were offering grants for mature students – to finance their retraining. The theory was that it was to help fill skills shortages, but I was lucky enough to deal with people who interpreted that loosely. Though another of Gran’s sayings was that we make our own luck.

     I like my course, and am putting in the necessary work, and my tutors are happy with me. But I’ll make no secret of the fact that access to the university’s resources and archives is at least as appealing as any return to the groves of Academe or the thought of the qualification (useful or otherwise) at the end of it.

     The History department isn’t one of those that completely ignores Kings and Queens and Presidents and Parliaments and Wars and engineering feats on principle. And I have no problems with that. But they’re very big on local history and social history and all that, and that suits me absolutely fine.

     My thesis is on the “hidden feminists” in village life back in medieval and Tudor times, and how women were often not just the power behind the throne but the power behind the farm and the power behind the loom and sometimes in front of them. It’s interesting and revealing, but I’m not going to pretend it was triggered by wholly academic interest.

     I hope this doesn’t sound condescending, but I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for anyone who grew up entirely without their Gran’s stories. And I hope this doesn’t sound like boasting, but I reckon you would search far and wide to find someone whose stories equalled the ones Gran told!      She was, of course, perfectly literate, and sometimes read to me from her favourite books, many of which are still my own. She was a good reader; never flashy, never pedantic, her voice low but clear. Still, both of us preferred it when she put the books to one side and told her own tales. She sometimes joked, resignedly, but without rancour, that she was bilingual, she could either talk Yorkshire or talk proper depending on the circumstance and the listener. It was true, but if wasn’t even a quarter of the story. There were nuances and transitions, and sometimes she spoke with an accent that was neither proper nor Yorkshire, but seemed to come from other times and other places. In interviews and on forms I might well say that my grandmother originally piqued my interest in social history and genealogy.

And that, too, is true. But there is a difference between the surface skim of truth and the layers beneath it. On both sides of her family, quite a few people had married and borne children late, so living memory “at one remove” went back further for me than it did for many people.

     But though I loved the stories of Great Great Grandmother Sybil who delivered the Lady of the Manor’s firstborn when the doctor was held up in the snow, and of Great Great Uncle Leonard who went down the pits when he was only 13 but ended up as a schoolmaster, the ones I loved best went back further than that. Much further. Gran sometimes used the phrase I don’t know how many greats  and I suspected that she probably did, but was too interested in the story to hold it up with repetition and tedious chronology.

I don’t know how many greats  Aunt Betsy, who was always called that, never Bessie or Betty or Beth or her full name Elizabeth, lived in the time of the English Civil War.

     “And rum times they were, too,” Gran said. “She lived down Suffolk way, I reckon near Lowestoft as is now.”      Gran’s attitude to the Civil War, on which she was a bit of an expert though she said she had never studied history since she was 14, was somewhat ambivalent. She said that the Cavaliers were probably the lesser of two evils, “But neither of them had much time for our sort, and that’s a fact. Still, it was worse in other places.” When she said that, her eyes, which were generally bright and beady right into old age, seemed to have a shadow in them. “What is it, Gran?” I asked, when I must have been about 10 or 11. “Just – thinking, lass,” she said. “Just thinking.” One of her most prized possessions was a picture – well, a copy of one, of course – that might have been a likeness of Betsy. “I can’t vouch for it,” she said, “Our sort didn’t generally have their likenesses painted, and some reckon it’s Wilhelmina Marriot – little Lady Wilhelmina – from the Big House. Betsy’s Mam was a servant there, I’m not sure if she was a lady’s maid or a parlourmaid, and it seems, though in a way it pains me to admit it, that the nobs treated them well enough, and Betsy was allowed to play with Wilhelmina when the two of them were lasses, though they put a stop to it later.”      “She certainly has the family fringe,” I said, weighing up the image of a little girl that was faded, and not even that well-painted, but still had something intriguing and wonderful about it.      Gran looked uneasy, and for once, flustered, as she said quickly, “Well, I wouldn’t go reading too much into that. You know what little lasses are for copying each others’ hairstyles and I reckon it was always that way.”      Later on, after Gran’s death, I managed to find out a bit more about Lady Wilhelmina, and it was a sad story. She was married – and the phrase married off  sprung to mind – to a man called Ambrose, who was more than a decade older than she was. Though I only had the bare bones of a family tree and no evidence at all that he ill-treated her – for all I knew he could have been a loving husband – I wove my own story round her. Anyway, she died in childbirth, and the baby too. I say there was only the family tree, but other stubs and snippets of tales told hundreds of times over had managed to slip through the cracks of time, and one of them was that in the throes of labour she cried out, “I want Betsy! Only Betsy can help me!”      That was the only reference to Betsy I could find at all, yet she was more real and alive to me than the unfortunate Wilhelmina.

