My name is Selina Chan and I’m a mother of two boys. My oldest boy is Jamal and he’s ten years old. He loves to play basketball and video games with his dad. My oldest boy looks more like his handsome father. My youngest boy, Isaiah, looks more like his mom. He has his mom’s high cheekbones and her small chin. He’s six years old and he loves to collect superhero comic books, especially Spider-Man comics. Yesterday was nice. My husband was at work, and I was at home with the boys making scarecrow decorations out of construction paper. My youngest boy made the best scarecrow. His scarecrow reminded me of the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz. We made a mess out of everything, but we were having so much fun. My boys had paint and glue on their fingers and faces. There were pieces of construction paper scattered on the floor. I had paint on my orange sweatshirt and my tie-dye shorts. We had a blast throwing construction paper scraps at each other. I didn’t have to go to work and it was Saturday, so my boys had the day off from school. After we made our scarecrows, we cleaned up the mess. I took my boys into the kitchen and I used a washcloth to clean the paint off their faces and hands. We swept up the shreds of construction paper and we put our scarecrow decorations on the dining room table. We watched our favorite superhero movie, Black Panther. It felt so nice to sit on the sofa and watch a movie with my boys. The wind was blowing softly outside and I could hear the autumn wind rustling the leaves around on my porch. After the movie ended, my oldest boy played his video games and my youngest boy read his new Spider-Man comic book. I was in the kitchen baking chocolate chip cookies and listening to the music playlist on my phone. Everything seemed fine and I was in the kitchen shaking my butt to Snoop Dogg. I was taking the second batch of cookies out of the oven when I heard my youngest boy crying in the living room. I thought he had hurt himself, and that panicked mother mode came over me. I bolted out of the kitchen to see what was wrong. What’s the matter, babe? I could barely get the question out of my mouth. Isaiah had his Spider-Man comic book in my face, showing me the nemesis who killed Spider-Man. My kid loves Spider-Man to the point of obsession. He has every Spider-Man toy, video game, and poster in his room. We’ve watched every Spider-Man movie with the different young actors. Tobey Maguire, Andrew Garfield, and Tom Holland all had my son’s blessing. So when he found out that a villain named Kraven the Hunter killed Spider-Man, he almost lost it. I had to calm him down. He killed Spider-Man! He shouted with tears in his eyes. I held him and he finally calmed down. We were sitting on the sofa and I had him on my lap with my lips buried in his curly hair. My oldest boy kept playing his Need for Speed video game, and he didn’t let his little brother distract him. Seeing tears in my youngest boy’s eyes made me sad. He laid his head on my chest after letting his comic book fall to the floor. While I was wiping the tears off his face, he told me how Spider-Man died. A villain who called himself Kraven the Hunter tricked Spider-Man into believing he was his wife, Mary Jane Watson, by drinking a potion that gave him the ability to shape-shift. Spider-Man went to rescue who he thought was Mary Jane. He heard her screaming and he swung through the window of an abandoned building to see the imposter Mary Jane lying on the floor with her hands and feet chained together. Spidey set the imposter free and when he tried to carry her out of the building, she transformed into Kraven the Hunter. Kraven hurled Spider-Man through a brick wall before stabbing him through the heart with a poison coated dagger made from the tooth of a lion. Whoever wrote this Spider-Man comic book was an asshole. Why would you kill Spider-Man knowing a child would read the comic and find out that their hero dies at the end? What the fu—? Never mind. Anyway, I tried to do something that would make my little angel happy again. I offered him a chocolate chip cookie, but he turned me down. I held him in my lap for a while, and my oldest boy glanced around at us with an amused look on his face. I asked my oldest boy if he wanted a cookie and he shook his head at me. Damn, it seemed like nobody wanted a cookie. Isaiah drifted off to sleep, using my chest as a pillow. When I saw he was asleep, I slowly stood up from the sofa, trying my best not to wake him up. I preferred to see him sleeping, not crying. My oldest boy looked around at me again. He gave me a puzzled look when I bent down to pick up his brother’s comic book. I smiled at him and blew him a kiss. He blew a kiss back at me before returning to his video game. I gave my youngest boy one last look to make sure he was still asleep. Without being noticed, I tiptoed out of the living room, holding Isaiah’s comic book in both of my hands. I grabbed my phone and made my way up the stairs. The stairs creaked beneath my feet, which annoyed me. Years passed before I finally made it to the top of the stairway. We have a long-ass stairway in our home, and I burn a few calories every time I walk up and down the stairs. I walked into the bathroom, gently shutting the door behind me. I laid the comic book down on the bathroom sink while taking a deep breath. Smartphones come in handy when you need to research something. I did an internet search on this Kraven the Hunter guy. He was born in Volgograd, Russia, and his actual name was Sergei Kravinoff. I read that he was a Soviet immigrant, and his father was an aristocrat. He first appeared in The Amazing Spider-Man comic, issue number 15 in August 1964. Legendary Marvel Comics writer, Stan Lee created him and the artist who drew his design was Steve Ditko. He was a frequent Spider-Man villain. Kraven the Hunter was a big game hunter and he would seek to defeat Spider-Man to prove he was the greatest hunter in the world. He didn’t use guns and his weapons of choice were spears, darts, axes, nets, whips, poisons, and gases. He consumed a witch doctor’s herbal potion to enhance his physical power. I know what you’re thinking. Why the hell would I need to know all this information about a comic book villain? You’ll find out in a second. I needed to channel my spiritual gifts, and I needed to insert my spirit into my baby’s Spider-Man comic book. I know that what I just said sounded insane. Gathering information about Kraven the Hunter would help me defeat him. After shutting my eyes, I went into a deep meditative trance while chanting an ancient Chinese language under my breath. I tied my hair back and I removed my earrings. War entered my mind. This Kraven the Hunter guy needed to pay for what he did. He killed Spider-Man and he made my kid cry. It was kick-ass time. Time turned inside out for me. My body went into warp drive. My cells, my fingernails, my skin all regenerated at supersonic speed. I kept my eyes closed until I heard the revving engine of a motorcycle and thunder above my head. When I opened my eyes, I was on a motorcycle and I almost ran into the back of a car. I swerved while punching the throttle. Rainwater was beating down on my motorcycle helmet. Flashes of lightning stretched out across the night sky. I was wearing a black leather catsuit and it hugged my curvy figure. I had two gas-operated, semi-automatic handguns strapped to my waist. I had a Samurai sword strapped to my back. Hearing the motorcycle’s growling turbocharged engine sent a wave of hypnotic euphoria through my body. I was shooting between cars like a bullet. Judging from my surroundings, I could tell that I was on the Brooklyn Bridge. My eyes caught a dark figure swinging from the bridge’s cables above me. I knew that the figure was Spider-Man. This meant that my magic successfully inserted me into the comic book. Never get in an Asian mother’s way. No car could stop me. Every time a car would turn into my path, I’d swerve out of the way while punching the brake. I had to keep up with Spider-Man. He was moving faster than the lightning in the heavens. A streetlight would illuminate his suit. His web would shoot out, attaching itself to every streetlight pole. My motorcycle left the bridge and I didn’t even notice. I felt like Trinity in The Matrix. My motorcycle was my black stallion. I forced my motorcycle to do a 360 degree swerve and my back tire was spinning out of control. After I parked my bike, I removed my helmet, letting the rain wash my face. I shut off my motorcycle’s engine while looking up to see Spider-Man sitting on top of a streetlight. Lightning flashes would illuminate his silhouette every second. I was about to yell out to him, but he saw me. He swung down from the streetlight and he landed on the roof of an abandoned car. He moved with breakneck speed. A loud thud echoed through the air when his feet slammed down on the car’s hood. He landed so hard on the car that he blew out its windows and its tires. It scared me, but I still approached him. He had a slender, muscular definition, but he also had a pre-pubescent appearance. I knew Spider-Man was a teenager in the early comics but I remembered that he had a wife, which meant that he was an adult by now. We slowly approached each other with the rain falling in our faces. The rain caused the black spider logo on his chest to glisten. His suit was a dark sapphire-blue combined with a crimson red. The spider web designs on his mask and suit gave him that distinct edgy appearance that separated him from other superheroes. When I heard this adorable squeaky voice emerge from behind his mask, I almost giggled. He was so polite, but he kept a cautious distance between himself and me. I guess his Spidey sense told him I wasn’t a threat because he stepped closer to me after he asked me who I was. He called me, ma’am. As he got closer to me, I had to look up at the teardrop mirror-like eyes attached to his mask. The silver eyes on his mask reminded me of mirrored wrap-around sunglasses. It was mesmerizing to see the burst of lightning in the night sky reflecting in his silver eyes. He was so tall, and I wanted to see his face because I knew he’d be cute. I already knew about his Peter Parker identity. I almost told him to remove his mask so I could see his cute boyish face, but I kept it professional. When he asked me who I was, I told him my superhero name which was Kill Girl. It was a crappy name, but it was the best I could do. The situation got funny when I told him that Kraven the Hunter was going to kill him. I explained everything to him, including my son crying over his death. I even told him he was in a comic book. Seems like superheroes don’t know they’re a character in a comic book until you tell them. As I was talking to Spidey we both heard screaming coming from the building we were standing in front of. I told Spider-Man again that it was Kraven the Hunter pretending to be his wife, and that it was a trap. I told him I wanted to be his sidekick and that I would help him defeat Kraven the Hunter. I said to him in these exact words, I’m sorry sweetheart, but Kraven’s gonna kill your ass if you try to fight him without my help. He listened to me and before I knew it he had his arm around my waist, whisking me up into the air using his web-slinging ability. I’m afraid of heights. I had my arms wrapped around him and I was screaming at him, telling him that if he dropped me, I was gonna kill him. In seconds, he swung me into the building through a broken window and we both landed hard on our feet. Knowing what would happen, I wasted no time pulling out my guns and aiming them at the Mary Jane imposter that was lying on the floor. Spider-Man stood behind me and we watched as the fake ass Mary Jane slowly rose to her feet before transforming into Kraven. I finally got to see Kraven the Hunter up close and personal. He had barbaric muscles in his arms and tattoos decorated his dirty skin. He had on a vest that looked like a sleeveless tiger fur coat. He wore a choker that had bony spikes attached to it. His height overshadowed me and I could see a beastly rage in his eyes. A thick bushy mustache concealed part of his lips, and his ex-convict facial features looked sort of handsome to me in a caveman way. When he spoke to me, his voice sounded like thunder and it vibrated the surrounding air. He never asked who I was and he assumed I was Catwoman because of my black leather suit. What an idiot. I knew he’d be misogynistic. He looked like the womanizing type. It offended me when he said that I reminded him of a hot stripper he saw at a gentlemen’s club a few weeks ago. He called me his little Asian flower, which sounded racist. And he loved my long platinum blonde pigtails, which reminded him of Harley Quinn. He wanted to see my eyes, but my black mask was covering the top half of my face. He told me not to hide my beauty behind a mask. He also kept staring at my cleavage, saying that my boobs would make a lot of men salivate. He said a few other things to me that I can’t say out loud. While he was talking dirty to me, he reached into his vest to pull out something and that’s when I pulled the trigger. One bullet clipped his shoulder, but it didn’t phase him. He tried to throw a poison dart at me, but Spider-Man shot a string of web in his face. He cussed at Spider-Man while trying to get the sticky web out of his eyes. I tried to shoot him again, but both of my guns jammed. That pissed me off. Out of my rage, I threw my guns down and I ran toward him, jumping up in the air and kicking him in his chest. His big lumbering physique went tumbling backward. He tried to throw a few punches at me, but he kept missing. A fist would swing past my face, missing my nose by an inch. I didn’t want those heavy hands to hit my face, because I knew they’d do some damage. I had fun kicking him in his stomach and kicking him in his back. He’d throw a punch at me and I’d punish him with a few sidekicks to his face. Even Spider-Man punched him around a few times. Mr. Kraven the Hunter didn’t have a chance. He made my kid cry and I killed his ass within a few seconds. I did a handstand while kicking him in his face. I kicked him as hard as I could, knocking his ass through a plate-glass window. The last thing I heard was his screams exiting the building and becoming more distant. When I peered through the shattered window, I saw what happens when you fall from a five-story building. You go splat on a concrete sidewalk. Spider-Man peeked over my shoulder, and I heard him gasp when he looked down to see a bloody pancake that used to be Mr. Kraven. I thanked Spidey for his heroic service. We hugged each other and I told him how much my son idolized him. I reached up to touch his mask and I wanted to see his face, but a child’s voice and a loud knock in my head sucked me out of the comic book like a vacuum cleaner. Just like that, I was standing in the bathroom in my sweatshirt and shorts again. My youngest boy was banging on the bathroom door asking for his comic book. I opened the door to see a cute, curly-haired pint-sized man in a Spider-Man T-shirt and shorts looking up at me. His pitiful doll-like eyes still had tears in them. His little pink lips were upside down. Without hesitation, I handed my son his comic book while smirking at him. I folded my arms and giggled when my little angel flipped to the end of his comic book to see a beautiful, mysterious female superhero in a black costume rescuing Spider-Man. His mouth dropped open when he saw how Kill Girl annihilated Kraven the Hunter by throwing him out of a five-story window. I watched as a smile slowly bloomed across my little boy’s lips. I saw those dimples again and his eyes lit up. My youngest boy was happy…. But something told me that I had some explaining to do.


