Write about a character who feels like they're cut off from something. Well, another usual day. Just had my PCR-test done in the morning because of someone else in the office but nothing to worry though because I was not the close contact. Anyway it was good, because PCR screening day, meant it was another day off for everyone. Hurray! Finger crossed. Nothing to fret. Nothing to bother.  Just headed home, did chores, chit-chatted with kids and parents. Confidence level was 100%. *** Since it was a rest day, I thought I would just make full use of it. The extraordinary thing I did was rearranging the rooms, trying to set aside a room for self-quarantine, just in case for future circumstance. Carrying those furniture, here and there all by myself. No one seemed to care.  Mum who stayed with me just had a new modern psychological condition, nomophobia. Well, let me admit that on behalf of her. And my preschooler kids were in their own world. So imagine the hassle of shifting on my own? I thought so, but just felt I needed to. I was careful, deliberate in a way. Well no scratches on my stuffs, but I got them on my arm. My bad. As if I was moving out and moving in a new home. Not at once I glanced at the clock, but my tummy did grumbled. Well, a packet of soya drink to shut the mouth. After all this 10-hours of shifting, my body finally agreed to give it a break because my bones and muscles were not cooperating any longer. Soon, my elderly mum voiced out, “Eliz, why do you isolate there first while waiting for your result. Don’t worry, I’ll settle the kids on bed”. Well, I had no objection, because I needed much tranquility at that late evening. Too exhausted to even greet or hug my hubby who reached home two hours ago. Even a good night kiss was rather expensive that night. So, I hit the sack early, 9 p.m. in that spare room for quarantine. Earliest ever in my life. Still, before my eyelids shut, I self-assured, “Everything is going to be okay.” ***** “Ding!” My phone cracked the silence a little. I was blur, not to mention the darkness and the pain my body was handling. Getting up this way with muscles aching like millions of ants marching on my arms and legs was the best description. And my back surely I could feel tonnes of sacks on it, I hardly got up what more to grope my spec in the dark. It was a long, long process for me to sit up. All in all, 15 minutes. Finally I made it, as if I was wading in the mud trying to get myself on the shore. *** Alright, spectacles on, but loosely hung. Blamed it on my weak hand. Alright, vision cleared by now. Time came first. It was 1 a.m. Not skeptical at all. No vexation at all. Peace in heart. Soon my finger did the necessary; pressing the unread message one by one. Right, that was the one. “Open Sesame!” “SARS-CoV 2 Viral RNA (by RT-PCR). Detected.”  “ORF1ab gene CT value : 36.29 ; “N gene CT value : 33.48.” “Health Ministry will contact you soon” I thought my eyes got cheated, so I zoomed to the maximum. Unbelievable! My head spun and spun. There was no way the result came out that way. All the 5W1H; What! Why? Who? Where? When? How? Bombarded this barren mind of mine. My facial muscle spasmed right away. Lips twitching, like first timer on stage. Fingers weren’t crossed, stiff like a fork. Aching legs stood rooted to the ground. Butt buried in my pillow. Back hunching like my grandmother. Busted out of sudden. No escape plan. Believe it or not, yes, I was Covid positive.It was like a bull eye shot. Still arguing with my conscience. I was told “I were to I think positively, everything will be alright. If I think negatively, everything will end up the negative way.” But what was that? I thought positively, and I got this positive Covid result? Puzzled. This empty room with just a bed and a diffuser as a companion did nothing to calm this stormy heart of mine. The diffuser did it best to moisturize the room of course but it ended up slowly swelling up my eyes. I sniffled quietly as tears threatening to spill from my eyes any sooner. I couldn’t spill any word either because fear overcame me, choking my throat for the very first time. I felt the instance of being walled up and sealed in an envelope, ready to be deported and interrogated like an alien. “Instinct, you are useless!” My heart screamed. *** Fact is fact. Fate is fate. No turning back. No amendment on the document. I had to face this soberness. I had to face defeat. I had to tell my family whom I had raffishly rest-assured earlier. With much gut, I searched “Contact – husband”. Dialled but no-answer because he was always a sleepy head. Next “Contact – Mum”. After three rings, finally she picked up. “Mum, I am sorry to wake you at this hour but to tell you this, I am positive, but asymptomatic.” “Huuuuhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!” That long response of hers did deafened my ear quite a bit.

As expected, another round of questioning of 5W1H. Last but not least, “Eliz, you did the right thing today, your self-isolating room is just perfect for you. Stay there and don’t you ever step out!” A moment of chaos began in the house. Beyond my room walls, I could hear the sound of clanging pot, clicking of glass bottles, crinkling of biscuits packets, slamming of doors and rummaging of clothes. I knew they were meant for me.  An hour passed, but no sign of anyone approaching me. *** Twice soft knocks on the door. There, stood my poor husband. No protective gear suit like the front liner, but he was holding his fogging machine like a combat man carrying his machine gun, ready to shoot the disinfectant fog at me, the room and the whole house. He wanted to save me and our family. He knew exactly he should perish the bug with crowns forever and stop them from invading further into the clean air at home. The fog did not suffocate me, but his calmness did spurred me. There the thick fog finally engulfed the entire room. Before I could say “I love you, honey!” trying to figure out where he was, I just heard the door bang. **** The next thing I knew, the world completely shut its door. I thought everyone was going to turn their back against me. I thought my colleagues would back stab and call me the ‘Spreader’. I thought I lost all human connection. But I was wrong. The health department had been calling me not to interrogate but asking if I was doing fine and to rest well every day. Colleagues had been sending their wishes for me to get sufficient rest too. Church members had been praying and sending beautiful encouraging stickers. My kids and family had been video-calling me every now and then. Now that I know, I had not been cut off completely, but come to realize that, it is love, patience and kindness that bring this world together. *** Guess, I just had enough rest because every cloud has a silver lining.


