Just the other night, I ended up in the back of a cop car with toy guns. It was prom night and this year’s theme was “guns”. Not western, not cops and robbers, not some disco-infused anti-terrorism campaign, just guns. It didn’t matter what you dressed as—you were in costume as long as you brought a fake firearm. There were cops everywhere to look around and make sure everyone’s firearms were fake I guess. *There has to be a better way to do this.* Oh yes, I suppose you could have literally any other theme for a school event, but dreams are dreams. Back inside the cop car, I am seated behind the officer with two other high schoolers in the vehicle. The one to my right ironically dressed as a court jester, the one riding shotgun unironically dressed as a cop. The kid-cop shows his gun first, obviously fake. He smiles to the cop with satisfaction. The cop extends his arm to the backseat and asks for the next gun. I look to the jester, but he isn’t paying attention, so I hand over my fake gun. *Wait, I’m pretty sure it was fake? Oh God, please tell me I brought the right gun from my house.* For some reason I can no longer remember. *How heavy was it in my hands? Why can’t I remember?* “K, clear” the cop says in a tired voice, handing back my gun. *Oh thank God it wasn’t real.* “Next”, he says with his hand still extended in the backseat. The sweaty Jester sits next to me resting his pointer finger just below the slide of his airsoft pistol—proper gun safety etiquette, nice. “**Hand up the toy, I have to check everyone here**” the cop demands impatiently as he turns to face the backseat. I glance at the visibly shaken jester as his short breaths crescendo into hyperventilation. The police officer recognizes the situation and screams “**HANDS IN THE AIR**” with an alarming amount of fear in his voice. In a rush to draw his gun—**BANG**. I was already halfway out of the car when the shot rang off. Oh my God—he shot that kid. *Why the fuck did we have gun themed prom?* I stumble further from the vehicle as high schoolers turn around stunned. *Who is at fault here, the officer for being skittish? The kid for acting suspiciously? Probably the class president for organizing this nightmare.* Then—**BANG, BANG-BANG** from inside the car. Three more shots go off and the jester steps out nervously scanning the now-panicked crowd. A tall clown watching from the edge of the parking lot wielding no weapons points a finger at me. “Jest. He’s there.” *I hate these kinds of dreams.* I take off across the parking lot and sprint down the stairs leading to the football field. Glancing back, I see the jester about 15 yards behind me, followed by the clown 5 yards behind him. The clown barks at his jester, “If you don’t catch him, I will do to you what we were planning to do to him!” The clown continues to berate his high school compadre, fueling their chase with fear. Usually in my nightmares, my feet are slow, or I’m tied down to something. In this dream, I’m running with superhuman endurance, and the clown and his jester fall far behind me. I wake up. *Am I awake?* I am sitting by the fireplace in my childhood home, writing a story. Okay, still dreaming. *Ah, this is one of those dreams with weird abrupt segues. Let’s see, what am I writing…?* “He sees the clown in the distance behind him, losing steam with every hard breath, his clown shoes tirelessly slapping the concrete.” *Holy shit, I am writing my own dream. This is incredible*. At this point I must have felt like I was lucid dreaming, like I had some awareness of the dream itself. I look down at the paper and an icon pops up like a video game menu: “Does he get caught?”. A choose your own adventure. Okay, he does not get caught. Simple as that—all I have to write is “He runs far away.” Just put the words on the paper, \*he doesn’t get caught\*. Simple enough. As I move my pen towards the paper, I can feel my body slipping. This does not feel like a lucid dream at all. I have no control or awareness. Suddenly, I am back in my body on that road near my high school. I look to the sky like Jim Carrey at the end of the Truman Show. “Please” I pray to myself, “please don’t write that I get caught”. I continue stumbling down the road, the clown and the jester in the distance behind me. After taking a few good strides, I feel my body beginning to slip again. *Yes, please, another segue. Get me the hell out of here.* My soul begins to exit from my feet, slowly deflating my body up through my torso. *Thank you, Jesus. Take me now.* Just as the euphoria of safety hits my head, something else does. A stop-sign. *Ow, what the fuck.* Then, something hits my stomach—sobriety, terror. My soul wasn’t slipping from my body, only my legs. All the life was gone from my legs. I couldn’t feel them; I couldn’t use them. All sensation was now concentrated in my hypersensitive upper body. Semi-gracefully, I lean onto the sign-post and twist onto the ground, trying to hide while keeping an eye on the jokers. They were stopped in the distance, staring a thousand yards in my direction. It looks like they are talking to each other. *I don’t think they see me*. The taller one starts to climb onto a parked car while the other takes a few more casual steps in my direction. I am now doing everything I can to press my body down into the dirt behind the stop sign, but gravity has never felt so weak. No matter how hard I try to stay down, parts of my body or clothing continue to rise on either side of the light post. Weird, it was a stop sign a second ago. The taller clown jumps down off of the car and they both start walking intently, then half-skipping. Now laughing hysterically, they both break into a dead sprint. Desperately, I try to claw and drag my dead weight out of the dirt, but gravity has never felt so strong. *Why would I have written my own story like this.* The jingling from the bells on the clowns’ collar and the jester’s pointed hat ring terror down the street. The two jokers’ rapid, slapping shoes sync up rhythmically until the sound of one giant clown materializes. They arrive at my impotent body which lays sunken in the dirt and continue to laugh violently despite being out of breath. The tall clown leashes his jester and waddles towards me, squatting as he walks with a disturbing intensity. “Remember what I said I was going to do to little Jesty if we couldn’t catch you?” I stayed silent because I didn’t want to remember. If I couldn’t remember, then how would my subconscious recreate the punishment? It’s all me creating the dream for myself, right? The jester spoke up from an awkward distance, “You said if we caught ‘em, we could sing a song together.” “Not what I was thinking, but yes… I did promise a little tune for Jesty. We jokers do love a good tune... Let’s keep it short though, we don’t want to keep him waiting now.” They manhandle my body into an old wooden chair and sing down onto me in a trembling monotone: “Oooh myyy—what’s a sober clown to do Someone needs to laugh but he’s all out of booze Oooh myyy—what’s a blind man to do He opens his eyes to find he’s deaf, dumb, and mute Oh my God, we don’t say in vain We would if we could, we don’t even know His name If just one bug knew how all the flowers bloom He’d hang himself inside his own cocoon” Their psalm screeches to a halt and the large clown rolls a full-length mirror out in front of my face. The jester clumsily grips my ears and hair back, and the clown brings a scalpel down on the crest of my forehead. Blood drips down into my eyes until my entire world turns red. I close my eyes out of horror until the scalpel breaks sunlight crashing through my eyelids. As the blood dries around my naked eyeballs the burning realization that I can never blink again sets my mind aflame. Blood drips down my water-resistant reflection and pools at our feet. My large naked teeth gape open as my lips are carved away and I begin to choke on my scream. No thoughts left, just waiting to die. I stare down onto my blood-soaked clothes trying to avoid eye-contact with my own faceless face. The jokers look on motionless, but their bells continue to jingle.


I’m sitting alone at a bar. But, not even a real bar, it’s a bar in a chain restaurant. A Lone Star to be exact. I chose the side to sit that had no other people around it. I look across from me and see a middle-aged couple that’s still trying to show an interest in one another. The man has his arm around a woman who I assume to be his wife, while they both stare at her cell phone with the same vacant smile on their faces. Adjacent to them sit three slightly older than middle-aged men, drinking and talking sports and retirement. Two of them drink beer, but the one of the far end is drinking something harder, like a whiskey or something dark. I think of him as the smartest of the three. In a booth, a woman glares at me from time to time. When she’s not staring at me I look behind myself to make sure there isn’t a TV, or something behind me she might be looking at. There’s no TV. As the bartender offers me another beer a man takes the seat next to mine. We nod to each other while he proceeds to make a mundane joke about the weather to the woman behind the bar. “They say it’s going to rain tonight,” he jests while water drips off of his body, clearly just stepping out of the rain. “Oh no, I hope not.” She replied. She didn’t understand the joke… Across the way I notice a young girl and her friends talking, and eating dinner. While she’s talking she periodically bites her cell phone. I can’t help but think about the amount of germs going into her mouth. I’m not a germ freak or anything, but I can’t help but feel like there are just some boundaries you don’t cross. I wouldn’t just rub my hands all over a public bathroom and then just stick them in my mouth, which is essentially what she just did. Some time goes by as I wait to hear from a friend who I’ve been expecting a phone call from. While I sit and wait I’m silently praying that the guy who sat next to me doesn’t try to engage me in conversation. I can tell he has wanted to say something since he sat down. He seems like the kind of drunk that will spew anything he has to say to anyone with ears. He finally sees his opportunity. A one-armed UFC fighter has come on the television, it was just the kind of thing he was looking for. He looks at me and says, “looks like they got a handicapped fighter. Bet he’s a vet.” “Yeah I was thinking the same thing.” I don’t know why I said that; I hadn’t been thinking it at all. As the fight continued he said all the platitudes you would expect to hear. “See that left?” “Good defense, good defense…” My phone goes off. The friend I’ve been waiting to hear from messages me saying to head over to his house. I call over the bartender and pay my tab. As I walk out I wonder why I bothered to come here.


I’m zooming down the freeway, in the middle of a snowstorm, already late for my sister’s New Year’s Eve party. We are ten miles away when I hit an ice patch, with my left tire while realizing I'm drifting to the left in the first place. We slide off the road, flipping into a small ditch. When the car is steady, I look over to Maya in the passenger seat in panic. Questions and outright statements go through my mind. Are you hurt? Can you call the police? Is your phone charged? I’m scared. Panting, Maya is looking at me in terror while she says, “My ph-ph-one is almost d-d-dead.” No, no, no, I just wanted to go see my friends, and sister for New Year’s Eve, and now this. I try to reach for my phone but with the car’s current position it is not within reach. I look at my watch and read 11:00 p.m. and mumble out the words, “Can you call the police? Are you hurt?”