Cardboard shoe boxes tower high the walls of our cramped entrance hallway of the apartment on East 23rd street. The ones I need are in a large box at the bottom of this wobbly pyramid. I hold the box above it against the wall, and using my thumb and the very tip of my pinky finger, pull the green box labelled Hoka out. A voice rings out behind me, “You have ten pairs of shoes in the hallway. I think you need to get rid of a few.” “But I need to rotate my shoes to protect my feet,” I say defensively to my wife Melissa. “Ten pairs?” I can’t see her face as I’m still pushing the boxes against the wall to prevent the pile from collapsing. That would be a mess so I better simply agree. “Ok, I’ll throw one out.”

When we first met, I was a bit resentful about how controlling she could be. But lately I have been reading of the need for spouses to simply be heard. It’s understandable, isn’t it? If you wipe your forehead and say “it’s hot today”, and the person you are talking to doesn’t echo the same emotion, and says something different like “look at that Great Dane!” you will probably feel a flash of irritation. Didn’t he hear me? Does he disagree?  What did I say wrong? Still holding the stack of shoe boxes against the wall, I successfully slide it down to a safe landing. I put on the Hoka shoes with a maxi-protection extra thick stack. I feel three inches taller. So this is what it feels like to be 6 feet. “Those shoes don’t match your running shorts,” she says, frowning. This isn't negotiable. “It’s a 50 km race today. I need to wear these Hoka Speedgoat 5s to protect my knees.” “Everyone we know is going to see you. The other runners will have matching outfits. I don’t want my husband to …” I wave my hand dismissively. “Remember? The MRI showed my knee meniscus is partially torn. It's more important to protect that cushion in my knee than to look fashionable.” “You are 38 years old. I don’t think it's a good idea for you to be running this much.” “It keeps me healthy.” “Call me the second you finish, to let me know you are ok.” "Will do Lizzy." After hearing my agreement, her face loosens. "I'll make you your favorite meal when you are done,” she says, and we give each other a quick hug before I leave. Sitting in the F-Line train on the way to Central Park, immersed in the metal-against-metal screeching of the train making its way uptown, I think about why I spend so much time running. Some people practice mindfulness, or meditation, or yoga. Those don’t work for me. Two seconds after I sit down to meditate or hold a yoga pose, I wonder why I am doing this and my mind races to people and places and plans. They say in the modern world we overuse the planning part of our brain, and making us feel stressed. We only need to get a few things done each day, but that part of our brain that makes plans keeps churning and churning like a coffee grinder that has run out of beans.

Better to “live in the moment” they say. Running does that. One foot after the other. The need to vigilantly scan the New York City walkways for obstacles keeps me focused. On the positive side, people that I might feel threatening are now just scenery that goes past when I’m running. I’m invisible except to the other runners, who often give me a quick look over or a nod and a smile. Races are friendly. People from every age, gender and ethnic group are here on the same mission. Ultra marathons attract a special sort of non-conformist. No one seems to have put any thought into matching their running shoes, shorts, and jerseys in the crowd that gathers to run the Hudson Valley 50 km. I wish good luck to a few strangers, and then I see someone I know well. “Good to see you here, Joe!” I say. “Same here. I'm running this to get ready for the Hard Rock 100 in July." I look down at the black sports tape covering his left knee. “ACL tear,” he says, “The doctor told me to stop running, but I keep going.” I nod. “A friend of mine recovered from that." A white lie, he recovered from a simple ankle sprain. I hide my schadenfreude that my meniscus injury seems more manageable than his ACL. A horn blares, and then the run begins. Soon, we’re running over the George Washington bridge toward New Jersey. I see the greenery and the high cliffs created from the seismic shift that lifted New Jersey two hundred feet higher than the New York side of the Hudson River. As we climb the steady incline of the bridge, Joe gains distance and steadily disappears amongst the swirl of runners ahead. I concentrate on the rhythm of running. I try to maintain a steady distance with the woman in the pale yellow Lululemon shirt ahead of me while I let my thoughts float to other daydreams about seismic shifts, nature, and the meaning of life. We've reached Palisades Park, the halfway point, and spread out string of runners does a large meandering circle through the park following the arrows taped up at every junction. From the heights above, we descend on a trail from Hawk's Nest to the Hudson River embankment. On one downward leap, we knee wobbles, and then I feel it bend like butter and pop out to the right side in a horrifically unnatural position. In the next instant, I’m rolling down the stairs. Over and over, uncontrollably. Then the pain hits me. I scream. Laying on the ground, a few runners just go past without saying anything, but soon one of them stops and calls for help. After a long wait, I'm being transported to an ambulance in a blur of pain, panic, and passing out. An EMT gives me a sedative and everything goes black. An unknown period of time later, I awaken. The lights in the room are bright. I smell the antiseptic sharpness of a hospital. Taking in my surroundings, the first thing I notice is how cold I am and that I’m wearing paper pajamas for some reason. While I’m still taking processing what's going on exactly, a nurse walks in. “Oh you’re awake? I’ll let them know,” she says, and then leaves the room. Soon, a doctor appears, walking in together with my wife Melissa. They look at me with concern. The doctor says, “Hi Jake. While you were in the emergency room, we took a few X-rays of your legs. It appears that low bone density, combined with all the running we’ve heard about from your wife, has weakened your knee joints and hip sockets.”

He pulls out a laptop and shows me a colorful looking diagram. He moves a scroll bar and points at things I don’t recognize. I didn't realize x-rays are colorful these days. “Looking at this slide, your fall has shattered your femur and right hip socket. We will do our best to put things back together. But currently there's a chance you will never run, or walk, again.” “That can’t be true,” I say, my voice shaking. I’m gripped with a deep sense of panic. “Our physio will teach you how to use a wheelchair, and in the meantime your wife Melissa can help push you.” I look at Melissa. “Great!” she says, smiling. “Now I can keep an eye on you every second.”


