**This is a true story. Names and details adjusted to maintain confidentiality. It has themes of death and trauma which some readers my find distressing. If you struggle with mental health please know there are always people to help. I am always happy for comments on ways to improve my writing, I have fairly thick skin at this point.** This is a sad story. A difficult situation and a horrible outcome. It was shortly after being qualified as an Intensive Care Paramedic, my partner the same. I am working with a friend, John, competent and capable. I always enjoy working with people that just know what to do, too know they’ll stop you from fucking up. We are relaxing, on a soon to be interrupted meal break. “Motor vehicle accident” Rings out across the station with the associated alarm. I always find that funny. Calling it an accident just doens't make sense!? An accident implies no one is at fault. Anyway. The car dislplay tells a short story. “Female 40s run over by car. CPR in progress.” The address is some suburban street. Weird. My partner is driving, we head off lights and sirens. Now I say weird because you don’t expect any serious injuries in a low speed area with minimal traffic. The forces just aren’t usually there. We are thinking our patient was a pedestrian and stepped out unexpectedly. MDT Update “Pt run over by her own car. Dragged across pavement before going under and car rolling over.” Well there’s the answer. A second car is attached, AFP on scene. I get nervous and start to do some planning with my partner. I hate this. You know your turning up to shit scene. In the simplest sense I always wonder if I’m going to get this right or will I be caught out as a fake. It’s horrible. We talk through our roles and priorities. I will lead, my partner will be on the airway. We drive, siren blaring. John checking the MDT for directions. I clear him through intersections. I’m losing the joviality in my voice. “Clear, clear, clear”. We roll through the intersection. I put my gloves on. I’m nervous I always do that when I’m nervous. I try and get them on before my hands sweat too much. Gloves are impossible to get on when that happens. We turn into the suburb. I’m silent. I’m nervous. It a weird feeling, things are happening, lights flashing, siren blasting. But you just don’t hear it. It’s quiet in my head. Not calm, just fear being held at bay. As we drive into the scene it’s controlled chaos. There are police and the fire brigade evidently just arrived. To our left a small crowd of bystander’s huddle in concern near a new model Jeep. Some are turned away with heads nestled into consoling hugs. Police are nearby trying to gather information, performing crowd control for the small group. It’s not needed. Everyone is staying back, staring. Their attention is on the dead lady across the road. I look over and see where she lay, a young man performing CPR. We pull up close get out and grab our gear. We’re quickly informed the patient had pulled into her driveway when she got out and walked behind the car to go inside. No handbrake, it then rolled over her and dragged her a short distance before hitting the gutter where she stopped, and the car rolled across the road to where we can see it now. Everyone had only arrived moments before, not much has been done. In the time it takes us to get out, grab our equipment and wlak the 2m to the patient the firefighters have fallen into their position, doing CPR. She looks in her early forties. There’s no blood, no scratches. It looks like the car has run over her chest and abdomen. She looks dead. We start taking control and ask the firefighters to continue CPR. My partner goes to the airway as planned. Well haven’t frozen yet, we just get on with the job. I expose the patient cutting away her top and bra with shears. I apply the pads and we find she is in a non-shockable rhythm. We continue with our guideline and our back up arrives. We quickly brief them, and they take over certain tasks. I get to step back and take stock. I note the young man from earlier, he’s only a kid really, maybe 14. He’s squatting maybe 2 meters away. “Do you know what happened?”. Nothing, he just stares, no recognition I spoke. I dismiss him and move on; I see the husband distraught and talking with police nearby. I try and focus back on the patient. Again, no shockable rhythm. I discuss our next steps with John and our back-up. Something to understand in chest trauma like this is the lung likely detaches from the inside of the chest wall creating a space that shouldn’t be there. That space fills with either blood or air and you have a pneumothorax, or what would be called a ‘collapsed lung’. If it is big enough and affects your blood pressure, we call it a tension pneumothorax. This lady probably has one. To fix this we place a large needle through her chest until it reaches that new space. We then leave a tube in place and it allows the air (or blood) to escape and releases pressure. So I set up for the procedure and mark my place. But I can’t get the needle through the chest wall. That’s when I realise, she’s ruptured an implant. The silicone has ridden up and I can’t get my needle through. I quickly tell my partner who just reached over and pushes the silicone down and out of the way. I insert the needle successfully and step back out. The job continues for another twenty or thirty minutes but there is no change. She’s dead. We talk it through, and I go over to inform the husband of what we’ve done. There is understanding, he knows we will soon stop. We will clean up finish our paperwork and leave. He will stand there next to his dead wife who only moments ago was fine. We stop. He goes over to the boy and consoles him. It’s his son. I guess that explains why he was acting weird. As we pack up, I hear commotion. Police are holding back a young girl that just drove up to the scene. It’s the daughter. I go over and start talking to her. I retell the story, that her mum suffered severe chest injuries from the accident, that we’ve stopped CPR and her mum is deceased. She turns away and paces for bit. Calmer than before. I always thought it strange that. How quickly people calm down once the worst news is confirmed. I tell her she can see her mother, that its ok and we walk over together. We kneel down next to the body; we have a blanket over her. I pull it back to reveal her face, unmarked. You can sense the daughter is getting more emotional, more distressed. I watch her as she glances at her mother, then down her blanket covered body. Back and forth, back and forth. Her hands reach out and hover over the blanket. In conflict whether to peak underneath. It clicks, she thinks her mum is mutilated under that blanket. All she knows is her mum got run over by the car causing ‘severe chest injuries’. It just felt right so I rest my hand on her shoulder and gesture over her mum as I explain. I reassure her there is no gory wounds or deformity under there. The blanket is for modesty. The distress dissipates. The sadness remains, overwhelms. She cries as she strokes her mothers face. I leave her to her grief. We finish our paperwork and leave. Controlled chaos, a distraught family, a dead mother. We go back to station and finish our lunch, having a laugh and making jokes. The dead body soon to be poorly remembered as just another job.


Walter stared at the necromancer. Grimm appeared to be in his late 30s, at least by Earth standards. His beard and hair were neatly combed, he wore a long, black robe lined with emerald-colored satin. Grimm, in turn, took a glance at Walter’s attire, observing his blue jeans, backpack, and flannel shirt. “What curious attire you have, Sir Walter.” Grimm stroked his beard. “Oh, this type of clothing is pretty ordinary back in my home…” Walter paused, wondering how to describe his world to a stranger, “kingdom.” “You’re not from Bythica, are you? I heard the Dark Lord there has appointed a very strange advisor and some curious fashion choices are really taking off in the court.” “No, I am not from there. I am from Kirkwood, Missouri.” Walter replied. At the mention of the word, “Missouri”, Benvolio’s eyes widened slightly. Grimm was oblivious to the change in Benvolio’s expression, as was Walter. “Misery you say?” Grimm mused, “I have never heard of it, but to be called that, your kingdom must be awful.” “Oh, it’s not so bad, except when it’s the middle of the summer and the cicadas are doing their thing. When that happens it’s loud and you’re covered in sweat because it’s a hundred degrees out with full humidity, and don’t get me started on all the mosquitos…” Walter began to ramble. Benvolio cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, shall we get to the business at hand, and perhaps enjoy a good meal while we are at it?” They found themselves gathered around a campfire roasting meat and sharing mead about an hour later. They had to dine outdoors to accommodate Benvolio’s size. Grimm and Walter had carried out a keg of mead that Grimm had been saving for such an occasion. Grimm and Walter each held a pint, while Benvolio picked up the keg and sipped the remaining contents. The fire crackled and popped, the light dancing off Benvolio’s scales like sparkling rubies. Walter enjoyed the warmth of the fire, as the spring air had cooled considerably upon sundown. Walter had always enjoyed the outdoors, the smell of campfire smoke, it was a nice contrast to sitting in a gray walled cubicle in the office. It had also been some time since he had shared a warm meal and conversation with friends. It was a welcome change. “Walter is from another world?” Grimm raised an eyebrow. “Aye, one of those pesky gateways opened for some reason, and now he is stuck here with a treasure back home.” Benvolio explained. Grimm leaned over to Walter and whispered in his ear. “He uses the term treasure all the time for various things, what does it mean in context?” Grimm inquired. “Oh, my treasure?” Walter asked. Grimm nodded. “He means my family.” Walter explained. He pulled out a picture of his daughter and grandson. “The lady is quite fetching.” Grimm smiled, handing back the picture. “So, you are looking for a spell to go home?” “That’s the plan.” Walter smiled. “Benvolio, why did you bring him to me? You know that is outside my realm of magic.” “But not outside of the realm of Andromeda Chronos.” Benvolio replied. Grimm fell silent. He chugged the remainder of his pint, then began to chew nervously upon his own beard. He stood up and began to pace around the fire. He raised his hand a few times as though to speak, then fell silent. After a few minutes of such deliberation, he spoke. “You know she is rather unpredictable.” Grimm broke his silence. “It is just a talk.” Benvolio said in an even tone. “If I miscalculate, she will not be back for just a talk. She is crafty, she probably left some sort of contingency plan for the neophyte necromancer foolish enough to summon her spirit back to the land of the living.” “Grimm, my mother’s mark was in her book.” Benvolio’s voice was low. Walter looked up in surprise at the revelation. Walter recalled Benvolio’s strange shift in mood back at the cavern. Suddenly, it made sense. “Your inquiry, it is not simply in regard to your new companion, is it?” Grimm asked. “I have suspicions and theories. I think our fates have been entangled in some way.” Benvolio paused to finish the keg, he set it down gently and leaned his snout closer to his companions. The reflection of the flames danced in Benvolio’s eyes. “Walter, what was the name of your realm again?” “Kirkwood, Missouri?” “I believe I have heard of the Kingdom of Misery. I may have visited your realm, many, many moons ago. Are you familiar with the Kingdom of the Ill Noise?” “Gentlemen…” Walter paused, glanced to Benvolio, “I mean, gentleman and gentle…dragon.” He sighed and continued, “It’s pronounced Missouri, not Misery.” Walter paused to savor the mead before continuing, “And do you mean Illinois?” Walter asked. Benvolio’s eyes widened and he nodded with enthusiasm. Walter continued, “yes, I have heard of it. It’s right across the river.” “Indeed, this is no coincidence indeed.” Grimm mused. “So, will you summon her?” Benvolio asked. “Fine, but if we call upon her and she finds out how to regain a physical form, turning into an unstoppable lich, then you, my friend, are responsible for vanquishing her.” “Fair.” Benvolio acknowledged. “I will get my gear, but remember, you have been warned.” Grimm shook his head again before walking back towards his home.


