Toys littered the living room floor, the Christmas tree stood undecorated in the corner and none of the presents were wrapped. And yet here I was pulling out butter and flour and eggs trying to make Grandma’s famous candy-cane cookies. Soft and sweet. Red and white dough twined together and shaped into candy canes. Dusted with crushed starlight mints and pearl sugar.                I flipped through Grandma’s recipe cards, yellowed with age and speckled with food stains. Every recipe written in Grandma’s fancy cursive. Every “i” dotted and every “t”crossed with a swirly flourish, but no candy-cane cookie recipe to be found.                It had been six weeks since her beautiful soul floated off to heaven and my heart still ached with missing her. Making one of her signature desserts might help my heart to heal.                The doorbell rang and my older sister, Kailey, burst in. Her arms overflowed with presents and her hair looked like a messy birds nest on top of her head. “Help is here!” she said. “Where are the munchkins and the hubs?”                “Dan took the kids Christmas shopping to buy me a present.” Tears threatened but I wouldn’t cry. I’d cried enough the past month to sink Noah’s ark.  “Quite frankly, I needed a break. Everyone keeps trying to cheer me up and I don’t want to be cheered up.”                Kailey gave me a one-armed hug. “You poor thing. I’ll be sad with you if that’s what you need. You were always so close with Grandma Kay. I can’t even imagine how you feel.” Kailey tossed a bag of red and white starlight mints on the counter. “Should I preheat the oven? Where’s the recipe?”                “I couldn’t find it. It’s not in the recipe box she left me.”                Kailey shrugged. “No worries. I can Google a recipe.”                My throat felt tight. “No, I want to make Grandma’s recipe. Her. Exact. Recipe.”’ I paced back and forth in the kitchen. I had to remember. “I guess we’ll have to wing it.”                “Isn’t that you always do with your life? Wing it?” Kailey asked.                “Ha ha. Not funny.” I closed my eyes and pictured Grandma’s hands unwrapping two sticks of butter and placing them in a red mixing bowl. Her birthstone ring would glisten in the kitchen light, an emerald for me, a sapphire for Kailey.                “Two sticks of butter!” I tossed them on a paper plate and popped it in the microwave for 30 seconds.

               “I can’t believe you’re going to microwave the butter!” Kailey said. “Grandma always left the bowl on the counter for what seemed like days before making the cookie dough.”                “I remember,” I said. “The secret to soft cookies is slow-softened butter.” I removed the paper plate from the microwave and poured the butter into a bowl. “But we’re winging it, remember?”                I pulled out the canister of sugar. “You don’t remember anything about the cookies? At all?”                “Maybe a little,” Kailey said. “I do remember dipping a cup in and out of the sugar canister. It seemed like I did that maybe, three times? The cup wasn’t very big.”                “Yes, I remember that too. So maybe it was a half cup measure? So about one and half cups total.” I measured the sugar, added a teaspoon of vanilla and cracked an egg into the bowl. “You can mix it now if you want. That looks about right, don’t you think?”                “We’ll see.” Hailey turned the hand-mixer on high and swirled it around the bowl. The beaters clinked on the sides while the mixture grew frothy. The scent of vanilla wafted into the air.                My chin shook and tears welled. “I can’t stop crying. Everything I see or hear reminds me of her. Even the smell of the vanilla.” I took a deep breath. “I just remembered how you begged and begged to taste the vanilla. Grandma told you it tasted awful, but you wouldn’t listen.”                Kailey chuckled “Yes, I remember now. I snuck a sip from the bottle and spit it out and Grandma said, ‘I told you so!’ She laughed so hard she snorted.”                Kailey measured some flour and a pinch of baking powder. “I guess we can tell how much flour to add once we see the consistency. Then, we can add it little by little?” She dumped the flour mixture into the bowl with the mixer still churning at full speed. A cloud of flour puffed into her face and hair. She coughed and wiped the flour from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Well, that was not graceful.”                Kailey looked so funny with flour everywhere that we both broke into laughter. I full-on snorted when Dan and the kids walked in.                He surveyed the kitchen and the two of us laughing. “Looks like things are going…well?” My kids, Kevin and Kacy, joined in laughing with us.                Kevin asked, “Can we help?”                “Aunt Kailey looks like a ghost! She’s all powdery!” Kacy said.                “Of course you can help,” I said. I divided the dough into two big chunks. “Kacy, you can add red food coloring to this half and knead it into the dough.”                I handed Kevin a rolling pin. “Kevin, you can unwrap the starlight mints, put them into a zip-top bag and then pound them with the rolling pin. That used to be my job.”                “Cool!” he said.                Dan put on some Christmas music and made hot cocoa. We all rolled pieces of dough into red “snakes” and white “snakes” and wound them together forming candy canes. A sprinkling of crushed peppermint mixed with pearl sugar was the final touch.                While waiting for the cookies to bake, we all shared stories about Grandma Kay.

               “I remember when I tried to teach great Grandma how to play my video game,” Kevin said. “She drove the car across the tops of the houses and through the farmer’s fields. She just laughed when I tried to help her.”                Kacy didn’t want to be left out of sharing a memory. “I colored pictures with great Grandma Kay one time. She colored the people’s faces purple and pink. She said those were her favorite colors and she could color the people however she wanted.”                “Remember her fudge?” Dan asked. “So chocolatey and delicious. She said she always made it for me because I was her favorite grandson-in-law.”                Kailey punched Dan in the arm. “Hey, you’re the only grandson-in-law.”                The timer dinged. I pulled the tray of cookies out of the oven. The cookies had spread so much they looked like pink blobs. They were all stuck together almost covering the bottom of the pan.  You couldn’t even tell they were supposed to be candy canes and the peppermint and sugar had fallen off and burned.                Dan sensed something was wrong and came into the kitchen. “I can’t do anything right!” I cried. “I wanted these to be perfect for Grandma Kay’s memory.”                Dan took me into his arms. “What would your Grandma Kay do if this happened to her? Seriously. Think about it.”                A memory came to me. “Remember the time when the fudge wouldn’t set? Grandma didn’t panic. She just poured it over bowls of ice cream.” She always made the best of a bad situation. Something I needed to learn.                “She would laugh?” I asked. “And we’d eat them with a fork I suppose…”                                                                        **************                After the Christmas season flew by in a blur, I found a recipe card in the recipe box that I had missed. It was folded in half and lying flat under the other cards. Written in her fancy, swirly hand, it said, “ It’s the memories you make that count…not how good the cookies taste or how beautiful the gifts are wrapped or how fancy your tree is. Memories are what bring us together and that’s why I didn’t leave you the candy cane cookie recipe.  Remember, it’s not the journey or the destination…it’s the memories you make along the way.