The first rule was to never stop time.    You weren't selected to join unless you had impeccable morals. The power we held was...incredible.    There's seventeen of us, at least so I'm told, scattered around the world. I've only met Rashim, the one who recruited me. That was seven years ago...or was it eight?    “Dr. Melrois, room seven has the pneumonia case. Young child.”    “Thank you, Evi,” I said as I picked up the clipboard.    I had established this clinic in Suriname as part of Doctors Without Borders.    “Hallo, ik ben docter Melrois. Laten we eens naar de patiënt kijken.” I said when I entered the room.    It took me a few minutes to understand their broken Dutch to learn what had happened. I ran through the proper exam steps and ordered x-rays. I took them to the front desk to sign forms when a man staggered in, blood dripping from his head.    “Nurse, take over please,” I said grabbing a handful of gauze from behind the desk.    This wasn't the first time something like this had happened at our small clinic.    “Sir, take a seat, let me stop the bleeding,” I said as I pressed gauze against the wounds. “Evi, could you get me the triage kit?”    The bleeding stopped after a few moments so I prepared for sutures.    “You wanna to tell me what happened?” I asked.    The man reached up and gently grabbed my wrist.    “Sean...” he whispered.    Rashim? I hadn't recognized him.    “What are you doing here?” I hissed.    He said nothing. I recognized the signs of blunt force trauma on his body.    He pointed down the hall.    “Evi, I'm taking him to room six, please bring me a suture kit and some ice,”    I hefted him up and tried not to run down the hall with him over my shoulder, Evi close behind.    Once inside I asked my nurse to leave and closed the door.    Working quickly, I cleaned the wound, numbed it, and began sewing it together. I normally didn't work that fast but I instinctively knew something was wrong.    “Don't tell me you got scratched by a howler monkey,” I began.    “It was actually a white faced saki—a big one.” He smirked.    “What happened?” I asked as I finished my knot and applied iodine to the wound area.    “You know the first rule? Well, I never told you what happens when you stop time. It's addicting, more than anything you'd ever know.” Rashim began,    “What are you telling me? You got hurt from..from an addiction?”    “No, it's what's inside the time freeze.”    “Inside? You never told me—”    “The wolves—beasts that hunt you! But only when you freeze time.”    Realization hit me as I glanced at the door. Was something waiting for us?    “Are we in danger now?”    “No, they can only hunt when you use the amulet.”    “So they aren't hunting you now?”    I watched him shake his head. I could only assume he was telling the truth. I paused time once during training.    Well, and that other time to save that patient from bleeding to death.    “Can we stop them?” I asked.    Rashish stared at the wall, a distant look in his eyes.    “The others...there's only three of us left.” Rashish whispered.    He rose and started to leave. I followed him    “What do you mean? The other time stoppers?” I begged.    “I tried to warn them. But Jerome, he was doing it too much. They're all...doing it.”    Rashish winced his eyes shut as tears rolled down his cheeks. He pushed through the door and walked outside, walking towards the street where scooters zipped by.    I could see what would happen. If pausing time was addicting, I had no idea how to treat it.    “Let me hide your amulet for now.” I offered, stepping close.    “What? Now?”    I saw his eyes go wide and my stomach knotted. He was not able to control his addiction.    “Or else you'll die?” I decided to make it as urgent as possible.    “No no no, you can't. I need it to protect myself.”    I tried to snatch the necklace but he was faster, my hand closing over his, as he activated it.    It felt like falling into deep snow as time stopped.    I looked around and saw Rashish's expression.    “It's all I have. You can't take it.” He whined as he flinched way.    I was reaching for my amulet when I heard them.    Wolves.    They rushed out of the surrounding alleys and bushes, a deep snarl coupled with a chuffing laugh. Their forms were incomplete, they were wolves, but they seemed out of focus. Their bodies were lithe, gray forms, with fragmented after images breaking away from them, like reflections between two mirrors.    “Run!” Rashim commanded as he rose to fight.    I tried to pick up a rock to throw but my hand passed through it.    Panic hit me hard as I faced seven rushing forms. I backed up and ran into Rashish, and we toppled down in a pile. I closed my hand over my amulet in a desperate attempt and let the power activate.    Time resumed.    The scooters on the street resumed their motion, along with the wind blowing and the leaves moving. Underneath me, Rashish started laughing.    I rolled off him as the rush hit me.    Clarity of thought washed over my mind and I saw things come into focus I had never thought of. Why my girlfriend liked me. Why the government never had enough money. I could comprehend the weather patterns and sense each person who drove by.    A gentle hand rested on my shoulder.    “Now do you understand?” Rahish smiled.    He struggled to pull something out of his pocket before he grabbed my hand and dropped a collection of amulets into it. Slowly, he pulled his off his neck and gave it to me.    “I have the clarity now, but it'll wear off.”    “What do I—”    “Take them to Sam, he'll know what to do. That's your mission now.”


Includes swearing There was something about the smell of vintage paper; worn and yellow and dog-eared corners that had been flattened out and then creased again. The ink that stained the pages with words that couldn’t become unsaid once spoken aloud. She drifted through the aisles, this wisp of a person with hair that was blacker than the nights in the depths of winter when even the silver penny of a moon is obscured by clouds. She was everything that writers would romanticize in the stories she was browsing. You wouldn’t believe me, but she was even in a dress, one of those flowy silk ones that cinch at her waist and then wash around her ankles. So, I watched her, in a silent envy because she could filter her way through the aisles plucking at books with broken spines and sift through their gorgeous, delicate pages. She was the sort of woman that the saying ‘love at first sight’ was invented for. She was the sort of person that you would fall so hopefully, irretrievably in love with that you wanted to just be her because being with her wasn’t enough. There’s a fake snow coated Christmas tree in the corner, its long limbs stretching out like they’re trying to catch in her hair, but she ducks away from the corner where the smell of pine merges with the smell of paper and dilutes the aroma that’s meant to wrap you up in here. ‘Astrid.’ My manager taps her finger impatiently on the counter work top, her too long acrylic nails glossed with blue and white streaks. ‘Can we get rid of the Christmas tree?’ ‘No, have some Christmas spirit for god’s sake.’ She flicked at her brunette hair that was split into chunks by the blonde highlights that coursed downwards from her scalp. Everything about her was vaguely streaky. She didn’t belong here, not in my bookshop with its smells and warmth and towers of books that protect you from the outside with its army of fictional characters. She belonged in a story about a pub where there’s a fight and beer is thrown because obviously she drinks beer rather than martinis and now she’s messing this up just by being here. ‘Are you shitting me? You’re actually daydreaming again?’ Her voice dripped with annoyance. ‘Pepper please.’ I pleaded with her, more because I needed her to stop talking and yes, her name actually is Pepper. The woman I was meant to love, with the swashy dress, was drifting further away from me, her feet in basic white trainers were walking away into the next aisle and when she turned down that section into the ‘R to V’ authors I wouldn’t be able to see her anymore. ‘Moira.’ Pepper clicked her fingers at a denim clad 20 something female with the sort of blueish green eyes that you normally see on huskies. ‘Swap with Astrid, will you?’ Glancing at the floor so I didn’t trip over my shoelaces, I drifted past high wooden bookshelves, each one encasing history in its blemishes and chips. The grain and knots in the wood promising a good narrative. And now I could pretend I didn’t actually work here but I was just someone who found comfort amongst pages and ink. Inhaling I pulled a hardback from the shelf with a cover showing a sun setting over the slowly raging sea and continued my gentle stride because she was definitely the sort of girl, no woman, who would love a book about sea and sunsets. She was there. She was there with her dress and white trainers with a smear of rain on them and a phone balanced precariously between her shoulder and ear while she tried to hold four books together in a tower in her arms. ‘Cadence please can you not scream, I’m in a library.’ Anger pierced my gut the way hot knives slice into butter. I’d already written us a script for how this was supposed to go and then she called here ‘a library’ when it was in fact a bookshop and the two were so vastly different. And how can you fully appreciate the bookshop you’re in if you’re going to be on your phone? You’re meant to be unplugged from the rest of the world in here. ‘Cadence come on, I’ll be home for dinner, and we can talk about it then.’ Yes, put the phone away because you really are ruining everything. ‘Honey it’s just cocktails with the girls; I’m hardly going to break the bank…oh yeah well then maybe I shouldn’t be buying you so many books.’ Her face screwed up in annoyance, the lines creasing her forehead in a most unattractive way. ‘It’s my money, it’s not like a joint account I’m running dry. You’re my roommate for god’s sake not my mother.’ In that instant she turned, and she saw me. Her with her phone and her books. Me with the sunset and the sea in my hands. She looked away from where our eyes had locked momentarily. ‘Well maybe you should stop calling and skyrocketing our phone bill or taking ridiculously long showers… yes I do like baths…no that’s not the issue that we’re focusing on. Cadence I am hanging up now.’ She clicked the red circle that largely resembled a cherry, but she seemed to somehow make everything less aesthetic. Why tell someone you were hanging up? That took all the oomph out of it, just freaking hang up if that’s what you’re going to do. I couldn’t love a girl like this; a girl who called bookshops libraries and spoke too loudly on the phone about water bills and a girl who looked at me the way she was looking at me. ‘Can I help you?’ She asked. That was supposed to be my line, I worked here, and she just tarnished the place with her disregard for novels. ‘No.’ I responded, blunt and brittle. ‘Okay.’ She turned back to grappling with her leaning tower of books. God, she didn’t even see that we were meant to be something remarkable, but she ruined it by just being her. ‘Do you want this?’ I held out the book in my palm, suddenly feeling like I was being scalded. I wouldn’t read this, this book with its reviews rather than blurb. I wasn’t shallow enough to buy a book based on the photograph and swirly font. She stepped forward and gingerly took it from my fingertips, eyeing the front warily before her mouth stretched into a smile. ‘Thank you! It’s just what I wanted.’ She sashayed off in her dirty white trainers, with a dress that caught at her ankles, to buy a book she’d only just glanced at. I blinked the eyelash out of my eye and succumbed to the uninterrupted silence of being amongst books who are ready to be appreciated and journeyed through. The girl with a roommate called Cadence handed over a crumpled note for a book that hadn’t even touched her skin 2 minutes ago. There was something to be said about those who judged a book based on its cover.


