22/03/1535 08:47 - The roses I planted last month are growing quite well, they should begin to bloom within the week. The magic array in the sunroom had to be tidied up, but that's usual. Not much has happened in the library quite yet, though that's bound to change as the day continues on.

10:32 - A mother just entered with her child, she’s obviously a pureblooded angel, yet her son looks more like a vampire… maybe he's a hybrid like me? I could be mistaken. He’s adorable, though. He seems to enjoy the picture books about dragon history. I wonder what it would like to have kids of my own some day. 14:26 - A pureblooded vampire just entered, he appears to be a nobleman. His hair is quite pretty. The dark silver color shines brilliantly when the light hits it just right. He’s sitting in just the right spot for me to sneak glimpses of his profile without it being blatantly obvious that I’m staring at him. I wonder what it would be like to talk to him, just once. 17:18 - The vampire nobleman left. It's a pity, I wish I could've talked to him or at least gotten his name. Maybe next time? I'm unsure if he would return another day, but I’m willing to wait until his next visit. 25/03/1535 09:56 - The silver haired nobleman returned. I so desperately wish he sits in the same area once more. How I long to stare at that noble profile for hours on end. My heart yearns to run my fingers through those long silver locks… The library is fairly empty in the mornings, so I have more time to look at him over the top of my own book. I should finish reading it within the hour… however my desire to admire this man triumphs over my desire to finish this novel. 10:35 - I have not managed to finish my novel… However I have managed to examine every inch of the silver haired man’s profile and could probably sketch it entirely by memory at this point. I have absolutely no clue what has caused me to admire this man, but it matters not, for I have no connection to this man outside of his infrequent visits to my beloved library. If one asked me before this day who I would consider marrying, I would've answered with “my library”... however now I would most likely reply with “If I were a woman, I’d probably marry this silver haired man.” If only I were a woman. 17:59 - The silver haired nobleman approached me mere moments ago… I’ve learned his name is Histriol. I shall refer to him as such in my writings from hereon. His voice is deeper than I imagined… though I’m often incorrect in such assumptions. It was a pleasant surprise. He only approached to ask me where the earlier historical records were located, however I could listen to that voice for days on end… I’ve realized this has become more of a record of how much I admire this man than an hourly recollection of thoughts and events about my daily life… apologies. 30/03/1535 03:54 - I cannot sleep. I do not need sleep, however it's a much adored part of my daily schedule. Every time I close my eyes I see Histriol’s visage. Usually I would adore such a thing but my dreams after such a sight have become strange. I’ll consult my friends about it later.

09:36 - My friends believe I may be… attracted… to this man? Histriol is a very obviously attractive man, even I could acknowledge such a thing. Anyone would feel captivated by such magnificent red eyes, or want to run their hands through such soft looking silver hair. I’m not strange for this. Anyone who thinks otherwise is strange.

03/04/1535 05:32 - Apologies for not writing for 4 days straight. I’ve been hiding in my room for around 98 hours experiencing what humans may call a “mid-life crisis”... I have realized by reading my past entries that I am, in fact, immensely attracted to Histriol. It has made me unable to face him. I am afraid to leave my room on the highest level of my library in fear that I may run into him and make my feelings blatantly obvious. My employees and the regulars are worried for me, however I’m doing quite alright. I have not attempted or even considered ascending to Avohana before my time has come. I’m merely trying to wrap my head around the fact that I am attracted to men. It's not frowned upon here as it is in Omira, however I’ve grown up my entire life believing myself to be attracted to women. Now that I think of it, I don't believe I’ve ever thought of women this way. Even in my vision of the future I have never once had a woman by my side. Perhaps this was something I was always subconsciously aware of, yet never faced properly until I had someone blatantly say, in their exact words “Oh yeah. You're totally into him. No doubt about it, man.” It appears I’m fairly out of touch with my own feelings. I’ll be sure to get back to my usual updates soon. 27/01/1738 07:45 - The day has started fairly normally. Just as slow as usual. Histriol should be in soon. He requested I hold a book for him since it's fairly important to his current project. Being a general must be tough. Perhaps if I had been healthier as a child, I may have dreamed of becoming an esteemed general as he is, but alas, I was born a sickly child and could not have the same dreams as my peers. Being a librarian is a lot better than having to train daily for hours on end, however. I find reading a good book much more satisfying than physical exertion. Though I’m absolutely certain Histriol must look absolutely dashing while he trains. I can just imagine him shirtless, sweat dripping down his biceps as he swings that beautiful sword he always keeps on him. The image is so vivid in my mind I feel as if I could just touch it. It's a pity it's only my imagination. Oh what I would do to see that for real. 10:32 - Histriol has entered the library with a woman alongside him. He introduced her to me as his… fiancé… oh how I knew this day would come. After making his acquaintance oh so many years ago I knew he would never return my feelings, however I never prepared my heart for when he brought along a fiancé for me to meet. I hope my heart shattering to a million pieces didn't show on my face. I will still support him, however. I will not let my personal feelings interfere with his happiness. He asked me to attend the wedding as his best man. I said yes… oh how I torture my poor broken heart. I couldn't bear to reject my beloved, no matter how much he shreds my heart to pieces. I’ll attend the wedding then inform him I plan to travel. I’ve built a giant library on one of the most prominent floating islands in Acralas, I’ll live there from that day on. I must allow my heart to heal. 08/13/1744 06:12 - I have received a letter from Histriol. He and his wife have had a son. He requested I return to attend his first birthday party this evening. I didn't even know his wife was pregnant. I’m glad for him. I’ll be sure to bring a copy of one of my old favorite childhood stories for him. My heart still aches for Histriol, however he's happy and has a family of his own. No matter how much I yearn to feel his embrace, it will never be my place to request such a thing from him.

13:45 - Seeing Histriol once more has shaken me. Oh how I long to caress those lovely silver locks. I so desire to press my lips against his… to feel his skin against my own… However I must push these feelings down. I must not express anything as to not give away my heart’s true desire.

15:46 - He has asked me multiple times if I’m okay. I feel immense regret for having to show such a distant expression. However when he saw me slip up and smile as I handed over my gift, he seemed relieved and stopped asking. I know he’s not the overly caring sort, so my expression must've been so closed off he was concerned enough to ask about my well-being… Oh how I love this man. I would give him the world if he so desired it. Histriol, my beloved, for you, I would even bring down Avohana just to see even a glimpse of your smile. You bring me such joy, yet such sorrow. Even if I cannot have your heart in reality, I can still dream of a day where you return these immense feelings of mine, even just slightly. 13/09/1952 07:28 - This morning has become increasingly strange. I woke up and began my usual routine of caring for my garden and organizing my newest shipment of books when a strange woman claiming to be Masuyo, the goddess of life and death, appeared in my library. I'm quite suspicious but we’ll see how this goes. 18:34 - I’ve… become a god? Not what I had in mind when collecting all the books in the world but I'm not quite against it either. I’m currently in Avohana, setting up my “domain”. Of course it has to be a massive library. It’ll even include ancient texts lost to time. I’m quite exhilarated at the prospect of reading texts in languages lost to time. Oh how I wish Histriol were here. 31/13/3045 07:43 - Histriol sent me an urgent message to return to Acralas. I’ll update when I get there and figure out the situation. 15:58 - His wife has passed away. Oh how my heart hurts to see him suffering so. He’s not usually such an expressive man, but I can clearly see his despair. Oh how I long to comfort him as a lover, but that is not my place. It disgusts me how little regard my traitorous heart holds for his deceased beloved. For now I’ll comfort him properly as a friend. I’ll allow my distant facade to fall for one evening to properly care for my grieving friend.

19:23 - He has fallen asleep leaning against me. I’m unsure of what I should do. Isaki…? Mizuki…? Soriel, maybe…? Could one of you let me know how to proceed in such a situation…?

14/02/4072 13:57 - Histriol has… admitted to returning my feelings…? Is this real…? This has to be a dream. The Histriol I know could never truly love me in such a way. My heart must yearn for him so much I’m having auditory hallucinations. Perhaps this is another one of Fri’s cruel pranks.

18:34 - It is not, in fact, a dream. I have… thoroughly confirmed such a thing. Oh how my heart soars. If I were not a god, I would've gladly allowed my soul to ascend to Avohana as I feel fulfilled. I hope to one day bring Histriol with me to visit my library in Avohana, though I would despair if he died, even if his soul returned to Avohana afterwards. Perhaps, one day, I may ask him if he’d like to become a minor god so we could spend eternity together. For if he rises to Avohana as a dead soul, he would one day have to reincarnate. If he becomes a minor god, he could remain himself for eternity alongside me. If he doesn't wish to become a minor god, then I’m prepared to let him go when the time comes. For now, I shall revel in this happiness he has given to me. I shall cherish his heart as he will my own. To an eternity together, my beloved Histriol. My heart is yours until you no longer wish to keep it.