Introducing Martha, the lady of the house. Martha had retired from her job as an events organizer when she was expecting. Now she was the mother of five year old twins, Beau and Celeste. Her sprogs were in their first year of primary school. One classic suburban night, Martha was still attending to her twins' whining needs at ten o'clock. She had got half her pyjamas on, before Beau and Celeste started their attention seeking competition. "Not one more drink of water!" she grumbled at her adorable offspring. "Yes, I know it is dark.Now go to sleep! There is no one knocking on your window. It is the wind!" Heading back to the fridge for wine o'clock, Martha found a notice from the school, a piece of paper, half under the refrigerator. One of her little treasures had forgotten to give it to her. "Oh no!" Martha groaned aloud. Stunned, she read, "Tomorrow is purple theme day." This called for very quick thinking. Purple theme day meant purple clothes and a purple-based lunchbox for each of her twins. Purple times two, in other words. Suburban disaster awaited Martha as she gazed at her pantry. It was the day before grocery shopping day. Grabbing her car keys at that late hour, she drove to the 24/7 store. There she found some purple juice in micro cartons, and the very last bunch of purple grapes. It was the final cluster of potential wine. But Martha had no time that night to be tired. She could still make purple iced cupcakes and purple jellies. It was show time in her kitchen. She still had not finished putting on her pyjamas. Martha's husband had gone to sleep in bed, his laptop in front of him. She rummaged to find a couple of older purple t-shirts, and one pair of purple socks. Dreadful, but this was necessary, so her twins would fit in to their peer group. Now to make cupcakes. Being  a good all round Mum, she had purple food coloring. Her oven was soon hot enough, Martha was on fire tonight! The dog was in the laundry, to prevent him eating her culinary creations, bit of a lad that one. Martha created two mini purple jellies, she was going to be a winner. "Mothering should not be a competition," she told herself. Finally, Martha collapsed into bed, setting her alarm discreetly. She had to arise early, to assemble all this purpleness, like the lunchboxes, and getting her twins to wear purple. Martha said a quick, silent prayer to Jesus, her best friend. What would Jesus say to her? "Keep smiling, keep praying." It was now past midnight, the household slumbered. Martha woke up at 5 am, had she slept in? No, it was going to be okay. Turning off her alarm, no time to dress up, this was purple day. The twins were grumpy this morning, as usual. Definitely not morning little people. Martha was still clad in her pyjama bottoms, with her old t-shirt on top. She did not realize she had a blob of purple icing in her slightly brushed hair. Celeste, at breakfast, was being her usual normal picky self, rejecting her usual array of cereal. "Very first world," Martha thought. But the twins were only five years old . Martha showed them their purple theme lunchboxes, all plated up. Beau made vomit noises, boys will be boys. Martha kept on smiling, as her bestie in Heaven kept advising her. "I'm not eating all that for lunch!" Celeste crossly told her mother. Then she tried to slurp all her milk from her breakfast bowl. Martha kept on keeping on. The twins were very slow in dressing in purple, reluctant learners this morning. Martha finally had them strapped into their car seats, off to their academy of Christian learning. Maybe she would get an "A" in tolerance. The twins slammed the car doors, as they headed into the classroom. Martha's phone pinged, a text. It was her husband. He was as cross as her kids. "This kitchen looks like a bomb hit it! There is purple goo all over our bed. The dog is still in the laundry, and I am late. Where's my coffee?" "Smile!" Martha told herself. She sat in her car and texted back a smile. "I'll take care of all that. Have a great day!" She sounded like a supermarket chick, but nice with it. Another flash car roared away from the school drop-off zone. "Run, women, run!" Martha thought, wondering how they got the time to hold down jobs, as well as manage the domestic side of life. Just then, there  was a rap on her car window. "Oh, no!" Martha tried to slink down in her seat. It was the school principal, Ms. Galleon, an impressively scary sight. "Can I have a word with you" Martha was trying to hide that she still had her pyjamas on. "Was she in detention from the fashion police? Or was it the religion committee?" she pondered. "I am hoping you can assist us," said Ms. Galleon, aptly named. "We need someone like you to head up our breakfast program before school. Everyone else is too busy. We have kids here who are malnourished, for different reasons. They have no breakfast, or decent meals, and are struggling to keep up with learning." Martha did a double take. Had her Lord sent her an opportunity? This job brought a salary, she could contribute financially to their household. Martha mumbled that she would let the principal know. Ms. Galleon actually smiled, and Martha made her trek home. She hopped in the shower, took the dog for a walk on a sunny morning. Then she sparkled her kitchen, removing all traces of purple. All the while, Martha was considering this job offer. No reason she could not do it, feeding kids was her special subject. The income would come in handy, with all their expenses. She texted her husband, sending a photo of their gleaming house. He phoned her, so she told him told him about her job offer. It would mean they would all have to wake up earlier, she could take the twins. They could meet some other children, some of the have-nots. Martha would have to source foods for school breakfast, but their community had a food bank. Her husband make kissy noises,as he was over his grumpy. He volunteered to walk the dog in the mornings, when Martha started her job. They were really a good team, with their twins' best interests at heart. So Martha was no longer retired. She joined the team at the primary school, a team of Christians. She welcomed the change in their routine in a positive manner. She had kept on smiling, now there was peace with her daily doves. (She fed the birds in her back yard too.) No one was going hungry, not on Martha's turf. "A wise woman builds," she told herself, she was building a future for lots of kids. "Have a great day!"


