“‘We’re running out of time.’” “Shut up, Mike,” Linda groaned and adjusted the thick collar of her bomb disposal suit. “I’d say that’s famous last words, but I don’t know if anyone heard them.” Mike stood on his toes to see the long line dwindling to a speck in front of the pair, to the limitless white that was the group, horizon, and sky, then to the line behind them just as long. “Our radios were open. Someone heard it.” Mike shifted the weight between his feet and looked down at the fluffy white wisps billowing around his shins. “What’s taking this so long?” “It’s the gates of heaven, of course there’s a line,” Linda said with an eye-roll behind her face shield. “I’m sure the rate of deaths is a lot higher now than when it was built. Think of how much I-696 gets backed up at rush hour. Except it’s always rush hour.” “I didn’t realize you were such an expert in the afterlife.” “I’ve thought about it often in our line of work.” “So what went wrong?” Mike asked. “We traced the circuit, eliminated the false ones. I’d stake…” He paused with a chuckle. “I was about to say I’d stake my life on being right. You know what I mean.” The pair shuffled forward to close up the gap forming in front of them. Linda shrugged, her heavy suit barely moving with the motion. “Maybe the timer was counting down to ninety seconds, maybe there was another device, maybe a meteor landed on us. Maybe we can ask when we get to the front of the line. Maybe we’ll never know.” They shuffled forward again. “At least we’re moving,” said Mike and craned his neck to catch the first glint of light off the distant pearly silver. “Ever wonder why heaven has gates? Are they keeping something in? Or something out? Do gates mean there are defined borders?” “It’s all symbolism,” said Linda. “We’re limited mortals that can’t truly comprehend the abstract. We have to label and categorize everything, know how it feels and tastes, how it reacts under an electrical current. We’re just creating a visual representation of input our minds can’t comprehend; seeing what we expect to see.” Mike scratched at the hood of his suit. “I’d expect this line would move faster.” They shuffled forward. “I just realized…” Mike started. “We’re dead. This sucks, but I expected to be more broken up about it. I just sort of feel hollow.” “I know, right?” They kept pace in silence for a while before Mike broke it. “You really have thought about this a lot. We worked together for four years and I don’t really know you, Linda.” “That’s intentional, Mike. Our job is nothing but stress and I want nothing to do with it when I’m off the clock.” Mike grunted thoughtfully. “Makes sense. So now that it doesn’t matter, tell me, who did you leave behind?” “A wife, a hamster, a crippling mortgage.” “A wife? No shit.” Mike repeated with a wide grin hidden behind his mask. “My boyfriend was about to move in. We’ve been together two years, but his cat hates my dog.” He paused and let the conversation drift away. “I’m sad thinking about Jace, but it’s more than I’m sad that I’m not sad. Being upset about the lack of something I know should be there.” He paused and licked his dry lips. “Am I making any sense?” “I didn’t finish my novel,” Linda whispered. “I worked on it every morning before Jean woke up. She didn’t know about it, but I was going to give her the first draft on our tenth anniversary. Now when she gets the dump of my digital legacy cloud backups, she won’t know to look for it.” They stepped forward. “What’s it about?” Mike asked. “It’s trash, just a gigantic pile of the worst tropes. A big city lawyer — Jean’s an attorney — goes home to the ranch — like what I grew up on — for the holidays and falls for the lady shepherd her family hired. It’s stupid, something that would be on an off-brand Hallmark station after midnight on a Tuesday.” “I mean, I don’t know Jean at all, but that sounds like just about the most romantic thing someone could do; create something to symbolize your love.” Linda chuckled wryly and wiped pointlessly at her mask. “Thinking of that has me thinking about Jean. I’m finally starting to miss her, not just sad about the lack of sadness, like you said. Actually missing her.” The group in front of the pair shuffled closer, forcing Mike and Linda to retreat a step. “Rude,” Mike grumbled. “How were you going to have Jace’s cat and your dog to get along?” “I suggested we let them share a steak,” said Mike. “Food is always the best unifier.” “Unless your dog runs off with it.” “Ser Corgnealius is fifteen, toothless, and not stealing anyone’s steak. He’d just have the juices while Steve eats the actual meat and growls the whole time.” He sighed. “What?” The group pressed at the pair again and they stepped back. “Thinking about Jace, I felt nothing. Now I’m on the verge of collapsing into a blubbery mess, thinking about what we won’t have together. Like you and the book with Jean. Jace is an installation artist. He had cosmic-level plans for my loft apartment with all that exposed brick.” A stab of pain shot through Mike’s chest, doubling him forward. Linda dropped to a knee in her bulky suit. The group before them pressed back, pushing the pair from the line that quickly closed up. The agony shot through him again, like his heart would explode from his chest. He struggled to breathe through burning lungs, though he couldn’t remember needing air while standing in line. As he collapsed to his knees, then to his side, he faced the line of recently deceased that shrank and lost focus with each labored hammer of his heart. Mike struggled to turn toward the pearly gates once more, to catch a last view of the light glinting so far away. A regular, high beep crept into Mike’s mind, instantly recognizable as a heart rate monitor. He took a thin breath, cringing at the ache in his chest, but the tube across his nose helped to press oxygen into him. Mike struggled to open his mouth that felt like it was full of glue and moaned instead. He felt pressure on his right hand, a soft squeeze perhaps. Someone made gentle shushing sounds and a plastic straw touched his lips. He sucked in the tepid water that burned all the way down to his stomach. Despite the discomfort, he drank more to unstick his mouth and form a single word. “Linda?” The silence lasted long enough that Mike was unsure he’d made any sound. “She’s alive,” Jace whispered. “Focus on you right now.” Days passed until the bandages were removed to let Mike see the world again. The doctors told him the concussive force of the device stopped his heart for two full minutes. Other than burns and a pacemaker at twenty-nine, he was whole. Saved by the protective gear, Linda was as well off, but had yet to wake. Three weeks later, the doctors release him. Though he could walk, Jace wheeled him to the exit, in accordance with hospital regulations. Mike stood and walked back in, aiming for the long-term care with Jace on his heels. The ward held six beds. A woman with dark hair pulled back in a tie sat near the window, holding the hand of the room’s only patient. She quickly snatched her hand back to her lap and looked at him with red-rimmed eyes that hadn’t seen descent sleep in a month. “It’s okay, Jean,” Mike said and started, unsure of how he knew her name. She relaxed and returned her hand to Linda’s. “You must be Mike. Linda never told me much about you, but if you know of me, you know why.” “It’s the weirdest thing,” Mike said and sat on the edge of the nearest empty bed. He looked down at Linda, looking restful with a few light bruises on her cheek and a suture on her forehead. “I feel like she and I talked for hours on everything. I know all about you, your hamster, the summer cottage, her secret boo—” He caught himself quickly and raised his voice to cover it. “But don’t remember having the actual conversations. We must have talked while on the job and the adrenaline did something to my memory. Getting blown up jostled it all to the front.” Jace sat beside him and wrapped an arm around his waist. With a sudden gasp, Linda jerked upright, her hair tangling around her shoulders and her eyes wide as though she couldn’t see everything fast enough. Her shoulders relaxed and her gaze settled on Jean as she grinned. It just as quickly twitched to Mike and drifted to the one beside him. Her voice was a strained whisper. “You must be Jace.”


We are sheepherders existing in badlands at the foot of the mountains. In one season we take our sheep, friends we have known since forever, out into prairies bejeweled with carpeting of flowers purple, gold, yellow, white and blue. Everything changes, prairies dry up, then some of us go up different paths with different sheep into the mountains. My older cousin Lucy taught me how to love when neither of us had hair growing "down there." I am now a magnificent, slender, crazy young man. She is somewhat fat, thick hair collected into a piggytail as is the way of our people, popular with the everybody, but not on any boy's list of potential wives. I don't know why that should be, she is absolutely delightful. Her smile makes the wind laugh and her laugh makes the sheep pee. Although my mother and Lucy's father, my mother's brother, and indeed the whole tribe, would not approve of intimacy between relatives, still, since an early age, they have always arranged things for us to be together. When we were told to sleep out in the barn on a cold night when the house was full of guests, what must they have been thinking? Now that I am older, I realized how lucky it is that she did not get pregnant. And now, we are paired together again, to accompany some sheep 20 miles away, high up in a lonely area. There is an icy stream, craggy rocks, we sleep under the stars unless it rains, when we retreat into an ancient cabin full of spider webs. Lucy doesn't care for spiders, but me, I fear nothing! Not really much to do, chasing and controlling sheep is kind of challenging and entertaining. One night, while digesting our simple rabbit-onion-chile-cornmeal porridge, we began talking about the White missionary lady, and her mysterious preaching. I and the other men paid no attention to her nonsense about some White Man's book and ridiculous stories that clearly were impossible. There was this woman who claimed to have gotten pregnant without sex, and her son bragged he was a god! White people are stupid, none of the real humans would ever believe such fantasies. Lucy and a few other women, however, were tricked, and listened to the White woman's lies, and now the infection spread around the village like fleas on homeless dogs. So Lucy couldn't help but ask me, as a way to keep on talking before going to sleep in front of the campfire "Where is God I wonder?" Our shaman has told us the stories of our people. How the stars made love, and sent fairies to earth as raindrops, and the local goddess of the earth woke up, and the fairies grew up as maize. There is no single all-powerful "God," that would be an imbalance of power. What lightning bolt can claim to be "God" when it only exists a moment. What "God" is a fire, that burns out and becomes ash? Still, it is a fair question I suppose. "In the sky, obviously!" I retorted contemptuously. Lucy sighed, looking up at the stars, shimmering and shining magnificently in the cold dark moonless sky. "Where? I don't see him." "Him? No no, all the sky and the stars and the clouds, that is God!" "I just don't see it! I see the Plow, and the Bear and the Dog. But where is God?" I was beginning to like this game. "Ha ha ha, must be Father Sun and Sister Moon then!" Lucy shook her head, and closed her eyes. "No, the White lady said God is always with us. Father Sun leaves us every night! The White Lady said God is unchangeable. Sister Moon grows to a bright happy disk and shrinks to sad blackness, that is not unchangeable." I noticed some eyes gleaming redly up on some tree branch. "Look there, Lucy, there is God!" Lucy snorted. "No, that is only Cousin Porcupine, looking for food in the oak branches." I looked around. Down by the creek there was a rustling noise. "Quick, quick, over there!" I pointed. "Surely that is God!" Lucy stared with a frightened expression, squinting. "Oh, that is only Brother Coyote, following the scent of a rat." "I will show you exactly where God is, then Lucy, but you must promise to keep it a secret." She smiled, dreamily, as I stared into her eyes. "See, God is always there, if you know just where to look.


