The Dying of the Light 1987 words The village of Rathmullan is a special place, surrounded by steep hills and a forest of millennial oaks. The road from the coast corkscrews down under the green canopy of the trees until it reaches the valley floor where the houses nestle on either side of the Avon Beg river, connected by a steep stone bridge. It is a world-apart, out of time, where the only sound is the wind in the trees and water running over rocks. On one side of the bridge is a shallow ford where children paddle in summer, racing paper boats and catching sprickly bags in jam jars tied with string. The valley is so isolated that only an occasional car disturbs the peace – usually a tourist or someone lost. The village church stands at one end of the main street. At the other end the gates to the manor house lie open. In fact, nobody in the village can ever remember them being closed. The Woodvilles own most of the land in the area and have lived in the “Big House” as long as anyone can remember. They are not stuffy or stand offish. Flora and her father, Owen Woodville, know everybody in the village by name. Owen breeds horses, famous for their speed and stamina. ‘It’s in the blood people,’ say and dealers come from all over to pay top dollar for his yearlings. Flora has a gift for healing and no one who needs her help is ever turned away from the kitchen door at the back of the house. Flora was hot and flustered as she stood over the vat of sweet smelling strawberry jam that was bubbling on the stove, when a figure appeared at the kitchen door. “Sorry to bother you. Car’s broken down on the bridge. Think the axel might be smashed. Know any good mechanic round here?” Flora brushed a stray lock of hair back off her forehead and looked at the handsome stranger. It was the combination of blues eyes and the mischievous smile that did it: love at first sight. “Flora Woodville – would you like a cup of tea while you wait?” In the end he never left and a year to the day later they were married in the village church. On the day of the wedding her father had warned her. “ You know what will happen if you step onto the stranger’s land. We Woodvilles are tied to the land and the woods .”  She had nodded but hadn’t ever thought about it since. The farms and the village and the valley were her world. She had never needed anything else until Peter came along and some things were better left alone. Her time would come in the usual way and when the light began to go she would fade into the night. For now, she was content with her handsome husband and their three beautiful daughters, Rose, Poppy and Daisy. Peter was a sales rep and had to travel around the county selling farm machinery, so it was not unusual for him to be away for days at a time. One day as Peter reached over to kiss her goodbye; Flora thought she detected an unfamiliar perfume. She was so surprised that she blurted out “Oh did you get a new cologne?” ‘The smell was the light and flowery scent of late summer roses. Very different from his usual cologne of sandalwood and vetiver. “Oh it’s a tester they had in the chemist shop – I gave it a squirt to see what it was like. A bit too feminine for me. “ Flora looked at her husband but decided to make light of it. “Typical male!” she laughed as she went out into the garden with the girls. At the door she turned back to say something to her husband and then forgot what it was. Their years together had been happy, idyllic even. Peter O’Brien was still the handsome, charming man she had married. His dark brown hair was beginning to show signs of silver but, other than that, he hadn’t changed in all this time. ‘ Where have the years gone?’ she thought as she went on out into the late October sunshine. It would be Hallowe’en on Saturday and she wanted to collect some apples and the last roses from the garden. She would make a wreath of roses and honeysuckle berries for the door. Her grandmother used to say it protected the house from witches. Flora liked to make a fuss at Halloween, for the children, but also for herself. It was a time for ritual and remembering and sharing. It was her grandmother who had taught her everything she knew about healing and the ancient rituals were a way of remembering her kindness.

The next morning Peter looked at her sheepishly. ” I have to go to Galway for a couple of days. “There’s a big trade fair on in The Ardilaun Hotel over the weekend and there’s a chance of a big deal.” As he spoke the light flickered and Flora shivered. For a moment her vision blurred and she put her hand up to wipe her eyes. Peter looked at her. ” What’s wrong?” he asked. “Nothing” she said. “Someone must have walked on my grave.” Peter pulled Flora close. “Don’t worry, love. I’ll be back on Monday and we can celebrate Halloween together then. I know what it means to you.” After Peter left Flora went out into the garden. It was time for the last tidy-up before winter and a couple of hours pruning and raking would calm her down. The house was surrounded by a ring of hawthorn and elder broken up with an occasional rowan. She loved the jewel colours of the berries in autumn and the perfumed air of the blossoms in spring. It was where she felt most at peace, walking in the dappled shade of the woods. She was in the middle of cutting back a large buddleia when she heard a phone ringing. Instinctively, she patted her pocket but there was no call. She walked back into the warm kitchen. Peter’s phone was flashing on the dresser. ‘God! ,’ thought Flora . ‘ He’ll go mad when he realises he’s forgotten it’. As she picked up the phone she realised it was his old Nokia. They had both got new smart phones as part of a deal with Eircom and she thought he had consigned the trusty old Nokia to the drawer in his desk. The screen lit up with an incoming call from an unfamiliar number. Without thinking she clicked on the message. “Looking forward to tomorrow night. Don’t forget to bring your costume. Love, Tara!” it was followed by a heart emoji. This time the flicker in the light was almost visible. ‘ Maybe it’s my blood pressure. I should get it checked out .’ At the same moment she remembered her father’s last words to her before he died. ‘The only thing that can kill love is the dying of the light.” Flora knew what she had to do. Her glamorous witch costume was hanging upstairs and with ghoulish face paint and a hat she would be next to invisible. There was only one problem. None of the Woodvilles ever stepped out of the safe enclosed world of the valley. Flora looked at her winter boots and an idea occurred to her. She went out into the garden and brought in a bag of soil from the orchard. She took the insoles out of her boots and put in a layer of the rich dark soil, pressing the insoles firmly back into place. It might be a bit squishy but it would do the job. Sitting at the bar of the Ardilaun Hotel sipping a virgin mojito, Flora didn’t have long to wait. With a witches face and straggly hair on top of a young body her own mother wouldn’t have recognised her. The man in the Pierrot costume sitting beside her looked her up and down. “Jaysus! Great legs, pity about the face.” as he got off his stool and staggered drunkenly in the direction of the disco. The bar filled up steadily with people of all ages, some in costume others not, but most of them well on towards getting roaring drunk. When the crowd thinned in the middle of the room she saw them sitting in the corner. He was dressed as Dracula and she was dressed as a sexy vampire in a costume that left very little to the imagination. Flora thought she was either, going to faint or vomit as the room spun around her and her vision blurred. She got off her stool and walked unsteadily in the direction of the ladies. It felt like walking through a thick mist. For anybody watching she was just another tipsy party goer. She saw them glance briefly in her direction but they were too engrossed in each other to pay much attention. Flora felt as if the world was closing in on her and knew she needed to get home. The next day she was tired and withdrawn. The children sensed something was wrong and were clingy all day. She thought the day would never end so she could go to bed and be on her own. When Peter walked in at lunchtime on Monday he was his usual perky self. He gave her a big kiss and then out of the blue asked. ”Why are the gates on the avenue pulled over.” “No Idea,” said Flora. “Maybe it was the wind. It was very stormy here last night. Must have been wild in Galway, what with the wind from the sea.” The edge to her voice was unmistakable. Peter looked at her. “Are you alright? You sound a bit distant.” Flora stared at her husband as if seeing him for the first time. “You know something, Peter? The essence of a lie is being found out – otherwise there would be no such thing as a lie. Did you know that?” Before he could say a word she went on: "Do you remember what you said to me the day we got married? You said I was the light of your life.” “What on earth are you talking about? And what’s with the light in here? – surely it can’t be getting dark already?” He knew he was in trouble and needed to escape for a bit to get his story together. “I need to clear my head, I feel a bit groggy. One too many at the show.” He laughed but now he sounded brittle and empty. Flora could see the fear in his eyes. “I’ll walk down the avenue and wedge the gates." As Peter turned the corner onto the avenue he looked back and saw Flora and the girls standing in the lighted doorway. He could feel the damp mist rising around him. “Must be coming up from the river.” he muttered to himself.  By the time he got to the gate the mist was so thick he could only see a few feet in front of him. He kept going and found himself standing on the stone bridge looking back towards the gates that now began to close, very slowly. “What in God’s name is happening?” Slowly the mist began to clear and Peter looked around him in disbelief. There was no sign of the gates, or the village: just a wall of ancient trees. “ I must be hallucinating. Someone must have spiked my drink last night." He looked at his watch to check the time. The hand was wrinkled and blotchy with liver spots and sausage fingers – the hand of a very old man. “This can’t be happening. Flora, where are you? I need you!” There was no reply. In fact no sound at all. Nothing, except the sound of running water and the wind rustling in the trees.


The pine trees swarmed around the lake like a great barrier keeping everything safely inside. To the boys: William and Michael, it seemed like the woods were creating a private summer get-away spot just for them. Of course, their parents and little sister were still tagging along - someone had to provide the snacks and juice boxes, they supposed. But once they had been well sunscreened and had their floaties tucked on they felt like they were swimming all along on their perfect island.

“Billy! Mikey! It’s time for lunch!” called their mother from the picnic table just inland from the lake. The boys could already smell the meal their father was grilling and it was clear their mother had laid out all the necessary items for burgers from the small ice chest they had brought. Their sister had already begun drinking a bottle of Kool-Aid and smiling at them with a rather blue mouth. The boys looked at each other and instantly started racing up the sand trail back to their family.

The boys playfully pushed each other and tried to hold the other one back in order to win but in the end, they both arrived at the table together. Their mother, Susan, smiled down at them, trying to pretend as if she weren’t annoyed that their ‘playing’ always included roughhousing. She was a sensitive woman and not at all interested in anything violent or what she called ‘not life-giving’. However, when it was meant for fun, she often let it pass so as to not cause an exasperated uproar from the rest of her family.

“You two ought to play more kindly, or else someone might think you two just love violence and will offer you more than you can handle,” Susan said, trying to speak jokingly but came off just weird and a bit annoying. The children brushed it off and continued to tease each other and their little sister.