A small moth fluttered about Bobby’s lamp. Surrounded by many unpacked boxes from the recent move, his essentials were in place. His homework covered the westward expansion. The moth persisted. Bobby doubted it came in his stuff. ‘ This house is old ,’ he thought. ‘ Generations ago, pioneer moths traveled across the land, seeking gold dust. They’re now home in this Victorian dump we moved to.’ The ancient house, perfect for Halloween, had not been decorated. There hadn’t even been time to explore it. The moth persisted. Bobby slapped at it to no effect. It flew erratically toward his bedroom door and returned. It appeared as if it paused to look over its shoulder, to see if he followed. Bobby knew moths had no shoulders and doubted the moth cared. Yet it seemed to beckon. Again, the moth circled and exited. Bobby made chase. The moth meandered the hallway and down the stairs. Reaching the foyer, it made a hard right into the kitchen. Bobby raced to keep up. He entered the kitchen and stopped short at the sight of a strange man sitting at the table. He appeared to be waiting. The only light came from the window and lit the man from behind, giving him a faint halo. Bobby reached for the light switch and the man spoke. “Please don’t.” Bobby froze. “The moon will do.” Though not wearing a jacket, the man was clothed in business formal, with suspenders, an old-fashioned bow-tie, and a vest. Golden cufflinks gleamed. His dark hair and mustache were neatly combed. He appeared translucent in the moonlight, like a daguerreotype Bobby once saw. He turned his head to call to his parents but the man said, “Please don’t yell. Let’s get acquainted first.” Bobby stared. “Sit. I won’t hurt you.” Never looking away, he found the closest chair. The man said, “I’m Edwin Fortescue. I own this house.” Bobby blinked. “Or, at least, I’m the original owner.” “But… You mean…?” “Tea?” He poured from a porcelain pot Bobby hadn’t noticed. Edwin sounded like a butler in an old movie. He nudged the saucer and cup toward Bobby. “I’m not being clear, I know. There is so much to tell. You will understand, in time.” Bobby felt at once calm but weird. “Is it just you three? Your parents and you?” Bobby nodded. “This house has been through so much. Yet a hundred years is such a short season.” Edwin gestured with his cup and drank. Bobby raised his cup, feeling its heat in both hands and sipped. The aromatic steam felt dreamlike on his face. “The house fell to disrepair for... years. The last owners restored it… Clumsily.” He rolled his eyes. “I hope your family will rectify that.” “I think so.” “You can’t imagine what it’s like when people don’t keep their promises.” “I guess…” “You can see how important it is. I gave everything to this house.” Bobby looked at his tea cup. “I mean, people come and go. They neglect and things slide.” Edwin leaned, staring. “It went abandoned for years, slowly sinking, you know? It’s maddening to finally get the place swept clean and ordered, only to watch seven more demons enter and make a sty of it. You’re not demons, are you?” “No!” “I found initials carved on the banister, for God’s sake!” The light turned on. Bobby turned to see his mother in the doorway. “Bobby? What are you doing in the dark?” “Mom! I…” He gestured toward Edwin, but saw he sat alone. No tea settings. No Edwin. “…I, uh …just thinking.” She sensed more to the story. “It’s late. I thought you were asleep until I heard you.” “Uhm, maybe sleep-walking?” He walked passed her. “Good-night.” She sniffed the air and scanned the room. Nothing amiss, she shut the light and followed him up. ~ The next morning, Bobby entered the kitchen to hear his mother say, “Grant, our son has an imaginary friend.” “He’s not imaginary, Mom.” Grant asked, “Why were you down here so late?” Bobby tried to make sense of it. “A man, Edwin, visited. He talked about the house.” “Our house?” “His. He said it is, or was… a hundred years ago.” His parents glanced at each other. “He gave me tea.” “Tea? There weren’t any dishes when I came in, Bobby.” “I know. Weird, huh? But I tasted it. It smelled good.” “Anyway, you shouldn’t accept things from strangers.” Amy had mixed emotions. She turned to Grant. “Are we haunted?” “I didn’t want to say it, Amy. Not a typical real estate disclosure, I’m sure. I’ll check on the first owner...” “And I thought they met our price because it needs work…” “Maybe they didn’t know. We don’t know.” Grant’s mind raced. “Bobby, find the candles and the Ouija board? This place is chaos.” “On it.” He ran upstairs. Grant touched Amy. “If this is a ghost, he sounds benign.” “Oh, I hope so. Maybe we can be friends.” ~ Amy continued the gargantuan task of unpacking from the move. Bobby gathered items necessary for a séance. He knew his parent’s monthly routine. Grant confirmed Edwin Fortescue owned the house when first built at the turn of the last century. After dinner, Grant and Bobby oriented the kitchen table with a compass. They centered the Ouija board and placed special candles at each corner. Amy lit incense and draped the chairs with black cloth. Bobby didn’t know what flavor tea Edwin served him. Amy bought Earl Gray. She hoped her mother’s antique tea set would be acceptable to their ghost. She set cups and saucers for four. When finished, they dimmed the lights and sat around the table. Each placed their left hand on the planchette. Amy smiled at Grant and Bobby. Her eyes glistened in anticipation. Grant spoke some solemn Latin phrases and they waited. After a long silence, Amy said, “Maybe we should ask the board a question?” “Don’t bother.” They turned to see Edwin sitting at the table looking exactly as he did last night. “All that paraphernalia gets so tedious, don’t you think?” Grant almost fell backward in his chair. Amy’s eyes grew wider than Bobby had ever seen. “Hi, Edwin. These are my folks.” He laughed. “See? I told you he was real.” They nodded to each other. Handshakes felt wrong, somehow. “Welcome. I won’t waste your time. Bobby assured me you plan to restore my house to its former glory.” “That’s the plan.” “The urgent issue I wish to discuss, is this barbaric holiday you celebrate here, in the states.” “Halloween? That’s tonight.” “Each year hooligans wreak chaos on this fine house. This is my house. My wife and I settled here on emigrating from Great Britain.” He paused for a moment in her memory. Then, with heightened energy, “The graffiti must stop. It’s not for traipsing through for some grotesque, vaudevillian, childish entertainment.” “Of course! We don’t condone…” “This Halloween, as you call it… With its ubiquitous, decrepit headstones engraved with R.I.P. Yet no one actually leaves us in peace.” “You mean…?” “I just want to be let alone. Is that too much to ask? To give it a rest?” No one spoke for what felt an eternity. Amy said, “Of course we respect your privacy, Edwin. Oh, the tea. Do you like Earl Gray? A scone?” “That would be perfect. Thank you.” Amy served Edwin first. He sipped and smiled. The rant had passed. Bobby grabbed a scone. “You would have loved Louisa,” he said. “She died of a broken heart soon after our arrival. Up in your room, Bobby. Amy and Grant looked at Bobby, unsure where this would lead. “Home-sickness, the doctors decided. She initially fell ill on the hellish voyage. Followed by that interminable, dusty train ride… My God! The dust! I ran out of kerchiefs! She never recovered.” “We’re so sorry, Edwin.” “My transplanted little orchid couldn’t adapt to the desert. I thought my magnificent house would cheer her. I loved stepping out on my porch every morning. Gazing over the sky-line. I caught the street car at the corner. It felt like heaven.” “That must have been so…” “I loved it. The perfect climate. Excellent business. Finance, you know. This grand house… If it ever got torn down, what would become of me?” Grant said, “Well…” Amy asked, “Couldn’t you and Louisa have returned to England?” “My work kept me here. And, of course, my house. I thought she’d mend. I mean, we were in paradise.” He seemed to flicker in the candle light. “When I realized how dire things had become, I feared another dreadful journey would...” They stared at the table. Edwin blew his nose. “Then she abandoned me. All alone in my house.” The doorbell rang. Grant stood. “Trick-or-treaters. I’ll take care of it.” Edwin followed. Grant opened the oak door to reveal a little girl on the porch, dressed as a pink ballerina. Her mother stood on the walk. The girl offered her basket of candy and said, “Trick or treat!” Behind Grant, the foyer burst into flames. The girl stood aghast. She stepped back. Her mouth opened wide and then became a delighted smile. Her mother moved to protect her. But she stopped and applauded. Seeing reflected orange light, Grant turned to the conflagration. He slammed the door and the flames disappeared. The inferno became a foyer again. Edwin smiled at him. It had been an illusion. Grant said, “Edwin, what ordinarily repels, on Halloween, only attracts.” He shook his head. “For the life of me, I will never comprehend this.” “Death is meaningless to them. Kids think it’s all a trick. Hollywood…” Edwin balked, “Oh, don’t get me started on ‘the movies’…” ~ Later, a solitary candle, its steady flame reflecting no face, floated from window to window. From floor to floor, inside the old house. Costumed children gathered at a distance to watch and point. Traffic slowed. No one dared knock the door. The candle hovered in those windows until the dawn.


