“So, this is where he died then?” Will asked, turning to his father for confirmation. “Yes,” Charlie “Chip” Shaw answered deliberately, weak eyes peering over the ground that still haunted his dreams. He leaned on his walking stick heavily. It had been a long time since he had been back here. A lifetime, most would day. Will, with lines creasing his own face, gave a small, perfunctory smile. How could he guess what raced through his father’s mind? It was so different now, the high summer sun giving rise to rolling green fields and calm skies. Red specks littered the green, like flecks of blood spilled fresh as poppies pocked their heads up. Little white crosses, extraordinary only in their quantity, besieged the road sides. Buses brought reems of school children, who exited their vehicles to gawk cheerily at the monuments risen to those who would never return home. It was here that it all happened. The worst summer of Chip’s life. It was a rainy summer, wet and muddy. Chip had joined up with his friend Billy, eager to participate with all the other young men of the day. He was a year too young, but they lied, running from home with adventure and a patriotic fever guiding their steps. The war to end all wars, people whispered in excitement, not yet aware of the true tragedy that awaited them. “Chin up, Chip my lad,” Billy grinned as his friend staggered under the weight of his army pack, struggling to keep up, “You’re growing some muscle already.” He laughed harder as Chip’s grumbling complaints, offering him a cigarette. Chip remembered the wet more than anything. How it never seemed to stop, cascading down on their helmets, leaching through their clothes and their boots. He could still feel the squelching between his toes and smell the musty scent of rot and dampness. The trenches were dismal places, worse than being imprisoned. The heavy rain fall and the almost constant barrage of shells and gunfire the only sound throughout it all. Eventually, everything green was gone, destroyed by the brutal games of men The only thing that stubbornly poked its head through the mud, blood and corpses of the fallen was those damn poppies. No Man’s Land was an apt name, but with one flaw. There was a man who stalked the perimeter between the lines. Tall, dark and ever present, Chip watched him take man after man into the grave. He was there with every bullet, every piece of hot shrapnel and every soul drowned in the endless bog beneath the stepping boards. The first time he saw the man, Chip asked Billy about it. Billy looked to where he pointed, squinting in the gloom of the evening and shrugged. “You sure its not a German?” he asked, looking carefully. “So close to our side?” Chip shook his head, “He’s right there!” Billy shook his head. “I don’t see him,” he confirmed, looking to Chip worriedly, “Maybe you need some sleep.” Chip never tried to tell anyone about the figure again. But by God, he wished he’d tried harder. He took Billy a few days later. They’d been sent over, running into the perilous place that few returned from. The blast of the shells sent a ringing in Chip’s ear and he almost dropped his gun as the it made him stumble. The sting of hot metal struck his arm and he cried out, shuddering to a halt mid charge. Billy screamed his name, lights flashed and the man was there, standing behind his friend. Waiting. Chip raised his head, tears of pain mixing with the muck on his face. Billy reached out to him, brown eyes wide with worry one moment and then robbed of life the next. He slumped to the ground, landing without a sound amongst the din of battle around them. Billy disappeared, taken by the figure, who then stepped towards Chips, just as the world faded from his recollection. The next summer he spent in a hospital, hand shaking violently when he so much as tried to drink a cup of tea. The images of the battles haunted his dreams as surely as the shadowy man wandered the clean, white halls during his conveyance.  He spied him from the corner of his eye and watched him take men left and right. The screaming of the injured, the traumatised and those driven insane echoed in his waking hours. The only good thing about that summer, hot and clinging where the last had been plagued with rain, was Abigail. The pretty nurse’s smiles were all the sunshine Chip could ever need in the world and drove away, if only for a short time, even the dark figure who stalked his steps. The summer after the war was the best of Chip’s life. He took Abigail to the alter, mesmerized by her dressed in white, sunshine smile on full force. The dark man stayed far away for many summers after that. Then it all happened again. Chip couldn’t believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. His hand shook as the memories of that horrible summer visited him full force. War had returned, this time stretching its ugly fingers to the island he called home. The man returned too. He lingered amongst the rubble of houses bombed out. He stalked the hospitals and underground, crouched besides Chip’s own children in the air raid shelters. His face was a shadow, obscured even when Chip gathered the courage to look on it, drawing his family away from where the dark man stood. Nobody saw him. Nobody witnessed as he dragged away soul after soul. Those summers eventually passed, but they were long and filled with uncertainty and fear. He didn’t see the man often after that, but he was there. He was there the summer Chip’s youngest granddaughter grew ill and sat beside the old man in the hospital waiting area for hours. Chip worried he would never leave. Eventually though, he rose and walked out the door, leaving little Lizzie with her family. He was sitting on the couch the summer evening Abigail had passed on in her sleep and escorted her out the door. And now, many summers later, he stood on the green fields, speckled with ruby poppies and watched as Chip showed his eldest son where his namesake had died. Chip wasn’t afraid. He let Will go off to look at one of the monuments and hobbled over to the man, leaning heavily on his walking stick. The man’s face wasn’t so shadowed now and brown eyes looked at him fondly. “Ready to go, Chip?” Billy asked. The sun beat down on them, warming Chip’s old bones and making him feel like the boy who had come here one summer all those years ago. “I’m ready,” he said, walking on beside an old friend.


What had happened to her master? This question was the obsession of Thalia’s mind as she watched the sunset fall beneath the horizon. Her name was Verna, and she had come to Thalia at a time when she had lost faith with the world around her. Thalia had grown up in Manhattan and had a nervous habit of letting her thoughts wander from one social issue to the next. Her mother, who saw only what she wanted to see, would always chastise Thalia for the failings she had in school as a result of this. At all of these chastisings would be a further disconnect between Thalia and her mother, and Thalia’s seeing her mother as more of a shadow than a person. She believed her mother had once had the same thoughts as herself, but now after working a nine to five job for two decades, those thoughts no longer existed; and Thalia believed after she worked a nine to five job for two decades, her’s wouldn’t either. Verna came to her then. She had roses growing from her hair and sunlight shining from within her complexion. She was the goddess of spring, and with her help -- being similar to Thalia in many ways -- Thalia had the chance to be happy as a ward beneath Verna’s service. When they weren’t fulfilling their duties, which only had to be done throughout one quarter of the year, they busied themselves as sisters to all sorts of antics and hijinks. They gossiped, they made hideouts, they kept diaries, they swapped dreams and ambitions and all sorts of things. They even told each other secrets. which was Thalia’s favorite part. Oftentimes Verna and Thalia would visit the other seasons and their wards to go to human diners or have picnics with each other, often discussing the world and how its goings-ons. On one of these picnics Thalia was introduced to Pagonio, who had become the ward of Psychra the goddess of winter and death. She introduced herself to him despite the longsword at his hip and layers of armor adorning him and he responded with a smile and nod. If it weren’t for his appearance, she would have never guessed him to be a warrior. After this picnic as Verna and Thalia headed back to their home, Thalia’s eyes met Verna’s. It was the winter season and Thalia had been Verna’s ward for some time, so seeing a furrowed brow when spring was just upon them concerned the young girl. Verna felt herself being analyzed and masked her face with the youthful expressions Thalia knew her for. “Friends stick together no matter what, okay.” Thalia nodded her head in compliance but felt long forgotten feelings well up inside her. As the sun knelt beneath the horizon and the question of her master’s whereabouts echoed within her mind, Thalia felt the cold of winter assault her from outside the open window. She looked upon the fields and a blizzard of hail and snow appeared from nowhere and consumed the blossoming flowers of spring. Trudging through the tempest was the shadow of the warrior she had met mere weeks before. From her master’s keep she could see his face holding steadfast against the winds and hail buffeting his body, as if he felt nothing. As she opened the door to allow him and the screams of freezing wind inside, he spoke. “Your master, what secrets did she share with you?” This confused Thalia. Of all the things he could have said regarding the events transpiring, what he chose made the least sense to her. What did a goddess of spring have to do with a blizzard? Besides, Verna was her friend and their secrets were theirs to share with each other and nobody else. Her silence seemed to anger Pagonio. “Winter has gone mad, and no one is around to control it! Where has Verna taken my master?” His face contorted with fury as he spoke. What seemed so obvious to him was lost on Thalia, evident by the worry on her face. He seemed to notice this as he spoke softer. “I don’t understand it either, but it must be. Her duty is to counterbalance winter and summer as well as manage spring, but she is nowhere to be found now. Please help me.” As thoughts to the variety of futures that might occur consumed her mind, Thalia gritted her teeth as a tear streamed down her face. “Promise me you won’t hurt her and I’ll do what you want.” The young man’s pale face softened as his eyes tired with sadness. “Aye. I can do that.” At first, she had no idea where her master might be, but upon being told she might have a prisoner with her, there was only one place to look. As the two hiked through the ocean of snow and hail, reaching a cave they had to dig an opening into, they at last found their bounty within the dungeon. At the sight waiting for them, Pagonio abandoned any promises he made and rushed towards Verna with his sword drawn. Deafened to Thalia’s screams of protests, he lopped off her head and put an end to her rebellion. As the blizzard began to clear up outside, Thalia looked upon the sight of her master. Tears had streamed down her face while she was looking upon a television screen. Upon it flashed images of factories spewing smoke and forests being leveled. While tears were present, her face had hardened. The sunlight that had once poured from her complexion was gone. The roses that grew from her hair had now lost their petals in place of more thorns. In her hand was a dagger made from tempered bark and dripping a golden fluid. From within the cell beside her with a slice across her throat was the goddess of winter. As she watched the television, a smile had grown on her face as blizzards blanketed what appeared on screen. In her heart of hearts, Thalia knew she would not have allowed life to perish. However a culling of sorts had become necessary in her eyes. Spring is the season of rebirth after all, which must be preceded by death.