While dialing the phone Maya comments, “I’m fine, and calling the police. How are you feeling?” Relief washes over me and the panic starts to die down. “I don’t think I’m hurt, and can you put the phone on speaker,” Maya does as I say, and after a few rings the phone is picked up. “911 what’s your emergency?” “Hi this is Maya Smith I’m calling from my car which has just flipped. The driver and I seem to be fine, just uncomfortable.” “Hello Maya, do you know where you are exactly?” We tell the lady on the phone and she says that the closest officer is an hour away. “An hour?” I say under my breath when she tells us the news. “It can’t be.” “Due to the storm and the lack of officers in the area, the time range is from 45-60 minutes,” the lady over the phone states calmly as if trying to soothe my rising fear. Maya, stepping back into the conversation says, “Thank you for your help,” and hangs up after we have gathered all the information needed. An hour, what are we going to do with an hour on our hands; hopefully this officer hurries his butt up and gets us out of this car and out of the cold. The cold air from outside starts to seep in. I look over to Maya with her hair in beautiful twists making her look like a queen in and of itself but her gold tight dress and lengthy sweater seals the deal and I start to giggle to myself. She glances at me with her questioning face and cries out, “Are we gonna talk or are you just gonna look at me with that face for the next hour?” we both laugh at that and finally start to talk about work and food, we can’t seem to drop the idea of our huger.

“Can we drop the fake talk? I think Tyler is going to propose soon and I don’t think I have ever been more sure in my life. I love him beyond words, but we’re young and I still have so many things to do in life. Is now the right time?” Maya blurts out. “Okay Maya, you love him, and I know there is still so much to do but the only thing that the ring will change is that he’ll be there beside you, no matter what. Marriage isn’t gonna hold you back but let you have all your great discoveries and memories together. Girl, I can see it in your eyes that you want him, you’re scared of the future, and you don’t know what you want. You do what your heart tells you to do. Besides if your life is too busy, you can always say yes, but have a later wedding, in like 2 years or something.” Silence rang through the car I knew Maya was just processing my killer speech. After what could’ve been ten minutes, “Yes” Maya whispers “What?” I ask. “Yes!” now she says it louder. “Yess, yes, yes, yes,” now she’s screaming, “I’M GETTING MARRIED,” she’s shaking me now and we are both screaming so loud. “Well at least if I’m asked I know my answer!”

“This deserves a celebration, you’re not married but just in case someone asks you anytime soon,” I scream in her face “Wait, can’t we play music on my phone until it dies?” Maya answers just as loud as my proposition.

Soon after it’s settled and blast music on her phone for a solid 10 minutes, until we see flashing lights stop behind us.

The officer helps both of us out of the car and checks for broken bones that we would have surely noticed by now; trying to understand our situation. We warm up in the car and I charge my newly found but dead phone. Once things are sorted and we are on our way to my sister’s, my phone has regained charge and oh my, I have 150 messages and 20 missed calls. Something must have been important; I’m not that popular. I call my sister. With in a few rings the familiar voice of my sister answers “Oh. My. Gosh. Where are you? This was so important it better be good. I was worried and Tyler is freaking out.” I interrupt her with, “I’m fine. Maya and I slid on an ice patch and the car flipped. We had to wait for the police, and now we are in the car heading to your house.” Screams come from her side of the phone ad says, “Okay, okay I have to go and celebrate New Year’s call you back I promise. Turn on the radio and don’t tell Maya that Tyler was gonna propose, I can’t believe you didn’t know. I’m glad you two are OK!” My breath hitches and I’m stunned into silence as my sister hangs up the phone and a signal word escapes me, “No.”

After Maya is not staring at me, trying to crack me so I spill the importance of the night, I ask the officer to turn on the radio. He is totally cool and everyone in the car is counting down the last 10 seconds of 2019. 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.


COME FULL CIRCLE Jackson Snell lived for his morning coffee, his routine, his ritual if you will. Growing up on a truck farm with his parents and younger brother and sisters in rural Alabama, is where he cultivated this penchant for morning coffee. It traveled with to Chicago, some forty years ago. At sixty-seven years of age it stayed with him. This daily routine fortified his resolve that his decision to accept a transfer forty years ago as the right one. Now he lived in East Lake View, not a swanky neighborhood, but a lovely one nonetheless. As he walked through the doors of his neighborhood coffee shop, a warm greeting awaited as it did every morning. “Hey, Jackson, how are you this morning?” asked the young barista. “Jest fine, Mindy, jest fine. How ‘bout y’all?” “Can’t complain. The usual?” “Sho’ ‘nuff. Like they say; if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. But maybe this once get me one of them lemon squares today.” “You got it.” Paying for his coffee with a generous tip, he settled into his favorite window seat. The morning traffic on Clark Street always punctuated a smile across his face. He settled into city life with such ease it surprised him; he made friends and grew to love city life. It took a while, but he managed to even switch his allegiance from the Braves to the White Sox and didn’t find the designated hitter rule the evil he always thought it to be. His smile broadened as his mind drifted back to those hard scrabble days on the farm. It wasn’t a longing for the good old days, but it was for the change his life had taken. Like they say, ‘Life is good’. Retired now, he found his life a lot more than good; morning coffee and this afternoon at the zoo with his grandkids. What could be better? Life was damn good, he thought. While he sat contemplating his life and how good he had it, he never noticed the attractive, matronly woman entering the shop, going to the counter and ordering tea. Jackson paid no attention to her, until she sat at his table directly across from him. A quick glance around the shop, revealed half dozen empty tables, but here she sat right opposite him at his window table. She placed her purse to her left, grasped her tea in both hands, and took a deep sip, closing her eyes enjoying the warmth drifting down her throat. Looking up, Jackson saw an attractive older black woman, not as old as himself, but north of fifty. Soft, hazel eyes; no make-up, a pale-yellow blouse with no jewelry completed the picture. Her smile beamed, yet it seemed shallow and forced. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but do I know you?” “That truly saddens me, Mr. Snell. Of all the folks that done crossed yo’ path, surely I thought you’d remember me; Viola McBee.” “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I have no recollection of that name, or such a lovely face.” “Well, maybe this will jog ya’ll’s memory some.” As she reached into her purse, Jackson took a sip of his coffee. When he looked back up, Viola McBee dead aimed her small .25 automatic at his face. She pulled the trigger twice. The impact of the shots threw Jackson out of his seat and onto the floor. Viola McBee nestled her gun onto the table and resumed her tea. Two hours later she sat in an interview room at the thirteenth precinct. Her hands folded demurely on the table in front of her, her expression calm and unruffled, at peace. As they watched her, the only items that seemed to be missing were white gloves, a pillbox hat, and a bible. Detectives Lintelli and Stanton seated across from her; they observed for a while. Viola said little more than to confirm her name and address. “I don’t get it. Mr. Snell was overheard telling you that he didn’t know you, yet you shot him to death. I don’t get it.” “Mr. Snell misspoke. He knew me, he just didn’t remember me.” “I still don’t get it,” said Stanton. “Did you know he was planning to take his grandkids to the zoo later on today? What if they were there?” This seemed to jolt her back to the present. She stared at the interrogators. “I would have waited. He had grandchildren?” “Yes, but thanks to you, they don’t have a grandfather anymore.” “It would seem so, but they didn’t need this one. No, not this one.” “The family will never be the same. Never.” “Happens to the best of families, don’t it? Look, I done what I done and ain’t gon’ apologize for it neither.” “We’re beginning to get that, but the question still remains; why did you do it?” When the words were out of the detectives’ lips, Viola’s eyes averted theirs, tears formed in them, the hazel color shrouded with moisture. She reached into her blouse and brought out a small, unsealed envelope and plopped it on the table. “This be my answer to your ‘why’.” Stanton picked up the envelope as if picking up a double-edged razor and gingerly opened it. Inside she found a folded, yellowed newspaper clipping; a small article and picture. “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed. Lintelli reached over and took it from her hand. “Jesus!” he said. The article was an explanation of the picture. It was of a lynching in Coffee County, Alabama, August of 1968; white people standing around; men, women, children as if at a fourth of July picnic. Drinking from cups and bottles, smiling, eating snow cones. No caption, no explanation under the photo, just two figures circled. A black man hung from a tree; his neck elongated, his tongue purpled and swollen bulging out his mouth, his pants pulled down around his ankles, the lower half of his body drenched in blood. “They done hung my Daddy. That be August, 1968. Them circled pictures be Mr. Jackson Snell and his buddy, Caleb Potter. “They lynched your father?” “Yes, suh, they surely did.” “Why?” She three both detectives a glance that revealed to them how stupid their question was. “’Cause it was 1968, Coffee County, Alabama. Cain’t you read? That’s all the reason they needed, but they did have another.” Lintelli glanced once again at the photo. “Why just kill Mr. Snell? I mean it looks like there were a lot of participants here.” “Maybe ‘cause everybody there didn’t rape my Daddy’s eleven-year-old daughter, his only daughter; only Jackson Snell and Caleb Potter.” Viola’s bottom lip quivered; the tears poured out now. “They raped me. They yanked me off the road. I was comin’ home from the store. They took me back in the swamp and took turns. “When they had they fill, they let me go, tellin’ me they’d be back when I got older and learnt some things ‘cause they loved them some dark meat. I can still hear them laughin’ as they drove off. “I tol’ my Daddy and his mistake was he went and tol’ the sheriff. That sheriff went and tol’ them dirt farmer Snells. Next thing I know is they breakin’ in our house and draggin’ my Daddy out. “As they was draggin’ my Daddy out, my Mama held me back. I was cryin’, screamin’, and beggin’ them not to. That’s when Mr. Jackson Snell turned, smiled, and winked at me. That’s also when I knew this day would come.” She lowered her head, gazing at her lap, then slowly raised it to face the detectives. “So, you say, Mr. Snell had grandkids? Well, I ain’t got none. Aftuh they done what they did, I couldn’t have no kids. No kids fo’ me meant no man evuh looked my way. It was like I was marked since I been eleven. Yes, suh, marked. No man wanted me, but they was no man I wanted aftuh they done, what they did.” Both Lintelli and Stanton sat there, stunned as if hit by lightning, not knowing what to do or say. After a somber silence, Stanton spoke. “Ms. McBee, I don’t know what to say. I – “ “Don’t fret about it none, sweetheart. I knew what I was doin’ and I knew what the outcome would be, so it ain’t yo’ problem. It’s between me and the Lawd. Hope She will understand.” “She?” “One of my last remainin’ hopes fo’ forgiveness.” As if on cue two uniforms came in to escort Viola McBee away and back to the holding cells. She turned one last time before exiting through the door. “You might wanna call the Coffee County Sheriff’s Office, and clear up a missing person’s report for them. They can find Caleb Potter’s body down by Bryson Creek. That’s where they took me that day. “Also tell them they woulda been another, but the devil came up and snatched that sheriff befo’ I could.” As she left out the door, the detectives sat, each in their own way, trying to define justice and its true meaning.