     Gran’s stories could go back even further than that. Betsy had an I don’t know how many times great  grandmother (or possibly Aunt) called Hepzibah, who – according to the story – had been quite inspirational in her home area (which was still Suffolk, or possibly Norfolk) in inspiring and ministering to the participants in the Peasants’ Revolt.      “Like a kind of Joan of Arc!” I exclaimed.      There was that flash of darkness, but even darker, and Gran merely muttered, “You could say that, lass.”

     “I wish I’d known your Gran,” Sonia said, “She sounds like a real character.” At first I wasn’t sure I was happy with that, as a real character  can be a kind of code or euphemism for someone who’s frankly tiresome, but I was pretty sure Sonia didn’t mean it that way, and didn’t bristle, only saying, “She was, though she said herself she was only one link in a long chain.”      I was genuinely fond of Sonia, and was distressed when in our second year at the university she began to develop frequent and debilitating headaches. As anyone would, she put them down to stress or eye-strain, and fretted that she might be developing migraine – her Mother was afflicted with it, and so she knew exactly how horrible it could be. Finally she gave in and went to the doctors about it, and was sent for an EEG, and was far braver waiting for the results than I ever would have been. You can imagine her relief – and mine – when they found absolutely no evidence of a tumour. “So I suppose I’ll just have to put up with it and take painkillers, not that they always do much good,” she said. “I’m more inclined to think it’s NOT migraine, as I don’t have any nausea – I suppose I should be thankful for that, at least! – and have found out on the Internet about Cluster Headaches – men have them more often, but women can.”      Well for all my good intentions and for all I was quite happy, thank you, with my normal life, I couldn’t let a friend suffer when there was at least the possibility I could help. Still, I didn’t know how she would react when I made the offer! Generally very good natured, she could be scathing about what she called snake oil  though she was never actually rude about my former employment. “Sonia,” I said, almost too casual, “Why not let me have a go at helping you? I know you’re not into alternative therapies,” (I intensely disliked that term, but made myself use it) “but they can’t do any harm.”      “Irene, I’ll try anything, unless it’s potentially poisonous or from an endangered species,” she said, “though, no disrespect, as a lot of it’s probably the placebo effect, that hardly makes me an ideal patient!”     I could have told her what a fallacy that was, but she wouldn’t have believed me. Mind you, she wasn’t entirely wrong. Though the calming fragrant tea I made her and the poultice I put on her brow might well have some sedative effect and were very pleasant, they were only what Gran called trappings . If needs must I could have managed without them. “Well, if nothing else I’m being pampered,” Sonia said. “I could get used to this, though I don’t suppose I’d be allowed a glass of wine instead of the tea!”      “I’m afraid you’re right,” I said, whilst thinking that it probably wouldn’t make that much difference either way. Then I concentrated on the matter at hand.      I hope this doesn’t sound like bragging, but Sonia was decidedly more surprised than I was when it  seemed to be working. She went a couple of days without a headache, then a week, then a month. “Oh, Irene,” she said, giving me a little hug, “You’ve well and truly converted me!”      “Don’t talk daft, as Gran would have said,” I replied. I’m not keen on that word convert. It has unfortunate connotations, though of course Sonia had no way of knowing that.

     There is satisfaction, though, in a job well done, especially when it helps a friend out.

     I had the hint of a headache myself earlier on today, and, it’s just one of those things, my methods don’t work so well on myself. That’s normal enough, Gran said, and yes, it could be bloody vexing. Still, it wasn’t that bad, certainly not like Sonia’s suffering, and I decided that at least some of it was the heat. It’s turned suddenly warm and at times like this I wish I didn’t have to wear that heavy fringe.      But I do, of course. It wouldn’t do for anyone else to see my third eye. My witch’s eye.