Alexander threw his legs over the left side of his bed with a yawn. He did so with calculated quietness as to not disturb his neighbors in the apartment below him. He was a loud yawner he'd discovered, and apparently a heavy stepper for a young man weighing only 150 pounds. He walked across the sunlight-striken bedroom to the bathroom, conscious of the gravity of his steps. After his shower, during which he resisted the familiar urge to sing his favorite songs loudly, he exited the tub, wrapped a towel around his waist and looked at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes remained low and in need of rest; he hadn't slept well. Another night of nightmares. Floating above his head, written in golden font, was his score: 1468 out of a possible 2000. It kept him in the top 10 percentage of people rated in his neighborhood. As a plus, it had unexpectedly gone up sixteen points since he laid his head to rest the night before. It was rare when it happened but always a pleasant surprise. Someone had been thinking about him fondly, and that made him happy. Ready for the day, he walked the concrete sidewalk leading to the parking lot of his complex. A warm smile - his best feature, authentic but accentuated for the sake of presentation - was on his face. His eyes tried their best to adjust to the lasting sunshine. The lawn was perfectly manicured, save for a small patch that hadn't yet been gotten to. A yellow potato chip bag was resting noticeably on an overgrown stretch of grass. Alexander, an advocate for keeping the community tidy and always looking for ways to improve his score, veered slightly from his intended path and bent to retrieve the bag from the ground with two fingers, making sure to keep his smile as he dropped it in a nearby garbage bin. A landscaper along the outer edge of the grass rode by on a lawnmower. He lifted a hand to say hello. Alexander raised one in return, his smile never wavering. The freshly cut grass irritated his allergies and made his sleepy eyes water, but he knew better than to complain. There was a friendly, familiar beep from his pocket. He fetched his phone. The score illuminated on the otherwise blank screen had gone up by 2+, putting him at 1470. Alexander couldn't say he had ever considered himself a people person before the new socially-moderated world came into effect, or even someone interested in what others thought of him. In fact, he couldn't remember much of what life had been like before this. Everything was wrapped in cloak of pleasant rather than true, and the truth, whatever that meant, didn't seem to matter. What appeared good was good, simple as that. He climbed into his car, turned the AC on blast, and pulled out of the parking lot. His watering eyes soon dried. He dabbed what remained of the moisture with a tissue at the red light of an intersection. His stomach twitched and he noticed for the first time that he was hungry. A coffee shop, one he frequented often, was only a few blocks ahead. He knew his order by heart and very much looked forward to his cream cheese blueberry bagel and cup of coffee. He finished blowing his nose just as the cars in the left lane began to trudge along. An Audi SUV sat stagnant in front of him. He looked up at the stoplight and saw it was green. From the side mirror of the car ahead, he could see a teenage girl staring blankly at her lap, her other hand distractedly gripping the steering wheel. Alexander caught his hand as it crept up to the horn. His lips pursed tightly and he tapped his fingers impatiently on his steering wheel. He did not honk, nor did the cars behind him. Their restraint, as well as his, was appreciated; Alexander knew how quickly a sensible situation could untangle. It was best if everyone behaved. He watched with quiet, building rage as the green stoplight turned first to yellow, then to red. He threw on his left turn signal, and drove into the empty adjoining lane. Several other vehicles followed suit. Maybe it was his hunger, maybe it was because of his irritated eyes, but he looked over to the SUV beside him. His smile was gone, and for the first time in a long time, he hadn't noticed or cared. The teenage girl behind the wheel felt his gaze and turned her head towards him. She was maybe sixteen, still two years exempt from the score rating that dictated the life of adults. She was noticeably delighted by the quiet irritation in his eyes and smirked. "What, stalker?" he saw her mouth from behind the raised car window. Alexander returned his attention to the road ahead. She sneakily flipped him off once his head was turned and went back to her phone. He pretended not to see it and didn't retaliate. To his relief, the light turned green and he sped away. He checked his rearview mirror after a few seconds; the Audi still hadn't move. Thankfully, neither had his score. Alexander pulled into the packed parking lot of the coffee shop, his hunger nearly forgotten. All he could see was the raised middle finger of the girl in the Audi, the black fingernail polish faded unevenly. He unconsciously swung into an open spot just as the door of a car next to him was thrown open. The distance separating a collision was less than an inch. "WATCH IT!" he was surprised to hear himself say. From the backseat of the old red car, an elderly woman emerged slowly. She raised a hand to apologize. Grumpily, he raised one in acknowledgement. The look in her hurt eyes said everything. He let out a troubled sigh as his score dropped -2 back down to 1468. Another woman exited from the vehicle's driver seat and gave him an added look of disgust as she and the other made their way to the coffee shop door. His score ticked -2 down to 1466. He rubbed his tired, red eyes and got out. Just that quickly, it felt like all his energy had left him, floated off into the wind like a helium balloon in the loose grip of a careless child. The image of the girl's black fingernail polish reemerged in his mind with startling clarity. He fought it to no avail. He just wanted coffee and a bagel. With effort, he pulled open the door of the coffee shop. The comforting scent of coffee beans and pastries were lost on him, as he wasn't able to comfortably breathe. What little smell he had left was overwhelmingly freshly cut grass. The line reached all the way to the door, and he knew it would be twenty minutes or longer before he was serviced. The other customers chattered quietly in front of him. The woman who'd exited the red car was sitting at a large round table nearby with the elderly woman and a few others. Alexander could feel his blood run cold as she leaned closely to the huddle of women at the table and gestured to him. There were four other women seated with them, and his score dropped again by -8 points as they turned in their chairs to look at the impatient man who'd shouted at their mother. That put him at 1458. He thought about offering a friendly wave, but decided that they were past that now and that it might make things worse. A few minutes passed, and the women seemed to lose interest. Alexander was grateful; he knew how quickly things could escalate. He retrieved his phone from his pocket to help distract himself, knowing it would be a while before he would leave. He had just unlocked it when a feeling of dread suddenly overcame him. He turned around and saw a gangly man standing far too closely to him. He was at least fifty and had Alexander beat by eight inches in height. The man's eyes, though focused and watchful, looked glassy with thought. Why hadn't Alexander heard him walk in? How long had he been standing there before Alexander noticed him? The man pulled his right hand out of his pocket and pointed a long, thin finger at Alexander's phone. "Had one of those just like that one," he said conversationally, his voice bassy and battered. "Got rid of it because I couldn't turn off the noise. Won't let ya." "Oh yeah?" Alexander said. He didn't comment on how closely the man stood to him, or how little he felt like talking. And he didn't admit to himself how suddenly afraid he was. The man, still seemingly lost in thought, continued. "Every waking moment, morning or evening, just chiming away. Telling you all about your blessings and your sins. Reminding you to open that door for Grandma or buy those girl scout cookies you know you won't enjoy." The man scoffed. "Like we're children. Everyone, so delicate and needing their hand held. A little negativity mixed into their paradise, and people start to lose their minds. When everyone pretends to behave, you can't see who they actually are." Alexander turned back around and pretended to search for something on his phone. The line couldn't move quickly enough. His hunger had dissipated, but the tall customer behind him was making him nervous. His eyes, while dry, started to sting again. The man gestured with his left elbow at the table of women, who had gone back to their discussion but still turned to Alexander every so often. "You piss one of them off?" "What?" Alexander asked, as though he hadn't heard. "It was nothing, just..." "That little bitch in the SUV flipped you off." Alexander caught an escaping gasp and checked his surroundings. The others in line hadn't seemed to hear the man, but was this guy insane? Using language in a crowded area like this? There were at least 30 people nearby. His score could easily drop by sixty points in a few seconds and it was only 9:30 in the morning. Wait until they told their friends. And then wait until they posted online about it. You'd lose everything. You could always lose everything, at any moment, in this place, even by association. What worried - or maybe terrified - Alexander most was the man didn't appear or sound crazy. These weren't the frantic ramblings of an untethered lunatic. The man spoke with a calm freedom that was alarming. Worse - contagious. "Say it," the man said. "I saw what happened. Sat there at that light twice because some kid couldn't focus." He took a pause. "Mighta not even been the first time today. Don't you wonder what it'd be like to react? I wonder a lot, you know. How good it would feel to just roll down the window and yell 'Fuck you!'" A few heads turned. They seemed to quickly lose interest. What was this guy's problem? He uttered a low, humorless chuckle. "I wonder what would happen if someone just rammed a crowbar through that expensive window and slapped some sense into her. Don't you ever wonder that?" He clapped Alexander on the back. His hand, though bony, was still strong. "No," Alexander lied, fighting off the image of the black fingernail polish again, and the anger that it inspired, "and I would appreciate it if you didn't talk like that. You sound crazy." For the first time, the man seemed offended; still, Alexander's score didn't budge. "Ya can't even take a piss too loudly in a bathroom stall without some sensitive asshole having his day ruined, and I sound like the crazy one? Don't you miss free will? Doing shit for the sake of doing shit?" He reached a bony hand forward and grabbed a fistful of Alexander's shirt. It was sudden but gentle. "Jesus Christ, honking your car horn? What CAN you do anymore?" Alexander pulled his shirt free. He was terrified of the man, but his peaking impatience gave him courage. "YOU can do whatever you want, okay?" Thankfully he was the next in line, and used it as an escape from the conversation. He mustered a fake smile for the cashier that felt heavy on his face and placed his order. As he paid and turned to walk to the counter at the other end, he noticed that the man was gone. Later that night, Alexander sat in front of his TV with a glass of vodka. It was not the first. His tired eyes, even redder, were now glued to the screen. Throughout the day, at odd intervals and regardless of how pleasant he was, his score had ticked down. 1458, then down to 1430. Then 1430 to 1390. The biggest and most sudden leap had happened around 2:00 pm, and took him down to 1100. He currently sat, drunk, at 978. Anything lower than 850 and his apartment complex could deem him as a hazard to the community and evict him. If he were to reach 500, he could be imprisoned without trial. Things unraveled quickly, he knew this, and it never took much. Your impact was powerful, and created waves. He watched as the news covered the murder. "Police have taken Malcolm Tate into custody, a man responsible for over a dozen charges of theft, aggravated assault, and at least one murder," the news reporter said. "The murder victim, sixteen-year-old Patricia Summers, was found dead this afternoon in her parent's SUV." They put up a picture of Patricia on the screen, smiling with a group of her friends, but all Alexander could focus on was her dark nail polish. "The parents say Patricia drove herself to school this morning, like always. After they hadn't heard from her after dismissal, they called the school and her friends to determine her location. The parents were able to use the vehicle's GPS system to locate it. Police arrived at the scene late this afternoon and discovered Patricia's body in the back seat. Police say they found several wounds on the victim's head and body, likely caused by a crowbar found lodged in the driver side window. When police inquired about a motive, Tate said, 'I met a man today who told me I could do whatever I want.' More coming as the story unfolds. This is KGTV reminding everyone, be nice. Or else.