Shelby the rat skidded to a stop on the dew-slick grass when she saw a black cat. No, not just a black cat, but the jet black cat Jack, an insufferably arrogant cat that only ever ate, lounged, disdained, and occasionally partook in his sole hobby – mousing. And he was a savage mouser. Hallowe’en was without a doubt the worst day of the year, and this one was already shaping up to break records. Of course, the stupid shindig yesterday wasn’t much better. Shelby knew better than to spend all night partying, but in her defence Ramón was there, and they danced and he was just so damn chiseled she could barely stand it. But she had a bit too much to drink, because she didn’t quite make it home and woke up under a shrub. And now she was going to die. Unless she managed to sneak away, since Jack hadn’t seen her yet. She tucked her tail and back-pawed. And then stepped right onto a crunchy fall leaf, which tore, crackled, and shattered under even her meager weight. Jack snapped his head in her direction. His eyes found hers, and then his pupils ballooned as he locked on. Ah, balls, she thought. She bounded away with a squeak , and the cat-in-black followed. Shelby sprinted under a shriveled rosebush, but Jack gracefully sidestepped it. She dove into a carved jack-o-lantern ( Terrible name, she thought) and Jack pounced on it, knocking it over. She crawled out its mouth, and his paw whipped after her and just missed. She leapt off the pumpkin and Jack meowed! fiercely, stuck. Ha, dumbass, she thought. Jack violently jerked his arm out of the pumpkin, tearing its face apart. The cat, his gleaming black coat draped in strands of orange gore, flashed all his teeth and hissed loud enough to set off the three closest murders of crows. Aw, Jesus, seriously? she thought. Shelby bolted as Jack pounced. He just missed her with his paws as she ran into the street. No, she didn’t look left and right. Yes, it was dangerous, because of humans and their dumb cars. She had other things on her mind. She sprinted across the street just as the Kelleys’ SUV drove up. She cleared it with tail to spare, but Jack wasn’t so lucky. But he wasn’t all that unlucky either, as the Kelleys must have seen him. After all, everyone in the neighbourhood knew he belonged to the crazy lady. They slammed on their brakes, and the car squealed to a stop, as did the cat. The bumper juddered a whisker’s width from Jack’s nose, and for a moment, everything was quiet. Serves you right, you dolt, Shelby thought, and then she slunk under the Bakers’s fence. Jack drew back, sputtered indignantly, and slapped the bumper over and over and over, because honestly, the audacity of it all! These people almost pancaked him – him of all people! – with their careless humanness. The Kelleys honked, and when Jack wouldn’t leave, they honked again, and finally just leaned on the horn. Jack scrammed just as other neighbours screamed at the Kelleys to shut up, and so Shelby had earned herself some reprieve. But she wasn’t familiar with the Bakers’s yard, nor sure how to get to her home from there. Everything would be so much easier after midnight, but when she looked up she saw it wasn’t even noon. Maybe I can just wait it out, she thought. And then her stomach roiled. More hangover than hunger, and with the adrenaline of Jack’s chase fading, she felt acutely thirsty. She stuck to the begonias and peonies growing alongside the Bakers’s house, each of them losing a battle against autumn. Old Lady Baker was always puttering around with her plants, which meant a garden hose somewhere. Shelby crept along until she came to the end of the plants, and surveilled the back yard. And there it was, coiled in the grass. She slunk towards the hose, sniffed at the head, but it was dry. Blast it! she thought. Her tail swished back and forth. She snuffled the ground, but it too was most unmoist. Then she side-eyed the nozzle. Could she trigger it? How hard could it be? Harder than it seemed, it seemed. When she pushed the handle she just ended up sliding the whole nozzle around. She realized she’d need to brace it against something. She skulked around the garden until she found a stone, then rolled it towards the hose. She jammed it into the ground and braced it against the nozzle’s handle. Then she took a run at the trigger and slammed into it. It depressed! The whole hose thrummed with the water’s violent rush, and then the spring shot back and flung Shelby into the air. She spun twice and crashed, but when she rose with a grunt, she realized she had succeeded. The grass was freshly beaded with water. She lumbered towards it, already able to taste that refreshing liquid, but then a trio of squirrels tore onto the lawn. They chittered madly with their ridiculous teeth and darted after Shelby. Damn it! Shelby thought, scramming away from the lunatics. The squirrels chased her all over the lawn and to the fence, which she crawled under. They didn’t follow her, so she took a breather, but it turned out this new yard was the home of the Chens’s Dobermann, Chainsaw. Chainsaw growled a single warning, sounding like his namesake, and then he lunged. Shelby flattened her ears and ran like she’d never run before. Under garden chairs which Chainsaw knocked aside. Under a barbeque which Chainsaw leapt over and tipped. She sprinted towards a riding mower but at the last moment veered left. Chainsaw, too committed, slammed right into the machine, causing it to rock. He yelped once. It was enough of a break for Shelby to slip under the next fence. Behind her the fence boards shook as Chainsaw slammed into them. He barked and tore at the ground with his paws. Shelby put another three yards between herself and the dog. When she cleared the third she found a shrub and collapsed under it. Oh yes, this Hallowe’en was on track to break all records as the worst. When she opened her eyes again she saw the shadows were longer, and she realized she must have passed out. This sent a chill through her veins, but nothing had eaten her. Then she heard the distant shrieks of children, all crying in unison. The trick-or-treaters were out. The little terrorists would be crawling all over the streets, making-believe they were monsters and never once realizing the real monsters were under the masks. All it would take was just one of them to spot a rat, and they’d all scream and throw rocks and stomp. Shelby shuddered. But then she noticed this yard had a bird bath. It was a three-foot-tall marble bowl on a carved column – well, okay, it was probably plastic – and as there were a couple hummingbirds there, there must have been water too. A bit of a climb, but… her stomach roiled and settled the debate. Shelby scrambled up and startled the birds. They glared at her, but she ignored them and dunked her face in the water. It was so cool and refreshing, balm for her parched soul. When she had her fill she looked down at the water, watching the playful waves ripple across the surface. She saw the reflection of the darkening sky, and there , she saw the mirror image of the full moon rising. Oh, how she hated that moon. It was the worst of all possible moons, especially on this, the worst of all possible days. And then she saw the reflection of something moving quickly, quickly looming larger, and largely resembling an owl. Shelby threw herself from the bird bath with a squee! and the owl whooshed by, talons just missing. It glided soundlessly and looped around for another pass, while she plopped to the ground with a burp. She had drunk too much water and felt the start of a cramp, but she put it out of her mind and once more cannonballed away. The one time she looked over her shoulder she saw the owl diving, and she let out a panicked squark! Death loomed from above, but in front of her, perhaps salvation: a vast cave of shadows beneath a minivan. And maybe, just maybe, she saw the gleaming black eyes of another rat there, watching her approach. Safe harbour, if she could make it. She dove at the last moment and felt the rush of talons ruffling her fur. But the owl pulled up, not wanting to slam into the van. Shelby hurtled under the vehicle and skidded to a stop beneath it, less running than bouncing, rolling, and flopping. She could barely breathe. Her heart again hammered her ribcage and every muscle hurt, and for a moment all she could do was lay in the darkness. But eventually she caught her breath, and noticed the other rat had sidled up to her. He sat up on his haunches and sniffed at her. Yeah, I’m okay buddy, thanks, she thought. She rolled over and got up. The other rat snuffled her snout. Yeah, thanks, she thought. She patted him on the shoulder and then stretched. That was a close one, wasn’t it? He snuffled at her side, and then her legs, and then behind– Hey! Shelby swatted his ear. Not interested, buddy! Jesus, at least buy me dinner first. The other rat retreated, sniffed in her general direction. And then Shelby got the hiccoughs, so he lost interest. They stood like that for a while, as night crept in. The trick-or-treaters were out in full force, and every few seconds they heard the shrill battle cry of the sugar addict, “TRICK OR TREAT!!!” The little maniacs did everything with extra exclamation marks on Hallowe’en, and the streets became a terrifying land that honest animals didn’t dare to tread. So Shelby and the other rat were stuck for the foreseeable future. And since it was getting colder as the night dragged on too, she started shivering. By the time it was fully dark out, the youngest trick-or-treaters retired. That meant the worst ones would be out in bigger numbers. They weren’t so much treaters as trickers. The other rat started shuffling to the edge of the minivan, apparently tired of waiting. Maybe it’s not a bad idea, Shelby thought. She didn’t want to get caught outside with a bunch of teens running around. The other rat sniffed the air at the edge of the minivan’s shadow and poked his head out. He sniffed some more, and turned back to her, indicating the coast was clear. Shelby breathed a sigh of relief. Then an inky mass of black dropped down on him, tearing him clean in half. Shelby let out a forlorn squee! The shadowy mass lowered its head, and looked under the van. And again, Shelby found herself looking into Jack’s eyes. The other rat was already forgotten, as the cat crouched and assessed the minivan. It wasn’t about food with him – Jack would never deign to eat something as lowly as a rat. For him, it was about the sheer joy of the slaughter. Shelby didn’t know what overcame her. She let out a torrent of squeaking and charged right at him, her jaws snapping and her claws swiping at the air. Jack’s eyes widened and he let out a miserable mreew! He leapt clear away from her. Jack stared at her as though he had seen a dog ghost. One paw was in the air and his tail twitched nervously. Shelby kept her eyes locked on his, and then she… well, she made a noise. A kind of grunt, or bark. It was a little hissy, since her lungs were small. In any case, it was a strange noise and it unsettled Jack, and he flinched and moved a couple more feet away. Shelby backed out down the drive way, keeping her eyes on the cat. She put good distance between them, but she knew it would only be a matter of time before the psycho overcame his shock and reset to factory defaults. Still, there must have been a solid ten feet between them before Jack dared a step in her direction. That’s when she bolted. Jack followed, at first keeping pace but then indulging his instincts and resuming the hunt. Shelby ran unnoticed by a group of trick-or-treaters, but when they saw Jack they shouted “Black cat! Black cat!” and startled him anew, which gave her some elbow room. And then, the damned full moon actually helped out for a change, because in the distance Shelby saw the little house on the corner where she lived. She dashed for it. But when she looked over her shoulder Jack was gaining on her. She scurried up the driveway of the house and ran at the side door, but of course it was closed and she had no way of turning the knob. She slipped into the back yard and Jack leapt over the fence. She thought she might be able to make it into the shed, but she’d been running around all day and Jack was a well-rested, well-fed house cat. She realized she wouldn’t get there in time, and then Jack pounced. Shelby stood by awaiting her fate. And then the sky nudged the moon an inch to the left, signalling midnight had come and gone; the day was officially over. Jack sailed through the air with his claws out and Shelby caught him by the scruff of his neck, with her once-again human hand. “Bad cat!” she said, shaking her index finger at him. He flailed about half-heartedly and mewled most piteously, but in truth he liked being carried around by humans so it didn’t bother him too much. Something about the arrangement was just so proper . “I swear, I’m going to put you up for adoption.” She dug out her spare key from under a garden gnome’s hat and unlocked her side door. A part of her was worried about the neighbours seeing her naked – a minor consequence of the wererat’s curse, which was arguably the least useful curse – but after the day she had, she thought, Screw it. Inside she set Jack down, filled his bowl with kibble, and petted him once, because psycho-or-not, he was her fur baby. She swore off liquor, prepared for bed, and then noticed the trees in her front yard were draped with TP. She sighed. “Worst day of the year.”