"So," he starts, breaking the silence that has been swallowing them up whole on that park bench for who knows how long. Both are sat down on each end of that bench that held so much memory. Funny how they specifically sat here, knowing the memories they made were unforgettable. The same place they sat, looking at each other with so much love and admiration, talking and laughing endlessly before... but not the same people, for they can't look at one another without seeing the other as a complete stranger. "So," she breathes, fixated on looking at the snowflakes that were falling before them. "Why did you call me here?" she says, almost in a whisper. He was silent for awhile. He pursed his lips and thought hard. No matter how many times he's practiced this in his head, nothing will fully prepare him for this moment. He exhaled, and finally decides to looks at her. She still looked so beautiful. "I regret it," he admits, with so much pain in his voice, he continues, "I'm sorry for leaving you but... I miss you." This time, she was silent. Nothing could be heard on this cold and lonely night except for their breathing. It was cold. She was freezing. He was waiting for a reply. "How can you say that? After leaving me?" "I know what I did before. I regret it so much and I'm really sorry for what I did. But I couldn't get you out my mind. No matter how hard I tried, you were all that I can think about. Everyday, I regret my decision of leaving you. I thought for sure I didn't love you anymore, but I was wrong." "Then, what do you want to do?" The question hung in the air. He paused for a while, not knowing what to reply with. Finally, he settled on an answer. "I just... wanted to tell you how I felt." There it was again. Silence. "It's been years, you know?" she chuckled bitterly. "You left me devastated and it was so hard to forget you. I couldn't forgive you for what you did and everyday I had to struggle with the fact that I wasn't enough, that there was something wrong with me. Do you know how hard it was to live knowing I wasn't enough? That I could've done something to make you stay? You broke all the promises you made to me. I believed in you, Johnathan." her voice shook, and he looked over to her to see a tear slide down her cheek; his heart was crushed. She looked back at the man--"I loved you."--at the man she no longer felt the same way she did before. And that was when he knew that there won't be another chance, another shot. "So," he starts. "So," she says. "I guess this is where it all ends, doesn't it?" "It ended a long time ago." He swallows, trying not to let her see how hurt he was. "Right. It did." Oh how they were both so familiar with the silence. For a while, they just sat and admired the pretty white snow falling around. From start to end, the distance between them never lessened. "Is that all?" "Yeah." he says, fully knowing he had something else to say. 'I still love you.' he thinks, 'Say it.' "Well," She stands up from the bench, "I'm happy we were able to talk. Thanks for everything, Johnathan." 'Say it. Say it. Say it before she goes. Say it, idiot. Say it.' But she was already walking away, back facing him, leaving him alone under that streetlamp. Was this how she felt when he left her before? Would she stay if he told her he loved her still? He'd no longer know. He knows she had moved on, but just what if? Could things have ended in a different way? "Idiot." Well, here comes another regret he needs to live with.


After opening the door to the camper van, Dawn pops the deckchair out before retreating back inside to grab a blanket and her coffee. The distant crowing rouses the sun, sending out its reminder that it’s time to throw the covers off and stir. Wrapped up, her gaze drifts and she watches as the reddish-orange haze begins its ascent above the horizon and notices the aroma of citrus wafting across the field. The green grass glistens when the light rays catch the blades and, after days of continual rain, it is a welcome sight. Although the summer evokes difficult memories, moments like these need to be cherished, so she sits steadfast and takes it in.                      “Good morning,” she says to the birds, as they compete for the best solo artist award and some attention.

At least there are advantages to insomnia. Of course, this serenity delays the inevitable and when the knots resurface, another trek to the toilet block is necessary.                        Dawn’s appetite is non-existent, so she pours more coffee, ignoring the fact that the smell is making her nauseous. A drawback to rising early is having hours to ponder about the day’s events and she has a lot to dwell on today. Although five years have passed, the day she fled is still vivid, ingrained as an evil reminder of her selfishness. Unable to maintain the charade any longer, she never relented, not even to appease the hysterical cries of her children, as she dragged the suitcase to the car and drove away. You see, ever since childhood, her hidden shadow has harassed her. It ground her down. With an awareness of the devastating impact that listening to it would incur, she endured married life until the continual battle became exhausting, and she realised that only by relenting to its wishes would she discover her true self and be free.

    Even as she stood at the altar speaking her vows, a nagging doubt nestled, but she ignored it. Why? Well, the hope that travelling down the path of normality - university, career, marriage, and children - might liberate the shadow, persuaded her that saying ‘I do’ was a great idea. If she focussed her energy on the ordinary, then the devil inside would relinquish its grip and return to hell, wouldn’t it?

Summer was when the lighter, warmer nights left everyone cheerful and content. Except for that evening. Dawn remembers having to switch the living room lights on before sitting down. Coronation Street was on the television. Background noise to soak up the recriminations and dampen down the loud voices. The pitter-patter on the windows meant the volume was high, so she spoke loudly to be heard.                      “We need to talk... I need to talk.” Those inimitable words everyone dreads. Why didn’t her ex sense it? Would the shock have been as catastrophic? Who was she kidding? No straightforward way to break that sort of news exists.                      “I am doing this for my sanity,” she stated.

                    “Your sanity? What about the kids?” came the reply.                     “I am living a lie and won’t do it, not anymore,” she asserted.

                    “Then leave, but you inform the children and they can decide if they want contact with you.”

      She told them. They couldn’t come to terms with her decision, so she departed with a hope that one day fate would allow them to discover her whereabouts and give her the chance to make amends. Five years have passed, and Sophie has contacted asking to meet. As Dawn ended the call, a small gap inside her broken heart moulded itself closed, and her cheeks ached from the pleasure that hearing her voice brought. Now here, reality has hit. If anything goes wrong, then her only chance to build bridges will vanish.              She has decided on her outfit and opted for a smart-casual, but comfortable look. Her dark blue knee-length dress adorned with yellow/orange butterfly images fits the bill, as it covers her cleavage. To be on show today is not suitable. Teaming it up with a pair of plain grey leggings and black boots will complement nicely. Size 10 feet means she has trouble getting high heels but, having never been able to walk elegantly in them anyway, she doesn’t mind too much. Accessories are a pale pink scarf and matching handbag and with her hair down and a light application of make-up to feel feminine, it should boost her confidence. A lot of her family and friends severed contact when the news broke, but she expected that and prepared herself beforehand, along with the requisite to move away. It would be easier to discover her real self surrounded by strangers. Those first few months were tough. To go from a big noisy house to the solitary confines of a bed-sit was brutal. The emptiness was... Well, it’s true when they say silence is deafening. She’d escaped from one prison only to find herself in another. Now she loves her own company and relishes the reflection before her, but that wasn’t immediate.                      A network of people assisted her. A charity organised some accommodation and helped her secure employment. In her old life, she taught maths at a secondary school. It was inappropriate to continue in that profession, so her new position is in retail. Most of her colleagues are understanding, but a minority of harsh critics exist and vent their opinions. The realisation that eradicating the narrow-minded views of some will never happen means she has developed a thick skin. As she strengthens, so do her survival skills.

                       As well as Sophie, she has a son, Sam. Sophie was fourteen when she left, but Sam was only nine. It was a difficult enough situation for her to comprehend, so she knew her son would struggle. Throughout it all, her mum’s loyalty hasn’t wavered. She has provided her with snippets about the kid’s progression, even throwing the odd photo in too. Although that won’t compensate for physically being there, it was better than nothing. It irks that she doesn’t know how their personalities have developed. Has their anger towards her affected them? Is who they should have been and who they are down to the decision she made? These are questions she may never receive the answer to.                       With an hour until departure, she fills the time by finishing the photo album. It’s for Sophie (if she wants it), and she has filled it with images of her evolution. Her therapist’s advice was that picturing the before and after would be beneficial for her mental health. It has. She’s had a lot of therapy, had her head thoroughly examined and all decisions scrupulously questioned and dissected. But, if she is honest, regrets have never manifested.

                        The rendezvous is at the local coffee shop and Dawn worries about walking past her daughter. The most recent photograph is from her sixteenth birthday and, although from only a few years ago, what if she cannot spot her? She knows Sophie will have trouble picking her out.                         The cloudless still skies make the walk to town extremely pleasant. The reflections of sunlight on the puddles beam brightly, but she has her umbrella just in case. She glances into the windows as she saunters by. Yes, she is happy with her outfit choice. Okay, let’s go. Let’s do this.

                      As she approaches the coffee shop, a young lady stands outside. She has blonde hair and a unique prettiness about her. It’s Sophie. Dawn’s instinct has kicked in. A parent knows their child. She pauses and takes a deep breath. All her fears that this could end up as a disaster resurface. A need to visit the bathroom hits. Damn! Positive thinking. She must have positive thinking.

                      She leans against the wall and tries to recall the calming exercise her therapist taught her… in, 2, 3, out, 2, 3... The booming in her chest recedes. Yes, she is ready. With head held high, Dawn crosses the road and, for some unexplained reason, she waves. She doesn’t know why... Of course she does... that gesture will let her daughter figure out it’s her. Sophie stares - probably contemplating who this mad person is - and steps forward, holding her hand above her eyes. Is she praying this lunatic is waving at someone else? No, a big, beaming, broad grin appears as Sophie’s arm moves level to her shoulder and hovers in the air. A good start.

Dawn halts. She has given little thought to their greeting. In her head, they are already drinking coffee and chatting. Now face to face, she can’t figure out her next move. Will hugging be acceptable? The person there is definitely her daughter. The deep blue eyes, the dimple in her chin and the gap in her front teeth all belong to Sophie.

                        “Hello,” she says.

Sophie shuffles forward, smiles and extends her arms before proffering a kiss on each cheek. After standing back she replies “Hello Dad, good to see you”.


Eagles dancing in the sky help inspire threads of connections, weaving together the lives of an Oregon Coast lighthouse keeper and a woman on the East Coast. A copy of the 1898 Matrimonial Bazar publication for personal ads sat on Elias's desk. Below the heading, it said, ” Our aim is high: To increase the number of home firesides, increase the happiness of other people, in short, to do what we can in mitigating woe and loneliness in any sphere or grade of life. To cultivate the aims of life and help men and women into a state of bliss. Yours respectfully, C.G. Horton, Editor.” On the Pacific coast in the Oregon wilderness, Elias looked at the reply he received to his "Objective: Matrimonial" personal ad. “ I very much liked her letter and photo. Good women suited for being a wife are scarce out here. If I need to bring one from back east that is alright." He knew what he wished he could say. “But h ow should I say this? I don’t want to be too direct ,” he thought. The flames on the logs in the wood-burning Franklin warming stove kept the room cozy and warm. Elias was heating a pot of fish and vegetable stew on top of the stove. Herbs sent aromas making the air fragrant. Elias earned about $800 a year as head keeper for the remote, isolated Mystic Lighthouse. The job included housing in the Queen Anne Victorian house overlooking the sea. The house, four years old, and designed by an architect, was artistic and comfortable. It was very different from many of the homes built by the homesteaders doing the work themselves. The building supplies had arrived by sea, floated in from ships on smaller boats and rafts, and by horse-drawn wagon using the beaches at low tide for part of the journey. A village crew came from an 8-hour horse ride away to live there while building it. Seafood, vegetables from the gardens, and other sources meant food was abundant. " All it needs now is a wife for me and children, I'm ready for a family," thought Elias. Outside, the ocean stretched far till it met with the sky. The waves made their rhythmic music. Elias looked into the wood stove flames while he thought. On the other side of the country from Elias, in the village of Dawn’s Harbor on the Atlantic coast, two women walked downtown toward the ships and distant lighthouse far out on the rocky point. Maryanne turned her head toward her sister. “Thank you, Nora for coming with me. I am trying to imagine what life with a lighthouse keeper would be like.” “You are wise, sister, to think hard and take your time finding out more, ” said the other woman. They strolled in the cool March wind past the ships and out to the point where waves splashed high on the rocks. The white lighthouse sat on a squat base and rose 40 feet with its lantern room at the top.