“Who wants cheese?” Jake asked, opening the package of presliced American cheese that was in the cooler. All the children raised their hands. He could tell from Susan’s expression that she would have also liked some but she refused to raise her hand for fear the cheese would go straight to her hips. Jake offered a weak smile but said nothing as he turned back to the grill. “Who would like to say grace for lunch?” Susan asked. Both of the boys groaned in unison.

“Do we have to say grace? It’s summer vacation!” Billy whined.

“Just because it’s summer doesn’t mean we need to be any less grateful for all the things we have,” his mother answered.

“Will Jesus take it all away if we don’t pray?” the little girl asked, speaking for the first time. Susan smiled and Jake stifled a laugh as he put the cooked meat onto the paper plate.

“No, Jesus doesn’t give things in order to be thanked but it’s still important we remember to be grateful. We are a lot better off than most people and it’s important to keep that in mind,” their mother replied. Jennifer, the daughter, did not look at all satisfied with this answer but she said nothing.

“Soups on!” Jake called, setting the plate down on the table and dishing up the meat. Everyone had already prepared their burger buns and were ready to finish it off with the main ingredient. As soon as everyone’s food was ready, Jake took his seat and held out his hands, his wife did the same. Reluctantly, the children followed suit and bowed their heads. Their father gave a prayer, which in the boys’ minds was much more like a long sermon, and then squeezed the hands he was holding and they prepared to eat.

When they had finished, Billy and Mikey wanted to race back to the water but their mother insisted that they needed at least 30 minutes to rest and settle their stomachs. Both of the boys groaned and moped and then decided to take the opportunity to explore the woods.

“Now don’t go wandering too far and get lost! You don’t want to make a meal for some kind of wild bear!” Their mother called.

Billy and Mikey laughed it off, thinking that first off they wouldn’t run into a bear but at any rate, they could take a bear together. The two of them talked and made up stories about how they were as strong and wise as Optimus Prime or a crazy fighter like “Stone Cold” or “The Rock”. Then their conversations turned to simpler and more manageable fights and arguments like the best Pokémon or how to win a Yu-Gi-Oh card game.

Then all at once, they heard a noise. It sounded like a little girl crying. The boys exchanged an uneasy glance.

“Should we check it out?” Mikey asked. Billy shrugged. He didn’t want to admit that he’d rather turn back - especially not if his brother was brave enough to investigate.

The two moved closer to the h sound and the cries became more distinct. “It sounds like Jen. Do you think she came in here after us and got lost?” Billy suggested, suddenly feeling much braver. Mikey chuckled and playfully punched his brother's shoulder.

“Hey, Jen! It’s us! We found you, you’re alright. Come on out now!” Mikey called. The crying stopped abruptly. The two of them continued down the path toward the sound of their crying sister.

“Come on, Jen. The gig is up, we found you,” Billy called again.

“I can’t, I’m stuck. Come help me!” their sister cried out. Both boys looked at each other with a smirk. Of course, they would help their sister, but this would serve for lots of teasing for the rest of the summer vacation. That was something they would really enjoy.

“Hold on, Jen,” Mikey called out, barely able to contain his laughter, “we are on our way!”

The two of them carried on, calling out if they lost the trail towards her. Jen would always answer with a cry and beckoned them forward. It was almost sunset when the boys finally came upon a large cave. The mouth of it opened up into a foreboding black pit that offered eerie and ominous adventures.

“I’m in here!” Jen cried out.

The boys wasted no time and ran into the cave despite not being able to see a foot in front of their faces. Almost at once, they were completely engulfed in darkness as if something had shut off the entrance behind them. Before either of them could even register enough to feel worried or fearful they found themselves facing a pack of the most horrifying and strange creatures they had ever seen. One of the creatures was still crying in Jen’s voice while another was still begging them for help, again in their sister’s voice. Both of the boys were stunned with fear and paralyzed in their thoughts.

“What… what are you?” Billy managed to whisper. None of the creatures ventured a reply. Instead, they opened their mouths wider than any human mouth should be able to, though it was already apparent these creatures were less than human. There were rows of teeth in their mouths that seemed to almost be swirling around. Without another moment of hesitation, the creatures lunged at the boys.

It was after nightfall when Billy and Mikey made it back to their campsite. Susan and Jake were none too pleased that the boys had stayed out past dark. Their mother gave them an awful lecture. In fact, she had been so worried and angry at her sons that she didn’t notice that both of them were much quieter than they normally would be. Neither of them was talking back or objecting to her discipline.

After a moment Jake stopped his wife and gave the boys a small bowl of cereal for dinner. Both of the boys at manically as if this was an unusual practice for them. They stared straight ahead and never uttered a sound. It wasn’t until all five of them were snuggled into the tent together that anyone was aware that these boys were not Billy and Mikey at all. Of course, by then, it was much too late.


Once upon a time, there was a kingdom ruled by a King and his loving and adoring Queen. Together, they birthed two children, the oldest was a Princess and the youngest was a Prince. The young royals were sheltered, having never stepped outside of the castle. Rumors say that the Princess was one of the fairest of them all, while her brother was one of the most well-behaved children in the land. Subjects of the kingdom adored the perfect image of the royal family but failed to realize that the perfect image was simply an image. If there was one thing that was not a rumor, was that Princess Libre was an extremely gorgeous girl. She was slim and tall, with curves that compliment her frame. Her hair was long so she kept it braided out her stunningly gorgeous face. Not only was she physically beautiful, but spiritually. Ever since she was a child, servants of the castle noted her positive and kindred soul. She was a rose in a bed of weeds. When Libre was born, her mother instantly hated her for the simple fact she was a girl. She saw her as competition, not her daughter. The king was indifferent toward her. He wanted his firstborn to be a boy so that he can inherit his throne but instead, he got Libre. During her childhood, she was beaten relentlessly by her mother for little mistakes such as playing with the servant children. When she was 7, a blessing in disguise came. Her brother was born. Cupid Ite Suro the second was born at the break of dawn. The word spread like wildfire. A Prince was finally born into the royal family. The king mandated a celebration in the name of his son being born. The land was filled with joy and happiness. It was the first time Libre ever saw her mother smiling. Ever since then, her parents ignored her and dotted on her brother. Growing up with no discipline and all the power in the world, Cupid became a nasty child. He would beat on the servants and maids when he didn’t get his way, would deliberately tear his clothes up to anger the seamstresses, and rip the flowers in the garden to the dismay of the gardeners. The Queen insisted on keeping Cupid away from Libre, but when the siblings did spend time together, it caused Libre headaches. As she got older, she became bored with her life in the castle. She was tired of having the same conversation with the same maids and servants so she wanted to explore. The king and queen wanted to keep their life private so their children never stepped outside the castle before. With the help of some guardsmen, she planned her first trip outside the castle for her 18th birthday. When the day came, cloaked in a long robe which obscured her face and her body, she took her first steps out of the castle. The air was fresh and clean, the sun was warm on her face, and the color of the trees and grass were vibrant. She never experienced something so beautiful.

Her first trip outside the castle walls was to a little village close to the riverside. Libre was taken aback by the busyness of the village. Children were running around in the streets with muddied clothes. It was strange, even though the kids were dirty they looked so happy. The townsmen and women were in the streets, dancing and singing to the jovial music playing from the bar. The waitresses from the bar were bustling to serve out ice-cold beers and ales. Libre spent her time in the village observing them from the sidelines.

When she got back, her father sat her down to have a conversation. It was the first time she had a real conversation with her father in years. While looking her straight in her eyes he said, “I have arranged a marriage for you. He is a wealthy prince from across the sea who is looking for a princess.” Libre wasn’t surprised. She was hurt, but not surprised. She’s been waiting for this day ever since her brother was born. Her parents finally had their true heir, the only thing left to do was to get rid of the only obstacle in their perfect family. Libre. Since then, she began taking frequent trips outside the castle. She could not bear to stay in the castle, waiting to get whisked away by some stranger. One day as she was walking through the village and spotted a small shop. The energy radiating from the shop was… enticing, irresistible. She found herself knocking at the door, wanting to know more about The door opened up a crack and there stood a woman. She was middle-aged, short, and stout. Her hair was long and stringy nearly touching her buttocks. Libre knew exactly what this place was when she looked into the woman’s eyes, it was the place that the guardsmen warned her against. It was a witch shop. And the woman standing in front of her was a witch. Her bright violet stared at her, assessing her. She then swung the door open and beckoned Libre in. The shop was small and welcoming. The floors were covered in rigs made from exotic animals There were shelves filled with crystals and bubbling potions. Libre followed the witch to a small table in the back of the shop and sat down. "What do you seek?" The witch asked, her voice croaky and dry. "I was just passing along town and was drawn to your shop-." "People do not come to my store without a purpose. What do you seek?" Libre sat there thinking about the question. What did she want? After a while, Libre spoke in a whisper, "I want to be free ." Free of her life in the castle, free of her impending marriage, free of her family. Just free. The witch smiled. Not a pleasant one, but a twisted, evil smile.

"Nothing is free in my shop. Everything comes at a cost." "I have riches and jewels that I can give-." "I'm well aware of your wealth, Princess. You can take off the cloak, you must be sweltering." Libre did as she was told, uncloaking herself. It felt refreshing to take off her cloak and show her face. “You have something more valuable than your riches and your jewels. I want half of your heart." "Half of my heart?" Libre asked, surprised. "I am not a deceitful witch, princess. I will tell you right now that taking away half your heart will take away the ability to love someone fully." Libre sat for a while longer before wrapping her cloak around her and standing to leave. "I won't miss a feeling that I've never felt before." And with that Libre left the shop and went back to the castle. The next day, Libre went back into town and to the witch shop. This time the door swung open before she could even knock. "Ready?" The witch asked, her violet eyes glowing unnaturally bright. Libre took a deep breath and said, “Ready.”


