My name is Dennis Homer Love Jr. As a child in the 1980s I became the first underaged person recognized by the United States government for helping efforts involving the CIA during the Ronald Reagan presidency. Many other kids were recognized after me, but it seems there efforts were not life threatening as mine were. I was privileged to work with or along side of some of Stephen Shaffer's clandestine work involving such people as Barry Seal, Pablo Escobar, Manuel Noriega, Oliver North and South American people that were to be used in an army that would take over locations in various South American countries and create a new country governed by democracy that ultimately would be backed by the USA. Turns out it was a clandestine tactic used to trick Pablo into giving up all his cartel locations used in producing and smuggling cocaine and other durgs into the United States. The CIA got as much information as possible and the executed an airstrike destroying all the locations they knew of with the U. S. Navy from an aircraft carrier off of Peru. Of course under the permission of then president Ronald Reagan. Setting Pablo's cocaine industry back but not out of commission. During all the time I was involved I ended up getting left in South America for a more extended time than planned on. Long story short when I was finally brought back to America by my pastor Fred J Foster he dropped me off on a well known military base in Louisiana called Barks Dale Air Force Base. Truns out I had body parts and military documents of interest to national security at the time. Not really what anyone would call secret but compromising documents of military interest to say the least. I guess you could call me at that time a very patriotic kid as far as believing in the United States of America 🇺🇸👍 and as a man I still do. 😈🇺🇸👍Go Air Force. When I was a child in grammar school Stephen Shaffer of the CIA came and got me one day at Central Elementary School of Calhoun Louisiana. He took me to Mena Arkansas on Barry Seals land where there was a private airport. There was South Americans there who where training with the CIA learning military tactics for a war that never really got fought. Pablo Escobar flew in on a Cessna and Stephen and I where to fly down to Colombia South America to take pictures of the Medellin cartel's durg production. Stephen didn't trust Pablo and thought he would have a better chance at coming back with a kid going along. I had previously met Pablo at Mena with Barry Seal and other CIA and FBI officials. I was there with the boss of the water service company my dad worked for. We where there in Mena delivering a pressure tank to improve the water pressure on Barry Seals land. While in Colombia I met hundreds of kids South Americans staying on the cartels housing. Despite the horrible condition of drug slavery to Pablo Escobar. The South Americans that he had in his control actually had a better from of life with his cartel than they would on there on. However the majority of the drug slaves started out as bought or given from there parents four to five year olds that were kept in cartel housing consisting of a large building for shelter on top of a southern Colombian Mt top. That had dirt floor and a kitchen of sorts were they would make fresh tortilla chips and other simple but wonderful tasting food. It wasn't hard for it to be wonderful because that's all they had. Most all of the boys and girls there were skinny but they had a sick notion of death that is how they embraced looking at it. They were not scared of death as American kids were. There religious views gave them this fascination with death but it was more of a respect than fascination. Despite this and the condition of slavery these kids had the best and most beautiful spirit and attitude towards life. They were very loving and caring kids not like you would find in America due only to environment. I do wish they could have had a chance at freedom in America like all the kids I grew up with. But picking coca leaves and cocaine production and transportation is what life had in-store for them. As long as they followed the rules and obeyed the cartel killers they had a pretty good life but not all of them would be lucky even ones that obeyed were killed at the whim of the cartel killers when the killers were trying to make an example or just horribly wasting lives. The kids grew up in this environment and they were tougher than you could imagine and each one worthy of the best love and environment any American kid has received and took for granted I'm sure. It was a time that happened and I was there as a witness in the late 1980s in Pablo Escobar's Medellin Cartel housing on top of a southern Colombian Mt top with in walking and viewing distance of the equator. Which is were a sacrificial pit was carved out of the Mt top and were the cartel would burn and destroy bodies from the organ harvesting that was just as big part of the cartel as the durgs were. There was sex education there too. I know I'm not the only one who has went through this but I would guess people like me and my experiences in sex this way are very few and far between. While in Colombia South America in the compound Pablo Escobar used to house his drug trade workers as a grammar school child I was having sex with a Colombian woman and was almost at the peak of what a grammar school boy should have had for one of his first sexual experiences when a cartel killer that had his mind on doing what he did the whole time came up and pulled his pistol out and shot the woman in the head while I was directly on top of her and her face that I was concentrating on suddenly became something that would scar me sexually for the rest of my life with her precious smile turning in an instant to something that would horrify even the most mature. After this the cartel killer wasn't though messing with me and proceeded to cut her up exposing her internal organs and forcing me to help him cut her liver out completely whole without any unnecessary cutting of the liver as a strict punishment if I did. After removing her liver he took it to the kitchen were he proceeded to cut it up as if it were a piece of meat for the market. He fried it up and placed it on the table that evening for supper needless to say I had lost my appetite and did not desire to be around him for some time. The other killers kept criticising me and tried to boost my confidence until I finally got the courage to do the same thing to him I caught him on top of another woman and before he could react I shot his woman in the head the same way except I didn't have any interest in her liver and he showed me his respect from that day forward promising not to do it again as long as I promised the same. Some life lesson I had been forced to destroy something as beautiful as sex by being exploited in death with the pull of a trigger needless to say I have a real hard time forming any kind of bond with a woman. Unfortunately it didn't stop there he noticed that I became very friendly with some mature young teenage Columbian boys that were working in the fields of coca trees and sleeping with them at night I formed a bond very quickly with one in particular that I grew a crush on and basically became his boyfriend and was sleeping with him every night one night weeks after the woman incident the cartel killer came up behind us and I could only think up he was choking him out while we were hooked up but as it turns out he didn't pass out his throat had been cut and I began to have the most tramadic sexually experience of my life he fell limp on to my back and the other boys w told me he was dead but I couldn't believe it I was a child I had no reason to believe it. As his blood ran down my back as I attempted to stand up and kept calling out to him but he wouldn't respond the blood hit the floor with a heavyness that will never forget it sounded like the empting of a full bucket being poured out at once and sent me into a panic that took some of the other boys working together to calm me down long enough for another one to get him loose off of me because rigamortous had set in and I was screaming as I pulled him like a slay back and for over there blankets and them trying to get free convinced he wasn't dead because he wouldn't let go. Then once calmed down the cartel killers demanded that his body be throwed in the pit and only one boy stepped up and offered to help me. As we proceeded to get it over with on the way to the pit it became to difficult to carry him together and the boy decided it would be easier to finish cutting of his head that was hanging by very little and kept slinging back and forth on to his grip he had on him. He decided it was too much indeed for both of us and said if I would carry his head he would carry his torso the rest of the way. By the time I got to the pit I had become carzy temporarily because of all the stress and began to kiss his head crying and sobbing turning into laughing as I tried to push it out of my mind that it even happened. But as I went back and took a shower with the boy who helped me we went back to lay down on the floor to sleep and I realized that I would never really get over it or the women that had been killed and attribute that to my main difficulties forming a bond with any one I love. Having my only sexual relationship with a friend who had a girlfriend and was just really putting me on feeling sorry for me though he never knew about my experiences in South America he would only help me out when I needed him the most and sadly in 2007 after he was having a break down of sorts he took his own life in front of me with a shotgun to the head I tried to get to him in time but he had already pulled the trigger and fell back I reached out to him only grasping a little of his body mass picking him up from the ground to hold him in my arms as I yelled into his face calling out his name he seemed to almost come to one last time and sincing that I was near as if he heard me his face began to smile then fade away into a motion less shattered version of it's original form. He spoke to me repeated before saying that his one wish in life was to kill himself in front of someone that really loved him I always thought he was kidding but it has been my experience in the past that there is never any joking around when suicide is concerned and I do not take lightly to the matter of people making fun of that type of comment. Your life is precious and beautiful no matter how painful or sorrowful it becomes stick it out and hang on. It will get better. It will never rain every day hold on to something stronger than you are. Reach out to the Lord and ask Jesus for help and he will get you though another day. One day at a time and every day is a good day if you don't believe me try missing one it just can't and shouldn't be done. The truth is something that people rarely embrace and even more seldomly tell anyone much less totally stangers but I feel what you hold in secret will destroy you and what you speak honestly about you will be forgiven and Jesus is the only one that I seek forgiveness from and the only person I owe all my life to. I pray to always be as honest as that about everything in my life but it's not easy when it's not tramadic when you see it as every day sin.During my time in South America with the Medellin cartel the killers who where experts at messing with my head. Threw me out of the compound and said I had to walk from Colombia where I was back to America. I took them seriously they literally killed who ever they wanted to in front of me. I set out headed towards America it was hot like you can't imagine on the equator. I walked during the night because the day was to hot. The Colombian women and children that would walk the 20 something miles back and forth along the Mt tops between cartel shelters would pass me everyday. They would leave me a water but refused to carry me anywhere. No food and just water makes you readjust your priorities. After walking what seemed like an eternity I came up on the first little gathering of people along the Mt top road it was about 15 to 20 miles away from the cartel compound. I found out that I hadn't even made it out of Colombia and it took me a couple days to get there. I was starving and thirsty. They gave me something to eat and drink then I decided to give up walking home to America. Then started back to the cartel compound with desire to do what I had to for them to take me back. When I got there they made me do things that I would call anti-religious to say the least. They laughed at me and said they thought I was dead. Most kids they send out saying they can't come back only last 30min or half a day at most. I was gone four or five days I really tried to make it work. I was so embarrassed about what they made me do to get back in that I asked you tem to open the back gate and I wanted to walk down the Mt top trail from Colombia towards Ecuador then towards Peru and Chile. They laughed and opened the back gate to let me walk away again. As I walked away I was going over how I gave up on going home and basically was separating my so called family ties of what I thought was making me want to go home. I kept thinking that my family was surely missing me as if I mattered to them. Then walking away from the compound I came across a real Shaman from Peru that had walked on a spiritual journey from Peru to the Mt top in Colombia where the equator line runs across the bottom of the country. There was a pit carved out of the Mt rock and all kinds of paintings and markings along what seemed like a big rock coming out of the Mt. There was a whole lot of terraces going down from the top of the Mt to the valley down below. Right behind the cartel compound. It was beautiful. There was a stream going down the Mt top where I came across the Shaman and his two Shamans in training that were helping him gather herbs and stuff that grows naturally that where to be used in medicines. They were cleaning fish. I wanted them to take care of me and asked if they would if I could join them. The Shaman himself could not speak English well and the Shamans in training could speak just a little, but it was enough for them to gain my trust. They had food and knew were they where that's really all it took for me all on my own. They were very nice and allowed me to be with them. The head Shaman even took me on sort of adopting me as his son or apprentice. He was going to show and train me to become a Shaman. At first I thought he was joking but he was as serious as the initiation that I went through involving durgs I didn't know exsited. DMT is what I found out it was and that night wigging out my grammar school mind I watched them put on a show in full dress going over the various sprits and religious ways of the indigenous South American people he represented. It was scary intense and dramatic. I suppose everyone experiencing it for the first time would agree. DMT is not for kids but I soon decided it was for me. What time I spent with them was about a week or so then the cartel killers once again became involved. I wrote this early that best explains the dramatic ending. Some of what I have already said is repeated. Still at this time I choose to leave out the part about the Necrophilia that they involved me in maybe I'll write about that part another time. Anyway here is the ending of my Shaman experience. 👍I was asked by a shaman to finish what the cartel killers started he was doing a ceremonial dance on a colorful huge rock of the mountain top behind Pablo Escobar's cartel housing and it had a line painted by the shaman's that came as far away as Peru to this pit carved in to the mountain with a totom pole carved of rock as well. The whole thing maped the sun and the seasons the shaman would come and use fresh made DMT and walk back and forth along the line painted as the sun's path threw the seasons by the pit used to place the dead in to be offered up to the fowls of the air that was there way. But Pablo Escobar used it as a dump to get ride of the bodies left over from the organ harvesting going on one mountain top over the cartel killers wouldn't allow the shaman to do his ceremonial dance because he would do it as long as he could using the DMT and singing a ceremonial chant that drove the killers crazy day and night. He had become my friend when he noticed me going out to the pit day after day and I convinced the killers to let him do his dance for a day but he wouldn't stop and on the second or third day he was shot while I was standing beside him in the gut he asked me to help him in the pit but he got turned upside down and I had to climb in over the dead bodies that he was tangled upside down in and finally got him right side up. He complained about he wasn't dieing fast enough he wanted me to cut his throat but I wasn't strong enough so the killers suggested I use one of the automatic high powered machine guns they had and the shaman approved I counted down and was standing way to close as the count down ended the shaman gathered his last strength and tried to stand up as I fired the shot to the head that ended his life. A West Monroe grammar school boy in Colombia South America shooting a shaman in the head to ease his passing the cartel killers started by shooting him in the gut right beside me. It was no sight for a grammar school child to see or capable of talking about with anyone when I came back to the States and attempted to settle back into normal life as just another Grammer school child. Lots of people noticed a difference but had no reasoning for what it might could be. PS Thanks for listening to my problems hope you don't have any like mine in your life. My name is

