Cosmic Static  There lies a sole, lonely universe. Comprised only of dirt, metal, stone, and darkness. However, far into the deepest expanses of the cosmos, in the furthest corner of the universe is a light. A light that would shine for so short a time that, within the infinite existence of the cosmos, was so short lived that it may as well have never have shined at all. This light named “life.” If this planet could see out into the infiniteness of the night sky, it would learn of its folly; it would see a desolate, inert universe and realize that life was not inevitable. Life had erupted on this one rock and no other. Placed there by nothing, observed by no one. An isolated anomaly – unprotected, destined to fall back into darkness at some point, never to be light again. The unknown jewel of the universe, slowly wilting like a single tree in an endless desert. The mysteries of the fundamental forces of the universe are never discovered; no higher meaning is ever found. Humanity does not get the opportunity to reach the edge of knowledge or the highest forms of art and expression. It is stopped in its journey before it can look over the edge of the fabric of existence and know for sure just what it all is and exactly what it all means. A story that ends mid-sentence with blank pages afterwards that extend outwards into the infinite. Nothing is left to ponder the beginnings of all that is, nothing is left to imagine what will come to happen next. This light was not one of many in a great chain of life and death with some higher meaning behind it all. There was no light before, and no light afterwards. After the last vestiges of life blink from existence, there is silence. One life, one death. I am struck with a fear of being implicit in the mass ignorance of the majesty of our anomalous existence. No thing and no one is here to be delighted or profoundly awestruck by this light in the darkness except for me. How, then, can I be content to live unamazed by the fact that I have not only eyes but things which to see? How can I, in good conscious, wallow in apathy and boredom when I was cast by some accident in this theatrical performance with one stage, one showing, no audience, no falling curtain, and no casting call? The day will come when our theater has decayed and rotted and the actors slow down and shrivel onto the ground, mid-act, just as some semblance of a plot seemed to be brewing. There will be no audience to clap at the artistic brilliance of a story that ends without explanation. The music and beauty and love of the Earth will never reach far away ears. It will simply cease to be. The cosmic radio with one channel had for so long played nothing but cosmic static. But then, for the briefest of moments, played some kind of music unheard of and unimaginable by the senseless universe that had accidentally given birth to eyes. Fantastic, fascinating music from this world that wreaked of personality, of history, or interconnectedness and love and a thousand other things that never had been and never would be again. That music slowed down and stopped, falling back into static. “zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.” Nothing listened to this radio and nothing would ever wonder what that song was or what it meant. There was nothing, there was something, there was nothing. No one to happen across the remnants of our world that, at one point, had teemed with life and wonder what it was like it its glory days. No one to imagine the things that were said or question the things that were done. No one to wonder at the stories it must have told. The quirks and secrets of life will fall below the pages and fade into dust and ash. There then is presented a choice within each of us; within each of the beings that has the spark of life within them. The choice between succumbing to the ideals of dirt, metal and stone, or the ideals of the light. The decision to give into the light. To succumb to its ways. To sing a song that will never be heard and that will never hold any whisper of meaning simply because something in the deepest, most central part of this thing we call existing tells us that we must sing – if only for the sake of having sung. What is there to do besides make this light the most brilliant, most fearsome light to have ever shined before it wanes and falls back into the dark, unremembered. This light switch turned on and off again. Flipped by no one, illuminating nothing. This one blip on the cosmic radar. Unexplained, unquestioned, bordered on both sides by endless, empty time. What are we to do with our role in this play that no one will ever see? With this one chance to make whatever we hold in our hands into the brightest version of whatever it has the potential to be. The day comes when there is no more passion, no more dreaming, and no love. No philosophy or friendship or desire or art. No more stories of good overpowering evil forces or the formations of love and family. Before the end of all things, in this strange and wonderful time that we have called life that has never happened and never will again, how are we to live? Will we close our eyes, hold our breath, and dive headfirst into what it means to be alive? To seek out every feeling and every sight – laying our eyes only upon honor, desire, friendship and color. To love all of our cosmic brothers and sisters with whom we have the privilege of sharing this first and last hurrah of life and love. How could we not be inspired? Inspired by our species’ brilliant stabs into the dark unknown. Our stabs into the stars that brought us to our moon, so far from the rest of the immortal universe but so profound to us. Our stabs into math and science to find the foundation of what we know and to understand the fabric of this physical existence, for no reason other than the fact that something within our mortal hearts tells us to dig deeper and to fly higher. As we fall, each of us, into the dark abyss of death one by one, will we smile for having gotten to take part in this silly little accident that shined a light upon a world and opened eyes to, if for a moment, behold the glory of all that is? Will we be able to rest easy knowing that we loved as much as we were able, took every opportunity into adventure and grandeur, stayed kind to our fellow accidents and remained uniquely and genuinely ourselves, all throughout the morning, day, and evening, and could now lay our heads and gratefully fall back, forgotten, face first into the night.


Larry Norris was a sixteen year old boy who was a dreamer. He was often chastised in class for looking out the window. One day, his teacher asked what he was looking at in the middle of English class and turned to her and smiled. “Did you ever wonder what it would be like to be able to ride a cloud?” Everyone in class laughed. But, Larry wasn’t laughing. He looked around and started laughing at them. “You people have no imagination.” That statement didn’t exactly make him a real popular guy.

But, Larry didn’t care. They could laugh at him all they wanted. When it was announced that the carnival was coming to town, he was very excited. “The carnival is going to be a lot of fun,” he announced to his cousin Loni. She was one of the few people who hung with him. “Are we going to go together?” “It sounds like a plan, cousin.” So on the opening day of the carnival, the two of them went off to see the lights and sounds and sights. They ate cotton candy and rode all of the fun rides. He tried very hard to win her a teddy bear at those rigged games. It took a while, but he did win her one. She kissed him on the cheek. They saw the sign for the ‘World of Wonder Show’ and decided that it would be a lot of fun.

“I think it is a freak show,” said Loni. “You mean women with beards and Dog Boy and that stuff?” “Absolutely,” she said with a smile. “Okay, let’s go look at the freaks. Some people think I am a freak.” “Larry, you aren’t a freak, you are just unique.” “That’s what I always thought.” So they paid their money and went inside the tent. The person that was accepting the cash was the strongman. Larry, who was tall enough and no weakling stood next to him flexing his muscles, while his cousin took a picture. There was laughter all around. They sat down and watched the show. There was a psychic and she was rather amazing.

She pointed at Loni and said: “You are a very bright girl at mathematics and someday you will discover a new planet or star and it will be named after you.” Loni was very excited because she was a very enthusiastic astronomy aficionado and loved the idea of having a planet — even a dwarf planet — or star named after her. “I think she’s amazing,” whispered Loni to her cousin. He just nodded his head. The man that swallowed swords was also very cool. There was a guy who bent objects with his mind including spoons and forks and knives. It was a freak show, but it was also a fun show. While Loni and the rest of the audience was enchanted and entertained, for Larry the entire universe had opened up. He knew where he belonged. When the show was over they stood up and whistled and clapped with the rest of the audience.

“That was so great,” said Loni with a huge smile. “It was earth-shattering.” They filed out of the tent and drifted for a while. “I am getting tired and it is time to go home.” Loni smiled at her cousin. “It sounds like a good idea.” “But, I have to go to the bathroom first.” “Okay, I’ll wait for you here.” “All right, I won’t be long.” “Hey, wait one-second before you go.” “What is it?” He hugged his cousin with love. “What’s that for?” “Because I know you and you want to go home and look through that fancy telescope for a planet or star that they will name after you.” She blushed. “I know a lot of people don’t believe in psychics, but that woman didn’t know me and yet she was aware of my passion for astronomy.” “She was good.” “Anyway, I have to go to the bathroom.” She handed him the teddy bear that he had won for her. She went off and he smiled. “Good bye cousin Loni, you are the only one that ever believed in me.” He placed the teddy bear down, turned around and left. It didn’t take long before he was wandering around the back area of the carnival. This was restricted to only the working staff, but he managed to get behind there. He made it look like he belonged and walked with confidence.

A couple of security guards nodded his way and didn’t even ask for ID. Larry made it to the trailers and loved all of the decorations and special paint jobs that each one sported.

“I could spend my whole life here in this special universe.” Meanwhile, Loni had walked out of the bathroom and couldn’t see Larry. Miraculously nobody had stolen the teddy bear. “Larry, where are you?” She turned this way and that way but couldn’t find him. The young girl started to panic and wondered what had happened to him. She went to the ticket booth. “Hello, do you have a lost and found?” “We do, it is next to the cotton candy booth.” “Thanks.” She left and found the Lost and Found Booth. There was a nice looking woman working it. “Hello, I seem to have lost my cousin.” The woman smiled. “And, what is your cousin’s name?” “His name is Larry Masters.” “Do you have a picture of him?” “I do.” She pulled out her phone and there was a selfie they had taken that night when he had finally won her the teddy bear that she still carried. “This is the website that I want you to send it to and then I will forward it to the security firm that is working the carnival.” “Thank you,” she said hoping that this would work. The head of security looked at the photo and scratched his head.

“I could have sworn that I saw this guy tonight.” He sent it out to all of the security team. But, Larry was walking through a part of the carnival that nobody ever saw. It was where the staff went to relax and played cards. He watched the Bearded Woman, the Strongman, the Psychic and Dog Boy playing poker.  Larry didn’t know whether to intrude on the game or just keep floating around. But, the Strongman saw him and waved him over. “Hi, sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt.” “Take a seat young man,” said the Psychic. “Thank you, I really appreciate it.” “Can we deal you in?” “No, I really don’t play.” “That is fine, you don’t have to play.” He smiled in relief. “So, did you like the show?” “It was great. I wish I could be part of it and not just in the audience, but like on stage.” They all smiled and nodded. “Do you have any weird or wonderful talent?” “No, but I have a great imagination.” “We pull out tomorrow morning. You need to talk to the boss, Mr. Young. He might find a spot for you.” The Strongman pulled out a cell phone and dialled a number. A few minutes later, Mr. Young showed up and smiled. “Are you Larry?” “I am.” “Great, if you are interested then you can start at the next site. If you want, you can go home and say goodbye to your parents and siblings.” “I’m good. If I go home there is no way that my parents will let me join the carnival.” “Okay.” The next morning when they pulled out Larry was part of the carny family.