This rope is irritating. The smallest of spines imperfecting through the remaining uniform coils. I tighten it regardless. It begins to feel as if it’s strangling the breath out of me…. No it’s choking the winds so desperate to relieve me. I gaze below and notice a chair. It’s thrown across my feet. Pathetically fallen to the support of its head instead of it’s four purposed stumps. The room begins spinning. Around my eyes I see the freezer… The refrigerator… The Camaro… No, I’m spinning. Tight circles and unsprung coils of emotions. My eyes are weak now; my mind hazy. Thousands of needles are stabbing at my brain; or are they piercing through my skin and skull? I do not know. My glasses remain athwarted the bridge of my nose yet my vision is now hazy, blurred from reality. My mind and body have become faded, numb to this idea, numb to this reality. Silence falls across the thought that plagued my dreams. Everything turns to emptiness. What is this? Is this nothingness? What is nothing? It is neither warm nor cold. Neither loud nor silent… No, it is silence. A deafening silence. It is silence so loud it pierces my eardrums. It sounds desperate. Sad and emotional. It sounds like my mother’s tears falling upon the ground of which imprisons her kindred spirit. It disgusts me. With one selfish act, I have caused so much pain. The thought of the terrible sensations, of the one who cares the most for me, is going through is enough to make me wish I could clutch my chest. My lungs are a tighter than my chest. My throat is a clogged drain. I was suffocating before but now I am choking. I try to open my eyes but all I see is black. My body is burning up yet I am so cold. Eyes so frantically darting side to side begging to see the light. A light of hope begins to appear in the distance taunting as if it were about to run. I begin to chase after the bright spec. My life depends on this light. The future of mother depends on this light. I want to sprint but I can’t for these is no ground upon which to set my feet. I try to swim but this is space isn’t liquid. I seem to be floating. I’m being taken towards the light. I want to reach this sense of hope so badly but in the back of my thoughts I know it to be a lie. Panic is starting to set in. This light isn’t my salvation; it is my destruction. I try to turn back but there I can’t turn away. I try harder and harder; the panic and anxiety is intense. I can feel nothing but total despair for I cannot turn away from what I now know to be my entrance to whatever afterlife awaits me. I feel even hotter now. I’m so hot I can feel my skin melting. I’m melting into a pool of cool. This heat is so cold it feels vulnerable. With eyes now shut so tight, I can feel the light enveloping me. It’s cold and wet. Why is it wet? Terror is my fate. I know this to be true yet curiosity is a cunning enemy. I open my eyes finally to see the ceiling of my bedroom. My chest is rapid. My body a pool of sweat. There’s barely a crack of light coming through the window of which my bed is pushed against. The curtain is rough and torn near the top. I tilt my head to see the glow of red. There are 17 bars of red arranged to read 5:58. An audible sigh is barely breathed but enough to inform me that this is in fact real. No longer dreaming or actually dead. Marth Cohen survived again. Another terror that dragged him through every puddle of mud ever to form in his mind. Constant thoughts of how worthless he perceives himself. Thoughts of suicide are common for this soul. His life a gift he wishes would be snuffed out. He doesn’t know why. No one can ever know exactly why. These thoughts have no reason. They just are. Marth struggles to regain comfort. He tosses and he turns. He finally rests on his side staring at the clock. Another Friday rears its head. For Marth his entire school life has been nothing but pain. Tales could be told of how vile this midwestern town has treated Marth. He never liked it but he never spoke up about his treatment either. He always thought it was better to accept his life without fight than trouble others around him. Being in the graduating class has been by far the worst yeah of torture for him to endure so far. Tears started to form near the ducts of his eyes. It was almost over. In two months Marth would be rid of that school and rid of this town. Marth held back the tears forming and closed his eyes again. He would soon be escaping from this torment. The only problem with this idea was that he was wrong. It is only getting worse. It’s only the start of how bad living in this place is going to get.


One day, not so very long ago, a young nurse named Angela needed to use the laundromat. She loved to ride the waves after work, to let her surfboard carry her through cool water and salt air.  She loved to ride the back of the ocean, to feel the power swell beneath her feet, to let the water take her on adventures, to spy sparkling shells buried in the sand, to follow sharks and dolphins, to make the water sing with her. But all her suits were sodden with salt and sand, so she made the trek through sun blasted streets, trudging past wraiths curled up under the barred windows of smoke shops, avoiding the stares of  tattooed and bearded giants, finally pushing through the glass doors of the laundromat, bells tinkling behind her.

The washers gleamed in friendly rows – though the largest one, the triple loader loomed alone in its corner, its round door dark and ominous. Angela avoided it, choosing instead a spritely little machine, a single loader.

Two old women sat together watching their clothes spin through the rinse cycle. One chattered happily to the other who was wearing a sky-blue bathrobe with a pattern of shooting stars, but she ignored her friend, murmuring to herself instead.

As she began her wash, the chatterbox turned to Angela. She was missing a tooth and had hair sprouting from her chin, but her eyes were bright and kind.

“I’m Drusilla. My friend, Griselda, thinks something bad is coming here. Do you feel it? I don’t feel it.”

“I don’t feel it,” Angela said.

“Griselda is usually right. She uses herbs and sometimes runes. She has the power of sight. Not me. I just go with my gut. What about you?”

“I like to surf.”

“Oh,” said Drusilla, “so you’re one of those. Well, aren’t you the special one.”

Before Angela could reply, a tall man pushed open the doors, bells silent behind him. He was broad-shouldered and blue-eyed, his blond hair precisely groomed – he wore khakis and loafers without socks.

He surveyed the room, his cold blue eyes sweeping across the people waiting on benches, the spinning of clothes, the rush and roar of water pouring into and out of machines. His eyes swept over them, resting first on the triple loader which seemed to return his gaze and then on Griselda, her bathrobe, her grizzled hair, her restless mouth. He leaned casually against the wall, crossed his arms, and stared, the room belonging to him.

“I don’t know,” Angela whispered, “Maybe I do feel like something bad is about to happen.”

Drusilla whispered back, “He’s one, isn’t he. An evil one.”

At the far end of the laundromat, a small door creaked open, and a tiny wrinkled man appeared. He carried a bucket and cleaning cloths and began to wipe out the machines. The blond man’s eyes swept across him, too. They swept across the glass doors as they were pushed open by a dark-haired woman carrying two heavy baskets. They swept after her as she placed one basket on the ground and loaded clothes into the washer from the other. They followed her out the door, bells tinkling behind her, as she rushed to her car for another load.