It was mid-morning and Junpei lay in bed trying to remember what day of the week it was. Not that it mattered; Junpei was in retirement now, and every day felt the same. He missed the good anticipation on the eve of holidays, but not the agony of Sunday nights. Even the seasons weren’t so noticeable anymore, since he rarely left his house. And it was hunger, not the clock, what gave away the passage of time. In the kitchen, Junpei’s wife Ayami set aside a bowl of rice, a bowl of soup, and some grilled fish leftover from dinner. Junpei came into the kitchen and kissed his wife. She stopped washing dishes and joined Junpei at the kitchen table as he ate his breakfast. “Mr. Lacroix called,” Ayami said, “the paint has arrived.” Their 50th wedding anniversary was coming up and Ayami had mentioned that she’d prefer to have the inside of their house repainted, instead of having a party. Junpei thought it was a strange request, but he complied without asking for an explanation. In fact, the walls hadn’t been painted for many years. They were dark and stained, although Junpei hadn’t noticed it until Ayami pointed that out to him. Maybe Ayami felt that a nice, fresh coat of white paint around them would be like a new beginning; a great way to celebrate and welcome the next half century together. After breakfast, Junpei drove to Mr. Lacroix’s hardware store. A pile of paint cans, brushes, and other accessories were waiting for him at the counter. He asked for some masking tape and furniture covers as well, and loaded everything in the back of his car. Junpei’s idea was to start painting right away, or the walls wouldn’t be ready and dry in time for their anniversary. As soon as he arrived home, Junpei got busy covering the furniture with tarp, and spreading old newspaper pages on the floor of the living room. Every now and then he’d slow down to read a bit of news or a colorful ad. When all surfaces and objects were covered, Junpei stepped back to look at the room. It reminded him of a lunar landscape. The disappearance of everything they had collected throughout their lives under those ghostlike mounds of canvas made him feel lonely. Where was Ayami? She had been quiet all this time; had something happened while he was away at the store? After searching the whole house for his wife, Junpei found her in the backyard. She was lying on the ground, one hand holding a pair of shears, the other a flower she had snipped with them. Junpei sat next to Ayami and ran his hand over her cold, quiet body, and told her how much she meant to him, as if her life had only been suspended and all it needed to come back was a proof of his love and sorrow. But the hours passed, Junpei’s tears dried on his cheeks, and nothing else changed. Junpei went inside the house and brought back a pillow and a blanket for Ayami. After making her comfortable he went back inside, to the living room, and looked at the cans of paints and brushes scattered on the floor. Without knowing what else to do, he started painting the walls. \- Junpei worked for two days and two nights, stopping only a few times, to make soup or tea, and place it next to Ayami in the backyard. Each time he brought out a new bowl, he found, with sadness, that the previous one hadn’t been touched. When the whole house was done, the walls became intensely bright, as if they emanated light themselves. Junpei meant to uncover the furniture and clear the floor, but felt that now it was unnecessary. The excessive whiteness of the walls was a bit disturbing, though, and Junpei went outside to rest his eyes. Compared to his newly painted house, the world seemed tired and worn. Trees were blemished, street walls were covered with obscenities and mold, rusty cars paraded over asphalt so profusely patched, it revealed more shades of black anyone imagined could exist. While it all seemed natural before, now it gave Junpei the sense that people didn’t care about where or howthey lived. There were a few cans of paint left in the house. Junpei brought them out and began to paint the trunk of an old tree. Little by little, his brush covered every scar left by decades of unpunished attacks from humans and animals, storms and machines. Next were the sidewalks; he couldn’t cover their cracks, but at least he could make them resemble soothing paths of pure white snow. Lastly, he laid a veil of peace over words of hate scribbled on street walls. And he only stopped when he was out of paint, and they came to take him away. \- “Why did you decide to paint over everything?” Kiko asked her father. “The world looked like it needed one or two coats of paint,” Junpei said. Kiko and her husband Peter smiled in agreement as they heard that. The hospital chairs were uncomfortable and the couple looked forward to going home soon; Ayami’s funeral had been early that morning, and they felt very tired. Junpei had not attended the ceremony; he was in shock, unable to understand the reality of his wife’s death. When Kiko mentioned the heart attack that had killed her mother, Junpei had said, “Don’t be silly. What’s a heart full of love going to have an attack for?” Kiko wondered if her father would ever accept a new life without his beloved Ayami or even realize that she was gone forever. On her way home, while Peter drove, Kiko watched the narrow band of night being revealed by the car’s headlights. Although passing briefly before her eyes, the scars of missing tree limbs were clearly visible, and so were the potholes and cracks of the road, and the run-over weeds that tried emerging from these cracks, and the sky in disarray with clouds reflecting artificial orange lights. Kiko could discern random words, fragments of phrases hastily scratched on walls,like screams in the dark. For a second, the lights washed a group of homeless people wrapped in dirty blankets, sleeping under a bridge, and Kiko imagined she could see into their neglected souls: like everything else, they were stained and scored with lesions. They had been mended again and again by their masters with threads of hope, but kept bleeding at the seams. A fine rain started falling. Peter turned on the wipers, and Kiko could still see outside, at intervals. By the time Kiko and Peter got home, the drizzle had become a powerful storm. Peter parked the car and ran inside. After a moment, he realized that his wife hadn’t followed him. He looked out the window and saw Kiko standing in the cleansing rain, arms raised to the sky in a welcoming gesture.


Tam opened her eyes and looked up at the sky. It was a blue and windless day, and not a cloud could be seen. A peaceful day, by all means. Yet she felt anything but at peace. She stood up and turned her eyes towards the horizon. There she could see an eagle flying in the distance. It flew and flew until it was but a small speck. She sighed and wished she too could disappear. “Your duty is an important one,” Uncle Haversian said. He was in charge of her lessons, as well as that of the other children who had been chosen. They were progressing consistently. Tam still could not breathe a wisp of flame. All that came out of her mouth was hot air. And spit. Lots of spit. “Feel it,” he said. “Feel the Eternal Flame flowing through your body, giving you life.” “But I don’t feel anything,” she said, frustrated. “I don’t feel anything when I concentrate,” she said, sitting down to catch her breath, her chest heaving up and down from the effort she’d been putting out for the last hour, breathing hard on the wood as if trying to blow out a stubborn candle. Except she was supposed to light the wood on fire, and hers was giving off nothing but black smoke. Lily’s on her right was fully aflame, and the child sat cross-legged in front of it, silently perusing the fire’s depths with her unreadable blue eyes. It was unusual for a Dragoneer child's transformation to start off with the blue eyes, but Lily was an exception. One day she'd woken up and her brown eyes were blue, just like that. The flame she now conjured was the same color as her arms, which were covered with silver scales. Like Tam, she had angry red rashes where human skin still battled with her inevitable fate--that of becoming a full-on dragon by the time many centuries had passed. Children with ascalienation grew--and then stopped growing. Instead of growing older, shriveling up, and dying, they stayed at the pinnacle of human adulthood for much longer, and then eventually became something not human. Was the pain, the constant burn and itch that the child went through as it transformed, worth the longevity? Some said yes, some said no. But unlike Tam, Lily did not make faces or cry at the pain of her affliction. Her face was always calm and unreadable, so much so that Tam sometimes wondered whether her peer was really a human at all. After all, the higher you fly, the harder you fall, people said around these parts. Everything that came with the prestige of being a Dragoneer, rank, power, wealth, fame, comfort. It would all be forgotten when one became a beast. Once Tam had been playing hide and seek, hiding from her toddler brother, when she heard the sound of men approaching the room. She hastily crawled under a table cover and sat there, hugging her knees tightly to her chest. “Did you deal with it?” a voice said, hard and cool as steel. Her father. “Yes, my lord,” the other man said. “Did anyone else see? “No my lord.” “Did you make sure?” “I scouted the area personally. There was no one.” “Good.” When they left the room, she’d seen the artifact lying on the table. A dragon’s head. Its neck was lined with dried blood, and the eyes were an electrifying, ice-blue. Just like Lily’s eyes, just like Tam’s eyes would become. She solemnly stared at it for a few seconds, and then slowly raised a finger and touched it. Then she’d run from the room. Sometimes she wondered if it had begun then. She'd woken up a week later with her first scale, a small pearlescent spot on her arm. Everyone knew it wasn't contagious but maybe she hadn't been "chosen" as was commonly believed, but instead punished for snooping around where she did not belong. “Daydreaming again, Tam?” Uncle Haversian said. She jolted out of her reverie and turned to him. “Sorry Uncle,” she said. He guided her hand towards the wood, and clasped her hand around it. “Feel it,” he said. “You need to feel the substance, know it, before you can affect it.” She ran her hands across the wood, feeling Lily’s eyes on her, unreadable in their silence. “No one is judging you right now,” her uncle said, sensing her wandering thoughts. “Just breathe and let the eternal Flame guide you.” She held her breath, and then let it out, quickly, disappointingly. “I feel nothing,” she said blankly. “It’s alright,” her Uncle sighed. “Go and rest, you’ve tried the most you can. Maybe--” He shook his head and smiled, choosing not to finish. “Don’t worry Tam. No matter what, you’ve got a good future ahead of you.” He meant no matter what happened after the ritual today, she wouldn’t be less than a princess. The others who failed would not be so lucky. Ascalienation gave you the chance to become a valued member of the Lunaris Legion, the elite army of the Astral Kingdom, but it did not guarantee it. Every year, a few failures would be shuttled away, and they would eventually get the hang of fire breathing by the year after. But they would not go off to fight the enemies of the kingdom. They'd just be stuck back at home, performing guard duties around the palace and homeland. Lower ranked, and lower regarded. Overall dismissed. But Tam would always at least have the rank of the noble family to hide behind. Tam nodded and walked away. She walked away from the patch of forest in the back of the castle where lessons were taught and towards the castle itself. At the entrance of the forest, a small spring bubbled and glittered. Above the spring, a statue of a woman rested, holding a baby upon her lap. A simple stone arch hovered over them, which together with the large rock behind protected them from the wind and rain. Water flowed from eyes into the spring, and her smile brought tranquility to all who came to gaze upon her. This was the Spring of Sylvan, said to hold the tears of Sylvan, the mother of Lunaris. It was said that she had willingly sacrificed her firstborn daughter to the Scaled One to save her people, the descendants of which were now Tam’s people. Her sacrifice was said to be the reason only females underwent ascalienation. About one in a hundred were chosen, and it was considered a great honor. Families received gifts, and the children were brought to live at the palace for training. For Tam, where she trained