There was silence in his classroom, then, as Jimmy allowed the enormity of what Kay-Kay was suggesting engulf him like a mid-summer Sahara sandstorm.

            Was there a way back? She had suggested as much.             Jimmy didn’t believe in time travel or parallel universes. He also didn’t believe in the physics theory that he had heard from one of the Barton School’s science teachers that all situational possibilities happen simultaneously, but only one actually plays out in our world.             That would mean there was a universe where Jimmy had never met Trina at a townie bar in Prestonville, Illinois, in January 2007, taken her back to his apartment and indulged in a night of brazen and repercussive sin.             A universe where the boy, who had been named Ben, had never been born.             Where he didn’t exist.             That wasn’t reality, though, and Jimmy shook that notion out of his hair.             Ben did exist. Or had anyway, before he decided this life wasn’t worth living.             But he still existed in Jimmy’s mind.             The question begged, though: Had he wronged Trina so many years ago? She had been a willing participant and had begged for his love at the height of passion. Lifetimes exist in a moment.             According to Pops’ fundamental beliefs, sex was a consequence of biology. An action that should only be consummated within the confines of marriage, and only as a means to bring God’s children into this world. It was corporate, nothing more than an exchange of bodily fluids that was best left behind closed doors and obviously outside of polite conversation. He didn’t watch any TV or go to movies that might suggest otherwise, instead diving headlong into his Bible after supper.             Gimme that Word, he’d say.             Jimmy had been a rebel back in January ’07. He had been liberated from home and Pops for a year and a half, free to indulge in what then had been the finer things in life: Leveraging a fake ID at a Prestonville bar called the Brass Rail, downing two Alabama Slammers before his eyes lilted in her direction.             She was attractive in a country-wholesome way that Pops might have approved, as long as she was rooted strongly in her Biblical beliefs.             Their intimacy had happened as if the irresistible force of the winds had met a mountain, an immovable object.             The next morning they exchanged numbers and swore they’d call each other.             Didn’t happen, at least not right away. JIMMY: I wasn’t busy with schoolwork or a part-time job or anything like that. It was all about basketball for me at Southern Illini Junior College in tiny Prestonville. It was January, the conference games were ramping up and even at the JUCO level, winning mattered. But more importantly for a guy like me who had aspirations of transferring to a high-major school as soon as I could after the season ended, stats mattered. So did status, and the only kind of on-court performances that built and maintained status were those that could be talked about within the confines of Internet chat rooms, or this new site college kids used called The Facebook.             Get ’em talking, one high-major coach had told me. You don’t think we coaches are watching those message boards? Every single one of us want the next big thing.

            You play well, we’ll come running. Every high-tier coach’s job is on the line, I don’t give a shit what they say. Alumni, donors, boosters…they all demand a winner. It’s a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately world. Cynical.             But one more thing, Jimmy: You’re the next big thing.             I was averaging north of twenty-five points per game against glorified high school competition, the kind of kids who would either be teaching phy ed at one of Preston County’s six high schools after graduation, or working at the Aldi on the edge of Prestonville in a store management position.

            But I was different. I was the next big thing.             Then I met Trina.

            That night was frigid, below zero, with wisps of snow in the air that I could see under the unmoving street lights. We had just beaten our conference rival by twenty or so, and I had poured in forty-one points, so everybody in town was celebrating, it seemed. This awkward seven-footer from the team nicknamed Bunko and I stepped from the cold into the searing body heat of the Brass Rail and immediately the hoots and hollers went up.             Hey—it’s Big Man On Campus.             Jim-my! Jim-my! Jim-my!             You’re the next big thing, bay-bay!             Where are you going after you get out of this rural hell-hole? Kansas? North Carolina? Maybe even Duke?             One of them, for sure. Then after that, it would be onto the NBA, like Pops had prophesied, so I could use my notoriety to spread God’s word.             “You’re destined to be one of the greats, glory to God,” he had said when I was in high school. “The Lord will use you for his gain, to save many souls from the wrath to come.”             I had flushed a couple of Alabama Slammers—sloe gin, amaretto, Southern Comfort and orange juice—and surveyed my people like a king would his subjects. I realized I would never see them again come spring, when I would transfer to the next stop on my prophesied journey to the NBA. Instead, it would be a different bar, in Durham, North Carolina, maybe, or down the road in Chapel Hill, with more people I’d never interact with once I moved on to the League. Pops was hoping I’d be back in Chicago with the Bulls, or even Milwaukee, which was a poor man’s Chicago but at least reasonably close by.             Bunko said, “Look…at…her.”

            Even above the din I could hear him.             Now, I can’t say Trina was smokin’ beautiful, Playboy beautiful. She wasn’t one of the models I couldn’t wait to meet in the League. She stood maybe five-foot-six, straight brown hair done up with a hair clip, and dressed in blue-collar blue Southern Illini JUCO sweatshirt. I say blue-collar because she didn’t strike me as a farmer’s daughter; I’m guessing her dad worked at one of the three factories in town, one of which manufactured firearms, of all things. She had long fingers, shapely nails and there was something about her dark-rimmed glasses that emphasized her cheekbones and dimples.

            In other words, a rural girl, probably looking to get out.             Trina turned, took one look at me, and raised her arms high in the air, as if I was the conquering hero returning from battle. An empty pitcher indicated she had had a few beers with a trio of friends at a tall round-top.             Keep in mind, I’ve never met this girl.             But I was interested.             “You were awesome tonight!” she said, looping her right arm through my left arm, as a waitress, a girl I knew from one of my classes, brought another pitcher to the table. Somewhere, there was the acrid, telltale sign of somebody smoking. This was about a year before Illinois banned smoking in bars.             “Here,” Trina said, handing me a beer glass with the Brass Rail logo in black lettering. She poured me one out and the weak foam of Milwaukee’s Best spilled over the side.

            I drank it while she told me she didn’t attend Southern Illini, but was thinking about taking classes in something, maybe communications. That night was a blur. I remember later they played some slow country song and we drifted onto the dance floor, both hammered.

            “Let’s go,” I said after the song concluded.             The next thing I know it’s the morning and we’re both naked in my bed back at the apartment, Kobe Bryant looking down sternly at me from a poster on the wall from home that Pops never really did approve. You shall not worship others above the Lord your God, he had said in a way he thought was tongue in cheek.             “Hey babe,” she spoke, emerging from a blissful slumber.             It’s inane now, but I looked at her and said, “S’up?” Then my gaze turned to the clock, which blared the news that I had practice in forty-five minutes, and I had a helluva lot to do, including showering, eating something, getting dressed and, of course, catching the prior night’s college hoops highlights on SportsCenter.             I’m ashamed to say this now, but she had to go. To my coach, early was on time and on time was late. He had gotten on me about showing up on time. And I wasn’t about to let her lay around the apartment while I was at practice, even if she seemed to be a straight-arrow country bumpkin.             “Wait, what?” she said, now fully awake.             “I’ve got practice,” I said.             “Skip it,” she replied with a come-hither look.             No way. Coach would have been hotter than the pistols they made at that factory in town so I told her I’d call her later, with questionable intention of doing so. But that set in motion everything that led up to that day in the classroom with Kay-Kay, my closest confidant at the Barton School—the girls basketball coach. KAY-KAY: I had known a little about Trina after Jimmy had found out that their son had ended his life. At first, Jimmy didn’t buy it; he thought it was some ploy to get him to pay child support after all these years. But there it was, on the website of Preston County’s newspaper…”Cyberbullying a factor in boy’s suicide.”

            At first, Jimmy put up a front, saying it didn’t matter, that was in his past. He had never wanted kids anyway, that he had told Trina that he wanted nothing to do with the boy’s upbringing, that he couldn’t jeopardize his own future. And he shut her out and ultimately the boy, Ben.             But I asked Jimmy: How is it that you didn’t end up at Duke or Kansas? Why East Beach State in Lester, Florida, a town about as big as Prestonville, Illinois?             Turns out, that was his quickest way out of town. He didn’t have time to wait for an offer from one of the blue bloods, or watch them get into a bidding war for his services, a process that could take weeks or even months. In an ideal world, there would have a been a press conference with multiple baseball caps on a covered table in the University Center, cameras rolling, and Jimmy putting on the one of the school he had chosen.             Instead, he took the first bus as far away as he could, almost literally. His dad hated it, and it ultimately caused their estrangement. His dad had him pegged for the NBA.             I often think if I would have known Jimmy back then, I would have really disliked him.             But present day, he was vulnerable, and I could see that the blood was flowing from the eternal needle that Trina had used to prick him. It was as if the boy’s suicide had unleashed him into Jimmy’s brain and he was pounding its walls to get out and tell his story. Jimmy was making mistakes on the sidelines, bonehead, first-year-coach mistakes, including a couple of crucial decisions that led to Barton’s ouster in the state playoffs. That created problems with the school’s administration and regents, who demanded the status of state championships to maintain the constant flow of enrollments. Getting to state was the minimum cut for Jimmy. Me too.             “I don’t know what to do,” Jimmy murmured that day in his classroom, the hallway quiet outside his closed door. Usually at least a couple of his players hung out in his room during his prep period, there to do homework but ultimately talking hoops. Jimmy had put an end to that practice after everything went down with Trina. He needed time to process, whether he realized it or not.             “I really don’t,” he said, staring at an X’s and O’s diagram on his whiteboard drawn in red ink, as if basketball strategy might suggest a way out of his predicament.             I’ve learned in life it’s better to let people come to their own conclusions about a specific course of action.