To hear the stories told by old women over the fire, one would believe the world to be inhabited by ghouls and hobgoblins. This is not true. The world is full of magic for sure, but the magic has been here longer than the old women, longer than humankind and longer indeed than memory can express. In the beginning of time, Allondial was born. Her first breath was a gasp that awakened humankind from the eternal sleep of non-existence. Her smile was gentle as she gazed upon all creation as it woke, and humankind smiled back. Enthralled and enchanted by her beauty, humanity sought ways to draw closer to her, to find comfort in her bosom. For she was the first light, a magical, shimmering luminosity that whispered of possibilities and caressed the soul. In the shadows cast by her gentle light, poets and artist and musicians were born, their inspiration drawn from the heart of the one who called them into being. She smiled upon them, her gentle radiance guiding their endeavours, and as they shaped their art, the heart of Allondial sang with joy. Yet, the gaze of Allondial was fickle, her attention fluttering towards distant realms and unexplored horizons. As her face turned away, darkness draped the world, and humanity, left alone, wailed in despair. Shadows deepened, and a profound sorrow, accompanied by weeping and wailing, swept across the land. Amidst this enveloping darkness, a man named Remu arose, a soul aflame with defiance against the darkness. In his desperation, he cried out to Allondial, hurling rocks into the abyss, pleading for the return of her radiant light. “Allondial!” he beseeched. “Turn your face to us once more. Bless us with your light, for without your face, we are nothing.” In the silent darkness, Remu’s voice echoed unheard. Frustration gripped him, and in his anguish, he cast a stone, inadvertently igniting a spark that flickered and vanished, gone before he could even know its name. Undeterred, he continued, desperate to capture this new light, to hold that brightness and study its beauty. It was so incredibly different from anything he had ever known. On and on, casting stone after stone, until one spark, landing on dry grass, birthed a tiny blaze, growing in size and brightness and warmth until a small flame fluttered about Remu’s feet. He laughed and searched for a way to harness this light, to control it and keep it close to him. Grasping a branch from a nearby tree, Remu thrust its leaves into the blaze. The new light consumed the offering ravinously, growing ever brighter. “I will call you ‘fire’, and you shall be with me always,” Remu announced with pride. Remu took this new fire back to his people, igniting their curiosity once more with the bright flame. Its warmth lured them from the shadows to bask in the glow and dance by the wavering light. Soon Allondial was merely a memory, and humankind ceased to pine for her gentle face. The heat of the flame ignited a new passion, fueled by wanting and a desire to harness the flame for himself, to bend its light to his own need. Yet, as the flames multiplied, so did the flames of greed within their hearts. Where once humankind had created harmony, enjoying the fruits of the soul that flourished in the light of Allondial’s gaze, now nothing but envy grew. Each person could measure the brilliance of their own light and compare it with the blaze of another. Want grew within the soul, obliterating need, leaving no room for the beauty of hope. Each person fed their flame, hoping to enlarge it, to brighten their own world and prove their personal superiority. As the competition grew, so too did the flames, until it was impossible to contain them. The fire, an impish, impudent and impulsive beast, escaped its confines to run rampant. It danced with delight, devouring all in its wake, knowing neither friend nor foe. And soon humankind learned a new word—fear. The shouts and screams echoed throughout the land, as fire consumed them without discrimination. What was once a source of joy, igniting hope, became a merciless destroyer. Remu, witnessing the devastation wrought by his own creation, wept for the ruins of his home. Accusations were hurled at him by his own people, fingers pointed in harsh judgment. “You caused this!” they cried. “You brought this beast to our door, and it has feasted upon our lives. Now it has ruined us!” Remu, burdened by the weight of guilt, could not deny the truth. His actions had birthed a destructive force that now consumed the very essence of their existence. Drawn to the light, Allondial returned to witness her progeny engulfed by the flames of chaos. “Remu!” she cried. “What have you done?” The sound of her voice drew all things to a halt. Every voice was muted, every flame frozen in its place. In the brightness of the fire, Allondial’s face waned, and the radiance was leeched from her skin. Deathly shadows deepened her eyes and carved the groove of her mouth. Her sinister appearance shook Remu to his core, and he threw himself before her in fear. “Forgive me!” Remu begged. “You have defiled the land. For that you must die!” Allondial raised her hand and grasped a flaming branch and thrust it into Remu’s chest. His life blood welled up and flooded the land with its crimson tide as it doused the flames. Slowly, Remu sank into the ground as darkness once more covered the land. In the silence that followed, Allondial searched for her people, her face once again shimmering with light, but everywhere she looked, she found them sleeping, their bodies overcome with exhaustion. There was no one to admire her, no poet to write and ode to her beauty, no artist to paint her radiant face. No matter what she tried, no one would awaken, and she stood in solitude for an eternity. Finally, unable to bear the loneliness any longer, Allondial reached into the ground to find Remu, and pulled him from his death. “Why are they sleeping?” she asked. Remu glanced about him. “They are tired.” “Why?” “They had to work hard to survive the fire.” “When will they wake?” “I do not know. When it is time to work again, I suppose.” Allondial thought about that for a long moment. “They work when your fire is burning, but sleep when my shadow covers them.” Remu agreed that it did seem to be so. “Then you will need your flame once more.” She took a branch, and with her gentle light, set a small spark to burn. She handed the flaming branch to Remu. “Take care that you do not set the world on fire his time.” Remu took the branch and bowed to his lady Allondial. “Will I see you again?” “I will not be gone for long. We will meet again.” And so Remu set forth with his branch ablaze, awakening humanity and encouraging them rise and work. When the day was done and the flames began to escape their confines and set the land ablaze, Allondial returned and once again thrust the burning branch deep into Remu’s chest, quenching the flames. She then wandered the land, calling to lovers and poets, and awakening creativity. And thus, it is the pattern for all eternity, Allondial and Remu follow one another, meeting only at dusk, to quench the flames of day and again at dawn to light the new day. *** “Now, my sweet child, that’s enough for one night. Go to sleep. Allondial is coming, and you don’t want her to catch you trying to burn all the branches. You know what happened to Remu when he wanted more?” “But mumma, it’s just a story!” “Is it?” “Yes, mumma, but there is more? Isn’t there?” “Child, you must go sleep.” “Tell me more…” *** As Allondial roamed the heavens on her celestial journey, she kept a close eye upon Remu. He was a man given to vanity and self-importance, as most men are. “I am Remu!” he cried one day. “I am he who brings life and laughter. I am he who brightens your day with light and gives you the gift of prosperity.” From her position high above all, in the darkness of night, where poets dream and people find rest, Allondial heard the boasting. In the silence of the heavens, she crept closer, all the better to hear Remu make his preposterous claims. “I am Remu, come worship my flame. Give me the first fruits of your harvest. Send me your first-born daughters. Your bounty is rightfully mine and I claim it, for without me, you wither and die.” Allondial ignored the posturing and posing, and turned away in disgust. She continued her own journey casting her light on lovers and poets alike. In the harsh light of day, a daughter was chosen, a sacrifice to appease the mighty Remu. Selected, because she did not sleep—a child who will not sleep, must belong to Remu. The mother cried and dressed her child in the finest garments, weaving a crown of wheat and fruits for her hair. The father stood tall and proud, knowing that his sleepless daughter would bring great honour to his family. But the daughter, Summa, was not proud. She was afraid and unwilling. Frightened, she fled into the night, her long dark hair streaming behind her. The people cursed as she ran, grasping at her clothes and hair, trying to prevent her escape. “Allondial!” cried Summa. “Save me, I beseech you. Do not allow them to sacrifice me to sate Remu’s hunger.” In her distant place, Allondial heard the cry, the single voice appealing to her in the darkness of despair. “Child,” she said. “Why are you so distraught?” “I am to be a sacrifice to Remu’s lust for more. Save me, please. You are the only one who can.” “If I save you, I will need your unwavering devotion from this day forth.” “My lady,” Summa said as she bowed low. “I am yours, whether you save me or not.” Impressed by the girl’s faith and dedication, Allondial ascended to the heavens where Remu hung, boasting of his power, light and warmth. “My people, where is your sacrifice?” he demanded, his hand holding the burning branch aloft shaking with rage. Allondial gasped, outraged and offended. These people were her people, she gave them light and life, yet here was Remu claiming them as his own. “She has gone, fled we know not where,” cried the father, as the people bowed and averted their faces away from the radiance of Remu’s anger. “Find her. I demand you bring her to me at once.” “Remu,” Allondial called, her voice as soft as the night, yet louder than thunder. “Remu, you forget yourself.” “I forget nothing. I am Remu, I am he who brings light.” “I am Allondial. She who brings darkness.” “Light dispels darkness. My power is greater than yours, my lady.” Allondial glared at him across the heavens and silently, without once taking her eyes off him, she came closer. “You do not frighten me, my lady. I am Remu, I am light.” Allondial said nothing, yet crept closer still. “There is naught you can do. I am stronger than you in the day.” Still Allondial spoke not a word, and came closer, her eyes not blinking against the brightness of Remu’s flaming branch. Once she was so close that she could see the hint of fear in his eyes, feel the tremor of trepidation in his limbs, she grasped the burning branch from his hand, and thrust it into his stomach, twisting it just so for maximum pain. Remu’sblood burst forth, a halo of gold igniting the heavens in a painful light. The people averted their eyes, lest they go blind from the radiance. “You will never be stronger than me!” Allondial hissed, her eyes glowing fierce and white in the sudden darkness. For four minutes she held him there, impaled upon his own branch. For four minutes, she gloated as the light of life withered in his eyes. Then, when she had made her point, she withdrew the burning branch. “Remember your place, Remu. Remember you exist, because I will it so.” With those parting words, she turned and left him hanging in the sky, shaken and humbled. **** “Child, I am serious. It is time for sleeping. It will soon be morning, and you do not want Remu to think that he can claim you for a sacrifice.” “Allondial will save me.” “Only if you sleep, child. Now, goodnight.”