Maddie couldn’t imagine. For everything to be fate would be fine. For God to have created everything for a purpose would work. Even an epic battle between heaven and hell would have meaning. But randomness. That all could change because one stopped for a yellow light rather than rushing through before the light turned red. Unthinkable. Those were Maddie’s last thoughts as she tried to sleep. Δ In the morning Maddie woke before the sun as she always did on runway days. Good to get to the set and walk about in the quiet before her people started arriving. For a perfect show something always had to be fixed last minute. No matter the chaos, she never forgot she lived her dream. Maddie always wanted to work in fashion but, not being pretty enough to model, had to work in the background. For years she accepted every jig in hopes it would push her further up the road where she now lived. After showering and breakfast, Maddie filled her favorite mug with coffee and smiled at the deer print. The landscape mug had been chosen from a mix at her favorite artist’s gallery. With it she went out to her front porch to watch the sunrise and scroll through Facebook. She liked using her downtime to scroll for notices and reviews. Passing through lots of nonsense, she paused at a photo of the New York journalist, Annelies Frank. She’d died. The article was her obituary. Working for Annelies was Maddie’s first set experience and at the end of this week’s success, Maddie was to be interviewed. As it was 6:11 she had another ten minutes before her driver arrived and so tapped the article. Annelies had been ninety-four and great grandmother of seven. There was a photo of her hugging a laughing boy. Δ But this wasn’t true. Maddie no more ran fashion runways than there was a famous New York reporter named Annelies. Tossing in her sleep, Maddie tried to wake but the dream turned and she was clicking on the link. Nearly a hundred years had passed since Annelies was born in 1929. Too many years for Maddie to imagine what that world was like. Among recent reviews, Maddie saw Lady Gaga and Katy Perry, but bypassed those looking for a different interview from 2002. That was Maddie’s first meeting with Annelies and her first time working in any sort of limelight. The 2002 interview stood out in bold yellow type. Tapping that link, brought Maddie to a studio. It was like waking in a memory. Or remembering. Maddie had been so nervous the first time she worked in entertainment. It didn’t matter that journalism was not fashion. She was jittery and more than once had to force herself to slow down and take a breath rather than rush under the lights and cameras. That day, determined to succeed, she learned to turn fear into excitement. She had walked through a door above which a neon sign flashed May 1, 2002. Inside the wide room cameras were being adjusted to focus on the comfortable chairs at the table in the room’s center. Among people doing checks Maddie had seen Annelies’s signature dark head and couldn’t help staring. A woman’s touch on her arm had pulled her from her awe. “Can you check the coffee.” She had pointed to the kitchen. Realizing she was there to serve, Maddie had hurried to find the coffee. Around her the bustling energy of noise and lights enveloped as she had hustled to arrange coffee in cups. She let the feeling sink into her skin so that she felt the shift before the hush fell and lights had gone on. At the back with everyone else, Maddie had been mesmerized as Annelies walked to the table.  She had such presence, even if not famous, eyes would have been drawn to her. Looking at the camera, Annelies had said into the microphone. “As everyone knows last September our government prevented an attack on the World Trade Center. Tonight, I’ve invited two leaders from the civil rights movement to share their insights on these events. Please welcome the man best known for non-violence and peaceful protesting, Mister Martin Luther King.” A senior black man came out to greet her. After they shook hands, she had introduced, “And another leader known for more aggressive talk.” A taller senior man came out. “Mr. Malcolm X.” After they had shaken hands and sat about the table, Annelies smiled from her guests to the camera. “Thank you both for agreeing to this meeting. I must say, Mr. X, that you were the harder person to introduce. You’ve certainly gone through some transformations.” “The world has gone through some transformations,” he had answered with a chuckle. “I know what you mean,” Annelies had agreed. “It seems strange that race used to be such an issue.” It was fascinating to hear the men, in their seventies, discuss their long lives. Maddie’s heart ached when Malcolm X had answered that he’d been certain they were going to be killed back in the sixties. Annelies had begun the interview asking, “Do you think there can be a peaceful solution to the middle eastern conflict that seems to be spilling over into this country?” “Its definitely possible,” Malcolm X had answered. “Let me tell you if we’ve been able to find a peaceful solution for the problems in this country, anything is possible. I still remember being sure, both Martin and I, would be killed in the sixties, but look at us now. I’ll be seventy-seven at the end of this month. My wife and I have been married forty-four years. Back then I never thought I’d live this long.” “And back then you didn’t always agree on how peace could be achieved,” Annelies had asked. “We were always on the same side. The same team or family. Our differences were only ever in opinions not in real value.” “As it is with lots of problems, people likely have more in common if they stopped to look. I think focusing on how we are similar all part of one human creation we would be lots better off than looking for what divides us.” “Always better to choose peace over fear.” They laughed before Annelies nodded and had added, “And what exactly is racism? I mean its divisions in the human races, but how exactly are we suppose to be divided?” “In America, especially in the south, people were divided in categories of black and white,” Mr. King had answered. “But when I was growing up in German, jews were considered a whole separate and inferior race,” Annelies had answered. She was born the same year as Martin Luther King and had grown up Jewish in Germany when people were afraid on the Nazi seizing power. Such a relief none of that happened. Δ The scene faded, and as Maddie realized she was dreaming her alarm went off.  She had to get up before the sun, not to coordinate a runway shoot but to serve breakfasts at a diner. After showering and breakfast, Maddie sat with her coffee and scrolled through Facebook nonsense until passing a child’s familiar photo. Anne Frank’s full name was Annelies Marie Frank. Jewish girl born in Germany in 1929. Killed by Nazi in 1945. Had wanted to be journalist.