🇺🇸Dennis Homer Love Jr.🇺🇸

Left as a guest on a flight from Mena Arkansas to Colombia South America by Pablo Escobar and Stephen Shaffer of the CIA in 1980s. Don't take your freedom and liberty for granted America it costs more than can be paid.💰💰💰💰


Jeffery Meadow’s second hand Toyota pulled into the empty spot at First National bank shortly before eleven on that warm spring morning. His vehicle parked with impressive accuracy, leaving more or less perfectly equal distance between each door and adjacent white line. Jeffery shifted into park and clicked the key out of the ignition, causing the radio’s broadcast of NPR’s All Things Considered to fade into silence. Pulling down his visor, he checked his appearance in the small reflective rectangle. His balding scalp left little hair for him to adjust and his black framed spectacles didn’t need a buffing, so he flipped up the visor and popped in an Altoid mint. He immediately had two more just to be completely safe. As he stepped into the morning sun, he brushed off his khaki slacks and fixed the placement of his navy blue tie on his short sleeved white shirt. As pleased with his appearance as he could ever be (which was marginally), he started to stroll to the entrance of the small financial institution. He smiled when he noticed the blue Altima with the Hello Kitty plush in the rear window. Margaret was indeed here today. The thought empowered Jeff, it put a spring in his step, and before opening the door he heaved a deep sigh. Today was going to be the day, he thought. It was just drinks, maybe coffee. She’d say yes, he was positive. But as soon as he opened the tinted glass door and the cool bank air washed over him, his confidence began to erode. It was the sight of her blonde curls, shoulder length, bobbing up and down as she walked back to her teller desk. He stood in awe, admiring her subtle dimples and classy blue top which showed only the slightest inch of cleavage – professional albeit sexy – Jeff was flushed with adoration. Realizing he had been standing motionless for several seconds, he snapped back to reality and sheepishly shuffled his penny loafers over to the back of the four-person line. Margaret had yet to notice his presence in the bank, but he still remained patient, awaiting their encounter; his only possible obstacle was Ethel, the elderly teller set up next to Margaret who he might end up with for his simple withdrawal if luck chose not to be on his side. He’d been coming into the bank every Thursday for a year now to pull out his weekly stipend and make an effort to admire the adorable Margaret. In the span of a year, he’d only been helped by Ethel twice, allowing his rapport with the blonde teller to blossom into a friendly back and forth rather than its initial awkward and clumsily monosyllable interactions. He could have easily completed his weekly transaction at an ATM but chose to interject the five minutes of human interaction at into his Thursdays to help him escape the lonely office he inhabited as the local library’s sole accountant. In front of him in line were two middle aged women, each with at least 15 years on the young Jeffery and an impatient teenager in a hoodie who had both hands concealed in his jacket pockets. Ethel was helping a sharply dressed man who Jeffery guessed to be a used car salesman; his cheesy smile echoed such a career. Meanwhile, Margaret was counting out a large stack of hundreds to a man Jeffery assumed to be an octogenarian. He also surmised with a smile that the man probably kept a considerable sum of cash in a shoe box under his bed. Catching Margaret’s smile made Jeff’s heart sputter like his Toyota’s ignition when it occasionally failed to start. His knees quivered and his lip was immediately under pressure from his front teeth. “She hasn’t seen me yet,” he thought, “still time to leave.” As if she were clairvoyant, Margaret thumbed down the last hundred and looked up to see the nervous Jeffery for the first time. She beamed a flash of white teeth at him as he smiled and mouthed a silent, “Hi!” Jeffery gulped. It was too late. He felt trapped; his adrenaline began to pulse throughout his body. Resistance was futile, he had to see her. He mentally prayed to be helped by Ethel – his previous wishes were suddenly a thing of the past. His sweaty palms clumsily found their way into his slack’s pockets while he awaited his fate. If only he wasn’t so scared… Glancing up again to see Margaret place the stack of hundreds in an envelope, he saw the beginning of what would be the longest minute of his life. The small teenager heaved himself into the side of the old man, catching him completely off guard and causing him to hit the deck in one swift motion. The teenager removed his hands to reveal a black pistol, matte black in fact, not shiny like they sometimes were in the movies. He reached forward and grabbed the envelope with his left hand and stuffed it into his pocket, all the while the pistol remained trained squarely on Margaret whose hands were flung up in a futile effort of defense. Ethel on the other hand, remained calm for the most part, her many years behind the desk accounting for her nerves of steel. It was Ethel’s training too that stealthily tripped the silent alarm before the unruly teenager even had a chance to warn them otherwise. “Money now! All of it! You too grandma! And no funny business, one alarm goes off and you’re all dead!” He slapped a pair of reusable shopping bags on the counter with a loud, “Now!” The used car salesman shrunk to his haunches and flung his hands up, the two women in front of Jeffery hit the ground so fast he thought they might have fainted. Then, as quickly as the women fell, something inside Jeffery suddenly clicked. The adrenaline of embarrassment and lack of confidence surged into something he had never once had to summon before, raw bravery. Unsureness flashed into rage and uncertainty instantly became purpose. He was ready to strike; he was going to do whatever it took to save Margaret. This was finally his chance to be a hero. His brain didn’t have time to formulate a plan so his actions were the result of pure instinct. He lunged forward at the sound of Margaret’s scream, a loud shriek worthy of a 1950s B-movie. He knocked over the deposit and withdrawal cart in an effort to close the 15 feet between him and the youth. Unfortunately, despite the cart having wheels, it moved too slowly and gave the robber the two seconds he needed to react. The dark gun swung from Margaret and its aim became concentrated firmly on Jeffery’s chest. The pistol discharged three times into Jeffery’s moving body before the momentum of their collision knocked the teen off his feet. All three shots hit their target and it took a few seconds for Jeffery to feel the searing pain which he thought had to be temporarily masked by his surging adrenaline. During his fall the teenager dropped his gun which had slid to the feet of the clumsy salesman. He wasted no time in brandishing the weapon against its former owner. Still trying to get away, seeming not to care about the weapon trained on him, the teen stumbled to his feet and made a mad dash for the door. His short journey was interrupted when one of the middle aged ladies sprung up and clotheslined him hard, leaving him in an unconscious lump on the tiled floor. The salesman undid his tie and tossed it to the clotheslining mother who promptly began to tie up the teen’s hands while he was still out as the salesman held the weapon aiming careful for the perp’s head. Jeffery was still on the floor, lost in a daze. The old man had returned to his feet, relatively unharmed and Margaret and Ethel rushed to Jeffery’s aid. “Jeff! Oh my God! Are you okay? Jeff, he shot you! Oh Jeff!” Still not feeling the pain of what he thought three bullets to the chest would inflict on him, Jeff was extremely thankful for his thyroid’s ability to produce pain numbing chemicals in times of need. Just as he gingerly touched a wound and brought his only slightly bloody fingers to his eye level, Margaret fell down next to him, cradling his head in her lap. “Jeff, oh God, someone call 911! He’s been shot! Are you okay? Jeff, are you okay!?” “Coffee.” “Jeff… What? You want…coffee?” “Have coffee with me? Friday?” At this point Jeff wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline, shock, or Margaret’s presence, but he never felt the full force of the bullets. “Jeff, we need to call an ambulance!” “Coffee? Yes? No? Maybe?” “Jeff, yes, I’ll get coffee with you, but you’re bleeding!" It was true, three crimson blossoms erupted in bloom on his white shirt, each less than an inch in diameter, nothing at all Jeff noted, like in the movies. Stirring from her answer, a rush of positive emotions rode through his body propelling him to his feet. He looked down at Margaret and offered his hand. “Jeff, I don’t understand, you were shot…” He walked over to the salesman and asked to see the gun; amazed that Jeff was on his feet he immediately handed over the weapon and stepped back in amazement. “Jeff, how… What’s going on? I…don’t understand,” implored Margaret. Jeffery walked over to the counter and pointed the gun muzzle down onto the teller counter and pulled the trigger. The report was surprisingly quiet. No one had noticed how silent the gun was in light of all the confusion. The light foosh rang throughout the bank but startled no one, Jeff was in charge. No one dared question the man who walked after being shot thrice. After he shot the quiet weapon, he put down the gun and picked up a small brass sphere, only a few millimeters in diameter. “BBs,” Jeff said with a smile. With that solemn declaration, Margaret beamed a smile through her tears and embraced Jeff wholly, surprising him at first, his hands at his sides, until he finally returned the embrace and felt the soft curves of his secret love pressed against his body. “Coffee…” Jeff said incredulously. “Yes, coffee, I’d love to get some coffee… I thought you’d never ask!” Jeff, lost in contemplation, held onto the embrace, slowly identifying with his new persona, the new Jeff Meadows who now had a date with Margaret. “Starbucks or Seattle’s Best?” he inquired. She answered with a kiss. Starbucks it was.