            “You could do nothing,” I said quietly. “That is a choice.”             “Mm-hmm,” he replied staring into space. “But you don’t agree with that.”             Our words devolved into silence. It was nearly 12:15 p.m. The end-of-period buzzer was about to ring.             “What do you feel about Trina?” I said. “I mean, if she walked into this room right now, how would you react?”             Jimmy thought about this for a moment, and said, “I’d ask her about our kid, what happened. What was he like.” I noticed he didn’t use the boy’s given name.             “That’s not what I asked you,” I replied. “I asked you how you felt about her.”             “I don’t know her. I never really did.”             “Exactly.”             More silence.             “What are you saying?” he said.             “What do you think I’m saying?”             The being inside Jimmy’s head was calmer now, I could tell, due to an injection of non-emotional logic. He took a deep breath and he furrowed his eyebrows.             “She’s not answering her phone or my texts.”             The buzzer sounded, ending the period. The first students began to move about outside the door’s window.             “It’s important to be face to face with some people,” I said, standing up, grabbing my keys off of his desk. I had a class of my own to get to, and it’s always clear that letting students mill around outside of a locked classroom is just inviting shenanigans, even at the buttoned-down Barton School where ties and sport coats were the rule for boys, even Jimmy’s players.             “Are you saying to actually go back there, to Prestonville? And find her?”             He paused, and then added, “For what reason?”             Initially I said nothing, but instead elected to let him work out the strategy while I stepped to the door. He stared at his red dry-erase-board marker.             “Isn’t what you’ll learn there be more valuable than your perceptions here?” was my parting comment.             Then I left. Jimmy’s students—twelve girls, eight boys, including three of his players—entered his classroom with the small talk and chortles and clucking you’d expect from high school juniors and seniors. But those noises gradually ceased as they took their seats, not because it was time for class to commence, but because Jimmy had his back to them, drawing on the white board.             The dry-erase marker made a squeaking noise as he reached high above his head to fashion a rough map of the state of Illinois, a vertically constructed state first discovered by the explorers Marquette and Joliet. In the northeast corner of his rudimentary map, he wrote “Chicago” and crossed an X. At the bottom of the map he wrote “Prestonville” and circled an O.             X’s and O’s. The basis of basketball strategy.             As he drew a forceful ray from the X to the O, a perfectly straight arrow, he spoke to his students without turning.             “Anyone know,” he said, “what the distance is between Chicago and Preston County, Illinois?”             Jimmy could sense his students looking at each other.             This was American history class, not geography.             “I know,” came a voice to Jimmy’s right and a fair distance out, likely the back of the room. It was Kelso, that pint-sized nerd who was his team manager, responsible for handing out cups of water and gathering towels during games.

            “And?”             “It’s about three hundred miles, give or take, according to Google.”             “That’s good, Kelso. Now, how long would it take to drive there?”             Jimmy heard tap-tap-tapping before Kelso responded, “Five hours and twenty-nine minutes, taking I-57.”             Now Jimmy wrote the distance on his map, turned to his class and exhaled deeply.             “Anybody here believe in time travel?”             His students looked at each other with stares as blank as clean sheets.             Nobody replied, so Jimmy turned back to the white board and wrote three letters above the O at the south end of the state.             They spelled, B-E-N.


I died, and I enjoyed it. Something about the moment of death they don't tell you about. The more emotion pent up inside of that life, the more orgiastic the death. They say death is like taking off a tight shoe. "I" could vaguely remember who "I" was...as if "I" mattered; it was a life of nothing but pain and disappointment for "me". Nothing ever mattered I thought, what was the point? I floated along, for what had felt like years. It must have been a century, in that awesome darkness. Wading through the dark matter fluid. I, a single spark, floats along the sea of pure equanimity. What I am, or what I was; was gone. Who I am, what I am being, is now. I am being. I roll on like this forever, in this sea of equanimous delight. A cascade of images fill the background that was just the dark void of my darkened velvet screen. Faces, places, and things morph in front of me conceiving the next object out of itself. Inside the space within space, my being has no weight. Images flash again in front of me. It is recognizable. Every mistake, every problem I ever had, every disappointment, every failure. Every unlucky thing. All of these images enfolded out in front of me. Then immediately they compressed and compounded into a single unit in space. It collapses into a singular voxel. Like stepping through a doorway on the inside of my mind. A familiar sensation of being thrust into the physical dimension, as if being thrust from the womb. I was in a very familiar place. A place I had been many times before. It was your home. I opened the front door, and stepped into this very real place that I couldn't recall being in, since well... before when I was alive.. and had my body. It was different, but only slightly from what I remember. it was christmas time, but it was decorated in a way that I couldn't recall. Then you came from around the corner, from the kitchen. You had a cup of hot cocoa in your hand, and a smile on your face. I hadn't seen you in over 4 decades, and now you were standing here. Young, alive, and in front of me. I couldn't make a single decision or choice. I could only observe, carry on a life, that I never seemed to have had. everything collapsed into a single voxel again. that wasn't me, wait a second. each time I opened my being, another life would flash before my eyes. each time, I shudder and convulse in pain and delight. i realize i am not the being i am time, yet even I addict and I attach. I follow you through this portal of dimension, they kissed. This is when they were in love, when we were in love I thought. "I love you" I said. and then I was stuck in the moment, "What do you want to have for dinner tonight hunny?" "I don't know! You decide!" she said and then the eternal debate began.


So there was this dress… It was a famous dress, well amoung our smaller group of friends it was notable. At this time in my life though this dress belonged to the girl I was dating. If I were to guess now it was a sleeveless mini dress. Very smooth fabric and silver. What made it famous, or infamous depending on how you looked at it, was that the person it belonged to had talked all her male friends into trying it on, and taking a picture of them in it. The second that saw it I wanted to wear it. (It might be helpful at this point to tell you that I was born a male, and at this point in my life I still figured I was a cis gendered straight male.) However being a guy in the late 1990’s it wasn’t something I was just going to jump right into. I was also dating the owner of the dress. Anyway, one day while hanging out with my girlfriend and one of her friends they hanged up in me. The boyfriend of the other girl had already had his picture in her photo album. So why not me? They bugged me for hours, and I honestly liked the attention. I finally agreed and gave into their request other than the picture. I Kicked them out of the room because there was no way I was leaving my boxers on for this. I striped quickly and couldn’t help but smile and blush. Then I put the dress on, smoothed out the stomach, turned to admire my butt in her full length mirror. I know right? I was such a girl even back then. Then there was a knock at the door and I walked second the room to open it. Stopping because my socks were limp around ankles. I bent down and pulled them both up so they were more than halfway up my calf. Then stood up and smoothed it out again… as if I was going to walk on the red carpet or something… When I finally open the door my girlfriends mother was standing there alone. There was a long awkward moment of realization for the both of us. Her eyes went wide for a second behind her glasses as she looked down then quickly back up. “Hi.” She said still dumbfounded that her daughter’s boyfriend was in her rather revealing dress. “Hi.” Was all I said back. “Is Jess in there?” Her mother asked me, now with a single finger covering her mouth. “Nope.” Was all I said wanting to cross my legs and make myself smaller. “Any idea where she is?” “She was supposed to be waiting outside the door.” I shrugged at her wanting to die immediately. “Oh okay, I’ll see if I can find her.” “Okay.” Was all I said and closed the door. The next 5 minutes or so was a lot for me. It involved a lot of blushing and covering my face, then a lot of getting dressed quickly. Then a lot more blushing and wondering what the hell they were talking about. After the two of them coming back to her room and laughing at me for about 20 minutes I finally got the conversation between her and her mother. “Are you aware that your boyfriend is in your room dressing in your clothes?” “Yes Mom.” “You want to explain why your boyfriend is in your room wearing your dress?” After Jess took the time to explain everything her mothers response was a long sigh. Then her mother said “Oh Jessica,” and walked away. And I hope you enjoyed my second most embarrassing story.


In the open expanse of the desert terrain that stretched ominously under the cloudy moonlit sky, Danny and Christina found themselves unsure of which way to go. Christina was trying desperately to stay calm but failing and Danny was hoping the sky would clear up a bit so he could use the stars to navigate their way out of Joshua Tree National Park. He learned astronavigation when he was a Boy Scout and while he wasn’t always thrilled with his parents for making him stick with everything he started there were times, like this, he was grateful for their unyielding stance on quitting. “McAllisters aren’t quitters, Danny. You start something, you finish it,” his father’s voice echoed in his head. Christina had just enrolled in a photography class at the local community college and her first assignment was to photograph something rare. She came up with the idea of taking a picture of one of the wildflowers that bloom for a short time in Joshua Tree National Park. They lived nearby so it wasn’t a difficult decision to go for a quick hike.