There are rules when it comes to being a Prince. For one, sit up straight. Charlie was already failing rule one. His mother coughed at him, pressing her fingers into his back and sending an apologetic look to the photographer in front of them. Sighing, Charlie sat up, his shoulders aching from the position he had been in for the past hour. He let his eyes dart around the room, exploring his surroundings for the tenth time. It was a relatively empty room, with a large arching ceiling. Antique furniture was scattered near the windows and walls, including the patterned red couch Charlie and his family were currently sitting on. Most of the space was taken by camera equipment and a large hoard of staff ready to rush forward and deliver anything he or the royal family needed. It was a lot for a 16-year-old boy to handle. Next to him on the couch were his two younger sisters, Charlotte and Elanor, and on either side of him were his mother, the Queen, and his father. He sat firmly in the middle, as the oldest heir of the Crown. Shifting in his seat, Charlie tried his best not to grimace as his suit tightened around his elbows, stiff and ever so uncomfortable. He expanded his smile, trying to look natural as the lights flashed before him. “Okay.” He heard before him as the photographer stepped away. “That should be good.” “Thank you, Rapheal.” His mother said, her voice as graceful and prominent as always. “Shall we see you next week?” He nodded, and Charlie groaned internally. He should be used to photos by now, but each and every one felt like a thousand years wasted. “Well then, we will just pack up and be out of your way.” Rapheal said, his faint Spanish accent peeking through. “It was an honor, as always, your majesty.” He gave a little bow and Charlie’s mom chuckled. “It’s been three years, Rapheal, please, just call me Elizabeth.” She said before walking out of the room, her footsteps echoing against the white walls. Charlie held back as his family left, directing his attention to a boy with curly brown hair and tan skin. He was holding a notebook close to his chest, and chewing on the tip on a pen as his eyes furrowed with a look of determination. Charlie waltzed up to him, stopping to lean over his shoulder. “You’re doing that thing again.” He spoke, and the boy jumped, his notebook spilling out of his hands and onto the floor. Charlie was quick to grab it, reading the first line he laid eyes on out loud as the boy swatted at him to grab it back. “Hair as gold as honey, smile as smooth as the words that roll of the tongue off their tongue.” He raised an eyebrow as he shut the book and handed it back. “Wow, Lucas. Who’s the lucky girl?” Lucas glared at him, an all too familiar look for Charlie. “No one.” He muttered, turning away to walk toward his father. Charlie recalled the first time Rapheal had come to take photos, when he had just turned 13. He had brought Lucas with him, a deal his mother had made to get him to agree. Lucas had sat there the whole time behind the camera, his head in a bright blue notebook and his hand moving at the speed of light. Charlie remembered peering over his shoulder to read the text, he remembered Lucas’s urgency when he hid it from Charlies curious eyes. Drifting out of the memory, he noticed Lucas walking back toward him. “Hello, Charles.” He said, a tight grip on his “book of secrets” as Charlie called it. “Don’t call me that. You sound like my mom.” Charlie joked, falling to match Lucas’s pace as they headed out the door. “Don’t disrespect the Queen.” Lucas said dryly, knowing all too well that Charlie was, perhaps, the only person who dared to disrespect the Queen. “How dare I.” Charlie said dramatically, throwing a hand to his forehead and falling back in fake anguish. Lucas just rolled his eyes and kept walking, his mind in the clouds and his feet clicking on the pavement with each step. The two boys headed toward the garden, stopping when they came upon a large swinging bench. They sat down, melting into their familiar positions, Lucas with his back against the armrest and legs curled up, Charlie leaning on the other side, legs sprung randomly in the air and head facing the sky. He and Lucas had done this countless times before, and probably would for as long as his father kept taking photos of his family. Charlie placed a foot on the ground, pushing the backward so the seat swung. He began to talk, Lucas humming along as he rambled about the most random things. “You know,” he said, breaking eye contact with the clouds to look at Lucas. “You should sleep over.” “Hmm?” Lucas said, looking up from his book. “Sleep over. You know, like friends do. I just realized you never have before.” He tried to read Lucas's face, but as always it was blank, his eyes empty and undecipherable. “Oh.” He said, his voice faltering. “Okay.” He decided finally before going back to his writing. Charlie slumped his shoulders and looked at him, eyebrows raised. “That wasn’t very convincing.” “What do you mean?” Lucas said, his face hiding in the paper. “You don’t have to sleep over if you don’t want, it was a dumb idea.” Charlie said, a frown forming on his face. Lucas shut his book, looking up at Charlie. “I want to.” He said, more confidently. Charlie’s face lit up. “Really?” He asked, eagerness creeping in behind his words. “Don’t get too excited on me Charles.” Lucas said with an eye roll, and Charlie blushed. “Sorry, it’s just, I’ve never had a sleepover before.” He said, biting his lip in embarrassment. “Really?” Lucas sounded overly shocked, so much so that Charlie couldn’t help but shove him off the swing with his foot. He landed with a thud, glaring up at Charlie as he stood and brushed the dirt off of himself. “That wasn’t necessary.” He said with a scowl that didn’t last very long as soon as it made contact with Charlies overenthusiastic grin. “I think it was.” Charlie grinned, standing up with his hands on his hips. “Well then, onwards.” He said, pointing a hand forward and storming in that direction, leaving Lucas to follow behind slowly. He busted into the castle, heading toward one of the main rooms his mother liked to read in. Sure enough she was there, leaning back in a leather armchair with large round glasses covering her a majority of her face. “Mother!” He exclaimed, a bit too loudly, for she looked up at him with disdain. “Sorry.” He muttered before continuing. “Can Lucas stay over?” Much to his surprise, all she said was a simple “sure.” There was no arguing, no complaining, no talks of signing NDA’s, nothing of the sort. “Have fun boys.” She added before going back to reading her book. Charlie froze for a second, slightly unsure of what the next move was. He decided to mutter a “thanks” and walk out the door, pumping his fist excitedly when it shut. Lucas snorted at the sight. “I’m guessing it was a yes?” He asked, and Charlie nodded shyly. He bounced on his toes awkwardly for a second, staring at the floor. “Yeah.” He muttered, shuffling and fidgeting with his hands. “So.” he said, trailing off before he said anything else. “So.” Lucas responded, poking Charlie on the shoulder playfully. “You don’t know what to do next, do you?” Charlie sighed. “No.” He admitted, hanging his head bashfully. “No, I do not.” Lucas chuckled. “Follow me.” Lucas led them to the kitchen, his hand warm in Charlies as he pulled him along, asking him for directions as he did. They walked into the spacious room, mostly empty except for the head chef Luna sitting on the counter. She looked up as they walked in, waving at the boys. “Hey, Charles. And you must be Lucas!” She greeted him with a large smile. “The usual?” She asked Charlie, and he nodded eagerly. “Two please.” He said as she went back to the fridge. Lucas leaned over to him. “What’s she making?” He whispered, and Charlie grinned slyly at him. A few moments later Luna came back, two large glasses in hand. Charlie took his with a grin, taking a large sip through a straw, the thick, chocolaty liquid cold on his tongue. He nudged Lucas to do the same, smiling as melted into a look of pure ecstasy. When he pulled away, he looked at Charlie with shock. “Oh my god.” He said, taking another large sip. “That’s so good.” Charlie chuckled as he pulled away, as a thick layer of milkshake has covered his top lip. “What’s so funny?” Lucas asked. “It’s just-” Charlie paused to laugh again, his breath coming out in short bursts. “You’ve got a bit on your lip.” He finally managed to say, laughing as Lucas rushed to wipe his face. This action only smudged the chocolatey drink further, spreading onto Lucas’s left cheek. Biting back a giggle, Charlie grabbed a napkin and leaned forward. “Here.” He muttered his hand made contact with Lucas’s face, softly wiping away the mess he had made. “All better.” He said as be pulled away, noticing a small blush form on Lucas’s face. “Thanks.” Lucas managed to stutter, still taken aback by the touch, though he would never admit it, never admit to the comforting warmth of his hand even through the cloth of the napkin. He pushed the thoughts back. “Wanna drink these outside?” He asked, and Charlie grinned. “I have a better idea.” He said, grabbing onto the Lucas’s free hand and pulling him out of the kitchen and up a grand flight of stairs and down a hall until they reached a large wooden door. Charlie swung it open, revealing a large but relatively normal room compared to the rest of the castle. Before he had time to fully inspect his surroundings, Charlie pulled him forward toward another smaller pair of doors, revealing a balcony as he slid them open. It was a rather large balcony, complete with two chairs, a table, and a couch. It overlooked the gardens of the castle, the lush bushes and colorful beds of flowers contrasting to the bland stony walls of the large structure. The view was breathtaking, it felt so real compared to the few parts of the castle that he had seen. They all look unlived in, untouched, frozen in time. This left lively, it felt personal. He took it all in as he leaned up against the railing. Charlie leaned beside him, entranced by the way Lucas’s eyes were exploring the place like his had the first time he had been old enough to appreciate it. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it.” He murmured, just loud enough for Lucas to hear but not enough to shake him from his trance. He nodded in response, finally falling back into focus as he felt the fabric of dress shirt rub against his own t-shirt. He hadn’t even noticed Charlie had ditched the suit jacket he was forced to wear at every photoshoot. “Come on.” Charlie finally said, looking toward Lucas. “Let’s sit down.” They both fell onto the couch, conversing lightly as they sipped from their drinks, mouths full at almost every moment. Lucas guessed this was one of the perks of being a Prince, free milkshakes any time he wanted. It was kind of nice, to be fair, even though Lucas himself disliked the whole idea in general. “How do you do it?” He asked, his mouth forming the words before his brain could catch up. “How do I do what?” Charlie responded, putting his drink down for a moment. “Put up with all of this.” He gestured around aimlessly, not exactly sure what he was saying. He was embarrassed to have asked in the first place, but he might as well keep going now. “Like, if I were you, I don’t think I’d be able to handle it. All the responsibility, the formality, all of it.” Charlie shrugged. “It’s all I’ve ever known, I guess. I mean, it can be hard being in the spotlight all the time, but you get used to it. Plus, it’s not all bad.” Lucas nodded at this, but he couldn’t help but ask another question. “Do you ever wish you were just some normal person out there in the world?” Charlie thought about this for a moment. “Yeah.” He finally decided. “Sometimes. But I'm not, nor will I ever be, so I just have to live with it, you know?” He went back to sipping his milkshake. Lucas just sat in silence. A few hours later the boys returned to the bedroom, after sneaking around the castle grounds and eating a very healthy dinner of grilled cheese and ice cream. Lucas had to admit, having a private chef willing to cook them anything was pretty nice. Once they were there, Lucas got a proper view of the room as he wandered around it for a moment, taking it all in. The first thing he noticed wasn’t the large bed complete with a fancy golden bedframe, or the chest at the end of the bed that looked about a thousand year sold, or even the wooden desk that was carved with an unnecessary number of patterns. It was that in the corner of the room, in a pot on a table next to a leather chair, was a rose. Just a simple red rose, nothing important. Lucas wasn’t even sure why that had been what his eyes were drawn to, out of the many plants in the room. But there was something so simple and plain about it, so unfit for the bedroom of a Prince. “That’s Sharon.” A voice rang out behind him, and he raised an eyebrow as he turned to look at Charlie. “Sharon?” He asked, and Charlie nodded. “Sharon.” He confirmed as he walked around the room, inspecting each plant. He stopped at a plant with large green leaves, taking one in his hand and running his thumb across it. “This ones Adam.” He said before moving on to the next. “And this one's Claire.” He gestured toward a blooming cactus. “And that one.” He said, pointing at some vines hanging on his wall. “Is Vincent.” “Do you name all of your plants?” Lucas asked with a giggle. “Is that a normal thing people do?” Charlie glanced at him. “I’m not normal though, am I?” He said, walking toward his bed and throwing himself onto it, his head facing the ceiling as he spread out his limbs. Lucas moved toward him, sitting delicately on the end of the bed and feeling as the soft mattress sunk beneath him. “So.” Charlie began, his eyes still on the ceiling. “Who’s the poem about?” Lucas blushed. “No one.” He said, his voice coming out more defensive than he had hoped. Charlie sat up and looked at Lucas, who's eyes were now trained on the ground. “Oh, come on!” He said, poking Lucas on the shoulder. “Who’s the lucky girl? Does she go to your school?” Lucas gulped. “I don’t-” He began, but no words followed for a few moments. “I don’t like girls.” He finally finished, his words rushed and full of regret. “Oh.” Charlie said, unsure of what to say next. The silence rang loud for a moment before he finally settled on something. “Who's the lucky guy, then?” He asked, smiling widely as Lucas blushed. But no words followed. Lucas stayed frozen, his eyes unmoving his hands the only part of him that did, shaking ever so slightly in his lap. He wanted to speak, but he couldn’t, it's like the words were stuck to the roof of his mouth. He hadn’t meant to say that, he hadn’t meant to say anything. Each second he didn’t speak felt like a decade, and he was too afraid to look at Charlies face. He heard Charlie move beside him, getting up off the bed and walking toward the desk, shuffling around to find a piece of paper. About a minute later something bumped into his elbow, and he turned to look as a paper airplane fluttered to his side. Reluctantly, he grabbed it, unfolding it to see sloppy cursive written on the sleek white page. *Talk to me, Lucas* Lucas smiled, folding it back up and turning toward Charlie before throwing it at him. It hit him square in the chest, and Charlie fell down on the bed dramatically, groaning in pretend pain. He looked up at Lucas with a reassuring grin. “You don’t have to tell me who it is.” He said, his expression going soft. “Good.” Said Lucas in response before falling down next to him. “Because I wasn’t going to.