The bloody sun was nearing its highest point when the man reached the outskirts of the ruined city. It was a breezy day, and the shifting grass seemed to shy away from him as he made his slow voyage across the plain. He was a tall man, well tanned from being in the sun for long hours, and his face had crinkled into an expression of age and rugged wisdom. His body was strapped in torn leather, and his facial hair suggested a few days of no shaving. In his right hand he bore a walking stick, sharpened at the end to a point, like a spear. A holster hung about his waste, and in it, a 10 millimeter Bren Ten, with a single clip left to use. Hoping to find some much needed supplies, the man continued his trek, glancing between the skyline of ruined towers, and the great mountains beyond them. A sign, eroded by age, read in large white letters “Welcome to Denver.” He heard of the place before. They used to call it the “mile high city,” but that was long ago. Back when he had friends. He had been the first male born to his tribe, he recalled, and he was called "blessing" by many. They told him the stories of how the great tribes fell, and the towers became empty. They told him of sky people, who had come down to the earth and snatched its inhabitants. But in defiance, they fought back and were swiftly annihilated. Seeing their potential slaves mostly dead, the sky people fled, and left them to their ruined home. His tribe were his friends. But his friends had sent him out here, out West. He was to find civilization, and return to save his people. But more and more he feared that there was no civilization to be found. So now there were no friends. It had been a long time since he had heard the sound of another voice. His own often provided that helpful second opinion. He liked his voice, but he often remembered his friends’. Thinking of these things made the trip seem shorter, and he soon found himself amongst the great tombs of skyscrapers, monuments to a greater time. The man saw nothing but rubble and trash, nothing worth collecting. He kept on, his spear held tightly in his hand. Who knew what monster may inhabit these crypts? The place was deathly quiet; the only sound was the slight rustle of the wind upon the grass. But his ears perked up as a piece of rubble fell out of place. Stopping, the man looked around, until he saw a figure reveal itself in the shadow. A friend…finally? No. A bullet whizzed past his head. He dropped the spear, and quickly whipped out his pistol. Taking aim as the figure approached, he discharged a bullet. But in the mere sliver of time before he pulled the trigger, he saw the figure’s face. It was a woman, a beautiful woman, not scarred by the brutal reality of this hostile wasteland. He could not cut down such beauty; his heart would not allow him, even for survival. His hand moved the slightest inch out of line as he fired, and the bullet sailed off, striking nothing. She fired back, this time not missing. He felt the hot lead hit his chest, and the pain seared him. Dropping his gun, the man slowly bent down on one knee, and then another. He grasped at his chest, and began to breathe raggedly. He could feel his heart hurting. As he fell backwards to the ground, tears began to form in his eyes. As the darkness began to surround him, he felt not fear, but joy. He wished the woman a farewell in his mind, and hoped she lived to escape this harsh place. With his last breath of life, the man looked up at the great towering tombstones, and to the clouds beyond. “It is fitting,” thought he, “to die in a graveyard.


Jacob hadn’t wanted a lot out of life—maybe a place to call his own, a nice family and a little time to make art. He certainly wasn’t one of those people with drive and ambition, destined for big things. He was okay with a small life, as long as it was a happy one, but apparently, even that was too much to ask. He was forty-three now, and still hadn’t really settled in anywhere. He changed apartments each time another job fell through, and he did so on his own. One by one he had watched every relationship he had go sour and the small dreams he was after collapse in on themselves. Now, after twenty-five miserable years on his own, he was doing the one thing he had always sworn to himself he would never do—he was going back to stay with his parents. He was embarrassed as he drove into the old town. There was no one in the world with dreams small enough for Westland, not even Jacob himself. It had once been a farming town, full of men taming wild land to their own advantage, but a few years of drought and recession had hit the town hard. Not many people remained, and even fewer were happy to be there. The houses were run-down and many were abandoned. They were cheap at least, which was enough to trap what little population they still had. If you could survive the featureless landscape of the town, you could at least do so cheaply, and most of the people left in town simply didn’t have the money for anywhere else. Now, Jacob thought, that probably included him. He had mostly come to terms with moving back in with his parents, but it still stung his ego enough that he wasn’t ready to go straight there. Westland had exactly one bar, and he easily remembered where it was. He had spent half his time in high school handing around the place, flashing a fake ID that none of the bartenders bother to check. He headed there now, hoping he had enough money left to buy a couple of drinks at least. The bar was exactly as he remembered it, which somehow made him feel worse. If he thought back to the last time he was in this bar and compared it to now, all it did was remind him of the ways in which things had gone so wrong. He almost turned his back, but he didn’t think he could go home sober. He was sure his dad had a whole lecture planned about the merits of farming as a career. “I’ll take whatever’s cheap,” he said, collapsing on the first stool with a sigh. Everything in the place was cheap, but it was a popular request so he wasn’t questioned. The bartender slid a single shot glass his way. The candid liquid lightly rose and fell from side to side for a moment and reflected the dull humming lights from the bar back at Jacob, who couldn’t bring his eyes to look anywhere else. It felt as though the weight of the world took a taunting perch atop his shoulders and he had no choice but to succumb to it’s will. “What is this stuff?” he asked the bartender without looking up. “You don’t want to know.” Jacob nodded and took the shot. It burned his throat as it went down, and he nearly coughed in surprise. He’d had alcohol plenty of times, but not like this. The alcohol content wasn’t so much a problem as the acrid flavor that invaded his nose and mouth. He shook his head to try and clear it, the after taste was bitter like vinegar. Jacob finally looked up at the bartender for the first time. He had been meaning to ask for another drink, but his words caught in his throat. He knew the girl behind the counter. “Maddie?” he asked, surprised to see her in an apron. Really he was just surprised to see her at all. She shot a forced smile at him. “Actually, I go by Madison now.” “Right,” Jacob repeated. “Madison. It’s good to see you.” “I guess,” Madison said, reaching behind her and pouring him another drink. “This isn’t exactly the scenario I would have preferred if I was going to see you again.” “Looking for a little more drama?” Jacob asked, swallowing down the next shot with a grimace. “Looking for a little more success,” Madison admitted. “Hard to throw a successful life in your ex-boyfriend’s face if you haven’t got a successful life to brag about.” “If it makes you feel better, I haven’t got a lot of success going on either,” Jacob admitted. “You walked into a bar and asked for something cheap. I kind of figured,” Madison said. “I think I’d be a bit embarrassed if it hadn’t been so long,” he admitted. “What’s it been, twenty-five years since high school?” “Twenty-seven since our last date,” Madison said. “We broke up sophomore year.” “Right,” Jacob nodded. “I forgot about that.” He wished he could say he remembered that day clear as ice, but he really barely remembered it at all. He thought there had been something to do with a Valentine’s day dance and some comments she had made about a football player. It all seemed so high-school, looking back. He looked up to comment on that to Madison, but she had already moved on. She was serving the only other customers in the bar, two teens who were giggling over their shots and couldn’t possibly be overage. Jacob wondered if he and Madison had ever looked like those two kids, hands all over each other as they found relief from the dull town in each other’s arms. He couldn’t remember if they had ever really kissed. As soon as Madison was done with the teenagers, she returned to Jacob. She poured him another shot that he wasn’t even sure he could afford, but he didn’t drink it yet. He rubbed his thumb along the smeared edge of the shot glass and looked back up at Madison. He felt like he should say something more, continue their conversation, but it had been so long since they last talked that he had no idea what to say. “So are you in town long?” she asked, seemingly thinking the same thing. “Or just dropping in for a while?” Jacob really didn’t want to admit his living situation, but there was a genuine curiosity in Madison’s eyes. He figured he would have to get comfortable telling people at some point, and he could always avoid the bar later if she was cruel about it. “Hopefully I’ll be out of here soon,” he said. “I ran out of options and money, so I’m actually coming back to live with my parents for a while.” Madison grimaced, but she didn’t seem to be mocking him. She pushed a stray hair out of her face. “That sounds really rough. I know you fought for years to get out of this place.” “I guess you can only fight for so long,” Jacob said, finally drinking the shot she had poured. He looked up at her. “That’s probably all I can afford.” “I’d offer you some on the house, but the bar can’t afford that, and neither can I,” Madison said. “It’s fine,” Jacob said. He hadn’t been looking for a free drink, he just really couldn’t blow more money here. “I just needed enough liquid courage to get me through my dad’s lecture.” “Well you were always a lightweight. Three will probably be enough.” Jacob smiled, and he found that he wanted her to stay and talk a little longer. She was sweet and understanding, and something about her made him long to stay close to her. He couldn’t even think of a reason why, but he wanted to keep talking to her. “I’ve laid my cards out on the table and they aren’t very good,” he pointed out. “Now’s your chance to do that bragging you were talking about. You don’t even need a lot of success to throw it in my face.” Madison smiled and shook her head. “Still not a lot to throw at you. I’m not living with my parents, but I am still living in Westland, which is practically the same thing. I think I told you in high school that I wanted to be a stock-broker, and as you can see, that didn’t work out.” “Maybe not,” Jacob said. “You’ve still got a shot at it though. I think most stock-brokers are pretty ancient.” “What did you say about only being able to fight for so long?” Madison said. “I think I’m a little too old to run off chasing a pipe dream.” Jacob would have said the same thing in her position, but it felt bad to hear her give up like that. It made the world feel just a little darker than it had before and a little more unforgiving. “I guess you’re right,” he said, shaking his head. Madison returned to the teenagers and gave them a bit more to drink. They were only getting louder with every glass they poured them, and a normal bar probably would have cut them off by then. This one simply didn’t have the money to refuse a paying customer, something that Jacob himself had taken advantage of quite a bit in his youth. “You know, I don’t really have a lot of friends left in town,” Madison admitted when she came back. “Westland is the kind of place you move away from, so everyone I used to know is pretty scattered. If you wanted to go get coffee or something I’d be down for that.” “Does Westland even have a coffee shop?” “Oh, yeah, they built it like ten years ago. The coffee is horrible, but they’ll let you hang around for as long as you want. Really friendly staff,” Madison said. Jacob smiled. “That sounds great. If I managed to survive my dad’s lecture, I’ll be there.” They exchanged phone numbers and a couple more hours of pleasant conversation. Jacob was beginning to wonder how he could have forgotten her. She was sweet, and honest and genuine. He didn’t know whether their plan to get coffee was meant to be a date, but the more he talked to her, the more he hoped that it was. Madison could be the first good thing to happen to him in years. “I should probably be heading out,” he said, staggering to his feet. “Won’t make my dad any happier if I’m late.” “Keys,” Madison said without explanation. “What?” “Give me your keys,” she said. “I’m not going to let you drive.” “I had a couple of drinks a few hours ago,” he said. “I’m not even tipsy anymore, and even if I was, there’s no one else on the road.” “You make good conversation,” Madison said. “I’m not going to let you throw that away by driving out of here.” Jacob groaned, but he handed off the keys. It would be a long walk on his own in the dark, but Madison was probably right. He probably should not be behind the wheel. “I can give you a ride if you can wait a bit,” Madison offered. “Bar’s about to close, so all I’ve really got to do is get those kids out of here, then I’ll be free.” “That sounds great,” Jacob said, and he meant it. All in all, it took Madison about an hour to close up the bar and get the kids on their way home. She took their keys too, though only one of them really had a car. She waited until there was someone there to pick them up before she was ready to go. “Your parents still on that old house by the river?” Madison asked him, getting into the driver’s seat of his car. “Yeah,” he said, leaning his head against the headrest. “Nothing much ever changes in this town.” They drove down the old road, Jacob’s car thrown around by every bump. It was too dark out to see much of anything, and the farmlands passed in a blur outside of the window. There was house to break things up every once in a while, but they were nothing more than dark blurs against an indistinct background. “Do you remember what it was like when we were dating?” Madison asked. It was the one thing they hadn’t really talked about in the bar. They had commiserated over failures in life and whined about the dreary town, but they had not talked about the one experience they had truly shared: high school. “Not really,” Jacob admitted. “I remember you yelling at me about the color of my tie, then shoving a rose into my hand. I still have a mark where the thorn pricked me.” Madison grimaced. “I forgot about that.” Jacob felt bad for bringing it up. “I’m sure there are a lot nicer things I could remember.” “Yeah,” Madison said. There was a bit of a lull, then she continued. “Do you know what I remember most? I was sitting in the cafeteria, and you came in with this big goofy smile on your face. You had bought these really cheesy heart shaped chocolates from some convenience store, and you couldn’t wait to see my reaction to them.” “I don’t remember that,” Jacob admitted. “I figured you wouldn’t. I didn’t even really react to the chocolate—I didn’t think it was a big deal. I guess it wasn’t, but you were so enthusiastic that I feel a little bad for not giving you a little bit more.” The car stopped then and Jacob recognized the house he had grown up in. He didn’t want to go back. if it was up to him, he would stay here with Madison and laugh about the past forever. Neither of them moved yet. They weren’t ready. “You know, I always thought we would be dating again by senior year,” Madison said, filling the silence. “The way we broke up was so stupid, and I felt like we would get another chance at it before we graduated.” “I guess we never did,” Jacob said. “Not before graduation,” Madison said. It took Jacob a moment to realize the gravity of her words and he looked over at her. There was twinkle in her eyes and just enough moonlight was seeping in through the window to light her from behind, like his own personal angel. He found himself leaning across the seat towards her and she noticed that she was doing the same. When their lips met, it was as if a puzzle piece had finally clicked into place. All his time struggling out in the world, all his failures, everything he resented about his life had led him here, back to Madison. They pulled away for a moment and Madison smiled at him. “I look forward to that coffee date,” she said, opening the door. Jacob smiled, and when he walked up to the front door of his parent’s house, he wasn’t feeling so lost anymore. In the span of a kiss, Westland had started to feel a lot bigger and a lot more interesting.