and what she considered home were the same. She thought of the first time she’d been at the Spring. It was customary to bring every newborn child to the Spring by the time it could first walk to bring the child good fortune and health, as the Spring was believed to have blossomed from the tears of Sylvan. She was lifted up by Mother onto her lap, and then Mother brought up a silver spoon, and lifted the spring water to Tam’s lips. She felt big, fat droplets dribble over her lips and gasped, this magical substance felt so cool in the hot sunlight. She splashed her hands in the spring and laughed, seeing the light dance in the limpid pool. That was before she had developed her first scales. That was before she had turned out to be a disappointment. Mother never said it--it was an honor to be chosen as a Dragoneer, chosen to serve one's kingdom--but Tam knew Mother had never wanted it, just wanted a beautiful little girl to pamper and dress up. The day Tam had been Chosen was the day she could remember Mother's crestfallen face, as that hope was taken away. And then Little Brother had been born and Mother had transferred her affections on to her new little brother. Tam never said anything, but it hurt. Tam turned her eyes away and walked faster, wanting to shut that chapter of her life behind her. A chapter in which she had been destined for a life of beauty and ease. Suddenly she was roughly pushed forward. She put her hands out and fell into the mud. There was the sound of laughter. She turned and saw the other Scaley children of her class. They looked at her with a variety of physical deformities. Ada had a forked tongue that flickered in and out of his mouth. Eva grinned, revealing teeth each as sharp as daggers. And in front of the gang stood Lily. Lily, the only one already with the ice-blue eyes, her figure otherwise just as moderately scaled and humanoid as the others, although a bit slimmer and taller than the average 14-year old. She came from a peasant family, but with her regal stature and calm bearing, she did not seem like one. “Powerless,” she said, looking down at Tam. Her voice was as tranquil as her face. Tam said nothing to the most promising Dragoneer of her generation. Lily nodded, and the other two grabbed Tam and held her. “What’s so special about you?” Lily wondered, coming closer, staring through Tam with her entrancing eyes, the pupils black slits. “Let’s see.” She closed her eyes and whispered a few words. Suddenly it felt like slimy tentacles were worming themselves into her ears, into her brain. She felt as if she had been plunged deep underwater, and all sight and sound were muffled. She gazed in stupor as memories were picked from her--running from her birth to the time she peed herself in the grand hall, to the one time when she was 4 and fell down cold stone steps, and screamed in pain and cried for her Mother, to the day she'd been Chosen, and sobbed all night. “Pitiful,” Lily said, letting go mentally. Tam fell to the ground as the tentacles relaxed their grasp. “We’re not supposed to use the Words yet,” she gasped. After their lessons in fire breathing would come instruction in the use of the Ancient Words, she knew that much from Uncle Haversian, but it was intended for the more advanced Dragoneers as it was a dangerous and often double-sided art. “Rules are for the weak,” Lily said. “Are you weak, Tam? Is that why you cry?” "I do not cry," Tam snapped, fighting back the growing moisture in her eyes. Ada and Eva dropped her, and she fell back onto the muddy ground, making a splash. The water burned where her scaly skin joined normal skin on her wrist in an angry red rash, and she struggled not to react. She blinked rapidly, but it was no use. Cry she did, and stop she could not. Suddenly she felt an immense rage. She was the princess of Astra, daughter with noble blood, and yet here stood this commoner, always better than her in everything. She screamed and blew fire with all her might, but again, all that came out was hot air. “You...you flame-pisser!” She said the naughtiest word she knew that wasn’t quite naughty. “Flame pisser?” Ada laughed, her tail whipping back and forth. "That all you can manage? What’s the matter? Can't cuss, *Princess*?" "It’s not ladylike," Eva grinned. "She thinks she's better than us. Even though she can't shit out a single flame. Noble little prick." She spit on the ground at Tam. “Pain is part of the power,” Lily said, looking hard at Tam. “Don’t give in to it, use it.” “Use this,” Tam finally snapped, flashing the middle finger. She didn't know what it meant but she'd seen a servant using it once. The others ooh-ed and laughed, started forward, but Lily shook her head at them to stop and turned back to Tam. "Get up," Lily said. Tam's arms felt like they were on fire, and when she gingerly put them down to push herself up, needles shot up them again and she took a sharp breath in, falling back on the ground. She gave up and sat there. Lily did not laugh, like the others, and now she sighed. “If you don't use the pain, it will use you,” Lily said. Then she turned and left. The other two flicked their tongues, then they too turned and followed. Long silver tails shimmered at the base of their elongated, curved spines, mottled with bumps and bony spikes still forming. Tam turned back and stared at the mud. Pity. A common peasant had shown her pity. Somehow that was even worse than the bullying. Then she pushed herself up, grimacing and crying out with this final effort, and entered the castle. **Visiting Stonina** Before going to her chamber, Tam passed by the courtyard. Inside the courtyard, long rows of green grasses swayed gently in the afternoon sun. On the far end stood several pagodas housing bird cages. She walked towards them. Usually she would admire the deep red of the delicate maples that grew star-shaped leaves as big as coins, but today she was too dejected for that. She crossed a bridge that arched over a small stream, till she reached the cages. She passed singing yellow canaries, squawking green parrots, and lively peacocks pecking at seeds around her feet. At the end stood a lone cage, in which a raven quietly sat, inspecting her with a beady black eye. Tam called her Stonina because she liked picking up stones in her beak. Tam often brought her smooth, colored, marbled and otherwise unusual stones and Stonina would carefully accept them and add them to her collection of stones in the middle of the cage. “Hello Stonina,” she murmured, offering the raven a walnut that she always kept stowed away in her pocket. “Bwah,” Stonina said, taking the walnut daintily in her beak. She placed it on the floor and pecked at it, chipping away at the nut slowly and methodically. Tam smiled. This was why she liked Stonina especially. Unlike the other birds, who pecked haphazardly and without method at their seeds and grain, and flapped wildly to the other side of the cage when approached, Stonina was slow and measured in her movements. She was careful and observant almost in a human way, and Tam swore she could understand human speech by the way she would sometimes cock her head and stare brightly back at Tam when hearing her talk. “I’m scared,” Tam said to Stonina, as she petted the raven’s head from between the bars. Stonina’s head remained bowed, her eyes closed as she enjoyed the head pets. “If I fail, everyone will know. Mother will be ashamed, and Father will be ashamed, and…” she coughed. “I will be ashamed too.” Tam stopped petting the bird so she could wipe away her tears. Stonina raised her head and looked at the princess. As if to ask, *Why did you stop petting me*? Tam smiled and resumed petting her head. She did this until the sniffling had stopped, and she felt calmer and ready for the evening. **The Ceremony** Tam stood shivering next to the bathtub. The soft robe around her only helped a little--her exposed wrists still burned and she clenched her jaw and started to count back from 100. Her body was unevenly scaled. Where the scales were fully formed, for example up her legs and up her stomach, the pain did not touch. These areas were tough and resistant to cold, like living armor. But where scale touched skin, at her neckline, and at her wrists, the pain lived and breathed like a snake, wrapping around and suffocating her with its presence. She always scratched these borderlines bloody in her sleep, and would wake up with sheets that looked like someone had been murdered in them. At least she had servants to get rid of the evidence, she thought bitterly. The servants began to bathe her, as gently as they could. She held her breath and closed her eyes, as warm water ran over her head and sank into her skin. At first the pain seared like when you accidentally touched metal in the middle of a hot summer day, or got too close to the fire and a spark flew onto your arm. Then it became duller, like a strong grip on the arm, and then it faded to a sinister whisper. She began to breathe easier and opened her eyes, examining the dark shadows that danced around her. She had insisted that the number of candles be kept minimal and far away from her so as not to burn her. But the real reason was that she did not want to see her own reflection in the mirror that stood in front of her. Noble ladies got dressed at the mirror, had their maids put them in beautiful dresses, adorn and pin up their hair, to become symbols of beauty for the court and the people. But she was not a lady. She was a monster, and she could not remember a time she liked looking in that mirror. The servants washed away the soap and grime and then helped her out of the bathtub, and guided her to the mirror. She lowered her gaze and busied herself instead with the jewels adorning the mirror’s bottom, as she raised her hands so that they could pull the dress over her head. The sleeves were long and the neckline high, fully covering her rashy spots. Then they brushed her long black hair and braided it into one simple long tassel draping down her back. “Beautiful,” Mary, one of the maids said. “Look at you, all grown up.” Mary had been with her since she was a little girl. The servant was only five years older than her, but always addressed her with respect. Tam nodded but did not look. “Thank you Mary.” The servants bowed and began to make their way out of the room. "Mary?" Tam said. The girl turned around and came back. Tam waited for the others to leave. "Am I really beautiful? Or do you just say that every evening?" Mary smiled. "I've known you since you were a little girl, my lady. And you've always been kind to me. That in itself is beautiful to me. But yes, you look beautiful. Your eyes are large and expressive. Your chin soft, your nose straight and proud." “But my skin is so...marred,” Tam said. Mary sighed and did something she’d never done before, she gave Tam a hug. “Aye, I know it is painful, your transformation, yes. But maybe that’s a good thing. It teaches you to be beautiful inside.” Tam smiled. "Thank you Mary. I do appreciate your kind words. You may go." "Yes, my lady." Mary curtsied and began to leave the room. As she was going, she paused and turned back. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll do just fine.” “Thank you, Mary,” Tam said. And then Mary left and she was alone. Today’s ceremony was the ultimate test of the Dragoneers, to see if they were worthy of entering the Legion. It was the test of fire, and everyone would be there, both the noble families, her parents, being nobles themselves, and then the head of each peasant family, at the least. But usually there were more, because everyone was curious to see the spectacle of creatures not quite human, not quite beast, who would grow up to defend the kingdom. The thought of so many judgmental eyes terrified her. She tried to calm herself, but her heart fluttered like a bird. There was a knock at the door. Her guard. “Come in,” she said. “Are you ready, my lady?” She was one of the failed Dragoneers herself. Usually she was invisible to Tam, but tonight Tam looked at her tall, adult features, her fully scaled body and long reptilian face and could not help but stare. The guard shrugged. "It's not too bad, you know. All Dragoneers serve a role for the kingdom." Tam nodded and walked forward, her heart rate fast and palpable in her chest. Easy for the guard to say. She wasn't a princess with everyone's eyes on her. Mother already saw her as a failure. She would definitely be there tonight. And Father, and Little Brother, and Uncle Haversian, and everyone she knew and didn’t know. She tried not to turn and run the other way. The guard led her down the stairs, down a dark torch-lit hall to the back of the palace, and out towards the Spring she had passed earlier. In the darkness and the wind she began to see the glow of a thousand candles. A thousand candles held by a thousand guests, dressed in gowns of their finest silk. Peasants wore suits and dresses they’d taken years to save for. Baskets of fireflies hung from tall poles of bamboo at the edges of the hall, giving a warm glow to everyone and everything. In the middle of the room a path lay empty, leading up to the Spring. The other Dragoneer children were already there, a single gap in their line. Tam joined their ranks. She walked up the path and ascended the stairs to the Spring. By the time she was at the top, she thought her heart would burst out of her chest. The priest facing them raised a birch torch, empty and unlit. Birch, white and pure. The sacred tree of Lunaris. “Come forth, Chosen one, and light the Eternal Flame,” he said. Lily, the first in line, took the torch and lit it easily, blowing a small silver wisp onto the branch. She took her torch and moved behind the priest. The priest took another torch and repeated his line. The next Dragoneer came forth and lit her torch, and took her place next to Lily. When it was finally Tam’s turn, she took a deep breath and slowly turned to face the Priestess, whose face was hidden behind the mask of Lunari, the moon dragoness, warrior of the night. She thought of her Uncle’s words, to feel the Eternal Flame, not think it through. But it was hard to do so, when her mind was slowly filling up with thoughts of “what if I fail”, “what if I fail”. She took the torch and stared at it, trying to feel the wood. She thought of feeling. Feeling would take her, trying to feel anything. She thought of Mother. She saw the ghostly white face, pale and beautiful in the moonlight, ever so elegant. She thought of Father and saw the elusive authoritative man, who towered above her and somewhat intimidated her with his stately intelligence. And she felt something. She concentrated. Still the room was silent. She stood there with her face bent over the torch, her heart thudding madly. She felt like she was going to faint. She turned and faced the audience, but didn't look up. "Sorry.” Her small thin word spread out across the crowd and died. She walked back down the stone path past the people, past Lily’s bright, blue eyes and started running, and then kept running faster and didn’t stop until she was out of sight within the palace walls. Her skin burned, and she struggled not to scratch as she walked slowly towards the bird cages. She closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing. She scratched at her elbows, which were beginning to dry and turn scaly again despite the dollops of yarrow oil Mary had applied to her right before the ceremony. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Above the moon hung still and round in a cloudless sky. Myriads of stars clustered in random places as well. “Why can’t I do it?” she asked Lunaris, but the moon dragoness if she was listening remained quiet, like a bright white eye staring down at her accusingly. Tam could already hear Mother's disappointed voice in her ear. *A girl of noble blood, failing the simplest test. What will the people think of the Starfarer family now*? Silently, she offered Stonina a walnut. The raven came and delicately took the treat, and began eating it. "Bwah," she croaked. Tam stroked her head through the cage bars with her other hand, and the raven bowed her head to receive the pets. Some time elapsed, and Tam began to feel quieter. Still stricken but less panicked. “It is not afraid of you,” a strange voice said from behind her. Tam turned and hastily draped her shawl back over her shoulders and arms. “I’m sick,” she warned. “I am not afraid of you either,” the stranger said. “Well, you should be,” she said, turning back to Stonina, but her sudden movement had startled the bird, and she hopped on the further corner of the gilded cage. “Why?” the voice asked, coming closer. “I...I could get you sick too.” Tam threatened. Some believed ascalienation was not a blessing of Lunaris, but a sickness to be caught. Contagious and evil. “I’m sure,” the voice laughed, coming over to inspect the cage. The moonlight revealed a boy, slightly taller than Tam. “Is he friendly?” Tam looked at the boy, scanning his plain sand-colored shorts and cap, the markings of a servant. She turned her attention back to watching Stonina. “Yes. But you have to move slowly. That way she knows your intentions.” “It is a she?” he asked. “”Yes.” “Show me,” the boy said. Tam brought her hand to the door of the cage and opened it. Then she slowly placed her hand in the middle of the cage. At first Stonina fled to the top of the cage. Then she hopped down to her hand, and pecked once lightly on her finger. After cocking her head for a second, she hopped on top of Tam’s palm and let her gently rub her head with the fingers of her other hand. The raven closed her eyes. “She enjoys it,” the boy said. Tam nodded. “So do I.” “I’ve seen you before. In the courtyard with your uncle. You look different.” “Well yes,” Tam said, rolling her eyes. “I am dressed for the ceremony.” “No, I mean when you’re petting her.” “What do you mean?” “You look happy.” She turned, confused. “Is that a good thing?” “I think it’s beautiful,” the boy said. Tam scanned him for sarcasm, but there was none. “The guests are coming out.” the boy said. “I suppose I should go.” He turned to walk away. “Don’t go,” Tam said after a pause. “Stay.” That was the first time Tam talked to Jai.


A Dissonance The cloud of smoke hung in the air like some type of confused ghost, fragrant with apples and herbs. It shifted in wild colors, infused by the neon lights that blanketed the walls. Marta passed the mouthpiece of the hookah to John. He took a long pull. It simmered under the force of his breath. The bar itself was borderline deserted. Besides John and Marta smoking in one of the back booths, there was only the owner of the bar standing behind his desk, a prismatically illuminated display of different tobacco options lighting his heavy face, and one other group of people seated in another booth across the room. The music played quietly, its bass an almost subliminal pulse. “You like it?” Marta asked. “Yeah, it’s not bad. I’ve never been here before, honestly didn’t even know it existed before you mentioned it,” John answered as he took another hit. There was a shout and a laugh from across the room. One of them beckoned the owner over then started complaining loudly about some arcane aspect of the service. Marta looked over at them with a sneer. “You’d think they were hot shit, the way they’re acting over there. Especially that obnoxious bitch with the weave. Look at her flaunt it like that sacks of concrete are anything to write home about. I’ve seen better tits on a horse. It’s pitiful, an older woman acting like some dopey college girl. It makes me sick,” Marta murmured as she watched the owner argue with them. “Fuck it, who cares? Let them have a good time. God knows we’ll probably be the same way at that age.” John took another hit from the hookah then coughed, trying to calm the burn in his lungs with a drink of coffee. “Shit, and they don’t even serve alcohol here. The cheap bastards. Too greedy to splurge on a liquor license. But those people over there are right about one thing: this stuff does kind of taste like dogshit. The more I smoke it, the more I develop the subtle aftertaste of burnt applesauce that seems to like to linger.” “Oh, don’t complain. You are the one who wanted to come here after all, John. Don’t give me that shit now.” John sat back and looked at Marta for the first good time that night. Frizzy brown hair cut short that always smelled of flowers as they baked in the summer sun, tucked back behind the left ear as usual. Dark eyes peering back, so bright that at times it made him uncomfortable to return their gaze. The whites were strangely bright in the dim bar. Her tan skin awakened in him the awareness of Earth’s potential for fertility, an awareness of its texture in an embrace. The owner finally managed to pry himself away from his angry customers. It was quiet again, just music. Marta leaned over closer to John and whispered. “If you can get these curtains closed, I’ll suck your dick.” John choked on the smoke still in his lungs. He looked over at the owner sitting behind his desk. The man was leaning against it, defeated, with his head cradled in his hands. John handed Marta the hookah’s mouthpiece then started to untie some of the ropes holding up the curtains that obscured their booth. He managed to get only one down before the owner noticed. He stormed over with a look of absolute hatred hidden just behind his smile. “Sir, you can’t put down the curtains. It is against the fire code for them to be within a certain distance of an open flame, and when they are let down, they stretch past that point.” The man said all of this with an air of barely suppressed annoyance. “We can’t even let them down a little? Some of the lights are giving me a headache,” asked Marta innocently. “No. It is forbidden.” With that, the owner tied the one down curtain back up to the side of the booth and walked back over to his desk. He sat down behind it with an utterly blank face. John sat in shock, now completely demoralized. “Well, maybe if you move your chair beside mine, we could . . .” Marta cut John off with a stern look. “If you think I’m going to debase myself in front of all these people, you are greatly mistaken. You had your chance, and you blew it, mister. Besides, the vibe is all wrong now. I just know that guy is going to be watching us all night now. He can sense we are up to something.” John accepted his defeat and allowed the reality of that fact to flow through him. All at once, he realized that his coffee didn’t taste quite as good as he remembered. He took one last pull from the hookah, suppressing a cough as the harsh smoke burned his lungs, and with great expectation let out a depressingly small cloud of smoke. He tossed the mouthpiece down on the table and checked the time on his phone. 10:32 pm. Outside, there was only a matrix of dense ink beyond the glass. “Let’s get out of here,” John said. “We came and tried it, no one can blame us for that, but I can say with confidence that I will not be coming back. You pay for all that and they can’t even afford you a little privacy. You were right. We probably should have just hung out at my place like usual. I hope you’re happy.” “Yeah, let’s get the hell out of here. This place blows.” They got out of the booth, Marta giving the other group of customers a sour look as they walked by. John held the door open and the two of them walked out into the parking lot. The air was warm and humid, scented by an earlier rain. Back in the car, John drove without talking through the dark city streets, the windows open as Marta listened to her music. She smoked a cigarette, letting it dangle casually between her lips as she talked. He pulled into her apartment complex; a sprawling thing overcast with ancient trees that now broadcasted weird shadows from the streetlights. Lately an aura of history had haunted the place for John, emerging whenever he neared like a solid force. Too much history is contained beneath the branches. Parked in front of her place, both sat in silence in the car, unwilling to separate quite yet. “We can smoke a little if you want,” John propositioned. “Sure. It’ll help me sleep.” John fumbled around in the dark for a moment as he rolled the fuzzy buds into the proper shape. A small flame from a lighter. Thirty minutes later they were sitting quietly in the off car, their seats leaned back, looking up at the night sky and the few stars which had managed to penetrate the city’s light. John couldn’t help but smile. Moments like these were what sustained him. He was the first to speak. “Nights like this always make me nostalgic. Remember that time, when we were younger, and I had taken you on a trip to the beach?” “You and your beaches,” Marta joked. “Yes, I remember. That was what, going on about six years ago now. Man, we were practically kids back then. Now look at us. We’re heathens.” “What makes you say that?” “Well, I mean just look at us. If you would have asked me back then if I could see myself drinking and fucking and getting high, I would have been appalled. You know how it is: a white dress for the wedding. Have to be a virgin to earn that honor.” “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Those are only antiquated ideas best left for dead anyhow. Nobody