Next to it rested a cottage for the lighthouse keeper. Conveniently near town, Maryanne thought this lighthouse must be different from what she knew about the wilderness of the Oregon coast. Back on the opposite coast, next to the Pacific Ocean, Elias was filling kerosene reservoirs high in the lantern room of the tall lighthouse surrounded by vast, mostly empty lands. A picture of the letter from Maryanne of Dawn’s Harbor on the East Coast flashed through Elias’s thoughts. The widowed seamstress with a small child was well-established and owned her dressmaking and tailor business. At the lighthouse, he and the other two lighthouse keeper families always needed clothing to be mended or replaced. Their clothing was serviceable for work in the wilderness. But perhaps if she still desired finer seamstress work she could sell her fashions in the village. She had skills that would be useful in a partner for life. Living in a coastal town, although on the other side of the country, she described growing vegetables, drying fish, and canning vegetables and fruits. He liked what he saw in her picture. Maryanne sounded responsible, mature, and reliable. Her photo showed a face that looked like she was kind and fun-loving too. He kept the letter and photo in his pocket and took it out often. In it, a young woman wearing a well-tailored dress with lace inserts sat on a carved chair, with a little girl on her lap. Elias saw calm eyes, hair pulled back, a stylish wide-brimmed hat tilted on her head, and a soft smile. He felt there was mystery and something calling to him in the photo. He looked out the window at the lighthouse, the sea below, and the horses in the corral near his lightkeeper’s house. “March 3, 1898,” he wrote. “Dear Madame, It was a pleasure to receive your reply and your photo,” he wrote. For a long time, he sat, wondering what to say. He looked at the poem he had found in the traveling lighthouse library book about courtship. This is what it said. " Two Eagles fly, Talons grasped tight, Wings in the sky, Courtship in flight. In courtship dance Spinning a song They test each other Do they belong? Cartwheels of wings Whirling dreams Ocean wind sings Sun's ray beams. Will they be Entwined to share A nest by the sea Woven with care." Elias drew in a deep breath and continued writing his letter to Maryanne. “This week when I tended the beacon at the lighthouse, an unusual sight appeared in the air nearby. From the lighthouse lantern room, 60 feet above the ground, sitting on a 200-foot bluff next to the ocean, I feel I am part of the sky and clouds. Outside the glassed lantern room, I saw two eagles meet in the air. Their wings were as wide as tree boughs when they swooped past the windows. The winter fog drifts by the lighthouse and the waves are far, far below. In and out of the misty sky I saw the eagles' wings flashing. Then they clasped their talons together and began a spinning dance, round and round, wings fluttering and unfurling. Like two dancers they floated and tumbled, cartwheeling, drifting, wings tilting as they spun, holding each other’s talons. I’ve been told this is how they court, testing each other to see if they can be mates. If chosen, they bond for life and grow old together, sharing the tasks of caring for their young. They build a beautiful nest. Each year they bring more twigs and branches to renovate it, strengthening their bond while their nest grows. The male and female take turns sitting on the nest’s eggs, although the female does sit on the eggs more. One of them will be hunting for food or perched close nearby to protect the nest.” Elias paused, sitting very still, looking into the air at nothing. He included some more details about himself. “What do you think about these eagles?” He kept writing. “Aren’t they wonderful?” He wondered if she would catch on to the implication of the courting eagles. He hoped she would understand what he was trying to imply. The next day he left for the 8-hour ride to the village, leading several strong horses to carry supplies on the way back. The other two lightkeeper's would cover his shifts and he would bring them supplies in return. The sky was grey. Foggy fingers reached through the mountains and floated close to the ocean waves. But the rain held off and the trails were wet, but not deep, soft mud. Elias rode the lop-eared, steady, grey horse, whose powerful haunches sent them over the beach and along the dirt trails toward the village. A few days away from lighthouse tending were invigorating. Elias felt a weightlessness to his thoughts and feelings. After he fed the horses and left them in a paddock in the village, Elias went over to get a hotel room. The next morning he walked along the riverfront in the village. Without bridges, all water crossings were by boat. Now Elias saw a rowboat dragging a big raft of logs lashed together across the water. The rowboat bobbed in the river and the oars swept up and around. On the other shore, the distant figures loaded another boat. “Somebody grab that ferry raft,” a man’s voice called. Fir trees and mountains framed the wide waters. Brisk air brought scents of salt water and forest fragrances. “I’ll get it,” Elias hollered. He thought of the modern city of San Francisco, many days by ship to the south.

It even had experimental horseless carriages. But this tiny village on the wide river was a step back in time.  Although it was already 1898, the remote village was isolated by mountains and bodies of water without bridges to cross them.

Water sloshed against the wharf. The raft bumped the pier pilings. A young woman nearby named Cora watched the attractive man grab the rowboat lines. Elias's arms spun and he wrapped the lines around the posts. The boat was snugged up tight.

The river current swept the flat raft, with its lashed logs, hard against the posts. The man stooped, grasped the raft lines, and snugged it up tight also. Barrels and boxes rode high on the raft. Cora’s father stepped onto it. He untied the lashings, lifted boxes, and stepped onto the wharf with them. “Here, let me help you," Elias said. Cora was still watching him. "Who was this?" She decided to find out. “Thank you, good to see you, Elias,” said the man unloading boxes. “I believe you haven’t met my daughter, Cora.” “You’re welcome, George. No, I don’t believe I have.” Elias nodded to Cora and they shared glances. Her smile was enthusiastic. She liked what she saw. George thought “ I heard this young man is searching for a wife. He has a good position as the Mystic Lighthouse Keeper. Salary, nice Victorian home, a good living. Maybe I can play matchmaker for Cora.” “You had nice weather for your trip from the lighthouse yesterday,” said George.

Cora’s hair was blowing in the breeze while she continued smiling at Elias, who had paused. George decided to keep the conversation going. His daughter needed suitors and this man might be a prospect. “Yes, the footing was good for the horses, too, after this break between the rains. I rode and led the pack horses. Stocking up today with supplies,” said Elias. “Tonight there’s a barn dance at the Mill Hotel, maybe we’ll see you there,” George said. Cora’s eyes lit up. “We’ve got a fiddler and a country dance caller.” “Now, that would be something I haven’t done here before,” Elias said to George. “I may wander by and see what this is all about”. Cora’s smile widened but Elias did not notice. He helped unload the raft and went to several shops to order supplies. At the stable, he checked on his horses.

With only around 300 people, most of the people in the village knew each other. Lumbering, fishing, and homesteading drew many young, single men who sought opportunities. But women could be scarce. Elias went to the post office and mailed his letter. He knew his ad in the Matrimonial Magazine was seen across the country. He picked up a stack of replies. When he tried using the personal ads in the regional newspaper, he ran into the same issue of the scarcity of single women. Using the national matrimonial magazine was the only way to reach single women across the country. But when he thought of the letter he had just sent, he wondered if he had already found a wife. Cora, unaware of the ads and the letter Elias carried, went home and prepared for the country dance at the mill. She picked her best long blue dress and twirled her hair into big curls on top of her head. The evening was early when Elias heard the music and looked in the doorway. The room was lit by kerosene lanterns hung around it on the walls. The musicians included a fiddler, a flute, and a guitar. Men sitting around the edge of the room stomped their work boots to the music, adding a drumbeat. “ This is good, ” thought Eias. “ I am so isolated out at the lighthouse. The other keepers and the homesteaders are good company. But a trip into town and a chance to socialize is interesting. I forget sometimes what this is like.” The wood floor shook with the sound of men’s heavy boots. A country dance caller hollered out commands for the steps. There were not enough women for partners and circles of men stepped to the music. Each woman had a line of single men waiting for a dance. The men came from all over the country to the wilderness, drawn by opportunities for homesteading large acreages, lumbering, fishing, and a chance to leave cities and live with freedom and privacy. Elias saw one of the ladies head in his direction and he recognized Cora from the wharf that morning. She approached and greeted him. “Well, you made it,” she said. Elias had a quick impression of something hard in her eyes, something hidden. He felt his intuition raise a sense of being on guard. His thoughts quickly flitted to the letter about the two eagles courting that he mailed. “ What would Maryanne think when she read that letter? What if she had already found someone on the East Coast?” Cora tilted her head toward the dance floor, unaware. The message she implied was clear. Elias nodded and they stepped out onto the dance floor, joining a group of three other couples forming a square.

The fiddle music played, the caller hollered dance moves, and the couples bounced across the floor. After the dance Elias joined Cora’s parents and their friends at a large table. The conversation flowed and Elias listened, feeling a little awkward and out of practice. “How long has it been since I did something like this?” he thought. George and Mara, Cora’s parents, turned to him. “Tell us a little about yourself, Elias. I bet you have some interesting stories. Where are you from?” “I grew up near the fjords in Norway, in a seafaring family. My father and ancestors traveled far and wide on voyages. They were brave and loved to explore. At home, we managed to scrape by a living. When I heard about the western United States opening up, about the gold, the homesteaders land available, and the opportunities, I talked my brother into coming with me. He lives on the east coast now, married, with a growing family.” Cora was listening intently and Elias felt her strong focus. Her eyes were observing him closely. George and Maria nodded. “I came out for the same reason. We’re from the eastern side of the country, too,” George said. At the same moment, thousands of miles away on the Atlantic coast, Maryanne was already asleep in Dawn’s Harbor after her trip that day to the local lighthouse. She breathed slowly and gently, dreaming of a lighthouse beacon sweeping across ocean waves somewhere. Later that night, on the Pacific Coast, Elias was awake for a while after the country dance. Cora’s focused eyes observing him floated through his thoughts. The hardness and secrecy in her eyes troubled him. Elias took out the photo of Maryanne. He looked at her eyes in the picture by the lantern light in his hotel room. There was a softness and a gentleness in her gaze. The little girl on her lap smiled and her eyes were happy.