A baby cried.

“No, you cannot,” Griselda hissed at the blond man.

Lazily the blond man straightened up, lazily the blond man swaggered over to Griselda. Lazily, he looked down on her.

“You’re wrong. I can and I will.”

But Griselda’s eyes were closed and her murmuring sounded like water rushing over stones or the surf retreating over seashells.

The blond man swiveled his eyes to Angela and Drusilla.

“They don’t belong here, you see. Immigrants. From those countries. They ruin everything for the rest of us. This is the only way they’ll learn. I don’t want to do this, but it’s my duty. It’s my duty to my brotherhood. I’ve sworn an oath, so I don’t have a choice, do I. I have to honor my oath to drive them away. To keep us pure and unpolluted.” And then he smiled, showing them his gleaming white teeth.

He snatched the basket the woman had placed on the floor and inside it a baby cried. A baby with chubby rosy cheeks and curly black hair.

And before Angela could think, like a thunderbolt he placed the basket with the baby in the triple loader and slammed the door shut. And then he was gone.  No bells tinkling in his wake.

And because it was in Angela’s nature to save lives, she rushed to open the door, but even with all her strength she couldn’t, even with the strength of the desperate mother, the door wouldn’t budge.

The caretaker placed gentle hands on their shoulders, “There’s nothing you can do. She’ll keep the water from rising,” he gestured at Griselda whose murmuring had intensified, “without the silver disc, there’s no way to open it.”

Drusilla held the sobbing mother, the three of them helpless as the baby’s faint cries were heard through the round door.

“What disc? What’s happening?” Angie had to find a way to help.

The caretaker sighed. “That...person ...you saw, Preston Simmons, owns this place. He doesn’t need the money, it’s a like a game for him, he enjoys catching people, playing with them, terrifying them. It’s fun for him.  He set a trap in here – the triple loader. He uses it to scare people, sometimes worse. But he usually releases them with the disc, after they’re terrified and beg for mercy and promise to leave the country. But he became enraged last week, when no one here spoke English, and one girl laughed at him when he spoke to her, so he threw the disc in the ocean where no one can find it. Our only hope is Griselda, that she can find a way to break open the door.”

Angela knelt down next to the mother whose hand was pressed against the door of the machine, the baby inside reaching for her.

“We’ll find a way. We can take the machine apart. I’ll get tools.”

“That doesn’t work,” the caretaker said. “He has powers, that man or whatever he is. I’ve tried everything. Everything breaks, my best electric drill. Nothing works, it’s all been tried before.”

Drusilla straightened up, her eyes bright and shining as she regarded Angela.

“I know something that will work - it’s you. Of course, you’re the special one. Go ride the waves. Go on, let your friendship with the ocean help us.  Go now. Don’t question it – just go.”

Angela struggled to the beach – she felt she could hardly move; she could hardly lift her legs as she fought her way through the thickened air.  She felt the cold eyes of Preston Simmons everywhere, holding her back, his rage infecting the air, baking the sidewalks, pulling her down.

She staggered through hot sand, so deep and hot, she felt she would be buried in it.  Someone’s surfboard lay ahead of her, thrown on the sand – she fell to her knees and crawled towards it. When her hands touched its edges, she felt some strength return and half dragged it to the surf. But the waves resisted, they pushed her down, they held her down, pounded out her air. She thought that she would never breathe again, betrayed even by the waves. The waves roiled into violence by the force of Preston’s rage. Pinned to the sand she saw sunlight beckon through the water and the waves, finally recognizing her, collapsed and retreated. Blue sky welcomed her, the water now contrite and calm. The board floated above her head, waiting patiently for her to paddle out, to ride the right wave to shore.

She could feel the roll of the water approaching her, the powerful swell approaching.  The sun made a shining path over which three pelicans flew and then it was time.

In apology, the water made a temple for her a shining blue cathedral she entered just under the crest of the wave. She rode through silence and blue light and absolute stillness. And as she emerged into sunlight and shallow water, a silver disc shone in the sand at her feet.

Running past the eyes of wraiths and giants, water pouring off her shorts and tee shirt she slammed into the laundromat, bells tinkling behind her, and held the silver disc triumphantly aloft.

The caretaker delicately passed it before the blackened, baleful door of the washer which with a guttural groan creaked reluctantly open. The mother flew to her baby who wrapped his chubby brown arms around her neck.

Griselda stood up and took Angela’s hand in hers.

“We have work to do,” she said.

And Angela did do the work, saving lives across the world and riding waves wherever there was need of her.