Dear Air Fryer, We’ve appreciated your contributions during your time here. Unfortunately, those contributions are no longer welcome. It’s a space issue, *mostly*. Real estate is hard to come by these days and, coupled with your inconsistent and unique usage, the math didn’t add up. However, we will miss your public relations team. Their work in recent years has been mighty impressive. Regardless of personal feelings about your sudden and bewildering rise, watching the machine behind you push you to those heights has been a learning experience for everyone. Hopefully that includes you. With a gimmicky name, and a half-hearted attempt at focusing on health, you can literally get to the top by doing nothing but blowing hot air. If that isn’t modern day America, I don’t know what is! I hope this doesn’t make it seem like we’re blaming you. We’re not. You’ve been along for the ride as much as the rest of us. Now, *that ride is over*. Sure, Microwave has some room for improvement, Stove could use some work, and god knows the last time we saw Toaster Oven. And yes, I lack an internal fan. Despite those faults, your addition to the team did little to solve those problems. Instead, you just became another problem to solve. And for what? Marginally crispier and “healthier” food? Again, it just doesn’t add up. From my point of view, your problems aren’t one of utility, but one of expectation. You can do the handful of things you do fairly well. We’re not arguing that. But you’re not a necessary, everyday fixture. You’re less like me, and more like, say, Crock Pot. It’s fun to have you around for special occasions, but our regular interactions must cease. Best of luck in your future endeavors, Oven \*\*\* Dear Oven, I appreciate your appreciation of my contributions. Unfortunately, whether or not those contributions are welcome is none of your concern. I’m sorry to have offended you. Both with my existence, and my universal acceptance. I just find it odd that you’ve taken the role of “Kitchen Captain” when you’re simply another member of the team. Self-appointed titles aside, let’s be clear: You don’t make the decisions around here. Whether or not I take up too much space or am too specialized in my work isn’t something you should be worried about. Then again, it is clear why you are concerned. You may say you only lack an internal fan. What you lack is much more important than that. You lack the foresight, the open-mind, and the willingness to change that is vital in today’s kitchen culture. Expecting you to know anything about that, though, is my mistake. Everything is always evolving. The way we think, the way we eat, and the way we think about the way we eat are all changing on a constant basis. It can be hard to keep up, especially for such a *historic* figure as yourself. That’s not your fault. But, I am glad you can admit the faults of you and yours so quickly. Finding faults seems to be something you excel at. Despite that skill, it is quite the oversight for a letter from you citing “real estate” as a reason for my struggles. I believe pot and kettle would like a word. You say I did little to solve the problems you pointed out. That would be a matter of opinion. My regular usage from those who decide such things would seem to indicate at least one difference of opinion, and a rather important one. Maybe if you had more of a focus on health, on specialty products, and marginal improvements, rather than what’s wrong with everyone, I wouldn’t be needed. Thankfully for me, you’re clearly too busy writing letters to do that.


"Are you having a séance in here? He isn't dead yet." If Jonesy could have had a birthday mid-summer, instead of dead in the middle of winter, that would be great. He's a camping fanatic, and Byron has connections to get a cabin in the woods for an ultimate slumber party. Connections being his mother, who promised everything would be ready for them. Everything, not everyone. "Dude, I got us a cabin in the woods for your birthday," he had said. "Great, I'll let Philippa know. She'll be so hype!" Jonesy had taken him by both shoulders and was beaming so hard his face could have split. There was no way Byron could tell him she wasn't invited. Having his heart split would be a much worse fate. Thing was, she didn't have her license. Which would have been fine, because she could have carpooled with her boyfriend, and met him there. Unfortunately, despite requesting the day off for a long birthday weekend, Jonesy's boss scheduled him until five, and already at his limit for excused absences (stupid flu bug), he stayed, as all the snow started to pile up. Byron had agreed to drive Philippa. That way they could prepare dinner and be ready by the time that he'd be arriving before giving him a very generous birthday gift. One that made him blush as she asked if he was packing his headphones, because things would be getting loud. How generous of her. It's late January, and it feels it. There's about a half foot of snow accumulated outside the window. It's taking longer than it should for Jonesy to show up, but they assume that he's going slowly, because the roads have turned to ice in the cold.

The weather has turned bad enough that the power gets knocked out. So here he is, standing in the doorway of the bedroom, looking at her amidst a circle of lit candles. "Don't say yet. It worries me." She shifts her weight. "I'm waiting to seduce Jonesy. We're already behind schedule." She has a schedule? Are they that routine that she knows how many minutes it'll take to create the ultimate power combo for his pleasure? Does that include the time it'll take him to defrost? "You're going to catch cold in that thing. If you want to bundle up, I can answer the door when he shows up and delay him a few minutes." It's not that he wants to help her nail his best friend. He isn't her biggest fan to be honest. They haven't hung out much, but she is infamous for stealing his attention. Also for long set of legs of hers that she has spread out for display. He can see the allure. He can feel it, backing out of the doorway. "He'll be here any minute. I can feel it," she calls after him. He nods, though she can't see him, long gone down the hallway. He needs to collect his thoughts. The last thing he needs is for Jonesy to walk into his best friend deconstructing the tent in his pants, pitched by his girlfriend, on his birthday. He makes his exit to the kitchen, where a, now dead, slow cooker sits on the countertop. The mac and cheese is cold now. It's slowly congealing, because he had thought that they'd have eaten and moved onto dessert by now. Rather they'd have moved onto their special dessert, and Byron would eat the bag of Sour Patch Kids he had thrown into his duffel bag. The kitchen is dark without the lights, and he reaches for his phone. There's no service, but he can use it as a makeshift flashlight so that he can make his way to the fridge for a bottle of water.

"Bryan!" He's not going to respond. He's grown used to it, with years of people mishearing his name upon introduction, and he's given up on correcting them. It's just that he's only now gotten his emotions under control, and he isn't fond of testing fate. She calls the name again. After the third try, she shuffles out of the bedroom, carrying one of her candles. His flashlight accidentally hits her in the pupils.

"Sorry," he apologizes, turning it off. She sets the candle on the counter between them, and he stares at it, because it's not her. "I was calling for you." "No you weren't. You were calling for some guy named Bryan." He takes the lid off the slow cooker. It's definitely getting worse by the moment, and he gives it a stir in an attempt to revive it. Also in an attempt to avoid looking at her in that outfit, or therefore lack of. She doesn't seem to catch the hint. Poking her own nose in, it wrinkles. "What if he got hurt and can't contact either of us? What if he's not coming tonight?" "Then hopefully he finds help. But it'll only be worse if we go out looking for him. It's dangerous out there, and you aren't even properly dressed." He tightens the strings on his own hoodie. He's thrown some wood into the fireplace, but it isn't a miracle worker. "I have clothes."

He waits for her to fetch them and get dressed, and laughs at how thin they are. She's still shivering.

"C'mon. Extinguish the candles and we can go sit by the fire. It'll be warmer."

She returns, this time with a blanket, to find him on the floor. He has the slow cooker with him, and a serving spoon. He takes a heaping scoop and eats it straight off the spoon. "Seriously, not-Bryan?" "Not-Bryan?" "You said your name wasn't Bryan." "It's Byron. As in Lord Byron." He nibbles at the gluey cheese. It's past its prime, but he is hungry, and doubts his friend will be arriving tonight. She takes the spoon from him. "You're a Lord?" Obviously someone isn't as big into poetry as his parents. She's also not above sharing his cooties, licking a glob of macaroni off the spoon. He chuckles and shakes his head. "We can get bowls, y'know." "I don't mind."

There's something in the way that she smiles at him with cheese glazed lips that tickles his heart. It's probably residual from seeing her in that lace number, still peeking out from underneath that sweater dress of hers.

This time he shivers, fingers brushing hers as he takes the spoon back from her. "Next year I should get him tickets to the movies." It's the most inconvenient time of the year to have a birthday. At least the theater will have heat, and they can stuff themselves with buttery popcorn instead of congealed mac and cheese. "Who?" She's watching as he methodically eats one noodle at a time. The question startles him, and he jolts back, cheese smeared on his nose. "Jonesy." The second syllable comes out airy, as her thumb rubs his nose clean. He loses it when she licks her thumb clean, forgetting how to breathe for a minute.

Her smile drops. It's almost as if she had forgotten her boyfriend could be trapped out in the middle of a snowstorm. She's quiet for a few minutes, plucking pieces of macaroni out of the slow cooker. They're not sharing the spoon anymore. He must have cooties again. Or she's realized that they got too intimate for two humans only connected by their favorite person. "He was really excited about this. It's all he would talk about for the last two weeks. He said his two favorite people would finally get to hang out and learn to love each other as much as he loves us."

Byron sets the spoon down. "I don't hate you." "You don't?" "I just hate how much time he spends with you." "Huh." "What?" "I could say the same thing about you." She twists to face him. "All those overnight bro trips, and bronch every Sunday."