Billy drove silently through the city. It was a cool night. The moon was covered by clouds. Good, he thought, his cover won't be blown by its illuminating beam.
Billy turned right onto Green Street. He was in ghetto country. To them, he's just a tourist. A nobody, an outcast. But what a white man doing in this neighborhood, at this time of night, is anyone's guess.
His destination isn't far, but it's easy to get lost in a place like this. And Billy isn't taking the chance to ask for directions. He knew that they would send him someplace worse, and he wouldn't be seen again.
Probably for the best. His boss wouldn't want to get tangled up in this mess. It was supposed to be a quick job. An easy job. No screw ups. One slip up, and it's over. There's no recovery from this.
As he drove, Billy thought about what to do after this job. He took the job to care for his sick mother. Working at the drugstore isn't paying what he needed.
Fortunately, the boss man walked in with his daughter to have a milkshake. He remembers the girl. Brown eyes, brown hair in pigtails. She had on a red and white checkered dress. Billy couldn't see over the counter, but he imagined she wore penny loafers and socks to her knees. This was a uniform at her school. He's seen other girls wear them when they come in for treats or to buy a magazine.
Her hair was disheveled that day, actually. She had gotten into a fight. Her father was giving her a talk.
"What did she do to you?" he asked her.
"She called you a murderer," the girl answered.
The man was silent, probably thinking about what to say. If he were yelling at his cronies, he'd yell a blue streak a mile wide. But Billy could tell that he's the kind of man who refuses to swear in front of his daughter.
"Did you hit her first?" The man finally asked.
"No," the daughter said silently, "not right away. I told her to take it back and to apologize. She kept on doing it, so I hit her."
The girl sucked her vanilla milkshake through her straw.
The man exhaled through his nose.
"Are you a murderer, Daddy?" The girl asked.
He was silent for a long time before saying, "Yes."
The courage this man has to admit to his young daughter that he kills people. This is something you would truly hide about yourself. You wouldn't even tell your diary that you're a killer.
"But I only kill bad people," the man continued, very smoothly. "There are people who are determined to keep good working people from having a decent life. They cut wages, they remove benefits, they set up jobs overseas, they hire minorities to work for less.
"And the people who are hit with this are starving in the streets. These people work hard, save everything they can, to keep a decent home and a running car. And it's people like to their leaders who keep them from doing that. They fall behind, they foreclose, they hide behind dumpsters in the alleyways searching for scraps. Food some uptight pencil pusher sent back because it was cold, it became someone's dinner that night."
The man paused to sip his melting shake. He looked at Billy. Billy quickly looked down and began wiping the counter.
"Young man," he called out to me.
Billy looked at him with fear of being yelled at for staring.
"Do you like your job here?" He asked Billy.
"It's an okay job," Billy said, "It fits my current situation."
"But do you like your job?" He said with a heavy emphasis on "like".
Billy was silent. He understood what the man was doing. He's making me an example for his daughter.
Billy looked over at his current boss. He was sleeping in his office, a small pile of white powder sat on his desk.
"To be honest, sir," Billy finally said, leaning towards him, "I could use some more money."
He nodded his head. He was satisfied with the answer.
"You look like the kind of man who supports his mother," he said.
"Yes, sir," Billy said, "especially now because she's sick."
"Your mother is blessed to have you as a son." He turned to his daughter, "You see, young men like him," he gestured at Billy, "are stuck in terrible jobs like this because of bad people who run this country.
"Go ahead, and let her call me a murderer," the man continued. "Let her see how I help her father bring in more money to buy her  more pretty dresses."
He took out a twenty dollar bill, much more than the cost of two milkshakes, and placed it on the counter. "Keep the change," he said to Billy. "Buy your mother something nice." He turned to his daughter. "Come on, your mother is making dinner."
After they had gone, Billy went to ring up the shakes when hr saw some writing on the bill. It was a handwritten address.
He thought about ignoring it and going about my day, but he felt intrigued. What did the address mean? Billy looked over at his boss again. Still asleep. A dollar short won't kill anyone.
That was a year ago. Since then, Billy has run countless missions for the boss man. He quickly rose through the ranks. He became important. It wasn't easy, but Billy earned respect.
Billy's mother recovered after the boss man sent her to a convalescent home in Florida. She had a wonderful time there, but she suspected that Billy was up to no good. He'd hear her pray at night, "Lord, let Billy find a good job to serve you better." He never understood why she could be ungrateful.
Billy approached his destination, the headlights off. He parked behind a Cadillac. It looked brand new. There was hardly any dirt on it. Such a shame to see a beautiful thing in this horrible place, he thought
Billy crossed the street to the alley between two apartment buildings. He climbed up the fire escape to the fifth floor. The fifth floor window led to a small office.The window was open, it was warm that night. He slid the window up slowly and climbed inside.
Billy tiptoed through the apartment to the kitchen. Through the dark, he saw a small wooden table with four chairs around it. In the corner was a stove and a refrigerator. They were brand new. Each knob on the stove was fitted with a beautifully embroidered towel, thick enough to double as a hot pad. It was without a doubt that they weren't used for that though.
Billy picked one up and swung it over onto a nearby burner. With a turn of a knob, the spiral coil began to glow.
Without thinking, Billy sprinted back to the window. The orange glow behind him grew bigger. Once outside, he slammed the window shut.
Driving away, Billy saw the apartment building go up in flames. He hoped that that would be the last time he had to do that.
Billy pulled up to an all-night diner an hour outside the city. Once parked, Billy turned off the engine. He got out and popped the trunk.
Three people were huddled together inside the spacious area.
"It's safe now," Billy said to them. "Would you like something to eat?"
The little boy nodded.
They were a family the boss man despised. They worked a small store the boss man owned. They had recently caused the store to foreclose because they were overlooking casual shoplifters.
"They threaten the well-being of our community," he said.
My job was to eliminate the threat.
I spent my time between missions with the son. I considered them my family. That was where I drew the line. I'll carry out a mission successfully, but when it comes to my family, it will be them first.
I walked into the diner after the family had gone in. I asked to use the phone. The waitress pointed to a payphone in the corner.
I called my mom. She picked after four rings. "Hello?" she whispered. She was scared.
"Hi, Mom," I said.
"Billy?" she recognized my voice.
"Uhh...listen," I said, "you're not gonna hear from me for a while."
"Wha--wha--," Mom didn't understand.
"Just know that I,uh, that I love you, and uh," I thought for a long time, then said, "your prayers have been answered."
"I...I don't understand," she said.
"I gotta go, Mom."
As I was hanging up the phone, I heard my mother say, "You're a good boy, Billy."
I looked at the family I had rescued. Their son was enjoying some pancakes. I smiled. Then, I walked over and joined them.


Note: Contains references to sexual harassment and bisexual relationship. Elisa was slowly walking through the church hall, approaching the stairs leading up to the church balcony, carrying a bag full of printed sheet music. As of late, the balcony had been her second chosen home, a place to withdraw to or even to lock herself up from the outside world during practice. She yearned for the safety it provided from external impulses, and the clear advantage of not being seen even while being heard. She was acting as a partial replacement of the respected minister of music and organist Mr. McLeod, after he had succumbed to the complications of pneumonia. The post of worship organist (occasionally involving singing as well) was created for Elisa by Pastor Daniel Morrison. This part-time service was rewarded with a certain sum, but her full employment was that of music teacher at the private school of a neighbouring town.  Pastor Morrison’s wife, Bessie, who took over the duties of minister of music after Mr. McLeod had passed away, was primarily responsible for organising musical service and directing the choir. Bessie had also introduced Elisa into the ceremonial aspects of worship music and conducted rigorous practice lessons with her. Pastor Morrison – an energetic man in his late forties, whom she had known since adolescence and called him Pastor Dan in private - greatly appreciated Elisa's “precise skills” as he put it, as well as the “meticulous care with which she executed her musical duties”, as he wrote in his recommendation of Elisa to the council of elders.. This was the first time Elisa would play all through the communion service – earlier this was also reserved for Bessie. Despite her devotion, Elisa did occasionally find Pastor Dan’s preferences odd. He seemed to have a hang-up of not allowing any secular music to be played during church services, not even classical instrumental pieces such as a slow concerto movement, despite having had some musical training himself. The explanation was that such pieces were originally composed as entertainment music, and were reserced for the concert hall. Elisa found this rigid distinction rather strange, but she complied. She suspected that Pastor Dan's views echoed those of Bessie, who had on numerous occassions voiced the same views with an even stronger conviction. Pastor Dan also had a specific attitude concerning clothing and made Elisa wear modest outfits during services, as she was to set a good example. This meant wearing only skirts or dresses reaching below the knee during worship. Now Elisa was fine with dressing in this manner, being a naturally modest person herself, and this tradicionalist attitude provided something of a strong framework for her often wandering, reflective mind, as did the hard work she had to put into becoming an organist and singer. For that particular service in early March - so close to her approaching birthday - she was wearing a classical white shirt with a sweater, modest black skirt, black tights and flat-heeled shoes. She had her shoulder-length light brown hair down, with a single braid in the middle reaching slightly below the back of her neck. Elisa’s parents had moved to Aberdeenshire from the Lowlands due to her father’s job when she was exactly half her current age of twenty-eight and about to start grammar school. Everybody called her the “Lowland lassie” for years and it took her quite a long time to start fitting in, which was partly due to her inward-turning and shy nature. Elisa was an only child, Pastor Dan and Bessie had helped her a great deal to fit in to the local community. Her father was an oil rig engineer and was frequently away for weeks if not months on the North Sea, especially during yearly maintenances. Her mother, on the other hand, had lately begun having episodes of depression, possibly due to emotional issues and her husband’s long absences, which left Elisa concerned. Elisa’s mother could not be present at the service due to digestive issues, which left Elisa with a sense of regret. As she was walking down then aisle and arrived at the back row, she spotted Isabel, her best friend and confidante within the congregation. Isabel's father was Jamaican and her mother was from the Dominican Republic - hence her Spanish mame -, but they had settled in Scotland. As her parent's had divorced when she was ten years old, Isabel was brought up by her mother. Both she and Elisa had a way of being strangers to their surroundings, but Isabel was native to the town, although seen as somewhat exotic with her looks and her inclination to give free flow to her emotions - as she had once said, she possessed "the essence of everything Caribbean". Yet as she was speaking the local accent, the locals were considering her more “of our folk” than they did Elisa. As a freshly graduated psychologist, Isabel was prone to be acutely aware of human weaknesses inside the church, and Elisa often had to hold her back, lest she can be regarded as a freak. Given their different temperament, they complemented each other as two pieces of a mosaic. Elisa’s eyes met those of Isabel, who waved to her friend cheerfully, then bid Elisa come closer and handed her a paper note. Then they exchanged a few words, and finally Isabel whispered “fingers crossed”, putting her two fingers in a cross and touching Elisa’s equally crossed fingers. Elisa always appreciated such small gestures of encouragement since she needed plenty of that. As she started mounting the stairs and was hidden from the eyes of the congregation by the balcony wall, Elisa unfolded the sheet of paper, which had only one sentence written on it in Isabel’s familiar handwriting: “Time to put down that burden at last, I see you are being consumed”. Elisa paused and folded the paper in four, quickly putting it into the pocket of her cardigan. She felt a strange sinking inside her stomach so she was thankful for the shelter that the balcony’s wall provided. The congregation was slowly becoming hushed and she pulled out the relevant registers of the organ to create the “worship tune”, then put out the hymnal. Then she quietly pulled out a score book of Handel’s arias and slid it under the hymnal.