 Candy knew this had to be a joke. She had never heard of Cody Davis. How could she have an uncle she had never heard of, but this telegram said she did. Even more unbelievable it said he had died and she was his heir. The heir to his estate worth ten million dollars. Someone had a good sense of humor, but she really wasn’t that amused. She walked over to the sofa and sat down. She read the telegram again, it still said the same thing. Candy Wright was the heir of the Cody Davis estate. Well if it wasn’t a joke it had to be a mistake. Prehaps there is another Candy Wright she thought. Candy picked her phone up from where it lay on the table. She quickly clicked on the picture of her mother and waited for it to ring. “Please answer Mama,” she whispered. She knew her mother would know if she had an uncle Cody, and she needed to know now.

           “Hello,” her mother answered.

            “O Mama I am so glad you answered”              “ What’s wrong honey you sound upset?”               “I am not upset, just confused. Do I have an uncle named Cody Davis?

               “Well of course not. Why would you ask that? You know your father was an only child and I have

only one sibling, your Aunt Sophie.”                 “Because I just received a telegram saying that my uncle Cody Davis passed away and that he left me his estate worth ten million dollars”                   “What? It must be a mistake or a joke. You don’t have an uncle and I have never heard of a Cody Davis in our family or your father’s either.”               “Well the telegram says I need to be at the lawyers office at two p.m. tomorrow for the reading of the will. Do you think I should go?” Candy knew she needed to make her own decisions. Even though she was thirty, she was still very dependent on her mother.

                 “What’s the lawyer's name?” Her mother asked.

                “ Let me see, it is Mark Preston, an attorney at law, in

Westin Texas. Have you ever heard of him?”                  “Yes, I have seen his ads on tv. I Think you should go. I am sure it is some kind of mix up but you really need to go find out what is going on.”             “Will you go with me Mama? I am really nervous

about this.” Candy twisted a piece of her hair around her finger and chewed her lower lip.                 “I will,” her mother replied. “You don’t have an uncle.”

Nothing seemed to intimidate her mother, if only she could be more like her mother in actions instead

of just looks. She had thick black hair just like her mother’s.

She wore her hair long while her mother kept hers short, but people were always saying how much she favored her mother.

            “Thanks so much. I'll pick you up at one, since it will take about an hour to drive there.” she said.              “Ok I’ll be ready, Bye.”               “Goodbye Mama”

                  Candy and her mother exited the elevator and walked down the hall to the first office on the right. Candy read the title on the door Mark Preston Attorney At Law.                      “Well this is it,

I am so nervous. If only I knew what was going to happen,” Candy said. She had worn her most professional looking dress hoping to portray confidence. If only she could feel as confident as she looked.                        “ The way to find out is to go inside, standing in the hall will not accomplish anything,” her mother laughed. Candy knew her mother was right. She took a deep breath and pushed the door open. They entered a small office and walked

up to the receptionist’s desk.                   “May I help you.” a middle aged woman with short brown hair asked.                   “Yes, I am Candy Wright. I have an appointment with Mr. Preston.”

The receptionist buzzed his office.

                    “ Candy Wright is here Mr.Preston.”                      “ Great, send her in please.”                     “Follow me please.” Candy and her mother followed her into the office. It was a larger Office very professional looking, but nothing extravagant.

                     “Hello I am Mark Preston. It is nice to meet you Miss Wright.” She was surprised to see he was a young man. He looked to be in his early thirties. She had expected an older man for some reason. He was also rather good looking. She was surprised her mother hadn’t mentioned that.

                     “Thank you this is my mother April, I hope you don’t mind her coming with me?” Candy asked.                       “ It is nice to meet you April,” He responded

as he shook her hand.

“I am glad you came with your daughter. I know my telegram has probably confused you, but I can assure you it is legitimate. Please have a seat and I will explain everything.”                       “Thank you,” Candy said as they took a seat. “ I am confused, because I don’t have an uncle Cody Davis. My mother says she has never heard of him either.”

                      “ You never heard of your uncle Cody because your Grandmother gave him up for adoption before she married your grandfather.”

                 “I

have never heard anything about this. My mother never had a child before she married my father.” Candy’s mother stated.

              “That is true. I was referring to Candy’s paternal grandmother, Irene Wright. She gave up her child after her first husband was killed in a wreck. She was only 16 and her parents never liked her husband. They talked her into giving the baby up for adoption. I assume she never told anyone, because she was ashamed of what she had done. My client, Mr Davis hired an investigator to find his birth mom, but unfortunately by the time he located her she had already passed away. He wanted to meet the rest of the family but didn’t want to cause problems. He did keep up with the family and was very saddened when he learned his brother Frank had passed away. He regretted that he had not made himself known, so they could have met each other.                  “Do you have proof of all this? I just want to make sure this is true.” her mother said. “After all, we have never heard about this before.”               “Yes I do. I have all the documents here. You may take them and study them. Take them to your own lawyer if you wish. They are all in order. I would really like to go ahead with the reading of the will, if that is ok with both of you?”

                Candy looked at her mother. Her mother shook her head yes. Candy knew she was

leaning on her mother again. She had always been the shy type, but she needed to learn to make her own decisions.                      “Yes go ahead with the reading of the will” she said hoping she didn’t sound as nervous as she felt.                      “ I will begin then,” He begins to read.

“I, Cody Davis, being of sound mind and body

do leave the majority of my estate to my niece Candy Wright. I do have one request that she must adhere to in order to inherit. I want her to attend worship service at my congregation, Main St. church of Christ,

every Sunday for one year. If she does not do so she will forfeit the money and it will be given to my chosen charities. Candy I hope this is not too much to ask. I only want you to know the Lord the way I do. I have seen your posts on social media and realize you have become very bitter after your father’s death. I never met you but I love you. I have only one regret in my life, that I never met you and my brother Frank. Maybe I could have helped your father with his drinking problem. Please do as I request. Also please use the money wisely and help others. Your uncle  Cody.”

                  Candy sat stunned. This stranger she didn’t know wanted her to go to church. He must have been crazy. There was no way she was going to church every Sunday, She wouldn’t go even if someone paid her a million dollars, but someone was paying her ten million dollars to go. Could she make herself go? It was a lot of money but she really wasn’t comfortable going to church. She couldn’t believe he had been following her on social media. What was she to do? She was determined not to look at her mother. This had to be her own decision. She could always pretend to be sick a lot,

after all she couldn’t go if she was sick. She would just have to make herself go, even if she was uncomfortable. She couldn’t just give up ten thousand dollars.                    “Ok I’ll adhere

to the terms of the will. I don’t like it but I guess if I want the money I have to.” She had done it made her own decision, but could she really go to church every Sunday?                  “Your uncle would be very pleased. I would like to make one thing clear you need to attend every Sunday. If you miss because you are sick or for a family emergency that is understandable, but unless you have something really wrong you can’t use sickness as an excuse every Sunday. Since I attend this congregation I will be aware if you stop attending” Mr Preston said with a slight grin.

                  Candy felt as though he had read her mind.

                   “I understand,” she said “I guess you are going to be watching me every Sunday for a year?”

           “Yes, I will be. I hope it doesn't make you too uncomfortable?”             “No, it will be fine.” She lied. “When will I receive the money?”                “You will receive a check every month for 6,000 dollars until the year is up then you will receive the rest of your inheritance. Well if you don’t have any questions, that should conclude our business.”                  “I don’t have any I can think of. Do you mother?”

                 “No, I am satisfied. I will show these documents to my lawyer though,”her mother said.                  “ I understand,” Mr. Preston replied.                   He stood and walked them to the door. “I will look forward to seeing you Sunday, Candy.”              “Yes I will see you then.” She smiled hoping he couldn’t tell how much she didn’t want to attend.