“What did her voice sound like?” Elias tried to imagine it. "Would he like hearing the sound of it?" What was she like as a human being? ” Elias knew what he did not want. Cora’s eyes spoke of her personality and he was not interested in her as a possible wife, despite the obvious efforts of George and Mara to be matchmakers. He set the photo of Maryanne on the table next to his bed, where he could see it easily when he woke up in the morning. He felt like the photo was keeping him company. Outside the window, clouds scudded in front of the moon. Elias pictured the two eagles, cartwheeling through the air together.

Something caught in his throat at the thought. On the edge of falling asleep, he pictured a sign over his front door at the lighthouse, " The Eagle's Nest ."


“Let me get the... red roses”.

I said reluctantly as I brushed through the catalogue. “Maybe a dozen?” She Loved roses, she would let them dry out once they died and make her own rose water. Or sometimes place them around candles or the table in our living room which she joked was her bruja alter. She’d place them Near her sage. In the far corner of the small apartment we shared. She even put rose petals in our bath on our romantic nights. Roses it is.

“Sure”. Said the clerk behind the glass counter.

As I waited for her to gather my order, doubt started to creep up on me slowly.

I Suddenly remembered that she loved tulips too. She had a favourite mug she drank her tea in every morning. Donned with large pink tulips.

Whenever I’d try to give it to her in another mug she would scrunch her nose up childishly and say “It doesn’t taste the same”. And retrieve it from wherever it was. Often times, it would be somewhere near her desk  where she stayed up to read or write the night before; Usually with remnants of loose tea leaves and film around where the cold liquid sat overnight. She’d then wash out her cup diligently and pour out what I had made her in her favourite cup. Sometimes I’d find it for her, or purposely give it to her in the wrong one just to watch the freckles on her nose bounce when she rejected my offering.

That was my favourite part of her.

 I scanned the catalogue to page 4 to go through my options. As the clerk came back with my dozen roses I sighed and smiled as her embarrassingly.

”Could I change my order? Sorry. I’d like the pink tulips instead”. “A dozen?” The clerk Asked politely. “Yes please”. I answered with guilt. “Sorry again”. As the clerk returned to the back to retrieve my new order I turned around and scanned the rest of the store. My eyes rested on the sunflowers that hung above the “OPEN” sign which swung in the door window. My thoughts took me back  the road trip we took 2 summers ago. We were driving  down a sunny windy road  surrounded by fields of corn, bushels of wheat and miles of barn yard animals. The smell of manure was stagnant in the hot July air but the summer wind made it beautiful; her sun red curls bounced under  the dusk light as we listened  to Nostalgia Ultra  loudly and sang even louder, because no one else could hear. I watched her in the corner of my eye as I drove while she smiled and sang horribly at the top of her lungs when suddenly, she abruptly cut off her rendition of “Swim Good” and  jumped from her seat. “Stop the car!” She squealed.

As I quickly pulled over to the side, thinking that maybe she just needed to pee, She hopped out,  and began to skip away from the car. By  the time I could figure out what she was doing all I could make out was the tail end of her beautiful lilac dress. The way it waved and danced in the wind as she ran into the field of tall bright sunflowers. I loved that dress. It clung to her as if it was tailored to her alone. From the drivers seat, I watched her dance in and out of the rows, I couldn’t think of anything more beautiful, she outshined the rows of colours; at that moment it was her who attracted the sun. The huge flowers were merely a backdrop. I was in Love.

My reminiscing  was interrupted by the clerk who returned with my tulips. I began to sweat as I realized that my next request may be too much. But I spoke anyway.

“Really. I do apologize”... before I could finish the clerk stared me down with a stoned face, annoyed by my indecisiveness.

“ You’d  like to change your order again... sir? “ she said. No smile, just disdain. “Yes, if you don’t mind, Sunflowers, instead.” The clerk sighed heavily. It was ok. It was her job. I couldn’t possibly be the first customer to come in here and not be sure what I needed. I just wanted it to be perfect, something many could relate to. Besides the customer is always right... right?  I felt that the sunflowers were it, but my overwhelming anxiety did not. No. Sunflowers  aren’t right. Lilies are her favourite. The way they opened in the sunlight, the vibration of their colours, and that they represent luck, womanhood. (She always found the deeper meaning in even the smallest things).

She always spoke about how much she loved them. Except for the one time we had a fight.

I, obviously being  in the wrong tried to sway her by buying her a full bouquet of Lillies. The stink of the beautiful arrangement was so pungent, it had a reminder of death, or as she put it, “Like a funeral parlour”, she had to throw them out. But not before she cried over how Beautiful they were. How she smothered me with kisses and we slow danced in our living room for hours because she forgave me. That feeling I will never forget. It was the scent of those lillies now that made it clearer. My brain fog began to disappear, I knew for sure. I turned around to face the clerk who was empty handed. She stared at me almost with pity. She knew.

“Lillies”. I swallowed. “Purple.” The clerk nodded and left me standing there almost embarrassed.

This time when she returned I shamefully paid for my order and left the store quickly. I closed my eyes and let the March

Air fill my lungs until it stung a bit. For the first time in a almost a year I could breathe without tears. I kneeled down slowly and kissed her tombstone.  I traced the engravement with my fingers as if I could feel her somehow by touching her name. I lay the Lillies in the cold grass and sat quietly. A year since my lover left me. Cancer stricken, the once beautiful smile which was more astonishing than the sun, smothered out too quickly. We had so many baths, teas, drives, fights and dances to go. And I never had the chance to propose. To give her my last name. To let her carry a bouquet of whatever flower she loved at the moment down the aisle. To make  a home for my child.  Instead she was Buried in her lilac dress. And all I had was the memory of her dancing with sunflowers left.