The little town of New Evergreen was a haven for those who enjoyed the spirit of Christmas. Among the snowy hills and bright lights, it displayed a charm that made every day feel like a holiday. The Jackson family, known for their everlasting spirit for the Christmas season, were the heart and soul of the community. Every year, they hosted a huge Christmas party that had become the main event of New Evergreen's winter. The wait for this year's celebration was intense, as whispers of the Jacksons' plans spread through the town like a raging wildfire. As the sun fell below the horizon on Christmas Eve, the Jackson estate began to shine with the glow of a thousand lights. The air was filled with the scent of freshly baked gingerbread cookies, and the sound of laughter from within the decorated halls. Friends and neighbors, in their festive clothing, made their way to the Jackson mansion, eager to participate in the celebration. Inside the mansion, the atmosphere was magical. Each room was covered with lights and ornaments. A beautiful Christmas tree stood tall in the grand hall, covered with a variety of ornaments. It was worth the wait to see the marvelous tree.

The festivities started with a great feast. Tables filled with all sorts of food—turkey with stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce, and vegetables. The dining room was filled with the sounds of clinking wine glasses, and laughter. The Jackson family, in matching Christmas sweaters and hats, talked among the guests, ensuring everyone felt the warmth of Christmas. As the clock struck eight, the party transitioned into a dance. The spacious dance floor became lively with couples, their movements synced to the rhythm of classic holiday tunes. The air was electric, with the spirit of Christmas in every step.

However, inside the celebrations, a subtle movement of uncertainty began to make its way through the festivities. The brilliant Christmas tree, standing tall and bright in the middle of the grand hall, began to show signs of falling. A gasp rippled through the room as the towering tree swayed ominously, and ornaments fell to the floor.

Chaos ensued as the guests tried to steady the tree and save the ornaments. The dance floor transformed into a chaotic scene as the news spread. The Jackson family, known to face unexpected challenges, attempted to reassure the guests, with smiles and jokes, trying to bring back the festive spirit. As the now bad spirit cast a shadow over the celebration, an unexpected guest made an entrance. A mysterious figure, covered in a shimmering robe, appeared in the center of the room. The world seemed to freeze, as everyone turned and stared at the appearance of the guest. With a wave of the figure's hand, a warm glow took over the room. The fallen ornaments magically lifted themselves from the floor, hanging back on the tree as if being pickede up. The once bare tree now stood tal, radiating a glow that refilled the Christmas spirit. The mysterious guest revealed himself to be the Spirit of Christmas, a magical force there to ensure that the spirit of the season remained intact. With a twinkle in his eye and a voice like a soothing melody, the Spirit of Christmas addressed the gathering. "Fear not, as the Spirit Of Christmas is here! Ho Ho Ho!" After that, the Spirit of Christmas continued to spread his holiday magic through the party. The mess caused by the previous chaos was all cleaned up. The Spirit Of Christmas moved around the party, playing games and telling jokes. After a rough patch, the Christmas spirit had finally returned to the party, as everyone laughed and played. The party had been saved by the magical spirit. The dance floor, formerly a scene of chaos, now became a stage for jolly couples. Couples twirled and swirled with newfound energy, and the music fit perfectly with the mood of the guests. The Spirit of Christmas moved gracefully among the guests, bestowing his blessings of joy. As the night unfolded, it had slowly became very apparent that the unexpected twists and turns had turned the festive party into a magical celebration for everyone. The holiday magic had not just saved the almost ruined evening but had elevated it to be much better than it was before. The guests, initially scared by the unexplained and mood ruining occurrences, now embraced the newfound enchantment, eventually realizing that sometimes the most memorable moments come from the unexpected. The Jackson family, gracious and smart, took the lead in embracing the magical turn of events, playing into the twists and having the times of their lives. They shared stories of past holiday accidents, turning potential embarrassment into laughter and fun. The spilled cranberry sauce earlier in the night had become a story of shared laughter, and the tilted Christmas tree and fallen ornaments became a case to the resilience of the festive spirit. As the night drew to a close, the Spirit of Christmas said his goodbyes and bid farewell, his majestic robe disappearing into the air. The guests, still mesmerized by the enchantment of the evening, exchanged heartfelt laughter and expressions of gratitude and thanks. The Jackson mansion, almost fully chaotic and ruined by some odd occurances, now stood as a house of warmth and unity, lit by the glow of holiday magic. The tale of the festive party gone wrong but saved by holiday magic became a festive legend in the town of New Evergreen. It was retold with laughter in the eyes and a light and grateful heart, a reminder that the true magic of Christmas lies not just in planned parties and festivities but in the shared moments of joy, spirit , and enchanting surprises that tie us together to create unforgettable memories. The holiday season in New Evergreen would forever be marked by the year when the Spirit of Christmas graced the Jackson party, turning a potential disaster into a celebration that went over the ordinary and embraced the extraordinary magic of the season.