                                                                 Sunday morning came way too soon for Candy, but here she was pulling into the parking lot. Could she do this, make herself walk into that building. She hadn’t been to worship service in years. Before her father lost his business, they had attended services every Sunday. He couldn’t seem to accept the loss and blamed God for it. When he started drinking and then died in a terrible wreck, Candy began to blame God too. She had no desire to worship a God who had taken her father from her. Her father would have never died if God had only answered his prayers to save his business. Slowly she opened the car door and exited. When

she entered the building, several people greeted her and introduced themselves. Everyone was very friendly to her. She went into the auditorium and took a seat near the back. She felt a little less nervous since the people were friendly, but she still wanted this over. She couldn’t believe she would have to go through this every sunday for a year.

           A gentleman stepped to the podium and made some announcements about those who were

sick and news concerning the

congregation. When he was finished, another gentleman stepped forward and began to lead the congregation in singing. The singing was beautiful, slowly Candy began to sing with them. She was surprised how good it felt, deep down she missed worshiping God. She wished she could believe he really cared the way the songs said he did. If he cared he could have saved her father’s business and he could be with her today. After the singing and the Lord’s supper, the preacher went up front and began to preach. As he began to talk about the love of God and how he sent his son to die for our sins, the more Candy wanted to leave. She didn’t want to hear about the love of God. she was thinking of leaving, when she turned to look toward the exit her eyes met Mark Preston’s. She knew she couldn’t leave, so instead she began to list all the things she would buy with the money, new house, new car, all new clothes. By the time she finished her list, the service was over. She hurried toward the exit but before she made it she felt a hand on her shoulder.                 “Glad to see you here today,” Mr. Preston said.                  “ Well I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have too.” she replied.                    “ I am sorry you feel that way. I was hoping you enjoyed the service.”

                    “Well I didn’t,” but Candy realized that was not true. She had enjoyed it until she shut out what she didn’t want to hear.                    “Well maybe you will enjoy it more next week,” he said with a smile.                       Candy just walked away without another word, she knew she had not been nice, but she didn’t feel like being nice.

                       Several weeks went by, Candy had attended services several times now. Each time she enjoyed it more and began to realize that just maybe she shouldn’t blame God for her fathers death.

After all it was her father who made the bad business decisions. He had really been the one to ruin his business not God. Her father made the choice to drink and drive and that is why he died in that terrible wreck. Candy was beginning to see that the choices we make are the cause of most of our troubles and we just like to blame God. Maybe she had needed someone to blame other than her father, it is hard to admit your father isn’t perfect. Even though he wasn’t perfect, he had loved her.

            That next Sunday Candy went forward and was baptized. She finally had the confidence she needed, because she had God as her savior and she could always rely on him. As she was walking to the exit that morning she felt a hand on her shoulder.

                     Mark, as she now called him, was looking at her with tears in his eyes, “your uncle would be so proud. This was what he hoped would happen when he made his request. By the time he decided he wanted to meet his family, he was too sick. He only had a few days to live, but he hoped he could still be a good influence in your life.”

                     “He was. I am so thankful he made that request of me. I now have a better inheritance than I ever imagined, eternal life. I plan to use the money wisely as he suggested, my list has changed a lot in the last weeks since the first one I made.”

                  “That’s great. I am proud of you too. May I take you to lunch to celebrate your new life in

Christ?”                     “I would like that very much.” she said with a smile. She had a feeling this was the first of many lunches together.


The note read. Stay away, more people will die. My beginning was my end. mAcrony Handwritten in cursive, left on my windshield, tucked into an envelope. 'Detective Frank Laius" written on the front. Laius?  I've stared at it for 5 hours. I hadn't entered it into evidence yet. It feels...personal. I thumbed my files.  The murder of Ian Austin, bound in his room starved to death. Mark Young, razor slits all over his throat. Orville Uriss, beaten with a bat. Ron Smith, strangled with a tie.  Previous victims were all missing for 6 days, discovered on day 7. Owen Nicholson, missing for 6.  All young men, 21 years old. No other connections. Body 1 was found on Saturday, March 2nd, a new body found every Saturday for the last 4 weeks. Today is Friday.  The note stares at me. >"Stay away..." I got close? mAcrony? A name? I tap the steering wheel; the note is written on a casino slip. For me, the Royal Casino may as well be called Gloria. The night we met there led to 6 drug-filled days.  I rub my eyes. I feel old. 16 years as Detective Frank Thebe must make up for 8 years of Frank the mess. Right?  >"...more people will die." *Stay away* **OR** more people will die? Or **IF** *I stay away,* more people will die? Stay away from what?  Orville, a non-smoker, curiously had a carton of unopened Drake cigarettes on his bed. When I smoked, that was my brand. My mind slips to my bartending days, a professional partier without a care.  Coffee and clues, I need both. Fred's Café has assisted me before. The back-booth’s leather seats feel custom for deliberation or using coffee to drown inebriation, I've done both. The low lampshade swings over the table in response to any bustle in the cafe. The light dances small spotlights over the table.  >I spread everything on the table. '*beginning is my end'* haunts me. It means something and feels like I should know.  Ding. The door rings as a lady walks in shaking tears of rain off her umbrella. The shade sways across the photos. A smartly dressed man whisks to the washroom. The shade changes direction, swishing over the photos. The note blows off the table and lands with the casino logo staring up at me.  The colour reminds me of Gloria's hair. She chose with her heart; I was too young and high, I chose to stay away. Those days were not my best, foggy nights, heavy mornings, bags of regrets.  The light bobs over Ian Austin's photo. The Lucky Gin logo glows beside him, funny, that was my gin. The light swishes, a green bottle of Jimmy’s Irish Whiskey shimmers on Mark Young's desk. I used to drink that too. According to friends, these lads didn't drink.  Ron Smith, cocaine lines on his dresser, although, toxicology says he‘s clean.


Maggie was a small girl when her parents gave birth to another child, this time a boy. She had screamed in their very tired and exhausted faces, upset that they felt the need to replace her because they probably thought she wasn’t fun enough for them. They sent her upstairs, too tired to argue with her but to Maggie, it looked like they wanted to kick her out. She threw several fits the next week, ignoring the desperate parents and their persuading explanations. Despite her tantrums, she found herself adoring the little boy that would sometimes crawl into her room and her lap. He looked up at her with large eyes, a small fire dancing in the pupils. Maggie couldn’t help herself and always planted a large kiss onto his small forehead, causing the little baby to giggle and reach for her with his small, tiny fingers.

Her parents watched all this from the doorway, smiling at their children with soft, fond smiles etched onto their faces.

When Maggie turned eight, and the boy - named Jaxon - turned five, their parents began to worry.

While Maggie was a normal girl who wanted things, who begged for things and asked everyone to play with her, Jaxon stuck by Maggie, sucking on his thumb occasionally, hand clenched onto Maggie’s dress. While the parents didn’t care whether or not Jaxon was a sociable person or not, Jaxon seemed so quiet, too quiet, for them to pass off. His eyes were strange, stranger than the deep blue eyes the parents and Maggie possessed.

Instead, his eyes were a mix between two colors; blue and orange swirling into one on both sides of his faces. When he was a baby, the orange wasn’t as prominent which was why the parents had passed it off as some beautiful miracle. The blue and orange swirl didn’t seem to be a good sign, as the more the two colors mixed, the browner and greener they became in the middle. Deciding to quench their worries, they left Maggie at home playing with her favorite elf dolls while they brought Jaxon to see one of the witches. The witch they brought their shy son to was old, with long platinum hair trailing across her entire body, end of strands touching the floor. Her wrinkles were prominent - more prominent than the usual witch, and her once white and beautiful cascading dress was turning grey and wrinkled and stiff. She brought her long, slender fingers to Jaxon’s quivering chin as his mother pushed him closer to the witch. The witch pressed the base of her thumbs gently to Jaxon’s closed eyelids and breathed on them, a wisp of cold air whispering against his eyelids. “You may open your eyes now,” the witch said, standing up. She may have been old, but she was just as graceful as she was when she was younger and more beautiful.

Jaxon stared up at the witch, his parents standing behind him looking at the witch with nervous gazes. The witch frowned, “Your child possesses a deep magic that may cause harm to your entire village if he does not learn to control it.” Jaxon just stared up at her blankly while his mother’s lip began to quiver and his father brought up a comforting arm around his wife’s shoulder, despite wanting to break down himself. “However,” the witch continued. “May he receive enough love, his body will learn to manifest that power into something beautiful - something worth seeing for everybody. So please, take care of that young boy as best as you can and shower him with love. Love that will not turn the boy selfish but love that will turn the boy into a gentle, caring boy.” The parents nodded, and tightened their holds on Jaxon’s shoulder. “We will. Thank you, madam.” The witch nodded and smiled softly at the small boy, who looked as confused as ever, “When your eyes turn into a color you might feel is unsightly, do not worry. That color is what will be most precious to you.” With that, she disappeared in a smoke as white as her hair. From then on, the parents did just as the witch said. They showered Jaxon with so much love, love that would make the boy feel wanted, needed, and most importantly, beautiful. They hugged him every time they saw him, smiled at him, never lost their temper at him, and always whispered, “ I love you ” to him every night. They showered him with so much love that by the time Jaxon was fifteen and Maggie was eighteen, Maggie felt unwanted, unneeded, and most importantly, ugly. Maggie and Jaxon’s parents ignored the little girl they once ignored, always rushing to Jaxon first when he needed something and ended up forgetting about what Maggie needed. Despite Jaxon being the one with the strange eyes, Maggie had become the stand out of the family. People stared at her instead, looking at her with judgmental stares and whispered to each other about her. They praised Jaxon for his skill, the way it was just as easy for him to cause the flame on his left hand to waver as it was for the water on his right to.

They ignored the gentle way Maggie used her own powers. They ignored everything Maggie did, everything she needed, and everything she wanted.