The area had had plenty of rain this winter and the reward this spring was a landscape that was bursting with color. Reds, yellows, purples and blues splashed across the park’s muted landscape, lending a psychedelic hue to an already mystical scene. Their morning had started with a fight, which was not unusual these days. And while their fights are about different small things every day: the way Danny squeezes the toothpaste from the middle instead of rolling the tube up from the bottom the way Christina likes it or the way Christina replaces the toilet paper roll facing under instead of over the way Danny insists on having it, the fight is really always about the same thing. The one thing that has consumed their marriage for the last three years: infertility. They are stressed, fatigued and overwhelmed with the financial, the physical and the emotional drain it has been.

They both want a baby but Christina has become obsessed and can think of nothing else. They have gone to specialists, taken every test and done everything the doctors have suggested and still nothing. They have done IVF twice unsuccessfully and the shots and the prep for insemination for the third time is causing Christina to be more and more moody and very, very angry. All the time she’s angry. This bubbling hostility is really getting to be too much for both of them. As they sit in the dark desert, contemplating which way to go they looked at each other and he noticed Christina was near tears. They were lost, hungry, scared, and disoriented. Danny felt particular pressure to get Christina out of this since he had a lot more experience with hiking and nature in general and she just didn’t need this stress. If only the sky would clear up, he could find Polaris and get them home. They couldn’t possibly be too far away from where they needed to be. “We shouldn’t have gone so far away from the marked trails,” Christina whined with a hint of blame creeping into her tone. “We’re gonna die out here!” “It'd really be great if you didn’t use that tone. I’m not the one who just HAD to get the picture of the Mojave Aster flower,” he said angrily.

“I know. I’m sorry. You’re right,” Christina said as she breathed deeply using her yoga breaths to center herself. Christina was a yoga instructor and had always been so healthy that she took her failure to get pregnant as a particular insult to her healthy lifestyle. “Okay Mr. Boy Scout, show me how to survive!” she said through her breaths.  He knew that talking would keep her focus away from her fear so he talked. “Well, when the clouds clear, all we need to is find Polaris — the North Star. It’s directly over the North Pole, always.” “How do you find that?” she asked between deep breaths that were not doing a great job of keeping her centered. “Well, to find it, we need to locate the Big Dipper. And if the Big Dipper is partially obscured, which, thanks to the cloud formation, it is you can look for Casseopeia. Casseopeia is always opposite the North Star from the Big Dipper. So that’s how you can center yourself and figure out which way to go. We parked and came in through the West Entrance so as soon as the clouds lift a little more we’ll know which direction will get us out of here.” As she listened to his answer that was meant to soothe her, she actually got more worked up.

“But what if the sky doesn’t clear up? What if a mountain lion comes around? What if the temperature drops? We are going to die!” With each question, her voice got louder and she was getting more and more hysterical. “Christina, stop! This isn’t helping,” Danny grabbed her shoulders and turned her toward him and looked straight in her eyes. “We are not gonna die. Just calm down.” Well, that did it. He should’ve known. You don’t tell a woman to calm down. Ever. But especially one jacked up on hormones.

And with that Christina burst into tears, the floodgates opened and everything came out. All the pent up frustration, anxiety and stress was released into the desert air and she wept. She wept for the children they didn’t have and never would have, for the years of trying, for the money spent and for the misplaced guilt that drove her desire to do all of this in the first place. She cried and cried and cried, and all Danny could do was hold her. As her tears subsided a little, she pulled away from him and looked at him with the most shattered expression he’d ever seen. She was completely broken and seemed to deflate before his eyes. “Danny, I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I’m, just so tired," she said through tears. "I don’t want to disappoint you. I really don't, but I think, for me--I’m done. I'm just done," she sobbed but continued talking. She had to get it out now. "I'm so sorry, but I’ve gone as far as I can go with this. I feel like I’ve failed you, I failed myself, and I’ve failed at the one thing a woman is supposed to be able to do, but I can’t live like this anymore, and I can’t take the heartbreak anymore,” the last few words were a whisper drowned out by tears. Danny listened to her in the eerie silence of the dark desert and couldn't believe what he was hearing. He had been sure she was never going to stop until they had a baby. But when she said it, he could feel the pit that had been in his stomach gnawing away at him for what seemed like an eternity break apart into nothingness, and he broke down and cried with her. He cried for all the pain and stress they had gone through and because he couldn’t believe that they had gone so long without really communicating. This whole baby-making train had taken off and put them both on autopilot. After they decided to do it they never really discussed what that would look like and how far was too far in this quest.

“I’m sorry,” he said as he brushed her tears away. “I’m sorry for making you think that you could disappoint me. You could never disappoint me. I’m sorry for not taking the time to talk about this sooner. I can’t stand what this is doing to you; what it’s doing to us. It’s just all too much. I wanted a baby. I really did, but I'm done too. I just didn't want to say anything because I thought you were still determined, and I didn't want to disappoint you.”

They held each other in the quiet of the night and felt peace come over them. After a while Danny looked up at the sky and noticed that he could see stars. The clouds had parted. “Hey, look! The Big Dipper! Do you see it?” he pointed into the sky and she nodded without really even looking. “C’mon. Let’s go,” he pulled her up off the rock she had been sitting on and they started walking west. “See? If that is north, we need to walk west over here. It shouldn’t take too long.”

As they walked out of the desert, they kept talking about how sorry they were for all the fighting they’d been doing. They talked about what they’d like to do now that they’d have time to focus on other things and they held hands and realized that while having a child would’ve been great, they were fine just being together. And there were other ways to have children. They could always adopt, but that’s a discussion for another day. Today they feel light and unfettered for the first time in years.

It took about an hour to follow the stars back to their car and on that walk they felt closer and happier than they’d felt in a long time. “You know, walking in the dark, following the stars reminds me of something I read in college that Leonardo da Vinci said. Are you ready? It's gonna be cute." She smiled in the dark at how sweet and dorky her husband was. "I'm ready. Lay it on me," she said with a little laugh. "I think it goes something like: ‘fix your course on a star and you’ll navigate any storm’. Leo was right," Danny said as he squeezed her hand. "We fixed our course on a star and it not only got us out of the desert, it got us back to each other.” "Aw, you're right, that was cute," she smiled at him knowing how lucky they were to have each other as they got in their car and drove home.


What is a “miracle? A quick “googling” of the words

“miracle definition” on your mobile device’s web browser might elicit the following: 1- a surprising and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency. "the miracle of rising from the grave" Similar: supernatural phenomenon mystery prodigy sign 2- a highly improbable or extraordinary event, development, or accomplishment that brings very welcome consequences. "it was a miracle that more people hadn't been killed or injured" 3- an amazing product or achievement, or an outstanding example of something. "a machine which was a miracle of design" I work in the Emergency Room of a city hospital. A city-run hospital is far from the best in terms of the healthcare offered. Not a day passes without some reminder of how underfunded and, therefore, under-resourced we truly are. Dangerously scant staffing is quite common here no matter the shift. Doctors, PA’s, and nurses all seem to lose a little something of the passion they started with, the glimmer of hope in their eyes fading into the fug of the Devil’s breath.

The patients never stop coming. EMTALA laws see to that, though it seems private hospitals always find a loophole, a fucked up legal reason to refuse the drunkies, the meth heads and the heroin addicts that we see on the daily . These are the kinds of patients who come in dancing and singing off key to the symphonic masterpieces blasting in their altered brains. Some of them mistake the people in the mirror for the unforgivable abusers in their sordid lives, and they seek bloody recompense. Others reenact love scenes from a lost past, and expose more of themselves, physically and emotionally, then they ever would in an unaltered state.

Still others seem to come to us whenever they crave attention, and they don’t always care what kind of scrutiny they elicit. A wiry, older woman with stringy, silver hair comes to our ER simply to pick up the phone and scream at the person on the other end, accusing them of all sorts of chicanery and abuse. I’ve seen her come in and out of my damn ER for years, but a Patient Care Associate finally told me recently that there “aint anyone on the other side of that line.”

I’m unsurprised, and I lack the mental bandwidth for more than a brief guffaw at that bit of news. There are still filthy stretchers to clean, and patients are coming in hot in the ambulance or “amb” bay as we all call it. All the patient care associates are stuck on one to one assignments, and I’ve silently been helping them with some of their other tasks while technically hovering within the bounds of my sordid job description.

Neither union rules, nor the expectations of an unqualified and inexperienced supervisor from some dumbass private company stop me from helping out in whatever way I feel I can. I’m no superhero. Nobody who works here is. But those of us who beat the fuck out of ourselves to keep suiting up and showing up to this mess of a hospital know that we make neither money nor a name for ourselves here. Even when exhaustion and despair threaten to overwhelm us, we persist because nobody else will.

Does that qualify as a miracle? Do we, as “salt of the earth” people get to hear anything other than the hypocritical applause of the ignorant who betrayed and sacrificed us during the first Citywide Covid surge?

There are days, I can assure you, when I tell anyone who will listen that it’s a damn miracle I even showed up to work; that my bosses are lucky that I haven’t either quit or set fire to this puss-filled den of iniquity.

I digress, of course. I know that’s not what people want to hear about in a story that chronicles healthcare work. But there are certain realities to a city based healthcare institution, and these truths need to be understood for the next part of this narrative to make any sense.

Some miracles might fall within the second, aforementioned definition of such. The staff here all know the frequent flyer alcoholic patients who seem to live despite themselves.