DIVI There lies this place beyond our grasp, a universe where there are no stars, no nebulas, and no planets except one. A lonely planet all by itself. It shares no sun with neighboring planets, it exists completely by itself in a vast nothingness. A planet much larger than our universes largest star, the planet known as “Infinity”. On this giant planet there is no water, no trees, no hot and no cold. Infinity has the perfect balance in temperature. The sky shines in the most spectacular color of blue. A human would die of pure joy just by staring into the sky. On the surface Infinity holds the greatest desert to ever exist. This desert covers the entire planet. It’s an endless magnificent desert that stretches far beyond anything we can imagine. The desert takes different shapes all across Infinity, it shines brighter than our sun in the region known as the white sands of “Anantprakash”. The “Varen” dunes that reach higher than Mt. Everest and sink lower than the Dead Sea. Far beyond the horizon of these dunes lie the desert flatlands. A place known as “Majeeda” where the flatlands extend endlessly in every direction with only the dunes surrounding them in the distance. It’s in these flatlands where we would find the lone life on this planet. In Majeeda there is a small shack which houses a very special creature. A creature that lives in complete solitude, a creature that shares this planet with no one else but loneliness itself. This creature is named “DIVI”, it has the unique ability to take the form of anything it wants. At times DIVI flies across the Varen dunes as a giant dragon and then sleds down them as a young child. DIVI loves to explore the desert plains of “Gila” as a cheetah, or soar high over the “Kuhld” belt as an eagle in search for a specific grain of sand. You see DIVI has a very unique purpose on this planet. DIVI’s purpose is to perfectly balance and shape each individual grain of sand on Infinity. DIVI has always been on this planet and it enjoys perfecting this eternal desert one grain at a time. On one particular day DIVI leaves its beautiful little shack as a short 80 year old man. He looks wise as his long beard hangs off his chin. He decides for his long trip to find his next grain of sand, that he wants to walk with a bit of a limp. For some reason DIVI thinks having a limp would give him more reason to walk with a cane, and DIVI really loves the idea of having a cane. DIVI limps slowly back into his shack and after a few moments comes back out with his cane. With a huge smile on his face he starts on his slow walk across the flatlands to locate his next grain of sand. DIVI walks for ages, taking small stops along the way to inspect grains of sand throughout the desert. As more time passes the joy on his face never leaves him, even when giant sand storms slam into him, he finds joy. He reaches his hands up into the storm and grasps a hand full of sand, but alas none of these grains are the ones he is looking for. As the storm ends the beautiful blue sky emerges, and DIVI decides to make another small stop. He slams his cane into the cracked dry desert ground and he takes a seat. He crosses his legs in the lotus position, and slowly starts to inspect the particles of sand around him. He slowly wipes his hand across the ground and picks up a hand full of sand, DIVI then starts to pour the sand into his other open palmed hand. He carefully watches each grain of sand as they slowly fall into his palm like a waterfall. DIVI’s eyes light up as he notices something. He starts to push around the grains in his hand as he finds the one grain he was looking for. He tightens his fist with the grain of sand in his hand and stands up. He is so elated he jumps for joy, hopping about in a circle, but then he clumsily drops the grain. With just a slight grunt of annoyance he gets on his knees and starts moving around the sand particles on the ground. He finally finds the grain again and carefully picks it back up. With a sigh of relief he wipes his brow and places the grain in a small pouch on his belt. DIVI grabs his cane and start walking back towards his shack. Much time goes by when he finally returns back to his little home, as he enters his shack he places his cane against the wall near the front entrance. He takes a seat on a creaky old wooden chair by a worn wooden table and takes out his pouch. He turns the pouch upside down and all sorts of little things fall out of it. Sitting on the table now is an old copper penny, a button, a clothespin, some string, a piece of lint, a green gem, and the grain of sand. He picks up the grain of sand and walks over to an empty spot in his shack. DIVI then lays the sand in a wooden bowl and places it on the floor directly in front of his feet. He sits down on the floor behind the bowl crossing his legs as he did earlier. He closes his eyes and places each hand on his knee, pressing his index and thumb fingers together. The entire planet goes still, no storms, no sound of the wind blowing the sands, just silence and DIVI starts to make an “OHM” sound. The sound resonates and echoes onto the entire planet. The wooden bowl in front of him starts to shake and the grain of sand starts to rise from the bowl. The grain is lumpy and oddly shaped. It continues to rise until its floating directly in front of his brow. The grain of sand starts to glow and DIVI can now see into it, the grain of sand is not sand at all. It contains an entire universe within it, a universe as vast and endless as our own. An unbelievably unbalanced universe, and he must balance it. Just like he has done for an eternity with all the other grains of sand across the planet Infinity. Each individual grain on this entire planet holds in it its own universe. Universes that are very similar with only slight differences. Universes where life cannot exist. Universes where heaven and hell battle each other for power. Universes where the god of Thunder rules over his land. Universes where turtles swim through space laying eggs that are planets. Every imaginable possibility has its own universe placed within a single grain of sand and DIVI must balance them all. As DIVI looks deeper into this grain he can see billions of years in an instant. He must enter his consciousness into this grain. This universe will take an eternity to shape but for DIVI it will only be moments. He must reshape every particle, atom, molecule, chemical, life, and soul within this Universal grain in order to make it perfectly balanced. DIVI will experience all there is to experience within this entire universe, and as time passes he will evolve and reshape the universe until it becomes one within itself to create perfect harmony. DIVI will experience pride, faith, envy, hope, gluttony, charity, lust, fortitude, wrath, justice, greed, prudence, sloth, and temperance. He will fall pray to ignorance and feel the isolation of wisdom. He will be the tortured and the torturer. DIVI will feel the pain of betrayal and the healing of forgiveness. Once DIVI aligns every single vibration of this Universal grain over an eternity he will feel an ultimate love which will release him from his trance. DIVI becomes the entire grain, everything that inside of this universe is him. The only way he can fully enter into this universe, he must strip away his divine nature. At the entrance into this universe there is a gate. This gate is called the “EGO” and it will wipe away his memory and his being will be scattered across the entire universe and placed inside everything that exists in it. Who DIVI is will be imprinted upon everything and as time moves on, these pieces will slowly come together like a magnet, aligning everything into perfect harmony. Over billions upon billions of years this cycle ends and DIVI opens his eyes. The grain of sand is now perfectly round. There are no lumps or odd shapes on it anymore. DIVI has just experienced an eternal cycle in a matter of moments. The grain falls back onto the wooden plate. The outside door now opens and as DIVI steps out of the shack, he is no longer the old man he is now a she, a little girl. With the pouch on her side she starts to skip away until she reaches the very place she found the grain of sand. She pulls it out of her pouch and gently places it on the ground. She knows she is never alone, she is happy. She felt ultimate love once more. She knows she can experience and be anything she wants and all she has to do is pick up a grain of sand. The End.


Possible TW: Description of dysphoria. Ruby stared at her reflection in the floor length mirror. She saw so many things wrong with the way she looked. Her hair was way too short. Her shoulders were too broad. She was about six inches too tall, her voice was three octaves too deep, her chest was about two cups too flat. At least, she thought. She didn’t know much about cup sizes. But the worst of all of her flaws was the fact that her body was biologically male. She didn’t understand why she had been born that way. Ruby could go on and on for hours about the things that she disliked about the face she saw staring back at her, but she didn’t exactly have the time for proper self loathing. She had to get ready for the big day she had ahead of her.

She slowly and painfully adjusted the grey duct tape that she had stuck to her inner thighs, changing the position of the tape so that it curved around her pelvic bones and up towards her belly button. She then pulled on a pair of small tighty-whities, getting dressed in a pair of ripped skinny jeans and an oversized, light purple sweatshirt. Finally, she slipped into a pair of black and white checkered Vans, and brushed out her ear length brown hair. Pretty much the second that Ruby was done getting herself ready, she heard a loud, obnoxious knock on the front door. She tensed up, startled by the noise, and then she hurried down the stairs to open the door. She quickly swung it open, and there on the porch stood her two best (and only) friends Finley and Klaus.

Finley smiled brightly as she opened the door. “Hi, Charlie!” Ruby winced slightly at her deadname, but she managed to hide it from her friends. “Hey, guys, come on upstairs,” She greeted them quietly. Klaus and Finley followed behind Ruby all up the stairs to her room, kicking off their shoes at the doorway. The three teenagers got comfortable laying on Ruby’s soft bed, and Klaus and Finley turned themselves around to face their friend. “So, why’d you ask us to come over here to see you, Charlie-Boy? We don’t hang out here much.” Klaus enquired, tilting his head.

This time, Ruby wasn’t able to hide her wince at the awful name. The two boys sitting in front of her immediately looked worried. “What’s wrong, babes?” Klaus asked her gently. He always called his friends pet names when he was worried about them. Ruby took a deep, slow breath, gearing herself up for the rejection she was sure to receive. “I have something to tell you guys, something kind of important.” Klaus and Finley looked at her intently; they were both confused, and slightly worried about her. “I’m transgender.” She blurted out quickly. She watched as Finley and Klaus’s eyebrows raised a tiny bit in surprise, and she could see the gears in their brains turning. She immediately began to ramble on, trying to explain herself to them. “So, uh, that means that I’m a girl. My name is Ruby Elizabeth Clare, because I couldn’t pick just one middle name, and my pronouns are she/her and I’m not named Charlie anymore. I never was really. I understand if you don’t wanna be friends with me anymore after knowing this, ‘cause it’s really weird to be honest and a lot of people think it’s gross and wrong, and that I’m gonna go to Hell because of it and I wouldn’t be surprised if you thought that too because it’s against Christianity, and-” “Ruby.” Finley interrupted her quietly. Ruby’s heart fluttered from hearing him use her proper name. “Yes?” “I’m trans too.” Klaus and Ruby’s heads both snapped towards him in surprise. “You are?” She asked.