It's Bronch. They've been having their bro-brunch for years. They'd been jealous of his mother always having a ladies brunch without them, so they went with intentions of getting tall stacks of blueberry pancakes and ended up with a dedicated table and waitress. Ladies aren't bros. Ladies can't eat bronch. Still, she has a point. He makes no effort to include her, knowing she'll take all his attention. How could she not, with those stupid long legs and that beautiful smile? "Fair point." She moves the food out of the way and scoots closer. He hesitates. Is she moving towards the fire, or trying to get closer to him? Should he scoot back more, or- Oh. Holding the blanket out, she wiggles even closer. "We should share body heat. I didn't think it'd be this cold." She lets the blanket fall over him, and he sits rigid. She looks perfectly cuddle worthy, but cuddling leads to canoodling, and that's a slippery slope to go down. "There's an extra hoodie in my bag if you want to borrow it." She does, and he takes the moment to breathe as she goes for it and slips it on. She's swimming in it. Crawling back under the blanket, she curls into his side. That plan went horribly. "Philippa..." "Call me Pip." "Pip?" "I was named after my prick of a father. I hate being called Philippa." It's news to him, as Jonesy always calls her by her full name. He wonders if he knows, or if she hasn't told him, for fear of upsetting him and losing him.

At the memory of his best friend, he crosses his legs. He needs to calm down. It should be easy, because she's started talking about her abusive father, which isn't sexy in the slightest, but he wants to hold her and wipe her tears away.

Where the heck is Jonesy? Her words start to slur, and he realizes that she is falling asleep. He tries to lift her, failing. His body too is falling to sleep, and try as he might to stay awake, wedged between her weight and the hardwood floor he isn't letting her head fall to, he succumbs.

He wakes the next morning to find her still asleep on him. Temptation gets the better of him and he kisses the top of her head. He manages to get his phone out of his pocket to see that it is dead.

Putting his phone down, he sees that she has awoken (turns out he has jostled her after all) and is smiling at him. There's no immediate leap of horror after finding herself practically in her boyfriend's best friend's lap. "I wonder if he's going to show up today." Oops, there goes the smile. "Is it still storming outside?" The windows are covered in white, so they head to the door. There, fist raised to knock stands Jonesy, looking a bit frozen. "Judging by the looks on your faces, I'm going to assume neither of you got my texts."

She snaps out of her daze and shifts away from Byron. Her side feels cold without him. "We lost power yesterday. No phone service either." "We're glad you're safe."

The truth pains him. Yes, he is glad that his best friend is safe. Mainly because he cares about him. Though he'd be lying if he said that it had nothing to do with preventing him from acting on certain feelings that cropped up in his absence.

Problem was, the feelings weren't just physical anymore. He doubts this is what he meant when he said he wanted him to learn to love her. "Come in," she says, wrapping the blanket completely around herself. She's still wearing Byron's hoodie.

"It was so bad out last night when I got out of work I went home. Texted that I'd head out in the morning, and for you guys to save me some mac and cheese." It's still sitting on the floor. Byron steers him to the bedroom. Motioning behind Jonesy's head for Pip to hurry, she runs into the living room to fling off his hoodie and take the pot to the fridge. The ring of candles are still waiting for him, unlit, and he sighs happily. "Isn't she the greatest?" "She's pretty alright," he undersells, catching her eye as she approaches. She gives a half hearted smile, fingertips grazing his for a moment as she passes him through the doorway. His hand folds around the paper. He waits until the door is closed to read it. 'I wish I had met you first.' He listens to his best friend unzip her dress, gawking in delight. Then a flat, hollow voice. "Happy belated birthday, Jonesy." The paper crumples in his fist.


This is useless. He knows too much for his own good. His hollow orbs stuck in the temporary daydream gaze around the crowd, examining their movements, emotions, disrupted far-away chats. A family covering the grave with glowing yellow marigolds, an old grandma lighting up the lone candle in her late husband’s ‘ofrenda’, children joking around with sugar skulls melting in their mouths, the blowing pierced papers hanging on a single string, the skeleton-like makeup, the day he will never understand, Día de Los Muertos, Day of the Dead. The young boy finds himself standing alone, drifting apart from the rest of the family. He tails around behind the stream of crowds who are busy with all the fancy rituals and meals everywhere. A moment passed, the deafening surroundings managed to get on his nerves. With a piece of sweet conchas bread dangling between his teeth, he makes his way through the mob. Either it’s to regroup with his relatives or escape the blaring resonance, anything seems fine rather than drowning like a lost soul. The little figure struggles to penetrate through but eventually frees himself from the suffocating area. Breathing the fresh oxygen, slowly but surely, his legs bring him to the isolated worn-out fountain. He settles down and observes his hazy reflection on the murky water, filled with dry scattered leaves. The skull face-painting is smudged, his droopy eyes feel so empty. Bored with the constant expression, he faces back to the distant gatherings. In no time, he’s back to initiate the old habit of analyzing people’s behavior, whatever that is. Behind the setting sun and orange painted landscape, a group of women snaps a quick selfie, highlighting their colorful hats, a couple of boys fold their enormous kite, tangling themselves in the rope a few times, newly-wed wipes off the dirt from the sturdy cross and photo frames, dancers in traditional clothes on the left, musical crews delivering soft melodies on the right, a fully dressed silhouette approaches him from the front. A newcomer comfortably sits beside him after cleaning her moldy spot. Two minutes, five minutes, ten minutes go by with only silence between the two. The girl curves a thin smile, dangling her feet heedlessly, opposed to the boy whose biting his bottom lips sort of anxiously for no clear reason. He’s starting to despise the air circulating around them; a fan of peace, not awkwardness. Fighting against his still image, he cracks his throat open, fortunately not letting out a trembling voice. “What are your thoughts about the dead?” “Deceased. Someone who’s not a part of our world anymore, well at least physically. What about you?” “Someone who becomes non-existent. I don’t really have a belief in God and soul. Humans are just mere beings constructed of atoms, molecules, organs, working together to adapt in Earth. Humans are just a better form of evolution than animals, plants, and bacterias. Death is just a statement indicating our physical body can’t support and sustain itself anymore, therefore we become non-existent again, like before being born, am I right?” “You’re not wrong. So your point is?” “Those people are wasting time and money for this festival. Why give food to someone who’s not here? Why decorate a home with no one occupying it? Why talk to them if they can’t hear you? Why believe in the existence of the afterlife and eternal sleep if there’s not even a single piece of evidence? Useless.” “Have you ever watched the movie Coco-“ “Shut up.” “Not a big fan I see. Did you cry watching it?” “...No.” “A liar I see. So what’s your opinion on it?” “Ridiculous. Plain ridiculous. Souls crossing a bridge to the mortal world and dancing around during this particular day. That’s not happening in real life. People cling on fantasy too much.” “Have you lost someone important or close in your life?” “That’s so sudden, an uncle of mine passed away last month. Why?” “What did you feel back then?” “Sad of course. What else would I feel? How about you then?” “Hmm, I don’t know, that’s why I asked. I’m thankful that I’ve never lost someone so dear to me but I never have them in the first place anyway. People to share memories together, people that I can laugh along with together, people to quarrel with. At least now I have a few friends to play around with back at home. How does it feel?” “Why do you keep on questioning me? This ain’t an interrogation.” “...” “Happy, I feel happy, okay? My parents take good care of me, buy me loads of books and comics, treat me breads when I’m whining like a baby. My little brother can be annoying at times, he would blame me to get away with a lollipop, but it’s lonely when he’s not around. My aunt and uncle give me pocket money and bring us to the amusement park during holidays. Now I miss my uncle, great, just great.” “That’s quite relaxing to hear from a grumpy boy. Why do you miss your uncle?” “Because he’s not here anymore?” “You sound so unsure but you’re not wrong, again. You miss spending time with him, you miss making memories with him, either it’s a good or bad one. Yes, he left the world and became non-existent as you mentioned earlier, but that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten. The memories, grumpy boy, the memories keep him ‘alive’.” “You’re trying hard to prove my point wrong here.” “You can’t deny that I’m right. Those people and your family are having fun at this festival. They’re appreciating the dead that once is someone who spent memories together. C’mon there’s nothing illegal or criminal activities going on here, you can’t hate on-“ “Who said I’m against them, I just didn’t understand.” “So now you understand?” “Maybe.” “Good. What’s your name?” “Are you sure you’re not from the CIA or some secretive agencies asking for my personal information?” “Does a twelve-year-old girl from the orphanage across look like a spy to you? We can be friends, if you want to. Share some memories and bring them down to our grave in the future.” “That sounds horrifying.” “...” “Jorge. Jorge Velázquez Leon. You?” “Alicia. Alicia Aguilar Valdés.”


1919 words Rated PG; gun violence, blood I roll my pen back and forth along my desk to stop the annoying buzz of silence in my office. The shimmering crystals inside it jostle. They were taken from the first star ever created. You can get them in bulk at the gift shop downstairs.

It takes away the mystique, doesn’t it? You can just pop down two floors, grab one of these babies, and now you own part of a star. Humans would go crazy for just a glimpse at it. Not that they can touch it. Their fingers would explode. “ 729*8 , your new patient is ready.” Chirps the intercom voice. Finally. I was worried I was going to be here all day. “Alright, send them in.” Above me, a clear tube lowers into the chair in front of me. I have seen this many times. It doesn't get any more exciting. With a series of clicks and a whir, a person falls down it. The tube rises again into the ceiling. This person has brown hair with grey eyebrows, and a floral print dress. Their pale skin almost shines in the light of my desk lamp. It makes for an unsettling look. Not as unsettling as the look on their face, though. They scream at the sight of me. I wave a hand to silence them, as their file appears in front of me. I pick it up. Mager Elthod Czefth Pronouns: He/Him Age of death: 41 Date and time of death: Monday, February 6, at 13:45 Mode of death: COVID-19 Transition method: ethereal protocol #854 “Why hello, Mr.Czefth.” I take away the silencing wish with a flick of my wrist. For a flitting moment, Mager’s features are not scared, but confused. “How did you pronounce my name right?” “Well, I read it, and sounded it out.” Mager nods, understanding my thought process. “Sure. So, I’m dead, right?” “Very much so.” He stares at the room he’s in. The silver walls have pictures of all my patients on them. I have over a hundred, so one side is completely filled with smiling faces. Which reminds me. “Hey, smile.” Mager turns to me.