"Please flash your EZ-Link", the school gate had buzzed when Kurt approached it. He held his card up to the oval-shaped scanner which responded by flashing out a horizontal ray of green light, scanning the card upwards and downwards. "Name: Kurt Atwood. Gender: Male. Ethnicity: Chinese. Hair Colour: Black. Eye Colour: Black. Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual. Tongue: Rollable. Religion: Christianity. Minority Level: 29%. Student confirmed. Access Approved." The gate slowly opened and the line of students queued up behind Kurt clapped with cheshire cat grins. "Good for you!", they had exclaimed. The process had repeated as the next student walked up to the gate. Buzz. Buzz. On the elevator ride that lifted Kurt and his classmate Lily to the hall for their weekly assembly talk, their earbuds vibrated constantly in their ears: "I am Male and I am Proud. I am Chinese and I am Proud. I have Black hair and I am Proud." Eventually, everyone had adapted such that they could hear the outside world simultaneously. Lily's Minority Level was at zero percent. The more the amount of minority group features you have, the higher your Minority Level is, and the more minority privileges you get. People like Lily and Kurt with a Minority Level less than 50 percent, frequently named Majorities, did not have the basic minority privileges to go through the express lanes in attractions, get ten percent discounts on all shop items, and be allowed to sit on the reserved seats in buses and trains. But they had privileges too, such as free joy pills with free repair of earbuds, both administrated by the Ministry of Joy. On the day Kurt was born, his mother had cried tears, not of joy, but disappointment, to find out that her newborn son's Minority Level was only at 29 percent. The doctors comforted her, telling her that the tides can change and one day, maybe there would be more Malays than Chinese in Singapore. She had popped a whole bottle of pills and went into a deep slumber that day, but after that... everything was normal. "Too Much Pain? Take Two Pills!", the buses had proclaimed repeatedly down the streets. The speaker appeared as a giant head on the television screen in the hall, an uproar of applause came from all the students and teachers. "Good morning everybody! My name is George Vox from the Ministry of Equality and I have been assigned by your dearest principal to answer any questions you may have." "What is your Minority Level?" one of the students had shouted. Soft chuckling came from the audience. "Well, it is 86 percent but-" "Good for you!", the audience shouted simultaneously. "-but the Minority Level does not matter at all of course, because we are all equal no matter what. Everyone is human after all!" everyone clapped and nodded. "When will the ministry solve my neighbourhood's economy problems?". A wave of goosebumps sweeped the hall, everyone turned to look at the Eurasian student who had openly criticised the system. "...I'm sure everyone has learnt from your history books that around a hundred years ago, Singapore was in complete disarray. People would murder each other due to their differences and get away with it because our Warrior Units did not exist back then. So let's not worry so much about teeny tiny problems and celebrate how we have finally achieved equality and happiness! Long are the days of discrimination!" Everyone stood up and cheered, many had jumped in joy and screamed. Vox's job had been done. After he switched off the camera recorder, he made a call to the principal, "Hello, excuse me, I require you to give that student counselling... yes, the Eurasian one". It was 11 o'clock and the pills had been flushed out of Kurt's system. Everyone in class routinely took two more pills. Meanwhile, Kurt was still clawing into his pill bottle, he started to get increasingly irritated. His fingers could not feel any presence of the sweet powdery goodness. He used one finger and wiggled it around the pill bottle, only to find it completely empty. He grew concerned, did I forget to refill it last night? "Hey, Kurt, are you okay?", his tablemate Vinny had asked, seeing how Kurt was pale and shaking violently, with snot running out his nose. "N-no no, my pills...", clumsily knocking over his calculator and stationeries. Again, Vinny asked, this time with a look of disgust at the river of snot flowing out, "Uhm... Hey, you alright? You don't look too good... Are you oka-" "No, Christ, what do you think?!" ... ... "BEEP BEEP BEEP!", the classroom speakers blared while spinning red lights popped out from the ceilings and covered everyone's shocked face. Vinny had pressed his EZ-link's trigger, which had sounded the alarm and alerted the authorities. The Warriors in black gear dragged the screaming Kurt away. He was thrown into a van with the white letters 'MINISTRY OF EQUALITY' imprinted on its smooth black surface before getting slowly driven further and further away from his school. Books displayed at the front of bookshops flashed through his eyes as he looked out the small slits of the van: "The Talent" by Joseph Whitman. An empowering story of Jodie Yu, the citizen who braved through a society where people who could roll their tongue are discriminated daily. "This classic frightening dystopia warns us of the dangers of political extremism" ~Katherine Wang Kurt was brought out of the van stumbling and led into a tall glass building. His heartbeat in the elevator was heavy and he felt the urge to barf. Twenty-two... Twenty-three... Twenty-four... Door Opening. His heartbeat rapidly increased as he walked through the corridor. At the end of it, there was an austere-looking man sitting behind a desk. He looked up from his computer as the door behind Kurt had shut tight. "Good Afternoon Mr. Atwood. Now, did you know you shouted at a student with seventy-one percent Minority Level, which is a discrimination?", the man had asked sternly as Kurt stood awkwardly in the middle of the white room. Kurt looked up weakly, and stuttered, "Y-yes..." "Did you know you said the name of a deity in vain, which is religious prejudice?" "Uhm... Yes..." "Now please, please sit down" "I'm... I'm sorry..." Kurt had started to tear up, he tried as much as possible not to let the man see, making a sudden quick turn to wipe the tears off his cheeks. "Sing our national anthem" "W-What?" "Sing our national anthem", the man had said in an exaggeratedly long manner. Kurt and the man met eyes for a whole ten seconds, before Kurt started to whisper out the lyrics of the country's anthem. "Louder!" the man shouted. The melody started to hit its crescendo. The lyrics of its verses switching between countless different languages. Kurt was suddenly in another world. He was riding a happy singing cloud carried by the many fine lines of a composition, soaring with the flapping crotchet and minim notes high up in the sky. He could see his friends smiling together down there in a world looking much like heaven, before the song started to slow down. The sky had darkened and suddenly, lightning bolts struck down alongside bloodthirsty tornadoes. The infrastructure had morphed from tall glass towers into one of concrete buildings. There were no friends down there, only enemies. Fires and flipped cars and gunshots and death. He could hear the man's voice echo loudly in the distance, "Destruction and chaos caused by discrimination. They didn't have Warriors back then to discipline them into equality and neither did they have the minority level system to fulfill everyone's desires! Is this what you want? Hell was a place on Earth! Luckily we saved the Nation in time, unlike the others, they crumbled!" "No!", tears had already started to jet out of Kurt's eyes, all he wanted was to gouge them out to block out all of it. The bloodshed slowly faded, he found himself back in the enclosed room. "You are only fifteen, yes? Kindly read these lines in front of the screen". Slightly confused but tremendously relieved, he took the slip of newly printed paper and read out the lines towards the black screen. "I will not disclose anything that happened here. I am content with what I was born with. I have many friends..." The list went on and on. The man looked up from the computer, his complexion suddenly bright. "Thank you, you can leave now! But remember, this will be your last warning." With a sigh of relief, Kurt went home with a refilled bottle of pills. All was in the past. All is well.


Tabitha turns to the left, turns to the right. Purses her lips.     ‘How do I look?’     Jacob glances over his newspaper. She’s in the green floral number. He weighs his answer for a moment.     ‘Terrible.’     Tabitha sucks in her tummy a bit and gives her bosom a hoick.     ‘Really?’     Jacob returns to his article.     ‘Dog’s dinner, my darling.’ He raises an eyebrow at his inadvertent alliteration, then wryly adds: ‘Diabolical.’     ‘Oh. I thought you liked this dress.’     ‘I did, dear. Past tense. It looked fabulous on you, when you still had the wonderful, waifish figure for it.’ He’s pleased with this appraisal, thinks it not only fair but also slightly poetic.     She sighs.     ‘Yes, dear.’     She heads back upstairs to change.     Jacob returns his attention to the newspaper, whistling the flat edge of a half-remembered melody.     A junior minister has been fired and fined – that’s the fourth this year – for breaching the Public Truth and Honesty Act. In a press conference in October, Ms Redfield told reporters that 16,000 affordable homes had been built the previous year. But a fact-check under the Freedom of Information Act revealed that while 16,000 homes had been built, only 400 of them were classed as ‘affordable’. In her defence, Ms Redfield stated it was ‘An honest mistake, a slip of the tongue.’     Jacob tsks, turns the page.     In the next article, a pop musician has taken an ‘influencer’ to court, seeking damages. The influencer, apparently, made several social media posts in which they proclaimed the singer’s latest song ‘brilliant’, ‘refreshing’ and ‘like, all the feels’. Unfortunately, though, the influencer was known to use sarcasm in their posts, and the pop musician is claiming public dishonesty on the part of the influencer has caused reputational damage and financial loss.

A tricky one , thinks Jacob. Surely a matter of demonstrating intent .     Bringing this legislation to parliament was one of the hardest, and finest, achievements of his forty-year career in the civil service. Stamping out the parameters nearly broke the entire department, but by god they got it through in the end.     Glad of his retirement, he turns the page.     The reports are all doom and gloom. Journalists, no longer allowed to ‘spin’ their findings to meet their biased editorial viewpoints, simply encapsulate events under increasingly bland headlines: ‘War still happening’; ‘Death of notable person’; ‘Economy far worse than ever before’. It paints a rather forlorn picture.     Still, it’s good to know what’s what.     Jacob remembers the old days, having to seek out the glimmer of facts through the quagmire of lies, opinions and wilful misinterpretations; the multi-layered double-speak of the post-truth world. He remembers the 'bad decades', around the dawn of the digital age, wherein public figures moved, in a few decades, from facades of integrity to cover-ups to shifty falsehoods to brazen, balls-out bullshitting. (He blushes at the language, but damn it, he feels strongly about this!) You could say what you liked, in those hellish days, as long as you had ten thousand twitter bots ready to back you up.