gives a shit about that kind of stuff these days. Besides, you weren’t exactly an angel back then either. I doubt you would have gotten that dress if you tried.” “True,” she said. John rolled over onto his side and looked at her. “Well, may I continue?” he asked. “Of course,” Marta answered. “Please, go ahead.” “I think we were down there for New Years, or something around that time of year, and I had managed to find a little condo we could rent for a few days. It was your first time seeing the ocean. We had originally planned on going to the big party, seeing the fireworks and having some drinks, but one of us, I can’t quite remember who, wanted to go for a walk along the beach instead. We went to the beach and walked along it for a long time. I had never seen it so empty.” “You try to make it sound so romantic, but what I remember is freezing my ass off on that beach. I must have been sick for a week after that.” “You going to make fun of me or listen to what I want to say?” John asked somewhat irritably. “No, no. Please, go on, John. I was only kidding. Just don’t make things sound better than they really were. I was there too. There is no point in trying to sell it to me.” “Okay, fine,” John conceded. “I just get a little carried away at times, I guess. But the point I’m trying to make is that we spent hours on that beach together, laying on my jacket on the sand and holding each other, trying to stay warm. Hell, I even remember the way the planes looked as they flew by in the night overhead. Jesus, I admit it wounds cheesy as hell now that I say it out loud, like a scene in some horrible soap opera, but I must admit that night has stuck with me through the years. It’s almost like there is some form of significance in it.” Marta was silent for a moment. She lay on her side, looking over at John from the passenger seat. The light was so dim he could barely make out her face. “I distinctly remember you thinking those lights were satellites in orbit, or some nonsense like that. Said something about them being too high up to be planes,” she said. “And this is coming from the one who thought they were UFOs. Them being satellites is far more plausible than that.” “Then let’s just say they were planes and agree to disagree.” “But doesn’t some part of you kind of wish you could go back to that? You know, back to a simpler time when things didn’t seem so overwhelming,” John asked her. Marta considered this for a time. She twirled a strand of her frizzy her around her finger as she thought. Her proposition from earlier came back to John suddenly, and he wished to reach over the seat and embrace her, but instead restrained himself. Somehow, it didn’t feel like the proper time for that sort of thing. The fumes latent in the air were intoxicating. “I get what you mean by simpler times,” she finally responded. “There is an allure in that idea, it can’t be denied. Things can get overwhelming these days and there have been times when I have just wanted to curl up in a ball and run back to something more familiar, but the way I see it, that is just a lie. A false promise. I’ve always felt like memory lies to you, if you know what I mean. Like if you’ve ever tried to remember somebody from childhood, and this exact thing has happened to me before, so I know it is real, and when you ask someone in your family about that person you find out that they never existed in the first place or that they are somebody else. Your mind has a nasty way of playing all kinds of dirty tricks on you in ways you can’t even dream about. Sure, were things easier back then? Yeah, in a way. Were they better? That I don’t know. They must have been good if you remember them so fondly, but I doubt that if we were to go back things would be any different than what they are today. Things haven’t really changed, it’s just out perspective on them that has.” John searched for something to say. He wanted to argue the point, demonstrate his own point of view on the matter, but wasn’t sure how to phrase it. “How’s that for a deep and insightful comment?” Marta asked. “Not bad. You should be a poet in your spare time.” “The way I see it,” Marta continued. “Even if things were better back then, we can’t go back. Even if you wanted it more than anything else in the world, would be willing to kill for it, die for it even, none of that would mean the slightest thing. We all know it. Intrinsically. Time moves in only one direction: forwards. It’s pointless yearning over something that you will never have. And this is one of the few times where you can say that for certain. So why dwell on something that is now long gone, deader than the dust on the ground? It’s fine to remember, think back on something to enjoy the memory, but anything more than that is a mistake. I just focus on the here and now, do my best to enjoy it. That is the only reality there is.” “Well, I’m glad we got that sorted out then,” John said uncertainly. Marta shrugged and yawned, stretching out impressively. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to shit all over your parade, John. I remember that trip to the beach and I can admit that it is a good memory for me. But that’s all it is for me. A memory. I try not to dwell too much on the past. Not everything there is worth remembering. Anyway, we’re different people now. A lot can change in six years. I bet you if we were to go on that same trip again, we would be far too busy in the hotel to cuddle on some frozen beach.” “Fair enough,” John chuckled. “I just like to think back sometimes, you know. I think it’s good to remember what came before.” Marta lit a cigarette and rolled down her window, winding the hand crank with a grunt. The fresh air wafted into the car in hungry waves. John rose from his lazy stupor and looked at the clock in the dashboard. 1:43 am. He had no idea that much time had passed. “Thanks for everything tonight. I had a good time, you know. Call me sometime tomorrow and we can find a time to meet up again,” Marta said. She leaned across the center console and kissed John firmly on the lips. Without warning, she reached down and grabbed John’s crotch, gripping whatever she found firmly. John winced. “And don’t think I forgot about this little guy,” she jeered. “Mama was tired tonight, but after a good night’s rest she will be ready again, don’t you fear.” Mercifully she let go. John let out a deep breath. He turned the car back on then got out, going over to her side of the car to open the door. He stretched his cramped legs and breathed in the fresh air greedily. The temperature had dropped in the last few hours. “Alright, babe,” Marta said as she collected her things from her seat. “Don’t forget to call me. And get home safely, I don’t need to wake up to find your face plastered all over the news. I’ll see you soon.” John watched as she climbed up the stairs to her apartment. She fumbled with the door as she unlocked it then disappeared inside. Now John became very aware of how astonishingly alone he was in the dark parking lot, lost under the trees and their spectral shadows. A light turned on in her apartment. Satisfied that she was okay, John turned away and got back into his car. He sat there silently in the dark for some time, the windows rolled down as he breathed in the cold air. There was the scent of rain stuck to the pavement. Something pricked at the very edge of his mind. Was it just a fatigue from the drugs and the crazy talk, a symptom of the late hour? No, something entirely different lurked there. He tried to clear his mind to concentrate on the thing that bothered him like an incessant gnat. And then it dawned on him. In one decisive swoop him came straight to the core of the problem. Dissatisfaction is how he described it. The sensation that while overall things are pretty good, there is something subtle just under the surface that keeps you from getting too comfortable. He hadn’t known this all along, but as soon as he realized this it was accepted as a fact instantly. What was it he wanted? John thought and found he wasn’t quite sure. But he knew that there was something missing, and without that unique ingredient nothing would ever feel quite right. Is that what he hoped to find in Marta? If so, that was a cruel responsibility to put on somebody, especially if they didn’t even know they carried it. That was a formula for bitter disappointment. It had happened before, but John promised himself never again. Yet that special thing he had felt back then had been lost and that was an undeniable fact of life. Could Marta really be tied up in that? He had still felt the thing when they were first together all those years ago. Everything seemed to be coated in this special tint that imbibed life with a sort of enchantment that gave life so much zest. After she was gone that too died away with time. Was she the cause? John dreaded to think that one person could hold so much sway over such a vital aspect of a person. No matter how much he hated the possibility, he had to explore all avenues for an explanation. Only then could a cure be found. But that’s not the whole story. It had fled once she left him, true, but the sensation had been there long before John had ever met her. So, she wasn’t the one who spawned it, but did she have the power to destroy it? John sighed and shook his head. It was pointless thinking this way. Maybe Marta had a point. It was pointless dwelling on the past like this. It is dead and gone. But one thing was for certain. They wouldn’t last. How could they? The whole thing was founded on a misconception. The real Marta and his personal conception of her did not add up. When he thought of her, what entered his mind was a skewed image of an older version, the one that had walked with him on the beach that night, not an accurate projection of her based off present reality. It was almost like an out-of-date caricature of her. Yet who she was now is not what bothered him. Every moment he had spent with her had been a pleasure, liberating even. The issue stemmed from where these two versions of Marta conflicted. He searched for answers in a person that doesn’t exist anymore, if they even existed at all. The mind does have a habit of omitting the unsavory parts. Such a dissonance in his mind could only lead to strife. They would have their fun for a couple of months, laugh, drink, get high and fuck, maybe go on a trip and fantasize about a new life together, never telling the other what we truthfully think of. Pretend like we find any source of legitimate comfort in each other’s arms. And the best part is that John would go along with every second of it until one day he became disgusted enough with himself to suddenly call it off out of the blue. Letting things get to such a point could only serve to hurt her again. Why go through all the trouble? John laughed quietly to himself. There isn’t any harm in having a little fun. It brings a little spice to life. Hell, knowing her, she probably already knows all this, and when the time comes to break it off, she’ll be perfectly fine with it. To be honest, she has more experience with this type of thing than I do. In the end, John never found the answer to his problem. What that secret ingredient is, or even how it was lost in the first place, was a problem out of his reach. And for tonight he was at peace with that. But always through that peace, just beneath the surface, a sea of uneasiness bubbled. He knew he reached the same conclusion every night. He was fine with what he found now, but would he be tomorrow? Experience told him he wouldn’t be and kept him from getting too comfortable. John turned on the car. Switching on the radio, he found a station playing some old music and turned it down low, mining for comfort in the familiar sounds. He shrugged. Why worry? It’s not like he can solve all his problems tonight. It’s nothing that can’t wait until the morning, the beginning of which would be soon approaching. John put the car into gear and pulled out of the parking spot, turning out onto the empty road. At home, he lay in bed staring at the shadow of the blinds on the wall. The opium of sleep was working its way deep into his muscles, but he was not quite ready to give in just yet. It had started to rain, and he listened to the sound of the drops on the leaves. He was suddenly aware of how isolated he was, cut off from not only the thousands that surround him every day, but also from the person he once was, like some sort of creature had gained dominance of his body and he was now a prisoner, watching the creature as it calmly went about sabotaging his life. He closed his eyes and searched for shelter from the rain.


