I believe reality is relative, especially when what you see from behind a screen is designed, produced, and created by someone else.

Our visitors come searching for the real world, a place where the sun shines, and they can touch the reality around them. We were going to give it to him, though he won't like what he’s going to get.

Sally and I sat in our usual spot, the weight of the slow summer afternoon heavy on our shoulders, almost forgetting we had a job to do, when he finally stepped off the train.

Long and thin, his hooded sweatshirt hung loose over tight jeans, his shoes so white they were hard to look at. Not that Sally and I looked up. He would find us we knew, eventually. “Hello?” The man said, a smirk on his bearded face, a black rectangular bag rolling behind him. His hands danced around him, a constant blur of touching, his fingers rubbing his flat front pocket.

Long practiced at sitting, we didn’t move. Just a middle aged man and woman in overalls and flannel shirts, we weren’t much to look at, and on the wooden bench, in that rattling old train station we fit as if we had been carved from the same tree as the bench.

“So this is Stillwater?” The man’s feet moved, a step backward, his hand on the bag’s tall handle, opened and then closed over it, adjusting its placement next to him. He cleared his throat. “My name’s Zach, I was supposed to meet someone? ” The words, crisp and sharp, bounced around the faded wood walls of the waiting room, before falling to the floor unanswered.

 “I had an appointment. Zach?” His anxiety ,that something went wrong, pulsed as palpable as the throbbing at his neck. “Um, Yes.” The word left my lips with a puff of air, almost a breath.

Sally, next to me on the bench of the Stillwater train station nodded her head, finally acknowledging him.

Zach smiled, looking around. “I can’t believe this place. You both are just perfect. Just like the TikTok reels. ” He breathed in, and then out. “Smells like peace, and nature! No notifications, no calls, not even texts. This is going to be the best weekend of my life. Let’s go!” We lived in Stillwater, a spot on the map where a quirk of geography, an accumulation of elements, reached up creating a dome of magnetic resonance to disrupt compasses, fry most electronics, and block cell phone signals.  Mountains surrounding the valley kept the weather fair, windless on most days, and even more so today, when the air sat thick and stagnant, and even the smallest insects stayed home.

We stood up and stepped outside. Zach paused at the curb, his head twisting up and down the empty street. His frown only lasted a moment before his face cracked into a grin. “We’re getting our steps in!” He said, stepping forward, the rolling bag clicking on the rough and cracked street.

“Only way to get around.” I said, not looking back. We passed gaping doors and empty windows of store after store. Stillwater had a thriving main street once, but now the toothless smile of a dying man.

For some people this had a certain appeal, a place where the rush of commerce and modern technology had passed by, skipping over Stillwater like a spinning rock on a pond. The golden hue of nostalgia had turned the neglected buildings into ‘old timey', our lifestyle ‘vintage’, the broken furniture into ‘antiques’.

Visitors from these big cities came to experience what life could be like if they could just be still. They talked about ‘modern technology’ in grand words, wide eyes, and dramatic gestures.

But underneath they were searching for something real.  Burned out trying to keep up with their neighbors, they wanted the promised dream, but didn’t want to pay the price of running on the wheel of commerce like a rat in a cage. In Stillwater nothing happened and for some, that had value. They stopped outside the old hotel, and Sally gestured for Zach to continue in.

Sally joined me at the bench outside the door, watching the empty street, motionless as a photo.

“Think he’ll make it? ” I asked her.

She kicked the wood of the hotel porch with her boot. “Doubt it. But he’s cute, so...”

Only a few minutes later Zach appeared at our side again, a bright sparkle in his eyes.

“That's a tiny room! So, what do you all do for fun around here?” He said, bouncing on his toes.

Sally nudged me with her elbow as she stood up, and we continued down the street.

Sally and I did what we could to get by, lately playing tour guide to these lost souls, our once promising careers crashed into evils of capitalism.

 Years ago an entrepreneur had taken advantage of the nearby lake and the deep deposits of iron ore to build a thriving factory town. But a leveraged buyout, and the collapse of the only jobs in town drove the businesses and most of the people out to find a life in bigger, busier cities. Not too many of us stayed, and I have to say I liked it.

We walked down the small path toward the rocky shore of Lake Stillwater. Sally and I pulled over to our favorite spot overlooking the lake, the high mountains just beyond.

“It's so nice to just sit!” Zach said, standing at the edge of the lake. He picked up a rock and threw it, an awkward parabola curling into the water. It landed with a soft splash and then was gone, not even a ripple in its wake.

“I can't believe this place really exists. He tapped his empty pocket again, and then rubbed his hand down his thigh. “A video of this, the post would get a hundred likes, a thousand.

If I hadn’t deleted TikTok....” Zach spoke more to himself than us.

“But, someone must’ve taken a video. I saw this exact scene on a TikTok reel. ‘A place to get away’!’’” Zach spoke, light and high pitched. “I wonder how…” “An old camcorder.” I said, with only a hint of pride. “That’s how I heard about this Town.” Zach nodded over his shoulder to us, another rock launched into the water. “This was the right decision, I needed a break, I was losing my mind. Just jittery all the time, always on a screen.” “I had to leave my phone, can you believe that? I mean I knew they would, there were warnings. And it wouldn't have worked anyway, I guess. But I didn't believe it. How can people live without a phone?” Zach turned, a sheepish grin.

 “I guess you do, but you don’t need it, don’t even want one do you? I mean you live here, with fresh air and… I haven’t been this long without my phone since-”  He tapped his pocket once more. “Well, a long time.” “OK then.” Zach turned, hands on his hips looking back at us. “Is there a hike around the lake, or something?” I looked up, confused. “Hike?” “You know, a hike, a walk, around.” He gestured, spinning his arm in a wide, flat circle toward the lake. I usually go to Golden Gate Park.

OK, I follow a TikTok'er who goes to Golden Gate Park, and I go, well sometimes." Zach made a full turn, his arms wide. “Nature! This is my chance right? To experience the natural world, to see new plants, animals…” “We walked here.” I shrugged, and then put my head back down. The sand didn’t stir. The leaves on the trees didn’t tremble, but lingered, limp in the dry heat; no breeze drifted in to cool our brows. Stillwater lake lay flat, a glass reflection of the hot, desiccated sky above.

“OK, no hike.” Zach sat down next to us. “I can do this, just relax, a beautiful lake. We can just talk, like a group text, but IRL.”

Zach’s hands were flying around again, touching his knees, his shoes, itching at his close cropped beard. In a sudden motion he stopped his hands, carefully folding them together. “Mr. BetterLife, the therapist App I use, texted me to just breathe, and to listen.” He breathed in, then out, a long slow breath. “So, are you both from here, or-?” Zach looked over expectantly.

I’m always amazed at the power of silence, the space that slowly opens up when a person expects an answer and it doesn't come. I watched to see how Zach would do. After a moment, I could see him settle in, his face went slack preparing himself to wait us out for a response. Zach, just an amateur at this game, of course had no chance. Working with the visitors, I’ve learned there are stages to how silence impacts these technology addicts. It started with an itch. I saw Zach begin to move around, a slight irritation in his shirt had to be adjusted, something on his nose, and a rock pulled out from underneath him. Then it becomes a need, an urgency to see if his ears still worked, his mind demanding some sound to fill the silence. Zach kicked a rock, then smirked at the click- clack as it bounced off another rock. A pistol shot of a cough, once then twice.

Finally it became too much, the wide open silence needed to be filled, a yawning, open crater that threatened to swallow him whole. His face began to change, tightening, fear creeping in as his eyes darted at the nothingness threatening him.

“-I’m from Wisconsin originally-” Zach gave in finally, his voice loud and sharp, a sword against the monstrous quiet. “After college I moved to San Francisco for a tech job, UI work at first, user interface.” Zach turned to see if we understood. I stared back, blank and confused.

“Now I work from home, backend software coding, for an online dating site.” Zach’s chest puffed out, a smile on his face. “You’ve probably heard of it…” His smile faded. “Ok, maybe you haven't heard of it." He picked up a rock and dropped it. “I actually spend most of my time on TikTok. I never leave the house, I don’t have any friends. That’s why I’m here…”

 He dried his cheeks with his palms. “Maybe we should move on to lunch.”

Zach stood, brushing his pants, dust falling straight down onto his now dirt-brown shoes. He took long strides along the rocks.

“Like a 'greasy spoon' restaurant or maybe a chuck wagon?” He laughed, a few short chuckles until the sound faded to nothing in the dead air.

“There’s a diner.” I said. “It serves both hot dogs, and hamburgers.” Zach stepped back, his hands at his throat. “But I’m vegan. “I read there are vegan options?” I turned to Sally, confused.

“Potatoes.” Sally said. “Baked, or boiled?” Her head tilted in a question.

“My god.” Zach put both hands on his head. “You know, there is a great world out there. His long arm gestured to the horizon.

“I could take you to where there is real food, where there are, movies, social media, and cars!” “OK, let me explain so you can understand.” Zach got onto one knee, proselytizing; his face bright red, eyes blazing coals. “These cars, metal beasts that roam the cities, can drive you places, you don’t have to walk everywhere! And phones- technology in little boxes that display images, you can make calls, text your friends. Take photos!

There is an opportunity for you two to make something of yourselves, to get a job like mine, a software engineer! I can show you, and if you don’t like it I can bring you back. What do you think?”

Sally and I stared back, open-mouthed at this outburst.

“I can't live like this!” Zach shouted. “Nothing happens! You sit, and eat -potatoes, and then sit again!”

 Zach turned. “I got to go, I can't take another minute-” I tilted my head, a train whistle in the distance.

“ A train leaves soon, you might make it if you go straight there.” Sally said. Zach stepped toward the road, and then turned back. “My bag,” his hands out, pleading. “Can you FedEx it?” “fedecks?” I gave him a blank stare.

“Oh goddamn it, I'm done. I need to get back to reality, and people and TikTok.” The train whistled again, louder, closer. Zach took off in a full sprint.

Sally looked at me and nodded. We turned back to the lake, a comfortable silence until we heard the train leave, taking Zach back home.

I pulled out my satellite phone, and tapped a few buttons. “They should pay a bonus if they don’t last the day.” I said.