She kept rewinding in her mind and recalling that particular day six months earlier. It had been maybe áll right for someone to gently run a hand over her hair while sitting close and listening to her rehearsing. Resting a hand longer on her shoulder was already more confusing, even as a sign of affection. However, placing a kiss on her hair and sliding a hand down her back, all the way below her waist, made her to instinctively freeze and stop playing, although she was took astonished to protest. She excused herself ín her usual mild manner and hastily left the room. All this came from someone whom she respected, and whom she had to meet regularly afterwards. She felt that even the words of private apology the next day for ",inappropriate touching" left her wondering about the “why?” which had not been answered ever since, and she was eager to have that answer. She had only confided this to Isabel, who was furious to hear what had happened. Isabel told Elisa that she had become a victim of sexual harassment, even if the incident was never repeated, and that for her part, she would have instantly slapped that monster. It took some time before Elisa managed to hush her friend by saying that the matter was more subtle than that. Elisa for her part was not furious, only confused. However, flashbacks kept coming back suddenly, as do recurring asthma attacks, due to the lingering question that tormented her.

Pastor Dan started his sermon, which was about the liberating power of spoken confession of transgressions and building trust with God. When the sermon ended, the congregation sat in silent anticipation of the last musical piece tehát was usually a freely chosen sacred aria, and Elisa slowly took out the aria score from under the hymnal and opened it at “Lascia ch’io pianga”, “Let me weep”, an aria from the opera Rinaldo. She solemnly started playing the introductory chords, feeling herself being carried away by the music. Her clear soprano voice was resounding all over the church walls that had not heard secular music for a long time. When the aria ended and the congregation started dissembling, she sat in excited anticipation. Soon she heard the soft creaking of the wooden stairs and her heart started racing at the sound of women’s shoes, with their wearer clearly in a hurry. She spotted Bessie Morrison, a woman in her early forties, with hazel eyes wearing her auburn hair in a loose bun. Elisa turned to fully face Bessie. She knew, however, that whatever her thoughts about “inappropriate” music in the church, Bessie was not very likely to vent her fury. Rather, she would display an attitude of composed disapproval.

“I wonder what prompted you to sing an opera aria, Elisa”, Bessie said, in a surprisingly calm voice, but Elisa could feel some edge to it. “Were the people not comfortable with it?”, Elisa asked. “Well… On the contrary, they said you were really singing from the heart, only the fact that it was in Italian came as a surprise to some… But let’s not wander away from the point. How did it occur to you to perform that, knowing that secular music should not be played during worship?” Elisa was getting completely calm by now and she was quietly fixing Bessie with her deep blue eyes. “Does it make sense to say it was intended as a message?” “A message? What do you mean?" “Think about the subject of the aria: a distressed character pleading for liberty.” “Let me be blunt: is this about you feeling like a captive?" “Maybe, but it's really not about myself. Bessie, remember what happened half a year ago?” “Oh dear”, Bessie sighed and grabbed a spare chair nearby to sit down, close to te organ where Elisa was seated. “How could I not remember? But I thought my apology settled everything and it never happened again. Trust me, I deeply regret what I did, and I’ve had inner struggles countless times.” “Yes, in a way your apology was sufficient, and your general good image was never shattered in my mind… But one thing I couldn’t get was your motive to do what you did. You know, I felt like something long hidden was suddenly bursting out. And frankly, the last thing I expected was such a thing coming from another woman. It feels like there is something behind this that you don’t even admit to yourself.” Bessie sat silently for a while before uttering her response. “Elisa, there is nothing I can’t admit to myself, but I can’t admit it to others, not in my circumstances.” “Do tell me what it is, I promise it will stay between us.” “Well, okay… I… I am bisexual. Can you imagine a pastor’s wife publicly coming out about this?” Elisa could barely conceal her astonishment: “And… did you ever have a relationship with another woman?” “Only once, at college. We were wild and bold and reckless. I fell for a fellow student, we often played chamber music togerher with her and it went all the way to physical intimacy. We used to be intimate with operatic arias playing in the background. But I was not promiscuous if that's what you mean... When I converted, I realized that this were incompatible with Christian teaching, and when we got married with Dan, out of guilt I persuaded him to banish even classical secular music from the church altogether. I haven’t listened to operatic arias since then, they reminded me of my past." “I see, but then why did you .. touch me like that?” “Oh, Dan and I had sort of an ebb in our marriage, and I sorely missed physical intimacy. As I sat near you, the situation reminded me of that girl I was in a relationship with, and my self-control went to off mode. I regretted what I did as soon as I came to my senses. All the while I had had great appreciation for you, this is why I’m still full of shame for causing you distress. I failed miserably.” Elisa looked deeply moved by what she had heard and after a few seconds, she continued: "Look Bessie, as I said this is not just about me, my confusion is something I'm trying to handle. But I hope you don't mind me saying, I do feel there is something holding you captive. You're better than this, and deserve liberty, for sure. But I have a feeling our incident brought you closer to freedom." "I don't think I get you", Bessie said with carefully uttered confusion. "Let me explain. One can attach a label such as molestation or sinful conduct to our incident, and frown on it. But I believe that's not the point... Have you ever asked: 'Hey desire, what got you here and what do you want from me?'  Now finding the answer is, I think, the real point, and first you had to face the desire at all." It was now Bessie's turn to be moved, as her shaking voice made it clear: "I've never thought you care for me that much, Elisa. I should surely come to terms with this struggle." "Bessie, I owe you a lot... And yes, I do care for you anyway." "Elisa, there's one more thing I have but I'm not supposed to tell. If I did, it would turn everything upside dowm." Elisa nodded knowingly. "I think I do know what that is, Bessie, but I guess I would struggle to give even the right response if you spoke about it now... In any case, I'm happy for you since I now see you did not mean to molest me. And even more because you've come so close to becoming free." Elisa pulled her chair closer, stretched out her hand and put it reassuringly on the other woman's arm. Then Bessie spoke: “So you don’t think I’m a monster?” Elisa shook her head: “It should be obvious how I feel by now, but no, I never did. Your apology already told me you're not a predator. Look, we both need a bit of healing and reflection, too. But do consider how to treat the part of yourself that you've been hiding. I suggest you try to speak to Pastor Dan about your past, he has a right to know about it, and together it will be easier to work things out. As for the rest that we spoke about, it will be forever locked here... and here", Elisa said, pointing first to her forehead, then her heart, smiling. Bessie had been biting her lips during the conversation to prevent bursting into tears, but now she was able to produce a faint smile. “Elisa, I am so thankful. Did you… ever consider going into counseling?” “I’m afraid I’m too much absorbed by music for that, but I will think about this”, Elisa said with an expression of tearful relief. They got up with Elisa closely following Bessie, and walked down, only to run into Pastor Dan, who told them: “Oh, here you are, you two. I’ve been wondering what you've been up to.” Elisa was the first to reply. “We had... er... a need to share a few things. But we also talked about today's closing piece." “Oh, I see… Yes, the choice did seem odd to me…” Elisa could hear Bessie’s voice from beside her: “It’s all right Dan, Elisa had a purpose in choosing that aria, it’s about craving liberation. She should just choose something in English in the future, so the congregation can understand it. " After a few seconds of pause, she added: “Dan, I’ve been thinking about relaxing our rules regarding music. Not everything suits worship but secular music can also be uplifting If chosen right. I would also like to draw Elisa into this." "Bessie, I trust you on that. I have no objections, If that improves the quality of service. Has Elisa agreed?" "Bessie didn't mention this earlier but it's fine with me", said Elisa with a smile. As the worship hall was now empty, they left the church. Elisa took a cordial leave from the Morrisons, then headed for the nearby park where she was to meet Isabel.

Suddenly Isabel jumped out from behind a tree with a “peek-a-boo”, then asked Elisa: “How did it go?” Elisa did not immediately reply, she glanced down thoughtfully for a few seconds, then raised her head and looked straight into Isabel’s eyes. “Poor Bessie, she was hit harder by all that than I was”, she said in a calm tone. “Did you have a talk, then?”, Isabel asked with a questioning look. “Yes, it’s all settled. I clearly see she's no predator and she has my full trust." While uttering this, she glanced firmly into Isabel’s eyes, her look suggesting that she would not disclose anything else on what they had talked about with Bessie. Isabel remarked: “Elisa, I’ve never seen you giving this look. You used to be do restless and now you seem to be firm like a rock. For others, it can take months to change this much. I speak from experience.” Elisa smiled gently, then asked Isabel if she could help her enroll to a course in counseling. “Wow, sure… Girl, you keep amazing me.” “Thank you so much. Now come, it’s time for dinner and Mum has finally agreed to have a guest, let',s not make her wait any longer”, Elisa said, gently pulling on Isabel’s arm, and they walked off to her home


She moved her now heavy body through the waves, slowly getting closer and closer to the shore. Beneath her feet, the sand slid so that she could hardly keep her footing. After nearly five minutes, she made it out of the Pacific. Then she fell just pass the line of the tide and rested her weary head. It was the first time she had done dawn surfing in years. She must have been a fool to come out here alone, but she never minded taking risks. She must've surfed for at least three hours but the way her body felt, it could have been three days.