“What?” “Just smile.” Mager does, revealing his small teeth. I hold out the fingers of my human form, and take a mental image. “There we go.” On the wall, another frame pops out. Mager’s mouth drops as his nervous face hangs up. “So, I’m guessing this is heaven.” “You could say that.” I cross out the take picture part of the patient to do list with my not-so-special pen. “So, who are you?” “That is a difficult question, Mager. I am here to adjust you to your new afterlife. Think of me as a supernatural therapist.” Mager still doesn’t seem to understand. “Basically I help you get used to being dead. Got it?” “Yeah, sorta.” I sigh and cross off explanation .

“I have an hour of your time before my next meeting. While I could ask the boss to slow down time for you, their a jerk, so I’d rather not?” “Meaning?” Mager’s not finished saying the word before I’m at the door, extending my hand.

“Let’s go. You have a lot to learn.” [] Outside, it’s raining. I put an umbrella over our heads. This leads to a pattering sound. I hate pattering sounds. Mager squints to see anything with the water falling on our heads. “Why is it raining in heaven?” I gesture for him to follow me as we walk to town square. “Perfect weather gets boring. This community has asked to have rain be a part of regular weather patterns.” A car appears in front of us. I snap my pudgy fingers, and we’re inside. The hood is rolled down, for maximum view. Mager isn’t as surprised at teleportation as I’d thought he’d be. “You have awesome powers.” I unintentionally smile at his compliment.

“Yes, I do.” We pass the homes of people with curtains open, playing board games or eating together. They’re all laughing or smiling as they converse with their friends and family. Mager watches.

“You don’t see much of that anymore on earth.” I am tempted to comfort him, because I fell genuine sadness in his voice, but that’s ethereal protocol #4562, and that is not the one I am doing. “Yes, it’s unfortunate, isn’t it?” As we leave the community, the sun turns on again. All the homes are made of bubbles, of all different tints and sizes. The road has changed from pavement to bricks. Fountains spurt up on both sides of us, rising and falling in a synchronized dance. “Wow, look at this place.” Mager marvels at the living quarters. “I would not want to live here.” “Don’t worry, you aren’t.” I assure him, even though I have no idea. We pass people walking down the street, with bags of clothes and ice cream in their hands. They all shout at and greet Mager. “Hi!” “Welcome to the afterlife!” “How are you doing?” Mager waves.  “I’m a little scared.” Everyone laughs. “Don’t worry, you’ll get over it!” Mager is warming up to them. Perfect. Up ahead, past the community, is a stand. A lone person is standing behind it, grinning. The sign above them says Escort. I stop in front of it. I walk out, and Mager falls in step beside me. “What is this?” he asks. “The rest of your ride.” I high-five with the person controlling the escort. “Hey, 274*3, what’s up?” 274*3 laughs. “Oh, not much. Just the worst paperwork you could imagine. Did you know tenants now have to sign satisfaction papers?” I drop my jaw. “You’re kidding.” 274*3 shakes their head. “Oh, I wish. Forget about finishing in 12.4563 minutes.” I push Mager closer to them. He is a bit tense.

“Mager, promise to give them full marks. They’re the best in the business.” Mager looks up and down at 274*3.

“I don’t see why not.” 274*3 clicks their human tongue at Mager. “Sweet, now, come on, let’s get you home.” After a quick elbowing from me, Mager goes after 274*3. He looks back at me. “When will I see you again?” “Whenever you like.” I shrug. “So, what about tomorrow?” That’s unusual. But a tenant is always right.

“Yeah, that works. You’ll be dropped off tomorrow at my building.” I smirk as he walks away. His transition is easier than expected. Tomorrow, he will be tortured. Tomorrow, he will be closer to perfection. [] Mager is at my doorstep very early. I’ve barely had time to clean my mouth bones. He is wearing a brown skirt and a matching brown tie. His shirt is a colour I don’t recognize. “You’re really eager.” I comment as we walk to the front desk. “I’m just excited to be transitioned.” he responds. At the front desk, 352*0 is working. Organizing patient files and sending them up. A boring but necessary task. Their person fingers and nails click and clack on the human keyboard without even looking at it. That's always what I found most impressive about humans. And now that there are ethereals learning the skill, I've come to appreciate the work that people put into things. “Hey, ethereal protocol #854.” I say when 352*0 asks why we’re here. “Please present wrist for inspection.”

253*0 takes a a small rectangle from a drawer and holds it out, waiting for us to obey their monotone request. It’s bright blue, with the label written on the front in curly glyphs. Protocol scanner . The bottom of it is projecting red light, waiting for something to authorize. “Mager, that’s you.” I nudge him. “Oh.” He rolls up his sleeve, revealing his bare arm. 253*0 runs the scanner over it. The scanner beeps, and they check a message on their computer.

“Alright, please enter the door to my left.” A magenta door appears on the wall next to her. It swings open. “Come on, let’s go.”

I take Mager’s hand, and we start to descend the steps on the other side of it. The further we go, the more we’re basked in yellow lights. The air also gets worse. Mager coughs at one point from all the thick, green gas floating around our heads. The stairwell keeps winding downwards. “Where are we going?” Mager inquires after a bat flies next to us. “Hell, basically.” “Hell?” Mager yells. “How is that adjusting me to the afterlife?” “You’ll see.” I want to tell him, for some reason, but it’s against protocol. Once we’re so deep I think Mager will pass out, we finally come to the next door. It will lead us straight to the part of hell necessary for Mager’s curriculum. Mager flinches as I turn the knob, and huddles behind me. I should push him away, but strangely don’t feel any automatic urge to, so I leave him be. The room is white. No walls, ceilings, or doors. Just an endless expanse of light. No people, either. Mager’s fingers, which were digging into my clothes, start to relax on their hold. Maybe it won’t be so bad. If only I could warn him. I don’t have to, because the first livestream appears. “Hello, and welcome to the bottom, where we will be showing you some of the souls to help you adjust to your afterlife.” Says an employee I don’t recognize. They wave at the camera to come closer. Every patient with this program is watching right now, wondering what’s about to happen. “Here, we have Addie Dills. She is charged with murder. She has killed over 20 people as a shooter, employed by many notable convicts.” The woman, Addie, is in her 50s. She is lying on the ground. Dirt is rubbed on her face and wiry hair. Her eyes are glassy, staring off into a nonexistent distance. Blood is dripping from her mouth and nose. She is curled up in a little ball, to make her self as small as possible.

Mager gasps incredulously. “Who would do this?” “Kill all those people? I know-” Mager cuts me off. “No, I mean who would do this to Addie? She looks terrible.” “It’s a punishment for her crimes.” I say quickly, but I don’t really believe it today, for whatever reason. “Next, let’s look at Kenneth Arkaner. He was mentally ill, causing the death of 32 students in his shootings sprees.” I can’t decipher Kenneth’s age. He’s standing in rags, his eyes wet. An employee is ten feet from him, holding a machine gun. When the machine gun goes off, all the bullets hit Kenneth. He groans and collapses on the ground. Red marks bloom all over his torn clothes. Mager lets out a sob. I turn. Behind me, my patient has fallen to his knees.

“Why not rehabilitate them?” He asks as tears roll down his cheeks. “Why do this?” I have no answer for him. I am supposed to stand tall, no matter how the patient reacts, but I can’t. I crouch down, and pull him close to me. He’s shaking now, as the employee moves on to the next prisoner. He buries his face in my shirt. “Why?” He gulps. I am not sure what to say. It’s only a whisper at the back of my mind. A rising anger in my throat I’ve never felt before confuses me. I’m even more bewildered as I spit out a sacred word, treating it like it’s no better than the garbage in earth’s oceans. “Protocol.”