High in the hills Oedipus limped on alone. It had been some days now since he had seen another soul. The late afternoon sun beat down upon his neck as he dragged his limp foot along this dusty trail, his only company the birds above. He had started out before the Sun had risen and was witness to its journey across the blue sky. Yet he hadn’t paused, nor would he, until he arrived at Thebes. He had heard that there great trouble brewed. But trouble was what he desired. Turning his back on his family, he realised the only glory he would obtain in this world would be of his own making. Cresting the hill, he leant on his staff. A clear view of Thebes and the surrounding plain lay below. This was where he would make his name, that much he knew. He began his descent. The tall walls of the city rose up and dominated the sun drenched plain, like the silhouette of some man-made mountain range against the bright open sky. Marching towards them he prayed to the gods, to give him the strength to win glory. Vague rumours had informed him of the trouble of Thebes, but it wasn’t clear what exactly the trouble was. He believed in the heroics of Man and had taken it upon himself to shed some light on the problem. He would do what was necessary, or die trying. The gods of high Olympus would surely bless one as bold as he, one who had taken charge so as to avoid his fate as told at Delphi. The last fingers of the Sun pointed out over the horizon. He drew close to those famous walls as the faint stars first twinkled in the darkening sky. No greeting or hail met him from the gates, just a gentle breeze rolling over the plain. It kicked up dust, watering his eyes to the shadowy archway ahead. He paused. He had the sensation of being watched. “I would make myself known. I am Oedipus and I am come to the aid of Thebes.” In front, something moved as smoke in the shadows. Squinting he gazed into the abyss. “Would you now, brave Oedipus? What aid would that be?” Emerging from the gloom with feline grace there appeared to him the most beautiful face. Her skin so smooth the structure so angular, like life breathed into a marble statue of a goddess. Oedipus stood straighter. “I would know who I speak to first.” “A question before that I reveal, and if you fail, you can join those, who lie by my tail.” His eyes were only now becoming accustomed to the dark. He noticed what looked like little piles of earth behind the speaker, on the edge of the shadow cast by the gatehouse. “Ask if you must, I’d rather we didn’t come to blows, it would be a crime against the gods to strike such a pretty face.” A grin appeared, revealing the sharp teeth of a lion. "Which creature has one voice and yet becomes four-footed and two-footed and three-footed?" His heart pounded, fire flamed in his veins. Cascading like a waterfall, images of his life until now fell in front of his mind’s eye. A second passed. "Man—who crawls on all fours as a baby, then walks on two feet as an adult, and then uses a walking stick in old age" “Very good, very good brave Oedipus! So quick on your feet?” She glanced down. “The Sphinx I am, I guard this gate, answer my riddle, and Thebes I’ll vacate.” Closer she came. Creeping as a cat, her wings outstretched. Eye to dreamy eye they gazed. She paused in front of him. Her breath reeked of death. “Speak then.” "There are two sisters: one gives birth to the other and she, in turn, gives birth to the first. Who are the two sisters?" A moments silence. The breeze blew. Unsure, he looked to the sky. The stars were now on full display. The zodiac shone brightly. “Day and night.” The Sphinx beamed at Oedipus. Fluidly she lifted her paw and rammed it into her drooling maw. He watched as with swift violence she devoured herself, until all that remained was a vicious pool of gore. It reflected back the sky above. He walked towards the gate, passing the remains of the Sphinx’s victims. He beat the gate as a victory drum. It echoed off into the night. Silence. He beat the gate again. “I am Oedipus and I have saved Thebes!” In the distance he heard a door close. Another moment of silence passed. He heard bolts clanging behind the gate and the slow creak of it being opened. In that yawning gap, the light of a torched flickered casting the distorted shadow of a hand on the wall. Oedipus thanked the gods. He had glory.