“We have to stay the whole night,” Mr. X said with the determination of a contestant on Survivor. “The whole night!” Mr. Y protested. “Not the whole night! I haven’t agreed to this!” “Well, we’re already here, so you might as well try it.” Mr. X shrugged. “It’s so-o-o boring!” Mr. Y continued to behave like a little child tugging at his parent’s sleeve five minutes after they’ve arrived at an adult gathering. “C’mon! It might be fun. You never know.” Mr. X dialed up the optimism. “You’re crazy, man,” Mr. Y shook his head. “What are we supposed to do the entire night? Not a single soul here but us. Told’ya it’s not a good day to visit. We might’ve waited until the night of Halloween at least. There could’ve been spooky parties taking place. Kids in terrifying costumes…” His thought drifted off for a bit before his eyes lit up. “That could have been FUN!” Mr. X looked around. He had to admit his friend was right. The night was unusually calm. Time seemed almost still; not even a whiff of breeze could be felt. He bet that if it wasn’t for the pleasant chirping of crickets, he might be able to hear the grass growing. The wide green field before them was looking quite peaceful under the generously cast silver moonlight. There was nothing sinister about the gravestones and family mausoleums. At best, the angel statues looked like the perfect museum exhibit of gothic art. At worst, the simple headstones resembled badly chiseled garden gnomes. “Yeah, you’re right. Nothing much going around here, huh?” Mr. X sighed. “But that's kind of the point. To see what a graveyard looks like on an ordinary night.” “So? We saw it,” Mr. Y crossed his arms in front of his chest, “and I was right. We haven’t lost anything by not coming here.” “But don’t you want to get a sense of what it’s like to hang around?” Mr. X asked. “That’s supposed to be every person’s final resting place. I wonder who came up with the idea of burying the dead together. In ancient times all you needed was to dig a hole wherever and there you go – a grave! People did it in their own back yard. Must be hell of a lot cheaper.” “Who came up with the idea? Not a very creative person, I’d tell you that much.” Mr. Y snorted. “They didn’t understand anything about design. Rows and rows of the same granite stones, and if you’re lucky your family might get you a statue or two. But always angels. Or mostly angels. God forbid they did something original. Let me know, if you see anything different. Although, I highly doubt it.” “See, there’s one.” Mr. X pointed to a bigger tombstone on their right. There was a tall figure leaning over the grave – its face hidden under the hood of a long robe, its right hand armed with a scythe. “Death? Really?” Mr. Y was unimpressed. “How innovative! Are they seriously still doing him with a robe and scythe? More like a Versace suit and custom-made Rolex. Ah, some people seem to be stuck in the prehistoric era still.” He approached the statue and peeked under its hood. “Yea-a-ah, they hadn’t even bothered to give him facial features. Not even a skull. See, the stone below is completely round.” He stuck his finger into the space where Death’s face was supposed to be. “I bet he won’t be too happy about it.” “How do you know he won’t like it?” Mr. X turned to his friend. “Ancient superstitions are a classical choice. They never get out of fashion.” “Just a hunch.” The friend replied. “Nowadays Death is a stylish guy. He doesn’t strike me as someone who’d go back to wearing the trashy robes he used during the bubonic plague.” “OK.” Mr. X nodded thoughtfully. “Let’s say you’re right. What would you do differently?” “At a graveyard?” Mr. Y’s rhetorical question propelled him into a monologue. “Let’s see. For starters, I don’t like the colors. So dull. Gray on green. And come winter – gray on gray.” He rolled his eyes. “Why not red, orange, and yellow? Combined with black. Yeah! That would be a cool look for a graveyard. And no more identical headstones. How the hell are you supposed to remember or distinguish which one is yours? I think everyone should do with their plot whatever they think fits best. Ideally, it has to be something the person resting there enjoyed while they were alive. Like, I would’ve loved for mine to be occupied by a bar, and a poker table. Could you imagine? Endless games and booze. That’s the life… or, well, death.” Mr. Y paused to enjoy the dreamy sequence in his head. “And yours? What should yours be like? I’d say a Ferrari. A big red-ass Ferrari, ain’t that right? If you want, you could throw in a Ducati by its side.” “Really?” Mr. X was surprised. “You want your grave to remind you of the guy that shot you at the casino?” “Ah, that’s water under the bridge.” Mr. Y waved his arm dismissively. “Besides, he can’t shoot me twice, can he?” “Well, you’re wrong about me.” Mr. X threw him a stern look. “Being reminded of the car crash for eternity is the last thing I’d go for. I was a dumb piece of shit that believed he was invincible. Now I know there are other things, things worth living for… But it’s too late.” “OK.” Mr. Y conceded. “What would you have then?” “I think graveyards should be made more appealing and fun for the living. People tend to bury their kin and then they forget about them. Oh, to be sure, they do visit from time to time. But those visits start spreading farther and farther across time, until eventually they stop altogether.” He lifted his index finger like a teacher explaining a very important lesson. “Now, imagine if they were more like an amusement park, or if a fair was taking place every week – raffles, and camel racing, and the like. I bet that Lynn and Tyler would visit me then… And I wouldn’t have to hang around the house so much.” “See, that’s what I’ve been telling you.” Mr. Y livened up. “Graveyards are boring. That’s why no one stays here. Hell, I didn’t even come for my own funeral. I found it too depressing.” He continued. “It’s far better at the house with my ma. Watching evening game shows and stuff. Sometimes I think she knows I’m there. Makes her feel calm.” He turned back to his companion. “You don’t want to be around your folks no more? I thought you liked it in your old place.” “Well… Lynn has been seeing this guy for a while now.” Mr. X let out a heavy sigh. “Things are getting serious, and Tyler is growing up. They hardly ever speak about me anymore.” “I’m sorry, man! I didn’t know.” He tried to emulate a pat on the back when suddenly something in his peripheral vision caught his attention. “Whoa! Yes! There it is! I can’t believe it!” Mr. Y directed himself to a nearby gravestone, his smile getting wider and wider. The piece of grey granite itself wasn’t anything spectacular, but one could easily see that its borders were decorated with playing card symbols – hearts, clubs, spades, and diamonds. “It’s not a poker table, but it looks like your ma knows you quite well.” Mr. X smiled. “She does, she does…” Mr. Y’s voice started to tremble a bit. “Man, I didn’t expect to get that emotional. I thought being dead for years kind of roots this out of you.” He tried to compose himself. “Let’s look for yours. It should be around here somewhere.” The two friends kept perusing the headstones until finally Mr. X stopped in front of a white marble one with black veins. The inscription read: Xander Reed (1985 – 2017) Beloved husband and father He stood completely still, facing his grave. After keeping silent for a few seconds, he spoke. “I don’t know what I expected.” There seemed to be a hint of disappointment in his voice. “It’s short and sweet. But they hadn’t even bothered with an original epitaph.” Mr. X started to walk away, “You were right. This isn’t fun– “ He had barely made half a turn, when his friend stopped him. “Hey! Wait! There seems to be something there. Do you see it?” Tucked between the headstone and the marble flower vase next to it was what seemed like a handwritten note placed in a transparent sheet protector. Mr. X wasn’t keen on using his psychokinetic abilities, but this time curiosity got the best of him. He locked his eyes on the note and concentrated. At first nothing happened, but after a few seconds the sheet of paper started to shake violently like a scared bird trapped in a cage. Suddenly it flew out of its hiding place just to end up flat on top of the grave. The spotlight cast by the Moon revealed a messy handwriting done in blue crayon. HI, DAD. I HOPE YOUR GOOD IN HEAVEN WITH GRANNY. SAY HI TO HER FROM ME. I’M OK. YESTERDAY I SCORED MY FIRST GOAL IN LITTLE LEAGUE. I WISH YOU WERE THERE TO SEE IT. MIKE SAID TO WRITE YOU ABOUT IT. HE HELPS ME PRACTICE AND HELPS MOM AROUND THE HOUSE TOO. HE’S NICE. I JUST MISS YOU. A LOT. I’LL WRITE AGAIN. PLEASE WRITE BACK IF YOU CAN. I LOVE YOU DAD The two shadows in the graveyard couldn’t produce tears, but the air around their faces started to glow as if filled with dozens of fireflies. It was Mr. Y that broke the silence, “I thought you said they didn’t mention you anymore. You seem to be mistaken, my friend.” He grinned. “I hate to admit it, but you were right to make us come here. The place might not be my style, but now I know its purpose – it’s a communication hub between the living and the dead. And the living do visit. At least, until both sides still need the connection.” “Yes–“ Mr. X said thoughtfully. “You know, I will start coming round more. I think I might be getting some new mail soon.”


The school bell rings, indicating it's midday. I ram my books and pen into my satchel and hurry down the brown corridors, keeping to my left as per school rules. I push through the swing doors and hold one open with my foot as the boy behind me grabs the handle. I pick up my pace and move past the chatting hordes of bustling pupils and make my way down the sloping playground to the main road entrance. I walk sideways, looking for a gap between cars so that I can cross the road. Once over, I walk a few paces and run a few all the way home. It takes about twenty minutes. The sooner I get home, the more time I will have in which to splash some water on my face and under my arms to refresh myself, have some lunch, and play with my beautiful dog Sue. I hurry down the main road, turn left at the bridge over the railway line, cross the road, turn right and into the street where I live. Our house is the second one down, but first, you have to pass the long, tall fence of the garden on the main road. A smile begins in the corners of my mouth as I anticipate the welcoming soggy licks Sue will give me as soon as I open the door. The warmth of her softness as my hands plunge deep into her fur and give her a gentle squeeze. I put my key in the lock and open the door. I am greeted not by a fluffy bundle of love but by a convulsing, thrashing dog lying in what looks like a war zone.

I'm sure I don't go inside in slow motion, but it seems that way. My eyes grow wide, and my jaw drops open. Mum is kneeling on the floor with the lounge door pressing on her back. Dad made the door, so it automatically closes itself. You have to prop it open. Mum was keeping it open with her back. I lean forward, push the door and wedge it with the slab of green marble we have for this purpose. Sue is lying on her side in the throes of a convulsion. "She's been fitting for at least twenty minutes," Mum says. I throw my satchel onto a chair in the backroom and rush back to Mum and Sue.

"What can I do?" I say as I glimpse around the room at the poo on the furniture, walls, and ceiling where Sue has messed herself, and her long bushy tail has lashed out like some cowboy's bullwhip and spread the mess everywhere. The foamy saliva and blood from her bitten tongue have mixed with the urine and poo. It has all spattered around the room.