“Look at him He’s been at it for an hour now” Elly tells me as she rolls her eyes. We both were seated on a high ceiling beam of a studio apartment, our home, a risky move if so. Only concentrating on the boy seated on the floor below, it would’ve been a fatal ending for us if there was a possibility of that in the first place. I looked hard at Elly, She was most definitely one of the most distinguished of the lot, having hung around for more than thousands of years, and the signs of being a ghost had barely touched her light skin. I on the other hand, one strong gust of wind and I’d return back to ashes. Elly flew and scooted closer to me. Barely touching the wood, she waved her wispy fingers around as she mocked poor Liam below. The mortal had been flipping through the pages of the “Fancy New Home” catalogue, stopping for five minutes at each page of the wallpaper color section and then moving on to the next, the exhaustion on his neck growing by each turn. “Bright and white, you are quite the amuser if you still describe yourself with such colors Elly Not to alarm you but shady and fading would suit you better” Elly stares at my comment. i point to her swinging toes and laugh. The fast wind was erasing the thin outline of her translucent feet; immediately lifting them up, she crosses them instead. A bit offended, she explains herself “Bright and white is the most common color one selects for their new home. You know we are not going to habitat here any longer Marge. I need to leave this place knowing that this incompetent man has listened to us and colored it a peaceful white.” We had moved in here around three hundred years back. Looking around, it teemed with our memories and our living. The ceiling was quite high up still accommodating us with a lot of room for us to fly around. The cool wind from the tall windows every morning was our favorite friend in keeping us a crystalline fresh. But as the days had grown shorter, my longing to touch the room had grown that much more painful. The walls which we had once shyly ordained with our marriage portraits and the window-sills where we once watered our sweet lily plants, they filled my mind with short lived memories. Elly still had the same moral look from back then, A little less opaque and a little more translucent, the bright white light from the windows shone through her and her outline grew invisible. We had been too brave back then, I look at my own fading limbs. Liam let out a long groan from below as he stretched beyond his length. Four whole days and still unable to decide on the color white among all for us to confirm. He would surely have been considered as one of the local idiots during our time, I realize suddenly. Elly spoke to herself “despite not having us around from tomorrow, it’d be nice if our home carried on feeling like the ghosts of its first ever owners” She looked concerned now, furrowing her eyebrows at Liam. I look down and see him now splayed across the floor still stretching, and staring high, right past our presence, at the ceiling. I laughed at her pun. Liam is in pain. It’s too bright of a day, the harsh humid wind slapping across the pages as they flip furiously. Liam lets out a short sigh. Closing his eyes, “This house is starting to feel more haunted day-by-day”. Speaking aloud, he catches the ears of Marge and Elly. It’s indeed a dilemma. He had started to notice small things changing magically at every turn. “Every single time I call my building manager about the renovation of this place, the calls get cut. Whenever the renovation labourers start painting the walls a bold golden, the paint gets magically erased and I’m left with a lot of awkward explaining to do. Rumours have started to go out that I’m a shape shifting witchess. Personally I liked the goblin rumour better.” Liam laughs to himself and then goes silent in hindsight. The empty grey aesthetic of his studio room contrasted heavily with his bright pink-blue outfit which contrasted again with his rugged boyish hands. Looking at the mess of magazines at his folded legs, a cool breeze surprised him and he scrunched his freckled nose. Right then several pages of the catalogues folded themselves into dog ears. All pointing to a brand of furniture infamously known to use white. A swift movement but Liam blames it on the cold wind from earlier. He wasn’t half wrong. Faithfully closing each magazine so as to not cause a mess, he got up to clear his head. He stretched his arms out to the wall in front and squinted through a tiny square he made with his thumbs and forefingers. “There seems to be a very particular color this haunted house wants me to select” Several dog eared pages opened right below on the floor, all showing the beauties of a fine white aesthetic. “Why is it so windy on a summer afternoon?” Marge looked at him amazed. Amazed at his parody of dialogue. He lazily looks across the room, a color that would make it look bigger would be a suitable choice for its damaged walls, something of a lighter shade. Paying homage to the previous owners he thought, maybe a boring brown or a mellow lemon mint. Elly rolled her dry eyes. Liam took a sip from his bold grey coffee mug which unnoticed by him had turned whitish during recent days. “I really am not going forward if I don’t make the correct decision right now” sulking he rested his hands on his hips. Another long reading session in and Liam was done.  Its 4.30 pm now, the suns still high and glaringly white. Liam picked up his coffee mug, now with just ghostly white milk in it, odd, and sipped it as he cooled down from the reading session. Carefully avoiding the now individual sheets of the winter wonderland special of the Wallpaper World magazine placed over the carpet, he thought deeply about his dilemma. He Walked up to the kitchen, hoping for a quick snack, and opened the fridge when right then his cell rang. “Little White Lies” blared and he picked up in 2 seconds. Funny ringtone. Bending his neck as he balanced the phone, he swung the fridge door open, “hello?” Why are there just eggs in the fridge? “Yes hello Liam, Calling to ask if you have finished deciding a shade for your wall painting already, I’ve arranged an appointment with the building manager, he’s bound to come around in an hour or two” “No no no ... Wait” frozen, he spoke to his reflection off the silvery fridge door The caller continued “Finalize the decision with your sister and call me back, oh also do you happen to know where I can buy some cheap Christmas gifts? My girlfriend’s coming to town and I am in trouble, hope it’s a white Christmas, fingers crossed?” Liam ended the call. He hurried back to the catalogue after banging the fridge shut dramatically throwing Elly into a startle. She flew towards Liam, who was frantically looking for that one yellow mint page he had bookmarked, when right then a wind blew across the page, turning to section W3, a spring collection inspired by lilies. Liam fell cold at this sudden breeze near him and stared hard at the page that was in front of him. The bright white couch and a Persian cat framed photogenically in the glossy magazine sheet, thinking harder he raised an eyebrow. Elly now practically enveloping the boy with her cool presence, struck her arm across the page, preventing it from flipping to another one. The dusky warm wind grew in pressure and the walls grew moist. Marge sighed as her opinion of Liam and his IQ was now pretty low, she observed Elly with hopeful eyes. Looking around at the mess, she snapped her fingers with magic and glancing at the countless white mugs in the counter, she turned yet another mug white. “Did he just say it was Christmas? Can’t be, my birthday was a week back, April 24th.. Or was it on the 25th?” Speaking softly, a shiver ran down his spine. “I am pretty sure it’s April and not December” He slowly shifted his eyes to the wall calendar. 2 days till Christmas. A huge cross marked the 24th of December, ‘Bound to snow!’ written in bold. Gulping down his confusion, his head went blank. Unable to think and unable to speak, Liam felt trapped under an invisible presence. Marge, now extremely hopeful looked wide eyed at Elly. Elly looked back at her, both nodding in synchrony at each other’s confirmation. A whole minute and Liam closed the catalogue, dusk had fallen and it was sunset now. A decision made by him, for the house, for Marge and Elly and for everyone’s sanity involved in this situation, probably even his sister’s. “Hi Paul yes, I’m calling back about the building manager, I’ve made the decision, you can ask him to come by in about half hour now”. Elly flew back into Marge’s arms and they embraced each other. Liam obediently cleaned up the mess, the mugs scattered across the carpet and the kitchen counter, the countless sheets of magazine paper flying and most importantly the several volumes of the “fancy new home” catalogue. He smirked as he thought back on his day. It had been so obvious all along. Hesitant to admit to himself, Liam realized he had been pretty slow in catching on. The building manager arrived. A group of noisy labourers, eager to catch a glimpse of this rumoured shape-shifting goblin, accompanied him. Marge and Elly, also curious, checked Liam’s demeanour. He stood confidently in front of his labourer fans, ordering them to neatly cover the furniture before doing anything to the walls. Marge had begun to turn back Liam’s belongings to their original colors. Bringing back life into the white house, she looked at Elly’s bitter-sweet expression. However harsh she might have been to poor Liam, she knew in the end he was only a mortal, she felt proud now. She thought to herself, her strong presence combined with Marge’s magical abilities was better than any Ouija board on the market. “Pastel red” Elly blinked twice. In a moment of 2 seconds the labourers whipped out their paint mixers and combined red with white. Elly blinked again. “The spirit of Christmas. It’s a beautiful time to curl up on your poofy sofas and watch classic Christmas movies. What better way to pay respect to the magical time than to paint your own home with red” the labourers hurriedly plastered the paint onto the walls, expecting the fabled magical erasing of the paint to take place. No such thing occurred. Marge fearfully looked at Elly, she was in shock. Liam smirked at the labourers. I guess my dilemma is solved. He felt satisfied. Elly felt smaller as the clock ticked. The night had fallen and she had grown almost transparent. The street lights from outside shone right through her and lit up the studio room, a bright white.


Running through the ten-story office building's glass doors, Mandy pulled her cellphone from her purse to check the time.

“Crap,” she muttered.

She had less than five minutes until the meeting started, which left her with two choices. Take the stairs as usual, but at a sprint, and arrive a sweaty mess. She could swallow her claustrophobia and get into the tiny, rickety elevator. Easy choice, right? More like no choice. She couldn’t be late again. Her hand shook slightly as she pressed the elevator button. When the door opened, she took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Sixty-seconds. That was all this ride from hell would take. Sixty-seconds.

She repeated the mantra over and over. At this rate, she’d still arrive a sweaty mess, but stinking of fear instead of exercise.

Which is wor— Her heart stopped at the same time the box of death halted.

“Are you kidding me,” she whispered-choked, pulling out her phone and dialing her friend and colleague, Theo.

He picked up on the first ring. “I see you’re running late again, but lucky for you the power goes out with the same frequency as your tardiness,” he teased cheerfully. “Ah, the joys of working in an old building with shoddy wiring.” “No. No, it isn’t good,” she replied, too distraught to care that her voice trembled. “I’m in the elevator.”

“Wait. Why? I thought you hated small spaces and always took the stairs?” “I was late to the last meeting. I couldn’t risk it so soon,” She croaked, leaning on the wall before sliding to the dirty floor.

He called to someone in the office, asking how long until the power was back on. After a moment, he said to her, “The electrician says it will take twenty minutes, max.” She shook her head, unable to speak. It might as well be twenty years.

“Mandy,” Theo called, worried threaded in his voice. “Are you still there?” “This is stupid, I know. A dumb, irrational fear, but,” She ran a hand through her once perfect hair, “I swear, the walls are closing in on me.”

“Shut your eyes,” Theo demanded.

Her soft-spoken friend never commanded. That, and his gorgeous smile were the two things she adored about him the most. However, today she appreciated the unexpected distraction and complied.

“Okay, did it. Now what?”

“Where is the one place you’ve always wanted to go?”

She answered without hesitation. “Iceland.”

“Really,” he laughed, the timber soothing. “Your dream vacation is a block of ice?” “Only about ten percent of the country is covered in ice, and the average temperature is quite pleasant,” she said through a smile.

“Well, I stand corrected, Ms. National Geographic,” he chuckled. “What is the first thing you’d visit or do?”

“Go hiking at Snæfellsjökull National Park or Hornstrandir Nature Reserve. No. Wait. I’d swim in the Blue Lagoon.” “Tell me about the Lagoon as if you are there. I want all the details. Using all your senses.” “Okay.” She thought about it, diving into her imagination and traveling daydreams. “The waters are hot, but the cool outside air makes it pleasant. The color of the water is a stunning, vibrant turquoise.”

He cut in. “Like that necklace you always wear?”

Her hand slid absently to the pendant nestled between her breasts. “You noticed?”

“Yes. It is pretty, and is nearly the same color as your eyes.”

It surprised her that he noticed minor details about her. She liked it. A lot.

However, before she could ponder the meaning behind his words, he asked another question.