SATURDAY SEPTEMBER 1 ST , 2:00 AM

I find my boyfriend standing over my best friend’s lifeless body with a gun in his hand. I don’t even have time to panic, because he has our bags packed in the car and tells me to immediately get out of the house. He has matches in his hand, it smells like gasoline in here now that I think about it. Thirty seconds later, the lake house is in flames behind me and he and I are in the car going anywhere but here. If you had told me two years ago that taking two hundred bucks from my best friend to go talk to him would lead me to this moment, I would have told you that you were out of your mind. But maybe that’s me – out of my goddamn mind. TWO YEARS PRIOR I was going to go with a casual outfit tonight, jeans and a tank top, but the more I think about it, I don’t get out much. I should dress it up a little bit. I decide on a slinky dark purple dress and put on some lipstick to match. It’s summer, but that doesn’t mean I have to wear bright colors just because everyone else does. I uber over to the bar and immediately am assaulted by a bear hug from my best friend, Clara. She knows I hate hugs, but has decided it’s more fun when I’m not expecting them and can’t refuse. “VALERIE WHAT THE HELL IS UP!!! YOU’RE TEN MINUTES LATE AND I NEEDED TO START DRINKING YESTERDAY, LET’S GO!” she exclaims as she drags me into the bar I needed some serious convincing to go to. We sit at the bar and three hours later are on drink number five and can’t stop laughing at a story we just found out about regarding a friend from college and his idiotic tendencies to gamble. While we’re mulling over the latest news on all of the people we will never talk to again but will follow on social media forever, the most interesting man walks into the bar. He’s tall, chiseled jawline, deep brown hair with the brightest blue eyes, and a side smile that has trouble written all over it. He’s built well, and his shirt is just tight enough on his shoulders to notice. He sits at the opposite end of the bar, directly in view of us. Of course, I’m sweating, but I’d never go up to him. I’m way too awkward for that. Glass number six goes down quicker than the fifth and Clara is noticing the stolen glances between me and Mr. Muscles. She’s nearly begging me, “Go up and talk to him, Val. You’ve got nothing to lose, except maybe your panties at the end of the night if you’re lucky!” I brush her off and roll my eyes, but she knows that’s all I’m thinking about. Clara pulls out her wallet and hands me a wad of cash, “I will give you two hundred bucks to go up to him right now and introduce yourself”. So I do it. I walk over with my emotional support wine glass (that I should have replaced with water at this point) and sweat through a handshake and introduction. His name is Evan, he works in finance, he’s new in town, and in fact, is looking for some new friends. Perfect, I’m your girl! Evan joins us at our seats, and we have incredible chemistry. We can’t stop talking, he can talk effortlessly to Clara while also focusing most all his attention on me. The way he looks at me I feel like he is looking effortlessly into my soul, and I am fully a shell of myself. I am barely present besides in his attention. He’s got the charisma of JFK with the subtle danger of an undercover FBI agent. I’m a lost cause at this point, he’s got me wrapped around his finger and I already know I will forever be his. ONE YEAR LATER I’ve been with Evan for a year now, and he is one of the most multidimensional people I have ever met. He is well-versed in literature, world history, world religions, science, everything. If you asked him something he would probably know it. He’s kind, but rough when he needs to be. He’s got a great work ethic and when he wants something done he gets it done; something about his determination turns me on like nothing else. He comes to my place three days a week and I go to his place three days a week, and we always have one day apart. It’s perfect. I have this tendency to get very private about my relationships and kind of cut off my friends while I’m in the process of building a relationship with a man, and this one is no different. I haven’t spoken to Clara in three months, partially because I’ve been busy with work and Evan, but also because they got into a big fight a while back. I’m not sure what it was about, but all of a sudden she was storming out and telling me, “Maybe you should rethink who you’re so in loveeee with, Val”.  Evan says she claimed he was a misogynist, and I wouldn’t be surprised – Clara thinks all men are assholes and misogynists. Nonetheless, I’ve never been happier. I don’t need anything else in this life, just him. Sure, if we fight, it can get ugly, but he always makes up for it and I think that’s what counts. He knows he’s in the wrong and takes the steps to apologize. FRIDAY AUGUST 31 st , 7 AM Hey Clara, it’s me. I know it’s been a long time but I wanted to give you your space to breathe and do your own thing and hopefully lose the hatred for Evan (and me?). Give me a call, because I wanted to invite you up to the lake house with us this weekend. We’re leaving tonight at 8. Let me know. I leave Clara a voicemail early in the morning in hopes that she will respond. I want her to come on vacation with us; it’s been way too long since we’ve been in touch and I miss her dearly. I really want to know what happened so long ago with her and Evan, but I guess I’ll never know what was said. She calls back two hours later with an enthusiastic “YES! Duh, of COURSE I’ll go! I miss you like CRAZY and have SO much to update you on”. Now THIS will be a fun weekend. FRIDAY AUGUST 31 st , 10 PM We’ve officially arrived, and I forgot how much I loved this place. The lake house is quaint, exactly what you envision when you think of a Vermont lake house. It was my grandfather’s house and he left it to me when he passed a long time ago, so Evan and I have been up here a few times making it our little home away from home. We’ve got a little book nook for the nights he’s too deep in thought to talk and just wants to do his own thing, a giant fireplace with the quintessential antlers tacked to the wall above it, all the card games and board games you could ever imagine, and of course a room fully dedicated to my art supplies and half-finished canvases. Clara has already made herself at home in the guest room and comes downstairs with a box of wine she was given by one of her customers as a thank-you gift. She’s ready to party, yelling “HEY ALEXA, PLAY POP TOP FIFTY”. She’s pouring three generous glasses as Evan and I start a fire in the living room. Evan apparently had a bad week at work, although he never likes to talk about work with me. I’m still not sure what specifically he does. I know he works in finance, but I’m not sure what he does or who he works for. Sometimes it feels weird, but honestly, whatever. It’s not like he’s a serial killer, so who cares what he does so long as he’s making money and likes what he’s doing? He does work some seemingly weird hours, either super early in the morning or super late, but that’s none of my business. So long as he comes home to me, I’m happy. He, on the other hand, is not the happiest camper right now. He’s got that look on his face that makes me want to jump on top of him but I know would result in a blowout fight about why he sometimes needs space to deal with his own issues. SATURDAY SEPTEMBER 1 st , 12:15 AM Clara and I are drinking and having our time to talk about girly things and all of the gossip we haven’t been able to share with each other in ages, and Evan is sitting in the corner with wine and a book in hand. Clara gets louder as she drinks, and I try to calm her down because the one thing I don’t need is these two getting into an argument like the one from a year ago. Clara tells me, “I have to tell you something. I got a HUGE promotion and I’m moving to LA to my old bosses’ penthouse to take over for her on the West Coast. Can you BELIEVE it? I mean I know I’m amazing, duh, but like, a penthouse? All these big businessmen out here pretending they’ve got their shit together meanwhile I’m about to be out on Hollywood Boulevard with all the stars living it up every night!!”. Evan whips his head around and stares at Clara as if she just said that the Knicks lost the championship. He says nothing, just gets up and walks upstairs. “What’s his deal, Val? Seriously, this whole brooding mysterious vibe is way too much for me right now,” Clara says. “I don’t know, he had a bad week at work and is probably upset to hear you talking about a big promotion. But I am SO happy for you!! We have to throw the biggest going-away party for you before you leave,” I respond. We spend some time planning what has now been named CLARA IN THE CITY OF ANGELS: A MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN , and I decide to take a break and head upstairs to check on Evan. He’s been up there a while, anyways. I find him laying in bed staring out the window, and I ask him if everything is okay. “I told you, Val. I don’t want to talk about work with you ever. I had a bad week, that’s it, okay? Let it go. I love you, I’ll be down in a few,” he responds. SATURDAY SEPTEMBER 1 ST , 1 AM I head back downstairs to see Clara on the couch with snacks and wine set up on the coffee table, all set for the cozy evening we had planned in the first place. She’s got plenty to say about Evan, and I’m at the point where I need to just say something. “Clara, what’s your deal with him? You told me to talk to him that first night, you seemed to like him that night, what’s the fucking problem? What happened last year when you guys got into that blowout fight? I can’t understand why you hate him so much. He treats me well, I love him, you’re my best friend and should be supporting me through this. What’s the issue?” I ask. “Val, that’s a loaded question,” she responds hesitantly. “What, then? Spill. Now” I say. “Fine, but quickly before he comes downstairs. Don’t hold this against me, you asked for this just to remind you,” Val begins, “Long story short, I didn’t realize when you two first met that I actually knew him. Well, knew OF him. He was my brother’s drug dealer. Like, serious shit, Val. Cocaine, heroin, and I once I realized that was the connection, I couldn’t shake it. I called him out a year ago because he caused my brother a lot of harm and fueled his self-destruction so much that he lost his job and had to move home with our parents at 39. And he still owes Evan thousands of dollars, and I told Evan a year ago that he can take it and shove it up his ass. I hate him for putting my brother and I in a situation like that, and I will never forgive it. I don’t even know if he has a real job, Val, but he’s like the biggest dealer in New York. And nobody has any idea because he plays it off like he’s this dapper guy who works in finance”. I’m stunned. I don’t believe her. I don’t want to believe her. I can’t. This can’t be happening. “Clara I – I don’t even know what to say. How could you have kept this from me for so long? Why are you just telling me now? I mean it makes so much about him make sense, but I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t tell me,” I fight back tears as I say this, “You know what, I need to take a walk I’ll be back. He will probably be coming down soon anyway so you won’t have to fake a smile around me when he decides to show up to the party”. I nearly run out of the house, away from everything. I don’t know what to think. I am madly in love with the biggest and most sophisticated drug dealer to the wealthy in New York? And I never caught on? And Clara never told me, even when she knew? I just need a minute, so I go all the way down to the lake and cry. I cry for myself, for the idiot I am (in what way, I’m not quite sure yet), for the awful things Clara’s brother went through, and for the fact that apparently Evan was the catalyst of it all. And for the fact that, despite all of this, I am still, definitely madly, in love with him. I decide that I’m stable enough to go back inside. So in I go. SATURDAY SEPTEMBER 1 ST , 2:30 AM

I just witnessed my boyfriend standing over my best friend’s body with a gun in his hand. And she was bleeding from her head. And he did it. And I didn’t even scream. And I let him torch the house. And I got into the car with him to drive far away from it all. And now I am in the car with him, somehow happy I can finally be with him and only him. And I feel free of something, of what I am not sure. But I am happy. No more drama. I decide not to ask Evan about the things Clara told me because, well, he knows I am aware of that darker side of his personality now. Maybe he will share, maybe he won’t, but I don’t need to risk my life trying to pry open his Pandora’s box of secrets. I may never know why he shot Clara, or torched the house, but what I do know is that somehow, someway, I feel like I need to be with him forever. I want to be with him forever. I still love him, after it all. And I’m out of my goddamn mind.


“I told you not to buy one!” “Sweetie, this is a good thing. We never have to work again.” “But I want to work! I don’t want to end up like her, you know that.” “This is insane. You’re the only person to ever complain about winning the lottery. Like, ever.” I virtually never argued with my husband. This was a very special case. For sure, he always acted like a bit of a gambler, overspending a little too much every time he went to the casino with his buddies; never enough for it to become problematic though. This time however, I specifically requested for him not to purchase a lottery ticket. The jackpot was five hundred and twenty-five million dollars, and somehow I had a hunch. Winning the lottery remained my worst nightmare throughout the years. My best friend Rebecca’s parents won the lottery when she was nineteen, then died a week later in a car accident. Their daughter inherited from the whole thing. It looked fun at first. She bought lavish beach-front houses, dropped out of college, and travelled around the world. Reality quickly caught up with her. After a string of toxic relationships with partners that preyed on her money like vultures, she fell into a deep depression. I did my best to help her weather the storm, to no avail. She took her life at the age of twenty-two. Her destructive path over these four years was traumatic to say the least. I promised myself I would build a financially stable life all by myself. My dreams of becoming a professional composer ended of inside boxes in the recesses of my mind. I took an office job in an advertising company and climbed the corporate ladder steadily. Just when I thought I had perfect control over every aspect of my destiny, James came into my life. He played the viola in my weekend string quartet. “Chloe, please listen to me for a minute,” he pleaded. “We just won five hundred and twenty-five million dollars. There’s no way around it.” “Dirty money like that ruins lives. I know, I witnessed it.” “I’m not saying you didn’t. What your friend did with her money was one thing. What we do with ours can be different. Think of what we could do. You could finally concentrate on composing! This ticket is our declaration of independence.” “I turned the page on that chapter already. We don’t need to win the lottery to be happy James, you made a mistake when you won that ticket. Let’s talk about it later.” I quickly hung up, furious, several minutes behind on my schedule because of his call. Sure enough, the minute I arrived at work, my manager chastised me. “You missed the morning brief,” he said. “I’m sorry Paul. My husband and I needed to sort out something.” “Trouble in paradise?” His disparaging comments about my private life made my blood boil on a daily basis. I knew he felt attracted to me, and the more I rebuked his advances, the more he insisted on making my job a living hell. “This isn’t a particularly appropriate question for work.” “You’re the one who brought up your husband. If you don’t want to talk personal, leave the personal at the door.” “Don’t even try, you—” “I’m your manager Chloe. Please behave in my office.” I breathed heavily, clenching my fists. “You’re right Paul. I’ll just go to my desk now.” *** The day went by too slowly for my taste. Meeting after meeting, I struggled to concentrate. There always seemed to be a symphony playing in the back of my mind. During the eleven o’clock pitch meeting, I found myself scribbling down a partition on a blank sheet of paper. Nothing serious. It was only an afterthought, a distant melody that lingered from these old dreams that were locked in boxes. The symphony grew louder as the hours passed. The soaring music obliterated Mike’s voice during the weekly planning meeting, and by the time I got to the client strategy meeting, my ears could not discern any sound but the crescendo of notes that followed me everywhere. The minute I came back to my desk, I started feverishly writing down the whole thing. No instruments were needed to play these notes. They were already fully formed in my head, and the ink flowed on the page just like blood flowed at an accelerated pace through my veins with every heartbeat. The clock in my office struck five o’clock. I was severely behind on work. Curbing my excitation, I resolved to do overtime to make up for the creative divergence. My musical endeavour had undoubtedly been inappropriate, if not unacceptable. I couldn’t let my work suffer from such frivolity. Yet, I could not stop wondering why the surge had been so powerful. The boxes were tightly locked. The dreams were safely put away. “Working late?” Naturally, Paul had to come and ruin whatever was left of my day. “I couldn’t concentrate today,” I replied. “Big headache.” “You did seem distracted. More than usual, that is.” He came closer – a predator approaching his prey. “You know,” he added, “if you keep being this distracted, I’ll have to file a report with human resources. It’s a case of decreased productivity.” He lost no time and finally crossed the line, after years of subtly hiding the beast within. His hand grabbed my thigh before I could say a word. “Unless you want to make the whole thing go away of course. I’m a flexible man.” I slapped him, hard enough for his whole body to sway towards the bookshelf behind him. “That’s enough Paul!” I yelled. “I’m not taking your disgusting behavior anymore. “Then you might as well pack up and leave,” he said, his face twisted into a dreadful grimace. “I’m the manager here.” “Perfect!” I screamed. “You know what? My husband and I won the lottery this morning! At first, I thought it was the most horrible thing to ever happen to me, but it’s not. You know why? Because you are the most horrible thing to ever happen to me. Rebecca would have been just fine if it wasn’t for men like you. Thankfully, I have an amazing husband, and we’re going to be just fine !” “Who’s Rebecca?” “None of your business.” “Well, good luck with that,” he said, like a snake spitting poison. “I guess you can just live off your husband’s money now.” “Not that there would be anything wrong with it, but if you need to know…” I shoved my composition in his face. “…I’m pretty sure I have a great career ahead of me. See you when I’m famous.” I hastily left the office without even bothering to gather my belongings. How good it felt! Finally, I was free. The dreams had been unlocked. There were so many possibilities ahead, so many roads to travel. I knew what the problem was now, and the problem wasn’t the money. I called James in a heartbeat. “Hello?” “Hey baby! About that ticket…” “Oh yes, you were right. I thought about it all day. We don’t need money to be happy, we have everything we need. I burned it.”