“Yeah. I’m a trans guy, have you not seen any of the pictures in my house? You’re safe with me, I promise.” Ruby teared up. She couldn’t believe that her best friend was just like her.

Finley saw the tears in her eyes, and he held his arms open. Ruby launched herself into them, and he wrapped her up, holding her tightly to his chest.

“I promise, Ruby, it’s okay to be trans. I love you so much, and I’m so proud of you for feeling brave enough to tell me and Klaus this. This is so important.” “I’m proud of you too, and I love you,” Ruby whispered, holding onto Finley like he was her lifeline.

After a few seconds, the two friends pulled away from each other and turned to look at Klaus. Suddenly, Ruby’s heart was full of fear again.

“Klaus..?” Finley’s voice shook a bit. “How are you processing all of this?” Klaus shrugged nonchalantly, seemingly unfazed. “I’m fine with all of it. I have nine siblings, you really think that every single one of them are cisgender and straight? Henrie is a trans boy, and Jemm is genderfluid. Besides, even if I didn’t have trans siblings, I’m attracted to men. I’m gay. Why would I not support all of the LGBTQ+ community?” Ruby was silent for a moment, but then she let out a loud, teary laugh. Her friends looked at her curiously. “I can’t believe I was so scared to tell you guys this! You’re so freakin’ accepting, I should’ve known!”

Finley and Klaus laughed along with her, and Klaus stepped towards the other two teenagers. “Can I join the hug?” He held out his arms, and Ruby and Finley wrapped around him. The three friends stayed in their group hug for several moments, before reluctantly pulling away from each other. Ruby looked at her two best friends. “I love you guys so much.” The boys smiled back at her. “I love you too, Ruby,” They responded in unison. Ruby beamed at her real name, and then sat back down on her bed. She kicked her legs up and turned on her TV.

“So.. You guys wanna play Mario Kart together?”


Bristol, August 4, 1875 My dearest daughter Jemma,

It is of the utmost importance that you come home, and with great haste. Your mother misses you greatly, and your sisters find themselves at a loss without you to aid and direct them. I implore upon you the thought of Oliver, who anxiously waits for your arrival, as we accepted his proposal sometime last week. Engagements are already underway for your wedding attire, and you must remember the honor that was granted us for him to ask for your hand. Your mother will no longer have to hurt herself doing her housework, for Oliver’s family will grant us a maidservant to take her place. If not to return for him, return for your poor mother’s health and wellbeing.

           Furthermore, I am of the opinion, as is society, that a woman has no place in trousers, much less a militaristic setting. The dishonor you will bring if others were to find out that my daughter had enlisted! Why, I can practically see your mother fainting from astonishment if she knew what you have done now. Oliver would retract his proposal and our family would be ruined! All our attempts to better ourselves will be for naught if you continue to be so selfish. Of all improper things to do, this far exceeds what has happened in the past, and you will not be the only one affected by your imminent downfall.            Please, think of our family, and appear home at once. I can already see how beautiful you will look in the dress your mother has been working on, and though you wish to wear grey or red, this one is a lovely white, resembling the attire of Queen Victoria herself. We have saved for several months to afford this fabric, and since your mother’s skill is unmatched, we will make do. I wish only the best for you, your loving father, Leopold Hale Ms. Jemma Hale, Pirbright, London  Bristol, November 10, 1875 My dearest daughter Jemma,

           It is highly inappropriate that you have continued your stay away from our family without the express permission of myself, your father, or on the arm of your husband. Oliver still awaits you here, though I am unsure why, for if your mother had dismissed me so when I asked for her hand then you would not have come to be. What he sees in you, I do not know, nor do I think I will ever see.            What further irritates me is your apparent ‘promotion’ within our standing forces, as a woman has no place there, whether she be demanding and insistent towards the troops or not, she must not attempt to raise herself to the stature of a man. Your further persistence towards the male appearance will bring shame upon us! Forever you shall stay our daughter Jemma, and to think of you as anything but would be blasphemy in the eyes of the church and horror in the eyes of our peers. I do not know where this delusion that we would ever call you James comes from, but it is wrong, and I will not encourage it. I could no longer hold off telling your mother to where you had run off to, and she has fallen into a state of shock. Your mother, ill! It seems as though I was right to insist upon your expedient arrival home, although at this rate, it seems to be a debate as to whether you mother will remain a part of that home when you make it back. I shall think of it a pressing matter of conversation upon your return the discussion of what to do about your engagement, and if you take in any salary from the army, do send it back for your mother. It is your responsibility for putting her in this dastardly state, and therefore it lies upon you to bring her out of it. I await your next letter, your loving father, Leopold Hale Ms. Jemma Hale Bandar Tua, Perak Bristol, December 25, 1875 My beloved Jem,

           After hearing about your latest exploits in Malaysia, I have found a newfound respect for our soldiers. While I am still of the opinion that you have no place among our militarymen, I appreciate your effort to lead our men towards victory over the Malays.            The money that you have sent towards aiding your mother’s illness has helped us greatly, and she is recovering swiftly upon promise of your return home. Please do come back to us safely, I am afraid that news of an injury might shake your mother’s condition and turn south.            Your sisters have been spending much time with Oliver, and while I am still confused as to why he wishes to stay in waiting for you, I do appreciate his constant presence. He is a good reminder of you once being by our side. He has greatly helped our financials as we await you, and seems to enjoy very much our calling of you as Jem, rather than Jemma. Almost as if he knew all along how you felt! Alas, I am still quite uncomfortable with the thought of your presentation, however I am willing to try if it means you will come home to us faster.            While you write of an advancement into Sayong, I pray daily for your health in hopes that you will survive past the end of this war. Do keep us in your thoughts, your loving father, Leopold Hale Ms. Jem Hale Sayong, Perak Bristol, January 20, 1876 My dear James,

           I have waited for your response letter to my last one, and while I do believe it was read and received, I still wish for some kind words back.            I hope that your missions in the jungles have gone well, and while I am now of the opinion that you have done a wonderfully leading your men, I still wish for you to be careful. Oliver still awaits you here, and I am sure that we can arrange for a private reception and service for you and him, if you still with to wear trousers upon your return. He speaks of you often - as well as your large number of letters - so I believe it would be appropriate to assume that you still wish to be with him.            Your mother is now back to full health, and she eagerly tidies up your room, so that it will be pristine upon your return.            We have heard of you in this week’s newsletter, where much praise for yourself and your men was written. I assure you there will be much celebration upon the troop’s reinstatement to England, your men to Bristol, and you, to us. Do write back soon, your loving father, Leopold Hale Mr. James Hale Kota Lama Kanan, Perak Bristol, February 3, 1876 My dear Oliver,

           It is with great sorrow and pain that I write this letter to you. I wished for my next letter to be notice of James’ jolly return to England, but it is instead that I must inform you of the package that I received from the infantry some three weeks ago. I have not had the courage nor will to write, for every time I sit down at my desk I break down into tears.            As of the 4 th of January 1876, Colour Sergeant James Hale perished during the fight in Malay. The loss of my son weighs heavily upon my heart, as enclosed in the letter that I received was both the Elizabeth Cross, of which I am very proud, and the letter to which I had last written James, unopened. It is my greatest regret that he was not able to read his name written in my script, and that he will ever hear me speak of how proud I am of him as my son.            I do appreciate very much all that you have done for our family, and since you were to marry him, I implore upon you to keep the Elizabeth Cross that is enclosed in this package. Please keep his memory close you your heart. Your to-be father-in-law, Leopold Hale Mr. Oliver Williams Canterbury, East Kent


It all started when I rose before the sun on Saturday the 14th, something was off. All I know is that I was being called outside to see the sunrise. I woke Laika up and we went for a walk to catch the rare view of the valley sunrise. There was none.  Like I said, we were walking through the clouds. We walked down the runway at old airport down by the river. No one was there, it was just us. This wasn't anything I thought twice about...why would I? It was at sunrise on a cold November morning. I don't even know why I was there.  I quite liked the feeling of being the only ones there, it was peaceful and relaxing. I took a photo of a tree that I like, it had a certain look this morning that I had to try and capture.  This photo is my only evidence that what happened next actually happened. As you can tell visibility was low, I could only see about 50 yds out. After I took this photo I continued walking and that's when the fresh valley breeze stopped and the temperature dropped noticeably.  Laika started acting weird, the kind of weird when you can tell there is something wrong. She was looking in all directions, sniffing frantically. All of a sudden there was someone about 10 ft behind us. I had no idea where they came from, and neither did Laika.  As the man got closer Laika got more and more uneasy, which made me uneasy. She was the most friendly dog, to the point she doesn't even bark when someone knocks on the door. She loves people, all of them. Not this one.  The person, who appeared to be an elderly man, zoomed past us without acknowledging my courtesy good morning and half smile. This town is small enough for everyone to make small talk while walking past each other. The man just kept his head forward like a Marine in formation with that thousand yard stare.  Just as quickly as he appeared, he was gone. What a relief... Laika felt the same way I did, she came up to me and jumped up to give me some kisses. Everything seemed to go back to normal and we continued walking.  We didn't walk 50 yds when we came across the same man. He was talking to himself beside a lamppost. This time I didn't attempt to make eye contact with him. I walked on the other side of the what I will generously call a road. Through my peripheral vision I could tell the man was staring at me, still talking, but now staring.  After we passed him, Laika started getting uneasy again, I look back to see what she was seeing. What I saw, gave me the chills. The man was no longer alone. No he had a friend. Same height, same build, same face. I started to walk faster to get the hell away from these guys.  After about 2 minutes of nervous power walking I looked back to see if anything or anyone was behind me. There was. The two "men" couldn't be more than 15 ft behind me. I must have jumped pretty hard because the two men reacted simultaneously by reaching for what I initially thought was a gun.  This is where things start to get fuzzy. I have memories of what happened next, but the kind of memories that you have when you wake up from a dream. The kind where you can only explain how you felt where the emotion is the only thing you can explain. The weird part is, the memories and emotions don't feel like they're mine.  I was weightless, but not floating. There was panic all around me, but it wasn't my panic. I remember feeling liquid dropping all over my body, like I was lying out in the rain.  Then I woke up. I was in my house, but not my room. I was in my guest bedroom, and I was fully dressed, shoes and all. Laika was next to me and she looked terrified and was shaking. It was almost like we had the same dream.  I got out of bed and tried making sense of it all. I checked the time, 11:23 AM. This put my mind at ease, for some reason prime numbers always made me feel safe. I began to relax a bit and I checked my camera roll on my phone and that's when I saw the photo of the tree, time stamped at 6:41 AM. What happened couldn't have been a dream, but it couldn't have been real either.