As she lay on the shore, her body continued to move with the force of the waves that toppled her over and over. The last time was just too much. It brought with it the realization of the preceding months and the massive weight she had been carrying. All of this combined, she had to get out of the water. Here, on the sand, she could rest. It didn't matter how many people passed or how they looked at her. She was warm, it was sunny and she was coming toward a great precipice in her mind. The thoughts would not stop this time as she allowed the first trickle to come through. Usually, she kept them dammed up, like the little Dutch boy, always hoping someone would come save her. To hell with that now. There was nothing to stop them here. Everyone was gone, no one who mattered was around. At least not now. So she let go.

The tears were as massive as the pressure behind them. They rolled in long streams down the side of her face, into her ears, and down into the soft sand. She wept silently for a while. The initial wave only just beginning to build. Her mind was empty, the thoughts had transformed themselves into pure emotion and there was no reason to think. Nothing seemed real, even the people seemed to regard her with a wide berth.

As the energy built up, her body began to rock slowly like a hiccup and then more forcefully, like a laugh with no mirth. She allowed a small noise to come out of her, sounding more like a dog whining than anything else. Accidentally, she let a more female like whine escape. This gave her the go ahead to cry. To really cry. And she did. Loudly and wholly, exploring the full range of her voice. From a moan to a shrill shriek, she cried. It sounded like murder, childbirth and betrayal all in one. You would've cried just to hear it, it was so true. As always, it came in waves like her favorite pastime. She would rally through a deep downpour of crying and then it would subside. Then moments later, the energy would rise again, and again, she would wail. In this moment, there was nothing but she and the ground beneath her body. The air around her like a sacred hush. No one came to check on her, there was no way they'd allow themselves to go near that sort of pain. It was something most people wouldn't face.

No, she lay there alone crying for hours. It wasn't until she was all cried out that she remembered her home. Her real home, not the one she had shredded herself to pieces to build. She remembered her home and all of her family. She remembered that from which she came. It was a miracle to remember and she said a prayer of gratitude for the memory. She was proud to remember, always she was proud. No matter how deep she was mired in the turmoil and tragedy, she always remembered. There was a time when it was years between remembering. Decades would pass in slumber and then she would awaken and see herself as she really is. These were the moments to live for. The moments to create from, to love in and to expand upon. She loved these moments, minutes at times, and she was always amazed how she came down from them, slowing down gradually, angst building up, causing her to walk as though she were exiting the ocean: slowly, sinking into each step, taking forever to get anywhere. When she was whole, she was whole. She was love and she was resilience. She was fury and fire. She was the best that ever was. But when she was broken, she was slain. Completely obliterated. She was dried up and a succubus to everything in her wake. And she despised it. But she always crawled out. The moments between sleeping and waking were becoming more frequent these days and she found herself awake for longer periods of time. But in the break between night and day, she longed for the white hot fire of light. Sometimes, she forgot that she had it at all. Here on the beach, she was experiencing the break. She did remember but it wasn't enough. Knowing wasn't enough, she knew that too. She must act. But that was always the struggle. She didn't want to act. She never knew how. Everyone else had their own ways of acting but her way never seemed quite right. It wasn't as though she was jumping hills or flying airplanes. She was mainly documenting and creating but in ways that she couldn't seem to let loose into the world. She always dreamed of doing just that, excelling to fame, but when she got close, she ended up thinking she was more suited to the cave life, the underground life.

It was a constant exhalation and inhalation, ebbing and flowing. There was no middle path for this one. Absolutely abstinent or complete drunkard. She never knew how two opposites could be housed in the same body. And more importantly, which one was really her? And the ever present, looming inquiry of "Now, what?" burdening her path. Surely, she should act. That is what anyone would do. But truth be told, she didn't care about anyone and she had done enough in the last three years to fill a decades worth of action. So, let's just lay here until nightfall. It's already getting close, she thought. So there she lay, snuggled down in the sand, still warm with the summer time heat. She was fully prepared to accept her fate and allow death to overcome her. But at the last moment, she remembered again who she was and she jumped up and ran as hard and as fast as her body knew how. As she looked above the horizon, she could just see the first star making it's appearance, and she knew she'd make it yet.


It truly wasn’t that important. This is what she told herself as she strode towards the library steps. The August heat sifted languidly through the small Californian town, the pavement warm enough to wince at even though the sun had only risen hours ago. The palms of her hands felt slick against the laminated spine of the book. Far off, a siren wailed down the highway. East of Eden. She had read Steinbeck in high school for an English class, and never again thereafter. It made her eyes hurt. She resented the weight of the pages in her sweaty hands like she resented the errand she ran, and she felt the eagerness of being through with the task at the back of her mind. She pulled on the warm metal of the antiquated building’s door handle, grimacing in annoyance.

The book was, in fact, ten months overdue. He had checked it out under her name in the hopes it would prompt her to read it. If she was responsible for it. He learned that winter that not only would she not commit to reading the great American author’s words, but she would not commit to him. The break up was blunt and awkward and disorienting. He felt as if he was the last word scrawled on a piece of paper and everything before and after him had been erased. She felt liberated. And promptly forgot about the book. As he listened slowly for the ticking of the clock behind him, neither awake nor asleep, he felt the chill of the air conditioning briefly stutter as the door opened. The small, brown library lobby smelled sweet and musty to him, like the floral fabric on his grandmother’s couch. He payed the newcomer no mind, though faintly he registered the sound of rubber sneaker soles sharply protesting against the linoleum flooring. The footsteps had seemed to halt rather abruptly before his desk. Reluctantly raising his chin from his palm and opening his heavy eyes, he finally recognized his company. “Oh.” She blinked. He had not been a volunteer at the library when they had messily parted. She wasn’t surprised, however--he had always loved to read, and had fondly said the building smelled like his MeMaw’s house. “Hello.” The human stress response is a funny thing. Science dictates which hormones elicit which bodily responses and so forth, but no amount of educational jargon can fully encapsulate the sensation of an eighteen wheeler punching outwardly from inside one’s ribcage.

“Uh. Hey.” He straightened warily, cheeks flushing a dull flat red. He heard his blood rush angrily in his ears and felt his stomach muscles tighten. Her eyes only met his for an awkward beat before they dropped to the corner of the desk, then her hands, then to the wall behind him. He watched her shift her weight on her feet, then open her mouth hesitantly. “I’m...uh. I’m sorry.”

She had spun around and marched out the door before he could respond. East of Eden remained clenched in her hands. He cursed first at himself, then at the old door that clunked shut behind his ex fiancee. - Some ten months earlier, Madison and Paul sat together on the couch in her living room. Her legs were tucked at the knees, pointing away from him. His phone cast a blue light on his face as he ignored the movie in front of them. The silence wasn’t comforting anymore, as it had once been. Before, the two had embraced the sweet ease of a quiet compatibility--now it felt heavy and bitter. Their tongues felt thick behind their teeth, and sat unmoored as they do when one becomes too aware of a tongue’s position. Paul looked up from his phone to the TV screen. “I went to the library today.” “Yeah?” “Yeah. Got you a book.” Madison glanced at him with distaste. “What’d you do that for?” “Because you should read more,” Paul said defensively. “It’s a good book. East of Eden.” He watched her from the corner of his eye as her head rolled on her shoulders, easing tension from her neck. She let out a long breath through her nose. “Didn’t that guy do Of Mice and Men? ” “John Steinbeck. Yeah.” “Hm.” The silence continued for a few long minutes. Neither of them knew what was happening in the movie. Madison felt the metal of her wedding ring against her finger and wished she could take it off.

Paul felt a lump rise in his throat. The same bleak hopelessness that had sporadically pitted in his sternum over the past month began to form again. Something was wrong--he felt her discontentment radiating off of her like heat. “Madison.” “Mm.” I love you. “What’s up with you?” She exhaled again through her nose, slowly and deliberately. I don’t think I’m in love with you anymore. “Just tired.” “Okay,” Paul said, and some part of him then understood that they would not be married. He didn’t consciously believe it yet. He didn’t want to. “Mads?” “Yeah.” “Will you read the book?” “Sure, Paul.” He knew that wasn’t true either. - Madison felt a hot tear slide down her cheek as she sat alone on her couch. She remembered the way the cushions tilted when Paul would sit down beside her--he was large, built like a lumberjack; his friends had jokingly called him Paul Bunyan. When he sat, it was as if he had forgotten what it felt like to be off his feet. He would plunk down with a whoosh of air, a sweet exhale of relaxation, and the soft seat would collapse inward under his weight. Anyone else sitting on the couch was sucked toward him as if he had his own gravitational pull. The couch seemed too big without him. The cushions felt too level. The library earlier that day had forced Madison to face the ugly regret she had avoided acknowledging for so long. She shouldn’t have ruined things, shouldn’t have left him. Should have at least read the stupid book. She knew this now, and it burned hot and angry in her belly. Impulsively, she snatched the thick book from the coffee table in front of her and flung it across the living room. It smacked the wall, rather unsatisfactorily, and thudded open to the floor. The pages bent under the weight of the impact. She sobbed heavily, feeling the corners of her mouth pulling towards her ears like an ironic smile. She wished she hadn’t been so terrified to be married. She wished she could have fixed things. She was ready now, and had been ready since she realized that she was completely uninterested in a life without him.