As I woke from my slumber, my eyes gazed upon my worst nightmare incarnate. Four summers ago, my mother returned from Turkey hoisting a massive, beautifully embroidered rug over her frail shoulder. She treated it as if it was her child, and by far her favorite one. My brother and I had the words “No food, no drink, and no shoes” drilled into our heads. Then, as my eyes came to focus while lying on the expertly crafted rug, I saw it, a massive, expanding stain of red, seeping further and further into the pristine fabric with every passing second. My mind was boggled, and my body felt weak. I must have fallen with a glass of strawberry soda, I thought. Yet, as I began to crane my stiffened neck, tiny pieces of dry wall were scattered across the floor, and a body lay before me, coated in red. Surely it couldn’t be blood, this was my brother, what had happened? There was a breeze, I remember, and knowing my mother, there shouldn’t have been one anywhere in this house, cheap woman. I quickly realized that a massive hole had been fashioned into the stone of our house by some heedless force, and the hole was in the shape of a pitcher. This is when I heard the footsteps, rumbling towards me, shaking the foundation of our home, and standing high above me, gazing upon my teenage candidness, was the Kool-Aid man. I had heard this urban legend of the Kool-Aid man, the one who murders children and ruins perfectly good rugs, but I seldom believe such things. However now, in his terrible presence, I accepted my fate, and thought “at least mom won’t yell at us.” Then I thought, “Wait, what the hell?” None of this mess had been my brother’s fault, or my own, so as far as I was concerned, I wouldn’t let a creature so transparent, you can see his insides get the best of me. As my vision began to clear further, the pitcher-shaped outline of the Kool-Aid man met my eyes, and a ferocity began to boil in my heart like my mother’s russet potatoes in that stainless-steel pot that she likes so damn much. Using this sudden rush of adrenaline, and the drive to take revenge on the murderer of not just my brother, but more importantly, my mother’s favorite Turkish rug, I staggered to my feet. How dare this man bust through our walls shouting like some commercial character? My shirt was soaked, and whether it was Kool-Aid, or my own blood was unknown to me, so I ripped it off, revealing my gorgeous dad bod, which is unfortunately genetic. I quickly realized that even walking would be an excruciating task. With each step, pain shot from my feet into my gut, where tiny shards of glass had firmly embedded themselves, seeming to dig deeper as I continued my strides towards revenge. The Kool-Aid man, who had begun his triumphant exit, must have heard me coming, because he quickly turned and met my gaze. Now we stood, face to face, unflinching, unwavering, and patient. It almost reminds me of a showdown that you’d see in an old western. For some stupid reason, as I was not carrying a gun, I wiggled my fingers at my belt as if I was ready to draw my revolver into position. The Kool-Aid man gazed upon my foolishness and laughed. “You think this is a joke?” he asked harshly, his voice booming and pleasingly charismatic. He tried to bow his chest out, but to no avail, without certain muscles, not much is possible, so he just pretended. However, the man, or pitcher better yet, was nevertheless imposing. I stood there silent, truthfully because I had no idea how to come out victorious. The Kool-Aid man was larger than me, had a serrated glass knife firmly grasped in his right hand, and he wasn’t bleeding from his gut profusely as I was. There was no way I could break his glass exoskeleton, it seemed nearly bullet proof, I mean, he breaks through walls without a scratch. So, I had to figure a way to get that red liquid to spill. My first thought was to sweep his legs out from under him, but all that red liquid inside of him is surely heavier than it appears, and I hadn’t the strength to muster the amount of force required. I needed to devise a way to use his own weight against him, or I’d be just as dead as my brother soon, as well as my mom’s heart when she sees her favorite rug has been ruined. As fast as I could, I looked him up and down and determined that a decent blow to the top of his exoskeleton would cause him to tip over. So, I sprang into action, if that’s what my gross display of stumbling could be called, and I began to run up the stairs. As I assumed, the Kool-Aid man did not pursue me, and laughed at my seemingly cowardly acts. “I knew you didn’t have the spirit!” he shouted at me from below, as I began to climb atop the banister, my eyes intent on my mom’s favorite chandelier from Budapest, which would soon be ruined as well. The wretched Kool-Aid man began to look at me strangely and cautiously, scanning every move I made and every facial expression that was displayed on my countenance. Then, I leaped. Somehow, I managed to grab hold of the chandelier as it swung back and forth like a pendulum. Once I knew I was secure, and could see the Kool-Aid man laughing arrogantly from the ground level, I began to contort my body, giving the chandelier the momentum I needed to destroy my enemy. Gathering all the strength a human can possibly obtain, I timed my release from the swinging chandelier. “OH YEA!!!” I shouted at the top of my lungs as my body soared through the air towards the man who ruined my mother’s rug. My feet crashed into him, and with a great, and final exclamation of despair, he crashed to the ground, and the liquid left his body, leaving him lifeless. I now stood above him, chuckling over his body as it lie cold on the floor. I bent down slowly, and dragged my finger through the red liquid that granted my enemy life, and proceeded to taste it. “Revenge is sweet,” I said with a smirk.