Flashback to our lives many years ago, our mixed emotions and different feelings on the summer of 1989. We were married by then and really felt excitement and joy to think that we would be able to see my parents in States. We were eager and curious for our first trip to another country. Then comes another feelings of fear and fright, knowing that this travel isn't for a holiday ,after mom told us that dad was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer on his big intestine. It sent me goosebumps and shivers ,scared of losing a dad who gave us everything a child ever wants with their unconditional love. It's another feeling filled with terror and somehow transfixed with fright having this experience for the first time of our lives. Every little thing bothered another sister who was denied on her visa in which we never knew the reason why. We had the desire of travelling together and our intense desire of having our family complete where my parents are. It wasn't what we expected to hear from the US consul that interviewed her but we couldn't do anything but pity . Our aspiration was our intense desire to be in one plane with 3 of us preparing for a trip that none of us have ever dreamed of. If only everything went well as planned then our family would be reunited even for daddy's last days of his life. All I know is that my sister Connie felt like the world was conspiring against her. As inspiring as it seems, both me and my other sister, Mariedes flew together , not looking back at one sister who just wished us luck, and wanting us to kiss everyone,waving us goodbye and a happy and safe trip. She always reminds us to tell dad and mom, how much she wanted to be in this travel. Wow... the flight was long and tiring.Travelling from Cebu to Manila then waited for hours till our trip for Japan. Got off at Narita international airport and waited hours again for JFK international airport in New York. It seems unreal . Exhausted and tired but felt a sigh of relief when we heard that we are almost at our destination. There we we saw dads pale and sickly figure as we stepped down from the plane. Seeing him and mom, together with 3 of my other siblings who migrated with them I can't hide my tears the moment I stepped on the grounds ,since it wasn't like dad that I knew. He lost so much weight and knew that he was wearing a suspenders for his pants,not wanting the pants to slide off. He no longer resembles what he was before since people say how cool my father was with his styles and neatly tailored suits with matching ties, ironed shirts that goes with extravagant brands , and wearing shiny shoes . His attires makes him unique cos he goes with matching pants and shirts that usually has the same color for his shirt and socks, that he wears for the day.His almost hairless bald head makes me more sad. A cap that he wore, trying to hide his bald scalp. We were a family once more even with my other sister who was left behind. Dined in a classy restaurant with lobsters and steaks for dinner made me remember those younger years .Then headed to a grocery store, filled carts with foods ,meats, fruits and chips that I've eaten for the very first time. I had so many first times on that and will never be forgotten. Then came dads schedule for chemotherapy, blood test ,laboratory and medical exams which me and Mariedes took turns guiding and holding him so my mom and other siblings be able to work. At first I felt eager to accompany dad, the sooner he starts the better so he would get well. Dad felt sluggish, more weak and sick. It didn't turn out for the better because things took a thing for the worse. This made us mad in some ways since what we had on our mind is getting the best medications and being treated by the best physicians in the world. All we ever wanted was wanting to fix everything for dad because we had hope and having a dad sick with cancer that i thought would be cured . My brother would take some time researching on this but never knew what to expect. I sometimes hear from friends and telling me that it's not the cancer that's scary but the chemotherpy and the aftermath on this. I noticed that dad had a persistent dry cough and that's how everything started. We would see him throwing up, and hated seeing him that way. His skin got paler and saw some black spots on some parts of his body. Then came his fever and the difficulties of talking to us and letting us know what he wants and what he feels at the moment using some sign language. It's the chemo that really kills, the medicines were so strong either one can make it or not .And too sad, dad never made it. It may sound painful but happy to be able to take care of a person we truly love, be able to talk to him and letting him know how precious he is to us, his children. . Taking what seems to be the longest train ride from New Jersey where my family lives to get down in a Manhattan hospital and walking on streets,, avenues and parks, where dad was admitted. The dark nights of travelling, frightened to have on that train homeless street guys with eyes that stares on us. The unholy hours being in a subway station scares us a lot, wanting to get home and sleep, then back again on the next day. Dads last hours while holding his hands, seeing his tears fall down and all of us in tears for his last breath. We assured him that we will remain as a family and to walk in peace . After his death , be there to support mom being alone on lonely nights after dad passed away. Our family and friends ralied around throughout dads ordeal. I don't know if this is insensitive to those who have lost someone, but we had good times enjoying happy moments with them, just like when we were kids way back in our native land, the Philippines. We had the best moments, the best conversation and the best laughs before dads final journey. There's so much to be happy about and even shares funny stories and incidents to each one of us when it was only one of us who watched on him at the hospital. That summer had been so great despite the pain and sadness we felt, and still we think and talk about it as years go by, everytime my siblings comes home for their vacation. It's a memory that we all will cherish, maybe until we get to be with them when our time comes. It was the best times of our lives, the summer that we will always treasure forever.


This story is Fan Fiction even though I have used none of the characters and only one God from Rick Riordan's "Percy Jackson and the Olympians" Universe. There is at least one barely veiled reference to Camp Half-Blood and it's Director Dionysus. Enjoy the thrill of the Gods once more! And though it is only incidental and of no bearing to the story, the Protagonist is Non-Binary. =============================================== Robin sat, balanced on the top of the bus stop bench, and watched the water slowly ooze out of and around the concrete sidewalk. They smiled a little as it flowed around the feet of their perch and tried to pile up around the iron to reach up to where they sat. One of the worst things about being a mortal demigod was when you genetically picked up traits from the divine half of your DNA. As a child of the Greek God Poseidon, water loved Robin! It followed them everywhere. Slowly, inexorbitantly it would creep, flow, seep, ooze, or otherwise follow their very footsteps along the ground, loving every contact! "This wouldn't be so bad," they thought, "If it ever stopped for five minutes." Robin took advantage of the distraction the iron bench legs were giving the rising water and jumped onto the seats, ran a step, and launched themselves up to the brick retaining wall running beside the street. They had become an expert at parkour long before it had gotten a name and publicity! A few blocks spent leaping from stone to stone and quickly across the streets got them much closer to Tibbit's Grocery. As always happened when they got too near the ocean, the humidity increased as the droplets congealed right out of the air around them. Rain was bearable but there were no barriers against condensation! That was why it had been such a disaster the time they had tried to go visit kin and seek their help. Poseidon had told Robin of a half brother living at a special camp for demigod youth in New York. When they arrived, the Atlantic Ocean was so overjoyed to have them close that it rained, and seeped up, and waves rolled in till the camp was flooded by Suppertime and Dionysus had made Robin leave. Robin finally slowed their erratic sprint a half a block from the front of their favorite Mom and Pop general store. The Tibbits had run a store of some sort here for generations and they were very fond of the family. Even when Robin was traveling abroad they managed to make it here every year on Father's Day. Yes, Robin had a good relationship with their father. Robin was aware that Poseidon had many children he rarely if ever even acknowledged and it made a warm, comforting feeling in their heart despite the rain. Sure of at least five minutes before the water started gathering up out front of the store, Robin sauntered through the glass front door and gave a wide smile to the old man behind the counter. "Happy Father's Day, Mr. Tibbit. Fine weather we seem to be having today!" "It surely is," the old man responded. "It hasn't rained here in weeks and we were all getting a little parched. How you swimming along?" "Oh, about the usual; staying one step ahead of all my troubles! Can you get me a case of your best Belgian lager, please?" "So you and your Pa still keeping the tradition up, huh?" He smiled fondly at Robin to show it was affection and not nosiness that made him ask. Robin smiled back and winked. "Well that was too interesting a day to forget. It's always worth it to come down and spend an evening with the Old Man!" They dropped a generous handful of bills on the counter and hoisted the case of brown-glassed bottles to their shoulder. "I may be hanging around a while, Mr. Tibbit. See you again real soon!" and they were out the door and sloshing through no more than a few millimeters of water beginning to flow across the street. Encumbered a bit by the weight and bulk of the box they carried, it would be more difficult to keep ahead of the water as they made their way, of all places, down to an old ramshackle beach house on the coast a half mile out of town! Sitting their load on another retaining wall Robin jumped up on it themselves and slipped out of the backpack. Pulling a thin nearly meter long board out of the pack, they then put the case of beer back in and zipped it shut. They stood, placing the pack once more on their back and smiled at yet another memory of the year's journeys they were eager to tell their Father about tonight! Robin had been part of an expedition climbing Everest and K2 to clean up trash and recover the bodies of a couple of unfortunate mountaineers. At first they were delighted with how the water had often frozen solid long before it got anywhere near them. The snow around Robin was solid and could not move. Even what condensed from the breath of the folks in the climbing party froze and fell before reaching where they stood. At this altitude and temperature there was so little humidity they had been enjoying the sight of clear skies immensely! As the flow of water building up grew, Robin lept off the wall and dropped the board under their feet to hit the water surfer style. Their balance was good and it was with practiced ease Robin used the forward push of the water chasing from behind to surf the leading edge of the wave! These were good moments when the adrenaline was high and the game was afoot! The little town itself sat at the top of a rise of land which is why it had managed to survive on the coast for so long. This made it very easy for gravity to help Robin beat their pursuit and they pulled a wide right turn onto the beginning of the coast highway. Robin laughed as they picked up speed at someone in a lorry cursing them out for being so reckless in the intersection! In the lowering light Robin could see the waves out in the ocean to their left were beginning to increase in size already. It was going to be a close thing to get to the safety of Poseidon's beach house before the road was completely flooded over! They squatted a little lower on their mini surf board more as wishful thinking than actually decreasing the wind resistance by an erg. Just as they got to the place where the path cut off up to the house Robin flipped sideways and shoved the board into the mounting wave ahead and shot up and over its crest to land with practiced grace on the open veranda floor! Placing their short board in its wall rack, Robin slipped their backpack off and sat it on the small table beside an antique bottled drinks dispenser. Taking the case out of the pack, they quickly loaded the metal racks inside the cooler with twenty-two of the clinking brown bottles. Robin then packed the remaining beers over to a side table with two chairs and put them in an ice bowl conveniently and freshly set out. They turned and leaned against the rail looking out over the ocean. The view always amazed Robin. Here the waves were commanded to stay in their place and the rain had been ordered to fall only at night. Robin always wondered what power went into this one little house where the water could not seep freely in. Though the illusion made it seem old and unkempt, they saw through that glamour to the plain but sturdy construction. It had been a gift to Robin from their father after the fiasco at the demigod camp. Here they could stop. Here they could relax for a good night's sleep without worry that the water would overcome them and literally love them to death. It was but the matter of moments before Robin saw a disturbance in the waves and a gigantic pillar of water began to rise behind the breakers. It always took Robin's breath away in amazement as the huge humanoid figure emerged from the roiling waters and began to shrink, morphing as it came, until there was finally the figure of an old man, dressed in well-worn and slightly grubby rain gear, stepping foot on the land and striding up the beach to the house. Shaking off the rain gear and hanging it on a convenient hook by the door, Poseidon gathered Robin up in a firm and loving hug. "Oh, welcome home child, welcome home!" It always fascinated Robin that Poseidon manifested to them as several inches shorter than they were. "Happy Father's Day, Dad!" Breaking off the embrace with an extra tight hug Robin offered one of the brown bottles to their Divine parent. "Here's to Beer!" Robin gave the familiar traditional toast as they flicked off the bottle caps and chinked the necks together. "Here's to Beer!" the old man replied and they threw back their heads and each took a hearty swig!