One such patient of my acquaintance once stormed out of his room for the express un written purpose of screaming at his already beleaguered and exhausted medical team. If one were Marvin the Martian, they would decry the “earth-shattering kaboom” that ensued when a giant ball of excrement fell to the floor between the patient’s legs hard enough to cause rippling in cups of water set on the nearby nurse’s station. That man lived for decades with alcohol and drug addiction.

Another such alcoholic has become something of a local celebrity around my ER. Anyone who’s ever run into him seems to be able to do a semi-accurate impression of his famous “Ah shay, ah shay” speech, wherein he says,

“Ah shay I wanna room widda tee vee so i can sshleep heyah, ya dig?” We staff can all imitate his stumbling shuffle, his glassy, red-eyed stare, and the speeches he makes about his “poor sister” and his “lost daughter.” He is almost a living caricature of humanity’s “stubbing-your-toe while-swearing-at-the-damn-tree-you-stubbed-it-on” existence.

But twenty something years of his addiction has finally started to take its toll. One day, this patient stumbles to a stretcher set aside just for him in a hallway just outside a patient bathroom. When he wakes and shuffles out the door hours later, we all notice the small tributary of thick blood at the head of the bed, and we can tell it came from his open, halitosis-ridden mouth. I glove up and toss his sheets in a plastic bag, shuddering when they land with a wet thud against the bag’s bottom.

Nobody wants to see him die, though we all acknowledge it might be a miracle he’s lived this long.

Perhaps that is the only sort of miracle one might find if they spent but a few days and nights here. Veteran healthcare workers like me, however, have learned the daily, the weekly, the seasonal patterns of this place. Such insight inures one to the most horrific tragedy. Three years on the frontline during the pandemic, for example, have shown me much of humanity’s darkness. Yet I remain here, somehow determined to sifon, through “stubborn-asshole-osmosis,” what little compassion and common sense remains among a burnt out crew.

But the occurrences that shock even the most battle hardened veterans adhere to no conventional explanation. These events are so bizarre and improbable that they defy all sense and reason, redefining cause and consequence. Two years ago, for instance, a seasonal construction worker sans safety equipment fell, according to an EMT’s report, backwards down a nine foot pit. At the bottom of this pit stood sharp shards of twisted metal and splintered wood, lethal tips and peaks jutting toward the sky like scattered stalagmites. According to the EMT, there was “literally no room” for the unprotected victim to fall without getting impaled.

At least, that was how the scene appeared.

Yet this man survived the fall with barely a scratch on him, having landed at the bottom of the pit “like a human hieroglyph.” I had the pleasure of saying goodbye to this man as he walked away from our ER breathing a shaky sigh of relief. Other tales of brushes with death seem to me to be the stuff of future legend. Another one of our patients succumbed to momentary vertigo and fell, backwards, onto the train tracks, landing on his back. An inbound train came barreling along the same tracks toward the victim. As onlookers and good samaritans attempting a daring rescue stared in horror, the train rolled straight over the barely conscious man.

That man also survived with minimal injury, having somehow landed in just the right position for the train to pass safely over him. His extraction from the extraordinary ordeal took quite some time. Yet he was able to leave our hospital alive, relatively intact and singing his praises to the powers that be.

These incidents may certainly be construed as miracles. However, for every one of these incredibly rare occurrences, so many other similar situations end tragically. To this day, I can think of nothing so devastating and demoralising as the keening of a mother who has just lost her child in our ER, or the wide-eyed shock on a husband’s face who loses his wife in childbirth.

Though I feel I’m nobody to intrude upon such private agony, I’ve still held silent space for such tormented individuals. Even listening with empathy to such despair leaves psychic scars that run deeper than I can bear to describe, even to my own wife.

I leave my job at the ER in one piece everyday desiring nothing more than to be with my family.

My family is both the love of my life whom I was lucky enough to marry three years ago, and the son she bore a year ago. I’m grounded when I’m with them, and I endeavour to strive for them even when exhaustion threatens both my body and my spirit. Upon my return home from work, my son greets me with a smile and laugh that melts my heart and makes me giggle every single time I see it.

I live for that moment, and despite the many challenges of raising him, I begin to comprehend just what a miracle my boy’s very existence is to me.

How do you define a miracle?


I met them when my mother died, the god of death such a powerful role for just one being to have. I watch them walk up to the hospital bed that my frail mother lay in and hold her hand with such tenderness, such love that I would never doubt that they loved all humans they took. I heard the heart monitor stop, it didn’t really occur to me what just happened until they were gone and the nurse rushed in yelling about how she had a DNR. Just like that my mother died and I saw the love of my life for the first time, love and first sight some might say, it's a bit strange when the moment your mother dies you aren't even thinking about her, but about the being that is taking her away from you. The next time they appear I’m confused, no one around me appears to be dying. I was just sitting in a dark corner of the public library. They were leaning against a wall just a few meters from where I was, looking intently at me. When they saw me looking as they walked towards me, I panicked. Was this my time, sometimes I look back and wish it was. I heard a gunshot, followed by people screaming. I looked at death and they were still just standing there leaning against the wall staring at me. More gunshots and I heard someone scream to run, I tried to get up but they shook their head, so I stayed seated there for what felt like hours until the cops came rushing in and death vanished. Later I found out 17 people died and 13 people were injured, the gunman shot himself with his last bullet, no one found out why he did this. Death knows, and so do I, they wanted to see me so they caused chaos in the only way they know how. It went on like this for decades, everytime they appeared people died, they never talked to me, only stared intensely. Part of me enjoyed this. Part of me loved the fact that they were willing to let others die just to see me. I loved them, I loved the way they would just appear randomly at seemingly normal times, we never spoke, we never touched, and we never would but both of us knew the other was deeply in love. I watch them take nearly everyone I know, my Dad who died of a heart attack, my brothers who both died in the same tragic boating accident, my sister who caught covid, that was the longest time they ever stood there during the pandemic, it was years. A specially designed disaster so that they could watch me for years. The last time I saw them I was standing at a crash site just down the road from my musty little apartment, a little 2003 sky blue honda wrapped around a power pole. My best friend is in my arms, blood pouring out of his head. I can't tell who is screaming but I think it might be me. I can see the flashing lights of the ambulance that is racing down the road to get to us, but that is the last thing on my mind because they are standing before me again. It has been decades since our first encounter at the hospital, but we had shared many more. “No” this comes out as a rasp, “No you can't have him, we still have so much to do together, where are you going to go see the pyramids, where are gonna do so much together, you can't.” I look them in the eyes, and they shake their head. “Im sorry” they mutter “I must”, and I can feel when he dies in my arms, and I can feel the paramedic pull him from my grasp and try and resuscitate him, and I know its a futile effort because death has spoken and no one can override there decision. It feels like time stops, tears run down my face. “You follow me never saying a word and think you can take whoever you want away” I scream, my throat feels raw. They look at me “you loved it” I know I did and that's what hurts the most. “Fuck you and your little fucking game, I never want to see you again.” I say harshly, my legs give out beneath me and another flood of tears falls down my face and I don't know who they are for. A young paramedic is trying to help me to an ambulance as I sob uncontrollably, he’s trying to clean the blood off my hands, it seems like a pointless task there is so much blood on my hands I don't think anyone can clean it off. They are still there standing in the distance, I can see them, for the first time they look like they're mourning a loss. It has been thousands of years since I last saw death standing next to that power pole. They have visited everyone but me since then, stalking me everywhere I go but never getting close enough for me to see.


There once was a lumberjack. He was a lonely man, only getting visits every couple months. One day, he went deep into the forest to think. You see, this man loved to think. He would think about the future. He would think about the past. He would think about if he had a family. The man would spend hours just walking and thinking. On one thinking trip, he found an old man. The old man was sleeping. He had a long and bright grey beard, and dressed in all black. The man woke up the sleeping one, and the sleeping man responded, "Who are you? I am Death, bringer of souls to the underworld." "Well I am a mortal. I am humbled to meet you, my good sir." "It is good to meet you too, humble one. No one else has ever seen me. And to that, I may grant you a wish." "No, no. I do not need a wish. I have everything I need. I am content with life." "I doubt that. I have seen you think about what if things went differently." "I do think about that, but I am content. I just wonder what would happen if life went a little bit differently, you know." "I do know that indeed." The two start walking back to the man's cabin "In fact. A lot of people tell me that. They wonder things like if they married their true sweetheart." "My old friend thought about that. He was so wanting he got in a duel with his love's partner. Next thing you know we're burying his body outside of town. That was why I went out to this remote forest." "Your friend was a good man, even I was upset about his suicide." The two sit in silence for a few moments "I have a proposition. I will help you go to the afterlife and bring you to a reality where your friend didn't die. Where your kids didn't burn. How about that, my humble friend." "No, I don't really want that, my friend. I don't really want to die. I want to live to an old age. Then I will be ready." "That prings me to another thing. Many people I meet tell me they don't want tk die. They tell me they're scared. And I tell them not to. I help bring them to the afterlife. Just imagine how scared they would be when travelling to the afterlife, all alone." "Yes, I do suppose that would be scary. Almost horrifying in my opinion." "You're a good man. I have a new proposition. I will let you be free; and when you want to go, I will come back here and take you. Then you can relive your life, take it differently perhaps." "Thank you Death, for your proposition. I think that's a good idea. Although I don't really want to relive my life. I want to spend the rest of eternity just sitting there. I just want to sit there with my wife and kids." "That seems reasonable for a man like you, and I respect that. Most people get upset or angry at me. I've had people attack me with their bare hands. You're different. You are okay with dying and I respect that. I will come back when you are ready." "Thank you, Death. I will await your arrival in relaxation. In the meantime I will go and continue my life like normal." The man and Death then parted ways until the next time they come face to face.