Sally nodded. “ I got dibs on his bag. “on the last one, I made a fortune selling the clothes on Depop and Ebay. People will buy anything.” Sally gave me a wide smile. Hungry? “ I asked. “I’m thinking Sushi. TikTok is buying!” I held up my phone as we began walking back down the path. I stripped down to my Nike t- shirt and Lululemon shorts.

“I hate flannel, so itchy. The visitors are getting more and more desperate. It’s sad really, they can’t handle reality. “  “Reality?” Sally smirked, pulling out her own phone from her overalls. “I’ll get the Uber.”


It’s not relevant. She swished her long ponytail back and forth, upsetting the boy’s cool demeanor. He had nothing but to follow the big headed one. “Hey stop right there”, She continued walking with her head upright and shoulders rolled back. He ran with his mind buzzing with questions and rational tactics.  She turned around composed and looked at him with a raised eyebrow, “Yes?” “Look I thought about what you said yesterday and now I am ready to debate with you” “And?” Her look caught the boy off guard. This time he forced himself not to jerk away. “And… and let’s begin the debate. Who’s going first? I’ll give you the chance. Better you go!” he cursed himself slightly for stumbling in his words. “Huh, you have been wake till midnight. Judging from the facts you have probably asked help from someone. Someone like a close family member, female definitely. You have forgotten to apply deodorant in an attempt to catch me before I went to my house. And you wouldn’t definitely try to come to my place cause that will make you seem like you are my boyfriend who’s struggling to ask me on a date.” Her words flowed through the Boy with softness and fluency. She looked at him in her calm quite manner. Barely blinking, The boy’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know?” he asked his head spinning “Know what?” He gestured around with his hands, not pointing to anything in particular. “The fact that you didn’t apply deodorant?” She smirked “No I mean I mean… the latter part” words took so long to reach the boy’s throat. “Simple deduction” The boy was amazed at her graceful cunningness and calm collected gestures. But he was not going to be distracted again. Aunt Porsha’s advice looped itself into his consciousness. Act as if you know. Don’t show your cracks. “Well not so impressive. I could have done the same too” The boy mumbled “Ok let’s not get distracted shall we Bruce!?” It was again another ripple of shock that overtook the Boy. “Fine let’s begin.” He didn’t bother to ask her how she knew his name. He didn’t want to appear any more ignorant nor naïve. “Ok you said that girls have greater verbal ability than boys. And I disagree with it. And this is why”, all his memorized words paused at the core of his buccal cavity. He force them out, praying to God for eloquence. “It has been found that kids who grew up playing with electronic toys and building blocks grew up to possess higher abilities of spatial and mathematical skills according the many researchers conducted around the world on kids in all walks of life. So there is no bias in this. It’s not the males’ fault that they play with spatial enhancing building blocks, Neither is it the fault of girls that they grew up playing with Barbie dolls and useless cooking stuff. It’s the parent’s faults. They are wired to follow the stereotypes. She rolled her eyes, “ Eso no es relevante, Bruce!” “Sorry?” He blinked, not understanding, and hoping his words are not gulping down again through the long muscular tube. “I said it’s not relevant, we are talking about verbal ability not spatial or mathematical abilities between males and female. It is already proved that females score higher in verbal and nonverbal abilities. Those findings show that females have more advantage over males in their cognitive domains.” She sat on the nearby bench crossing her legs as if she ruled the world. He hated her egocentric behavior, “And what proofs do you have? Any evidence based researches?” This took her off her demeanor. “Proof?” “Eso no es relevante?” The boy asked coolly “Proofs are in the hands of a nerd not in an intellect’s!” The boy thought there was a twinge of nervousness in the Girl’s voice, “Ah is that so? Proofs are weapons in the hands of a master verbal communicator.” “Says who? You?” She laughed. “Scholars” he gritted his teeth. “Which one?” Plato? Socrates? Bruce the Great?” He rolled his eyes. “Eso no es relevante Bruce? “Fine. Leave it, where were we?” “Where you sucked actually Bruce!” “It’s so hard to talk with you” “I’ve been told” “No wonder” Bruce mumbled suddenly eyeing the nearby roses glittering in the dawning sunlight. He despised their life. Often times he wished to plant himself back into the earth to see if he’d grow into something better, perhaps a dandelion, or a fiery rose that stood poised. He really had no idea what he was doing nor what point he was trying to make, “Ok back to the topic” “Which one? Deodorant? Spanish? Scholars?” “Oh lord!” Bruce exclaimed scratching his head, “…Your irrational view on gender biases. So let me make it clear you say females possess more potential than males. Is that so?” “I never said such thing” “Then what on earth did you say?” Bruce asked his anger spurring up. “All I am trying to say is that female’s verbal abilities are greater than males. I think I already proved it right without those so called proofs.”  “Ha! How so?” He asked, confused “Cause I already distracted you from your points and if I told you now to begin your debate 98 percent of time you wouldn’t remember those memorized taught words from your female supporter.” Her words were like neat slaps against his face, “You have underestimated me” “Ha! Then show me what you can do Bruce ”.  “Fine, According to a research done in the University of Cambridge in 2017, they studied males and females from different backgrounds performing debates in large crowds of people from leaders to entrepreneurs, kids to adults, drop outs to graduates. What they found out was something that was fascinating and utterly marvelous. You would be surprised to know that both males and females performed equally with competence and fluency. Researches were stunned for they were too wired by so called stereotypes that it was hard for them to liberate from that mindset. It took them years to accept it even though the evidences were crystal clear. So you see both sexes perform with equal abilities. But due to environmental or mindsets passed onto them they grow up to believe those irrational sayings, even though the facts are sitting right in front of their faces. We must as intellects if you call yourself one, do our best to diminish those that limits people potentialities, so that those who are coming after us are not limited by any means to perform their unique exceptional abilities. So what can we do? We can educate people without trying to support their sayings with our biased mindsets, we can encourage more female kids to explore and invent. We can provide them opportunities and not deprive them of those. Following these will really pave a brighter future for all of us with rationality taken serious and myths busted to dust. Bruce spoke his heart, he didn’t even realize it . He poured his heart, dear reader. No memorized words! He waited for the Girl’s retorts, but none came. The Girl’s expression was unreadable, long strands of wavy hair fell down her glowing face, he had a sudden impulse to tuck them behind her ear. Bruce’s world blurred and burst into a thousand vibrant colors, as the girl leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to his lips softly,  And whispered, “Sé que Bruce, no es relevante” .


Tabitha slid one finger and opened an eye to see through her hands, covering her eyes. Mom sat in front of her assuring her that Dad did not turn into a monster. “Yes, he did,” Tabitha argued. “When I went to bed on Christmas Eve, he was fine. But this morning Dad is missing, and a monster is trying to look like him. Except the monster has bumps, and red eyes, and yells, and tried to swallow me whole.” “Tabitha, he did not try to swallow you whole. You were running through the house, and your dad picked you up, lifted you above his head and over the Christmas box you were about to knock over. Now, it’s Christmas morning. Your sisters want to open their gifts from Santa. Don’t you?” “Dad’s not here the monster ate him trying to make him look like Dad.” Tabitha gasped then shuttered. “Oh, no. Dad’s been eaten. Mom, we have to rescue him. Do you have an ax? We can cut him out like in Red Riding Hood. Is the monster still out there, mom? I’m scared.” Tabitha sobbed. Mom laughed in frustration, rubbing her sleepless eyes. “Chet, come in here. Your daughter thinks you are a monster, and I can’t talk any sense into her. She is your department. I’ll make pancakes we’ll have breakfast first.” “Good luck with that. The other girls are already pulling at the wrapping paper,” he said, leaning against the doorjamb as mom walked by. “I told you old man, no good deed goes unpunished,” Dad smirked pulled her back and kissed her. Tabitha screamed. Mom shook her head and yelled for the other girls to help her in the kitchen. Tabitha left alone to fight the monster grabbed a pillow. “Don’t eat my mom you, you monster.” And she threw the pillow at him. It plopped on the floor, landing between them. They both looked at the pillow, and then at each other like they were in a standoff at the OK Corral. Then dad made his sad gopher face. It was a face he made all the time to make them laugh. He was good at sad gopher face. Tabitha blinked her eyes and tilted her head; her curls smashed on her right shoulder. “Dad, are you in there?” “Yes, sweet pea, I’m me. You wanna know what happened?” “Yep, tell me the whole storted story, “Tabitha said, flopping down on the pillow in story listening cross-legged position. “First, it’s sorted not storted.” “That’s what I said.” “Never mind. Why do you think I’m a monster?” “Easy peasy, you have big bumps all over you, you scream, and your eyes are glow-in-the-dark red. Plus you tried to eat me whole.” “So, if I’m a monster, then why didn’t I eat you whole.” “I don’t know because I wiggled and kicked myself free.” “Yeah, that’s for that,” Dad said, rubbing his jaw.  Tabitha puckered up her lips, ready to cry that she had hurt the monster. “Sorry monster but you shouldn’t eat people, and you wouldn’t get hurt!” “I’ll try to remember that. So you remember last summer when Grandpa died. And last month when my dad, your other grandpa passed away? Then we had to move away from your school and your best friend Penny?” “Why are you reminding me? And hey, how do you know that monster? Are you abstorbing my dad’s brain or somefhing?” “No, and it's absorbing and something.” Then he made her say them slowly. It was frustrating for both of them. “Listen Sweet Pea; I asked you what you wanted for Christmas that would help make up for all the things you had every right to cry about, remember? It was after I picked you up from Penny’s house for the last time.” “Yep, I remember. Sigh. Penny had a big, big, big Christmas tree that smelled like Lysol. I love Lysol. Smells like Saturday when we do all the cleaning and dancing and watch movies.” “Tabitha, don’t tell people you love Lysol, okay?” “Okay, but that is don’t tell number 981, and my head can’t hold all the don’ts you know.” “Yep, I know. I’ll try to slow down on don'ts after you turn twenty-one.” “I’m only five twenty-one is forever away.” “Time only seems like forever. It’s not. Anyway, I told your mom we were going to get a real tree. Mom didn’t like that cause…” “Did she tell you no good deed goes unpunished?” “Yep, but….” “I know don’t tell number five, right after don’t fart loud in public.” “Both still true by the way.” “I’m trrryyying!” “I know. You are a good girl. I wanted you to have that tree, our tree, that mom and I put up last night. I stayed up all night to see your face when you ran in and saw the tree. Then, you saw the monster and ran almost into a present, so I lifted you over.” Tabitha whispered, “What happened to you in the middle of the night, daddy? Please say you’re okay inside the monster.” All four eyes in the room turned dew dropie. “Well, baby girl, your dad is allergic to Pine-tree sap. It breaks me out in these hives.” Dad pointed to the multiple red hives that covered his arms and neck and face. One almost covered his whole eye.  “That is why we’ve never had a real tree.” “Oh,” said Tabitha blinking and wriggling her lips. “I see. You loved me. You became a monster for me. So, you must not be a bad monster but a good monster, right?” Tabitha gasped her eyes widened. “You’re my Happy Halloween Sad Gopher Face Christmas Monster.” Dad laughed, “Guess I am. But you can call me, HH-SGF-CM.” “No silly, your dad. Only my dad spells weird like that.” She gave dad a big, though be it painful, bear-hug and ran out to the kitchen. Mom and the girls were pouring syrup on the chocolate chip pancakes. “Hey everybody, meet Happy Halloween, Sad Gopher Face, Christmas Monster! How do you spell it, Dad?” “HH-SGF-CM!” Dad exclaimed, then made a deep bow. “Da-da-da scream,” cried out, baby sister. “Com’ on let’s open presents under that mean tree,“ Tabitha said. The girls followed her to the Christmas tree. Mom looked at the uneaten and getting cold pancakes. “No good deed goes unpunished,” said mom. Then gave dad some medicine and wiped some pink stuff on him. You look more festive than the tree,” she joked. Then everyone just stood there in front of the Lysol smelling tree with its popcorn and construction paper ornaments and the angel on top. “Let’s not knock good deeds today, okay old lady?” “Okay, old man. Maybe you were right,” said mom as he put his arm around her and pulled us girls close. Then everyone said, “I’m always right.” “Hey,” said Dad, “that’s my line.” We just giggled. Dad turned Seventy-nine this year, and I’m much older than five. Mom is with our grandpas, and my sisters have families that love them, too. We never had another live tree in any of our homes. But there still aren’t too many Christmases that I don’t remember HH-SGF-CM. He was the best Christmas Monster I ever knew.