These are simpler times , thinks Jacob. If you lie and you’re caught, you’re out. That’s that. The truth is no longer ‘out there’; it’s right here. Like it or lump it, as his mother used to say.     True, the Public Truth and Honesty Act only really applies to politicians, broadcasters, public figures, and only covers public statements, press briefings, published articles, etc. It is not against the law, per se, for a man to tell a mistruth in his own home, to his own wife, in order to help her maintain a delusion. But it is a good code to live by, as Jacob frequently reminds Tabitha. Moral virtue begins with honesty.     He folds his paper onto the occasional table, and in his carpet slippers pads silently up the stairs. He pauses outside Tabitha’s bedroom – formerly the spare room but, if truth be told, their relationship has cooled somewhat in recent years. He hears a cupboard door close. The sigh of a mattress as the sizeable bulk that was once his wife’s pert bottom is lowered onto it. He holds his breath and his heart quickens as he hears Tabitha sob, snort, mutter something to herself. Sniffle and sob some more.     If the first casualty of war is the truth, then the first casualty of the truth is peace.     She asked his opinion. It’s not his fault if she doesn’t like the answer.     And the truth is, she has let herself go in recent years. An extra slice here, a skipped exercise class there. Her slim figure turned curvy, then voluptuous, now ‘plus-size’ as the adverts would say. Damned adverts, softening the edges of every truth they purport to convey. Jacob often regrets that they were unable to include advertisers under the purview of the legislation, given they are the most inherently dishonest people in society. Is ‘plus-size’ a euphemism (probably acceptable) or is it a downright lie (frankly illegal)? Shouldn’t they just say ‘fat’, plain and simple? He thinks to write to his MP, though wonders if three emails in a week may be too many. He doesn’t want people to think he’s some kind of busybody, a curtain-twitcher in his retirement. A sticky-beak, as his mother would say.     Jacob returns to the living room via the kitchen, where he pours himself a small measure of blended whisky. Looking out at the gathering dark, he weighs up passing the evening watching the remainder of a documentary about ancient Greece, which he fell asleep in front of the other night, or starting a new book – perhaps the one with the new theory about Jack the Ripper. Since the passing of the Act, he’s found films, novels, all forms of fiction a little too synthetic, implausible. He can no longer get behind the protagonists, knowing full well that they were made up by someone’s over-active imagination for the sake of pecuniary advantage. Cynics masquerading as romantics. Liars, in short. They don’t fool Jacob.     He decides on the book, and is just settling into his armchair when he hears Tabitha on the stairs. The adjectives that have been circling in his mind begin to crystalise: trashy, conceited, slutty; or maybe frumpy, dowdy, matronly, depending which way she’s gone. He doesn’t want to use any of them, doesn’t want to insult his wife, but it will be handy to have some answers ready for when she asks.     But her steps move straight past the living room, and he hears the click of the front door opening, the finality of it closing.     He’s quick to his feet. Catches the scent of perfume as he reaches to open the latch.     She doesn’t turn.     ‘Where are you going?’     She stops, but doesn’t look back.     ‘I asked you a question.’     The implication being, therefore, that he requires a truthful answer.     She half-turns. She has her dark jacket on so he can’t see what she’s wearing, aside from a knee-length black skirt and thick, modest tights (which do nothing for her calves, if he’s honest).     ‘I’m going out.’     ‘Where to?’ he asks sharply.     ‘A bar,’ she replies.     ‘A bar?’     He means as in what bar , but her response is cutting. ‘You know, a drinking establishment where people meet in order to be sociable and have fun.’     She sniffs and holds her chin high. Mascara can’t hide the redness of her eyes.     ‘I know what a bar is, dear. I meant - it’s a bit sudden.’     ‘It’s been planned for days.’     ‘But I didn’t know.’     ‘That’s because you’re not invited.’     His heart begins to thump.     ‘Who – who with?’ His voice falters, almost a whisper.     Tabitha inhales deeply, turns to face him fully, and Jacob’s world lurches.     ‘I’m going to a bar with Gregory. He’s a man I know through my aerobics classes. I enjoy spending time with him because he’s polite and courteous. He’s also a considerate and very capable lover, and his penis is considerably “plus-sized”, one might say, compared to yours. I'm sorry if that’s more information than you required, Jacob, but I know how you value the importance of honesty.’ Her jaw clenches, nostrils flare. She looks bolder than he’s seen her in . . . years. ‘We plan to move in together in the near future, once I’ve found a way to tell you what I’ve just told you. Oh, looks like I just did!’     Jacob grips the doorframe, the world around him fuzzing out of focus, everything centred on his wife, his life, those wonderful lips that kissed him that night at the Enigma nightclub all those decades ago, that told him ‘I will’, that laughed and smiled with him in those older, happier days before it all went so wrong, so disappointing, so bitter. He wants to reach a hand out, to ask what he can do, what he did wrong, how he can fix it, but then a deeper feeling cuts through to the surface, and his heart burns in his chest.     ‘You – you lied to me,’ he gasps, almost in satisfaction.     ‘No I didn’t,’ she says with a smile. ‘I didn’t need to because you didn’t ask, because you didn’t care to notice. Goodbye, Jacob. I’ll be back in the morning to collect some things. It would be nice if you weren’t here.’     ‘You look like –’ he says quickly, flustered, gabbling, but his mind won’t bring forth the rehearsed adjectives. ‘You can’t go out looking like some cheap–’     ‘Yes I can, Jacob, because - to paraphrase one of those old fictional movies we used to love: frankly, my dear, I don’t give a flying fuck what you think.’     She smiles tightly and walks away.

She looks quite good in those heels , he thinks, her silver hair silken in the streetlights.


Completely rewritten... When the emergency broadcast system cuts into local programming, the first words on the screen reassure us that this is merely a test. It started late afternoon on a seemingly normal day – people walking their dogs, others jogging and the occasional car horn followed by someone yelling. I think it was about 4 o’clock when I saw the first message. It read as a rather vague indication that something wasn’t right: “This is not a test—I repeat—this is not a test. The National Guard has initiated a state of emergency. You are advised to remain in your homes. Do not attempt to leave the area. Further instructions will be given shortly. Again, this is not a test.” “State of emergency?” I thought to myself. I’ve always kept a pair of binoculars on my window sill, I guess for when I get bored and want to take a peek into the lives of others. When gazing, I noticed that the people outside weren’t in their typical state of constant motion, but rather looking up at something. Some were pointing, some were slack jawed and some even crying. Something was in the sky. Something that didn’t belong. Something that most of us refused to believe existed. I scanned the sky to find a round, featureless “ball”, for lack of a better word. It looked to just be hanging there with no movement. I was stuck, never have I seen anything so striking yet simple. Shortly after the awe struck pedestrians snapped out of their trance, military vehicles began patrolling the maze of side streets outside of my apartment. I still don’t know what the soldiers were blasting through their megaphones as I live on the 10th floor of my building, but the streets quickly cleared. With no answers on TV, and with the military shooing people from the streets, all I could do was hope things would settle by morning. “The United States government has issued martial law. Please do not attempt to leave your homes; your safety is our number one priority.” I woke up to that. Imagine being awakened by a firm voice with such a cryptic message in the most dead pan delivery possible. I had to get some answers at this point so I threw on some shorts and shoes and headed down to the lobby. That’s when I saw the two pale faced soldiers standing just outside of the revolving doors of my building. One of them faced inside and the other was looking up in the direction of that thing in the sky. They were dressed in fatigues, the digital camouflage type you’d see in an urban environment. When I pushed the door to walk out, the soldier facing inward used his foot to block the door from spinning. “What’s the deal?” I asked him. “Better if you stayed put.” He replied. “Why are you here?” “Orders.” I had to choice but to stay put. I wasn’t going to barge through or demand he let me pass. “They must be here for a reason,” I thought. But the reality was that they were just as clueless as the rest of us. I know that now. It was then I figured that I’d stay at my window and witness whatever it was that was going to happen. Binoculars in hand, I trained my view to the object in the sky, which was now giving off an orange colored hue. I think I realize now that this was probably heat, since the clouds around it dissipated. Down below, the military activity has increased as there were now large vehicles equipped with surface to air missiles. Some people that were standing on the sidewalks were immediately wrangled up by the nearby soldiers and placed into the back of a cargo truck. The vehicle with the missiles took aim toward the sky and let loose a flurry. I had a feeling of giddiness but that was quickly squashed as the missiles simply froze in front of the object, and tumbled toward the ground. A few huge explosions echoed from the impact. People were probably killed. The entire object began to glow in a brilliant orange, as if a small sun, but it didn’t hurt like staring at the sun. The vehicle on the ground had a small crew resetting the weapon when suddenly a beam engulfed the area of the crew, vehicle and cargo truck which held the pedestrians. When the beam subsided, a perfect circular shape was scorched into the ground, with no remnants of what was once there. The silence was broken by the screams of other people that wandered into the streets and tires from various military vehicles screeching on the asphalt. The familiar screams of fighter jets filled the skies and began circling the object, which gave scale to its size – incredibly huge. The jets looked like tiny specs as they passed in front of it. One by one, the jets fired at it, over and over, all resulting in direct hits. After expelling their munitions, the jets absquatulated. The object began to fall. The massiveness becoming more apparent as it approached the ground. It crashed in the distance like something out of a disaster movie. The impact caused an eruption of earth and completely decimated that part of the city. It took a moment before the shockwave hit, but when it did, my apartment building rumbled so hard that it knocked me off my feet, causing me to hit my head against a table. When I came to, it was sometime in the middle of the night. Regaining my composure I looked out to see smoke and dust filling the horizon. Numerous helicopters were circling the crash site, shining their spotlights down as the destruction. Still feeling woozy, I lay on my bed and tried to sleep it off. It’s morning. The sunlight is doing little for my headache. I stand up and my head starts to pound. My watch reads midnight, why is it so bright out? I look through my window to find more of these objects. This time the sky is filled with them, all glowing like little suns. “This is not a test—I repeat—this is not a test. The National Guard has initiated a state of emergency. You are advised to remain in your homes. Do not attempt to leave the area. Further instructions will be given shortly. Again, this is not a test.