NAME OF THE STORY: THE WITHDRAWAL NUMBER OF WORDS: 2,327 words THE WITHDRAWAL “There are many ways of breaking a heart, stories were full of hearts being broken by love, but what really broke the heart was taking away the dream – whatever that dream might be.” – Pearl Sydenstricker Buck. “Surely better a stone in the manure than gold in the mountain stream among the tundra temperate regions during the winter,” this were the words that were silently playing in the mind of Caractacus. “Don’t worry,” came the graduate’s voice,” who knows, I may go through.” Caractacus had attained and secured a degree in civil engineering technology from one of the most recognized and let me say competent universities. He hoped after his graduation which to speak truthfully, was well attended by friend and relatives from near, far and beyond. They all believed that it shall be OK with their lad who had just been flown into the world of the elites. The initials are that the lad was from a poor background, no, allow me to use the word humble background for etiquette roles. Let’s go ahead. Caractacus had just posted an application letter to one of the mushrooming Huduma Centers in the country, now the former are centers for electronic citizenry services that the prevailing governments had employed in the control of the populace in the previous Postal centers. The onset conversation was with an attendant at the Huduma Centre. “Let’s hope so, it’s prayers,” exclaimed the attendant, then she walked away in well measured steps throwing her well touched curl kit sideways. To the lad this was a sign of discouragement. “This woman thinks that she is better than me, a whole engineer, I object,” Caractacus murmured in his coagulating thoughts. “I will disapprove this unlearned fellow one day; I won’t stoop too low.” Caractacus had a second class upper and missed the most desired First Class Honor with a mere two points. This might have made him the topic of the day; Newspapers and Journals could arch his names, I beg your pardon, allow me pluralize the name. one could read, “KING CARACTACUS CONQUERS AGAIN” and another would enunciate “BOADICEA IS ON THE HEEL.” Now the author thinks like a historian because of self-vivid memory on the victory of Briton King Caractacus and Boadicea Queen of the Iceni tribe on the Hadrian’s Wall. The television interviews; oh! The local radio stations and then maybe British Broadcasting Cooperation (BBC) or the Cable News Network or Aljazeera umpiring and predisposing him to the actual face of the globe. The heart pain lasted just for a day since even the peers that had achieved the level were equally wallowing in deep, deep poverty. Their applications were dismissed. In those days, the Civil Engineers who graduated from the local universities suffered due to foreign employment, let me say, foreign expatriates. Am not saying that nowadays are safe. They are still endangered, undergoing employment crises. He was not shortlisted again. He said be it; he had to purge poverty from his home in the North Eastern Part of the country. North Eastern from the cognate words, means the depraved parts of the rain, arid and semi-arid lands, the region receives the North East monsoon trade winds which were called dry winds. The similarity between the origin and the preponderating cascades of the scenario accrued to the graduate was not only evident but also axiomatic. Finally, the irresolute and frivolous mind dropped from the air. “I will apply for tenders in my constituency – am their own – their own tribe, same language, circumcision and longtime inherited dressing code, the peculiar regalia of the ancient lore,” the young elite brainstormed. His mind highly boggled, faltered and vacillated with KA Stroud Engineering Mathematics’ masterpieces, Rock-Soil Mechanics, Computer Aided Designs- AUTO CAD, ArchiCAD, Auto desk and much Programming and Coding. The people from the Alpha State, a neighboring country, thronged his native country and were immediately furnished and given employment by the Mafungoan government as if it was doing charity to the alienated individuals. But does the author say, this was thanks to their well-furnished towns with well arrayed lighting systems that made even the lowland inland not only towns but also the municipalities and cities appear as Cities on a hill, which as well-known cannot be hidden. They, am talking of the local natives, received the tenders too…the only ones they (the natives of Mafungo State) managed to secure were to deflate their ego, as the state officials, called degrees. Ego was the unaccustomed or do I say the reinvigorated nomenclature for degrees whether the first Bachelors, Masters or Doctor of Philosophy or Divinity. These, tenders the Mafungoan residents received compromised construction of box culverts-this was indeed too low for a fully qualified engineer, brains highly throttled with the Lagrange-Poison findings. He declined it. He wondered why. But why! He wept silently, in his community it was forbidden for a man to weep even death to all your brothers and sisters with children, it was considered nature. A man could only weep on three occasions. First, if a man lost one of his kidneys in a war, second if a fellow man is killed in a war clash. Thirdly, which made the whole community moan, that one could be beaten by his wife to pulp, this made men weep to tears and cut themselves with blades to bleeding. He made the decision. “Am going to check the Alpha-Techno’s curriculum,” he concluded. Now Techno is another country that is at per with the Alpha in terms of technological sophistications and infrastructural aggrandizement. Shock and great stun struck him to the shirt, the curriculum was too shallow-here the author speak the truth-he understood everything within two weeks. Still, the question emerged – why did the government give them all tenders – I refused to say award them tenders. Am also angry. No, yes, I am. Focus on the text now. The poverty back in the village was a disheartening eyesore. He decided to join an Alphan who had been awarded, no given, a tender to design a road worth five hundred 500 million pakwacha by the Mafungoan currency. To his sufficient cranial cavity brouhaha, the alien did not employ any of the fundamental Canon of Engineering ethics. Instead, the plant manager brought his stuff and things were moving. No design. No cost measures. The man could sit back consummately munching down the ‘ mahindi choma’ , roasted maize and smoke cigarette distinguishingly. Caractacus had lost again, the man gave him the duty of building bumps. When he presented his design, the alien interrogated scathingly. Here, he was to handle spade, fork-jembe and related farm tools, machinery and equipment and strike to and fro till everything was done. Mind the pilgrim’s phonology. “Hey broman, ati nyinyi ndio the learned friends , ahaa! Zii manze , life is this much tight and tough, out here is difficult, but let’s just strive, Nature knows,” said the peculiar man who was fundi in the construction site in his pidgin English. Caractacus shrugged his shoulders and moved nonchalantly towards the young man, even the fundi himself. “Look here, brother, these men, we will have to withdraw them from our nation or not it’s not going be easy to be easy with us as the graduates from the tertiary institutions.” “That is very true but, remember that people like us don’t get employed by you graduates from the so called universities.” “Why do you think that we graduate individuals don’t employ you people,” said the elite with a voice that showed defeat and cares. “That is the fact chopper!” boomed the fundi. “How did you just call me!”