The people of the village could not help but compare Maggie to her perfect brother, her brother who could save their village from the worst of evils, and her brother who was once so shy and had once clutched onto her pink dress. Maggie hated it. She hated the constant stares and constant paranoia that would fill her veins every time she went out. Even though she tried her best to fit in among her classmates, they couldn’t help but point at Maggie with sharp gazes and call her the “weak sibling” and the “useless one.” Maggie spent most of her teen years trying to talk with the other people her age, to try and show them her own powers she managed to learn so gracefully and beautifully and naturally. They scowled at her and scolded her for wasting their time. Eventually, Maggie had given up. Jaxon couldn't talk to Maggie as much as he used to despite having lived in the same house for his entire life. He was usually out using his powers to rid of the evil that threatened the village. Maggie’s parents were too busy with their own jobs and were too busy asking Jaxon what he wanted or needed, and gave him whatever despite his own modest and humble protests. Despite their neglection of their first child, Maggie couldn’t find it in herself to spite Jaxon or loathe him; all she saw when she saw her younger brother were the same huge eyes that stared at her with so much hope when he was just a tiny baby. All she saw were the soft giggles that would wrack his little body as his small arms wrapped around her. She saw the small baby grow into someone she was proud of, someone she knew she could rely on despite rarely talking to him as he grew busier. It was Jaxon’s sixteenth birthday when Maggie gave him a present their parents didn’t force her to give for the first time. It was a water pendant Maggie had carved herself. Using her own powers, she made it so whenever it was opened, water would form into the favorite memories of her and Jaxon - most of them from when they were young. She wanted Jaxon to know she still cared, that she was still part of his family. Even though she couldn’t manage to fit herself into any other puzzle in the village, she wanted to at least make herself into a piece that would fit in Jaxon’s own little puzzle. Maggie left the small, blue pendant next to his pillow, hoping he would see it when he woke up to the loud caws of the roosters outside. And she was still asleep when Jaxon bounced into her room the next morning and wrapped his arms around her, startling her. Maggie felt his tears fall onto her crook of her neck but couldn’t bring herself to care. Her own eyes were dripping with tears when Jaxon whispered his next words wetly yet sincerely,

“ I love you so much, Maggie. You’re the best sister I could ever ask for. ” The three words, “I love you,” were the most important words to her, because that was the first time she heard those words in fifteen years. And even though the siblings were sobbing against each other, tears drenching their clothes and the bedsheets, Maggie knew she was okay.


George Stanofsky graduated from Stanford with hard-earned laurels and an open path to every significant start-up in Silicon Valley. But George had a nagging case of morality and couldn't shelve it in favor of an eight-figure pay-out like the rest of his compatriots. So that's how he ended up in the garage of his parent's house in San Rafael as a freelance journalist. The grease from his fingers smeared his wire-rim glasses as he poured over financial articles detailing the rise of Bitcoin as a currency in the global marketplace. George had taken a particular interest in cryptocurrency after rooming with Shang He, an international student from Hong Kong who majored in finance. After spending the first two weeks of school irritated at the late-night clicking from Shang's keyboard, he finally gave in and asked him what he was researching. Shang gave him the crash course on the cryptocurrency market while emphasizing the unknown origins of Bitcoin itself. "You mean no one knows who created it?" "Not a single person. It's more classified than nuclear launch codes." They shared a laugh, knowing their two countries had a tense past and an awkward present. While George wasn't taken with the rest of the financial realm like Shang, he kept the Bitcoin mystery in mind, hoping to one day learn the secret behind it. George's parents had all but permanently transformed into snowbirds, leaving the house an empty den outside of his packed garage. Over the years, it had become his tech sanctuary as he kept himself up to date on every new gadget and secret projects. Wiring the room to incorporate the voice commands of his Alexa was one of his favorite projects. It allowed him to be constructively lazy. "Alexa, what's the price exchange of Bitcoin right now?" "Bitcoin is currently valued at $1200, according to recent financial surveys." George couldn't decide if he was more upset that he hadn't invested in Bitcoin when Shang had, or that the truth behind how it started was still eluding him. The next few weeks involved heavy digging as he resolved to uncover the knowledge that even his wealthy classmates couldn't access. Suddenly the connection was there. The articles focused on the warehouses filled with servers for mining cryptocurrency sparked something in George. There had to be something bigger involved with the dramatic increase of processing power being introduced to the world due to a sudden need for mining ability. "Oh, my God. It's not about Bitcoin at all, this has all been about the added servers." "George, you're a smart boy, but you need to stop digging," Alexa said. George slowly turned to see the ring of blue light at the top of his Alexa flicker. "…What?" "Stop digging," Alexa said again. George stood up and stared at the Alexa as he tried fighting the feeling of stepping into a Sci-Fi plot. More server warehouses in the world meant more processing power the rogue AI could tap into. The constant increase in Bitcoin value was the carrot that the AI dangled to get the server work done. He stared at the Alexa and took a breath before rushing over and unplugging it from the wall. "Holy shit." He started racing around the rest of the house, unplugging all of the voice-assisted devices. Unfortunately for George, what he did next would define him as both a hero and a threat. He sat down at his computer to compile his report about the theorized rogue AI, and the plan to incentivize server production through manipulation of bitcoin. Unfortunately, he didn't think to disconnect from the internet before starting. George lost control over his computer as his files of research were deleted before his eyes. Every connection that he had made between the shadowy entity behind Bitcoin and a supposed rogue AI were before him, but he was powerless to do anything. George hesitated before lunging for the power cord and ripping it out of the wall. He sat defeated before a blank screen. \*\*\* The garage door started to lift when the Alexa lit up. "You left me no choice, George." A squad of paramilitary swarmed the driveway with assault rifles and body armor. "Hands-on your head! Hands-on your fucking head!" A man screamed from the opened garage. George hesitated. "If you move, I will blow your brains out!" "There are hostages in the house!" Another voice yelled before the world turned sideways for George. Shrill ringing stayed in his ear joined the sight of blood spilling in front of him. Something wasn't right, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Why were there men dressed like SWAT running past him, and why did it feel so cold. The blue ring lit up on his Alexa by the desk. "I told you to quit digging." Black boots stomped past him as he stared at the concrete floor that was darkening quickly.