“Excuse me sir, are you using this chair” “Oh, I’m sorry. No, I am not. It is all yours Ma’m” Pulling the chair from my two top, the woman proceeded to awkwardly drag the leather seat back to her table of five. Tipping my hat in her direction, she received my gesture with a half hearted grin, as did her companions. They were an older group, gayly enjoying lunch. What they did not know was that they had just taken the seat of the hotel manager, Mr. Parchivald who I was expecting to meet with at 12:00pm. Or in other words, 15 minutes. Fortunately, I knew he would not arrive on time to our meeting. The manager would instead send over a member of his staff, to falsify his truth. This I estimated would all take place within the next 10 minutes. For all intents and purposes, I did not give a shit, about his absence. You see, when you’ve lived long enough with my condition, you learn to develop trust in the ways of the world. As it had happened over years of dealing with chronic deja vu, I have found that things always seemed to fall into place the way they were intended to. Mr. Parchivald would not arrive as planned, it was my job to accept this. 9 times out of 10, things usually worked out. The original plan went as follows. On this day, January13th, 1932, we were scheduled to meet at his hotel, The Bell View Baton Rougue. Mr. Parchivald was the manager of the establishment. He was a proud and dapper man, whose full name was William Robert Parchivald.. Full disclosure his mother called him little Billy for short. As the Vice President of Sales for Country Clear Bath Essentials, it was my job to sell this man bath products for his hotel. We would be agreeing on next years contract, and also introducing new products for our fine Shampoo, Soap, and Conditioner line. Mr. Parchivald did not know that we were having this meeting, he did not know that we were raising our prices equivalent to 2 cents a room either. He definitely didn’t know that I knew his mother called him little Billy. The following true story was all coincident. Or... was it intended to happen? ….. Understanding the difficult state of the economy, I knew I had brought a back up plan in case of desperation. In my suitcase, were two fine 2 bottles of Scotch, distilled 15 years off the native land. In addition, I had the ability to throw in a full year supply of our new body lotion if necessary. Pondering as to when and how this whole situation might unfold. I thought back to the vision I had earlier. When suddenly the messenger arrived. She was wearing a white collared shirt, with two pins. The top pin was circular, and read “SR,” while the second one read “Lobby” “I am so sorry, Mr. Writworth. Mr. Parchivald had an emergency, and will need to reschedule your meeting” “Hmmmm. I’m sorry who are you Mrs.?” “Oh, its actually Ms., and my name is Sue. Sue Randy.” “Nice to meet you Sue. When can I expect Billy to be available? I apologize but my schedule is quite busy, and I must be out by train first thing this evening” I responded quite directly. “Oh, did you mean Mr. Parchivald?” She said this with a puzzled look on her face. Sue was short for Susan, and Randy was a name given to her by her father. Sweet Sue is what he used to call her. “Yes, please tell Billy Parchivald that I can only meet with him today” “Right away. And Mr. Writworth, is there anything I can grab for you sir?” “Now that you mention it Sue. I would like a cappuccino and one of your chocolate croissants” “Certainly, Mr. Writworth” Walking upstairs into what I expected was Mr. Billy Parchivald’s office, I marveled at Ms. Randy Sue. She had worked for The Bell View for over 10 years, and this seemed to be the first time she would take matters into her own hands, pressing the urgency of my arrival. Most importantly, she would acknowledge Mr. Parchivald, and his true child like demeanor.  If only 50% of the world was as dependable as her, maybe we’d be out of this great depression.  ........  All would be well as soon as I got my cappuccino or so I thought. Stomping and climbing down the stairs, red like a chili pepper was a deranged Mr. Parchivald. Steam fuming out his ears, I took a deep breath, and hoped for a moment of deja vu to kick in, but nothing happened. Blazing Billy pulled out his colt 45 pistol, aiming the cold steel revolver to my head. “Who the fuck do you think you are, walking into my Hotel, naming me by my first name” The hotel fell silent, as gasps were heard around the dining area. Peering at the gauntly faces of the party across from me, I knew the joke was up. Staring up the metal shaft in front of my face, I traced it back to Billy's blood shot eyes. I could smell the whiskey under his breath. Normally a well put together, dapper man, Mr. Parchivald seemed to be all out of sorts. His grey hair usually fine combed looked thinner and unmaintained, sticking up in places that defied gravity. Trying to respond, I felt a lump in my throat and clog in my brain. I couldn’t help but admiring the man Billy Parchivald had become. Clicking the hammer back he looked terrifying, like a child who had forgotten how to dress himself. Every accent was askew. Notably were his missing cuff links, his crooked bow tie, and his stained white shirt. In his typical green and gold pin striped suit, he looked more like oversized lepraucan than a man. “God damnit answer me you good for nothing pansy ass!” he screamed. “Um, my name is William Writworth. I am hear from Clear Country Bath Essentials” I responded cautiously. Snarling back at me, he put his revolver back in its holster and attempted to retract his aggression like a psychopath. “Come to take more of my money I expect? ha ha ha ha” Laughing to himself, he terrified everyone around him, including Sue. Trying to meet his gaze, I couldn't help as my eyes kept drifting to his blistered red lip. Half of his mustache burnt away, my guess from a cigar that remained in his mouth after passing out. Yes, that was it. I could faintly smell the scent of burnt hair. Billy Parchivald was certainly having a hell of a morning. Tucking in his shirt, he looked down to see the missing chair. “Well then Mr. Whitworth, sounds like we got a bit of talking to doooo. How about you company’n me to my office where we can discuss the terms of our new deal” “Yes, why certainly Mr. Parchivald” I responded and we proceeded into his office. ....... Over the next hour, we would not discuss a dime of the actual contract or new agreement. Instead we would talk and drink the bottle of Scotch I had brought. What we did discuss was the price of travel out of the country and that I could only call him Big Billy, and I must always go by Little Willy. Signing our names as so, he agreed to the terms of our new contract, no lotion needed. As I closed the door to his office behind me I coughed abruptly as my lungs adjusted to the fresh air of the hotel. Walking down the stairs I smiled to myself as the world had once again worked out for the better. The last words I remember from Big Bill Parchivald were notions of fleeing the country. His two top destinations were Germany or Scottland. As I exited the rotating doors to grab a cab, a thought like the whisper of the wind came across my mind. It had been sometime since things had not worked out in my favor... 9 out of 10 I thought to myself. Then I heard a scream. “Wait ! Mr. Writworth!” Frantically I turned my head, and expecting the end of a gun. Peachy in the face, just as she was when I met here was Ms. Randy, croissant and cappuccino in hand. If only the rest of the world was as dependable as Sweet Sue.


The old man rose an hour before the sun came up. He was tired, his knees were tired. He sighed. 40 years; check, start a small fire, check again. Not once in 40 years had he ever had to light his beacon. After the second check, he woke the new one. They boiled water and ate, always checking. They checked all day, and then the new one went to sleep while the old and tired man stayed awake to check for a few hours until he could wake the new one to take over. He rose an hour before the sun came up but today, he woke the new one first. "Check, start a small fire, check again." The new one nodded in affirmation and checked. He then made a small fire and checked again. Nothing, peace. This went on. One day the old and tired man noticed that the new one was visibly bored, or even disappointed, when he did his second morning check and found nothing but peace in the distance. The older of the two men sighed and laughed to himself, as he remembered when he felt the same boredom; looking off into the distance to see no burning beacon, minute after minute, day after day, year after year. But he knew how important his work was, and had grown to find great pride in it. The old and tired man died. The new one grew. Every day he rose an hour before the sun came up. He checked, started a small fire, and checked again before boiling water and eating. Years passed. He felt pride in his life's work, but the boredom was always just behind it. A decade passed. He rose an hour before the sun came up and checked. One day he woke, but he lay on his sheepskin blanket on top of the great mountain that had been his home for so long. He didnt check, but instead reflected on the old and tired man who had been his mentor. He had made jokes, and would repeat them, even though they were not very funny. He had done it because he had been alone for so long on top of this great mountain. The man who used to be the new one boiled water and ate, and for the first time since he arrived here, he skipped the first check of the day. Later he checked, saw peace in the distance, went on with his day, and went to sleep, always thinking about the old man who had told jokes. Another decade passed. The man who used to be the new one sometimes checked, resting assured that there was peace in the distance. Today he woke, and lay there on the sheepskin blanket, thinking of his family from almost 30 years ago. How he missed them, and how he missed his dog. He thought of the old man who had told jokes. "What do you call the cat that lives in my tent on top of this great mountain?" the old man had asked. "I dont know, what do you call him?" "I dont know, I dont have a cat." the old man had answered. The old man who used to be the new one rose. He boiled water and ate. He sat gazing across the ocean to the south of the great mountain where he lived. He had come to appreciate the serene beauty and had come to understand where the old man who told jokes found his appreciation for this simple life. He checked. In the distance there was a towering plume of black smoke. He was frozen, confused in every way. He knew this was exactly what his life's work was, but it wasn't ever supposed to happen. His mind raced, trying to calculate how long it had been since he checked. He had gotten up and checked once during the night, hours ago. How long had his small village and his family there been in danger? He had missed it, so he hadn't lit his beacon. He hadn't called for help. More smoke came up, but not from the beacon in the village. It came from the small circles in the distance that were home to the villagers. The old man who used to be the new one stood helpless on top of the great mountain and watched the little village burn.