The whole room stinks. If ever there is a smell of death, then this is it. It fills my nostrils. Sue's head, legs, body, and tail are thrashing a concoction of body fluids and excrements over Mum and the walls. I gawp in disbelief. "You'll have to call the vet. I don't think Sue is going to come out of this fit." Mum says. "Take some money off the mantlepiece. The number's on a scrap of paper behind the commemorative mug on the windowsill. Go to the phone box and tell the vet Sue has not come out of her fit for at least twenty-five minutes." I hurry into the backroom, take the money from the mantlepiece, find the scrap of paper behind the commemorative mug, steer myself around Sue's thrashing legs and body and instinctively put the door on the latch. I run the short distance up the road, around the corner, and to the shop on the next corner, where the red phone box stands tucked into its indent in the long wooden fence. The feeling of urgency rises in me, and my pulse quickens. I dial the number marked Miss M. Vet on the piece of paper. A young voice answers immediately. "Miss M's veterinary practice, how can I help you.?" Between short quick breaths, I tell the voice on the other end of the phone that Sue has been fitting for at least twenty-five minutes. I slam the receiver back down and run home. I run past the open front gate with the sign that says, 'lease shut the gate.' The 'P' fell off the day Dad nailed the metal plate on and then closed the gate too sharply. Sue is still convulsing. Mum is doing her best to keep an old flannel across Sue's teeth so that she does not bite her tongue anymore.

Mum is holding her tail down to stop even more mess going up the walls and onto the ceiling. I stand looking, feeling helpless. I turn to the window as I hear a noise outside. The vet arrives. She must have been in the area. There is no way she could have got from the practice to our house amid the busy town traffic unless she had driven at ninety miles an hour. These thoughts add to my feelings of-this is an emergency. More panic rises from within. I open the door for the vet. She is a short, plump lady and out of breath as she comes up the steps to our house and kneels beside Sue. Her saggy black bag next to her.

I know I have to get back to school. We have a maths exam. No one asks me if I want to stay. I can think of some excuse to tell the teachers if only someone would ask me to stay behind with my dog. My eyes grow big as I watch the vet reach into her bag and take a big syringe from a box full of long needles. My mind flashes back to when I was about five years old and was having my tonsils out—the nurse standing by my bed with a massive needle. I grab the barrel with such force that it breaks the glass syringe attached to the needle. Now the vet is going to stick an enormous needle in Sue. I know Sue is going to die. She is not going to come out of this fit-ever. I know the syringe does not contain some magic potion to help Sue recover and be a normal fit-free dog again. I rush to the back room, snatch my school satchel off the chair and quickly walk back to Mum, the vet, and the still fitting Sue. I feel helpless. There is nothing I can do. I am not wanted or needed here in this world of mayhem.

The only way out of the room is by half stepping over Sue and scrambling over the kneeling plump lady vet and then out the front door. I stumble on, and as I look behind me at the gruesome scene, Sue still convulsing on the floor, blood, wee, poo, and froth everywhere, I hear the plump lady vet say, "what a horrible child." I close the front door. Hold back tears and run just over a mile back to school. As I run, I relive Mum, all on her own, trying to do all she can to help Sue. I relive opening the front door and a scene reminiscent of the last days of Gettysburg hitting me in the face. I am oblivious to the main road, the lunchtime traffic, the heat, the fumes, and the noise. All I have echoing in my ears are the words of the plump lady vet. "What a horrible child."

I slow my pace and catch my breath as I go through the school gates up the incline, through the tarmac playground, and into the school corridor. I compose myself. I think I'm okay. I try to appear normal.

My friend is coming toward me on her way to class, "What's wrong?" She says. "Nothing," I say and realize I'm going the wrong way. I turn and follow her into class and sit down at my desk. Tears erupt from eyes. I cannot stop them. They blot over the page of the exercise book on my desk. I wipe the book with my sleeve, but the page still warps under the wetness left behind. I spend the rest of the day crying and do horribly at my maths test. The teacher asks my friend why I am crying. "She's had her dog put to sleep, sir." My friend says. When the final school bell of the day rings out, I put my bits and pieces in my satchel saunter to the exit and out onto the main road. I slowly walk home. My best friend will not be greeting me tonight. At home, no one mentions Sue or the day's happenings. No one speaks her name.

I push my supper around my plate and apologize to Mum for not being hungry. I go up to my room and lay on my bed. I want sleep to claim me so that I can wake from this nightmare. I close my eyes and drift off into a dull, grey ache that will not go away.

In the greyness Mum is talking to me. "There's a man at the top of the hill, near the church, who has some puppies for sale. If you want one you'd better hurry as they'll sell fast. He wants two shillings and sixpence for them." I think "that's the total amount of my week's pocket money." I'm not sure what to do. Has Mum forgiven me? It's been a whole year since I went out with my friends, climbed the school gates, and ran around the school roof. It's been an entire year since I forgot Bunty was with me, and she went looking for me and got run over and killed. Was I ready for another dog? Was I responsible enough to know how to look after another dog? I take my pocket money out of the little container in my bedroom cabinet drawer and place it in my cardigan pocket. I walk down the road, turn right, cross the road, and go up the hill to the church: the hill, the opposite end of the road where Bunty was run over. I knock on the battered front door of the house next to the ancient church. A withered old man silently greets me and beckons me into the kitchen, where there is a box full of puppies. The puppies squirm when they see me. "Do you have any girls?" I say. The withered old man takes the prettiest puppy in his gnarled hands. "This is a girl." He says. "The others are all boys." I take two shillings and sixpence from my pocket. The withered old man holds the tiny puppy in one hand and opens the palm of the other. I place my pocket money on the deep dark lines of his skin. I take the girl puppy from him, go out of the kitchen, out the front door, and carry her home in my arms. I name her Sue. Still in troubled sleep I'm playing with Sue, reading books on dog training, and putting the lessons into practice. Sue sits, stays, rolls over, and plays fetch.

I throw a ball down the long, narrow garden path. Sue chases it. The concrete path becomes a beach, and Sue is running into the sea. I call her, "Sue, Sue. Come back, Sue." I wake from my dream and enter my nightmare.


Melting glaciers being my source and power for downstream follow. I am born, because of the ice mountains giving in to the heat and pouring down, creating me. Passing through smaller hills, jumping off the mountains, rushing at the bends, quenching many species thirsts, and resting a bit during my journey between valleys and mountains, carrying numerous varieties of inhabitants within and allowing the huge population to utilize me at the surface, I travel restlessly taking note of everything that I touch.          Unlike living beings, I don’t get to sleep. Constant movement carrying mud, soil, clothes, or rubbish that’s forced into me, is how I survive. Over my unpredictable ebb and flow of existence, I am accustomed to a routine as well. Every morning, the paved road running parallel to me carry’s kids in vehicles, and we part our ways at a bend. Locals trek their way top to the mountains on any day other than a  rainy day, in search of herbs or animal hunt, they wash parts of themselves in me and put out their thirst by having a bit of me. I can easily track anything because the hills share tales of the people that climb them. The mud speaks of the quiver it must undergo, wind flows over us carrying the pride of owning freedom for being unrestricted and uncontained, and finally, the mountains roar now and then sharing their mood and situation. Few times humans hunt animals other times it could be the opposite, anyway, they all reach out to me to clean themselves as if washing their sin by utilizing me.          It’s fascinating to witness the flocks of grayling, Dace, and Minnow moving around in groups sticking to each other and trying hard not to be caught by a net or eaten by Rohu and Catla. The little fishes tailing the group, in the end, are the most frequent victims of big fishes. Just like any other day a big fish tried to chase them and feed its hungry stomach, I do not involve in their life cycle but once in a while indulging in such activities is fun. When the Catla almost caught on to the smaller fish, I raised my tides and force landed it making it hard to keep the balance and help the smaller one scatter in various directions. Few times they need a little push to find new alliances. I thought. After flowing a long way down the mountains and hills expanding myself by merging everything that disrupts my extension. I slow down at a point where there isn’t any bend but still land. I am neither deep nor fast at this point and people cross through me stepping on the river stones that are well polished by me over years making it too smooth to hold oneself straight on it. Elders carry bags on their shoulders and hop on rocks as if dancing for a tune, but the kids slip drop into me after every couple of stones. Their parents leave them behind knowing they can trust me with their kids at this depth. Kids grow reckless soon after their guardians leave them behind. They push each other into me, splash drops of me over one another, they seem to enjoy this every time they do it, they chase and catch, trip and fall, splash and laugh. Finally, drink a little and run along with me, on my shores, reaching my falls. The falls aren’t too high but not too short to attempt a jump. I watch them over, trying to keep up the trust of their parents, but they all jump into me one by one, I try hard to hold them but the falling bits of me can only drench them further rather than hold them. They dive deep into the falls and float back to find their friends and swim for a while.          The kids experience indescribable joy. They hum in jubilation as they walk back to where they belong.          From here I flow calm and cool for a while. Women washing their clothes at my shores, girls helping elders half-heartedly, men swimming, stretching out their arms and kicking their feet, pushing themselves forward every time they repeat it.          As I descend bit by bit, I pick up the speed, and when I encounter a bend where I find no humans nearby as it is too deep and few times my sudden turns create a spring wave that sucks anything into it quick. And finding their way out of it could be nearly impossible. I could turn dangerous at times you see.          Brushing myself over the edges of earth and roots of the trees, cobble settled within me, fungus and algae that grow in me. I displace a part of them every time I run by them, scattering them in various directions, providing them a new path to survive and grow.          One day it rained cats and dogs and I kept increasing my levels, conquering the land, running into houses, submerging objects and things, moving vehicles from place to place. People try to run away from me this time, as the rain grows, with it does my height endangering their life, I was wild that night, hunger for life and new land. Conquest blinded my eye and every droplet added to me stimulated me to feed myself and annihilate a little more. I feast on street animals that had nowhere to go and few elders who couldn’t make a run. I was outrageous with no source to cool me down. It was cool that night, not much of my water is following down from the hill. But I reach the height of a middle school kid making it difficult for survivors. People run to their rooftops, few stand-in shelters, and rest drench in the rain.          The night passed with my rage taking many with it. By the next morning, with the sun came relief for few. I returned to my confined path and kept flowing as I always do. The lady who washed clothes in me now swears at me for the loss I brought upon them forgetful of the profit they availed using me. Roads are now clearly visible, though too slippery and filthy. Homes filled with mud, fungus, and stinking smell. I left a big impression behind that night. People did not turn up to me for a while. Fewer boatmen came by to check the condition of their boats, others to catch fish, soon the fisherman was only one that visited me often because I destroyed their harvest, all they can eat is that is available in me.          After cleaning and mourning over their losses, people returned to their routine. Allowing me to return to mine. The weather is gloomy, and locals suspect rain, including me. The sky had been that way for a while. Unlike other parts of nature, it hardly communicates with us, leaving us in the same assumptions and estimations as humans.          It isn’t just the humans, but nature too blamed me. The land criticized me to make it wet and slippery. Glaciers were glad that they were not inculpated. Breeze questioned often if it was a joint plot of sky and me.          Still hearing all accusations, I witness people returning to me, for food, wash, and play.          A season passed and I was happy that people could be at peace, no longer being cautious over their presence around me. The ladies dry their clothes on the rocks, kids dive into me and swim, men pull out their fishing net from their boat at my shore. While I calmly witness all this, I know I am bidding them my goodbye silently.          That day the glaciers melted more than usual, pouring down to my bogs, at a speed which I had no control over, and being a part of it, I couldn’t rescue anyone either. I watch them in joy for the last time and devour them into me, rushing towards them all of a sudden, giving them little time to escape my assault. Very few proved to be lucky that day, a small kid near to tree branch, hung onto it at the right time, a mom who went back to fetch more clothes returned to watch her friends drown. Fishermen, who were yet to step out of their boats, others who tossed stones into me, kids who came to explore me, I took them all into me. The boats collided, peopled or bodies rushed following my cord, one of the boats hit a lady who sunk deep into me.          People struggled to swim and breathe and finally, they all gave in gradually. They float in various directions, a few hitting the rocks and redirected to elsewhere and a few touching the bottom of me.          This time it isn’t exactly me, it’s the glaciers to blame, whom shall I reason with when they hardly have time to know it. After few days of dangerous flow, I calmed down. As soon as I stead myself, a search began for the people that sunk in me. They found a couple of them and out of petty, I threw a few onto my surface, there are rest whom I didn’t want them to see as I know the human heart can’t take the picture of these bodies in a hardly recognizable condition.          That year many bide goodbyes to their near and dear ones, blaming all on me once again. I found little traffic over me for fishing and even a little population around me. No playing kids or hovering ladies. It's me and my flow and the path I choose.          Soon, I found men around me trying to construct something over and in me. They call it a dam, a method to control my follow and secure their kind.