Pushing the tears up her face with the heel of her hand, Madison stood and picked up the book. Maybe it was a sign, today at the library. Maybe it wasn’t too late. She smoothed the rumpled pages, took her place back on the couch, and began to read. - Six days after seeing Madison at the library, Paul sat alone eating breakfast in his parent’s kitchen. He hadn’t stopped thinking about her since she had fled the library earlier that week. They weren’t all good thoughts, necessarily--there was plenty of bitterness left over from their breakup--but he couldn’t get it out of his head what it would feel like to hug her again. He was a big man, and she was so small, but somehow it had always felt like she was the one holding him when they embraced. He pushed the memory out of his head sourly and tried to reign in his sentimental side. She had left him. She had given him back the wedding ring he had scrimped and saved for. He grimaced, stabbing at his cereal.

The doorbell rung and startled him from his stupor. The milk sloshed from his bowl as he pushed away from the table, chair scraping against the tile floor, and lumbered for the front door. Opening it, he froze. Madison stood in front of him, clutching East of Eden against her stomach like she was afraid somebody would steal it. Before he could speak, she took a step forward. “I read the book. I know it’s so stupid now because it’s almost a year late and you probably thought I stole it or something, but I finished it and I wanted to give it back.” Paul opened his mouth, not sure what words would come out, but Madison continued. “I felt really dumb at the library last week. Like, it’s not that hard to return a book, especially because I’ve had it for so long, and I shouldn’t have just left like that, but I just…” she twisted her mouth in a brief second of thought. “I’m not here to try and fix things or ask for you to take me back because I ruined things and I broke your heart and I handled everything in the worst way possible. I just wanted to say I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, and I miss you, and I messed up, and I really liked the book.”

She thrust East of Eden towards him. It took a beat before Paul reached out to grab it.

She spun to leave. The awkwardness was palatable, and she yearned to run away. “Hold on,” Paul said. She stopped. He was quiet--he hadn’t actually planned to say anything. “You liked it?” Madison nodded cautiously, her body still half turned towards the street. “Yeah.” She laughed nervously. “Cathy was kind of a psychopath, wasn’t she?”

“She was.” Paul chuckled. Paused again. Remembered how it felt to be hugged. Remembered how it felt to be left. Took a breath.

“Do you want to come in?” Madison smiled. “Yeah. That’d be cool.” As the door closed behind them, Paul laughed. “This is not at all how you return a library book.”


Swirling motes of dim light circled me on an otherwise dark night. In front of me, I could see a pale door that wasn’t attached to anything. The doorknob had a thick substance dripping off of it. Is this oil? Thinking I should leave, I looked around hoping to spy a safe exit towards familiarity. To my left, I noticed a car was hovering above a clearing and slowly rotating. When the headlights turned my direction, they looked like large, glowing eyes. To my right, I saw a triangular window with shadows moving behind it. I didn’t want to know what it’d look like when illuminated. The hair on the back of my neck stood in response to the warped setting. I resolved to run as fast as my middle-aged body could carry me in desperate search of safety. Certain I was lost in a world of madness, I abandoned hope of finding familiarity. When I tried to turn my body, I couldn’t move. Panicked, I looked at my legs. They were being wrapped, and pulled on by the light motes. I couldn’t escape. My only remaining option was to open the pale door I was frightfully avoiding. I reached apprehensively towards the still-dripping doorknob, hoping that whichever entity lie beyond would either show me mercy, or end me quickly. The light motes softly illuminated the knob as I drew closer, revealing the identity of the mystery liquid. Blood. While my best effort to forget it failed, I closed the gap. The blood began to flow faster, dripping down my arm, and seeping into my skin — a horrifying transfusion. Resisting the urge to black out, I opened the door with as much force as I could muster. The dim lights, still wrapped around my legs, threw me through the threshold. Stabilizing myself, I noticed separate streams of blood unnaturally slithering towards me on a white tile floor, still searching for my skin. Every time a stream of blood entered my body, a new memory pulsed through my vision — memories of different people being thrown in this room. They were always gagged and blindfolded. Sometimes they squirmed futilely in body bags. In every memory, the person would be bound to a metal chair before they were horrifically tortured, and then my vision would go black. In between memories, the white tile floor would reappear as if to show it wasn’t over. There were still streams of blood to be absorbed. When I thought the barrage of horrors was finally over, my vision went dark, and all I could see was a morbid, uneven, grid of everyone’s faces. Bloated. Decayed. Their faces were locked into permanent silent screams. My body began to quake, and all I could do was scream for us all. “Marty! Honey, wake up!” My wife, Eve, was shaking me awake, and my screams began to quiet. While I attempted to catch my breath, my eyes darted around still looking for dead bodies and blood. After regaining my composure, I pulled her soft frame into my arms. I just knew she saved me from dying in my sleep. “Are you okay?” Eve gently pushed herself out of my arms and began fumbling for the lamp switch. “You feel really— Oh! What happened to you? We need to call an ambulance!” “Hold on. Don’t call an ambulance. We don’t have the money, and I feel fine, just sweaty.” I stood up and found my way to the bathroom while my wife followed me. When I turned on the light switch, I heard Eve gasp as she looked at me in better lighting. Growing concerned, I turned towards the mirror and started screaming all over again. Much to my horror, my wife rushed out of the room. I was frozen in fear. Alone. Everything went dark. *** I heard my wife’s voice. I slowly opened my eyes and caught a glimpse of her backside as she darted out of the room — not a bad image to wake up to. My light musing was quickly interrupted by something squeezing the life out of my arm. I turned to see a blood pressure cuff and other machines attached to me. The fog of sleep now effectively chased from my head, I began to analyze the situation. I looked down towards my hands and noticed they were lightly bandaged. So was most of my body. I struggled to recall what could’ve caused this. Was I still having the nightmare? Knock-Knock. “Hello, Mr. Walker. I’m Dr. Avery.” The doctor walked in, shortly followed by Eve. “Can you tell me how many fingers I’m holding up?” He asked, while he sat on a stool next to my hospital bed. “Three.” I replied, as my wife sat in a chair opposite Dr. Avery. “Good.” He pulled something out of his coat pocket. “I’m going to ask you to follow the tip of this stick with your eyes. Do you think you can do that for me?” “Sure…” I followed along, wondering if this was a sobriety test. “Good. No problems there, just one more thing.” Dr. Avery clicked a button on the side of the stick and moved the resulting bright light across my vision. “Okay, pupils are functioning properly. Do you know why you are here today?” “Not really, but I’d sure appreciate being filled in before anything further.” I was becoming irritated. “Is it okay if I tell him this part instead, with you just jumping in for the medical bits?” Eve asked. Dr. Avery sighed, and looked at his watch. “I suppose. Just try to keep it timely, since there are other patients waiting.” Eve nodded and gently clasped one of my bandaged hands into hers. “You were having a nightmare, so I woke you up. When you hugged me, I knew something was really wrong. You felt . . . sticky. I know you said not to call the ambulance, but when you saw yourself in the mirror, you screamed. I didn’t know if you were in pain or in shock, so I ran to find my phone and call anyway. By the time I got back to you, you’d passed out and hit your head on the way down.” My brows furrowed. “Ah.” In the bathroom, the blood on my skin reminded me of the streams of blood, infused with everyone’s memories. I thought I was still trapped in the nightmare. Was it possible the blood I absorbed in the dream was trying to leave my body in real life? No. This is insanity. Before I could continue to entertain such delusions, I quickly turned to the doctor for answers. “I think you’re up for the medical part.” “While extremely rare, my professional opinion is that you have a severe case of Hematidrosis. Basically, it means that the capillaries that supply oxygen to your sweat glands ruptured, and you began to sweat blood. This only happens during extreme stress.” Dr. Avery made a show of looking at his watch again, and his speech became more rapid. “Long story short, the amount of blood you were sweating was highly unusual for it to be from Hematidrosis. So, before I call it an official diagnosis, I still have some tests to run. You are currently stable, but your skin will still feel tender. I’ll send a nurse to fill you in on the details of your treatment since you arrived, and you can head home after.” He quickly shot up from the stool and left before I could process everything and thank him. I sighed pure relief, realizing I was holding my breath. It wasn’t an official diagnosis, but there was at least, a rational explanation. Taking a deep breath, I turned to face my wife. “Thank you for calling the ambulance. I know I said not to, but I’m happy you didn’t listen.” I gave her a pensive smile. “The day I listen to everything you say is the day I give up my porcelain doll collection.” Eve smirked, knowing how I felt about those creepy things. “I swear their eyes follow me everywhere. If I didn’t love you, those things would’ve found the heavy end of a mallet by now.” I laughed a little, finding comfort in a fleeting feeling of normalcy with my wife. *** “They let me ride in the ambulance because I was in no condition to drive. We’ll need to call a taxi.” Eve started digging in her purse. The night air was refreshing. “It’s two in the morning. There are no taxi companies open right now, and our friends are sleeping. Let’s just walk home. It’s only five blocks. We should be fine . . . Don’t look at me like that; you’re wearing sensible shoes, the neighborhood is low crime, and if something else happens just call the ambulance again.” I rolled my eyes and threw my hands up not knowing what else to say. “Okay, fine. I guess I can look at it as a mini date with my husband.” Eve took my arm and snuggled close. I felt like we were young again as we walked down the road towards our home, playfully teasing each other and reflecting on the hopes and dreams we used to talk about as teenagers. I was still experiencing a bit of pain. I wasn’t going to ruin the mood though because Dr. Avery said my skin would still be tender for a while. We turned down Wharf Road and noticed a car show set up behind the fence of a shut-down dealership. “Must be an event for later today.” I watched my wife nod as she walked over to the gate to peer closer. The pain all over my body became a bit worse, and I squeezed my eyes tight, mentally bracing myself while Eve was distracted. When I opened my eyes, the resulting spots in my vision didn’t disappear like they should’ve. The wave of pain dissipated, but to my extreme unease, I recognized the swirling motes of dim light from my nightmare lingering in my vision. I willed myself to remain calm, and act as if nothing were amiss. “Ready to go?” Eve asked. “Yes.” I was eager to continue home. However, when I began to walk closer to Eve I noticed all of the light motes drifting to the left of my vision. Against my better judgment, I allowed my eyes to follow them. My chest tightened. I must be losing what’s left of my mind. Through the gate, in the center of every attraction stood a car on a pedestal, slowly rotating. The specks of dim light began drifting to the sign above the car. It said, “Maintained by Motorized Maniacs on the corner of Cardinal and Flannery” “Helloooo?” My wife started gently shaking my arm. “Do you remember what ‘Yes.’ means?” She began to look impatient. The moment my attention was shifted to her, the dim lights vanished. “Sorry about that, the car in the center caught my eye.” On the way home, I proceeded to finally tell her the details of my dream, leaving out the recent hallucination, of course. *** The coast was clear. It was 3:30 a.m. and Eve was now sound asleep. I was afraid to fall asleep again, not that I’d admit it out loud. I knew my next course of action should be to put myself at ease. I’d prove to myself that everything was normal, so I could sleep in peace. I slowly inched out of bed and crept to the bathroom to finally look at myself in the mirror. Brown eyes? Check. Grey hair? Check. That one weird nose hair I’ve been meaning to cut for three weeks? Check. The absence of blood covering my body and the presence of two stitches I’ll have to lie about later to not feel like a pansy? Check and check. I was ready to go after leaving a quick note for Eve to call me in case she woke up — better to beg forgiveness than ask permission. I threw on my black sweats and drove to the corner of Cardinal and Flannery. When I arrived, I tried to look natural. Even though I wasn’t planning on stealing or breaking and entering, it’d still look like I was up to no good this late at night. As I walked closer to the building, it looked like a harmless old mechanic shop. I knew this was a family business, only changing names when the next of kin inherited it. I decided to look in a window, just to put myself completely at ease. I walked towards the light post in the back and noticed it was in the middle of a small parking lot. Movement caught my eye. My stomach dropped. It was the large, triangular window straight out of my nightmare. Moving shadows included. Why did I think coming here would calm me down again? I steeled myself, and looked through the window. The motes of light were back. They were swarming violently in the old-fashioned maintenance pit, casting shadows on the window. I wasn’t sure if I was more terrified of the hallucination, or the possibility that it wasn’t one. It felt like I couldn’t catch my breath, and my chest started hurting. The more I thought about my expectations not matching my warped reality, the worse I felt. “Your light, persistent and warm, chases my darkness away!” Eve’s ringtone scared the living hell out of me, and I tripped, falling against the glass. Before I could steady myself, the decades old window frame snapped; the glass shattered, and gravity had no trouble pulling my beer belly down with it. The impact of the ground seemed to help snap me out of my cyclic thoughts. So much for not breaking and entering. The lights vanished. I slowly stood up, and shook off the bulk of the broken glass. My phone was completely broken. I decided I was already inside, so I may as well check out the maintenance pit. At least I’ll get decent sleep in prison after this if Eve doesn’t kill me first. I descended into the pit and wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Looking up at the ceiling, I questioned my life choices. My eyes were well adjusted now, and everything looked perfectly normal. What was I doing here? Things looked normal, aside from my light hallucinations. I came here to prove everything was fine. I should leave. I turned around to find the stairs again, and the lights returned; they rapidly circled my legs. I could not leave. I started hoping the hallucination was sentient. “I’ll keep looking if this craziness stops!” I screamed to the dark, and the lights stopped as quickly as they started. Okay. It isn’t just hallucinations. My chest tightened. With labored breathing, I began knocking on the sides as I walked toward the other end, listening for differences in sound. There was a large, towel hanging at the end. I took it down, and saw the pale door from my nightmare. This can’t be reality. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. I knew I had to open the door. I started praying to God, that a silent alarm was tripped and that the police would show up before I was murdered. I grabbed the slick doorknob, trying to ignore my hammering heart. I crept inside and began feeling around for a light switch. Nothing. I left the door open, so that I could at least see the exit. As I felt my way forward, I lightly kicked some heavy paper bags; it was probably just cat litter. Smack! “Don’t hurt me!” I fell backward after someone or something hit my stitches. I froze in terror and braced for another hit. Nothing happened. I listened for footsteps or breathing. Nothing was there. I carefully stood and reached up, into the darkness. I’m such a moron. I was feeling in front of me, and forgot to feel above me. The ceiling became low here. I slid my foot to feel for the next step, and found a hole in the floor. I crouched low to examine it with my hands and felt a wooden ladder leading further down. I took a deep breath and followed the path. Reaching the bottom, I realized there was no guarantee I could find the ladder again if something went horribly wrong. My shoes squeaked when I turned around. I touched the floor and it felt like smooth tile. My heart started hammering, remembering my nightmare. I took a few steps forward, and noticed a slight depression. Upon examination, it felt like a drain grate. When I stood up, something lightweight tapped me on the side of the head. I felt for it, pulled, and squinted from the sudden bright light. I was standing on the same white tile. It looked like there was dried blood all over the place. In one direction was the same metal chair I saw people tied to before they were tortured and possibly murdered. Further back, I saw bags full of eyeless, decayed heads. The same ones from the end of my bloody dream. All locked in silent screams. *** “Hey, Marty, I heard those Murder Maniacs got what was coming to them,” my new neighbor said, “multiple life sentences is too good for them.” “I’m just happy they were caught, and the families of the victims received closure. Even if it means I’m stuck here for a few months for breaking and entering.” “Ain’t that the truth.” I sat up, and looked through the bars just in time to see the floating light motes again. They took the forms of the victims, only they were healthy looking. Some waved, some bowed, some blew me kisses. They couldn’t speak, but I understood. They floated into the ceiling, and I never had a nightmare or complained about Eve’s dolls ever again.