There she sits, past the masses of thick hardbound books, past all the university students making use of the music library, at the far right corner staring out the window. Staring at the snow drifting down over the city, like a blanket of serenity. A slight body swaying to the notes. Crashing, melding into one, fingers moving like delicate dancers. Loud, then quiet. Happy, then sad again, filling the room with noise. Rich harmonious sound that grips the heart and holds on for eternity. The music keeps moving on like the sea, rushing in then out again. Holding so much inside the melody that nobody could ever know about. It is Clara’s space, and everybody knows not to approach her. Nobody knows how old she is, nobody knows why she is here, nobody knows any of the secrets to her magnificent performances, but that she plays on, head held high, staring over the library’s upright piano out the window, watching the world outside go by. It is midwinter, and now the snow is slowly floating past the library’s window, gently settling on the outer ledge. Still the girl sits and plays, not once looking down at her fingers, nor at her music score for there is none to read from. The girl just sits and plays and stares off into the distance. She was even caught once counting the snowflakes. The only one who seems to know her is Richard, a famous lawyer with a firm downtown. Every day at precisely one thirty pm, he approaches the piano and gently coaxes her out of her position. “Clara,” he whispers, “It’s time you ate. Your fingers will become cramped, and your body needs nourishment- eat.” He plants a kiss on her pale cheek, leaves a packed lunch on top of the piano and leaves, never once looking back. Only once she hears the sleek library doors slam shut does the child slowly, meticulously take the sandwich out of its wrapper and begin eating, but not before she lets her eyes dart around the room- left and right, ever fearful of prying eyes. It is a mystery, but one nobody is inclined to solve.                                  *                 *                * Clara gazes out the window. The snow has stopped and is now turning to wet slush. She notices the sky, now a shade of navy blue speckled with stars and realizes with a start. Her mom will be worried. She grabs the remainder of the lunch her father brought and sprints out of the building. Nobody has any time to question her presence and that is how she likes it. No interference, no well meaning people trying to meddle with her, just her and her dad. As soon as Clara arrives home, the drama begins again. “Clara! I’ve worried about you so much! Why do you stay out so long?” Silence. Clara cannot reply to that question. Should she tell her mom she does not like being rushed for time? Should she tell her she cannot leave the library at four like all the students who use it, because then she may attract unwanted attention? Should she just smile sweetly and say “Oh, I was busy with a school assignment”? None will do. She holds her piece. “Clara, I’m your mother. I care about you, and I want to know where you’ve been these past few days. It’s not like you to stay longer at school.” Her mom’s eyes are trained on Clara now, beady searching eyes. Clara’s face flushes. As an afterthought, her mother adds, “Apart from which, I heard you’ve not turned up at school for a while now. Is that true?” All Clara can muster is a whispered “Yes.” “Why Clara? Why didn’t you tell me? Where have you been spending the school days?” Again silence. There is nothing to say. “Clara, is something bothering you at school?” Her heart is full, bursting at the seams. She longs to tell her mother how it is all so unfair, how nobody understands her- not at school, not at home, not anywhere really. She longs to describe the serenity she finally feels while at the piano. Alone, with no one but herself and the music she is creating. She wants her mom to understand how at peace she is at the library, how she has never felt so at home in her life. How it provides a small amount of clarity in a world where nothing is certain and nothing is right. No words come out though, hard as she tries. A strangled sob breaks the tension. “Clara! Why won’t you talk to me? I try everything but you still won’t talk! I’m your mother! I want to understand you! I want to know you and show you I love you and shelter you and make sure you never get hurt again! Why won’t you let me?!” She bursts into tears.                                  *                        *                          * She has been speaking to the headmaster again. Clara knows it because a mini shipment of sensory equipment has arrived. A wry smile, then a full grin spreads over her thin face. If the house is equipped for a small army’s sensory needs she will no longer be pressured into going to school. She can spend all day at the library! Clara is about to leave when her mother stops her. “No Clara,” her voice sounds fake, slower than usual and vocabulary lowered to that of a two year old. “No, today we shall have a great deal of fun at home! I’ve bought a new set of toys for you to play with!” Her mother’s voice rings untrue even to her own ears, but being helpless she tags along into the living room. A cassette is playing with slow lullabies, a carpet has been rolled over the linoleum, and a ball of sensory lights is set up, bathing the room in calm hues that float around and change color. There is a spiky ball in the corner and a few other paraphernalia- a lava lamp, a few maracas and a pile of fluffy pillows near her. On the windowsill at the far end of the room- a book. Clara inspects the book, and the title explains it all; Children with Autism and How We Can Help Them. Practical Techniques for Bringing the Autistic Child Out of His Shell, by Patricia Sander. She runs out of the house faster than a race horse. All she knows is that yet again her mother has believed a view that is based on falsehoods. Once again her mother has listened to those who consider her different, of lower intelligence, of lower standing. She runs.  Passersby gawk at the girl pelting through the snow wearing no coat, running as if fleeing from some monster. She sprints along the icy streets, growing colder by the minute but not caring in the slightest. Clara runs faster, faster, speeding up until she is but a flash. There one minute, long gone the next. Down the road, around the corner, across a street. All wonder where the child is running, what, or who she is fleeing.  She tears along, not feeling the slush and ice. She slips on the icy road a number of times, but does not feel any pain. Not the bruising, nor the grazes that have not yet been discovered on her knees. Still, she sprints, zooming past the urban scenery. Closer and closer to the music library, further and further from the real world. The world where people reside, judging one and all. The world where she feels nobody will ever understand a child like Clara. A world where people like Clara are treated as if they have some sort of psychiatric disease. She runs, closer and closer to paradise. Closer and closer to the haven she knows, loves and belongs to. Clara does not slow down- to the contrary; she speeds up faster than ever, barreling through the swinging glass doors of the library, making a beeline for that piano at the corner. Clara’s private dance floor. Finally, she collapses onto the piano stool and begins playing. Stronger, louder, more forceful than ever. Why can nobody understand? Why does everything have to be so complicated, so tough, so lonely? Clara lets her fingers go loose. They begin dancing as if of their own accord- slowly, gracefully- even royally. A slow waltz step wanders up and down the piano keys, steadily gaining momentum. It starts quietly. Slowly, artistically, trance like, becoming gradually louder. So slowly she does not notice the change in dynamics, she does not notice her fingers dance faster, more vigorously, emphatically now. Her fingers dance, run, jump, in perfectly synchronized motion. This is where Clara feels best, this is where her fingers are set free from society’s shackles, this is where she can just be. The simple tune soon turns into a complex symphony, combining childish innocence with the painful truths of life. Academics making use of the library have silently gathered, ogling the child prodigy playing music never heard before, with no music score. Furthermore, the child performs at a level nobody has played at since the days of Mozart. Still, Clara goes on. Dancing, soaring, flying along the keys. The music, though in essence played on the piano, has a complexity and as many separate components as if a full orchestra were playing. Melodies and harmonies blend, painfully raw yet retaining the underlying optimism of the background melody. Slowly, the background accompaniment melds into the foreground, gently coaxing the music into a more positive light. Still the music plays on and still more people crowd around watching the sight, silenced by the awesomeness of the moment. Clara is in a world of her own now and her hands play tricks with the keys, producing still more intricate patterns of sound, an exquisite tapestry of operatic genius slowly unfurling on the library’s piano.

Out of the blue, a tap on her shoulder.  Startled, Clara slams the piano lid shut, pushes her way through the crowds and begins to stride out. She does not know why there are so many people milling about, their eyes following her every move, but she does not care to know. As she desperately tried to move out, a strong yet gentle hand grips her shoulder. Holding her back, yet caressing at the same time. She has been forced to stop, but does not dare turn around. “That was beautiful Clara. Have you always played like that? I… didn’t know.” She seems at a loss. Help. All color drains from Clara’s face and she feels the ground give way beneath her feet. Clara struggles to retain her balance. It is her mom, and she has been found out. “Clara, you play like a legend. Why didn’t you tell me you can play so well? Why didn’t you play for the school orchestra? One does exist, you know. I thought you didn’t want to, or didn’t have the talent. I didn’t know… Why didn’t you ever talk to me?” Her mother peers through her spectacles, her eyes two pools of undisguised pain. A messy pile of pain and love mixed together- A contradiction, yet no contradiction. Clara can do nothing but gaze back at those eyes. She has never noticed them before, always thinking her mother was like the rest of humanity- always judging, never appreciating and always criticizing. Only now does she notice that she has never told her mom about her world. The world she lives in. She has never even tried, and now she has hurt the person she loves most. The tears fall fast and furious as she is overcome by guilt. Her mom is here for her, wants to understand, but has never been given a chance. She has not been isolated by her loved ones but has isolated herself. Lost in the moment Clara leans forward into her mother’s embrace. The mother she has never known. Not for lack of wanting, not for lack of love, but for lack of noticing things. She feels her mother’s chest rise and fall underneath her cheek, pumping blood through her mom’s veins and now that she notices it, through hers as well. She takes her mother’s hand and begins to walk. Together. It feels like a dance, a slow dance that goes to a folk tune. a special one that belongs only to Clara and her mother. It is reverent, almost a holy song, hymn like. This time instead of dissonant chords and irregular time divisions, Clara begins to hear a beautiful melody. Slow at first and quiet, it swells and rises until it reaches a crescendo. But then the music slowly quietens again, until it ends on a major key somewhere in the middle of the keyboard range, neither loud nor quiet. She is not able to make sense of the situation, but she does not have to at that moment, because her mother speaks. “Clara.” This is all that is needed now. The silence speaks louder than words ever can and for once Clara’s mother understands her daughter’s silence. There is so much in that quiet that can never be spoken to the same effect. The stillness is expressing what cannot be said between mother and daughter. Suddenly it seems far more valuable and sentimental to remain quiet. From the stillness Clara opens her mouth in a hoarse whisper. “Mozart used to say the music is not in the notes, but in the silence in between.” Clara’s first sentence to her mother. Nothing long, nothing big, but a start. A tentative step onto the frozen surface of the world. A step into an unforgiving world knowing full well that it is unfeeling, cold, cruel, but still knowing that to skate, to dance into the night first one must step onto the cold, hard ice. Clara does not know how to skate but she knows that if she tries now, one of two things can happen- either she’ll learn to skate, dance along the ice and navigate its curves, fly on well deserved euphoria, or the ice will melt heralding the spring warmth.