The pungent mixture of chlorine, piss and shit hit his nose. His mouth tasted bitter, itchiness encompassed his entire body, head pounding, heart racing. He reached to his side clawing at the metal bowl turning away to hide his shame, he let out last night's prison sloop. The three men looked away as if to say there was no dying man in sight. As if the puke had disturbed their sensibilities. Ageing, coughing, choking and dying that's all that was left and they couldn't stand to look him in the eye. One man sat in his pretentious black suit, the other two had their officer blues and their nice shiny gold badges. On their arm, a badge read Dallas police. To him, the officers were the law. Muscles bulging, barely squeezing into their shirts. They were what you saw in the movies. The kind that would kick in the door screaming police get on the ground and do some unnecessary flips and spinning kicks. They even smelt of the law. But the man in the suit, he was not like that. Petite with scruffy hair. Not built like a brick house more fragile looking. A leaf that could be blown away by a breeze. The man's eyes contained a deadly mixture of contempt and lust. Anger lay behind the thick and fogged eyes. DI Taylor was the man's name. From the queen's native land. He had travelled over four thousand seven hundred and seven miles to be here and he had done so on the promise of one thing, a confession. A growling, agonizingly sleep-deprived detective had been woken at the dead of night on some big news, some groundbreaking revelation. The butcher of Bradbury street had been found. When that phone rang and the news broke a piece of DI Taylor began to rejoice, rejoice and dance-ready for his life's nightmare to be over and ready to go back to the days where he could sleep at night. That one thing he had travelled so far for was laid out in front of his eyes, five sheets of childish handwriting scribbled on both sides. Signed and dated. It was all there, dates locations, details only the detectives, forensics and the killer could know. As the man continued to cough and sprawl out what remained of his inners, DI Taylor read back over it for the third time. He had caught his guy, the one guy he had been obsessing over for twenty years. The one who had wormed his way out of the grip and slid calmly away into the whispering night. The one who had killed time and time again but was too clever for capture. The man in front of them was old, sick, wrinkly. Every breath he took was an agonising pain if he had turned paler he would disappear into the bright white sheets. the ones that his frail carcass laid upon. The man's eyes were dead to the world, glazed over, rolled back in their sockets. It was hard to believe just twenty years prior, the same man had taken countless lives, not just of his victims but of all their loved ones. He had destroyed hundreds of lives for little more than a thrill. Behind those dying eyes lay the Bradbury Butcher. Anyone who lived near Bradbury Lane in West London between the late eighties and early two thousand would have been scared to go out during the dark winter nights. Named after the street where he slayed his first victim, the Bradbury butcher was known to strike a wide range of victims, there seemed to be no motive, no particular victim. The only thing that linked the victims is the way their bodies were displayed. Each limb was cut from the body into smaller fragments and scattered around into a pentagram, where the body parts wouldn't make up the broken pentagram blood was used to fill in the empty lines. Placed in the centre of each body was some kind of piece of profanity. Some kind of symbolic thing that would cause the victim a world of embarrassment. A sex toy, pornographic novel, a stolen watch.Something the person who lay dismembered wouldn't want their loved ones to find. He did this to taunt, haunt and torture those who surrounded him. The killings started back in June of ninety-eighty-eight on Bradbury lane west London. The body of a priest was found inside his small church. The church had three lines of pews and was built in the early seventies. A small brick built with a flat that made up the vicarage above . It was a church that held small gatherings yet there was something special there. Those who went loved the priest. An eccentric white man in his forties John Hampton was energetic and loving. He let the homeless lay in the church on cold winters days and ran a makeshift food bank and soup kitchen in his church on the weekends. All paid by his donations. No mountain was too high to climb. The shock and horror took over the faces and lives of all who attended his church. It was an old lady who found his mutilated body. One of the old-timers, she had been there the day he opened up till the day he had taken his last breath. Even the highest trained psychotherapist couldn't mend the broken heart and shattered mind of mary. In the middle of his gingerly placed body were four porno mags and a bright red pair of lingerie, DI Taylor always speculates over why he would do such a thing. Why lay it in the pentagram and leave obscene photographs at the moment. He always thought the butcher wanted to try and take every last ounce of dignity from those who he killed. From those who he drained the blood. DI Taylor was young and inexperienced when he first went to the crime scene but from that moment of a kind of blind fixation took him over. Sleepless nights, angry calls and disappointing trails that led to nowhere. A smirk grew at the corners of his mouth all the pain and suffering this case had caused him only to take him a thousand miles away to see the killer take his last breath. He didn't even have the satisfaction of arresting the man. But part of him knew if the man wasn't already dying, DI Taylor would have seen to it. Deep behind the cold dead eyes, he knew the killer was still the sadistic bastard. A loud swing of the door from behind them jolted DI Taylor out of his staring competition. The doctor whispered into the Texans' ear and left the room. "We got to go. The family are here to say their final goodbyes." DI Taylor wanted to make the family wait and make them wait until it was too late, just like this murderous bastard did but the two Texans were there and he knew he couldn't do it. "I hope the devil treats you well down in hell you cold heartless bastard". With that last word lingering on the back of his tongue the detective inspector left the room. As the door swung shut behind the officer's, tears ran down the old man's cheeks. Tears of pain and agony, lust and hatred. When the tap started flowing he could not help but open up the entire damn, tears poured down his cheeks by the bucket full. The emptiness of the heart overtook him. One he had never felt before. The pain ran so deep his soul began to bleed. This would be it for him, his lasting legacy. His good name dragged through the shit and plastered on the billboards. He could only hope God would forgive him and that God would unhinge the pearly gates and allow him through. He had always been a good Christian, a good father, a good husband and the most upheld member of society. Not a dent in his criminal record, not a single dent. But now all of this has fallen on to his weak arms, something so big that he couldn't help but cry, the thoughts were traumatising making every wink a nervous dance. As DI Taylor walked into the clinical hallway he spotted a strange-looking man. The man was wearing a black leather jacket and had a baseball cap pulled a little too far down. He was not much taller or wider than the man who had just confessed. Taking a deeper look he could see the same dirty eyes as the man who had just relieved him of his work. Deep down those eyes were evil to the core. They were the eyes of a criminal but at that moment DI Taylor passed it off. There was nothing he could do and what he was going to do was tell the two Texans that he had hunch that the man in black was a criminal. Not his job nor his jurisdiction. He had come and conquered and knew it was his time to leave. DI Taylor had all he could take off the dirty Dallas air he needed to go back to dark and rainy territory back to the place he called home. He had a ticket for the next flight to London and he was sure as hell wasn't going to miss it. He wanted to be home already in his cosy apartment, to charlie the cat and his wife. The only thing in his mind at that moment was the 30-year-old dark bourbon, he was going to finally open the bottle as he had promised to do when he caught the butcher. As DI Taylor got in his car, the man in the leather jacket walked into the room and placed a chair to jam the door shut. The man proceeded to the windows and shut the blinds. Darkness engulfed the two men the dying man took a deep breath in and coughed out the rest, " Where are they?" The dying man said with an air of desperation and a need for the answer. The other man began to smile slyly as he gently sat down beside the bed. In a whisper, he responded, "They are fine, did they get the confession?" "Of course they got their fucking confession, the Detective was mighty pleased with himself. Now I did what you asked where are they I need to see them I don't have long left" An even wider grin took hold of the man's face, a glimmer of light in his dark cold eyes. "All in good time little brother, all in good time. They believed you?" "Of Course they did they lapped up every last word, they were practically dribbling when they saw it" " That's good, Patricia and Carolina will be with you in due course." The man stood up ready to make his exit. "I guess this is my Goodbye brother. You know I have always loved you" The dying man began to tremble inside. Every last inch of his wanted to get up and strangle him, make it his last ever thing he did on this earth. But he couldn't. In the calmest tone he could muster he said "Promise me you will see that specialist down in Mexico. I want to know you will get help for this devil inside you. I want to know you will never do anything to harm anyone again" A deep wheeze escaped his lungs. "I never break my promise brother" The man smiled and left the room leaving the blinds shut. The waterworks began once again as the dying man reminisced on their childhood. They were twins after all they had a saintly childhood yet something evil had taken over the other twin. The thought alone of the bodies and what he had confessed to made him sick to his stomach. It ached more than it ever had since the disease had taken hold. The man didn't have much time left as he watched the time go by a sinking feeling took over. Patricia and Carolina never came by. At ten o'clock he inhaled his last breath. At 9 45 pm, the coroner was called to a house at the corner of willow avenue, at the scene lay the final victims of the Bradbury butcher.


It’s a one of a kind place, this Inn is. It’s where dreams are kept and where peace is found. It’s where memories are made and memories relived. It’s where time stands still and your mind goes into solace.

It’s nestled right on the banks of the Cape Fear River in a small beautiful North Carolina town. It only has eight rooms, each with it’s own charm. Six of the rooms have a semi-private porch divided by some wooden slats that go almost to the ground. The old wooden porch swing is my favorite. Each of the river side rooms has one. They still have keys for the rooms.

This quaint place is named, The Grand Banks Inn. This time we are staying in room number six for the whole week. Upon arrival, we were greeted by our host who told us, “if you need something, just call me, the keys are on the table in the room.”

We were unloading the car for what seemed like an eternity. I complained as usual and Lisa just looked at me and smiled. As that event went on there were other things unpacking in my mind. Who’s in room seven I thought, who’s in room five? These are all the things I think about when staying in a Inn. I think if you played the song hotel california it would match this Inn. I would like it to anyway. The song goes, you can check out but you can never leave.

As we were finishing the unloading process room seven door opens and a younger couple emerged. They looked like they were in their forties or so. I made eye contact and I shook hands with my eyes. Only a few people will ever get this. It’s a silent gift that some have. You can have a complete conversation with just your eyes, and we did. It went like this to the both of them, hello, how are you, you’re in seven and we are in six, good to meet you, we can chat later….then blink.