<End.>


He had grown weary of late winter, that time when a dirty crust of snow still covered last year’s garden and the early robins fought over worms, rising from secret hibernation to turn the earth. The pale sun peeked through the trees, barely warm enough to turn the dusting of snow on the juniper tree to little icicles, cascading down the twisted branches. The wind blew against a branch and with a tinkling sound, the icicles broke free and tumbled to the ground, shattered like so many dreams. Snowshoe rabbit tracks bounded through the garden, followed closely by the impressions left by his little wiener dog, Schatzi, always in eager pursuit, but never quite fast enough to catch up. Blue and brown butterflies, their wings tattered and lacy from wintering over, sought a protected nursery leaf to lay eggs for the next generation of sky flowers. Finally, wearied from their last effort, they fell to the ground and disappeared among last year’s leaves. Wet earth and decaying leaves left under the cover of snow, warmed and began to release their heady scent, attracting little flies, dung beetles and lady bugs to turn last year’s remnants into this year’s fertile soil. Eager little flowers pushed their way through the snow, green swords first, piercing the icy layer, like a chick’s egg tooth, to make way for an erect flower stem to bloom in the sun. First came the snow drop, white and sweet, soaking up the brief daylight, then the crocus, marching across the lawn, pushing and shoving until the whole hillside was a riot of purple, gold and white. Purple hyacinths, yellow daffodils and red tulips followed, waving their flags in patriotic fervor. New green aspen leaves shuddered and quaked in the morning breeze as if anticipating some bad news. Japanese cherry blossoms and redbud trees lofted clouds of pink fluff into the sky and wild plum flowers broadcast their essence into the air, inviting bees to gather nectar. A virgin queen bee flew into the air, pursued by dozens of eager drones and worker bee escorts and entertained her suitors on the wing. After a time, the survivors followed her back to the hive where she began producing eggs for a new generation. Her worker bees went back to their duties, busily preparing for the new season of flowers to come. Cicada nymphs stirred, then crawled out of the softened ground like a long-kept seventeen year old secret and spread their wings to fly away in search of new trees to house next season’s choir. A brilliant red cardinal was sporting with a smaller brown female as they hunted sticks and grass to build a place to lay her eggs. He sang her a love song, “twit, tweet, tooey tooey tooey” and she sang back, meeting him and merging in mid-flight. “O-chickadee, o-chickadee, o-chickadee,” a pair of Carolina chickadees, mated for life, sang as they hopped together from branch to branch through the juniper and foraged for grubs to nourish her and twigs to build their love nest. With a magnificent feat of aerial acrobatics, a scissor-tailed flycatcher took flight to snatch a cicada nymph on the wing, then flew away to seek another tasty morsel to impress his mate. Two turtledoves, perched together on the barbed wire to rest from their labors and rehearsed their evening lullaby, “Oooh woo, ooo ooo ooo.” He puffed out his feathers and they danced around one another, preening, and negotiating the pre-nuptial agreement. Finally, in a great flurry of feathers, they coupled and flew away home. A lone Cooper’s hawk landed on a small gray granite headstone marked with a United States Army Fallen Soldier’s flag. There was a carefully tended snow drop and crocus garden and beside it another marker, dusky pink sandstone, shaded by a flowering cherry blossom tree, with a different name, different dates and the inscription MOM. They say stories meant to be told are hidden away for years, even a lifetime, just begging to come forth. Then, one day, when it is their season, they open the secret door and push through the last layer of darkness into the light of day, where they blossom and grow to keep the world in motion. He went to his corner desk, lifted the time-worn tie-dyed shawl, polished the surface underneath, dusted the framed purple heart, gathered fallen pens and paper clips into a Class of 1969 coffee mug, opened his mother’s diary and sat down at the ancient Underwood typewriter to write. Song of Solomon by Solomon Ford Walker, Jr. He picked her up after school in his bright red Ford Fairlane. He bought her a cherry snow cone then they drove to the edge of town. He parked his car on Chickadee Hill and let the top down so they could feel the breeze. He played soft music on the radio and jumped up to catch a firefly on the wing, presenting it to her as a gift. She lay in his arms and laughed at his jokes. As the sun went down and stars began to come out, he untied her scarf and ran his long thin fingers through her honey-blonde hair. Her soft lips tasted of cherry and he pressed his mouth to hers then moved down her neck, thrusting his eager body against her. Her dress slid to the floor and he struggled to undo his uniform and take off his shoes. He trembled as he unfastened her cherry blossom pink bra. The shadows deepened as he sang softly in her ear. He whispered promises and sealed them with a kiss. With an impressive acrobatic move, he pushed through her melting layer of snow, like a chick’s egg tooth breaking through to make way for life to begin.

Solomon Ford Walker                                             Annie Marks PFC US Army,                                                           30 April 1951 – 18 March 1986 Cam Rahn Bay, Vietnam

                      MOM 15 March 1950 – 7 August 1969

The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing

of birds  is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.         Song of Solomon 2:12


Samhain ( sow-in ); a Gaelic festival marking the end of the harvest season, the origin of the holiday known as All Hallows' Eve. It is cold, tonight. The wind sweeps raindrops and flame-coloured leaves over the street, the air is filled with the brightness of lanterns and chatter. Trick-or-treaters dart joyously from door to door. I can see them well from my perch. My, it is a sight, all of those costumes. A little red fire fighter splashes through a puddle beneath me, calling to his mother with excited impatience. I love kids. I might have had some of my own, once. But no time to ponder. I slide off the tree branch I'd been lounging on and flit through the street, weaving above the people. I pause a couple times to watch, listen. It doesn't take long to find what I'm looking for. I slow and rise to float quietly over the heads of two middle schoolers. A witch and a vampire. Classic. They hurry through the streets like everyone else, knocking on strangers' doors in their disguises to demand sweets, but something on them has piqued my interest. It rolls off them in waves, and as I follow them, I see the signs. Calling mean things to others, knocking pumpkins from porches, the like. Cruel brats. They’ll meet their reckoning tonight, I know. I can’t wait to watch the chaos unfold. Perhaps I’ll have my own fun with them before someone else does. I dive out ahead of them, enjoying the feeling of the air, and slip into an alley. It’s a little filthy, but I don’t mind. It’s not as if I’m not used to it. I follow the winding little street until I find a good, dark nook to settle in. I’ve left those two delinquents far behind, but I know they’ll come to me.

I shimmer into physical being and lean back, rolling out my shoulders and relaxing against cool brick. It feels good to be tangible sometimes. I run my hands over me to remind myself of my corporeal body. I like my hair, I remember. It’s thick and long, falling in a tie down my back and over my shoulders. I also remember the one thing I’ve never been able to figure out on my form. Gender.

I, as a non-being, have none. I don’t remember what it was originally either. Eh, I suppose it doesn’t matter too much. If anything, appearing as the genderless, ageless being I am will only cause the mortals that see me more distress and confusion.

Voices bring me back to the present. The brats come clattering down the alley. They’re loud, but I can sense their nervousness. They’re not sure of themselves, or what they’re doing here. All the better. People who are unsure are easier to convince.

They come stumbling into view a moment later. It takes a moment for them to spot me, but they freeze one after the other once they do. I wait as they do the usual nudging and whispering before one of them pipes up.

“Who are you?” Confrontational, as I guessed. I gaze on them silently for a moment for effect. “It does not make a difference, who I am. All that matters is that I exist. Sit down, children, let me tell you a story.” They are hesitant, but their will cannot stand under my effect. They approach to sit cross-legged at my feet, and I begin my tale. “Somewhere in the world, in a space between moving spaces, there exists the little village of Samhain. Now, Samhain itself isn’t all that interesting, long abandoned and mossy, the cobbles so covered in grime that the streets become like ice when it rains, that you’d slip and fall as soon as set foot on them.