“I dare you.” The words rang in my head as I clapped a hand onto his shoulder, and my lips curved into a smirk. “I accept.” Afterwards, I suffered the consequences. I quaked in my shoes, because I had accepted a dare to ask the most popular girl in our school out, and as I looked down at my loose shirt and scruffy shoes, running a hand through my messy hair, I knew I had messed up badly. I should never have accepted the dare. But my headstrong, stubborn self had to accept the dare because I refused to seem weak. Cursing my Taurus stubbornness, I headed back to the dormitories, where I planned out a course of action. *** It had been two days since I accepted Vic’s dare, and still I had made no progress. I had yet to work up the courage to ask Leah out on a date in public, but the girl was simply a flame in a swarm of moths—attractive to everyone. I refused to give up, and, gathering my wits, I strode across the pavement confidently towards Leah. I bit my lip nervously and called out, “Leah?” She turned towards me, a look of confusion flashing across her face. Then she seemed to recognise me, and a pretty smile spread across her cheeks. “Josh?” She asked politely, still smiling. ”Er... actually, it’s Jo,” I said, plastering a fake smile on my face as my heart dropped in disappointment. “I’m from your English class, don’t you remember?” She nodded, but I could see the hesitation in her eyes. She was obviously lying, I could see it in her furrowed brow as she tried to recall. ”Anyway, I was just wondering, do you want to go for a cup of coffee sometime?” I pushed my luck, crossing my fingers behind my back. Leah looked around, and slowly said, “Actually... I’m busy. I don’t think I’m free anytime soon...” I nodded, but inwardly I was panicking. I couldn’t not finish this dare, I had a streak of 5 completed dares at stake! Fortunately, Leah continued, “But I might be able to go next week. What time are you free?” After switching numbers, we agreed to meet at A Cup For A Smile after English the week after. I grinned triumphantly as I waved at her and walked away. *** Vic was quick to get on my case that afternoon, pestering me on my progress with dating the hottest girl in school. His smirk covered my entire field of vision, and my attempts to push him away proved futile. ”So... how’s it going? You’ve got to do it quickly, you know, it’s not fair to make the rest of us have a dare drought just ’cause you’re slow.” Vic slung his hand over my shoulder, and I squirmed at the unwelcome heat in the blistering afternoon. I had just shrugged his hand off my shoulder when Max piped up. “Yeah, Jo, that’s just mean to us.” He pouted cutely, and his sulking face, as always, made me relent. I laughed loudly. “I’m trying, guys, I really am. Look, I got a date with her Monday, okay? This should be going along just fine.” Max kicked the pavement before looking up at me, a bright smile spreading across his face. ”Okay.” *** A week later, I sat in the blissfully chilly café, awaiting Leah’s arrival. It was two minutes before the time that we had agreed to meet, but I had decided it was better to be early than to keep her waiting. Suddenly, the sound of a bell rung through the chatter in the café. I whipped my head towards the glass door, and, sure enough, Leah stood there. She locked eyes with me and headed towards me. I felt my heart pounding in my chest as she neared the table, and I took a deep breath to calm myself. Leah flashed me a dazzling smile as she slipped into the seat beside me. “Hey,” she said. That one syllable was enough to reduce me to a stuttering mess, but I drew myself up, and mustering the little confidence I had left, I replied, “Hey.” I mentally slapped myself. “Hey”? Was that really all I could say? No “how are you” or “how’s school”? I was so pathetic. Leah laughed, a tinkling laughter, and I felt my cheeks flush red. She placed a cool hand on mine, a small smile at the corners of her lips. “Don’t be so worried. It’s not like I’m going to eat you.” No, but the whole school would murder me, considering she was so out of my league. A relationship between us would cause a huge scandal. But my stubbornness, for once, proved useful. You can do it! It shouted in my ear. Don’t give up, you can’t prove Vic right! Grinning, I pushed the menu towards Leah. ”So, what would you like to order?” It had only gotten better from there. We had talked about school, but we avoided her friends—a touchy subject for both of us—as we got to know each other better. *** A month after our first ‘date’, I mustered the courage to go to one of the large parties, which Leah would be attending. By the end of the party, drunken people were everywhere, swarming the tables to grab more alcohol. I narrowly swerved to avoid a stumbling wreck of drunkenness, and caught sight of Leah. My breath hitched in my throat as I saw a male youth, barely taller than me, attacking Leah’s lips with a vigour that would be admirable had I been another person. But I wasn’t. And seeing Leah kissing him back passionately, I couldn’t help but cultivate the seeds of jealously planted in my gut. Impulsively, I stalked over to the couple and ripped them apart. I tilted Leah’s chin towards me, and I could see her glassy eyes widening in shock. Her swollen lips parted to form an ‘o’ of surprise, as she let out a soft gasp. I roughly turned her head away from me, inwardly guilty, but I knew she was drunk. She was drunk and kissing a stranger, whom she would probably forget in the morning. Just the thought of it made me stew in rage. Consumed by this fiery anger, I whirled around to face the male, who was a few centimetres shorter than me. I gripped his chin, forcing him to face me. His eyes, also clouded over, betrayed his apprehension. He nervously toyed with his lower lip as I heard a voice that sounded unlike mine resounding from my throat threateningly. ”Stay away from Leah,” the voice said, tersely. “You’re not fit for her. You’re not even sober, you’re high on drugs.” I turned away in disgust, and faced Leah’s guilty, pleading gaze. My heart softened. I don’t know why I’m doing this, I thought as I trudged towards my car, a drunken Leah staggering across the carpark with me, leaning against my shoulder. “Who’s your designated driver? Why aren’t they here?” I asked, annoyed that Leah didn’t care about her own safety. Leah pouted, smoky salmon lips frowning adorably. “I don’t know. Cassie said she wouldn’t drink, and that she’d always be downstairs, but I didn’t see her just now.” I groaned in frustration, buckling Leah into my passenger seat. “Look, I’ll drive you home, and if anyone asks, I’m the DD, okay?” She giggled. “Okay.” I sighed, rubbing my hand across my face. I was not ready for this. “I need your address, Leah.” She spewed a string of numbers that I entered into the GPS before sending her home. *** Later that night, Vic and Max called. They asked why I had left so early, and I mentally slapped myself. I was their DD! What were they going to do, out so late at night at drunken as can be? I knew from experience that both of them were lightweights, and knew better than most what was going to happen if I didn’t pick them up... Vic assured me that they were fine, and that a pretty girl had offered to drive them home. The girl’s name was Cassie. I sped back to the house immediately, both worried for my best friends’ safety and to give the girl a good scolding. I arrived at the gate of the majestic house, illuminated by strobe lights, loud music blaring through the speakers. Now that I was paying attention, I noticed bodies grinding up against each other, sweaty skin sticking to tight, skimpy clothing. The music thundered in my ears and I felt my eardrums throbbing. I stumbled through the dense crowd, eyes scanning the sea of people frantically, hoping to catch sight of Max or Vic. While being tall was a good advantage, it was rendered useless by the fact that both Max and Vic were... kind of vertically challenged. I sighed in frustration, ready to yell out their names, only to hear wild screaming from outside the living room. I ducked and squeezed my way through to the glass partition separating the living room from the backyard, which was now wide open. I caught sight of Max with an arm draped around a girl, swaying on his feet, swinging a mug of beer in his hand. Despite the circumstances, I scoffed. He got drunk drinking beer ? Seriously? I strode towards Max, my height an advantage in intimidating the people. They parted for me as I gripped Max’s shoulder tightly. “Dude, what do you think you’re doing? I leave you for half an hour and you do this to me? Really?” Max turned to face me, jaded eyes turning sharp and focused for a second before losing focus again. He gazed at me with a puppy-dog look on my face. I groaned. Every. Single. Time. When Max was drunk, he always pulled the guilt-trip card. And I fell for it every time, just like I did this time. I slung his hand onto my shoulders, staggering from his weight. I lifted him into my arms—a more convenient alternative to supporting him—as I let my eyes dart around the room, hoping to catch sight of Vic. Just as I had suspected, Vic was in a corner of the backyard, smoking with a small group of two girls and another boy. At least he was smoking something legal this time, not marijuana. I tore the cigarette from his fingers, ignoring the searing pain that scorched my fingers as I accidentally brushed them against the flame. I threw the cigarette to the ground. I was sure someone would pick it up later. I dug my fingernails into the soft flesh of Vic’s shoulder blades, spinning him around to face me. Under my breath, I hissed, “Just what exactly do you think you are doing?“ Vic sneered, not an uncommon occurrence when I confronted him in front of his smoke-buddies. “This,” he said, ignoring me, “is Cassie. That’s Jack, and that’s Haley.” I smiled tightly, my gaze falling on Cassie, sizing her up. The girl didn’t have much muscle, but anyone so stable on stilettos—in the grass, in the middle of the night, probably drunk, no less—was to be feared. Once again, I ignored my gut feeling, and unleashed my rage upon her. “How dare you,” I hissed through gritted teeth. “How dare you! You left Leah alone, in the middle of the night, alone and drunk, and didn’t keep to any part of your deal! You’re a designated driver for a reason, and yet you choose to shirk your responsibilities!” I drew a breath to calm myself down, my face red hot with fury. “Bitches like you,” I spoke hoarsely, menacingly, “are the reason I have trust issues.” With that, I grabbed my friends and left. *** I smiled at Leah, who eagerly grinned back. In just a few weeks, I’d gone from “Jo the loser” to “Jo who was friends with Leah”. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t about the dare any more, although the stubborn part of me would beg to differ. It was about Leah, wanting to be with her, wanting to be hers. I wanted to be hers, and her to be mine, both of us consensually agreeing to be one. But first I would have to get her to agree. We were at A Cup For A Smile again, and this time I knew she was getting an iced double shot espresso, while I got my iced latte. I hesitantly began our conversation with something casual, something to get Leah to open up. “Leah?” ”Mm?” ”I was just wondering... do you... think we could go on a date?” I asked, analysing her reaction to gauge her feelings about this. ”Hmm? Sure! Isn’t this one already?” Her reply threw me off a little, and I laughed in response. “No, I meant a proper date.” “What, one in the cinemas with popcorn? We did that last week, dumbass,” she grinned coyly, displaying her pearly white teeth. “No, I- I meant as... girlfriends. I’m lesbian, Leah.” I was used to coming out, and didn’t really hide my sexuality, but it felt awkward coming out to my new crush, who was sitting right across me. “I’m bi,” Leah said, rolling her eyes. “I really am. And I mean it. I want to be girlfriends.” With that, she leaned across the table and kissed me. I pulled away first, getting out of my seat and sliding in next to her. I cupped her face in my hands and kissed her, hard. And I smirked. I’d completed my dare and confessed to my new crush—killing two birds with one stone. Her hands pried mine from her face, and she entwined our fingers together, my coarse palms in her delicate, cooling ones. ”Remember when you asked, two weeks ago, what ‘Jo’ was short for?” I asked, smiling against her lips. They quirked into a crooked grin. “Well, I thought I’d tell you. It’s short for Joanna.”