1 I don’t know what it was that caused me to wake without reason at three-sixteen in the morning on the morning of December twenty fifth. Sure enough, however, by three-seventeen I am standing at the foot of my bed wide awake. This is highly unusual as it is unheard of to find me out from beneath my sheets before noon. I stand at the foot of my full sized mattress in my tiny eight by eight foot bedroom, hands on my hips, listening. Listening for… for anything, really. Surely it had not been solely random that my eyes peeled opened at such a ripe hour and instinctively, I rose from the warmth of my heated blanket to stand at the foot of my bed without cause. After a minute of silence, I scoff at myself for such foolish behavior. I turn back towards the heat and comfort of my rectangular safe haven, when all of a sudden, I hear what awoke me in the first place; yes, it had to be the initial cause for this unusual situation.

From outside my bedroom window, I hear a suspicious rustling. I look to my bedside digital clock sitting upon my nightstand, three-eighteen. I stand there pondering for a moment and then decide it’s much too late for myself to get involved in anything less than an alien invasion. I fluff my pillow and grab hold of the sheets and then… I hear an ever so faint crash; like a child dropping their rubix cube upon the hardwood floor as they sneak to the kitchen for a snack past bedtime, alerting their parents of the mini-heist. I groan quietly as I pull back from the bed and turn in the direction of my bedroom window. It really is much too late to concern myself in the affairs of another but I suppose there’s no harm in a quick peek. It was, after all, much too late for innocence down in the alley.

I step to the window and pull back the shade just an inch so I may peer out over the alley that separates my apartment building from Ms. Flannery’s bakery. At first glance, I don’t notice anything out of the regular and relief takes place of the itsy-bitsy bit of anxiety that may have moved into my lower belly. With an exhale of relief, I release the shade but at the last second, my eye catches something odd. I peer back into the alley and anxiety takes its rightful place back in my lower belly. I notice the emergency exit on the bakery’s alley side exterior wall is just the slightest bit ajar; so slight that I think to myself, there’s no way I should have been able to notice.

My anxiety escalates as I think the situation over; Ms. Flannery only uses that door for one purpose and that is to receive deliveries. The current problem, if it needs any evaluation at all, is that there is no food truck in sight and I waved goodbye to Ms. Flannery five and a half hours ago as she locked up to go home for the night. She or one of her part time bakers may have returned after realizing they forgot something but why so late and why use the alleyway door? I almost decided it’s not suspicious enough and to just get back in bed. Then I remember assuring Ms. Flannery I would keep an eye on her place of business while she’s not around. After all, she does always hook me up with amazing pastries that don't sell by the end of the day, and she makes the best pastries I’ve ever tasted in my life. I always ask her how she does it but I’m reminded each time of her very secret ingredient .

My pondering of the situation is interrupted by a beam of light moving around inside the bakery; a flashlight, I presume, and that settles it. I reach for my jacket and keys and step out into the narrow hallway. As I make my way down the stairs toward the alleyway exit of the apartment building, I decide to send Ms. Flannery a text message, “I think one of your employees forgot something, alleyway exit ajar and someone moving around inside. Going to check it out.” I click my cell phone off and slide it into my jacket’s interior pocket as I reach the exit leading into the alleyway I was just watching from above. 2 I gently push in the crash bar mechanism of the old metal door, that hasn’t had a working alarm in the last 15 years, so that I don’t make much noise. I quietly push the door open just enough so that I may slip out into the night, and then let the door fall closed as I apply enough resistance to the handle so it shuts without a sound. I look toward the bakery exit and find it still slightly ajar but I no longer hear any rustling inside; maybe, I think to myself, they heard my footsteps coming down the stairs and bolted outta there. I cling to hope that this is the case so I may lock up for Ms. Flannery and return to the comfort of my worn out mattress.

I relax my nerves convincing myself that the perpetrator is gone but the retreat of my anxiety is short lived. I hear a voice come from the other side of the ajar door; a deep but quiet voice sounding like that of a monster in your closet, “Come on, where is it? I know she keeps it around here, somewhere, I know it.” My eyes widen and my heart begins beating painfully in my chest. Someone really has broken into Ms. Flannery’s bakery and they’re looking for something.

I reach into my jacket pocket and very slowly pull my phone back out, trying desperately not to make any noise. I type out a new message to Ms. Flannery, “Not an employee. Somebody looking for something. Break-In. Not a joke.” I press send and then I hear the voice from inside again, “Ah-Ha! Oh Flannery, you’re a sly fox without doubt but I've always known I’d find you.” I close my eyes and silently groan to myself; whoever’s in there has found what they’re looking for and it won’t be long before they come out of there. As I evaluate the situation and think of the best possible course of action, my cell phone pings loudly. I squinch my eyes tightly realizing

I forgot to put my cell phone on silent!

I hear a gasp from inside and a loud sound of impact as if whoever’s inside stumbled against a big piece of cooking machinery in surprise. Silence follows as I look down at my phone and see the message from Ms. Flannery, “You’ve got to stop them. They’re after my very secret ingredient that’s immensely special to my bakery. Don’t let them leave!” The silence is interrupted by the voice from inside, “Who’s out there?” The voice is now harsh and threatening like a momma bear and her cubs backed into a corner by hunters.

Restricted by shock and anxiety, I open my mouth to respond but I’m unable to find my voice. Another text from Ms. Flannery, “Whatever you do, you can’t let them leave. On my way.” The ping from the second text seemed to come from an air horn and echo through the alleyway and into the bakery. The voice inside grows desperate now and sounds slightly fearful, “I’m not someone who’s known for playing games, okay! You’ve got your hand dangerously close to a furnace, my friend, and if you’re wise you’ll pull that hand back.” Ms. Flannery’s text message plays back over and over again in my head, “can’t let them leave.”

Finally, enough anxiety stands aside allowing me to find my voice, “Look, I don’t know what you came here for but it’s no concern of mine. I don’t care who you are but I can’t let you leave here with anything.” With those words, I prepare myself mentally and physically, fully expecting the monster from the closet to come running out those doors clawing and gnashing away at me. Instead, there’s another moment of silence, and then a sudden crashing sound erupts as if whoever’s inside just sent baking utensils soaring across the floor.

Before I can piece together what’s playing out inside, one of the bakery windows on the far side of the alley swings open and a slim shadowy figure leaps outside. A tall outline of a man turns and stares through me with silver moon-like eyes that could pierce steel. All I am able to see of the man in the darkness are those two silver eyes with black slits down the middle, the brim of a fedora style hat, and a long overcoat that runs the length of his tall body. Hovering at his waist, but undoubtedly held in one of his unseen hands, is a brown sack that’s tied at the mouth by a skinny sliver of rope. The bag glows brightly and emits an intense purple aura. My brain is screaming at my legs to advance on the perpetrator but my instincts and anxiety force them to stay put.

I do the only thing I can think to do, “H..H..Hey! W..Wa..Wait right there!” My eyes unconsciously continue drifting back to the glowing brown sack in his hand. What in the world could be in there making it glow that way, I think to myself. And that aura that surrounds the bag, that’s not normal, is it? A monstrous voice bellows through the alley from the shadowy figure, “You’ll be smart to go back upstairs, go to sleep, and pretend this was all a bad nightmare.” The dark outline turns from me, those moonlight eyes disappearing, and runs with intensity and speed I’ve never even seen on olympics television. He turns the corner at the end of the alley, where the front of the bakery and my apartment building face the street, and disappears like a twinkle in the night sky.