I've been staring at the TV for the past hour. Not unusual... In usual times. The TV's off. It's been off for the past five days, yet I still seem quite content to lounge and stare absent-mindedly at my distorted reflection on the black screen. I'm glad I can't make anything distinct out... I reckon I'd look as bad as I feel. Ever since the announcement came things have changed. It was a Sunday night and I was adhering to my tradition of drinking a box of wine and lamenting on how my life at the age of twenty-seven had devolved into a slow, meandering existence. You know, millennial bullshit. As I was glugging down my fourth, but certainly not my last glass of vino, I was distracted when the TV almost fucking killed me. The speakers must have been blown out by the racket that thundered in. I must have looked a picture; those last drops of wine from the glass caught in my throat and I flapped around like a whale at sea-world desperate to be put out of its misery. When I regained my composure and assured myself I'd never gain any respect, I stared at the TV which had finally shut up. Now a black screen was dominated by big bold letters - **STAY CALM - A MESSAGE FOR THE NATION INCOMING** What. The. Fuck. **Phone. Contacts. Mum.** Of course she didn't answer. I can picture it now; she's sat in bed, some true-crime documentary playing on the TV, and *he'll* be lying next to her. When her phone wakes up and my picture appears he'll stare at my mum and give her the *it's late honey, we don't have the time to deal with her right now* look. She'll return with the *Thank god you said it, now I can at least pretend I was coerced into ignoring my only daughter, you're just the best Jimmy, I'm so glad I got married to you and threw that little shit out of our home so we can fuck with the doors open* look. That's it. That's my only point of contact. I felt pathetic at that point. As in, I truly understood what the feeling of *pathetic* was; there's a physical drop in your stomach and shivers run down your back...you become hot and an overwhelming sense of vulnerability hits you in the core. You could say that wasn't the best feeling to be overcome with as the TV emitted another assault to my eardrums. The sound dissapated again and this time a voice replaced it almost immediately. It was the voice I had been expecting as soon as I saw the first message. Our great and glorious President. *My fellow Americans. It is with a heavy heart I speak to you tonight. Firstly I am very sorry for interrupting your Sunday evening, I'm sure many of you are quite afraid and concerned right now. I'd love to be able to tell you that there's no reason to worry, but I'm afraid I simply can't...* **Phone. Recently Called. Mum** *The United States today received information regarding an unprecedented and immovable obstacle to the continuation of not only our own existence, but that of every living thing on our planet...* Call was rejected again. I bet he slapped it out of her hand that time. No way would she ignore me, she must have been watching this as well? *There is an asteroid roughly twelve miles in diamater on a collision course with Earth. Projections are that it will strike us in seven days and the impact will result in the total annihilation of us and our home...* You go through the motions of acceptance incredibly quickly. It's not a drawn out process. I'll explain how mine happened - Bullshit. He's the president of the United States of America addressing the entire nation. Okay, this is serious. *I know this is quite a shock. I presume many of you are wondering why I am being so open and frank about this. Well... I guess there's no more contingency plans or exit strategies to care about any more. It was important enough that I have decided, against the wishes of my advisors, to tell you the truth and allow you to go out in whichever way you feel is right and justified. I leave you with only one request - depart this world showcasing the best of humanity. Put our compassion, dignity and honour on a pedestal and let us move onto the next great adventure proud. Good luck to you all. Goodnight America* Then it was over. The screen flipped back to my original programming. I can't work out if Kim Kardashian was a vacuous waste of air and cells before or after I realised my world was over and nothing I ever did or dreamed about mattered anymore. Probably before, but I'll give her the benefit of the doubt. The sound of my phone ringing came at me like it was trapped down a well, far off in the distance. I picked it up and my heart did one of this slight jumps when you get excited. *Mum. I'm scared* *It's not your mother, it's Jimmy.* *oh...* *Look I'm calling to tell you me and your mother have decided to take off. I can't explain and to be honest, I won't. I'm sure you've just heard the president.* *Erm okay. Well... Where should I meet you?* *Meet us? What are you talking about!* *Meet you so we can all be together obviously!* *I think you've misunderstood this whole situation. I'm not surprised, you never where very bright... Look. You're not coming with. I called to make sure you didn't come running down here and waste your time. Just stay away from us.* *Go fuck yourself Jimmy, put my mum on now!* *Your mother doesn't want to speak to you. This has been coming a long time if I'm honest. How could you not see it? The heartache and trauma you have caused that poor woman. You should have the deceny to respect her last wishes and stay away. Don't you dare cause your mother any more heartbreak* *I'll hear that from her you teet suckling leach* Then it happened. From somewhere in the background I heard her voice. *Just go away Kate! Jimmy has spoken for the both of us* I like to think she was sat at the dresser table at the side of the bed. Cigarette in hand and her mascara running down her face. Shaking so bad she couldn't get a proper drag and staring vehemently at Jimmy, who had forced her to lose all sense of humanity and compassion. But it's more likely that OJ is innocent and Twilight is actually a good film if you look at it's artistic merits. No, she would have been sat at that dresser, ensuring the phone was on loudspeaker and mouthing instructions to Jimmy, getting more perplexed and angry every time I spoke. *But... Mum, please I'm scared* This is where she would have inhaled deep and arched back ready to deliver her knockout punch. Jimmy would have slunk away from the phone, knowing his work was done and he can stand in the shadows and watch the emancipation in peace. *You listen here and you listen good. The last we spoke I told you I'd reached the end of the road. There were no more chances. I cannot go through this anymore and now with all this shit going on... We deserve to have some peace at the end Kate. Please understand, it's not because we don't love you. It's because we can't fucking stand you.* *Oh please, you talk as if I killed someone mum! Im sorry I didn't turn out perfect like you wanted-* The phone cut off. She actually cut me off from her reality with the click of button. It wasn't even a click...a lazy moment of the finger and that's it... I'm gone from their lives. Like millions of others, I cried myself to sleep that night. First it was pity, then anger and then... Just to get it all out. Once sleep came and I woke the next day, I'd accepted it. The World of course went insane. For the first couple of days we had the news and social media to keep us informed of everything. The riots. The crime. The depravity. So much for humanity. But then, all that stopped as well. It only takes two days for the World to just stop. Once every single person suddenly just doesn't give a shit... Its all done. Electricity went - no more lights, no more warmth. Thankfully I'd spent wisely as an introvert. I had a deluxe weighted duvet with special microfibres that retain your body heat. God praises those who late-night drunk shop. You could also live off my supply of ramen noodles and cherry bakewells for a considerable amount of time, so I wasn't concerned with starving. I didn't have much of an appetite anyway. Finally, my brain decides food is no good when getting healthy is the least important factor in my life. I know other people are with their families. Well, people who aren't rioting or going around unleashing their inner monster, just because they can. I've got a picture in my head of how I think the perfect family are holding up right now. There's a mum. A dad. A son and a daughter. Their all grouped together in the living room, sitting in front of a massive open hearth fire playing monopoly and drinking hot chocolate. There's a Christmas tree as well, just for the sake of ensuring this cliché rings as true as possible. The dad rolls a double and fist bumps the air. "Oh Ronald... You did it again you lucky man," the mum croons whilst stroking his fringe to the side. He beams. The daughter crosses her arms and huffs. "Not fair!" she says and scowls. Her brother puts his arm around her and leans his head on the side of hers. "Now, now Lucy... Don't worry, I won't let daddy hurt you," The mum suddenly becomes stiff and looks at her son. "What do you mean by *hurt*, Blake?" she asks, her voice a bit shaky. The son looks at his dad who, pale as a ghost now tries to roll again. "Nothing honey, I'm sure nothing at all. Come on I passed GO!" The mum looks now at her daughter who is looking at the ground, shooting nervous glances at her dad. Blake is messing with the corner of the board, avoiding eye contact. "Ronnie... What's going on?" she says now standing up warily. Another round of glances and finally it dawns on her. "No...no...NO!" I can't even pretend to know what a perfect family is. My mind so broken and ill from a lifetime of... Life. Not a single person from my past has phoned me. Well they didn't when the battery was still working. I'll lie to myself until the end - they've probably been ringing non-stop since it went dead. I'm alone. So utterly alone. And it's the end of the world. I'm going to die in a couple of days and the only feeling that comes to me now as I sit here staring back at my shadowy image on that black screen mirror is - pathetic.