Most of the year, Samhain lies dormant, nothing more than a ghost town, hidden deep in marshy woods.” I drop my voice to a secretive hush. “The excitement, really, is on the flipside. You see, in Samhain there is a well. An empty, narrow, bottomless well, and this well acts as the one and only passage between this world and the next. A gateway, of sorts, that only opens for a short time, falling on the day some of you mortals now call “All Hallows’ Eve”. Or, rather, Harlen tells me it's "Halloween" now? These things move too fast, I swear.” I break off with a laugh. “On this day it floods with the bustle of all kinds of evil weaving their way through the annual shift flip.

Spooks take a shift of one year, spent out in the world doing their assigned duty, haunting houses, hiding under beds, in closets, under bridges, in dark woods, the like. When the portal opens, they go back to their realm, and the next set of spooks take their place.” The two are captivated, and I smile down at them, eyes glowing. “All Hallows’ Eve is the way it is because it’s when the haunts are up and moving, transitioning from one year to the next.

Departing haunts like to mess around, feeling light with their impending free time, so they have some fun before they go home, frightening trick or treaters or stupid teens in haunted buildings. Arriving spooks are fresh and energetic, excited puppies darting around and scaring the life out of anyone they come across. It all sounds rather chaotic, doesn’t it? That’s the fun of it. Spooks thrive off of chaos. However, there does need to be some method to the madness. Here’s where the four other commandments of human justice (or human punishment), Karma, Pain, Guilt, and Death, come in. They regulate the gateway, the shifts, and keep the worst of the chaos under muzzle (while of course, taking care of their own jobs as well). Fear, the fifth form of justice, is represented by the spooks, for obvious reasons.” I pause once more to watch their faces. Open, hanging off my words. I can’t tell if it’s because of my spirit’s influence or my storytelling.

“Now, you may be wondering why all of this happens.” I wait for them to nod. “Simple, really. It's because humans have the power to be terrible to the earth and the beings they share it with. Unfortunately, not all humans recognize the responsibilities that come with that, so someone else has to. Hence the commandments. The spooks' job just happens to carry out a little less subtly than the others.” I shrug, shift my weight on the ledge and tilt my head. “Maybe, you're asking why you've never heard of this before. ( It's because you're human. ) Maybe you’re even chuckling to yourself, wondering how anyone came up with something like this.” I wrinkle my nose. “Do you doubt me, mortals? I have bestowed you, of all pitiful beings, with this knowledge and you doubt me? That’s alright, most do. No one really believes the narrator. It’s all just a story, right?” I grin toothily at them, gleaming in the low light. “All I’ll say is, next time something unexplainable happens, or you are struck by one of the five commandments, think of this story, and doubt yourself just a little. Perhaps your reality really is more than what you can see, and maybe, you’ll think, that crazy writer was telling the truth.” A dark hand reaches from the shadows and wraps around a scrawny ankle. La Fine ~ The rhyme (by me) that started it all- Once upon a nightmare, there sat the little village of Samhain. And in this village, through the street, through the square, over the bridge and past the fair, stood a little well. But this well was no well, as it held not a drop of water, just a long narrow cell, all but on the night of Hallows’ Eve. On this night it came filled with the spookiest of spooks, flooding the village and climbing the stoops, for this town it had a secret, and a truth I now will tell, the village of Samhain was not a village but a well. - Mirabella S.


1st Entry: February 29th, 3001 I've finally started writing the journal I promised my therapist about back on Earth, now that we've reached Marrs. it has two r's. I don't misspell. As scientists had predicted due to weakening magnetic fields, the sun rose in the West and Earth's gravity was basically kicking us out. In a flurry of panic and disarray, humanity once more succeeded, exactly as irritably as it could get. I had been hopeful when Mars didn't work out. Until Marrs started surfing Media when I was fifteen. 'Can't quite believe I've lived a year after that. I don't exactly love to reflect but my therapist is a cunning tester who told me I should "transfer" my "thoughts to ink" to "make way for the noble mind". So, I wish the human race had ended with the sunset in the East– right then and there, no worries after departure. Things haven't changed much over here except my dad's low-paying job has turned into a no-paying job. He volunteered to help with the construction of houses for the poor. I wonder if he actually believes that anyone suffered poverty's trauma more than us. I wish he'd prioritize us over humanity sometimes; empathy over sympathy– Do I sound like Thanos? I shouldn't care. My mom has started tutoring kids and teenagers. She's done with her fifth class of the day now. The kids are pleading her to repeat her adventure tales. It's annoying how she has turned a matter of not affording to get to safety– not affording life to something worth pride. This journaling b.s is really doing a number on getting on my nerves. We need to stop wasting money on it. I'm talking to mom tomorrow. 2nd Entry : 3 0th Febr uary, 3001 Turns out, there's 30 to 31 days in February and November, and 31 to 32 days in the rest of the months here. That's approximately 376 days– if I've managed to not blunder through calculation. Nothing interesting really happened today. I've just been studying and using low-class pass in the library to understand this whole new world to get my mind off mom not caring about my opinion bregarding my own mental health and financial choices. 3rd Entry : March 1 st, 3001 The flowers on this planet are kinda weird. I haven't seen many but I like to walk around and I saw a bunch of breeds with belly-like stems, juicy petals, watery cores and there was this one bed of air-floating flowers too. The owner had caught me oggling at them so he gave me a bit of background and basics. Embarrassing, but it was almost worth the knowledge. If we had been here sooner, mom would have had studied these amazing breeds instead of the boring ones back home and actually made sales with her Botonical Bussiness Buddy book. And I would have been able to study with people at school. I keep dreaming. It frustrates me. J don't think writing's for me. 4th Entry: March 3rd, 3001 I skipped two days of journaling and got an earful from Miss Therapist. She's okay at her job, but she's annoying as hell and won't keep her nose out of my bussiness and is a sly trapping witch that knows how to lure secrets out of me. Welp, doesn't matter that I badmouthed her. She asked me to write. I wrote. 5th Entry: March 5th, 3001 Since she became my thirteenth birthday gift, till now, she's been nosy. So I don't know why I didn't see her discovery of my yesterday's journaling topic coming. A load of foolishness, I am. She gave me a list of questions to answer "at my own pace and comfort" instead of choosing unsuitable topics. And I don't care if it's childish but I'm not listening to her because she's sly, nosey, selfish and she's only ever blabbering or asking me to do so for the sake of cashing. 6th Entry: March 27th, 3001 I haven't been journaling for a while. I've been salty and I don't exactly know why but I'm choosing not to dwell on it for the sake of my sanity. I'm seventeen now. It's my birthday. Molly told me her name as a gift. Wow, saying her name's weird, she's always been Miss Therapist to me. She never gave me a gift before but said that this was her spirtual gift to me this year because she couldn't afford a concrete one. Sounds fishy to me. I've been feeling so mentally unstable that I think I heard her muttering about being stupid to waste time here when she could actually be earning somewhere else. She's weird, and she's making me weird too. It's what happens when you can't afford real therapy. Anyway! First question on the list: What are you feeling right now? Woah, wait. Waitta catch me off-guard there... I can go at my own pace and comfort. Random question: What's happiness? Answer: Joy. Bye. 52nd Entry: May 10th, 3001 A couple of skips on the journey but I can't believe I've beared it this far. Molly's still annoying but her tactics are less annoying and more eye-opening now. Swear to God, she can't squeeze this one out of me. Ew, I just imagined pride on her face. Ugly. Anyway! Question no. 46. A reason you're glad Marrs exists? The plants! And other natural stuff. It's really much more beautiful than that messed up blue ball we used to live on. And I don't really know how to be eloquent about this but the nature here is just so.. captivating and appealing to the eye... and somehow the heart too. Yeah, that's my way of putting it, I guess. 3012th Entry: May 12th, 3008 It's Molly and I's first wedding anniversary so I'm going to be gifting her this notebook to let her know of the torture she's put me through. Also, how she's helped me not want to wish to be the one comitting suicide in place of Charlie, and understanding mom and dad, and encouraging me to work towards my passion (which she guessed was botany even though it wasn't obvious, she was just sly, doesn't matter what she says) and slipping in some no-payment sources, and basically teaching me what life is. Thank you, annoying Miss Therapist. (P.s. drop in at the Senior Centre after work. Let's drop our parents some pizza-macaroons. You have to drive there yourself. I've done enough by making you suspicious of my extra working hours due to buying a restaurant for various reasons. Surprise! I know I'm still not that eliquent so excuse my form of communication xoxo)