This is supposed to be sometime around the nineteen-fifties, but some things may not be historically accurate and I am still getting better at writing. I did my very best though, and hope you enjoy: The Fight Against the New Highway . It was a dark, dreary day and a bitter-cold wind blew with swerling gusts. A fog rolled in from the East, settling over the subdued city of Miaret. There was an eerie silence over the city. Although the city didn’t usually get such harsh weather, the silence was normal—it had been for a long time. Jasmine started apathetically out the window, fogging the glass. A chill ran down her spine, with the early morning cold. She liked the quietness of the city. Nothing much happened, but that was the way she liked it. “Jasmine, get your face away from that widow,” Jasmin’s mother, Grace, said coming into the room.

Jasmine whipped around, startled. “I need you to run an errand for me,” Grace said. “What is it?” Jasmine said in a soft voice. “I only have a small amount of flour left and I need more. Could you please go get some for me?” Grace asked, handing her some money. Saying nothing, Jasmine took the money and went and got on her grey overcoat. She also got some thick socks and boots, and a colorful shawl to keep her warm.

As Jasmine went through the door, Grace called behind her, “Please be home before ten o’clock!” When Jasmine took a step outside, she saw that it had begun to snow. The light snowflakes fluttered to the ground, making a thin white sheet on the ground. Jasmine shivered and pulled the shawl tighter around her. She realized that she had forgotten her gloves, and her fingers were beginning to numb as she made her way to town.

When she arrived at the store, she heard shouting and commotion coming from downtown. The town wasn’t as quiet as Jasmine thought. Forgetting the flour for a moment, she headed toward the noise. When the source of the noise was insight Jasmine wasn't sure what it was. It seemed to be a protest of some sort. Shouting people were densely gathered around a podium in front of City Hall. Some people seemed angry. People were crying out things like, “We don’t need civilization and new technology to come through our city!” and others saying, “Our city needs to advance! We can’t stay like this! Other towns will be getting more sophisticated!” Someone approached the platform and leaned into the microphone, preparing to make a statement.

“Our town is just fine the way it is. We don’t need advancement—not in this way. While some advancement is good, some can also be bad. A highway is too noisy! We do not need the roar of automobiles roaring through our city! Vote No on building a new highway! Some of the crowd cheered. “A new highway?!” thought Jasmine. Another person stepped up to the podium to make a statement, “Our town is a fine one. We are thriving well… Yet there are other towns that are pulling ahead with advancement. We won’t let this happen! We must not be left in the dust!” The crowd cheered, while others booed. “We need to move on! We need to take action! We need to change! Vote Yes for building a new highway through our city!” There was a map displayed, showing what section the highway would be running through. “That’s right by our house!” Jasmine realized, panicked. She liked Miaret the way it was. She didn’t want it to change. Jasmine had gotten lost in time, as the clock gonged ten o'clock and suddenly, Jasmine remembered about the flour and rushed to get it, then hurried home, almost running. Jasmine burst through the door, her cheeks flushed. “Jasmine, where have you been?!” exclaimed Grace. “I thought I asked you to be back by ten.” “You did, but I got side tracked,” Jasmine answered, panting. “There is something going on at City Hall.” “Whatever could distract you at City Hall?” Grace wondered. “People are protesting about putting a new highway through Miaret, and they want to put it right by our house!” Jasmine exclaimed. “Whatever for?” asked Grace, bewildered. “I don’t know. Some people thought that we needed advancement and other people wanted to keep the town like normal.” replied Jazmine. “Well I won’t have it!” said Grace, now in an uproar. Jasmine agreed with Grace. She didn’t want a noisy highway running through the town. “I’m going tomorrow to go to City Hall and fight this myself.” Grace said. Jasmine’s stomach growled, and she remembered she forgot breakfast. She got a small snack and the day went on, not much happening. The next day, when Jasmine woke up, sunlight was streaming through the window, but it was freezing cold outside, with a few inches of snow on the ground. Despite the cold weather, though, Grace was determined to go to City Hall. She was very upset about everything. Jasmine begged Grace to let her come with her, but Grace said that she would just get in the way. Jasmine continued to beg Grace, until she gave in and let her come along. When they arrived at City Hall, again, there was a protest going on. There was a sign that said “Free Mic”, meaning that anyone could speak. Jasmine and Grace listened to other people talk and Grace got more information about the plan for the highway, and finally, she confidently neared the podium. Grace began her speech self-assured, pausing at moments, thinking of moving words.

“I have lived in Miaret all my life. I have seen it change throughout the years—some for the better, some far the worse. But in the end, the city always made the best of it. Sometimes it was a new business, or a new maor. Even though I was just a child, I went to the meetings and knew everything that was going on. I had an opinion, although I didn’t express it at the time, although I didn’t express it at the time, but now I am saying something and I ask you to listen. There are some things that to this day I wish the city never decided on. These things can affect the city for the rest of its existence. Please, do not let this happen. Although highways aren't necessarily bad, I don’t think one is right for this town. I have a nar-by neighbor that has a young baby, only five months old. She does not want her young one to grow up to the sound of cars and the sight of a busy road just outside their home. Think of what this might do to our children.” She continued for a long time, and once she had finished her speech, the crowd was quiet, dwelling on what they had heard. “May I talk too?” asked Jasmine, as Grace stepped down from the platform. “I don’t think a young girl like you should make a statement,” said Grace. “Please,” Jasmine pleaded, “Why not?” “Well, I guess a few words won’t hurt,” Grace gave in with a sigh. Jasmine made her short speech, inspiring many who listened. Even though she was only a child and her statement was brief, Jasmine believed it made an impact. “Jasmine, it’s time to go!” Grace called out through the crowd. “Do we have to?” Jasmine called back. “We’ve already said what we have to say, and I have voted. There is nothing else to do. We will come back tomorrow to see what they decide on,” Grace replied, now near Jasmine. “Can’t we stay and see what happened,” implored Jasmine. “It will not change the outcome, and we need to get home,” responded Grace. That night, Jasmine thought about the day, Grace’s speech and her own. She hoped they made a difference. She tried not to think about what might happen if they did put a highway near their house, but soon, she drifted off to sleep.

The next day, Grace went to town, but this time Jasmine couldn’t come along, because she had too many things to get done and too much to do at home. Later, that afternoon, when Grace returned, she was pleased to announce that they weren’t going to build a highway after all, and right then, as Jasmine heard her mother say it, was sure that their speeches had made a difference.