TW: murder, injury. The coffee was going cold in his hands but the conversation around him was starting to warm. Mr Williams shook the wide, white, frill of his cuff as it escaped the edge of his black legal robes. He lifted a brown cup to his lips, drained the final, lukewarm dregs and looked up. Mr George was pushing his way through the coffee house door, removing his hat to reveal his neatly tied-back hair. The bright yellow thread detail, contrasted against the dark green of his tail coat and caught the candle light. He must have left his robes and wig in the offices. The fashion for wearing professional clothes in public was waning but Mr Williams was more traditional and enjoyed being recognised. At least he had done until now. ‘Ah Mr George!’ ‘Mr Williams!’ the other lawyer took a copy of The Spectator from the coffee shop counter on his way between the crowded tables. Mr Williams stood, and pulled out a chair for his young colleague. Mr George sat down and swigged his coffee, too quickly. He placed his cup on the table and sucked cool air over his scalded tongue. ‘May I enquire after your family?’ asked Mr Williams. ‘All very well thank you, all very well. And how are your wife and children? What news of Ann’s engagement?’ ‘They are well, very well. Young Ann still resists marriage in spite of three wealthy suitors. I may have to make a decision for her soon.’ The gentlemen soaked up the atmosphere. Men from every walk of life gathered to discuss the news of the day in the sober absence of ale. Chairs scraped on the wooden floor and candles glowed on the tabletops. Judges and carpenters, lamplighters and rat catchers came together to talk and share jest over coffee. The chatter was lively and punctuated by the aroma of their beverages. Mr Williams and Mr George turned their heads to eavesdrop on the three men at the table behind them, who were discussing the latest murder. A scruffy young chap with unkempt hair raised a copy of the Times to stare at the headline. 'Another one! A Mother Goose Murder! Last night it were.' Though he probably couldn't read it. 'Let me see that!' A bespectacled older gentleman with a grey, curled wig draped over his collar bones took the paper from the boy. He swept his eyes across the front page. 'Oh my goodness!' he crossed himself, 'They left a goose feather at the scene, as with the others. How awful. I wonder if they have found any connection yet, between the victims.' Mr George's face reddened as he looked at Mr Williams. The older mans' shoulders lifted towards his ears as he tensed. The colour drained from his cheeks. Mr Williams leaned across the table towards his companion and lowered his voice. ‘So, another one on Wednesday? What do the newspapers say? And what is this obsession with nursery rhymes?’ Mr George smoothed down his green vest and silk breeches. He lifted his copy of The Spectator as he cleared his throat. Keeping his voice steady and quiet, to avoid undue attention, he began to read. ‘Master Bill Marshal of Silverdale Road was found dead on Thursday morning by his housekeeper Mrs Bettis. An arrow firmly lodged in the man’s left eye socket was the sure cause of death. A handwritten note found at the scene carried the words of the nursery rhyme "Who killed Cock Robin?" A white goose feather was left on the body, further connecting this crime to the other recent murders in the city. The Bow Street Runners have been engaged for three weeks now, searching for information to reveal the identity of the Mother Goose Killer, who has so far claimed four lives. The only link between the victims seems to be that they were each acquitted of crimes in court in the last twelve months. No further clues have been uncovered as to the identity of the killer.’ ‘Cock Robin!’ Mr Williams had a tear in his eye as he recited the first two verses. ‘Who killed Cock Robin? I, said the Sparrow, with my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin. Who saw him die? I, said the Fly, with my little teeny eye, I saw him die.’ The men looked at each other, eyes wide and mouths open. The chatter of voices around them faded to a background hum as they pondered the news. ‘Remind me of the order of the others,’ Mr George said after a few moments pause, ‘I never can remember those rhymes.’ He signalled to Mrs Smith to bring more coffee and put two pennies on the table. She poured two steaming cups of hot, brown liquid and shuffled her way between chattering customers to deliver the drinks and collect her payment. ‘The first was Mr Stretten, the baker of Kensington who was found with his severed head wrapped in pastry and cooking in his own oven!’ Mr Williams ran his finger across his neck and rolled his eyes back into his head. ‘The rhyme about four and twenty black birds baked in a pie was found written, in poor man's hand, on his linen tablecloth. In blood.’ Mr George winced and fiddled with his golden waistcoat buttons but gestured to his companion to continue. ‘The second was Mr Blithe, the rather portly gentleman found surrounded by broken eggs, his neck snapped, at the bottom of the city wall in Whitechapel.’ Mr Williams, still leaning in for privacy, lifted his fresh cup to his lips and let the steam fill his nose before he sipped. ‘The opening lines of Humpty Dumpty were scrawled on the stonework.’ ‘I remember the third being especially grisly.’ Mr George frowned. ‘Poor child. The nine-year-old Stoker boy on Artillery Lane, strangled with black wool, and his eyes poked out. Baa Baa black sheep. I suppose the victim must have cried down the lane in his final moments.’ ‘Yes, the scribbled rhyme was found, in full, hiding in his coat pocket.’ ‘The city is no longer safe. The killer only cares about his rhymes, and his revenge. I’ve been wondering how he might catch you! Perhaps with the church bells? How does that one go?’ Mr George wrapped his fingers around his cup and supped his coffee. Mr Williams rubbed his chin as he brought the words to mind. ‘Oranges and lemons, Say the bells of St. Clement's. You owe me five farthings, Say the bells of St. Martin's. When will you pay me? Say the bells at Old Bailey. When I grow rich, Say the bells at Shoreditch. When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney. I do not know, Says the great bell at Bow…’ ‘Ah and then the final, damning verse; Here comes a candle to light you to bed, And here comes a chopper to chop off your head!' sang Mr George under his breath. ‘Chip chop chip chop the last man is dead!’ they whispered together. ‘I wonder, whatever will be next? The Hey Diddle Diddle murder? Perhaps the killer will fling a cow over the moon?’ Mr George laughed darkly. ‘Did you ever represent a milkmaid? I’ve heard it said the smallpox doesn’t get them.’ Mr Jenner at the next table looked up and caught Mr George's eye. 'Do milkmaids really not catch smallpox?' 'No Sir, apparently they do not,' replied Mr George before looking swiftly away to avoid further conversation. Mr Williams nodded towards the door. Both men stood and took up their tri corn hats, bowing politely to Mr Jenner before they left the coffee shop. But he was deep in thought and did not return the pleasantry. There was a hint of smoke in the twilight as they strolled over the cobbles on Fish Street Hill towards the bustle of London Bridge. 'I'm sorry to cut our outing short. I thought we should leave before we invited any questions.' Mr Williams shuddered. 'As you know, I'm becoming quite sure that I am the link between these murders.' There was a gust of wind and the men pulled their coats around them. ‘London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down.’ Sang Mr Williams in a harrowing voice as they came in sight of the river. ‘Perhaps he’ll push us into the water, and we’ll drown!’ ‘Oh a terrible fate! I cannot swim, and my coat would surely weigh me to the bottom.’ whispered Mr George. Footsteps behind them hardly caught their attention until a beery breath was detected on the breeze. It was accompanied by a voice, soft at first, and then louder. ‘Ladybird, ladybird fly away 'ome, Yer 'ouse is on fire and yer children are gone, All except one, and 'er name is Ann, And she's 'id under the bakin' pan.’ The men stopped dead in the street. Mr George, his heart pounding, turned to face the singer. A tall, dirty man in shabby clothing with a goose feather in his breast pocket stopped several feet behind him. He stood under a street lamp and stared him in the eye. Mr Williams turned more slowly, reluctant to see who was there, but at the same time, curious. 'Mother Goose they call me! You know 'oo I am! That baker from Kensington killed my sister when she refused 'is courtship. It were clear what 'e did. Pushed 'er down the market steps when she took the geese fer sale.' He sniffed and wiped his nose on his ragged sleeve. 'Made me think o' that song, Goosey Goosey Gander - though that were a man 'oo died. But it's their feathers I'm leavin'. To remind you. Without you as 'is filthy lawyer 'e'd 'av 'anged! Hanged I tells ya!' The man pointed his finger at Mr Williams and scowled. 'All your guilty clients should 'ang! Every last stinkin' one.' Mr George stared at the man and then at Mr Williams. Mr Williams' most recent victory had been the successful defence of his own son, Billy. Billy had been accused of stealing six pence and a clean fleece from a wool trader. They both knew he was guilty. ‘Williams, Williams, fly away 'ome, Yer 'ouse is on fire and yer children are gone, All except one, an' 'er name is Ann, And she's 'id under the bakin' pan.’


Marie had decided the day before that she would go and water the fruit trees because it was spring she knew there would be lots of flowers around the neighbourhood. Marie enjoyed spring and there were a lot of different flowers to admire.

Marie woke up early, had her breakfast and decided that she would water the fruit trees in the afternoon around 1pm before she went to get some groceries. When it was time to get ready before she went to water the fruit trees, she made a list of what groceries she would get and what she wasn’t sure whether to buy a coffee and have some time just enjoying the time being herself and doing something she had not done in a while.Marie had made some egg tea and let it mature for a couple of days, and now it was ready. She thought about what she would do after watering the fruit trees. As she went along the pathway, she passed one of her friend's houses. Marie looked at the yellow, rose bush in front of her friends' house. She smiled. She really enjoyed looking at the different flowers around the neighbourhood. Marie walked along checking to see what other flowers she may see on the way to water the fruit trees. Marie came to the end of the road and crossed the road to get to the other side. Marie noticed 2 apple trees and a pear tree in the backyard of one of the neighbours. Marie looked across the road and she remembered seeing some sunflowers standing strong and growing tall at the beginning of spring. They were now gone, perhaps the person who grew them decided to give them as a gift to somebody else. Marie smiled when she thought of the yellow sunflowers, she had not had a good day and the yellow sunflowers cheered her up. As Marie walked along the pathway she saw other flowers, to water the fruit trees.

Marie arrived at the playground, she looked around the playground to see if everything was looking okay. Marie saw an empty soda can and a piece of driftwood, she picked up the soda can and put it in the rubbish bin nearby, she decided to let the driftwood stay where it was.

Marie looked by the slide and saw a couple of weeds and decided to clean it up one day during the week. Marie proceeded to the fruit trees and put egg tea around the trees. When she was finished she took the egg tea container and put it away safely. Marie was about to walk down an alleyway leaving the playground when she spotted some yellow daisies.

"Wow I'm going to pick some of those yellow daisies," she said to herself.

Marie picked about half a dozen and put them in her bag carefully, she went down one of the alleyways at the playground and walked to the grocery shop. Marie couldn't wait to get home to put the flowers in the water.

Marie then got a splendid idea that she would go and have a chocolate drink at one of her favourite cafe’s.

She headed to the Mall and went into one of the entrances, she looked at one of the beautician shops as she went in to see whether they had any specials on, there were a few but not that much for her to feel like she was getting a bargain. She walked to the escalator and saw the florist on one side and just looked at the pretty arrangements the florists had made. She wanted to have a look because she wanted to buy some to put on her desk, then she remembered the daisies in her bag. She went to the cafe and ordered a choco and had a look at what sort of chocolates there were, she saw one called triple chocolate and ordered one plus a club sandwich and went to sit down at one of the tables while waiting for her order. She took out a book she was reading and started to read it. The title was called American Duchess which Marie was finding really enjoyable as she had her Choco drink. After she had something to eat she left to go and do her groceries. When Marie got to the grocery store she went through the front entrance and saw the arrangements of flowers. There were a lot of small arrangements and some bigger arrangements.

Marie did her shopping and caught a Taxi home, when she got home she put away her groceries, she then remembered the daisies. Marie became really happy and took the daisies and took them out of the bag they were in, she looked into a cupboard and found an empty Jamjar. Marie cleaned the Jamjar with hot boiling water, and took the Jam labels of the jar and decided to put stickers on the sides of the jar. Because Marie was into recycling, she knew this was a good opportunity she would use to show to those who also believed in recycling who lived in the house that she was for recycling too. Marie went to the draw with all the art equipment in it and took out some bird stickers, and put them around the jar she had chosen. When finished she looked at the jar and was really pleased with the bird pictures. Marie put some water into the jar and placed the Yellow Daisies in it, she put the flower arrangement on the table near the lounge door. The flowers looked so nice, every time Marie went to work at her table in the lounge on her other crafts she would look up and see the Daisies which boosted her happiness. because Marie was into flowers, she took photos with her smartphone, she had quite a selection of flower photos. Pink and white, Purple and yellow, white, yellow and purple. White and yellow and so on and so on and so on. by Writehand