3 My phone pings a third time and I bring it before my eyes again. Another message from Ms. Flannery, “Pulling up now.” I glance at the time on my cell phone screen, three-twenty-six. Amazing the things you can experience in only ten minutes. I see headlights run across the face of the alleyway from in front of the bakery and then a car door opens and slams shut. I hear Ms. Flannery’s frantic low voice, “Please still be inside, oh please please please.” Disappointment floods my conscience as I realize I must go tell the sweet bakery owner that I let the burglar get away with her special ingredient, whatever that may be.

I make my way to the front of the shop as I hear keys jingle and then find their way into the locking mechanism with a click and a turn. “Alright you slimy crook, just go ahead and show yourself and I won’t make this too ugly,” Ms. Flannery’s voice echoes harshly throughout the bakery. I stop in my tracks and my eyes widen profusely at the sound of her threatening demeanor. Never in my life have I heard Ms. Flannery speak in any other tone than sweet and loving, different circumstances I suppose. I turn the shop corner and enter the bakery through the open front doors only to be taken back, yet again, by the small loving middle aged baker. In Ms. Flannery’s sturdy hands, exists a large colorful spaceship looking gadget that resembles a pistol shooter.

She waves the end of the gadget from side to side searching for the intruder and continues to yell out threateningly, “I don’t know how you finally found me but I’m not letting you walk out of here with what’s mine!” She apparently doesn’t hear me walk in and turns on me defensively as I accidentally kick a rolling pin across the floor. She faces me now with the barrel of her gadget locked on me and I see rage in her face for the first time in my life. I raise my arms to show her my hands are free from any potential threats and cry out, “Ms. Flannery, please, it’s only me!”

Her eyes squint and adjust on me in the darkness. “Oh my good lord, I’m so sorry,” she apologizes sincerely. “But… if you’re here then where’s the Griever?”

“The… Griever?” “I’m sorry, hun. The dark figure with the silver eyes. That’s what they’re called, Grievers. Where did it go?”

I peer at her in the darkness bewildered. “I’m sorry, Ms. Flannery. I’m not exactly sure what you’re talking about. The burglar ran out of here right before you pulled up. We were out in the alleyway and he took off at a speed I didn’t know was even possible.” I see disappointment flood through her as the alien looking weapon she’s holding falls to her side. “Well then he’s probably made it back to the other side with my secret ingredient by now.” I interrupt her loathing in a concerned manner, “Ms. Flannery, what are you talking about? What other side?” She leans against one of her pastry display counters and gestures for me to take a seat on a nearby stool. “Have a seat, please. I need to explain some things to you.” I do as instructed and all prior thoughts or intentions of getting back to bed fade away.

“That ‘man’ was no man at all. Not even a human, that is. That thing was a Griever, a dangerous being from an alternate dimension. One who came here the same way I got to where it lives and then eventually got back.”

“You’ve completely lost me Ms. Flannery. I’m not in a weird dream am I? Would I know if I were?” “You’re not in any dream, sugar, I promise. Just, try to stay with me, okay? Years and years ago, when I first opened this bakery, I found a way to travel to an alternate dimension in search of a secret ingredient that would revolutionize baked goods. I searched different dimensions for years until I finally found the one I was looking for, Oshanna. Oshanna is a universe that harbors a precious ingredient that I use in all my pastries. The secret ingredient that makes my pastries unlike any other bakeries in this universe.”

Regret begins to set in my lower belly mixing with its original destructive tenant and intensifying my anxiety twenty times. I can’t really be hearing what I’m hearing can I?

“Hey,” Ms. Flannery snaps at me. “Are you still with me?” I nod my head and she continues on with her story.

“I found the ingredient I had been searching for in this universe. I found it in great bulk as matter of fact, literally growing in large fields. The only problem was Oshannans are an extremely greedy bunch; taking immense pride in what’s theirs and not willing to share with anyone else. So I stole what I needed and I returned home through a time warp.”

“A time warp?”

“Yes, a rip in the time continuum; allowing you to hop between dimensions and time periods. Anyway, I made it back and swore to never return because I knew they would kill me if they ever saw me again. I never imagined they’d make it here and find me, though.”

I look back to the weapon at her side and ask, “That gadget you have, what is it?” “It’s a weapon I took from their dimension in case they ever did find me. It’s the only thing that can kill a Griever.”

“Well we don’t have to worry about that, I imagine he’s long gone, like you said. “I agree, and that’s the problem.” “The problem? I’m glad that thing is long gone.” “Yes, a big problem. It got away with my special ingredient. You and I know my bakery won’t hold up much longer without it.”

“I don’t believe that’s true, you’re an amazing baker. Surely you don’t need whatever that stuff is to keep selling your pastries.” “You’ve never had anything I’ve made that hasn’t had that ingredient. And I’d bet you’ve never had any pastries in your life better than mine, am I right?” I nod my head in agreement.

“You’re right.” “Listen, I know it’s late and I just hit you with a lot of information. However, I need that ingredient and I won’t make it there and back, alone. I know it’s a lot to ask but…” “I’m in.” “Really? Just like that, huh?” “Well, I’ve always wanted to be an astronaut since I was a kid, go see space and all that. How different can this be?” “Oh honey… you have no idea.”

“Alright, let's do it then.” Ms. Flannery gives me a great big smile and takes my hand in hers. She gives me a big hug before leading me out the doors and into her sedan parked out front.

“Wait a second, where exactly are we going from here,” I ask. She smiles mischievously and answers, “We’re going to where that Griever crossed over.”


In less than an hour I'll be dead. While the statement is true I though it was far too cold and impersonal for a suicide note. I ripped the top sheet of paper from my moleskin notepad and threw it in the trash. A few minutes ago I took some of anti-depressants, Google said ten would be enough, I took 15 to be sure. According to a forum post by *suicidegurl87* I should begin to slowly drift off into the good sleep an hour or so after ingesting the pills. The drugs are a backup anyway, a revolver lies on the desk with a single bullet pointing skywards beside it. At midnight I will shot myself, it's eleven fifteen now. I have always taken comfort in the knowledge that I could end my life if I so pleased. The ultimate power one can have over oneself, and the only power I still have. Now the time has finally come, and my feelings have not changed. Eleven thirty. A slight feeling of nausea is beginning to take hold, but I don't think I've ever felt happier. No fears, no worries, no insecurity. Peace. I take a sip of from a heavy glass tumbler, it's weight feels good in the hand, and savor the rich aroma of whiskey. My senses energize, the far off sound of a glass smashing reverberates through my ears, the smell of curry wafts in from the apartment bellow, the garish flowers on the wallpaper now vivid almost moving. Closer to death, closer to life. Eleven forty five. I scribble out a short suicide note. There's no time for a heartfelt explanation now. I couldn't justify myself anyway, even I don't know precisely why I choose this path all I know is there are no other roads left to tread. They'll have to make do with a simple apology, besides it's not for them that I'm doing this. Eleven fifty five. The time has come, I spin the barrel , and position the bullet in the chamber. Close it with a satisfying click, the starting gun for the end of my life. I raise the revolver to my temple and cock the gun with clammy hands. Eleven fifty nine. The phone rings, too late now, I pull the trigger.


>*(Fantasy, battlefield, tragic romance, 930 words.)* > > *Again, this was inspired by a picture, but the words are all mine. It's never been on Reddit that I know of.* > >*Moderate battlefield violence, a bit of body horror.* > >*Hope somebody likes it. Any comments, votes etc. gratefully received.* "I heard she beat him one on one," said an older swordsman, rust on his armour, grey in his beard. "In some Eastern lord's grand melee. To claim the choicest prize." The woman charged, sprinting across the field in the sunlight, sword flashing in her hand. The archers facing her notched their arrows. An officer screamed a hoarse command and they loosed, a ragged volley that arched over the grass. "I heard he *was* the prize," said a spearman, a Southerner, his skin so black it was almost blue, his bald head neatly bisected by a lumpen scar. The woman never slowed, even in the face of what looked like certain death. She was small, and slight, and wore nothing but a thin jerkin padded with scraps of chain. The arrows hung in the air a moment, then sank down towards her. A giant shape moved in a nearby copse of trees. There was a hissing noise. A great, flat disc span around and around out of the wood, slid through the air and landed in the ground directly in the woman's path. She dropped to her knees, as if she'd expected this all along, and crouched behind the shield's bulk, clutching her saber as the arrows spent themselves against the shield, or in the mud all around her. The giant in the copse lumbered out of the shadows. Twice her height, he wore nothing but a ragged loincloth. He was huge and fat, but powerful with it. He carried a sword almost as long as she was tall. Yet he never spoke, and she never turned to acknowledge him. And he looked unwell. His skin was sallow, and his veins a livid purple. Half his face was hidden by the brim of a wide straw hat, and just beneath it the onlookers could see two glowing green streaks, like tears, coursing down his face. "I heard they was lovers," said another spearman, a skinny youngster who looked no more than a few days off his parents' farm. "You *what?"* said the old swordsman. The woman reached the archers, while behind her, the giant claimed his shield. Her enemies scattered. Some tried to stand and fight her, thinking numbers had to count for something against one. They died messily. "That's what I heard!" the boy protested. "You reckon everything's a fairy tale?" the old man said with derision. "Look at him!" "No accounting for taste," the southerner murmured. But when the giant entered the fray the onlookers could see he made little attempt to protect himself, and only waved his great shield around when one of the few surviving archers threatened the woman. "Told you," the boy said triumphantly. "But how...?" the old man wanted to know. "It's not a fairy tale," said a fourth voice. "Not exactly."  She was tall and lean, with a mop of red curls. She wore their colours, with a shortbow slung over one shoulder. She led a weary-looking white horse with bloodshot eyes that tugged listlessly against its bridle. "They *were* lovers," the woman said. "But he didn't always look like death warmed up. They fought for the old duke, before the war. Signed on as a pair. Swore they'd never lose sight of each other, and all the rest of it." "We all say that," the old man muttered. "These two..." The woman shrugged. "They were on the frontlines in the west when it started. Right in the thick of it. They were sent to harry a scouting force that turned out to be quite a bit more. Relief turned up in time to carry her off the field. Not him, though." "I've heard," the boy said. "What they do out there. To prisoners." The giant struck the last archer with the shield so hard the man seemed to fold up, boneless, over the edge. "Plucked out his eyes," the woman said. "Left poison to fester in the sockets and eat away at his mind. One of our raiding parties laid siege to the fort where they had our friend in chains, but they thought he was a lost cause. Turned him out on the streets, far from home." "What did she do?" the southerner wanted to know. "Searched for him," the woman said flatly. "For years. Nearly went mad herself." "But she found him in the end?" the boy pressed her. "Well, yes," the woman admitted. "But look at him."  They looked; at the great, silent bulk of him; at the darkness beneath the edge of that hat; at the great sword, clotted with gore, and at the shield, the dark, imposing silhouette it struck against the afternoon sun. "He never lost sight of her," the woman said quietly. "In the end it was all he could remember. He knows where she is, like magic, any time, anywhere. It's all he lives for. To put himself in harm's way." "There's worse ways to end up," the old man conceded. "You think?" the woman observed. "Do you *really?* Think about her. She remembers, too. Where she left him. *How* she left him. She sees it every time they head into battle. Every time she charges. You think part of her isn't hoping that just this once he'll miss his cue?" The onlookers fell silent. Out on the sward, the archers had all fallen. The rest had long since fled. Corpses dotted the field, and black smoke climbed over the trees at the crest of the hill beyond. The giant stood there silently, and for a moment the woman clung to his broad grey belly, arms around him, shoulders shaking.