Content warning: Brief mentions of animals being harmed. Stone Scalari lived alone. It was certainly more peaceful than living with his wife and children had been. He was 62. A lifetime of sharing space with loved ones had left him nothing but debt, headaches, and agony. Stone sat on the chaise lounge on his back patio one Saturday morning about a year after Carrie had left. He was holding a mug of coffee to his lips when he heard a dull thunk behind him. He ignored it, took a sip, cursed out loud. Too hot. A bird started chirping weakly. That was probably what caused the thunking noise, Stone thought. He kept the glass sliding door to his patio immaculate and birds were always crashing into it. Dumb animals had the entire world under their wings and yet they were dying to get into his split-level ranch. The chirping continued long after Stone had finished the coffee. He sighed. “All right, then. Jeez.” He stood up and saw the bird on the ground, a robin with a bent wing. Stone stared at it for so long his vision went fuzzy. He saw gnarled hands wrapping themselves around a little feathered neck like this one, a yellow-toothed grin and beady, blank eyes locked onto the dying animal’s face.

Stone blinked. The robin was still on the ground, chirruping away, like it was scolding Stone for just standing there looking at it. Stone rolled his eyes. “Fine.” He went back inside, snapped on some rubber gloves. Wrapped the bird in an old towel and placed it on the kitchen table. The bird immediately wrestled its way out of the fabric and flapped its wings, but could only lift itself a couple inches. It flopped back onto the towel, looking exhausted. Stone tilted his head. He figured he had a few options here: He could just kill the bird, get it over and done with. It was sure to have a diminished quality of life with a gimpy wing anyway. He could put the bird back outside, let its mother or a windstorm or a vulture carry it away, leaving it to some unknown destiny. It would almost certainly die that way, too, though, prolonged and painful and petrifying. Or he could rehabilitate it, though he did not know the first thing about fixing a broken being. * * * * * Stone knew from experience that naming a son after himself wouldn’t necessarily forge a bond between them, wouldn’t guarantee his legacy was carried for another generation. So instead of Stone IV, his son was named Richard. An ordinary name. And Stone tried to treat him like an ordinary person and not a namesake. But Richard was troubled. Maybe disturbed. All the swaddling and coddling in the world couldn’t shut that kid up. Then he got older and the tantrums morphed into stealing, vandalizing, scoring public parks with graffiti. Eventually the rebellion turned inward, powder up his nose, pills hiding in plastic baggies. He went to sleep as other men his age returned home from their office jobs. Stone’s wife begged Richard to go to rehab, held interventions, made empty threats to kick him out of the house. Stone let him be. Richard slouched out of the house for cigarettes one afternoon and never came back. Funny how it was always a deadbeat dad who did this, rarely a deadbeat son.

* * * * * The robin looked at Stone, and he could swear he saw something like pleading in its eyes. “Christ,” Stone said. He scooped up his car keys. Animals had eschewed Stone most of his life. His mother liked cats, but each one she brought home seemed to end up a by-product of his father’s alcohol-fueled antics. After five cats had come and gone she resorted to satiating herself by staring through the shelter’s windows but never again stepped inside. Stone’s father liked to tip over nests he found in branches, throw empty beer cans at dogs strolling by and wheeze with laughter and denial when their owners glared at him. Stone learned to look away, because any reaction he had was met with a “man up, you pansy.” He learned to walk away, because anything his father felt comfortable inflicting on an animal he had no problem transferring to his son. All Stone knew now was that there was a pet store in the strip mall tucked away on Bramble Street, so that was where he drove. He picked up the smallest bag of birdseed he could find. He gathered supplies to build a small carrier.

“I must be crazy,” he muttered to himself in the car, scanning the dollar amounts on his receipt. Then he opened his phone and Googled “how to help bird broken wing.” * * * * * Niobe was the opposite of her brother: an overachiever, a perfectionist, someone who threw tantrums not because she didn’t get her way but because someone else hadn’t gotten theirs. She wanted to become some bigshot journalist. She drowned in waves of college-campus activism and protesting. Stone told her none of it mattered. They’d all be in the same ground someday, right-wing and left-wing and war criminals and saints alike. Niobe called him a Republican.

“I’m apolitical,” Stone corrected her. “Hate ’em all. No point in voting, no point in caring about any of it.” “That’s just as bad. Actually, it’s worse. The world is burning and your response is apathy,” Niobe said. So their conversations often went until they dwindled to tepid phone calls at holidays, and then to nothing. Stone tried sometimes to think of his children as babies, those cooing, drooling blanket-wrapped bundles in his arms, but he couldn’t picture it. Could barely remember their faces. And in the end, maybe this meant nothing much at all. Genes and blood and birthright really held no hallowed significance. * * * * * Stone kept an eye on the bird throughout the week. It seemed in good spirits, picking at the birdseed, giving itself baths in the bowl of water Stone left out, kicking up the newspaper lining the entire kitchen. Stone thought about bringing it to a wildlife rehabilitator like the websites had mentioned, but he figured the bird was close to healing on its own. Tomorrow , Stone kept thinking. Tomorrow I’ll bring it in . A couple of days in, he started calling the bird “Robbie.” It was a robin, after all, and Stone felt odd sharing his house with this living being and referring to it as “hey you” or “dumb bird.” There was something uneasy about their coexistence. Stone had spent most of his life in a state of avoidance. When his father drank, Stone drowned out the fighting by cranking the volume on his turntable until all he could hear was a furious drumbeat mirroring the thrashing pulse of his own heart. When his kids were upset, Stone left them alone, believing both that they should learn to fend for themselves the way he had been forced to and that his interference would only further aggravate them. It was just easier for all of them that way. To not let individual troubles become collective burdens.

Now when Stone felt eyes on his back as he spooned coffee grinds into the machine or read the paper, he looked around wondering if someone had broken into his home, only to flick his eyes over to the kitchen table and realize it was Robbie. Tilting his head, watching Stone’s every move as if his daily routine was of great interest. It had been a long time since anyone else had breathed in this house and longer still since anyone had looked at Stone like that. Like his existence alone was enthralling, his morning regimen as riveting as a winter’s first snowfall. * * * * * Carrie, somehow she had stuck around the longest. One night, she approached him as he sat in his recliner in the living room, sipping a Scotch on the rocks as he watched the Indy 500 on TV. She asked if she could recite to him a poem she had recently read for her night class. He grunted. She perched on the couch armrest and began: “‘The art of losing isn’t hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.’” Stone tuned her out. The race was nearing its final moments. The poem was short, thankfully. “What do you think?” Carrie said when she’d finished it. “What? I don’t know. Sounds like she should’ve kept better track of her things,” Stone said, swirling the ice in his glass. “It doesn’t make you think of the kids? I talked to them the other day, you know. They didn’t ask to speak to you. And you never reach out to them. Don’t you find that odd?” Stone shrugged. “It is what it is.” “Stone.” Carrie sounded exasperated. “You all keep this up, you’re going to end up just like your father.” He looked at her pointedly. “Who?” It was quiet for a moment. A French guy won the race. Carrie said, “You aren’t going to ask me how they’re doing?” “Well, all right, how are they doing, then?” Carrie shook her head. She packed her bags the next day. Stone thought sometimes of their first meeting. It was a blind date. Carrie’s sister and Stone’s cousin were an item, and they conspired to bring Carrie and Stone together one night at a drive-in movie. “Your name is Stone ?” That was the first thing Carrie said to him, her words peppered with affectionate laughter. She was quite pretty, black dreadlocks hanging just above her shoulders, green polka-dot dress. “For you, my name can be anything you like,” Stone zapped back, winking. She giggled, called him “Burt Reynolds” the rest of the night. They’d kissed by the time the end credits rolled. But when he thought of that now, it was like thinking about something he had seen on TV. Someone else’s life, a pleasant scripted story he could watch or shut off when he pleased. * * * * * Stone couldn’t find Robbie one morning. Birdseed was scattered across the table as usual, but this time it formed a trail to the window, which Stone realized he had accidentally left open overnight.