Christmas: peace and good will to all mankind; well, that was certainly not the case in the London supermarket where I worked. My boss, nicknamed Mr Blotchy by all the employees forced to endure his red-faced rants, found running the store during the big Christmas lead-up stressful, to say the least. I’d taken on the holiday job as cashier and stock clerk to earn a bit of cash, help pay off the student bills, perhaps save a bit for Fran’s gift; I wasn’t expecting a bonus packet of high blood pressure and nervous tics. And that was before I botched up the big Christmas order. “Janet, in here. Now!” Sadly, my name is Janet so there was no avoiding the inevitable. I pushed back from my computer screen and made my way to the office’s glass box where Blotchy reined- King of the pulsing vein. He had his back to me, punching buttons on the printer, so I quietly made my way to his desk and sat perched on the edge of the seat, ready for a fast exit if the spittle started to fly. I didn’t have long to wait. “What do you have to say to this?” The vein on his temple was already throbbing like he’d been on the Christmas pre-dinner cocktails since 8am. I cast a glance at the sheet he’d printed out and slammed down in front of me. I didn’t have much to say regarding the rows of numbers. I knew what they were of course: stock orders, but I just plugged them into the system; they could have been alien phone numbers for all I knew or cared. I decided it was best to feign interest. “Looks like we’ve ordered a lot of stock; Christmas sales going well.” “You can tell me we’ve ordered a lot of stock!” Out came a red pen and an angry circle enclosed one set of figures. “Stock number 8527: you’ve ordered 1000 units. Big order. You’ll know what 8527 is of course.” As if I had the faintest idea. “Cranberry sauce?” It seemed like a plausible stab in the dark. I was considering quickly amending my guess to turkey or mince pies when Blotchy, true to his name, mottled an angry red. “You should be so bleedin’ lucky- cranberry sauce! No, my girl, you’ve not ordered 1000 units of everyone’s favourite Christmas condiment. Know what you have ordered? 1000 units of, wait for it, mint sauce.” Now I liked mint sauce, so delightfully artificial; and that livid green, such a pop of colour on the plate! But I wasn’t about to tell Blotchy any of this. Time for more supermarket charades. “Oh no! How terrible!” I hammed it up. “ How could I have made such a terrible mistake?” Even as I was giving it my best thesp shot, the scene flashed fully formed into my mind. I had been blithely typing in the week’s orders, confirmed by Blotchy on printouts with his daily handwritten amendments. It was normal for orders to change; with party season starting, blinis say or shrimps might be flying off the shelves and we’d need to order a few more units than what was programmed into the system. Overriding and changing the orders, that was my job. Well, yesterday I was tapping in the changes, when a flash of crimson and a wave of dark hair caught my eye through the office’s glass. I looked up- fatefully. The flash of crimson was a long red scarf, elegantly draped about the neck of a man whose long luscious dark locks made him look like a fitting romantic lead for an Austen adaptation. I was casting myself as Elizabeth to his Darcy, eyes locked on him, picking out his lunchbreak sushi from the chiller cabinet, when he turned and caught my perving eye and winked! And, I decided, as Blotchy mottled and seemed to shake, the incriminating order sheets now crumpled in his fist, those eyes and that saucy wink were what caused my helpless fingers to go crazy, typing in a few extra zeros for the innocent mint sauce; it was only a natural response; what was a girl supposed to do? The mystery of the mint sauce was solved, for me at least, but I could tell Blotchy exactly zero percent of the story. I would need to get inventive; cue me, Janet, recast as TV foodie-host: “Lamb is very much on trend this season. Fashionable Londoners are falling over themselves to pre-order legs and racks. Our mint sauce will be the accompaniment; jars are going to just grow legs and walk off the shelves.” Blotchy looked like he wanted me to use my legs and walk out of the office, the store- his life. I tried again. “And what with avian flu, poultry numbers are taking a real hit. Turkeys will be harder and harder to come by and customers will be forced to look for alternatives, like lamb- with mint sauce!” I saw myself in Blotchy’s eyes: a virus he wished he’d been vaccinated against; boy had he been naïve, thinking the Janet strain would be just a mild variant. “1000 units!” His voice shook and the full horror hit me: I wasn’t sure if he was going to vent or cry. I burst out: “At least it’s got a long shelf-life; we’ll shift it all by next Christmas.” He groaned and typed the digits into the keyboard: 8, 5, 2, 7. A picture of the stock flashed up with corresponding description: Fresh mint jus £12.99 for 50 grams Shelf life: 10 days Must be kept chilled His finger jabbed at the screen: the delivery date. “Janet, your mint sauce is arriving 7am tomorrow. You get down here an hour early, offload the chiller and fill it up with the stuff.” I nodded. Hoping the rant was over, I made my way to the door. “And Janet, you’d better think of something fast to shift those 1000 units, otherwise you can forget about hanging up a stocking or presents under the tree.” Yes, yes. I knew; but he wasn’t finished with me yet. “And do you know what you’ll be getting for a Christmas bonus?” Hell, it was worth a try: “One of those lovely Harrods hampers?” The wicker case filled with a cornucopia of mince pies, puddings and Christmas crackers sprang unbidden into my mind. “No,” he exploded, throwing the crumpled sheet into the bin, “any flaming mint jus we don’t shift, and your marching orders!” In that moment, I knew: my turkey was well and truly stuffed. ---------------------------------------------------------------- Letting myself into the apartment I shared with Fran, I suspected I should be feeling contrite about my scatter-brained slip up, but somehow, I just didn’t. My mind kept returning with salivating circularity to Mr Red Scarf and his scrumptious figure. I couldn’t blame my foolish fingers for just typing in any old numbers; at least they’d been semi functioning while my tongue was hanging out and my brain was having a hot flush.

Fran was sitting on the sofa, bottle of wine in hand, feet resting on the box of Christmas decorations she’d promised to go through, when I came in. “My favourite Christmas cashier!” she beamed, yanking the cork out and splashing wine into two glasses. “Fran, how long are you planning to keep these Christmas jingles going for?” “Until the first snow falls, which will probably bring us round to February! Why the long face? Grinch steal your Christmas cheer?” I gave her a shove and clambered onto the sofa. “Oh well, might just have lost my holiday job. Do you like mint sauce by any chance?” The wine flowed and so did the laughs. As expected, Fran found it all an absolute hoot. “1000 units instead of 10. Tell me, was Mr Red Scarf well worth the extra two o’s?” “Boy he was worth a whole string of them. He was like oooooohhhh ”.

Fran fell over the arm of the sofa and writhed passion on the floor. “And maybe a few mmm’s thrown in ?” I tumbled onto the floor too, clobbering Fran with a cushion. “We’ve got to sober up Fran, and think of something! Unless you want 1000 pots of fresh mint jus for your Christmas present?” “Ok, ok, serious face.” She said, pursing her lips. “You should dress up as a giant mint leaf; no, perhaps not- the police might think you’re marketing weed or something.” “How about a lamb?” I ventured. “I bet I could get a fluffy costume and stand in front of the chiller, bleating a bit.” “Even better: Little Bo-Peep, looking for her sheep! You can have the whole get-up; shepherdess crook and all” For a moment she looked at me with absolute earnestness, then we both fell about laughing again. It was no use. We drained a second bottle, danced ridiculously to Abba and fell asleep on the sofa with loud snores and zero ideas on how to shift the stock, making its way to the London store for 7am sharp.  --------------------------------------------------------------- I arrived at the shop early the next day, more alarmed about my shameful lack of a hangover than the prospect of loading the chiller cabinet. My liver must be more used to wine than water, I mused, taking the worker’s entrance and swiping my card. Blotchy wasn’t about; he’d probably had a coronary in the night, dreaming about drowning in a sea of mint jus. I glanced at the roster: surprise, surprise I’d been taken off stock order duties and all my shifts were on the tills. Oh well, at least as cashier I’d avoid Blotchy waving his sheets of numbers at me. It was my first time stocking the chiller cabinet and my hands were soon red raw and numb, fingers like ten icicles, tingling from the cold. I was like some frozen automaton that somehow still keeps working, enduring Siberian icy blasts: stoop and lift and stack; stoop and lift and stack. Repetitive strain injury, repetitive strain injury, I robotically intoned while the blasted Christmas tunes blasted out. Yep, I was in for repetitive ear injury too. Things might have turned out differently had I been able to maintain mechanical efficiency; but with only 348 pots of fresh mint jus unboxed and stacked, I realised something: I’d slowed right down. Motivational talk was what I needed. “I hate you mint sauce.” I whispered at the 349 th green tub with its sloshing frog-spawn coloured contents. It helped a teensy bit. “I hate you mint sauce” I said expressively, shoving the 350 th tub onto the shelf. Yep, my fingers were still in danger of getting frostbite and were probably hanging on by just one icy thread, but I definitely felt better. “I HATE you -mint sauce!” I shouted, half-throwing tub number 351 into the unit and, with a whoosh of euphoria, I heard a deep laugh behind me. “Funny, I love a bit of sauce.” I whipped round and immediately forgot all icy sensations, flushing instead like a furnace: it was Mr Red Scarf! My mouth was hanging open as if I were a fish catching flies and I hurriedly shut it. Quick, think and look sexy, think and look sexy! I told myself, banishing the horrible thought that I was wearing brown polyester supermarket overalls to the reject bin in my brain. Above me, the sign started flashing like it had a nervous tic: “Specials!” it blinked. “Specials!” And then there was a crackle and it just switched itself off. We both burst out laughing. “So, Janet,” he said completely at 101% relaxed ease, reading my name badge and reaching casually past me to lift a tub off of the shelf, “perhaps you can tell me why mint sauce is this store’s seasonal special instead of, say, cranberry?” My mouth fell open again. He’d brushed past me; his scarf had actually, for a split- second, touched my bare hand. I shut my mouth, then opened it again and told him the whole silly story, leaving out his part; after all, a man so gorgeous must already have an ego to rival the Greek gods he was surely descended from, he didn’t need any more bolstering from me! He laughed that suggestive laugh I was already addicted to, casually tossing then catching the little tub of sauce he’d taken from the shelf. “Well, if it helps at all, I will be your first customer; this mint jus is coming home with me.” I laughed, giving Blotchy a run for his money in the frantic flushing stakes. He pulled a pen and a slip of paper out of his jeans pocket. Leaning the paper against his thigh, he wrote his name and telephone number and handed me the slip. “Well, just in case you’d like me to come and take a few more tubs off your hands. Right, need to head back: lunch break was over five minutes ago.” That sexy smile, another super sexy wink and he headed to the express till, paid and left, leaving me clutching the slip of paper -it had touched his thigh for heaven’s sake! - and wondering if he had read my mind, as surely his name couldn’t actually be Adonis. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Fran was already lacing up her skates when I finally arrived at the outside ice-skating rink where we'd arranged to meet. I plonked myself down on the freezing bench and winced as I eased my feet out of their warm winter boots and into the hired skates which felt as comfortable as two blocks of ice. Through gritted teeth, I told her about Adonis. “No! Mr Ooo and Mmmm came back?” “Uh huh” “You’re going to be his Christmas special! I just know it!” Fran squealed like he’d already gone down on one knee. “Even better; I’ve got his name and phone number!” I faked coyness and twisted the little slip of paper between my thumb and forefinger. Fran reached to grab it and with a laugh I spun off onto the ice, feeling like I was gliding into a future just as smooth as the glinting surface. Fran scrambled after me, clutching onto the sides. Most people avoided her, probably presuming she was drunk. Eventually I took pity on her gasping, hauling technique and looped my arm through hers, and we skated off together. “So, Miss Frantastic, what do you think I should say to this man, bearer of luscious dark locks, giver of super sexy winks, who goes- wait for it- by the name of Adonis?” For a moment I thought Fran was going to fall over again as she tugged me to the perimeter and we propped against the wall. She tapped the name into Google on her phone, and his face flashed onto the screen. Mr Red Scarf who went by the stage name Adonis Olivier – real name Benedict Olive- was an actor on the up, after a low budget flick had suddenly become a cult classic. More than on the up, if the number of followers he had on Instagram was anything to go by. As we ogled him, a new post flashed up with a link to the BBC. Fran clicked and we both watched, wide-eyed, a clip from the six o’clock news which must have just aired. “And finally, the BBC have it from a reliable source that your jar of cranberry might well be staying at the back of your cupboard this Christmas. Yes, it’s time to give your heart away to something special: mint jus!” The camera zoomed into the screen behind the grinning presenter and there was Adonis, decked in his red scarf, singing in full-blown crooning Mariah style to the tub of mint sauce he’d bought just a few hours ago: “Make my wish come true- all I want for Christmas is jus!” Cut back to the laughing BBC presenter: “So, you heard it here first Londoners! Drop the cranberry sauce and pick up the mint jus- hotter than a steaming mulled wine- and on sale tomorrow at your local Knightsbridge store.” “Call him!” shrieked Fran. “Text him at least, for heaven’s sake!” With fumbling fingers, I tapped in his number. Feeling drunk, without a drop in me, I fired off: “If I don’t have to eat 999 tubs of mint sauce, you’ve definitely made all my wishes come true! Thanks! Janet.” The reply came straight back. “Happy to help. Bit busy at the mo. I’ve got something in store for you, can’t say more!” The brazier burning on the side of the rink had nothing on my glowing face. “Come on Fran,” I said grinning, “this calls for a celebratory drink. Adonis has something planned for me!” ---------------------------------------------------------------- I could hardly believe my eyes when I made my way to work the next day and saw the queue trailing round the block, people jostling to keep their spot. At the front of the long snaking line, standing behind a blue ribbon fixed between two Christmas trees, brandishing a pair of over-sized scissors, was Adonis.