"What do you want me to do?" I screamed, throwing a pillow at her. She picked up the pillow quickly and threw it back at me. "Just do this one little thing for me, please?" she pleaded, giving the puppy eyes tactic a try. My cold unforgiving eyes repelled the attempt at making me give up. "Why should I do it?" I shouted. My arms folded across my chest as I stared her down. She humphed and replied, "Because I said so." When I met Ana, she was this sweet little girl. Every day, we'd meet up after school and share an ice cream together. The sticky drops from the cold bonded us together, making us inseparable. But then Harry came along. He swooped her off of her feet and rode off with her into the sunset, leaving a poor soul behind. Every night, I cried myself to sleep, imagining her bubbly voice and deep blue eyes connecting with mine. I jealously watched as Harry overtook her, constantly giving her attention and kisses. They'd go to every track meet, football game, matchup and get compliments about how good they were together. For a while, it seemed that no end was in sight. Another season went by and then finally, things started to move. Harry focused more on his collegiate soccer ambitions and spent less time with Ana. Since he was so rich, Ana began to become impatient and promptly left him, looking for someone else to spoil her. Me, who at the time had no idea what I was in for, quickly stood up to the plate. I bought a strawberry cone and sat down. It was a cooler day, so I slipped on a sweatshirt and found a nice bench in the sun. Birds flew all around and squirrels chittered just feet away. In the distance, Ana was approaching the ice cream place, money in hand. I quickly got up and moved to a closer seat, ignoring the sudden drop in temperature. At that point, I was bound to do anything. She received her treat and began pacing towards me. I scooched over and motioned slightly for her to sit. She smiled and sat down. "Hey, Michael," she said. "Hi, Ana," I replied, blushing with each word. "It's been a while, hasn't it." she grinned, moving closer. I chuckled nervously and nodded. "You know, ever since Harry stopped buying me things and moved on," she complained. She rolled her eyes and moved her hair away from the front of her body. "Yeah, I guess it has been," I concluded. She giggled and my stomach went from 10 to 1000. I awkwardly shifted and laughed with her. She smiled and asked me the last question I was expecting. "I'm just gonna say it: Want to go out?" she asked confidently. I stuttered over my words and my brain exploded. My voice seemed to fail me and I stared helplessly at those damn blue eyes. All I could muster was a squeaky "yes" and off we went, hand in hand. Thus started the paychecks. At first, it was small. Coffee here and there, a trip to the mall perhaps. But then it grew. Pretty soon, we were hanging out every day, going out to places, and watching Netflix before... personal time. Anyways, as the relationship grew, so did my debt. Day after day I spent enough money to make a millionaire cry, just to please my cute blue-eyed girlfriend. I still was blind to her impatience and ambitions, and that was my weakness. As long as I bought her something, she would return it with affection. And that seemed to satisfy the relationship. Until today. Today, I wanted to rip those pristine blue eyes and put them on a person who actually deserved them. Because boy, oh boy, is she not pristine on the inside. How could she be so ungrateful? I bought her shit day after day, and sometimes she didn't even use them! Why is she doing this? How could I be so blind?" These thoughts raced through my head as I locked myself in the bathroom, listening to Ana destroy things in anger. My eyes were puffy from tears and I was sweating. I wanted to just end it right there and then, to purify me of my wrongdoings. The thought of just doing it was enough to get my adrenaline moving. To be free of impurities, to just be carefree! Adrenaline rushed through my veins. I knew what to say. My feet clomped down the stairs hastily, and Ana stopped her racket. I turned her around and kissed her. "That's for being beautiful," I started. "But I can't handle it anymore. The fuss, the greed, the ungrateful bitchiness." My hand opened up and I touched her cold, hard face. The same feeling as cash. Tears welled up in her eyes and she held her hand to her cheek. I was about to add another one-liner, but the effect of what I did hit me. I slumped to the ground and cried, not only for myself (for once!) but for her as well. I held my knees and cried a deep cry as she helplessly watched, perhaps thinking herself about what the consequences of her actions were. She looked around the room as tears also rolled down her cheeks. She stared down at her bleeding hands and clenched them in anger not directed at me but at how she reacted. "She'll never change," I concluded earlier that day. Nothing I've ever done has proven to fix her. Only God can manage to repair her sins and wrongs. However, I was hit yet again with a surprise as she paid me 200,000 dollars. The same amount as the sum of my total spendings that month. Her blue eyes sympathetically looked at me, this time belonging to the person I had hoped to know. The one whose face doesn't feel like money, the one who doesn't want everything in existence. The one who cares for the other.