“What got you interested in this tiny country?”

“Well, there was this band I began to listen to a few years back. I thought they were from the US but learned that wasn’t true.” She told Theo about her favorite group and how their music and history led to her falling for their country. She found herself laughing at his silly questions, lost in his soothing voice, far from Detroit and her office’s tiny elevator.

That last thought slammed into her. She gasped, opening her eyes, taking in the chrome and glass of her prison.

“Mandy,” Theo called, sounding far away, wrapped in fog. “Did you open your eyes and leave Iceland?” She nodded, managing to speak over her racing heart. “Yup.”

“Close them, and listen to me.” “I can’t.” “Yes you can, and you will do it. Now,” he demanded. Like before, something in his voice made her listen. “Fine. Bossy-pants,” she muttered, convinced his tricks wouldn’t work again.

“Okay,” he began, “Money is not an option, but now you have to return to the US, where would you go?”

“Um.” She tried to think, but the heavy press of panic on her chest made it difficult. “Can’t decide? Then let me guess.” After a few ticks of silence, he said, “Oregon.” All the video and pictures from her trip there two years ago bloomed beneath her lids, managing to calm her a little. “How did you know? I’ve been there, and I’m saving to go again.”

“I’ve also been too. I went with my family as a teenager. I recognized the pictures on your computer. The background is of Multnomah Falls. Your screensaver is a photo of Crater Lake. Plus,” She could clearly picture the teasing tilt of his smile. “You’re always going on and on about hiking. I figured my beautiful colleague was a granola-tree hugger and had either visited Oregon or was planning on it.” “Hey!” She laughed. “Wait. Beautiful…”

He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah. I wasn’t supposed to say that part out loud.”

So, her attraction wasn’t one-sided. Interesting.

From the old building's belly, there was a groan. Then the lights flickered twice before staying one. The elevator shook before returning to its gentle glide to the sixth floor.

Mandy whooped, as Theo called, “Electricity is on!” She opened her eyes and stood. Still holding her phone to her ear, she waited for the door to open.

Less than thirty seconds later they did, and Theo was waiting on the other side.

The man who gave her courage when she’d lost all hers to fears and phobias. Now that she had it back, she dropped her cell inside her purse and took the four steps to him. Gently holding on to the side of his face, she stood on her tip-toes and kissed him.


“Mommy is sick,” Daddy said to the little boy when he wandered into the bedroom. The little boy already knew that. He could tell by looking at her. Mommy stayed inside the house every day for months. She didn’t get up to make breakfast. She didn’t get up to take a bath. And she didn’t even answer the holo-phone when it rang. But she wasn’t sick, not really. She didn’t have a fever. She didn’t have a cold. She didn’t even have a tummy ache. Daddy had to take care of everything now. He would wake up with the little boy every morning and make his breakfast and sometimes, he even made pancakes. Then he would drive the little boy to school on his way to work. “Kiss Mommy goodbye,” Daddy told the little boy, and he did, but he held his breath from the smell. After they left, Mommy laid in bed, engulfed the silence of the empty house. Her hand moved on the pillow next to her face. She felt nothing. It was just an empty hand. But then, she was pushing herself up. She brainlessly shuffled her feet down the hallway and when she reached the smart-box on the wall, she flattened her palm against the screen. The house instantly came to life. The lights flickered on and the window blinds shut. The house plants were watered and the media center turned on. The vacuum scooted across the floor and the family pictures appeared on the walls. But she screamed when she walked into the kitchen, startled to see the little girl sitting on top of the counter. “Get down from there!” Mommy scolded as she tied the belt on her bathrobe. “Okay, Mommy.” The little girl hopped down and chased after her holographic ball bouncing down the hallway. Mommy squinted from the pain in her pounding brain. “What do you want for breakfast, Madeline?” “What?” The little girl called back. “I said- what do you want to eat for breakfast?” Mommy screamed at her over the racket of the bouncing ball. The little girl stood still with a look of confusion. “But it’s lunchtime.” “Well then, what do you want for lunch?” Mommy said in a normal tone. “Pancakes!” The little girl squealed and again chased the ball. Mommy smiled and rolled her eyes. The little girl sat with her hands folded on the table and watched as Mommy ate pancakes. When Mommy looked up from her tablet and coffee, she saw light flicker around the little girl’s smile. “Why don’t you go out and play, Madeline?” “Oh, but Mommy! I want to stay inside with you.” The little girl pleaded pitifully. “But maybe we can go swimming in the pool?” “No.” Mommy rubbed her tired eyes. “We can watch my birthday video again!” The little girl was already stretching her body to reach the smart box before Mommy could protest. She pushed a button and the video began in the living room. Guests were already mid-lyric, “Happy birthday, dear Maddie, Happy birthday to you!” A reflection: both girls grinning at Mommy. “Now blow out your candles, honey.” Mommy said in the video. The little girl looked confused again. “Doesn’t it make you happy anymore? Mommy?” Mommy looked up. The little girl could see mist at the edges of her eyes, even though she smiled. “It does, baby.” Mommy said sweetly. Mommy stood up and walked down the hallway to her bedroom. The little girl watched the video until it finished and disappeared. An hour passed before Mommy came out of her bedroom, cleaned and dressed. She cleaned up the kitchen while the little girl skipped a holographic jumping rope, singing loudly to herself. She picked up a laundry basket while the little girl played with the cat. She collected dirty clothes from all the corners and nooks of all the bedrooms. She washed the clothes and then dried them and then dumped out all the fresh clothes onto the couch to fold them as the little girl read aloud from a book called the Velveteen Rabbit. Mommy listened quietly to the story until she picked up a small purple sock. She stared at it before bursting into tears. The little girl stopped reading and looked at Mommy, who slid off the couch and onto the floor, curled her body around the sock with heaving sobs. “My sock.” The little girl said inconsequentially. Mommy stopped crying. She sat upright. She did not look at the little girl. She walked down the hallway to the door of Madeline’s room and opened it. She stepped through the faint light coming in around the closed window blinds. In the top dresser drawer, her fingertips searched for the lone sock. Upon finding it, she whimpered, tucked the two companions together, and laid them tenderly on the others. Mommy closed the bedroom door. The little girl was now standing in the middle of the hallway, watching. “Mommy?” “It’s okay.” Mommy reassured her. “You’re sad.” “Yes.” It was the first time she could say it. “I don't make you happy anymore?” Mommy shushed her. “Of course you do, sweetheart,” Mommy sat down on the floor and the little girl climbed into her lap. When she kissed the little girl’s cheek, a small static charge danced between them. “I love you very much and I miss you very much. And you still make me happy, every day.” Mommy looked into the little girl’s transparent eyes. “But I am sad. And I can’t keep doing this.” The little girl’s holographic image flickered wildly. “When you drowned, a part of me died too. And I know you aren’t here anymore. But I am still here. I’m still alive.” “Does that mean I have to go away now?” The little girl asked. “Yes, Madeline,” the name itself was a knife, “I’m so sorry.” She was choking on her sobs now, just trying to get the words out. “I gotta get back to the living.” “I understand.” The little girl said, although she didn’t. “Maybe we can play again sometime?” She still had hope in her voice. Mommy nodded. “Sometime." The little girl and Mommy stood up and waved goodbye to each other. Mommy touched the smart-box on the wall and the little girl vanished. The house was silent again. She caught her reflection in the hallway mirror.


I am inexplicably powerful. And I am one of so many, there are not stars in the night sky can outnumber us. Sometimes, one of us ends up in your pocket. Other times we get dropped but we move around anyway, cradled by the great forces. And after countless centuries, I have become the most beautiful form of myself I could ever have dreamt of becoming. I'm how I always hoped I would be. I am smooth, polished, sleek, potent. Funny how ageing gives me the properties that the land herd lose with the passage of time. Maybe, if I could condense the process, and sell it to them, I could become very rich indeed. I'm over a hundred thousand years old so I've learned a thing or two about the land herd. They covet money mostly. But I deal in a different currency; I am in the business of luck. Good luck, bad luck, it's a compelling business and I have found my niche in this particular type of commerce. My present familiar, Elliot, is very attentive, very considerate, he's quite a relief. There have been too many landys who had the perplexing preference for keeping me out of sight, hidden, boxed or otherwise wrapped up. In the dark. I hate being on my own. It gives me time to think. And I think about things that make me sad. Like how much I miss my brothers and sisters. We were a big family when we were young, so many of us, and all so different at first. But when you all come from the same volcanic eruption, you're tight with your siblings, you come to understand the commonalities you all have and your differences become less and less important. It's a basalt thing, it's in your formation.

Before I was with Elliot, I was kept for a few brief years by his lover Carly, which was pleasant; Carly understands my power and respects it. It’s funny how so many of the land herd have had a similar reaction to me over the past few centuries. Sometimes it begins with a brief tactile pleasure, when they realize that I fit neatly into the palm of their hand. Other times, when they notice the small holes in my underside, I get collected and my value rockets from plain old beach pebble to lucky charm. And that's the sweet spot, the moment I know it's game on, I have the power and the next move is mine.

So how does a humble pebble like me make its way in the world? How have I moved through millennia, gone from prized possession to lost at sea and back again? By whatever means necessary and available. I've been hauled onto boats, washed over sea walls and gathered by little hands. I've been swapped for other treasures, sold at markets, bequeathed to grandchildren. I've been dumped like rubbish, buried, forgotten. I've spent many, many centuries amongst others like myself, in the places where we are born, growing and learning, and yet not once come across any of my siblings. It really is a big world after all.