Blotchy was beaming and started a countdown: “Ten, nine, eight, seven…” I’d never seen him so happy, smiling at Adonis as if Santa had just landed right outside his little store. “Three, two,” “Make my wish come true!” Adonis called out, and the crowd answered as one: “All I want for Christmas is jus!” Snip went the scissors, the automatic door slid open and the queue surged forward as if the store was selling the last of the Christmas turkeys. I ran up to Adonis and flung my arms around him. “You wonderful, wonderful man!” I laughed. “Are you sure you don’t want another jar of mint jus ?” And Christmas wonders were already happening as he hugged me back. “I think you know that’s the last thing on my mind, when in my arms is the oh-so delicious you .”


He gently placed his hand on my back. "Son." He spoke sternly, "go to her. She needs you." "Why?" I asked, tears trickling uncontrollably down my face. "Why what?" "Why couldn't I do anything?" "No time for this. Do it later. For now, go to her. This is the hardest part of being a father." I turned to him and looked into his eyes. He gave me a hug, embracing me firmly, forging my heart with the love and compassion he knew I needed. It ended, I nodded to him, and returned to my wife--her mind a faint light concealed in the hospital room. I sat next to her and held her hand. All the love I had received, everything left my father had to give me, I gave it to her.


January 1999, morning, abandoned mall

She was struggling to remember the date, because every day is like the last one. Wake up, check on Vicky, look for any signs of life, eat canned peaches, and realize that when death takes your hand, they won.

Friday, Sept 24 1997 6:34 am, home

“All this bull news” mother said frustrated, after turning off the TV.

“What do you mean ma?” Ally was confused. Her mom usually is pretty calm but now she's getting frustrated because of “fake news”.

“I mean that this news is bullshit. Nothing has happened for weeks and the president expects us to leave our home just because ‘An

unexplained natural disaster is coming our way’,  do you guys actually believe this?”

“well,” Ally started to explain, “if scientist believe this, we should too.” she said while packing up a lunch.

“why are you packing for school? The bus doesn’t leave until 8?” mother said confused at her actions.

“this isn't for school Ma, just in case-

“just in case for what, if aliens attack the planet?! No if Godzilla starts to wake up? This news is fake.” she stated, “what do you not believe your own mother?!” She spoke in a very loud tone. At this point Sydney was full with tears, trying not to cry.

“mom, please don’t get mad, I'm doing this just to be on the safe side,” Ally said calmly, “look, mom please- just relax-”

“RELAX! DID YOU JUST TELL ME TO RELAX? IVE HAD IT WITH YOU TWO.” she spoke angrily, the apartment next door could hear us. The two daughters stood their quiet, as their mother slammed the door.

Both daughters were used to this. Yelling, screaming. They didn’t blame mother though, they blamed themselves. Sydney and Ally thought it was their fault that father left. Single parenting wasn’t easy.

“it's okay Sydney, just pack some food, water and blankets, its better safe than sorry.” Ally said, “Syd, are you alright?”

Sydney sat there still, frozen. Finally, she spoke “what if it is the end?,” she paused and then continued, “What if we die while mother is out of our sight? what if mother dies? what if everyone dies and we are the only ones left? What if-”

“Stop it Syd! Stop it! Just pack up and wait at the door!” And so, Sydney packed up her water, food, blankets, and a lamp. And sat in front of the door. She turned on the TV to see if anything was updated

“...this unexplained natural disaster is coming close. Officials are telling people to evacuate the southern county. The government is calling this marvel “the sixth extinction” ...”

“ALLY! ALLY COME HERE RIGHT NOW”

“What is it Syd? What's wron-” her eyes were glued to the TV, observing the world going down.

“Call mom, Syd call mom right now” but Syd sat there in shock, still listening to the news reporter.

“11 people are reported dead, 74 injured and 3 are reported missing, due to these inexplicable explosions...”

“Turn it off Sydney! Turn it off right now!” she yelled- almost identical to her mother. But Syd just sat there. Ally had to do it for her. She aggressively turned it off and shot Sydney a death glare.

 Ally was not to blame for these actions, her mom not responding to calls, she was stressed, in distressed for what was to come.

7:01 am, home

“where are you going?”

“I'm going to look for mom, stay here Syd.”

“no.” she shot back

“what do mean no. I'm in charge and you have to listen to me, understand?”

“fine, just please tell Ma that you're sorry?”

“I will I promise. If I don’t come back in an hour call the police and get help, okay?”

“but I won't have to because you will come back, right?”

Ally gave her an apologetic smile. “yes, yes I will, I promise.” She gave her sister a hug and went to search for her mother.

7:09 am, outside the apartment, Ally’s perspective

When I went downstairs, I didn’t know what was to come. If it were a normal Friday in Thomasville Georgia or Chernobyl. In Georgia nothing happened, therefore I didn’t expect anything.

As I opened the door, it didn’t look like Chernobyl, it looked worse. I envisioned the kids walk to the local school, but all those kids, were dead. People filming helicopters crashing into the lake. Explosions, many explosions, too many for me to comprehend. I ran around looking at the motionless bodies' underneath crumbled bricks maybe to find my mother, hopefully not. I walked across the street coughing up all the dust and smoke.

I saw a building, I wasn’t sure if it was the police department or the jail county, anyway there will be adults. I opened the door and saw the prisoners' lifeless corpses, I could barely see the orange uniform, I only saw black and red.

It's good that Syd didn’t come. Syd! I tried to check the time on my phone but it was cracked, suddenly blood was all over my palms, I smashed the phone in rage and headed home.

The neighborhood looked like Night of the Living Dead all over again. God let's hope zombies don’t attack Earth.

The neighborhood looked like Night of the Living Dead all over again. God let's hope zombies don’t attack Earth.

7:47 am, home (Allys perspective)

I walked through the door and went to the sink to clean my wound. While I put I little bit off alcohol on it.

“Syd!” I called. No response.

“Syd! Come here, I'm home!” Still no response. Where is she? Then I finally noticed that the door was unlocked. I went outside with the gauze around my hand. I saw her out the window looking for someone. She better not have been looking for me. I kept watching her. Suddenly she paused and stood there.

I ran downstairs since the elevators weren't working and rushed down to the parking lot. And all I can see is her staring down a corpse. A dead corpse

8:04 am, parking lot

The two daughters found themselves staring down at their dead mother, gazing into her lifeless eyes. That’s all they could look at since the rats already took most of her.

8:45 am, parking lot

“what now?” Syd asked traumatized.

“I think we should head to the apartment, just remember this wasn’t our fault.” Ally said looking down at her trampled hand.

“let's go. "she said grabbing Syd's arm. Immediately after the girls heard a bang. They quickly turned around almost falling to their feet.

the apartment crumbled


Mommy and Daddy are happy today. I know they are because they came in my room smiling and carrying a huge cake. It's my birthday today. I smile at then as they sing Happy birthday and then I get to pretend blow it the candle. We can't have real candles in my room. Mommy got in trouble last time. But it's still fun to pretend. I got a new truck and coloring books. I even ate three whole bites of cake! But then I started getting tired again so Daddy called the nurse. She took my temperature and fluffed my pillow and told me happy birthday too. I smiled because I was too tired to say thank you. Soon, I feel asleep, but I didn't sleep long. Somebody woke me up by rubbing my back. I looked up and saw a grand pa man smiling at me. "Come on champ, it's time to go." I sat up and yawned."I'm not supposed to leave my room." His warm hand gently held mine and made me feel safe. He smiled and his eyes wrinkled up. "I know. But we are just going to walk to the door. We will stay in your room. Besides, I've got a present over there for you." I looked across the room but the door was hard to look at. I guessed it was okay so I nodded and slid off the bed. As we got closer to the door, it was harder and harder to look at, so I just looked at the floor. Slowly, the floor faded into grass, and I could smell flowers. I looked up and gasped. Everything was gone. No more hospital room, now I was in a big feild of flowers. There man laughed a little and crinkled his eyes at me again. "Do you like to paint?" He asked. "Yeah! I can't paint all kinds of things. My mommy said..." I felt sad and wondered where my mommy was. The man squatted down and wrapped me in a hug. "Your mommy is just fine. She's a little sad but she will be okay. Would you like to paint her a present?" I wiped my tears and nodded. "Come on then." I heard the yips and meows before I saw the baskets of kittens and puppies. All of them were White, like blank paper. He took me to a basket full of paint brushes and paints. "This is heaven, son. But you have a very important job here. All these pets need painting before they go to see their mommies. Over the hill are other kids just like you for you to play with and all the food you ever want. But I bet you want to pick one out and paint it special for your Mom first." "I can't see my mommy any more can I?" I got another hug. "No, son, but you can send her a pet. " I picked up a really small sleepy kitten. Maybe he can be orange. Mommy liked pretty things. I started to paint and all the sadness left me. When I was done I handed the kitten to the man. "Be careful. That's my mommies special Kitty." The man smiled and nodded, then he disappeared. So I picked up a wrinkley puppy and started putting poka dots on him. I think I'm going to like it here.