Wind swept across the bow of the boats and rocked them in the water as Laáfchan and the other fishermen pulled the nets over the edge. Fish flopped, desperate for air, against the boards of the floor. The bay provided them again, day after day by the will of Aachkíinooláak, ever looking over his people. The sun sat in midfall, his sisters visible against the darker half of the sky, watching for their time to take dominion over the land. He reached over the edge of the boat and pulled the last bit of net in. Water sunk into his shoes, wetting his feet. The sky rumbled above them as if often did this time of day, the storms had made their pilgrimage across the peninsula to collect their lightning in the bay of thunder. The air above the crackled with light. The men paddled toward the coast, the sky grew darker and darker. Laáfchan preferred the storm. His wife and he had been arguing near-constantly since the last twin moon about… everything. Just when he thought that things were getting better, she would use her tongue like a dagger to dig into his wounds. Peering into the sky, he knew he was no better. Each time she came to him silently, her attempt to move on, he could not help himself to make her miserable the way that he had felt. After he, or she, attacked the cycle continued, like the storms that blew over the peninsula. Things could go from calm to instantly raging, with a single sentence. Laáfchan and the crew stepped out of the boat and pulled it onto the shore Their feet dug into the sand and shallow waves licked up from the ocean and lapped at their heels. Once the boats were in place, they wrapped the jigging ropes around the posts on the beach. “Hey, Laáfchan, I heard you and Janlaaaiik this morning as you were leaving.” Worry washed over Laáfchan as he turned to look at his friend. Many unsavory things flew from their mouths this morning as the two of them argued. “Is everything okay”, his friend asked. “Uhm yes, I suppose”, Laáfchan brushed the sand from his knees. No matter how hard he patted his knees, the brown sand clung to his shorts. He lied. It was easier to lie about his feelings than dive into them with others. *I should be able to do that with my wife. Why can’t I? Opening up feels so hard, especially with someone I should…* “Yes, everything is fine.” He continued to lie. “Well, if you need anything, let me know”, the implication that he would need anything cut deeper than it should. Feelings festered underneath from earlier in the morning. The maggots of anger nibbled and ate at the healing wound from that morning and the scars of other arguments. He failed to recall who started which, why they started, or when. All the arguments piled on top of one another, and each of them felt as if she started them. Underneath that feeling; however, he knew that they were at least fifty-fifty and at worst mostly his fault. That realization only caused him to fume more, knowing that he was likely the problem. After the boats were placed upon the shore, he walked home. He parted ways with the crew of his boat and the lightning crackled in the sky as the wind picked up. The pine trees and palms blew in the distance, howling amongst the wind. He walked up to the stairway of his chickee and the steps up the stilted wooden home. The canvas on either side pulled down in preparation for the storm, bowed out slightly in the wind. The tanned animal hides, painted with depictions of the Gator, the number of swordfish he had caught personally, and the imagery of his family. The wood of the chickee, newly built just before their wedding, gave no sway. Other chickee sat on along the beach and further inland to the wood. Many other fishermen walked into their homes as well. Most of the other men’s homes’ canvas remained raised in the tropic sun. Each step of his foot, his heart throbbed, and memories of each of the arguments of the morning and the day before boiled to the surface. Swinging the canvas back and stomping into the chickee. He huffed and dropped won onto the bed. Before she could even ask him about his day, the festering anger fumed out, “This is the tenth time since the twin moons that I have come back from fishing the Bíifááishaachalíichóloólíida and there are not smoked fish resting above the fire outside.” He huffed, pulling salt brined shoes from his feet. The fire crackled outside the northside of their stilted chickee. The smoke billowed to the sky, the seen through the flaps in the canvas covering of their home. The woman standing mere feet away put her hand on the hip opposite of a small child, “I had traded the fish from yesterday for some clothes for Fachií.” She bounced the child on her hip lightly to stifle a crying fit that threatened to erupt. “Perhaps if you went with the hunting parties, we could have a claim to some skins without having to trade for them.” The wound opened up from the morning more and instead of changing the tone or walking away, he felt the need to lash out. A copperhead in his mouth coiled up and dripped venom from its fangs. “Perhaps if you mended the fields further inland”, he snapped back. She stamped her foot. This fight happened more often than she’d liked. It ended the same way every time – in yelling and eventual begrudging reconciliation. “I’m going to Chóldachalíioónok and hear his view on this.” She paused at the door and glanced back at him, “You can either come or wait to hear when I come back.” “Gators eat me if I’m going let you go without me and not tell my story also.” He yanked his shoes back onto his feet and stormed after her. He breathed out, wanting her to hear him, “Maybe he’ll dissolve this union.” A tear dropped down her cheek, “Yes, perhaps he will.” Others of the village watched on, some trained eyes on them all the way through the walkways. Laáfchan shouted back, “You would like that wouldn’t you!” “Chóldachalíikáaoónok!”, she snapped back the tanned skin around the large chickee near the center of the village. In the large center room, a man with short, dark brown hair stood with others looking over maps of Chiíkoak and the river systems from the western bay across the peninsula. He pointed at a point on the eastern coast. Opening his mouth to speak, everyone turned to face her, interrupting the flow. Her face reddened as she turned to leave the chickee. Chóldachalíikáaoónok stepped out of the chickee, pulling the canvas back. The other men and women in there walked down the steps. A smile came over his face, “I could hear you at least half of the way here. Were that I could marry the Vesgarians to some other peoples may that they would fight themselves in circles.” He paused when no one laughed, “So this is serious then? Come inside.” Laáfchan followed the chief into the chickee. If the chief married the Vesgarians off to another culture, and they behaved as he has behaved in marriage, the married nations would in-fight and war within months. The three of them came into the same table with the map on it. “Chóldachalíioónok, my wife has not performed her duties to home and family.” The accusation cut through the short silence and Chóldachalíioónok’s eyes dimmed for a moment. “Many long days have I traveled into the bay, fished, and returned to find no cooked food, nothing gathered, dwindling firewood.” He lied about the problem. Laáfchan knew Janlaaaiik tried her best and supported him in the worst of times; however, the aggressions against one another over little things piled up. The desire to get even, often, outweighed the desire to make things right. The shame of this piled on to his anger and resentment and continuing to attack felt easier and easier. “I have other things I have to do. The child cannot go completely unclothed in the sun. I cannot gather firewood when he has not cut any.” She continued for a moment. Laáfchan scoffed at her. The reasons she listed, he obviously felt were unimportant or at the very least invalid. He breathed out, “Perhaps it is time to dissolve our marriage”, and Chóldachalíioónok listened. He lifted his hand. Standing up he moved out of the room. “I will return shortly.” He left the chickee. The Janlaaaiik and Laáfchan sat across the table from one another. The only sound in the room was their child. The goos and the gah’s of the toddler only brightened faces for moments before making eye contact with one another and becoming re-engulfed in the argument. Several more minutes passed and Chóldachalíioónok returned. He brought with an orange in his hand. He placed one orange, injured and rife with flies, on the table. He feinted a smile toward the husband and wife. Laáfchan huffed. “This is not a time for children’s tales of love.” “Shush, let Chóldachalíioónok speak!” Chóldachalíioónok eyed the orange, shooing flies away before turning to the two partners. “That’s exactly what it’s time for. Though I will not tell the story verbatim. Instead, I will come to you with a tale of warning of what happens when you attack the flesh, the union.” He pointed at the orange as flies circled it. "First, I’ll remind you of the tale”, he leaned forward in his chair over the table. “Aachkíinooláak saw that there were two, husband and wife, that had separated. The two wandered off to separate sides of what we now know as Deer Lake. He, in unison, went to both husband and wife with the first oranges in his creation.” “He came to them in human form, with an orange in hand, he said to them, ‘See the orange, I have made it for you. Rubbing his thumb over the exterior he said, ‘See the flesh. It is as bright as the sun. Granting you bright days eternal’. The two glanced at one another but seemed overall uninterested in the story. “We’ve heard the…”, Laáfchan attempted to interrupt. “He broke the flesh with his fingers. ‘See, the flesh is tough but flexible. It is strong and resilient. It is not rigid and impossible to work with’. He peeled away the flesh entirely and revealed the fruit beneath. After all of the skin was removed, he handed a piece to them. ‘See the fruit. The skin, the flesh, protects the fruit. That flesh is your union. The fruit is yourself, your vulnerabilities, your fears, your insecurities, individually but bound together.” Chóldachalíioónok reached back and grabbed two ripened pieces of oranges. He placed the fruit in front of the Laáfchan and Janlaaaiik. “He said, ‘Taste it. It is sweet like the love between you two. Take this and remember your love. Nothing is as strong as the love you grow and share. Toughen the skin of your union through change. Make it flexible through communication. Ripen yourselves within and grow soft with one another.’” The two of them ate the piece of orange that was offered to them. The ripeness of the fruit made it sweet with the citrus kick. “We have heard this story before. I understand why you’re telling it, but don’t understand how it applies here. We want to dissolve our union.” “Do you?” “We said that didn’t we?” “You want to dissolve your union over lack of smoked fish? And you yours over him not hunting instead of fishing?” Chóldachalíioónok chuckled. “Do you think that others have not had these fights before? Or that this is reason to separate and part ways?” Pointing to the fruit with a hole in the middle. “This orange fell from its tree, but the illustration is still good. You attacked your union here before me. You did it in the path here. I heard it at least once, but don’t know how many times you’ve done it. The union you have is the flesh of the orange.” The flesh of the damaged orange was mostly intact; however, the flies dug into the fruit inside through the hole and spoiled it from the inside. “You can see that the flesh, mostly, is whole. It was damaged, while not from within, from a point. Allowing all manner of bugs, dirt, and filth inside. This is the same as what happens if you attack your union too often. You tear a hole, even a small one, and let in that which can damage you from the inside.” Chóldachalíioónok sighed. “Once the damage to the flesh is done one can tell themselves, ‘It’s just one kiss from someone else’. One can tell themselves, ‘It’s not a problem to complain to another woman, or man, about my partner\`. As soon as the first fly enters in, it lays eggs and eats the love, deteriorating it from the inside. The feeling in the room changed. The married couple stared at the flies swarming around the orange. The inside blackened with flies and rot. The two of them glanced at one another. “I…”, Laáfchan spoke up. “No, not here”, Chóldachalíioónok interrupted him. He waved his hand, “Go home. Speak privately. Nurture your flesh to protect your love and fears. Toughen yourselves, fortify your union.” He shooed them out of the chickee and followed them out. The child, struggled against its mother’s arms, close to throwing a tantrum in hunger. “Thank you, Chóldachalíioónok”, Laáfchan turned around to him. “I have seen what happens when the skin is wounded. I would like to see it as seldom as I can”, he closed the flap of the tanned skin wall on the chickee. Laáfchan turned away and walked slightly behind his Janlaaaiik. This time, the two of them walked in silence as the bay turned a deep orange and the moons hung in the sky. Chóldachalíioónok’s wife left several days ago. How long ago, precisely, Laáfchan failed to remember. Since then, the chief looked out for others more often and attempted to be more cheery. His wife, presumably, traveled south to another tribe in the confederacy where her family left. He did not know and asking felt wrong. He left his prying thoughts as thoughts and continued down the path after Janlaaaiik. The two of them returned home. Silence washed over their home for the first time in weeks. No yelling or crying emanated from the walls. Laáfchan prepared his tools for the next day. He placed his boots against the post near the door flap. His hands worked the alt off of his shoes with his hands as best he could. Placing his shirt by the window he opens the flap so that wind could hit it. She fed the child, laid it down, and then the two of them sat on their bed together. They faced one another but said nothing for several minutes. The silence worried him, as it had never been a good sign before. The last time the two of them had been silent, they ignored one another for two days before the first words erupted into a fight. Janlaaaiik reached out and touched her Laáfchan’s hand. She peered into his eyes. “I am afraid. I am afraid that you do not want me anymore. That I do not do enough for you. I need to know that you love me and that we can work on this together.” A tear streamed down her face. She moved her hand to wipe it, but Laáfchan did instead. He wished that he had spoken first. Her grace showed itself again and he had to reflect for a second. Every time the two of them had an argument, she was the first to try and find common ground or resolution. He took a breath. He realized that her words were not an attack on him. That she used her words sincerely instead of passive-aggressively. Shook his head. “I do love you. I do not feel that you’re not enough for me. I feel afraid that I am not enough for you. However long the day, I feel like I cannot provide enough. It makes me feel weak and unable to support you”, a small tear welled in his eye, he held back the rest as best he could. “I believe we can work on this.” He bared his insecurities to her. Communication, as the chief said, is the only way to strengthen the marriage. He felt like all of his nerves were bare and his skin rolled back, ready for the slightest pinprick to ignite his body and mind. Her lips curled into a soft smile. “Perhaps the first solution is that we stop talking in ‘I’s and ‘you’ s. “ He nodded to her first suggestion. “Sometimes it feels like we attack one another than working together. We should speak in ‘we’ s.” Her eyes peered into his as he mulled over her statement. “I agree”, he stated. She opened her mouth, but he continued, “We agree. We should not talk in opposition to one another.” She smiled at him. “I also think that I should spend more time out. I can fish in the mornings and hunt in the evenings, rest in the midday when the sun is hottest.” “Yes, that is a fantastic idea!” He looked down into her lap. “I should see if my mother or yours can watch over the baby while I go tend to the fields with the other women.” She paused, “I just wanted more time with him before I went back to work.” Laáfchan shook his head, “No, I was wrong for being so hard on you. You need to take your time with the child as you can. I was in the wrong before.” He patted her hand with his free hand, rubbing his thumb against hers. “You were right though. The child can walk. There is no reason for me to stay home with him when others can watch him. I need to carry my weight not only for us but for our child”, she retorted. He nodded, “Okay. If that is how you feel, we will honor it together.” The two of them embraced one another as the sun fell below the coast. The sister moons bore half faces above the shimmering water. The wind blew through the canvas flaps, bringing the scent of salt off the bay. Hours later and the sun rose through the trees to the west. A beam of light shone through the window cut into the chickee wall. Falling on the couple, illuminating them in a new day, Janlaaaiik rested with her head upon Laáfchan’s chest. Calm remained until he stirred. He dressed, pulling his boots over his feet and out the door to the bay. The two of them pulled the canvas up, rolling it with their hands at either side. Their chickee now looked like many others along the path. Open so that the wind from the beach may cool their days and nights. Their home stood open, more open, for everyone to hear. Janlaaaiik, true to her words, followed behind dressed for the gathering.