Well, wouldn’t you know it I got sick that week and was unable to do anything. So, while Lisa went to walk each day I sat on the old porch swing and enjoyed that breeze that came off the river from the ocean. I was working on a previous story titled, Oh Snap. It’s what I call a dark story but it does have a hopeful ending. As I pressed through it I realized that room seven was in and out on their porch. They were very quite. Not conversing a great deal. I was able to get up enough strength to get to the swing each day and focus and write the story I was working on. I usually wear headphones and listen to what I call my writing music but for some reason i decided this natural peace was just enough to listen to. The swing would rock back and forth and back and forth. I had the lap top in my lap writing what I thought was a master piece. I laugh at myself saying that because each write I do is not for you but for me, it’s a release of emotions and brings healing to me each and every time. In the back of my mind I do hope these stories will help someone.

Lisa had gone on another long walk about midday, I was in the swing writing and enjoying the sun and then I heard room seven door opened and close, I hear her talking on the phone. He was already sitting on the porch. I could see his feet dangling. I couldn’t make out what she was saying other than, are you sure. Are you one-hundred percent! The wind had silence in it as if I was supposed to hear something. There were no boats, no people, no birds, no nothing, just her saying, “are you sure.” She told the caller, “ok.”

There was silence like I’ve never heard. I was still trying to focus on this real story I was fully involved in. It was so difficult to focus. She then told her husband, “ the test results are in and I am terminal.” The cancer has taken a turn and there is no hope of recovery, I am terminal.” I have two weeks to live. She joined him on the swing, both feet dangling in the sun barely touching the ground. They pushed back and forth, back and forth. He got up and walked in the yard by the river, looking up as to ask God himself for help. I could see the distress in his countenance. She joined him with a beautiful hug in the sun light as to say, it’s going to be ok. We’re going to be ok. They both started to walk back to room seven and our eyes took yet another handshake. It’s going to be ok, I said. You are going to make it, I promise you that. Never underestimate the power of the eyes, the look, the glance, the stare, the hug, the kiss, the touch. It’s all real and it brings comfort. They knew what I was saying, they understood. I had overheard a conversation that wasn’t meant for me but it now involved me. Later that evening Lisa and I were swinging on that old porch swing in room six, over looking the cape fear river. I had not told her what I had heard earlier that day as I was still processing. Lisa is a cancer survivor so this is a very sensitive topic for her. I had finished writing my story and shared it with her. She always gives great insight to my stories and as we chatted about the story it led into a very common conversation for us. We just started talking about what we always talk about, things of life. As we looked at the stars in the heavens, and the waters all around us. We talked about God, we talked about Jesus and the peace and life He brings to us each and everyday. We talked about the plans He has for us and the future He has for us. We talked about His amazing grace, from where we were to where we are today. We talked about His saving grace and why we are who we are. This is a regular conversation for us.

I then shared with her what I had heard from room seven. Lisa was so torn, she wanted to go over and pray with them to bring some hope, some type of rescue to them but realized this was their battle, if they needed to include us then only God would make that happen. We agreed to pray right then and there for them. We prayed out loud on that porch swing outside room six for those in room seven. PLEASE GOD HAVE MERCY ON THEM, MAY YOUR WILL BE DONE, IF THEY DON’T KNOW YOU THEN LEAD THOSE THAT WILL SHOW THEM THE WAY, AMEN. With that we went to bed that evening, not sleeping too much. I was feeling better the next day and got up a bit early. I noticed that room seven was packing up the car and preparing to leave. At the Grand Banks Inn it’s not unusual to have both the front and back doors open at the same time. As I stood in my door way with my sweet Lisa by my side we all shook hands again with our eyes. Saying to them, we love you, it’s going to be ok, we will be here if you need us and most important, we love you! Not knowing who they were we often included them in our prayers. A year has passed now and we are back for our annual vacation time, a celebration of our love and our restoration, which is for another story. We always try to get room six. As it was this year room six is where we are. We are unloading and in the back of our minds we are wondering about room seven. We get all settled in and the sun is bright and the wind is blowing ever so soft.

I peered over to the porch at room seven and noted it was empty, then I heard a door close, I rushed back to my place on the porch, sitting quickly on the swing hoping that room seven was occupied. A man came out and sat in the swing, I could see his feet moving back and forth. He started talking to someone. I was wondering if it was him and maybe the doctors were wrong.

I stopped and got up quietly and walked out into the yard toward the river. A voice came from room sevens porch. I turned and it was him. He greeted me with a very soft, “hello.” I returned, a “hello.” He just stared at me as if to say something. He said, “you were here last year about this time, right?” I said, “yes, we were.” I didn’t act dumb, I knew she didn’t make it.

We made past the introductions and he told me the whole story about her cancer and the diagnosis and the final two weeks of her life. Our eyes engaged and once again we communicated in silence. He then said, “I have a letter here for you, she wrote it and sealed it up before she passed, with the hopes of one day me seeing you again to deliver it.

And the letter read: Dear Room Six,

I know we only shook hands with our eyes but I did overhear you and your sweet Lisa as you called her talking. I did overhear you taking about this God and this Jesus that brings peace and hope to your souls. I did hear you talking about a life everlasting and a life in this place called heaven. I wanted you to know that the last two weeks of my life, God has brought some amazing into my life. They have shared with me this love of Jesus. I overheard you room six and I am thankful that I did. Thanks to you room six my husband now understands and has this same hope.

He knows God’s plan for him is to prosper and not harm him, he knows his future is even brighter with this everlasting love. If you are reading this now you know I overheard, for that I am grateful beyond words. See you soon! Signed,

Room Seven With that, you never know the power of the spoken word, choose wisely.


“Sally, do you realize that Monday is Valentine’s Day”? Wendy yells across the across the hallway to her friend, who was busy shoving her jacket into her locker. Making sure her books did not fall out, as they have in the past laugh out loud. “When they are too serious, what the heck are we ever going to do”? As both girls realized they were running out of time, the final bell warning rings. Sally yells over to Wendy ”tell your parents that you are spending the weekend with me”. They both hug each other in the middle of the hallway, and run off to class and the opposite of directions as they don’t want to be late again to class because they know that they will be getting in school suspension. It’s the last class of the day, also the last class of the week Sally is excited to get into home economics. As she walks in the door she sees Mrs.Svetz standing there with her apron on..which meant they are baking today! Heck yeah! What a great way to finish out the week. Sally grabs her apron and puts it on, making sure as well that her hair is pulled back in a ponytail..she learned the last time as part of her long hair got burnt on the burner. Mrs. Svetz begins to talk, calling Sally back to full attention, “class since it is Valentine’s Day on Monday, you’re free to bake anything chocolate that you choose, have fun and please clean up before you leave”. Sally knew that was meant for her, as she left dirty dishes the last time. She learned, lol finally. Sally saw the double boiler, the Bakers chocolate, the cocoa powder, the vanilla extract, and the powder sugar, the butter and the wooden spoon, the thermometer, and the oven mitt. She preheated the oven to first make a cake, and then proceeded to clean up, before making the frosting she was told her Great Nana made. OK, a teaspoon of vanilla, a dash or two of salt, melting the bakers chocolate and 2 tablespoons of butter, add in 2 cups powdered sugar, 2 teaspoons of cocoa powder, blend together until melted, adding in whatever else was need to make it consistent. Take it off the burner to chill a little, take the cake out of the oven, making sure to turn it off, another lesson learned. And while she was waiting for it to cool, she realized that it was the perfect time to to clean up and do the dishes. Once they were all done, the cake was cool enough to frost. Sally was excited to lick the spoon when the cake was finished. She realized that she had enough frosting left over to make roses for her brother and sister, if not more. Once they were ready she put them in the fridge to chill. Then, she realized she could do this for the two cute guys that her and Wendy had crushes on, she’d just ask her Dad to take her to the store on the way home. Before she knew it the five minute warning was given. She came back into the room, and grabbed the four roses out of the fridge, washed out the molds, and put all the supplies away, wrapped up the cake in plastic wrap loosely, holding it up with toothpicks, wrapped up the roses, put her apron in the wash, tidying up her area. Then, thanked Mrs. Svetz for a cool assignment, wished her “have a happy weekend”, and skipped out the door with her gifts. Wendy, was in her least favorite class math, they had a surprise test.. Great she thought to herself, “what a way to end the week”. Before she got too upset, she took a deep breath and with a sigh.. Released the sigh. The teacher thank God was a substitute who was cute, as he passed out the test he noticed Wendy didn’t have a pencil, he got her one with a slight laugh and then gave them all instructions to “begin the test, keep your own eyes on your paper, and when you are finished, turn it in then grab the other sheet of paper for you, keeping quiet until everyone is finished. Good luck”. Wendy, was shocked when she looked at the test and realized..she actually knew more than she thought! A big smile came across her face, as she sped through the test, realizing that she was the first one done “Don’t change your answers” , she recalled her Mom telling her the last time. She got up, walked to the front of the class and turned in her paper, blushing as the teacher looked up at her in her eyes. Ahh, he was cute! She picked up the other piece of paper, thanked him quietly, and went back to her desk. She turned over the paper and saw it was a dot to dot, she chuckled quietly and then proceeded to finish it. The finished product was a Happy Valentine’s day card with a box of chocolates to color in. The perfect gift to color and then give to her parents. Before she knew it, the bell rang and she pushed in her chair, cleaned up her desk, threw the garbage away, gave the cute substitute the pencil back, he told her “keep it, and here is a topper for it, grab a box of candy hearts too, they are from your teacher”. She thanked him and after putting the gifts in her backpack, skipped out the door. Sally met her at their lockers, they both grabbed their belongings and skipped out the door where both their parents were waiting for them. Wendy yelled to Susan” my dad said it’s OK if I spend the weekend as long as your mom says it’s OK”? Of course it was, they made plans for Wendy to get dropped off after four. Giving them both time to go home and relax. Wendy couldn’t wait to get home, and color in the gift. Susan already gave her Dad a rose, he ate it licking his lips and sucking on the stick until they got home.