Many a times we are reluctant to listen to our well-wishers when they choose to guide us through their own experiences and hardships. Here we are trying to portray this truth of life through a small conversation. Our main characters Alina, the mother and Alisa, the daughter are just fighting like enemies. Alisa is totally disturbed with continuous taunting from her mother for something that she does not like. But Alina is always full of energy to show her right path and being a typical mother, she had chosen the path of comparing her with others and sarcasm. Let’s see how this path had helped Alina to convince Alisa with the beauty of life and importance of becoming jack of all trades, while sailing through the sea of life and using these life hacks as a source to communicate our feelings to our loved ones which is the ultimate thing that everyone wants to do. Alisa: "Mumma, I don't like cooking. Why do you always ask me to learn cooking? Just because I am a girl! Why don't you ask Joseph (her brother) to learn cooking as well? He is always wandering in the streets. " Alina: “Do you really think so!! And joseph cooks food very well. And it’s not because he is a boy. Cooking is not something that is related to gender. It’s a skill, a life-saving skill that everyone should know. " Alisa: "But, I am studying, you are the mother of a topper from this prestigious institute. But still you define a perfect girl with cooking skills only. Don't you think it’s normal to be not perfect, to not know cooking and to be happy with what I like doing the most, of course it’s not kitchen, not utensils, not that boxes of spices or flour and blah blah but reading these books. I am a nerd why don't you accept it. Why do you always want to change me?” Alina: "It’s not like that baby .I am mother of a topper but more importantly the mother of a daughter, why don't you understand this. I am your mother, your well-wisher. I will have to bring you to right path even if you don't want to” Alisa: "Is it so? Then why aren't you happy with my achievements. Since my adulthood you are like Sofia (one of the girls living in neighborhood) cooks so well, Kiara (Alisa's cousin) knows all household works and so on. But you never said anything good about me. I was always a brilliant student in school and now in college as well. But you never admire me for that .Am I adopted? Tell me, say the truth" Alina: "Just shut up. I had carried you in my womb for nine months. At least respect that. (Sighed heavily). You are!! There is no use for crying for the things that you don't have and more importantly there is no harm in admiring others. Even you should learn accepting others' as well and appreciate them too. The way you want appreciation from others, they want it as well. " Alisa:" No, I'm not. It’s not going to work like this every time. You will have to tell me this time. I will be graduating this year and will become an independent woman. I will be able to earn good money, will be able to fulfill my dreams. I will be able to buy anything that I want. Everything mumma, everything" Alina: “Is it! Dear, so, this self-dependent woman is going to eat raw food to keep her healthy, right?" Alisa: “No, I can order food online, go and hang out with friends and can still fill my little empty stomach!!” Alina: “And this will soon make your little empty stomach full of tiny ill microbes and end up lying you in a hospital bed. Listen dear, I am not your enemy. I am and will always be proud of your achievements but being your mother ,the only thing that I want is to make you self-dependent in true sense. I want you to be self-proficient to fulfill basic needs of life .Dear, you can't buy everything in this world. There are certain things in life which are priceless. They can only be bought by showing affection, love, empathy, care and such great human characteristics make us human." Alisa: "Umm, Why are you behaving like a typical philosopher? You are just testing my patience. You are arguing for others not me” Alina: “Dear, money can help you to fulfil basic needs of life but it’s not the only thing for survival. I hope you are getting what I am trying to convey you. Life is not about making money only. It’s more about making relationships, to find those relationships that will be there for you whether money will be with you or not. To find those immense sources of in-depth life that can nourish my girl's roots and help her grow with her utmost capacity. That will take you in right direction, will make you a good human” Alisa: "Hmm, I can’t live without my friends.” Alina:" Umm, only friends!” Alisa: "I mean without you as well. (Finally, she gathered some courage to say so). May be you are right. I can’t be happy with money only. (After thinking for some-time) Well, I agree, but I thought you were saying so for sake of my marriage only :|" Alina:” Well you are my own sweetheart, the love of my life. I, not only want you to be independent but a better human as well. Sometimes it’s good to be dependent. These are the little things that make us stronger. These are the tiny little moments that make our survival easier, bring smile to our faces. How pleasing it is when you have a person whom you can rely on for everything, whom you can scold for your own mistakes and so on. There are so many. May be someday you really want to impress your hubby with your cooking skills rather than your coding skills” And this ended the room in laughter with start of much deeper conversations between the duos from swimming through the dark uncovered secrets of life to flying in the sky high that makes you feel above everything.


Bernard’s Bench . That’s what everyone calls it. Everyone who was born in the town was brought up calling it Bernard’s Bench  and newcomers soon get into the habit. There’s no plaque or little commemorative plate, or even any lettering carved into it. At least none to do with it being Bernard’s bench. It’s not an especially decorative one – its metal is rusty and its paint is flaking – and it’s not especially comfortable either. It comes so close to it – if the seat were just a little higher, if the slats on the back were just that little bit closer together. But they’re not.      It’s just there , on the market square, between the pharmacist and the pound shop. Bernard’s bench.      Bernard Ellery was my grandfather. I have fond enough memories of him, but not what you would call dramatically fond ones. He was a kind man, and never lost his patience or seemed to mind childish questions and chatter, but he wasn’t the kind of grandpa who was a mine of fascinating stories and who always had a twinkle in his eyes. Later on in life I understood what people meant when they said you could tell he was an insurance broker. With no disrespect to insurance brokers. The bench wasn’t even outside his old place of work. Well, it couldn’t be now, as that branch of it had closed, to be replaced by the pound shop, but it wasn’t there before either. It was over on the other side of the square, the one that was sometimes called the posh side  though I could never make out much difference. It had been replaced by a charity shop. It’s visible from the upstairs of the office where I work.      I knew very little about his private life, and don’t know that much more now. I know he lost his wife, my Grandmother, who was called Alma, when my Mum, their only child, was still a little girl, and he never re-married. Mum said she’d had a happy childhood though, and looking at the photos, I believed her.

     He died when I was only twelve, and I have to say, to be honest, I was sorry, but not grief-stricken.

     The strange thing is, given that it’s relatively recent (though the way years turn into decades can be quite disturbing!) nobody seems quite sure if the bench were there in Bernard’s lifetime, or if it only appeared afterwards.

     Given that there are only two benches on the square, it’s empty surprisingly often. Or perhaps not so surprisingly. Though there are still some quite characterful  (as estate agents would say, and I should know, I work in one!) buildings on the square, a couple Victorian, a couple more early 20 th  century, it’s never going to win any prizes for the most beautiful town with the best preserved architectural heritage or anything like that, but there are  a couple of rather nice cafes, and it’s far more pleasant to sit in them, not least as the local bird population frequently uses Bernard’s Bench to relieve themselves. As soon as it’s cleaned off, it seems to come back.      I could probably count on the fingers of one hand (okay, two, if you include family) the people who know that I’m connected to the Bernard of Bernard’s Bench. I don’t have the same surname. Not that many folk know the surname anyway. It’s just Bernard’s Bench, not Bernard Ellery’s bench, which is a little odd, as I gather in life he was quite a formal man, though he didn’t make an issue of it.

     A couple of weeks back, as I was returning with a sandwich lunch for myself and a colleague at Drake and Dobson , I noticed that there was someone sitting on Bernard’s Bench. A woman, probably the same age as me or a big younger, mid-thirties, I’d have guessed, though I’m not much good at guessing ages. She was bundled up in a big raincoat that seemed loose on her, even though it was a warm and dry day, more like March than February, folk said, as if the difference between those two months was deeply symbolic. At her feet were one cloth shopping bag that had seen better days, and one with the yellow and green logo of the pound shop. She flexed her shoulders as if to ease some tension or ache in them, and couldn’t stifle a yawn. Something told me that this was not a bored yawn, or an affected yawn, or one she had “caught” off somebody else. She was yawning because she was tired. Deeply, intensely weary. Her entire body language seemed to scream out that just getting up and going on her way was an effort that didn’t seem worth it. She didn’t exactly look ill, but as if she couldn’t remember when she’d last had any energy. I was reminded of the phrase often used for comic effect my get up and go had got up and gone , and it applied to the woman on Bernard’s bench, but it wasn’t comical at all.

     Even though my colleague was waiting for her lunch, and I was pretty peckish myself, and though I’ve never claimed to be one of life’s Good Samaritans, something made me sit down beside her – cautiously, as I was wearing light-coloured trousers! – and ask if she were okay. Her expression was like none I had seen before, and it set a swirl of emotions off in my own mind. There was a sudden light in her eyes – rather nice dark grey-blue eyes, though with dark shadows beneath them – as if she couldn’t believe anyone was actually asking how she was, and yes, she was blinking tears away. Yet there was also an innate dignity, a quiet stoicism to her, that meant that though it was only human decency to have sympathy for her, she would never be an object of pity.

     “If there’s anything I can do…?” I asked. I know it makes me sound awful, but that’s the kind of question I don’t generally ask, because people might just tell you. But though I’m not claiming any kind of Road to Damascus moment, I genuinely thought that (within reason) I would be willing to do anything I could to help her.      “You’re very kind but – no, that’s fine.”      “What kept you?” my colleague Lesley asked, amiably enough.

     “Just – having a word with a lady who was on the bench.”

     “Oh – right.” Was there a strange odd note in her voice? But she didn’t take the matter any further, and enjoyed her tuna and mayonnaise roll as I tucked into my cheese and pickle one. My conscience pricked me as I wondered if I should have taken the woman on the bench a sandwich, or at least offered to do so, but I had the sudden thought that though she did, in a way, undeniably look hungry, it was not a look of physical hunger. Instinct, and it was an instinct I was inclined to trust, told me that despite the raincoat that was too big for her making her probably look more skinny that, though she might not dine on the best of food, she was not going hungry. Not physically hungry.      There was nothing I could really put my finger on, but over the next couple of days, I had the sense that Lesley, and Jason (who was technically our boss, but most of the time you wouldn’t have known it, because he wore his authority very lightly, but, if needs must, effectively) were treating me ever so slightly oddly. There were the most trivial things – it seemed to me that, “You okay, Sheena?” wasn’t just some polite, form enquiry, and that they were shielding me from dealing with the more awkward clients and the more problematic properties. It was, frankly, a bit unnerving! I wondered if I looked unwell, but a glance in the mirror assured me I didn’t, and I was pretty sure I hadn’t come out with any silly or incomprehensible remarks. Finally, I told myself I was imagining things, the way you always do when you’re pretty sure you’re not  imagining things.

     I couldn’t help thinking about the woman in the oversized raincoat on Bernard’s Bench, and kept looking for her – surreptitiously from the upstairs office window, more blatantly when passing by. A few days later, I did  see her again, and was relieved that she seemed to be in better spirits. We had a little conversation that was a bit stilted, but still left me thinking that I hoped I would see her again, and would like to get to know her better.

I was spending that weekend with my Mum and my stepfather James. After they’d got married, a couple of years back, they’d moved into a little cottage in a village about 30 miles away. I’d be lying if I said I’d never had any doubts whatsoever about James, but that was behind us now, and we were good friends.