Wrote this few years back. This is my first time posting. Feed backs are welcome. Prolouge Countless. That's how we describe the time that we have spent in this reality. Eons. Millennia. Centuries. We have been here for a while,looking for our purpose. We call our kind Nemos. which will be later known as Latin word for null or nothingness. Observer. Judge. Ruler. In search for a purpose, we decided to give ourselves something to do. Some became rulers of empires. Some adjudicators. I was the only one who resorted to becoming an observer. Nothing takes my interest. Except for this one soul. This is the story on how a young man made me interfere with human life. Chapter 1 His name is Q. He is the second host to notice my presence. We see what our host sees. We experience everything that happens to them. But make no mistake. We feel no pain nor emotion related to their stimulus. Its like.. I am another conciousness at the back of his mind. When a host die, we simply find another host in the Labyrinth. The Labyrinth is a place where all things are connected. Its like an infinite pathway for all things. Nemos are free to pick their host with only one restriction. We agreed not to pick a soul of a person who experienced death and then came back to life. The reason behind that is when the I picked a resuscitated patient, the poor soul saw what the I saw in all of my existence. Yes he came back alive but almost went insane. Q is seeing a familiar scene. He has seen this event may times. This is the same dream that keeps on showing from time to time. There are 2 images of Q. one lying on the floor and the other one sitting on the former's chest. The latter holding a broken shard of glass and continuously slitting the throat of the first one. The sheer amount of blood dripping doesnt bother him anymore. He has been trying to understand what could be the meaning of his recurring dream.. or nightmare. even I, an entity who lived countless lives cannot explain what is happening to his mind. We Nemos cannot forget. We remember everything perfectly as if things happened seconds ago. I am sure as hell that this is the first time that I saw a dream like that. Summer. Q is an interesting kid. He likes the idea of helping others but hates people. He tries his best to avoid direct human contact. There was this time that A kid was lost in his work place. I was waiting on what he will do when he suddenly uttered this words on his mind. "I know you're watching. After i settle matters with this kid show yourself in my dream." I have never been this excited before. Thrill sets in. A soul recognized me? It has been 67 years since a soul recognized my presence. Will this kid be able to handle the price? Knowing our presence is a death sentence for them. Nemos agree that Once the host knows about us, they will be given a "gift". That night I gave him the perfect gift for him. A curse of seeing other people's dream. He will be an observer in a way. But theres a catch. Everytime the host uses it, they lose their conciousness. This enables us to take over the body for a certain period of time. The first time Q used it was disastrous. He used it to a dying friend of his. He was overwhelmed on how vivid the scene was. As if he was the one experiencing the dream. He ended up all exhausted and then passed out. Of course I didn't waste any time. This was my chance to take over. Labyrinth. I found him. I had to search for the first soul to recognize Nemos. Hes a unique individual if i may say. He didn't flipped after he saw everything. Coming back to life was a bad thing for him. He got a lot of debt to pay, illness stricken children, and a lot more unfortunate circumstances. "I cannot imagine the agony of existing for so long. No friends. No family. No emotion. I am lucky in a way that i am not you." "You are me. And i am you." "I am an observer of things. I do not interfere. But as you have seen, being an observer is a curse. Just the mere fact of existing for all those time is a curse already. We normally give souls a piece of our gift. You didn't snapped after seeing all those things. But instead of giving you something, i will take away a piece of you." "I am taking away your ability to forget. You shall be given the curse of memory. Use it as you please." That was our first conversation. He was my first friend. I call him Z. Cafe. "You shall be given the curse of memory." Those were the words that came out of Q's mouth. The old chinese guy sitting across the table took a sharp look at him. "Old friend?". Z's voice is trembling. "Zhiqiang. Your name translates to Strong willed. It fits you perfectly." "It has been 40 years since our last meeting. I never thought that i will see you again." "40 years.. its nothing. I am here to ask for a small favor. " "Anything for you old friend.