So Robbie had recovered. Had finally flown away. Stone thought of their time together, how Robbie had gone from a tiny broken thing to a confident and cheerful little guy. How he’d flap his fragile wings, as if he knew he wasn’t meant to stay here, in this kitchen, in this cage, in this life. Stone thought about how Robbie was out in the world now, discovering the magic of trees, of lady birds and nest building and eggs hatching. Robbie could perch on roofs to twitter to his pals and scour the mud for worms to feed his babies. And he could do that because of Stone. Maybe in an hour, a day, a year, he’d find his way back to this room. Pay Stone a visit. But maybe not. Perhaps he had already forgotten. Stone then did something he had not done in a long time. A small chuckle turned into great guffaws, seizing his belly and contorting his face, and soon the tears were streaming down his cheeks. He couldn’t stop for a long time. Then he gazed passively out the window. A neighbor shuffled down her driveway in bunny slippers to pick up the paper. A bumblebee crawled on the ledge. A teenage boy walked a golden retriever. Birds chattered and sang, but they sounded far away, sounded unfamiliar. Stone got up, stretched, ventured into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. He took the mug to the back patio. He left the sliding door open.


“Derek, get down here now!” The front door slammed shut and the sudden skid of car tires drained the trees around of wildlife. The Centen family were heading to the airport for a wedding in Brazil. Derek was 12 but he had never been out of his home town in England. Derek looked down at his necklace. He remembered his grandfather giving him it and saying “keep this around your neck and you and your family will live forever, but never take it off or great dangers will occur.” He had dreamed of being a spy so he wondered if he could train by looking out the back window. There was a small black Jeep behind him and it had a man who was wearing a balaclava and sunglasses. As Derek kept staring out he started to drift off and soon was out stone cold, lying on a backpack resting against the leather seat next to him. An hour later his mother said “sweetie, we’re almost here” Derek slowly rose and faced the back window. The necklace hooked around the head rest and it broke falling onto the car seat. As this happened Derek felt something strange. The black Jeep had gone but there was another car, it was a chunky Audi and Derek swore that the driver was the same. He had a balaclava and sunglasses. As Derek looked forwards he looked up into the middle mirror and saw that both his parents had their eyes shut. There was a contraption on the driver’s seat that looked like it was steering the car and pressing on the accelerator. He looked back again and the Audi was gone. Derek was in shock but had the realisation that the necklace had come off because it was digging into his trousers. He picked it up and slid it into his top pocket. “Smash” the right window caved in and shattered while in one piece. The sudden jerk made Derek leap out of his seat. The car must have malfunctioned because the doors swung open and Derek was shoved out by the heavy backpack whamming into him. The bleeding boy rolled across the highway and down a hill into some trees. It took a few minutes for him to gain consciousness, and as he stood up he saw the Audi roll slowly down the hill. “He won’t get me in the woods! All I need to do is focus the energy into my legs to lug me past the first line of trees.” There was no sign of the car once he made it past but he had an urge to keep going as if something was calling to him. It was around 2 hours later when Derek came to a metal gate. There was no way through and there was barbed wire above it. He looked left and right but he just saw that the gate kept going. He remembered from a book he’d read that If you put your coat or shirt on the barbed wire you can jump over it. All Derek had was a jumper and a t-shirt. He slowly regretfully pulled the jumper off as a sliver of ice cold wind went in to the opening of his shirt freezing the little hairs on his shirt. What Derek didn’t realise was that the barbed wire was years old and had a crisp layer of rust making it as hard as diamond. As Derek climbed he chucked the sweater over the wire and started to roll over. The wind was weaving through the fence and Derek thought he was going to get pushed off. ‘Rip’ the sweater was starting to get punctured and a spike went into Derek's thigh.

“Aaaaaooooaaahhh!” ‘Thump’ Derek got back up and looked into the darkness. A small thumping of footsteps came from all around and then a little creaky voice said “mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, mine, Mine, MIne, MINe, MINE, MINE!, MINE!” A pain started going through Derek's body as if a shank was cutting him on the inside. The figure of the driver was walking up to him slowly emerging from the darkness. Derek couldn’t see the man’s face but suspected that it was the man from the car. A sudden creak of the man’s voice startled Derek and he tripped up on a slippery stick. Derek felt himself sink into the mud, the cold gooey slime started pouring over his hands and legs pinning him down. As the mud overflowed and drowned Derek, the mysterious man said, “someone’s going to die tonight.” Derek was able to peak through a small slit in the mud and saw that the man was taking his sunglasses and balaclava off. It was his grandfather. A whole new at atmosphere was created as derek’s grandfather looked at Derek. Somehow he started talking joyfully. “Hello Derek, do you have the necklace I gave to you years ago?” “Uh..uh..I thought you were dead!” “That’s none of your concern, now be a good boy and give me that necklace.” “I saw your body being put into the coffin.” Fed up, Derek’s grandfather wrenched Derek out of the mud and threw him against a tree. “Oooooww!” Derek wailed. Derek’s grandfather reached into Derek’s shirt searching for the necklace but it wasn’t there. “Where is it? I need it to stay alive!” Derek found an opportunity and slammed his foot into his grandfather’s balls. “Crunch” “eeeeeeekkk!” As his grandfather keeled over clenching his balls and cursing under his breath, Derek started to run and found himself at the entrance of a big amusement park. The park was empty and it was trashed as if a meteor had crashed into it and flew back up to space leaving a hoard of metal and scraps. Derek went to hid because he heard his grandfather again wailing and muttering something like “long live me... long live me... long live me” Derek dove under an old crusty roof.

Everything went silent as soon as He had hidden for cover. Then there was a faint knocking on side of the of and his grandfather’s head popped in from one side giving a shock so great to Derek that he could’ve been electrified by 200,000 wats. Everything went dark except for a glimmer of light shining through a haze that Derek was seeing. He felt his hands and feet tied to a chair. As Derek regained consciousness he saw his grandfather holding a knife and sharpening it with a rock in the other. “Looks like you took the hard path where I had to fully search you for the necklace. Luckily it didn’t fall out while you were running.” Two anonymous spotlights turned on and two other seats were containing bits of flesh and blood. There was brain and liver smeared all over the cold stone floor. “Do you know who those two sashimied bodies belong to?” “Um... no?” “YOUR PARENTS!...HAHAHAHAHAHA!” “What?..You little...pineapple!”Derek’s grandfather stepped forwards and gripped the knife. Derek couldn’t see his grandfather but he knew that he was close. A pain started going through Derek’s body as if a shank was cutting him on the inside...but this time it was on the outside...and this time it was for real.


The TV plays wheel of fortune in the background while someone’s grandmother rocks back and forth in her favorite rocking chair. Her fluff of fine white hair, that she still put in curlers, reflects the light around her face and head like a halo. She’s in her warmest house coat with the matching slippers on her feet. Normally she’s in bed and asleep by now, but for some reason she stayed up when everyone else made their way to their rooms. So now she rocks alone in the living room with the TV playing quietly in the background; her attention focused through the gauzy curtains and out the window to the dark streets. Cradling a cup of once hot tea turned cold by lack of attention she continues to rock. The room smells like the detergent she uses. Or rather, the detergent that is used by her granddaughter that cares for her. She stops her rocking just long enough to shakily put the tea down beside an orange that lays peeled, quartered, and waiting on the side table. With her task done she returns to her repetitive motion as she lets her gaze drift beyond the curtains. The dark, paired with the glow from the TV is almost therapeutic with how unobtrusive it is. In the dark truths can be hidden, like someone’s exact age or the emotions that they may be wearing on their face. But the gentle smile on her face could not be hidden even by the dim lighting. She sits there rocking back and forth remember all the things in her life that had made it so worth living the past eighty-nine years. When she was sixteen she fell in love, by eighteen she was married, and the birth of her daughter soon followed that. Three small boys joined them and for twenty-three wonderful years she raised her children until they set off on their own adventures. She had hosted approximately sixty-three Christmases, Easter dinners, and New Year’s Eve parties. She had stayed a devout Christian attending mass roughly 4,272 times sense she was born. She had been there for all her children’s marriages, both the ones that had lasted and those that had fallen apart. She had watched her seven grandchildren’s and two great grandchildren’s births and attended every birthday they had had. She had been there when her husband had died at eighty, finally released from his pain after fighting cancer for almost two years. Somewhere behind her the television changed programs and opera played softly in the background. Stopping the rocking motion of the chair once more, she bends forward to pick up the tabby cat that has wound itself around her legs. “There you are Samson,” she says putting the purring mass of orange fur in her lap. With her companion to keep her company she starts her slow rocking again. Now she thinks about all the times that she had triumphed over struggles in her life with the help of others; and those struggles that she had triumphed with her own strength and faith. Twenty years into their marriage her husband and she had experienced a very rough patch indeed. Although they never fought in front of the children they had stopped talking and loving. On one long walk that she had taken after an especially nasty whispered fight she had stopped and cried on a bench in the park. There she had prayed. She had prayed for strength and patience to listen to what her husband needed and that he would do the same. The rough patch had eventually ended, and they learned to love each other again. Her faith was shaken to its core once more when her mother and father died the same night, only hours apart. This time too, she had taken time to pray and listen, waiting to find her way. Which she did. The day that they had found out that her husband, that she had loved for so many years, had fallen to cancer they had both held each other and cried. This was one of the most difficult struggles they had ever faced together. When the two-year anniversary had approached for his diagnosis he had taken her hand and told her that he could maintain the struggle no longer. This time she had cried because she knew he was right. They buried him in the town where they had met, three hours away from where she sat now. After the tears were done, she praised the Lord above with thanks for releasing him from his pain. She rocked back and forth, stroking the purring cat as a tear ran down her face. It was not a tear of sadness but of relief in finding solace from the events of her life. She would soon be gone. Although she did not know when, she was happy to go. It was time and when God called she knew she would answer willingly. She put her hand, with knuckles gnarled by arthritis, on the window pain that the gentle rain was tapping. More tears joined the ones of relief. Her loving husband stood on the lawn in the rain, smiling and waiting. She had seen him so many times over the past month. She leaned back smiling as the tears traced a salty stream down her face. She closed her eyes with the image of her husband watching her. As a hand touched her shoulder she opened her eyes and looked up at the figure that was standing there. Her husband, as he was when they first fell in love stood there, smiling down. She smiled back and kissed the hand before starting to rock again with closed eyes. The rain stopped not long after, as the sky became grey with the coming morning. At dawn a young woman dressed in a floral print dress and blue ballet flats joined the young man on the lawn. She had light blond hair and bright blue eyes. The pair took each other’s hands and shared a slow kiss before looking back at the old woman in the still chair; the orange cat still sitting in her lap.