The hospital was grimy. The floors looked sallow like the patients writhing on the beds. I was gripping my arm, praying they would not stick me with the dirty needles they were passing around. I was completely blind, having left my glasses back in the room. Blurred outlines of people walked past me. One leaned in close enough for me to get an overview of their face; it was focused on the break I had suffered. The pain was making me want to vomit. The adrenaline was the only thing keeping me from sobbing into the stranger’s arms. I was picked up and put onto the used bed that smelled of curry and blood. I begged them not to put anything in my veins. “Please please please! Do not put a needle in my arm! I am scared of them!” I had to lie to ensure they would not be offended by my true reasoning behind my unwillingness to use a syringe. One of the men came up to me and tried to reassure me. “Do not worry. No needles. No need.” His voice was attempting to be calm and soothing, but it was too raspy to be truly settling. I shifted uncomfortably in the bed to sit up. The pain from my arm shot up and gave me a migraine. “We must get you to America to heal better,” the doctor said. “This is no place of modern medicine.” He gave me a sling for my arm, and when I tried to give him some money, he waved me off. “No needle, no charge,” he said with a wry smile. I swung my legs over the bed, hitting the ground immediately due to my tall stature. I stood up straight and made my way through the hectic environment I somehow ended up in. There was no clear reason why I was there. I couldn’t remember losing my glasses, or stumbling out of the hotel, or breaking my arm, yet all of these things happened. And now I had to find my way back. While still blind. I trekked through the foreign country and ended up a few blocks from the market I had gone to a few days before. Relief flooded over me. I now knew where to go. For the rest of the trip back to her hotel, I had to put her face practically two inches from the road signs to know I was going the right way. Finally, I made it. I took the elevator back to my apartment, avoiding eye contact with the rest of the guests because I would be unable to see their faces. No way to react when you cannot see emotions. I walked to my room, reached into my pocket, and was shocked to find my key there. I opened the gold-lined door and stepped in. Nothing was out of place. Not a single thing. My glasses were on my night stand next to my bed. I put them on and felt the greatest sense of calm come over me. First things first, get rid of this broken arm. I went over to my bag and pulled out the only pill I could salvage. It was a Tylenol, but it would have to do for now. I went over to the mirror to assess if I had any other injuries. Nothing out of the ordinary. Same curly brown hair, hazel eyes, stress acne on my chin, and small tits. Still pretty unimpressive, but nothing to be worried about. I sighed and walked over to gather my things to return to America. *It was the doctor’s orders, mom. I can’t remember how I broke my arm.* I thought of excuses to make it appear like I had accidentally (and bravely) gotten hurt. I had taken this trip as a way to get volunteer hours in to get into medical school. Didn’t seem to be working out so well though. The trip coordinator had gotten arrested the first day we had arrived for stashing illegal drugs up his anal cavity. It was rumored he gave it away with a powdered fart. The professor leading the trip had gotten into jail attempting to bail the coordinator out because he used slanderous terms against the leader, saying he put the “Dick in dictator.” The other students had tried to keep normalcy going by volunteering at the places they were assigned to; however, the locals angrily waved them off, saying they were oppressive white people who could shove their privilege up their ass. I had gone back to my hotel after that, and that was where my memory ended. I strained my mind to try and find if I had anything to go off of, but nothing came to mind. A fleeting thought of asking my ex-girlfriend quickly died off when I thought of the first night we got here. Everyone had gathered in my room to take some shots, and I had walked out on the terrace to get some fresh air. Once outside, I had looked around at the bustling activity below. A dog was picking out of the trash with a homeless man next to it, doing the same. A woman was sitting on the curb talking to what looked like her son, adjusting his clothes and giving him some food to eat. He had a black eye and was staring straight ahead, looking angry. A man stepped out of the building behind them. He was taller than most of the locals there, but still shorter than her. He walked down the street, stepping into a puddle that hit the back of the mother. The son turned around, ready to shout, but the man had already made it halfway down the street, moving swiftly through the crowd. I was waiting for my girlfriend to come back from the liquor store and saw her come out right as the man was passing by. I tried to get her attention, but that man blocked her line of sight. I could have sworn he looked up at me before talking to my girlfriend. My girlfriend blushed and gave him a coy smile. He flashed a grin back and held her groceries. She giggled behind her hand, just as she had done when she had started talking to me. The man led her to the building, and I was leaning against the terrace, nearly about to fall off from trying to see my girlfriend. The man kissed her on the cheek. She kissed him back. They looked into each other’s eyes before a loud shout was heard. It was the boy, shaking his hand in the air and screaming at the top of his lungs. His mother followed close behind, trying to pull her son away from the tall man. He gave my girlfriend one more smile before calmly walking toward the boy. She looked at her watch and quickly ran into the hotel, missing the action outside. I stomped back into the room, ready to confront my now ex-girlfriend. Back outside, the man had spread his arms in a gesture that seemed to say, *Let me buy you a drink for your troubles.* The boy seemed to give in, but one touch of his black eye sent him back into fight mode. He put up his fists and spread his stance, ready for any hit. The man put his arms down. He stood completely still. The boy took it as an opportunity and sprinted toward the man. However, he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the man’s eyes. They were neon green; they were glowing. The man smiled at the boy and pointed his index finger at him. “What’s wrong? Why so hesitant all of a sudden?” His voice sounded like a thousand voices, all struggling to be the main one. The mother grabbed the boy and took out a cross from her necklace. She thrust it forward, trying to keep the man back. He smoothly glided toward them, not even blinking when the cross was thrown at him. He picked it up and put his hand out as if he was giving it back to the woman. She carefully reached for it yet never had the chance to grab it. Her hair burned, and her entire body melted into sludge that reeked of burning flesh. The boy turned around at her scream and watched her melt. He stared at the spot her body had just stood. He flew to the ground, grabbing at her remnants, expecting it to be some sort of magic trick. But when he pulled his hands up, he felt something brush his finger. He grabbed it and shined it in the street light. It was a single golden tooth. The only inhuman part of her body. Before he could even react, the man pointed the cross at the boy and melted his body. He then stepped into the two puddles of people, sliding his foot in between them, mixing them. “You live, you survive, and then you die. At least you had your mommy.” He stomped into the puddle, splashing his pants and continued walking.