Covid-19 had hit at an annoying time for me. My after-graduation trip to Istanbul had to be cancelled and I had to shelter-in-place for four dreary months. In lieu of travelling the world, I couldn’t even start a job, nobody was hiring entry level Data Analysts. Once the reopening started, I clutched the first offer that came my way. It was a medium sized startup, nothing exciting but you couldn’t afford to be picky at this time. I had to ramp up remotely and only met my coworkers on Zoom. I was looking forward to October when the restrictions on IT jobs were to be lifted and I could go to work in person. But nobody imagined the second wave would hit so bad, the death rate of the manufacturing workers had everyone shit-scared. Instead of paying the sky-high real estate costs of Silicon Valley for enabling effective social distancing, the software companies decided to enforce permanent work from home for the employees. It was cheaper and had less PR risk, nobody wanted the fiasco of the meat packing plants on their hands. Bloody hell! I was not one to stay cooped up inside the house forever. Life cannot be lived over video conferencing, how was I even supposed to bond with the people I work with? You can’t Zoom in just to chat about geopolitics or to retell the shenanigans of your annoying neighbor. The beauty of life is in the impromptu conversations and experiences, which have a way of sprouting up when you put people in physical proximity. That serendipity is what I missed about university life the most. You only had to walk out of your room a bit to meet (really, physically meet) other young and vibrant set of people, opening fresh avenues for adventures and experiences. I remember roaming about the campus one night and hearing some enigmatic but jaunty music emanating from one of the computer labs. A bright eyed Arabic looking guy with an ear to ear smile was playing a guitar-like instrument for a couple of his friends. I later learnt that it was a traditional middle-eastern instrument called the “Oud”, it’s tune brought memories of Arabian nights and Alladin background music, the kind of sound that would spontaneously conjure up an image of the place it belongs in. I ran back to my room, got my harmonica and joined him. He offered no words and just smiled welcomingly. His friends had also joined in. The Japanese guy was drumming the desk and the African-American girl was whistling. We had a jolly time just jamming a few hours and having a beer or two after. We never got close and I don’t remember either of their names but we’d smile and wave whenever our paths crossed around campus. Just having that tiny shared experience had bonded us somewhat. When we waved at each other, we knew that the exact same memory was triggering in each of our heads. After the second wave of Covid-19 that fall, the world got tense. In times of crises, everyone looks out for their own. The long peace that had sustained more or less for decades was being chipped away at the edges. A second cold war was starting, this time it was China instead of Russia on the other side. The economy was the first fatality, followed by liberal politics. It was an era of strife and power struggles for control of resources and influence. High minded and pacifist philosophical arguments sounded funnier and more out of touch than usual. More immediate for me, money dried up in Silicon Valley and the startup I worked for collapsed. To control unemployment and prioritize its own citizens, the government outlawed foreign work visas and outsourcing. Non-citizens had to go back to their countries, mostly places with no real opportunities. This was a further blow to the tech industry and they didn’t end up hiring more Americans, they just cut costs, downsized and went into lean and mean survival mode like everyone else. My prospects of getting a decent job looked even bleaker. What little savings I had, I couldn’t really use them for travelling the world. The US passport stopped carrying the weight it used to. All countries now require a Visa to visit which is conditioned on three negative Covid test results within the past two months. We Americans are treated as ticking virus bombs around the world. Given that my health insurance went away with my job, there was no way I was going to be able to afford three tests out of my own pocket. Even the US government doesn’t want people to travel internationally and spend their money in some other economy. You need to get a special tourism permit from the US government for every country you want to visit and quarantine for two weeks once you get back. There was still one place that was hiring and had relatively better freedom of movement. I applied to join the Army and narrowly passed the physical exam. After I was accepted, the basic training took only ten weeks and I was certified “Combat Ready”. A couple of months later I got my posting to Saudi Arabia, like almost everyone in my training class. The Saudi economy had been heavily reliant on oil, the demand for which cratered post-Covid and never recovered due to the movement restrictions globally. But miraculously, the sheikhs and the Saudi Royal family came out relatively unscathed through this and the brunt of the misery fell on the masses. In hindsight, this fact should have been hidden better because it turned out to be the perfect recipe for a violent people’s uprising. The Communist revolt against the House of Saud burst out remarkably suddenly and bloodily. It was dealt, as usual, with a heavy hand by the authorities. The newly minted “terrorists” and the traditional Saudi powers gave rise to yet another middle eastern saga of violence. Both parties constantly weakened each other but never managed to take down the other. What is it about this part of the world that makes history repeat itself over and over? The power vacuum created by the collapsing national identity of this country was ripe for another game of proxy war. The US stepped in to help out and support its old allies, to save them from the communist revolution. The stated reason was that the US intelligence found evidence of China bankrolling the Communists and Russia supplying them weapons. *I have been fighting and resisting these communists guerillas for three years now in this godforsaken desert. The sand is finally washed off from my eyes and I feel much better. Looking away from the mirror, I put on my uniform and go down to the ground to take my position in guarding the perimeter of our camp. A couple of our Humvees pull up and one of the drivers shouts, “Caught these rascals planning to sneak attack us!” pointing to the back of the vehicle which contained five white-robed radicals with their hands tied behind their backs.* We have had a few of these incidents before. The extremists try to infiltrate a US military camp in the night to attack or steal stuff. A couple of our people had been injured in the past due to these but never fatally. We usually catch these troublemakers before they attack. After the capture, the procedure is simple, we need to keep these guys here for a week or two in our custody till the proper paperwork is completed for their transfer to the local state police. Once we transfer them to the local station, the police could use their interrogation techniques to gather intel from the culprits. How the intel was obtained was not our concern. It was protected by a strict “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. These were designated terrorists on this soil and we do not interfere with the affairs and methods of a sovereign state. *I turn to go back to my post when I catch a glimpse of the faces of these men. They look malnourished and tired. Their beards are unkempt and their eyes have a look of defeat. One of the guys stares straight back at me, his eyes boring into mine, with a look of incredulousness on his face. At that moment, someone yanks him out of the vehicle along with the other four and takes them away to the third floor room - a makeshift cell for the people we had to take custody of.*  *It’s been ten days since those Humvees arrived at the compound. I am in my room looking out the window to the horizon. Nothing really has changed here, the scenery is constant and unrelenting. The only change is the helicopter in the compound below and the whirlpool of sand it created on landing. My mind inevitably goes back to the happenings of these last ten days.* After the prisoners were taken to their cell, we had to take turns on guard duty in there. I went in expecting the usual pleas of innocence and pretending to be just another farming family. But this group was incredibly quiet and just looked down to the floor. They seemed to have resigned to their fate and were too exhausted to spin long tales. But the guy who had stared at me from the Humvee looked up again. My gaze travelled from his dirty tattered white robes up to his face which had a smile extending from ear to ear. “Still playing the harmonica?” he asked, with a glint in his eye. I was dumbfounded, I tried to speak but couldn’t think of any words to say. I stammered, gave up and just gaped. He continued, “Fate has a cruel sense of irony, no? You know, we were just going to come in the dead of the night and steal some supplies, nothing violent. Needed some food, water and a generator. But that is not what the state police is going to charge us with, of course. You know their methods, you know what they do to us there.” A torrent of emotions I didn’t understand was drowning all my thoughts. I stared at him for another minute and then looked away. He took the hint and didn’t speak another word. The room was silent again. The next five hours were the longest of my life but I wasn’t able to form a single coherent thought. This was unreal, this was surreal, this was a nudge of madness. The next day, we were all jolted upright at midnight by the boom of two gunshots. One of the captives had broken free, knocked out the dozing guard and snatched his rifle. While he was making a run for it, the sniper on the terrace saw him on the compound below. As he recounted it later, “The first bullet glazed the scoundrel in the arm making him drop the rifle. He stumbled for a moment but continued running. My second shot was squeaky clean, it went straight through his neck, stopping the idiot halfway through to the compound exit.” The white robed body was taken away and I stole a glance at the face, somewhat relieved that it wasn’t the face I had dreaded it to be. Rest of the prisoners were still in the cell and hadn’t even tried to break away among all the chaos. This incident expedited the hand-over process. The US military wanted its hands clean of this mess and the Saudi police wanted these people under their observation to avoid losing them before extracting any useful information. Instead of the usual week or two, three days was all it took. Thankfully, I didn’t have to be on the transfer duty. While the prisoners were being transported from the third floor cell in our camp to the local station 15 kilometers out, I was going to join in the weekly soccer game we played. Soccer was the easiest game we could play here. It needed no gear, no hoops, no grassy terrain, no zone marking. Just take the ball, decide on the two ends and start playing. Despite growing up on American football, I found soccer to be more enjoyable here in the desert. But given my sensitivity to the sand getting in my eyes, I preferred to play as the goalie and avoid all the running around creating mini-dunes. I saw the ball making its way towards me, a cross pass from the left to the right side left the goal post open. I traced the arc of the ball with my eyes and was ready to lunge when a shriek drew my attention to the building. The slow motion feeling of tracking the ball continued for me as I watched a glorious white figure descending from the third floor in a perfect swimming pool dive, head first, to the concrete below. I saw the head hitting the concrete and bursting open, reminding me of the watermelon exploding videos I had seen on YouTube. The rest of the body collapsed into a messy heap, unnaturally distorted. This time I didn’t have to look, somehow my heart knew who that was. I knew he had decided not to go to the state police and took control of his fate in his own hands. I didn’t shout, at least not loudly. My whole body was howling, but I wasn’t able to move my mouth to let it out. I was drowning, I was paralyzed, I tumbled over and lay down in the sand. My eyes were still transfixed on the figure in front of me, growing redder every second. Nobody was looking at my slumped over body though, they were all rushing towards the building. I lay there for what felt like hours. Once I was able to stagger up, exhausted and spent, I looked away and somehow was able to carry on. I volunteered for the transfer duty since the alternative was to help with the cleanup. *This was five days back but I still relive and revisit that dive every minute. The music of the Oud haunts my dreams, the melody sorrowful and deep. I can’t close my eyes without that smile flashing in front of me, so honest and earnest. The most curious thing about this was that I don’t even know his name. If I had the courage to talk to him during the hours I was in the cell, would things have turned out differently? Could I have stepped up and questioned the need to subject these people to unspeakable torment just because they were thinking of taking some of our food? Can I pretend innocence because I wasn’t the one who physically pushed him, he did it of his own accord? I didn’t even repay him enough for the couple of hours of music he had invited me to share all those years back. When I held all the cards, I preferred to look away.* *But for the first time since that day, today I laughed. The helicopter had bought tidings.* *The officer disembarked from the chopper and announced, “There has been an agreement. The USA is withdrawing troops from Saudi Arabia. We are no longer needed here, our peacekeeping mission has been accomplished. We can go home!”. Turns out there was a truce. China officially recognized the Saudi militants as terrorists and the Royal family as the rightful sovereign. In exchange, USA recognized Crimea as part of Russia and withdrew opposition to the abolishment of Hong Kong’s one country two systems policy.* *The troops were jubilant, cheering, laughing and being merry at the news. I also joined in the laughter but for different reasons. I was amused at the absurdity of it all. So that’s why I am here in my room, looking out the window at the helicopter and the desert. We have been asked to pack our stuff and be ready to leave by 1800 hours.* *I mutter to myself, “Fate has a cruel sense of irony, no?”. I feel a sudden gust of wind and the now familiar feeling in my eyes.


“Mr. Stephens, it's time for your speech,” James reminded me quietly. I had been absently twirling my champagne trying to enjoy the photos that adorned the walls. They were not dull or repetitive by any means. Perdita’s photos were always quite exceptional. I stepped onto the marble platform which by now was garnished with heaps of flowers. Mounted behind it was a lovely oil portrait of Perdita. Even in painted form she had those soft doe eyes. I was about to clear my throat till a pair of eyes forced me still. Eyes that saw through me. But what could they see? I did nothing. I steadied my heart by repeating that to myself. Murmuring in the room stopped bringing my attention back. I began. “Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the first annual Perdita Clements Photo Gallery. As you know five years ago Perdita went missing on her drive home from an art show in Nashville. It was her biggest show yet receiving national recognition at only 18 years old. The residents here probably already know the police reports and findings by heart, but for our out of towners I will recap. Perdita was on the highway, but took the wrong exit. A gas station on a back road saw her last before her and her car vanished. Three weeks later her car was found stripped in a junkyard in Kentucky near the state line. The car showed no trace of Perdita. And all leads were a dead end. The dictionary defines photography as the art or practice of taking and processing photographs. And all of you here tonight know how much she practiced. Every scene you could possibly find in this beautiful little town Perdita would be their camera in hand. Though, she did not take and process photos. She discovered and shared them. Take a look around this room. Every photo is raw. Every photo has an unspoiled richness. From the portraits of our dear neighbors to the hidden valleys you see unbridled beauty. Everything is there for us lay people to behold. Her photos evoked wonder. Even the most lowly in spirit got a moment of awe. Perdita did not believe in editing her photos. She lived by the rule that everything was created the way it was supposed to be. She carried this sentiment into her daily life as well. She truly seeked to be kind and caring no matter the stigma or past.” The crowd hung on to my words with reminiscent, soft smiles. Perdita’s mother even began to dab her eyes. Before I could start my next sentence I was caught again by those eyes. Looking straight at me was a woman in one of the photos. The maid was dressed in white with long golden hair. Her tunic waved around her daring to lift her up. She made no mistake with her gaze. I felt it then and now she has pulled my chains to face her again. My hand tightened around my flute. I reminded myself I did nothing. I stared back convinced, but she only intensified her gaze. Her head tipped in a way that allowed her to look down on me. Ashment a mother would possess for a foolish child played along her features, but why didn’t she just spit upon me and move on. My hand trembled. I had to switch my glass to my other hand. I had reasoned with myself for years. I had felt I mastered the storm, but I could already feel the clouds begin to darken. I dared not to speak another word. “Mr. Stephens, are you alright?” James stepped up beside me. He looked at me with sympathy like I was one of them. An innocent mourner trying to honor the lost and not fall apart. I looked back at the maid. I passed James and stepped off the stage. I walked up to her and read the gold plaque. Perdita named the photo “Angel”. I had done nothing. I had done absolutely nothing. And... I was wrong. I was a coward. I had done nothing to help her. I looked back up to the angel, but something had changed. The icy blue eyes now seemed warm like a blue lagoon. The straight lips actually curved at the ends. Her arms weren’t still by her sides like I thought they were from afar. Her palms turned out, inviting me in now. I dropped my flute and let the glass shatter. A sob cracked through my lips, but I let it out. I put my hands on the walls of either side of the photo and bent my head. I cried. I cried for Perdita. What have I done? I heard a soft click clack of heels behind me. “It isn’t your fault, Noah. You did nothing.” Camile placed her hand on my back. I didn’t move. “Camile. I need to talk to the police.” Her hand flinched back. “Why?! Noah, wait!” I headed for the door. It isn’t worth it anymore. I have been quiet for long enough. If I am killed at least people will know she might still be out there. That is what is important now. Whatever I face it will be my penance. I started running , but before I turned out of the hallway I saw the last photo of the gallery. It was a candid photo of her friends laughing sitting in a tree. The plaque read “Found”. I quickly shrugged on my coat and opened the door. I hastened through the starless night. I didn’t even practice what I needed to say. No more perfectly crafted speeches. I wanted to say it all. Be rid of this diseased state. Despite the puddled sidewalks I only increased my speed. The wind blew at my back trying to help me go faster. Raindrops watered my lashes, but I barely blinked. I let the water drip down my face all the way to my chest. It was the cleanest I felt in years.