“Why did you take this class if you are only going to stare at a blank piece of paper?” I glance up to see who's speaking. It’s a man with boyish looks and curious blue eyes. He sits at the desk next to mine. His paper already holds all kinds of objects. A square with deep shadows. A sphere with lots of pencil shading like the one on the board in front of the class. It looks even cleaner than the one our instructor drew. The rest of his paper holds a flawless cylinder. It captures the light hitting it at the perfect angle. It’s so smooth it looks like a photograph and not a sketch. I can’t help but glare. It’s obvious he’s taken art classes before. I straighten my paper on my desk. It’s still crooked. I straighten it again. I take my box of charcoal pencils and lay it evenly next to my paper. I straighten them both once more. My eraser is too far away. I place it next to the box of pencils. Perfect. Everything lines up in a nice, neat row. All I have left is to get started. I glance back over at the guy next to me who is waiting for a response. “Oh, you’re one of those,” he says, answering his own question. My brows knit together in confusion, “One of what?” “A perfectionist.”

My heart misses a beat. I hate that word, perfectionist. I look away from the guy without answering him. My blank paper stares at me from the table. It taunts me. Go ahead and get started, what’s stopping you? “I wouldn’t say I’m a perfectionist,” I tell him quietly. I move my pencil box to the left side of my paper, deciding it looks better there. Now the eraser is in the wrong spot. I move it again. It’s only after I tidy things on my desk one more time that I tell him, “I do like having things a certain way. It helps.” “Helps what, exactly?” he asks, in a playful tone. “It’s painful to watch you.” “Everyone has their own way of doing things,” I snap back, defensive. “You don’t have to watch me. I’d rather you didn’t.” Waves of anxiety hit me at the thought of someone judging my work. “Right. Okay,” he says, smiling in a carefree manner. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you’re doing anything wrong. My name’s Gausik. What’s your name?” “Camellia,” I whisper, turning my attention back to my paper. The sharpest charcoal pencil I have sits between my fingers. I start to mimic what our instructor created on the board. The sphere feels like a safe place to start. My pencil scratches at the center of the page as I persuade it to create a perfect circle. It’s too messy. I erase it and start again. The second attempt isn’t any better, so I erase it, too. No amount of furious scrubbing with an eraser can remove my past mistakes. I pull another sheet of paper out and begin again. It was an impulsive decision I made to be in this class. The local high school had posted a flyer. It said they would be hosting several different night classes with guest instructors. The classes went all throughout summer. Anyone above the age of eighteen were welcome to attend. I had wanted to go to college when I was younger. My dream had been to major in art. A pipe dream. College is for kids who land scholarships or have parents who can afford to send them. I didn’t fall into either of those categories. A new blank paper looks at me from the desk. I pick up my pencil and then put it back down. Class is almost over. I wasted the last forty-five minutes too scared to draw a circle. Of all the “P” words used to describe me, “Perfectionist” was the wrong one. The guy next to me should have used the word that really fits. Pathetic. No wonder I’m painful to watch. Tears form in the corner of my eyes. The last thing I want is for Mr. boyish good looks to see me having a breakdown on the first night of classes. I scoop all my things into my bag and dip out of class early. What had I been thinking? My shoes hit the sidewalk in loud steps on my way to the parking lot. It isn’t fair for the night sky to look down on me with a perfect moon at its center. The moon’s round face has a smug smile hidden in its craters, as if to say, look – even I can make a circle. My keys shake against my car door as my fingers tremble with frustration. Anyone who happens to be watching me will think I’m the first one to die in a horror movie. My keys drop to the ground, and I snatch them back up. I can’t do anything right, can I? A yelp escapes me when someone grabs at my shoulder. It’s all reflexes when I swing myself around. My bag connects with something solid. “Ouch,” it hisses. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” The solid object is Gausik. He rubs at his arm with a sheepish look on his face. A ping of guilt for hitting him stabs at me before I push it away. What business does he have sneaking up on a woman in a dark parking lot? Without confinement to a desk, his height towers over me. His hair is a mess of brown curls. He looks around my age, late twenties. “Why did you follow me?” “I wanted to give you something,” he says, and opens his hand to reveal a small slip of paper. “Don’t let tonight discourage you from going after what you want.” I stare at the paper confused for a moment, and when I look up, I notice the guy had walked away. He reaches a scarlet motorcycle on the other side of the parking lot. Light from the moon reflects on the back of his leather jacket. It reminds me of the cylinder on his paper. A single line of reflected white light trails between his shoulder blades. The white then fades to various shades of grey before it disappears into solid black. “Hey wait,” I yell. “What is this?”

He gives me a mischievous grin before he slips on his helmet. He slides onto his bike and the engine rips through the air with a violent sound. He offers a thumbs up before he pulls out of the parking lot. Fury builds inside me as I watch him go. How hard is it to answer a damn question? I study the piece of paper. It reads: 1412 King Ave, Tulsa OK Friday, June 13th 6:30 p.m. How stupid would I be to show up to this address without more answers? I climb into my car and listen to the familiar whine of the engine. Anxiety claws at my chest. I’m not good at doing new things or going places I’ve never been before. It’s up there with my other fears like “meeting new people” and “ordering food over a drive thru speaker.” It took insane courage to come to this class. What good did it do? Isn’t it time to let go of the idea that I could ever be an artist?

*** My nails drum against the desk. My heel taps against the floor at the same speed. The clock above the door grabs my attention. Hello, it’s four forty-five in case you care , it tells me. Ohh ho ho, it’s 5 o’ clock and you know what that means, it continues. I glare at its red digital numbers and debate throwing my shoe at it. A broken clock can’t tell time. My computer blinks into a black void as I power it down, readying myself to leave for the day. There are no last-minute calls needing me to schedule appointments. All the accounts payable paperwork has been filed. I can’t think of a single thing left to do that would keep me at the office late no matter how hard I try. My desk is organized to the point that a furniture magazine would use it for advertising. The only thing holding me back from going to that address tonight… is me. *** It's a tall building. I didn’t expect that. The architecture suggests it’s from the 1920's. Lots of old buildings in downtown Tulsa are from the 1920’s. My fingers itch to park myself across the street, pull out my sketchpad, and draw every old brick one-by-one. The glass doors are covered by a moss green canopy. The windows are arched and a staircase zigzags down the left side of the building in a series of black iron bars. Next to the staircase is a giant painted canvas of a black bear. It holds a yellow daisy in its paw, sniffing it. Above the bear reads, “Black Bear Hotel.” It’s when I get to the doors that I take note of an important detail missing from Gausik’s slip of paper. Where am I supposed to go? There isn’t a room number. It’s not too late. I can still turn back and go home. No one is making me go inside. My traitor feet drag me through the hotel doors and dump me into the lobby. Cherry red sofas and chairs are spread across the room. Old black-and-white photos of Tulsa landmarks decorate the walls. A turquoise chandelier hangs from the ceiling with thousands of dangling beads. There isn’t anyone behind the counter to check guests in. My shoulders sag in defeat, and I head back to the hotel doors. I did try. I should get points for that. I yelp as someone grabs at my back. My body turns before I tell it to and my hand connects with something solid. It takes a second before it registers that my hand has been captured. It’s wrapped tight in fingers larger than my own. “I was ready this time,” Gausik laughs. A girl stands next to him. She’s in overalls. A striped shirt with long sleeves is underneath. She’s covered in splashes of paint all the way down to her black combat boots. Bright blue hair is tied into pig-tails high on her head. She smiles at me with brilliant red lips. “You must be Camellia.” Gausik lets go of my hand. “Everyone is waiting. Let’s get going.” He tosses a grin to the girl, “told you she’d show, Maddie. Where’s my ten bucks?” She fishes a ten dollar bill from her front pocket and shoves it into his hand. Then, she snakes her slim arm around mine. “We love new faces. I’m happy to be wrong. Let’s go,” she says, dragging me up a flight of stairs hidden behind the check in desk. “Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on?” I ask. One flight of stairs turns into two. Two turns into three, three turns into five, and I ask another reasonable question. “Where are we going?” “The rooftop,” Maddie says, as if it’s obvious. Gausik throws open the door at the end of the last flight of stairs and we funnel onto the roof. I let out a gasp. On the top of the roof are at least eight huge canvases. Buckets of paint, paintbrushes, and tarps, are scattered everywhere. Strings of lights hang low with glowing yellow bulbs against a fading sun. Several more people are on the rooftop. A trio near the right corner of the roof sing in time with music I’ve never heard before. Their hips and paintbrushes sway to the beat. The words are off key as they sing. They don’t seem to care. Maddie lets go of my arm and runs to the center canvas. The image makes my heart skip a beat. A nude woman is turned around in the center of it. You see her arms crossed above her head. Her hair is trapped in her fingers as it tumbles down her bare back. The curves of her hips meet the bottom of the canvas leaving the woman’s lower half to the imagination. Her head is angled away. All you see there is the side of her angular cheek, her curved nose, and the lines of her chin. Above them, a closed eye with long lashes. The picture is painted in several shades of grey and blue. “It’s mine, Camellia. What do you think?” Maddie asks. A nauseous feeling hits my gut. I shouldn’t be here. “It’s stunning,” I tell her. Something slaps me in the stomach and I look down. Gausik had put a large paintbrush in my hand. “This is my sister’s art studio. Welcome to Novice Night. We host these every third Friday of the month. Pick any blank canvas you want.” He says this like it isn’t a big deal. Anyone can pick up a paintbrush and lay it against a blank canvas. Anyone can choose the right colors. Anyone can make something out of nothing. Anyone can create art. My breath comes out faster and faster until I can’t keep the panic inside any longer. I push the paintbrush back into his hands and turn to the door. “Camellia, where are you going?” he asks. “Thanks for inviting me,” my voice comes out tight and my eyes sting. “But I’ve never painted before.” “Hey… hey. No need for crying,” he says to soothe me. “It’s okay if you haven’t painted before. It’s not a test. Don’t you want to make art? Did I get that wrong?” “You have to be an artist to make art and I haven’t had a chance to learn yet. I’m not ready.” He tilts his head in confusion before he says, “Who told you that?” “Well, it’s true. I’m not like everyone else here. You guys are talented.” He laughs and it’s a full sound that shakes his whole body. Shame burns my cheeks and I take a step closer to the door. He grabs my hand pulling me back. “Camellia, everyone is an artist. Don’t you know? If you wait until you think you’re ready, you’ll never get started. The time will never be right or perfect. You don’t have to have talent to create art. The only thing you need,” he leans in close to my ear, “is to be human.” His words sink into my head. I blink a few times. He pushes the paintbrush back into my hands. A blank canvas mocks me as it stands next to Maddie’s perfect painting. No matter what he says, I still can’t bring myself to move. He shoots me a toothy smile before picking up a bucket of paint at my feet. The color is black. In one large movement he lets the paint fly. It coats Maddie’s painting and she shrieks. Instead of anger, she surprises me, and lets out a laugh. She takes her brush blurring the black paint into the background. When she finishes, I'm struck again by her talent. Everything is black except for fingers twisting into hair and the side of the woman’s face. “What’s it going to be, Camellia? Worried you'll make a mistake?” Gausik asks. “Are you going to let the fear of not being good enough hold you back for the rest of your life?” The first color I choose is red. Red like the anger inside me for needing to be perfect all the time. A voice is loud in my head with every stroke against the blank canvas. I can’t tune out the words. Oh, you only took second place in your track meet? Why didn’t you take first? You have a B on your report card this semester. It was all A’s on the last one. You need to try harder. We expect more from you. Camellia, your hips are hanging over your jeans. Don’t you think you need to slow down on the food? Your face is breaking out again, Camellia. Why don’t you ever wash your face enough? Is that what you’re wearing? I don’t want people to think I raised a daughter who doesn’t care about her appearance. Tears run down my cheeks when I see the canvas in front of me is no longer white. All I see are shades of red. I attack the canvas further as if the sound of paint strokes can drown out another voice in my head. My own. You’ll never be good enough. You’ll never be loved. Everything you do is a mistake. You’re trash, Camellia. Don’t you know that? Who are you to think you can be an artist? Don’t make me laugh. How can you create something that means anything when you mean nothing? How can you make something beautiful when you’re so ugly inside?” I grab black paint and keep going. The place painting takes me to is a state of release. It’s a symbiotic relationship between chaos and peace. Its Maddie’s voice that brings me back to the present. “Oh, this is truly something… it’s beautiful Camellia.” My fingers still against the canvas, finished, and I hear Gausik say in a low voice, “I told you, didn’t I? We’re all artists.” I study the painting, surprised it’s my own. Looking back at me are ruby red petals. They belong to a Camellia flower. They ripple against the canvas in a way that steals the breath from my lungs. Around the Camellia flower are black bars. Such a beautiful delicate flower and yet, it’s trapped in a cage. The petals are messy. The lines aren’t straight. Despite it all, I sink to my knees. A weight on my shoulders has been lifted. This is what it means to be an artist. Everything about my painting is… right. It’s perfect. It’s human.