I found the mirror when I was very young. I remember that it caught my eye because it was very pink, a little rose splotch in the mud. It was so very clean in the midst of that mess. I know that it’s not the most extraordinary thing to look at- just a pink plastic makeup mirror. But to that little girl, it was fascinating. So I picked it up, and I flipped it over and over in my mittens. Dad never liked me to go out in the cold, so on the rare snow days when he did, I was bundled in thick layers. I could hardly move, and if I fell over I might roll all the way down the mountain. Perhaps that was why it stood out so much. Little girls don’t see a lot of hot pink growing up in a log cabin. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew that I liked it. I also understood that I shouldn’t tell my dad about it. We forget how much we understood as children, as soon as we grow up. I took the little pink mirror and hid it in a mitten. He always made me turn out my pockets, whenever I came in, in case of pine-cones. So into the mitten the mirror went. I didn’t take it out to look at it until that evening. It became a secret treasure of mine, this little thing. I didn’t know that it opened at first, didn’t realise what it was. I just liked to look at it, to touch it. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen. But I figured it out eventually. I can recall the exact moment I first saw my reflection in it- rather, what should have been my reflection. Ice and water and glass had shown my face to me before, so I knew that there was something wrong with the mirror. It always showed everything else right- the cabin, with its run-down fireplace, dad in his natty armchair, staring at the flames. The woods outside. Every tree, every bird, the sun and the moon and all the stars. It was a mirror, that was what it did. Except that it didn’t reflect me. When I looked at it, I saw a woman. She was old. I mean, I was eight, so anyone over twenty was old, but this lady… she looked ancient. I guess it wasn’t her face, really, just her expression. She had this blank look, just staring at nothing. Her eyes never met mine, no matter what angle I turned her. Of course I was fascinated. I was too young, and maybe a bit too slow, to be scared of her. Why would I be? She was just an image. The fact that she only showed up over me was a bit weird, but I didn’t know anything back then. Maybe this was just something that happened. It was magical, both literally and figuratively. So there I was, with my magic mirror. The days went much the same as they always did, Dad would potter about, doing chores, showing me things, teaching me about nature in that rumbly voice of his. I know now that he wasn’t a well man, that the way I grew up wasn’t normal, but it never troubled me. I was happy, alone with him. The worst I ever experienced was boredom. With the mirror in my room at night, I conquered even that. I studied every little facet of her face, every line, every curve. She was pale, and her hair was a mess- frizzy and tangled. Her eyes never changed, always hollow, blank. Her lips were pressed into a half-hard line, and I couldn’t tell if it was a smile or a grimace. I still don’t know which it was. Of course, I grew up eventually. Everyone does, but I started early. I don’t remember that much about my last few days in the cabin. It’s all kind of hazy. But I’ll never forget when the car showed up. How could I? That car was the end of our quiet little life. I’ve heard a lot of justifications, for why my childhood had to die. I needed to attend school, I needed to socialise with people my own age, I needed to experience life in the real world- needed, needed, needed. They seemed to know so much about what I needed. The last day was the worst. Dad was angry, stomping about, muttering, a dark glint in his eye. I can’t remember what he said, but I remember I was frightened. Scared of his anger, of the shadows on his face. When the social worker came, I reached out to him, but he just turned away, clenching his fists. Take her, he said, take her and go. That was the last time I heard his voice. He was not a well man, so I forgive him. Now. I accept that he was trying his best, that he had no clue what he was doing. But back then? I was just a child, and I hated him. My mirror went from a treasure to an anchor. It was my only solace in those days, my little pink comfort blanket. You might think it odd, but no one ever tried to take it from me. Not the social workers with bags under their eyes, nor the bigger girls that swarmed me like flies. They took everything else, but never the mirror. It was like it was invisible. That was why it was so precious to me, I think. It became the one thing that was really mine, that I didn’t share with anyone. The woman in the glass was like my mother, the pink case like the smell of her perfume. I never knew my mum, so I guess this woman was the only one I ever really had. In hindsight, that’s almost funny. For a long while, I thought that that would be the worst time of my life. Sure, I had my little anchor, but it didn’t protect me from the rest of it. I started going to school, a stony place without even the slightest hint of green. It started off badly. It turns out that living in the woods with only one other person didn’t prepare me for class. I mean, dad taught me to read, sure, but that hardly meant anything. I didn’t know maths, I didn’t know history or geography or science. I didn’t know people. I could live all year in the forest, but two months in the city felt like dying. I started hanging out with the wrong crowd. It’s weird, sometimes the ‘wrong crowd’ are the only ones that’ll accept you. We’d do stupid things- set fires in oil drums, steal from convenience stores, etc. I almost forgot about the mirror, about my little mother in her little frame. I felt like an adult, when I was really still a kid. An angry, stupid kid. That ended as you’d think it would. We all got arrested. There was this guy named… I think it Jim, or something. He took all the blame, since he was the oldest. He had a couple priors, and the judge threw the book at him. I went to the trial, when he was being sentenced, and it’s funny, but they never mentioned that he was an orphan. A lotta that group were. Everyone but me, in fact. Maybe that was why they were so, ‘wrong’. Other kids lied, other kids stole, other kids raged against the world, but it was us that got into trouble for it. Maybe if our folks had been around, they would’ve stood up for us. Jimmy went to prison. Seven years, for stealing a six-pack of beers and a bike. He didn’t even really steal the bike, just took it to get away from the guy chasing him. He was a month away from seventeen, and he was tried as an adult. Grand larceny, armed robbery, and other harsh words were tossed around. All bull. He didn’t have a weapon, not even a pocket knife, and that rusty, piece-of-crap bike was barely worth a twenty. Even so, he got sent away, and we didn’t see him again. The rest of us got off with a warning, but we all suffered Jim’s sentence. Was it guilt? Perhaps. Whatever it was, we drifted apart, and the mirror was my anchor again. I found it under my pillow one night, and I held it tight while I cried. I don’t know why. Even now, I don’t get it. I obviously didn’t care all that much about Jim. I don’t even remember his name, really. But I cried until my pillowcase was soaked. The woman was as distant as ever. For a little while I hated her. I hated her blank stare, looking down, never meeting my eye. I even told her that, once, told her that I hated her. As if she could hear me. That was probably what I wanted, huh? For her to hear me. For me to be as important to her as she was to me. But she was just a reflection. When I got out of that place, I was happier. Hardly bouncing with joy, but no longer quite as miserable. I got a job at some supermarket, stacking shelves. It didn’t pay much, but it kept me off the streets. That was when I met Filly. She called herself Filly because her real name was Felicia, and she didn’t like it. Might have been the only thing she didn’t like. She was a sunny day at the beach, the most positive person I ever met. She was charming, and I was charmed. I told the woman about her. I’d taken to using her as a confidant, as a diary almost. She lingered there, with her pressed lips and frizzy hair, never reacting to a word I said. Best listener in the whole world. I would tell her about my day, about my thoughts, my little frustrations. I told her when I met Filly, the first day she worked at the supermarket. Pretty soon, she was all that I was talking about. Filly did this, Filly said that, Filly’s so cool, so kind, so smart. I wonder if she was writing the same about me. God, I hope not. I’d prefer that she was the cool one. Those days had a kind of subtle tension to them, something I couldn’t understand. Work was suddenly a breeze, but being at home was a quiet torture. I didn’t get it, and God, I’m just realising how much of my life I’ve spent not understanding things. I sound dense! Heh. Maybe I am. I was never more stupid than when she kissed me the first time. We were in the back, getting some supplies for the shelves, and I was talking about… I don’t remember what. She leaned over and planted a kiss on my lips, and all thoughts evaporated. That’s something I forgot to mention; she was brave. The bravest person in the whole world, that’s what I think. Where we lived wasn’t the kindest place for people like her. For people like us. The tension went away, and I finally realised what it was. I loved her. God, I was attracted to her. It was a simple thing, but it had left me stumped. I told the woman in the mirror, of course. Her silence was a welcome friend at this point, it helped me to think. Me and Filly got married after two months. We’d known each other a year at that point, so we weren’t really moving that fast. You couldn’t really get married properly in those days, not two girls or two boys, but we went up a hill, and we talked to God, and He heard us. I know that He did. It was love, so how could it be wrong? We moved in together, happy as could be. Before too long, Filly got a promotion. She’d always worked really hard, and she was charming, and that caught the right people’s attention. It was a regional position, so we moved upstate, to a more tolerant part of the nation. Filly had a lot of stuff, but I only took my clothes and my mirror. She asked me about it once, and I showed her my big secret. I was a bit nervous about that. I’d never told anyone about the woman, never showed anyone. Filly couldn’t see her. To my wife, as to everyone else, the mirror was just a mirror. I was a bit disappointed, and a bit relieved. After all this time, she was still only mine. I couldn’t share her even if I wanted to. The city was nice. Not as nice as the woods, but nicer than the town. There was always so much going on. Those were the golden days, when the sun shone and we were happy. We had each other, we had a bit of comfort and convenience, we had our careers and our long lives ahead of us. We didn’t need anything else. The end of that joy is when I discovered who the woman in the mirror was. I can’t forget that day. Every moment still smoulders in my head. It started out well- a lazy Sunday morning, quiet and warm, lying in each other’s arms. We got out of bed at eleven, ready for anything, ready to take the world by storm. Filly had an interview. God forgive me, but I’d sell my soul if I could have stopped her. She dressed up in her suit and picked up her briefcase, and she stood in the doorway, teetering on the edge with teeth on her lip. I asked her what was wrong, and she told me she was nervous. Damn me to hell, but I reassured her. When I close my eyes, I can still see her on that threshold. Smiling, saying the last words I ever heard her say. See you later, alligator. If I could turn back time, I would tell her I love her. I would rush forwards and pull her in, and never let her go again. But that’s not what I did. In a while, crocodile. The love of my life walked out the door, a little spring in her step. Less than twenty minutes later… … well, you know what happened. I didn’t learn about it until ten hours later. No one knew we were married, but I was listed as an emergency contact. They called her mother first, ignoring my name on the card. It was she who called me. There’s been an accident. I didn’t hear much after that. I wanted to scream, to run, to find Filly and pick her up and suffuse my soul into her. I would have traded my life for hers. In an instant. But I couldn’t. She was my wife, but no one knew, not even her mother. Back in those days, it was just not something you’d ever tell anyone. So I said goodbye, and I clutched my mirror until it almost broke. The funeral was the worst day of my life. I went as a room mate, as a friend, and I had to pretend that I wasn’t being lowered into the dirt beside her. The car that took her life had taken her beauty, too, and the casket was closed. I wouldn’t have cared. There wasn’t a single thing that could have stopped me from holding her, one last time. Nothing but the strength of coffin-nails, and the weight of her family’s stares. So I whispered my goodbyes, and I played my reduced part. Not the widow torn in two, but just the sad acquaintance. The apartment wasn’t much of a home any more. Filly had a little vanity in one corner of our room, and I sat there, just staring at the ground. I had the mirror in my hand, and another reflecting me in front. I wanted to grieve, but I just sat. A day of acting had frozen me in place. I was still pretending, with no one around. I can’t tell you why, but I found myself looking up, up into my reflection. I was startled to see her. The woman. She’d escaped my little hand-mirror, and now stared back at me. For the first time, I was scared of her. I thought she had come for me, to take my place, to wipe me out, to leave nothing that Filly had loved. But she was just my reflection. I looked into my mirror then. She was still there, but she was looking at me now. Her eyes followed the motion of mine. Fear faded away, replaced by understanding, and then, grief. It was a relief, to cry, to shake, to scream and thrash in that room, alone. Like I said, that was the worst day of my life. I hardly look at the mirror any more. Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t need to. All those years I had it were leading up to that moment, the moment when I was alone in my room and I couldn’t grieve. The woman is gone now. She was always me, and now all I see is my reflection. All that time. It’s comforting to think that that was the worst my life will be. I think that’s what it was showing me anyway. Hard to tell now. These days, it’s just a mirror.