Monday, Labor Day, September 7th, 2020. As we prepared to get a good nights’ sleep before a three hour drive in the morning, the wind started. We had been warned beforehand that it would. However, it was coming from the east which was unusual. The term “historic” was bandied about. Three wildfires were burning north and east of the area we locals call "the canyon" which includes sister cities of Gates, Mill City, Lyons and Detroit. Certainly concerning but nothing to worry over. Little did I know. The later the hour, the fiercer the wind blew. Growing and howling down our cul-de-sac cracking small tree limbs and shoving debris as it roared. Our bedroom window faces the street and shortly after midnight I noticed car lights coming into the neighborhood. I got up and stood looking out the back door window at our neighbor’s house across the street. “I wonder what’s going on at Rick’s house.” We knew Rick had health problems and lived alone. We feared a medical emergency but something felt different. Both Rick’s adult daughters were running between house and cars, arms loaded down with things from the house. Then we saw Rick also shoving things into a vehicle. He looked fine. What was going on? That’s when my cell phone began to vibrate, our house phone rang and the power went out. A level three evacuation alert had been sent. With only the light from my cell phone we were able to locate flashlights, overnight bags and Copper. We dressed quickly and I called our daughter-in-law, waking her up to tell her we were coming to their house. She and my son live sixteen miles west. We didn’t know what else to do. I was not worried. We’d spend one night out of this raging wind, drop Copper at the kennel in the morning and still be off on our mini-vacation. Steve and I had been homebound for six months like everyone else. We were determined to take a little time away from home. Our goal was to visit Astoria, a coastal town we had not been to in over thirty years but we remembered it fondly. So along with Copper’s dog food and treats, two packed overnight bags waited beside the back door. Those packed bags turned out to be a time saving blessing. As we stepped out the back door we were battered by hot, threatening wind.  It felt oddly surreal and other-worldly. I couldn't wrap my head around what I was seeing. The neighborhood was a flurry of night-time activity, car lights cutting through black created frantic patterns, hot wind swirled, scattering tree limbs and pummeling us with what I thought was debris. Some of it looked like the fireflies I’d played with as a kid during Pennsylvania summer evenings but I knew there were no fireflies in the Pacific Northwest. We were being pelted by burning embers and ash. Rushing to get the car out of the garage we both stopped. A pulsating red glow in the eastern sky gave us the first clue of what was coming. I began to worry. Steve said, “I think we should take the camper.”

There are times when words aren’t necessary between two people. This was one of those times. I knew what he was thinking…..we might not have a home to come back to.  Whenever I think of our home town, I always see the movie title, “A River Runs through It.” Indeed one does, the North Santiam River. The north side of town runs alongside that river while access to the higher south side of town is across a bridge over the river. This is where we and most of the town population lives. That bridge crossing the North Santiam River, linking Linn County side of town to the main highway had closed for repair work in July and was not scheduled to reopen until the end of October. We were forced to escape down a back road. We weren’t alone. I don’t drive well at night anymore what with age and poor eyesight so most of my concentration was on the road and other cars. This might have helped me not be so aware of the flames around us. But there is one picture glued firmly in my brain. I will never forget seeing the violent beauty of one completely engulfed fir tree. Rising perfectly Christmas tree formed into the night sky, each black branch clearly silhouetted inside an engulfing red-orange inferno. A picture at once visually stunning while at the same time fearfully heart breaking. Fire was everywhere, scorching and burning on the north-side of the road, jumping uncontrolled from tree to home to underbrush pushed along by still howling, still hot winds. Dried brush on the south side ignited and began running beside the road. The fire had not yet become the tunnel of flames later evacuees would race through. It was only a matter of time before both sides of the road would create that tunnel. The nine mile drive into Lyons, our link to Hwy 22 and safety beyond, was dreamlike. Heavy traffic in those midnight hours weaved calmly and orderly through blazing timbers and brush. There was no panic. I never once feared for my life. Tuesday, September 8 th, 2020. Sometime during the night Stayton was put on a Level 2 alert: Be ready to evacuate so things were chaotic inside our son’s house that morning, everyone gathering precious items, pets and clothes. Neither Steve nor I had thought about grabbing albums, birth certificates, insurance papers, heirloom rifles or all the precious pictures and writings my computer holds. I now realized what we’d left behind. Irreplaceable things a fire can eat up in seconds.

We gathered our few belongings and left our son’s house into what I can only describe as an apocalyptic scene. Ash piled up on cars an eighth inch thick continued to rain from that still eerily glowing red sky. Sun could not gouge its way through thick smoke but illuminated everything red. Wind had calmed, no longer gusting violently, but even in the early morning hours, the smoky air was hot. I stood awestruck. Nature’s beauty was once again on display while simultaneously displaying evidence of her horrific power. Someone heard that a fire evacuation center was being prepared at the state fairgrounds in Salem. We now had a destination. A blinking light proclaiming FIRE EVAC CENTER welcomed us as volunteers guided us into the Red Gate. The main parking lot directly across from the fair entrance had already filled up with displaced people, we were sent to overflow parking inside the red gate just in front of the Jackman-Long Building. We had no way of knowing it would be home for the next ten days. Before we could even start familiarizing ourselves with new surroundings, volunteers pulling children’s wagons piled high with burritos walked among refugees offering food. And that was only the beginning.

As we settled in Facebook kept us updated as to the course of the fire. Thundering down our much-loved canyon, pushed furiously by sixty mile an hour wind gusts, joining strength in combination with the Riverside and Lionshead wildfires, the Beachie Creek Fire continued to devastate and demolish beloved small towns. Facebook also supplied us with stories of bravery and loss. New pages were added. We could list ourselves as safe on one. We would learn of those who weren’t from another. Five people lost their lives, numerous longtime friends lost their homes and several favorite businesses melted into ruble. Pictures of the aftermath were unbearable and unbelievable to look at yet consumed much of our time those first days. We evacuees may have look like zombies, dazed, muddling in and out of smoke filled daylight darkness, ash still showering into irritated eyes. Group shock quickly grew into a community of displaced souls.  Marion County volunteers set up long tables inside the Jackman-Long Building, against one wall food, canned goods and perishables. Dinners rolled in from different restaurants every night. Stacked along the other wall, hygiene items, bedding, clothing, items were continually resupplied. The list is long. Giving hands continued to fill ours. Most of us had never been in the position of taking. Most of us had done the giving. Wednesday, September 9 th . We were being bombarded with information. Some of which was not true. All of us wanted a definitive answer regarding our homes and we were still trying to adjust to life in a parking lot. We were safe and I tried to focus on that but the later the day, the more I wanted to know about our house. We knew there was no access to the canyon on Hwy 22 and the National Guard set up road blocks on the back road as well. And we still had Copper with us. Copper is a medium sized dog, lean and fast. He loves to run. He joyously bounces ahead of us unleashed on any wooded trail. He’s a good dog and listens. Here, on blacktop grouped tightly together with so many others, he stayed on leash. A grassy stretch provided an area for him to do his business and allow him to chase his ball if he didn’t interfere with others but he wasn’t happy. And he was breathing in more ash than we were. He didn’t wear a mask. Steve says I worry too much about him but there you are. I guess maybe I do. We decided to take Copper to the kennel and while we were out, to try to access our town. I needed to see home…..or, where it had been.

If you've never seen the effects of forest fire, it's hard to describe. The silence is thick. Air, at the hazardous level, a charred taste, smoke thick with the smell of woodland death. We were stopped by the National Guard. They needed proof of who we were and where we lived. We were allowed entry with the warning, “We will not be able help you if something happens. Enter at your own risk.” And we did. God blessed us that day. Our house, though barely visible through the smoke soup, stood untouched. Thursday, September 10 th . Most of the third day was spent discussing our worries and gobbling up bits of information. People carrying large square black boxes and microphones began canvassing the group. The reporters had arrived. Community in a small town nestled in the Oregon foothills, means being able to walk to the local market when you run out of milk at 7:30 Sunday morning, stopping in for the monthly soup luncheon at the senior center or a Friday night dinner at the Eagles Lodge in support of weekly fund-raisers. In short, community means people; just folks, common lives, common needs. Nothing very special about it. Until there is. March 2020 changed our world. Panic arrived alongside a word most of us had not heard in our lifetimes: pandemic. Suddenly we were told to cut community ties, stay at home, close restaurants, hair salons, wear masks, don’t gather in groups of more than ten people and only do essential shopping, staying at least six feet away from other shoppers. What we thought would be a short run new virus, surely gone by summer, turned into an endurance race. Each trip to the grocery store became a challenge, arrows painted on floors directing one-way foot traffic. Shoppers constantly required to deal with new changes. Events defining summer were cancelled. The virus held the country in its grasp but by then we all seemed to be settling in to necessary routines, accepting the fact that summer heat had not driven it away. Instead, for us, summer heat blazed into an inferno.

Those hot gusty September winds rammed flames down an Oregon canyon leveling homes, businesses and towns changing reality once more. So, in the end, this is a story about community and how the meaning of that word can change in the blink of an eye, the beat of a heart, the transmission of a virus or wherever a burning ember chooses to land. Home for us, between Sept 8th and Sept 18 th, was very different than any kind of community I’d known before. Those ten days will remain the time I saw selfless giving, people doing so much for others, offers from businesses small and large, individuals driving through parked campers and tents offering to do laundry, so much daily kindness in a year of division, a year of keeping distance, a year isolated, a year of fear. A brief ten days of hope and community in a year gone mad.