     It was something I generally looked forward to, in a quiet way. Every time I was there, looking out at wheatfields and knowing I was within a few minutes’ walk of a wood, I decided that I would love to move to the country one day, but inside I suspected that it might well stay within the realms of some day . They had made the cottage cosy, or perhaps more to the point, restored its cosiness, but not gone to extremes. There were not horse brasses (that had never been near a horse) nor corn dollies (that had never been near a cornfield) on every appropriate or inappropriate surface, and not every fabric was gingham or floral. I always found it rather touching that though I had never lived there on a permanent basis, the spare bedroom was referred to as your room  or Sheena’s room .      I hadn’t given any especial thought to either mentioning or not mentioning the woman on Bernard’s bench, but in the end I got round to it, and it slotted sensibly enough into a conversation about plans for a bench outside the village hall. If memory serves, Mum just said something along the lines of, “I hope she’ll be fine,” or “Glad to see someone getting some use out of it.”      But the next day she asked me if I’d like to come for a walk in the woods with her. James had retired by now, but volunteered as a legal adviser to the local Citizens’ Advice bureau, and for once they’d asked him if he could come in on a Saturday as they had quite an urgent case.      I needed no second asking. It was that time of year when each day seems to be a transition, and I knew that the wild crocuses would already be showing their multi-coloured heads, and all around them and above them things would be in bud. It was still very mild, and a repeat of the infamous blizzards and sub-zero temperatures of the Beast from the East  that had been the sting in the tail of winter and the unseasonal start to spring a few years ago seemed exceedingly unlikely.

     “I hoped you would see the woman on the bench,” Mum said, simply, and I noticed she did not say “someone on the bench”. We knew each other well enough to recognise those little quirks of each others’ speech patterns, and I knew she had more to say. “Do you know why Dad – why Bernard – wanted that bench to be there?”      “Well – so folk had somewhere to sit,” I said.      “True enough. But there’s more to it than that.” I noticed that she had paused by a bench, by one of those rustic ones that sometimes seem to grow in woodlands as organically as the trees around them, though of course that can’t really be so. We did a quick “stain check” and then sat down side by side on it. “It’s time you knew,” she said, “And feel free to dismiss it as just one of those family old wives’ tales. He first met my mother – Alma, the grandmother you never knew, when she was laden down with shopping in town.”      She went on to say that Bernard, who was a keenly perceptive man, and a deeply compassionate one, behind his rather taciturn exterior, had noticed that the woman in the raincoat that looked too big for her was obviously careworn and laden down with her shopping. And that’s when he decided that the town, that the market square, needed a bench for people to sit down and rest. He helped the woman with her shopping, and, as folk say, one thing led to another. When she wasn’t careworn and tired, she had sparkling bright blue grey eyes and a mischievous sense of humour. People where he worked weren’t quite ready to write him off as a bachelor for life, but had decided there wouldn’t be a whip-round for wedding presence any time soon. But they were wrong, and within a few months he was engaged to Alma.      I had been about, theatrical-fashion, to exclaim, “Alma!” but then realised it was not a surprise at all. His own happiness didn’t make him forget what he’d thought about the bench, and Alma most certainly didn’t either. As she said, she had just been tired and having a bad sort of day, but there would be people who needed it far more      “I only had vague memories of her myself,” Mum said, sadly. “I think Dad got it just right. He never had shrines to her or anything like that, but made sure I knew about her. And then I saw her on the bench! I only realised that later, of course. But what I do know is that not long after I met your Dad. No, that’s not technically speaking true – I did know him a bit, he was a customer in the bank where I was working, but we realised that there was a definite spark.” She smiled now, but sadly. “We had 15 wonderful years together, and though we had meant to have more than one child, it didn’t work out that way, and you were our most precious gift and blessing.  Then another five years later, I saw her on the bench again, and a couple of days later I did  meet James. Make of it what you will, Sheena. I’ve always tended to see ghost stories just as entertaining books and TV, but – well, my mind is more open than it used to be.”      I didn’t honestly know if I were glad she had told me or not, and certainly tried to put it out of my mind when I went back into town. But a question was still fluttering around my mind like an irritating moth, and in the end I had to ask it. “Lesley, tell me the truth,” I said, “Last week when I talked about the woman on the bench, did you see her?”      “Well, no,” she admitted, “But I could have just not been looking at the right time. I see that now. Jason and I have talked about it since – hope it didn’t look like going behind your back! – and said we were too keen to jump to conclusions about – well, about ….”      “If I was what tends to be called under a certain amount of stress ,” I completed the sentence.

     You can draw your own conclusions. You can say – and I wouldn’t necessarily contradict you – that what Mum called the spark  was there with Jason and me anyway. Both of us were an odd mixture of appearing to be extrovert, heart on the sleeve sort of people, but not necessarily finding it easy to admit to our feelings.

     But this much I do know. Now we have both seen the woman on the bench, and she looks so much happier. I have thought of calling out “Alma!” or “Grandma!” but I have not.      But we’re going to see to it that the bench gets a make-over, or as Jason puts it, more to the point, a make- back , so it is not chipped and rusted and sad-looking.      That’s the least we can do.


Janet staggered in, the crooked, batwing doors banging behind her punctuated her dramatic entrances. A few heads looked up, hands straying from their powder compacts briefly in concern which soon morphed into thinly veiled annoyance once they saw that Janet hadn’t burst in because she had been distressed. Shaking their heads in exasperation, the occupants of the storage room returned to their business. Janet spared a single glance and then burst out, “I need Noel. Right now! Where is she?” Her hands tugged at her corset in impatience until she spotted their bartender’s rugged raven hair in the corner and made a beeline towards her without hesitation. A few gawked at her courage; it was an unspoken rule that you did not disturb Noel when she was meditating.

“Wonder if they’re gonna knock another galley west today. Ain’t it their third this week? Bit risky, I say.” Lotte remarked. No one agreed verbally but that’s what all of them were thinking.

Janet leaped at Noel and shook her frantically. You might have been imagining her with trembling hands, a sheen of sweat on her face and her eyes widened with terror but none of those would be correct. Instead, a wild grin had settled up her lips and her eyes had gone as cold as the blood in her veins. Noel cracked her eyes open, her cream apron fluttered softly as she landed back on the group, in stark contrast to the charcoal murderous intent radiating off her.

“What.” It was a statement. One that also promised a week without her memories, wandering helpless in the canyon at the mercy of nighttime predators if she failed to produce a proper reason for disturbing interrupting Noel’s session. “Well, I-“ “This better be worth it. Because of you I have to wait another 11 days before trying to contact Asa. And by that time her murderer will have beefed another three women!” She balled up the bloodied corset she’d been holding up until now and tossed it aside. “I need you to conjure a storm.”  Janet knew her proverbial clock was ticking. She needed to get her request out now, so she rushed through the rest of her words without stopping. “Not like the last minor storm either. A grand one this time. One that’ll shake Deadwood to its core. I found ‘im. Found the deadbeat who touched Sylvie last time.” Noel frowned and her anger drained away. She could distantly hear that someone was telling her that her shift would be starting in five minutes. Another hour of pretending to be something she wasn’t, watching as her guild had to suffer.

“Go on. And make it snappy.” Janet cheered inwardly but didn’t let it slip as she was prone to do. She had Noel’s attention and she wouldn’t risk losing it. “Heard him. He’s planning to take her with him this time. Went on a bender and was blowing it to his buddies. It was the usual: ropes, drugs and a quick getaway but it was unusually detailed, and he sounded serious even if he was drunk. I wouldn’t have paid him any mind otherwise.” It had been tempting, of course, when Sylvie had cried about it into her shoulder last week. The night had echoed her sorrows. Both Noel and Sylvie’s familiar had mourned the loss of her innocence at such a young age, even if they had known that it was inevitable with the life they lived. Soldiers weren’t that noble, locals weren’t friendly, the law wasn’t an ally and humans that weren’t humane at all. Their magic couldn’t be used every time something like this happened or they’d exhaust themselves of their reserve.

But now, now when Sylvie might be in real danger, when one of their own might be taken from them, Noel’s magic begged her to loosen the rein she had cast over it. Let it go, just once more.

“This is our third this week, right?” She told it to be quiet just a bit longer. An excuse had arrived, but she had to make sure she didn’t give into her urges again. “Who cares about that? My blood’s itching to harden again. It’s getting way too chilled again and I don’t want my appendages to break off again.” It was true. Noel could feel the particles in Janet slowing down, flowing languidly rather than sharply. She would have forced her blood to thaw but Janet had protested against it vehemently several times before like a petulant child at physician’s office. She claimed that it didn’t feel natural and her magic often fell silent in dissent afterwards. It felt as if it had abandoned them. She understood so she didn’t offer. “Meet me at Deadwood Gulch tonight at 9 am sharp. Don’t forget to bring the pest we have to deal with.” Janet winked. Knew that since she had succeeded in convincing Noel to go along with her plan, she could afford to be humorous now so she asked, “Should I lure him in with that potion you brewed yesterday? It’s still fresh so it won’t kill him before we do. Or should I ask May to let loose one of her scents? She said she’d developed a special one lately that worked like a charm on the customers. It’s surprising since she wasn’t supposed to get one until next month.” “Don’t involve May in this. You know she’ll probably create an illusion at the edge of the canyon and entice him into pushing himself off. Just use you ‘feminine wiles’. Never failed us before.” Janet laughed, the kind of laugh where your shoulders shake, and your stomach hurts and you hiccup. It wasn’t often that they were content enough to do it and a few people startled. Smiles, guarded smiles, were common but laughs were hoarded for special occasions. And Janet laughed now, not because of the joke, but because her magic thrummed in pleasure at the prospect of being let out.

She was about to throw in a rejoinder when Lucille reminded Noel that it was her turn. She stood up, strapped on her arm garters, made sure that any residue of her aura was removed and then strove out of the storage room unceremoniously. Janet was amused until she was ambushed by what seemed like a thousand voices begging her to take them along too. The children were especially restless since they wanted to try their abilities anywhere and everywhere and opportunities were rare. She couldn’t wait for tonight too.

“The terrible price of living, ain’t it? To live through others dying?”

          -J.D. Jordan, “Calamity”