. “You guy is a chopper, I mean, you are the brains of this country, the golden elite prototypes…”. “Stop! I see sir, you are speaking some truth, the truth itself that sets people free as some of the believers once taught me, but tell me how comes and elite is given the jobs of the fundi, forgive me my friend for that...”. the unlearned fellow, moves close now all formalities dropped approach the selected brain owner. “I am Orome Jakobo, from Sigorikomos province, I have worked with different companies in my position area fundi, recently I was promoted to the position of an air conditioning craftsman and a foreman in the Mijengo company, but hard I settled for the job, when the retrenchment letter flew rapidly into my email, WhatsApp page and the office desk.” “Sorry my friend, and what could be the cause of all these?” “What can be the cause if not the nepotism and the corruption that has completely marooned and tyrannized this generation.” The fundi continue, noticing that the elite ally is now getting the better part of the conversation, “And imagine these top notch officials just dismissed me like that, no notice, no protocols observed, just the retrenchment letter and here I am again an ardent expert I call myself to preserve my calm.” They both start humming the Just As I am song by the Billy Graham and his duet George Beverly Shea and Cliff Barrows. They sing in unison as is a choirmaster of the ancient maskil is on the lead, “Just as I am without one plea, thou bidst…ooh my soul, Lord I come, I come.” Now in the state the statement soul meant different things and the fiercest meaning was death. “Well, pardon me the negligence, I am Caractacus Kawa, a senior grandaunt of Civil Engineering from the Bard Avon University of Engineering, am from Kalande.” The two get the better part of each other, the fundi in his brown overall, the helmet broken on one side, and tied with a string on the other looks confident of himself, respecting the fellow lad. On the other hand, the engineer in his flowered shirt coated with a new overall affixed with an orange reflector and a tinge of pale green trousers looked dissatisfied. Here are two lads standing close to each other the unqualified looking satisfied and the qualified looking discontented. * * * * * * He was agitated. he was a divided house. He thought of summoning the government in a one-man-army methodology. No, this was an unviable and infertile thought that couldn’t hatch a valid consequence, his own mother survived on a pension which was a premise the government gave her. The father worked in the government as a permanent sweeper of a public toilet and secured employment in that falling of events. He himself survived on a loan that the government gave to the students faithfully. The government must not be sued at all, but why are all ways clogged and blocked; it’s all about the government. Recently, media whose news were now even more manipulated and considered gutter press, once announced that the head of state of Mafungo and the counterpart from Alpha State had struck a deal of a gigantic loan. This loan could only be paid if the Alpha State is given the Mafungo Mountain and River Odisa which were the source of livelihood for the residents. The mountain was responsible for great agricultural works while the river was for navigation and fishing. And remember that these physical features were to be given to Alpha State for a period not less than three hundred and forty-seven years. What a loss if a person cannot survive for about three months without food, what of the sadistic period of leasehold of the features. The young man was torn in the mind like a paper subjected to the concentrated sulphuric acid. Who was bad? He blamed from curriculum, government, poverty-ancestral one; but found all comparisons equivalently neutralizing each other like an acid and an alkali in chemical reaction. Back at village, in Kalande, money was needed and they fiercely asked for it. They wanted him as an engineer to have money, buy a Mercedes Benz S600 Vogue or Land Cruiser V8 and if possible NISSAN PATROL T62 v8 nothing less. Then that a descent wedding he was a Christian, stronghold of Christian outreach fellowships previously. In the capital, the loan defaulters were in threat of being arrested and detained till upon loan completion. But please, tell me, how can you source money to pay loan when you are in the jail and detained. Incalcitrant phenomena crisscrossed the mind of the students. This loan was the loan for education and they had until one and a half a year to pay it completely. Global economic crisis had hit and the Intercontinental Monetary Financial was also running out of stock. The fuel prices were fluctuating and swinging like a pendulum bob tossed to and fro and this meant that much fare was charged sometimes tripled or better still doubled. Time cut me short to speak of the rent, water and power supply deficiency. He was divided and no point appeared successful at the end of all. He pitied the uprising in his career course. Now it was done, poverty had increased in the village and in town, it is a hide-and-seek game. No love, no pity, no charity. As the days went by, Caractacus went back to the village empty handed. His burial was in a family land as the mother sang, “They have taken my son wasted before his time, I know it is true, but send rain Lord to overtake the tears of the lonely mother , min ji , as my son called me.” Then a note was read that Caractacus had left before his long departure, it was in capital, FOR YOU TO CONTINUE WITH THE STRUGGLE AND ME TO DIE AND WITHDRAW MYSELF, WHOEVER GOES TO THE BEST PLACE ONLY GOD KNOWS. NOW, I KISS THE GRAVE NOW. When this was read, all the students broke into tears and melancholic sobs, they knew they are moving in that direction if things were not restituted. And as the mourners departed there was a mound of fresh black soil with the elite lying there away from the defeats and cares of life. He withdrew himself from the of the face of the globe – hoping things would get better - as the dark skin of his body touched the black cotton soil as coffin couldn’t be afforded to wrap up the body. The withdrawal had occurred. The mother of Caractacus agreed that she would launch a campaign to help students forget the kind of trauma and depression they underwent. She had an argument that ‘BETTER A LIVING DOG THAN A DEAD LION’. This she meant that the living grandaunts were far more important than if they overstretched and died.