We both were on the bank of the river watching the sunrise. She looked so pretty under the scarlet sky. Her skin had a surreal glow. She closed her eyes eyes to feel the fresh air. This was the only place she wanted to go before her heart transplant. "This place has some power, Meghan! Some kinda positivity. Everytime I come here I forget all the pain inside me" Chrissy said. " Yes, Chrissy you're right" I said. We are best friends since second grade with really no boundaries, I mean I can possibly tell you how many zits she had her whole life!! We have always been together and I really hope that we will be together in future!

Since a few months months, she had been feeling a bit dizzy and tired. The worst part came three months back, when she wasn't able to do breathe in the P.E. class after finishing her exercise and then she collapsed in the school ground.

After tests and medical examination, we got to know that she suffering from "Coronary artery disease" which has made her heart walls and vessels very weak or I should say chronic. That's why she needs to get a heart transplant. But that can be only 75% effective. But it could help her live a little longer. But at that time for us something was better than nothing. After the struggle of three months , finally she got a matching donor heart . The day I got know this news I danced around her hospital room like a crazy person. Days passed like a waterfall , and the Big day came . Christine has been prepared by the nurses and doctors since a week. The syringes, medication, antiseptic smell everything was making me nervous trillion times more than her. And then I was wondered what will happen as the forceps , cuts and bleeding will happen. I haven't been to school since a week. Because I can't leave her anyhow. She is like a sister to me. Finally when she was about to go to the OT. Doctors let only two of the family members meet her before the transplant . My eyes showed a sign of worry that I will not be able to meet her. Christine's father went to talk to the doctor about it and finally he came to me and said, "You should go with Christine's mother , at this time she needs you more than me." My eyes were filled with tears as he said this to me. I said, " Thank you so much, uncle". And then hugged him. I went towards her and looked at her, her half opened eyes recognised me and she held my hands. I was crying but tried to control my tears at my best. I said, "Chrissy! You have to come back healthy and strong. We have to dance on our annual function together. We promised each other. Okay! You can't leave your bff Meghan alone ...You can't do that...." Christine's eyes filled with tears and she nodded. But couldn't say anything because of the oxygen mask. Her mother then kissed her forehead and hugged her. Then a nurse came to make us leave the OT. As I got out of the room I couldn't control my tears anymore. I cried a lot. Chrissy's mother hugged me and tried to make me calm but couldn't control her tears either. "Will I ever see you again in your bubblish version?". The only question wriggled around my mind. The operation took about 11 hours. This struggle between life and death is inescapable. But if the struggle doesn't give you a fruit it breaks you down into thousands pieces.

"Christine couldn't make it" As the doctor said these words. I felt lifeless. As if my soul left my body. I was beyond devasted. My Chrissy is no more! My sister! Why God why? Why you took away her from me? Christine's parents were sitting on the other bench shocked and shattered. Her mother was so weak that she couldn't even cry properly. Her father put his head on his laps and cried a lot. I went towards them and hugged them. Both of them held me tightly and soaked my t-shirt with their pain. Then Chrissy's body on the bed came out of the OT. It was getting transferred for the paperwork. I nearly jumped to see her. Her eyes were closed. Her body was lifeless. I shouted like a million times, "Chrissy stop acting, I know this is your Oscar winning performance....you can't leave me like this.....get up Chrissy! Get up!" . Some of the nurses came and held me aside so that her bed can go forward. I struggled to get myself freed from those hands. I shouted but nothing could help she is gone. Gone Forever. Now it's been three years since she passed away. And every evening I come near this river and read the paper that Chrissy wrote for me days before her operation.

It says, Hey Meghan, I know you will be reading this a billionth time since I died. Because if I am alive you probably wouldn't have seen this paper in your life. I just wanna say bestie that you are an angel!! You take care of me so much even more than my mother. This operation can never separate us in anyway. Because I am always with you sister. Even if I am a ghost!

And if there is a hard time and you wanna talk so much about it just come to our favourite place near the river and sit right there. My soul would be there, wandering to listen to your shit talk everytime. I love you Meghan. Always be like this in future. Your bff Chrissy I can't say that I talk to Chrissy soul when I come right here. But I can say that, I feel calm. The air around this place has her scent. When I look in the river, the moon's reflection has her face engraved on it. It feels she is here with me.