THE ROBOT Sid made a robot for his school exhibition. He wrapped it up in newspapers and kept it in the corner of his room. At night , before going to bed Sid practised his speech . " Good night Zen , " he said , looking at the robot . Yes , that's what he had named his robot , Zen' . Next day Sid took Zen to his school . Zen was the centre of attraction . Sid won the award for the best project . He returned home and showed his trophy to his parents . Then he kept Zen in the corner and went to change and have his lunch.  After lunch Sid picked up the book , 'pinnochio 'from the shelf.

    Zen started feeling bored and tired standing all alone . It was dark and quiet . Zen wanted to hug Sid and sleep as he was feeling cold . When he tried to move, he could not move . He was feeling frustrated. " I wish I could move about ," he thought . He wanted to go to Sid's school again and enjoy .  One of Sid 's friends, Ron was jealous of Sid . He challenged him to a game of chess . Sid was tensed as he knew that Ron was a strong opponent to defeat . Seeing Sid's predicament , Zen decided to help him . "But how can I ? I am just a robot . I can't even move,"he sighed sadly, unable to help his creator. Just then a fairy was passing by in her Cosmocraft . She heard Zen . She came down and went inside . She patted Zen on his back . She promised to grant him his wish . She said some magic words and stroked his head with her wand . She breathed life into Zen .

With great difficulty Zen took his first step, holding the fairy's hands . Soon he was dancing and hopping in the room. " I can move . I can breathe, " shouted Zen in excitement. " "Calm down Zen.You will wake everyone by your noise ," laughed the fairy . " I have granted you your wish but

promise that you will not go anywhere without Sid's permission. If you disobey, tell lies and behave badly you will lose all your strengths to walk about . " Zen thanked Fairy Godmother and promised to be well behaved .

Next day at school , Sid and Ron sat facing each other for the chess tournament . As usual Ron was winning . Sid felt the game slipping from his hands. Zen was very curious to try out his new powers . He invoked his Fairy Godmother and asked for help . She made him invisible . He won the match for Sid by cheating . Sid not knowing about this was very happy that he was able to defeat Ron . Fairy God mother warned Zen ," as this was your first offence,I am forgiving you . "    He slowly slid out of the room and went outside . To his surprise , the fairy had left behind her Cosmocraft in the garden . Curiosity got better of him . Zen got into the Cosmocraft . He tied the seatbelt and wore the helmet that he found on the seat . Zen saw three buttons, red, yellow and green in front of the seat . He began fidgeting with the buttons . With trembling hands he pressed the red button. Nothing happened . On pressing the yellow button , there was a slight jerk . Suddenly the Cosmocraft moved forward . Zen almost lost his balance and was about to fall . He tried to hold the rod , but by mistake he touched the red button . The Cosmocraft began to move up with great speed . In no time , it was flying high above the clouds . Zen was enjoying himself . The Cosmocraft was flying over parched fields, dry rivers and barren lands . His eyes were burning and he felt chocked . He was feeling exhausted , hungry and thirsty. He began looking for a place where he could rest for sometime . Suddenly, he saw a huge golden castle. He flew down and parked his Cosmocraft outside the gate . There was a board with the words , 'Trespassers will be prosecuted .' The two guards standing outside the gate saw Zen loitering around . They caught him and took him to their emperor . "Who are you and what brings you here ?, " squeaked the emperor . Hearing his voice , Zen couldn't control himself. He began to laugh . He just couldn't believe that a tiny creature with a squeaky voice was the emperor . The emperor got furious and ordered his guards to chain Zen and throw him into the prison . All his pleas to forgive him fell into deaf ears . The guards locked him in a cold and dark room and went away . Zen felt scared . The chains were so heavy that they hurt his body .  One day he overheard one of the guards telling the other that the emperor was planning to attack the Earth and drink the blood of humans . An idea stuck zen . He called the guard and told him to take him to the emperor ." Why do you want to go to him?" "I have just come to know that the Emperor wants to evade the Earth. I can help him ."

The fairy Godmother by her magical powers, heard Zen telling lies . She got worried that Zen would land up in trouble when the truth would come out. She made herself invisible and quickly flew to him . She told Zen that she was very upset that he had broken his promise and told a lie . But she would at the same time help him .   She went to the emperor's room , disguised as Zen and offered to help him. He told the emperor how he would attack his enemies. The emperor was very impressed by Zen and even promised to release him .    The fairy Godmother called all her angels and asked them to help her in her mission . She gave Zen some supernatural powers. By these powers he could enter any human body .

The fairy God mother, holding Zen flew out of the castle. Soon they were airborne and landed on the land , with the emperor and his guards following them.    On the Earth the Emperor began to create havoc . He killed whoever came his way . Zen was very sad to see humans dying .He decided to help them at all costs. As he was flying,he saw a big building . He could here people talking about some problem.

    He made himself invisible and went inside . He found out that they were scientists trying to find out solutions to combat the menance on humans . He entered the body of the head of the mission,Dr. Vishal. "Eureka! We have found a solution to kill our enemy ,Dr.Vishal shouted . Zen and Fairy Godmother winked at each other . Zen left Dr. Vishal's body and flew out of the window with his Godmother. She congratulated him for his good work.

" I had purposely left my Cosmocraft outside Sid's house . I wanted to see how good you are at keeping promises . Your disobedience had landed you in trouble . But you also helped the scientists to find the solution of their problem . So I am releasing you of the condition I had put on you." They hugged each other and flew away to the Cosmic land . " Hope you are safe Zen .Don't leave me and go away . Don't.........." "Wake up Sid dear . Daydreaming again ! Robots , space and you will always be inseperable ." It was his mother , ruffling Sid's hair. MOUSUMI BISWAS