I stand in front of the wellhouse, shaking with cold and fear. Goosebumps cover my arms and chest, exposed to the late autumn chill. *Should have taken a coat,* I think absently, curling my hands into fists at my sides, bunching the worn fabric of my dress in clammy palms. Of course, I’d had other things to worry about at that moment. The village doctor and the women who’d found Joshua, face-down in the river, were still in my kitchen surrounding the lifeless body of my son. If they had known what I planned to do, they would have stopped me. I couldn’t allow that – my husband had died two winters ago and my little boy was the only family I had left. *And now there’s only me.* I push the horrifying thought aside, forcing myself to focus on the building before me. The wellhouse sits low and squat in the tall grass, surrounded by trees with thick, solid trunks and dense canopies of leaves. They grow closely around the building, branches interwoven in a dark mass that blocks out the stars above me. Gnarled roots snake along the edges of the structure, creeping their way through small cracks in the mossy stone walls. It makes the wellhouse seem like a natural part of the woods, growing in the soil like the trees around it. This is a very old place – part of the village that had stood here before my own. Though most of the other buildings have become crumbling mounds of loosely-ordered stone, the wellhouse remains mostly intact – weathered, but solid. My people believe it holds great power, for in it resides something far more ancient than even the abandoned village: the Water Witch. My breath comes in a slight pant and my skin stings from the many cuts I accumulated running through the forest to the old village. But my physical discomfort is secondary to my main concern – the unspeakable tragedy that has brought me to this place. *My baby, gone!* A terrible ache fills my chest and sends hot, desperate tears of grief pouring down my wind-chapped cheeks. *I must save him, whatever it takes!* Still, I hesitate, unwilling to enter the wellhouse. All my life, I have been told stories of the creature that calls this place home. She is said to be thousands of years old, the last of an ancient race that had once ruled this region. Some kind of spirit or nymph who inhabits the waters in the area. Part protector and part temptress, she guards the water and all who reside in it but also serves a much darker purpose. The “witch” is in fact, a siren, leading men astray only to drown them in the deep waters. She seems to particularly prefer those who have survived shipwrecks or near-drownings – men who escape watery graves, only to be lured back into them by a vision of beauty in the form they desire most. While the Water Witch’s motivations are poorly understood, her power is feared. The nymph doesn’t just live in the water, she *is* the water. Not just in her well, but in every lake, river and stream from here to the next village, almost three days’ ride away. She also guards the stretch of coastline to the East and if the few survivors and witnesses are to be believed, at least some of the deep ocean beyond. My people have always allowed her to live in peace and privacy, giving her wellhouse a wide berth. Some leave occasional offerings for her at the water’s edge, which go untouched until the animals take them. But tonight, I intend to do the unthinkable – to break the unwritten rules and try to speak to the witch herself. As I stand there surrounded by shadows, crisp wind carrying the scent of decaying leaves and peat to my nose, my survival instincts scream at me to turn and run like a frightened rabbit. But the agony off my loss far outweighs my terror, so I think of my little boy and let the primal need to protect my child fill me. It washes away my fear and hesitation, lending me the resolve I so desperately need. *The resolve Joshua needs.* Steeling myself, I take three steps to the door and push my way into the darkness. After a brief moment of terrifying blackness, my eyes begin to adjust. Small holes in the roof let slivers of light through, casting a pale glow over the cracked stone and wood that makes up the structure. The old well sits in the middle of the room, as high as my waist. It’s made of rough-hewn grey and black rocks, cut into a circle at least the width of a man’s wingspan. The air is still and smells of peat and dirt, stale from years of neglect. The wellhouse is utterly quiet, save for my own shaky breathing. “Hello? Is anyone here?” When there is no answer, I begin to panic, certain I’ve been following a path to a dead end. *Now what will I do? I cannot live without him!* At the thought of my son truly being gone forever, a sob escapes me. It echoes off the walls, filling the room with the sound of my grief. A soft noise breaks my rapidly-spiraling train of thought – a gentle splashing, coming from the bottom of the well. With baited breath and dread suffusing every ounce of my being, I slowly and cautiously approach. Stopping as far back as I can, I lean forwards to look over the lip of stone, down into the base of the well. *There, just below the surface.* A vague shape, spanning almost the full width of the well. *Is it moving?* I step forwards warily, poking my head over the edge, and a tear rolls off my cheek. It glimmers in the dim light as it falls to join the pool below. As the teardrop reaches the water, sending ripples across its surface, the shape begins to move. It surges up toward me with incredible speed, a spray of water arcing up as it breaches. I jump back with a startled scream, shielding my face with a raised arm. The dark shape lands in front of the well with a surprisingly light thud, rising up to tower above my cringing form. Though the wellhouse is filled with shadows, there is enough light to discern that the Water Witch is inhumanly beautiful. She wears a deep green dress the color of seaweed that clings to her like wet fabric. Her hair is a brilliant, ultramarine blue. It hangs down to her waist in a mass of untamed waves, dry in spite of the water she just emerged from. In fact, she doesn’t appear to be sodden at all - not even the faintest gleam of moisture is visible on her cyan skin. She regards me with sapphire eyes flecked with white, like the ocean itself is trapped beneath her lashes. After a brief pause, she speaks in a voice that reminds me off a still lake. Calm and gentle on the surface, but with an unfathomable depth I instinctively know to fear. “You taste of loss, little mad woman.” I stand there with my mouth agape, unsure how to respond. At length, I find my voice but all I manage to say is “I’m not mad.” The witch laughs, a pleasant sound strangely reminiscent of a babbling creek, and turns to walk around the left side of the well. “Of course you are, young one. Only a mad woman would seek a Witch of the Water. Especially a woman who tastes of grief.” As she speaks, she trails her fingers along the stone lip, slowly circling it as her eyes take in the state of the decrepit building. In her wake, thin streams of water decorate the floor and well’s edge, as if it’s emanating from her skin itself. Though I want to argue with the nymph, I must admit that she has a point. And more importantly, a potential resolution for my terrible tragedy. “I have come to ask for your help.” I whisper, my voice hoarse with emotion. “My son ... h-he was playing by the river with some of the vi-village boys and somehow he...” I trail off with a sob, unable to finish my sentence. She chimes in, apparently unphased by my blubbering nonsense. “He drowned in my river. Yes, I know. I am sorry you lost him.” I am surprised to hear genuine sympathy in the nymph’s voice. I had always pictured her as a cold, terrifying being – powerful and unforgiving like the ocean. To hear gentleness and kindness in her tone fills me with nascent hope. “Th-thank you.” I sniff, wiping at my raw cheeks with the rough sleeve of my dress. “B-but it’s not good enough. I want to make a d-deal. I want my son back!” I shake, my throat tight and burning as hot tears stream down my face, wetting my neck and soaking into my collar. The witch fixes me with an unreadable gaze, leaning on the well across from me. “What you ask is no small feat, mad woman. What makes you think I can restore life to your boy?” My heart sinks at her question, but I cling to my hopes like a drowning woman. “You are the river – both its guardian and its spirit. Surely there must be something you can do? Please, I beg you! Joshua is all I have left in this world. I cannot bear to lose him!” She is quiet for a moment then answers, her expression guarded. “What you ask is technically possible but you would not be making the deal with me. You’ll need an old god for this.” I frown, struggling to understand. “Not with you? What do you mean? I don’t know any old gods!” Panic rides me hard, filling my head with thoughts of living out the rest of my life alone, grieving my husband and a nine-year old who were once the centre of my world. The nymph gives me a serious look. “You don’t, but I do. My master is one of the Old Ones. He may be able to help you but I must warn you, the price will be ... high.” I nod my head eagerly, renewed hope blossoming within. “I’ll do anything!” I say, dimly aware that I am making a dangerous promise. The nymph opens her mouth as if to speak, but no words emerge. Instead, I hear a song – one that is strangely familiar to me. A thought enters my head, unbidden and nonsensical: *This isn’t how it happened.