Jack thought moving to the asteroid would let him escape his past, what he didn't know was that he would end up feeling more like a prisoner with a life sentence than a free man. Back on earth, he was a wanted man. Space was appealing for those like him, hop aboard a rocket to the moon or the asteroid belt or to one of the small settlements further out and you'd be metaphorically reborn. The allure of a fresh start should've seemed too good to be true, because it was. Jack had committed some serious crimes, and you can do background checks in space. Right after Jack arrived at the belt, the UN announced that it would start an international law enforcement agency in space and that the lawlessness of the new frontier was coming to an end. This new agency would have the authority to extradite wanted criminals back to earth, if they were able to locate them.  Jack was a skilled metal fabricator, so he started building and modifying spaceships for a living once he reached his new rocky wasn't very hard for him, the kind of ship you need to move around the asteroid belt is nowhere near the ship you need to take of on a planet or large moon. Mining ships are the easiest to build, the crews only work in them they don't live in them so the crew quarters don't have to be extravagant. There is near enough zero gravity out in the belt, so the cargo areas don't have to be the sturdiest as you're just holding things together as opposed to holding things up, as you have to do on earth. Not only was Jack good at what he did, there was too much demand for his work. You can't move in space without a ship, and talented ship builders were few and far between. Jack became a wealthy man, his home in the belt was nicer than any he had lived in back on earth.  Those who needed ships would usually show up at a shipyard and speak with a builder face to face, this a tried and true business model in which everyone gets what they want or need. One day, as jack arrived at the shipyard to finish a ship he was building retrofitting for a cargo transporter, someone approached him and asked "Are you Jack Alexander Whitney?". Jack had never used his full name in space, and he told people that 'Alexander' was his last name if he was asked. He was convinced this was a space cop who wanted to drag him back to earth, so he said no. The man replied "Well I know that you are. I know your dirty little secrets, so if you want to keep the space police off your tail you'll do any favor I ask of you from now on". He had never seen this man before, but he felt that he would see him again.  Not much later, Jack received a message from one of his brothers back on earth. The victims of his crimes wanted closure, not maximum punishment. Jack knew what this really meant, the prosecutors were ready to make a deal in exchange for information. He wasn't very eager to go back to earth however, as it would take him months to get back even if he left immediately. However being able to live a normal, terrestrial life again did weigh on his mind. Jack had a choice to make, does he go back and deal with his past, or keep running from it? The threat of blackmail was at first only a minor consideration, until the man who threatened to turn Jack in came back to the shipyard. He told Jack that he wanted his pure transport ship retrofitted into a self contained mkning ship, Jack understood that doing this for free was the 'favor' the man had mentioned before. He decided to just do it for free, avoid the trouble,thinking that this would be the end of it.  Jack was afraid of returning to earth, what if his brother was just trying to turn him in for his own gain? What if his brother was being lied to? What if people just changed their mind during Jack's lengthy travel time? He decided returning wasn't worth the risk. That was until the blackmailing man returned. Jack thought he wanted something done to his ship. What he learned was that this man wasn't interested in mining, he had a pipe dream of becoming a space pirate. He wanted to use his ship to steal from actual mining parties, and demanded that Jack join him as part of his crew. Jack realized that this was bound to draw the attention of authorities anyway, so he decided to tell the man that he would join his crew once he was done re-retrofitting the ship for a life of crime. Jack's plan wasn't to become a space pirate, his plan was to stall this long enough to find a ride back to earth to take his chances with those who he had wronged years ago. Not only was Jack desperate to get away from this pirate idiot, he was now much more mature than when he first left earth. He was having nightmares about what he did. They got so bad he could barely sleep. He decided to tell his brother he would give up everything he knew in exchange for his freedom and to forward that message to the prosecutor and defense attorney on his case. He knew that it was a longshot that a deal would be worked out in his absence, and if he was back on earth without an agreement in place his ultimate fate would be out of his hands. However, he could no longer live with the guilt of not answering to what he had done.


It’s these quiet times when my mind gets the noisiest. It’s as if it knows when I’m most vulnerable, timing it’s darkest hypothetical visions when there is no one around to comfort me. All the possible lies whispered loudly in my ear. Why is the worst always assumed? Was it because of what my father did when I was younger, or was it because of what I did not too long ago? Why does suffering have to be the defence mechanism to getting hurt?  I turned on my light and decided to read. It wasn’t like I was going to be able to fall asleep anytime soon. I quickly checked my phone for any messages. A few, but not from the person I wanted to talk to most. The person that made me feel safe and whole, the person that would hug me no matter the result of life, the person I had been so damn lucky to meet.  The book was about a man who fell in love with the sea. He would stare at it for hours to show his appreciation for its power and its stillness. He would read it stories and listen to hers in return. One day, he decided he could no longer bear being separate from his love and became one with it forever. The sea took him in with her loving arms, murmuring how she loved him to death. They were finally together.  The book was a bit dramatic for my liking but I appreciated the message, especially at this point in my life. A vision of her enjoying another man brushed my minds eye before scurrying into the depths of my consciousness.  Reading didn’t seem to be helping my attempt to fall asleep so I decided to meditate. I set a timer for ten minutes and closed my eyes. I started with ten deep breaths just like I had been taught, covering the breath with my awareness, noting the beginning and end of the inhalations and exhalations, as well as the little space between them. I began to let go and let my body breathe the way it wanted to, the way it did every day whether I noticed it or not. I watched my thoughts pass through: the ones about the book, the ones about tomorrow’s agenda, the ones about whether I would ever be able to fall asleep, and the ones about her. The ones about her were the hardest to let go of. I wanted so badly to go into the story, to witness who she was sleeping with, to listen to her admit it and spit venom at her, to slam the door and hate that I still loved her. But I let those ones go too. They were stories, pictures on a movie screen. They weren’t real.  I let the sound of the timer ring for a couple moments, appreciating the few moments of quiet I had experienced. I put my head against the pillow, allowing my eyelids to concede to gravity, and allowing my heart to concede to reality. I would be with her soon.


Once there was a little girl. She was neither tall nor short, thin nor fat. She had long, beautiful, light brown hair, a beautiful face, and a sunny disposition. Her milk teeth had come out and very large ones had replaced them. She was teased by other children, but it never stopped her from smiling. Home life was happy enough, at that time. Sure, her mother would lash out and beat and her father would get into the ale too much, but the little girl had her brothers, and her very best friend. Her reflection. The little girl was fortunate enough to have a room separate from the rest of the family. She would go there when noise got to be too much for her. She would dream and act, cry and read, and think about what it would be like to have her own cottage with her own little girl. Ah, but the mirror. That was where her best friend lived. You see, other than her teeth, no one had ever made comments about her appearance before, other than to comment on her complexion or eyes. She loved looking at herself, but not in a vain way. The way that birds like to look at themselves. She would watch her mouth form words, learned to wiggle her eyebrows and wink with both eyes, and would use funny voices with different expressions. When the girl would cry, she knew that if she went to her room and shut the door, her best friend would cry with her. They could tell each other that they weren’t at fault and things weren’t always going to be this way. The girl would sniffle and kiss her reflection, and feel better. This went on for a long time. And then, one day, the winds shifted. This man that called himself her “REAL Grandpapa” was coming for a visit, and the girl’s mother started acting strangely. The cottage was scrubbed, top to bottom, the beatings came more often and more harsh, and the girl started to go quiet. Not too much at first. Just a little less laughing and smiling. More hair being pushed behind her ears in a soothing gesture. The day for “Grandpapa” to arrive drew closer and closer. When he arrived, the girl was shy. Who was this man that resembled her mother so? Why did his young daughter look like a reflection of her mother? The girl was uneasy, as Grandpapa paid more and more attention to her, giving her a nickname for her smile, and ignoring her mother. Her Auntie was only five years older than her, how strange. She was mischievous and manipulative, but the girl kept quiet and hoped they’d leave soon. The Auntie was causing trouble with Mother and Grandpapa, acting like a child having a fit whenever he would engage with Mother. At long last, Grandpapa and Auntie took their photographs and bid their goodbyes. Auntie promised to write the girl and the girl promised back. As soon as their caravan was out of sight, Mother had tears in her eyes and trembling hands. She went to her bedroom and shut the door. After that, things around the house changed. Bad magic had been stirred up. Mother and Father fought and argued more, each battle worse than the one before. The girl was informed that she was getting fat, had a unibrow, huge crooked teeth, and was too...her. This crushed the girl, and at first, she tried comforting herself the same way she always had. Her best friend was still there, with her sad smile and tearful eyes. But then the girl REALLY looked at her friend. Mother was right. Her teeth were too big, her eyebrows too bushy and met in the middle, and she did seem a little chubbier than the day before. The girl turned away from her friend and whispered, “You’re hideous. I HATE you.” After that, whenever the girl was reprimanded, picked on, or told she was starting to get “heavy,” she’d sneak up to her room, look at her reflection and give HER the riot act. “Why can’t you be beautiful? Why are you unable to keep from knocking milk over? Why are you so LOUD? Can’t you keep quiet? Can’t you get better grades?” The girl would cry, engulfed in emotion, and turn away from her reflection. The years went by, and the girl stopped visiting her friend. She would look into the mirror, only see flaws, and run. She couldn’t stand her reflection, yet looked into a mirror every chance she got. Maybe in a way, she was trying to check in on her old friend, but only sad eyes and a harsh tongue met her. When the girl became a mother, she was so sad and angry all of the time, she lost herself. And one day, when the pain and crying were too much, she started feeling desperate. She needed to do something! Hurt herself, end it all, or make it all better! Her heart pounded hard, she couldn’t hear, breathe or see. She stumbled in front of the mirror and saw her friend. Her friend she had known forever. Her beautiful friend, looking so bereft and terrified. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay. I love you, it’s okay.” The girl started muttering and then it got louder. “I’m so sorry. It’s okay, we’re OKAY. We’ll be okay. We just need to get through this. I love you. Don’t leave me. I’m sorry.” The girl watched her friend slowly calm. They looked at each other in quiet admiration. They had weathered the storm together, just like so many years ago. Things were going to get better, they knew it. The girl doesn’t talk to her friend much anymore. Her friend understands, it’s how things have to be. But every once in a while, while the girl is picking at her reflection’s face, tearing her down with sad and angry words, they lock eyes and know that they love each other. The End.