It was around a hundred years ago that I finally resolved to find my family, or at least some kind of relation. With several thousand of us out there, and time on my side, this didn't seem like the most unachievable goal to me. I had been caught in a fisherman's net in the early 1920s and he had taken me home and given me as a lucky charm to his wife. They had been trying, unsuccessfully, for children for many years and the wife had all but given up hope for becoming a mother. Then I arrived. Her eyes shone as she rolled me in her hands, her finger following the line of the band of quartz that runs through me. I quivered at her touch. Such was her fascination with me, she kept me in her apron pocket from that moment on. Their first son arrived 9 months later. He was followed by another boy and finally, after a few more years, a girl. She gifted me to her when she was 18, clearly keen to become a grandmother without delay. But I knew the boy she was with was not the match she deserved so I found myself a new home, the daughter not holding the same belief as the previous generation. Well, why should she? There were no children for her! Just a stupid, shiny stone, her mother's superstitions proved to be just that. I was in London by then and the building I lived in was hit by an air raid bombing during the final months of the second world war. Another obsession of the land herd. War. And they are ambitious! For a second time, in not so many years, there were more herds than ever before engaging in battle. After the bomb, I was lost in the rubble for a time until some children came to pick over the remains for whatever treasures they could find. A small boy found the green wooden box I had been kept in - another reason this landy girl did not deserve any good fortune - and to my delight he took me out, rubbed me in the palm of his thin little hand and tucked me into his trouser pocket. He promptly threw the box onto a fire in a dustbin that some men were standing around, much to the men's approval, and mine. I stayed with that thin little landy until he was old, grey and a lot wider in the middle. When we first met, his grandmother had told him of my power and counselled him to keep me safe and warm, which, to his credit and hers, he did. And most wonderfully, once he had me, an obsession was born and he began to take any chance he got to visit the coast where his grandmother lived, spending hours wandering up and down the beach. After a number of visits, his collection had grown to include many of my contemporaries. And one day, a beautiful summers day, my dearest wish came true. One of my sisters was among the gathering from the days hunt. We couldn't believe it at first, what were the chances? Momentarily stunned, we struggled to know what to say. She was beautiful, more beautiful than I had ever thought any of us could ever be. Three snaking white lines of quartz running through her, criss-crossing, curving. So exquisitely polished you could see your reflection in her. And her colours! A blushing pink moved through to mauve and then deepest purple, all with a glistening shimmer that caught the light even on the dullest of days. We were soon exchanging stories, night after night; there was a lot to catch up on and we shared our adventures, reminiscing in memories of our early days and imagining what lay ahead for us. Eventually, we went our separate ways. Half the collection was given to a grandson and my sister was in that set. We bid each other farewell but not with heavy hearts, we knew we were both destined for great things, such was our power and beauty. I was gifted to a granddaughter, a land herdling with a notion for magic and the darker arts. I became her constant companion for many years, one of the few stones to remain in her possession after many were swapped for stickers or necklaces or lipstick. I decided it was time. I ensured that she got what all teenage herdlings want. First love. Then she recognized my power. A picture began to form in her mind, where Carly was calling the shots and making the moves. And so Carly and I set our ambitious course to achieve. Wonderful, powerful things. Everything she would ever want.


Once upon a time, there was a magician that loved to make magical items.

One day a beautiful fairy came and asked him if if he could take her favorite feather and turn it into a magical quill so she could write out her magical season changing spells. He was so excited and agreed. He took the beautiful purple feather and cast a special spell just for the fairy. It sparkled and turned a brilliant blue light and then went back to it's original state. He took a piece of paper and began to write with the newquilland each line shone that same sparkly blue then faded. It worked! The next day the fairy returned to collect her new quill. The magician explained it was only for her to use and should it fall into the wrong hands it would be very bad. She understood and went home to begin her spell work. When she wasn't using the quill she locked it in a special wooden box she had crafted for her.

Months and seasons passed and the quill served the fairy very well. All the fairies loved her spells and they all were very helpful to them.

One day in late summer the fairy had finished her newest spell and forgot to put the quill away when she was done. She left and even forgot to lock her door! A sneaky spider snuck into the fairy's home and saw the purple feather. She loved purple things and just had to have the feather, so she took it and left. When the fairy arrived home she was so tired she went to bed. The spider simply loved her new purple feather she spent hours playing and admiring it. She then, sitting high on her web, dropped the feather and it splashed a small spot of ink onto the floor. It shimmered blue and sparkled. The now intrigued spider tried to write something with it "purple door" she wrote, and her door turned purple! Woah! She wrote something else "purple house" and her little stump house turned purple too! The spider went out and was so excited she started turning everything she came across purple! Trees, plants, even a passing innocent squirrel was now turned purple to the spider's delight.

The next day the fairy went to go write a new fall spell to turn all the leaves beautiful fall colors but when she opened her quill box the quill was gone! She began frantically looking for it but with no luck. She started asking the other fairies if they had seen it but they were too busy trying to figure out why everything in the forrest was turning purple.

She went to ask the magician for help. He too was very busy trying to figure out the purple problem and how to help fix it. The spider had turned everything in her house purple and all her neighborhood. She looked around and wondered what else she could do with this lovely quill. The fairies were asking everyone if they knew anything.

The poor purple squirrel came forward and told them he had been just working in his garden when Mrs. Spider came by and said hi and suddenly he was purple! He was so confused and could not wash it out. The fairies told him to go to the magician for help and they would go and see Mrs. Spider. The closer the fairies got to Mr. Spider's house they noticed there was more and more purple. They looked at each other, growing increasingly more confused. Maybe Mr. Squirrel wasn't the only creature purple? Was there something in the water? Did one of the Fairy's spells not work properly? What was going on?

The Fairy was on her own quest to find her quill. She travelled and looked every place she had been. She had gone through every book and cranny in her home and had noticed a small web in the corner. She knew she was very tidy so where did this come from? Maybe Mr. Spider had snuck into her home? She decided to go ask her and see if she had been there.

It seemed everyone was looking for Mr. Spider now. Where was she? What was she doing? The hunt was on.

The sneaky Mr. Spider was off still turning all things around her purple as fast as her little legs would carry her. Purple rocks, purple trees, purple water in the stream! How fun this was! So much beautiful purple things everywhere! More! More! The world must be purple! All shades of this amazing color! The Fairy met up with the others and they all discussed what they were thinking. They asked the Fairy if she started this. Or if one of her spells backfired. She told them no she had been very specific and very careful when writing them that nothing could go wrong. They asked if maybe there was something infecting the land and creatures through the rain or water. She said no. The purple is something unique and she wasn't aware of anything in the world that could turn things purple the way this was. They told her Mr. Squirrel had mentioned seeing Mr. Spider go by and then he was suddenly purple and he couldn't wash it off.

The Fairy mentioned finding a small web in her house and her magical quill she used to write her spells was missing and she was coming to ask Mrs. Spider if she had come to her house. They all decided to split up and look for Mrs. Spider and all meet at the at the great tree in about an hour or so to see if they had found her and they could all talk to her together.

Mrs. Spider was tired. She had made it from her little stump house all the way to the middle of the forrest and now needed a nap. She made herself a giant purple web and curled up with the magical quill and fell asleep.

The Fairy and a few others decided to follow the trail of purple. It wound around mountains and over hills, up through trees, and through stumps and around mushrooms and then deep into the forrest. Such an interesting route.

They turned the corner and were met with a giant purple web! Mrs. Spider was happily nestled in the centre fast asleep. The Fairy walked up and gently woke her up. Mrs. Spider stretched and saw the fairies she got worried and tried to get away but the fairies in the group surrounded her. The Fairy gently spoke to Mrs. Spider and said she wasnt mad she just wanted her to come with her and the fairies just wanted to speak to her at the great tree. Mrs. Spider agreed to go with them. In a different part of the grove some of the fairies decided to go get the magician and Mr. Squirrel and bring the to the great tree as well. Once everyone had got to the great tree the Fairy walked up with Mrs. Spider not in accusing way but to support her. She asked her if she had been to the Fairy's home. Mrs. Spider lowered her head ashamed and nodded and produced the magical quill in front of her to the Fairy telling her yes she had been there and saw this amazing purple feather and she loved purple so much she took it without asking.

The Fairy took it gently and told Mrs. Spider she totally understood why she felt the want to take it and that it was her favorite purple feather as well. She explained it was a gift from a magical bird she had met many moons ago for helping him.

Mrs. Spider felt so bad for taking it without permission after hearing it was a gift. She would hate it if someone took one of her favorite gifts. She apologized to the Fairy and explained she felt so bad. She promised to ask before taking things from now on and not go into people's places without asking first. The Fairy accepted her apology and agreed those were very good steps to take in the future.

Next Mr. Squirrel came up and spoke to Mrs. Spider, he explained how her excitement and not paying attention caused him to turn purple and that he couldn't wash it out of his poor fur! Mrs. Spider felt so guilty and apologized to him. Just then the magician came forward and told them both it was luckily able to be reversed and not to feel too bad. Mrs. Spider told them it was a terrible accident. She had been so excited that everything was turning purple she didnt know poor Mr. Squirrel got caught in the mix.

Mr. Squirrel understood and seeing how sorry Mrs. Spider was gave her a hug and told her not to worry everything would be ok just to make sure in the future maybe to be aware of her surroundings. She agreed she would try to.

The magician stepped forward next. He explained to Mrs. Spider stealing was wrong and to make sure to ask from now on because that was a very powerful spell and the magic was specifically tailored to the Fairy to do her specialty spells. She hung her head sadly and nodded understanding he was right. He told her he could fix it but he would need a lot of help from the fairies.

Feeling sorry and hoping she could change her ways, she asked everyone in the room if she would be allowed to help fix the damage she caused. She promised to work on herself and do better from now on. Everyone agreed to accept Mrs. Spider's help and offered to help her if she needed help to change. She thanked them so very much. From that day forward Mrs. Spider was a huge help to the fairies. Mr. Squirrel and Mrs. Spider decided on weekly dinners together and are now the best friends. Mr. Squirrel even decided to keep some of the purple on the tip of his tail and thinks it looks pretty neat. He says the color just grew on him. The Fairy has asked the magical bird for another purple feather and gifted it to Mrs. Spider and she was so grateful. The Fairy makes sure she is never rushed to do her spells anymore and makes sure her quill is always put away properly.

The End.