* A sudden sense of déjà vu invades me as I find myself being pulled from my memory of the wellhouse. The witch and her warning fade away as I’m whisked far from the old village and the forest that surrounds it. I am weightless, only my spirit left to travel past what was once my own home, just down the street from the shops in the centre of town. Past the fields on the outskirts of what was once my village, past people I had once known. I fly over the landscape at inhuman speeds, feeling nothing but the magnetic pull that draws me to the ocean beyond. The song is loud in my ears, growing clearer and more recognizable with every second. The déjà vu is fading, replaced by the clarity of remembrance as my duty overcomes my dream. A crack of thunder rings out across the hills as I shoot past the eastern bend of the river, following to where it meets the ocean. The sky above me is dark and ominous, lightning forking across clouds the color of ash. Rain pours down like it’s attacking the ground below, violent in its intensity. I pass trees leaning at precarious angles, powerful gusts of wind bending them almost to point of snapping. I feel none of it of course, disembodied as I am. It is not my place to feel here – only to seek. I am catapulted over the river’s mouth, soaring above the roiling ocean. The storm has turned the calm waters wild. Massive waves swell and pound against anything in reach, rising from the ocean with fury as if they rage against the sky itself. The storm’s song is powerful and I can feel the old god’s hunger in its notes. I am pulled further out, not quite to the deep ocean, but close. Though I know what I’m looking for, it still takes me a moment to find the ship amongst the towering waves. It bobs along like a child’s toy, incomprehensibly small compared to the ocean whose surface it travels on. I drop down towards it, diving like a hawk sighting prey, and come to a halt just above the deck. There I hover, floating by the mast the crew is lashed to. “Brace yourselves! Here comes a big one!” The captain screams over the howling winds, his voice nearly lost before it could reach his men, standing at his back. Though there are at least a score of sailors on board, I only feel drawn to a handful: the captain, a rotund man with an apron who must be the cook, and the boy on the leftmost side of the mast with a mop of sodden red hair, gripping a bible to his thin chest. But most of all, a skinny young man with brown eyes who presses himself to the great wooden pole with obvious force. His fingers curl into claws, clinging desperately to the rough-hewn rope looped around him and the rest of the crew, holding them firmly to their only hope of survival. Though his terror is overwhelmingly apparent, it is not what draws me to him. It’s his loss – the desperate, aching loneliness that fills his heart and weighs down his soul. All the men who have summoned me here carry it in one form or another and it is that heaviness that my master desires. The call of the lost – that which I am bound to answer. It seems the old god is determined to have them, for I can see their ship being driven closer to shore. I follow along, an invisible onlooker as they are sacrificed to the one I serve. It is he who has brought me here, not just to bear witness but to finish the job. To follow where he cannot and bring back those who escape him. The brown-eyed man turns his head to the side and presses his cheek against the mast hard, heedless of how it strains his neck and scratches his skin raw, making it sting from the salt of the water. Against his better judgement, he looks back over the railing of the ship and lets out a low whimper of fear, which is promptly whisked away by the storm. A wall of water rises up, barrelling forward with no regard for the tiny ship it looms over. Like a dark cliff face, blacking out the night sky as it crashes down with terrible might. It rocks the boat violently and drenches the sailors, leaving them gasping and coughing as it recedes off the sides of the deck. The captain, an older man with greying hair and a scar that ran the length of his right cheek, grips the wheel, his knuckles white from strain. All his force is nothing compared to the power of the ocean but he fights with the strength of a dying man, desperate to do anything that will help keep them afloat. He tugs on the rope holding him to the wheel, reassured by the tautness of the line. Another wave begins to build, lifting the boat up into the air. It’s as though a mountain has suddenly risen up beneath them, carrying the little ship impossibly high as the water rages below. The swell carries them forward with incredible speed as the men close their eyes against the driving rain and pray to every god they know of. Unfortunately for the sailors, they are at the mercy of the old god himself and prayers are weak sustenance. The rocks appear out of nowhere. Black shapes, jagged and solid in a world of icy cold liquid. Though he can see them looming closer, the captain is helpless to avoid them and can only watch as the wave pushes them into an outcrop that has withstood the force of the ocean for centuries. The sharp stone easily breaks through the fragile wood of the ship, tearing chunks from gaping holes as the waves rake the vessel over the coarse rocks. The captain’s hold on the wheel is jarred loose by the impact and he slides along the deck, jerking to a stop as the rope catches him. He struggles to right himself and crawl back to the helm but another wave overtakes them, flooding the ship and pushing it back onto the rocks. When the water drains away and the men look back, spluttering and coughing up salty water, the rope around the wheel is gone and so is their captain. The sailors immediately begin screaming and struggling to free themselves, knowing they will surely drown if they do not abandon their sinking vessel. They frantically saw at the ropes with rusted knives as the pounding waves and torrential downpour conspire to rip the blades from their desperate grasps. A few prevail though, managing to loosen the bonds that hold them. Two of the smallest slip free, including the red-haired boy, and are immediately swept overboard. What remains of the crew struggle to hold on as the boat begins to tilt, her belly filling with water and dragging her down into the roiling depths. A few tumble loose, unable to keep their grip after hours of freezing cold and wet, and disappear into the churning water. The old god roars with satisfaction, perceptible only to his faithful servant. The waves drive them forward again, catching the tail end of the vessel against the rocks and spawning a course of creaks and groans as the wood of the craft strains against the power of the ocean. It gives way as all things do when faced with such unbridled force, fissures spreading out from the holes the rocks had torn. The ship cleaves in half with a series of loud, splintering cracks that are audible even over the raging storm. Cries of terror carry on the wind as the crew is cast down into the icy water. A small number surface, having managed to avoid being dragged down with the wreckage of their vessel. The cook is not among them. The storm’s song is a howl of victory as the old god receives his sacrifice. Clinging to a chunk of the hull, the boy with the brown eyes sobs into the wind. “I swear, if you let me live, I’ll give anything! I just want to see her again!” A beautiful woman’s face flashes in his mind – strawberry blonde hair, smiling green eyes – and he clings tight to the image, hoping it will keep him afloat. \~\~\~ I wake with a start, the memory of the green-eyed woman’s face sharp in my mind. *It is time.* Already, I can feel the pull of the lost soul above me summoning me to the shoreline of my ocean. In the distance, I can hear the storm’s song, my master aching for the last of the heavy souls on the ship. Though I can inhabit any water within my domain, I call the well home, just as my predecessor had. Deep within the belly of the earth, I sleep in the still waters of my reservoir. Cocooned by stone, hidden by overgrown foliage, I wait for the call of the lost to wake me. Just as my grief had woken the nymph all those years ago. While in the ether I am able to travel overland, outside of my slumbering state I am bound to the water. So, I disintegrate my physical body, making myself one with my element and travel through the underground aquifers that replenish my home. Above me, I feel the roar of thunder, shaking the very earth my well is cut from. As I pass from the aquifer into the lake, I reintegrate to my natural form: hairless and sleek, with skin of mottled blue and a patchwork of iridescent scales. I cut across the small lake with inhuman speed, my powerful tail driving me through the water as if it’s air. I can hear the storm’s song, amplified by the volume of the lake, fed by the voice of the rivers. I sing with the water as I swim, my voice lifting to join the chorus. All water has a song of its own but a storm’s is particularly loud. Especially one brought on by an ancient, hungry god. I reach the river, swimming with the flow of the current as the choppy waters surrounding me begin to calm. The storm is moving on, having gifted me the fruits of its destructive labour. Its song is fading, replaced by that of the river and the ocean to the East. The closer I get to the lost soul, the stronger the pull becomes. It is magnetic and instinctual – a honing device gifted by a primal god. Shadows of black and blue surround me, blurred by my inhuman speed as I am compelled to answer the call. I dart out of the river and into the ocean beyond, feeling the scattered survivors clinging to the shoreline. Some are already dead, their bodies growing cold in the frigid air. Others hold on to life by the thinnest of threads, merely delaying the inevitable. They are too far gone – passed beyond my reach and that of my master. But it matters not, for there is only one left that he wants and his soul can still be tempted to my realm. I swim to the edge of the shallows, calm water lapping around me. I feel the old god’s hunger in the ocean’s song, muted in anticipation. *There, on the edge of the beach.* A lone male, the one with brown eyes I had seen in my dream. He lies half in the water, his torso flopped across a broken chunk of wood. There is a cut over his right eyebrow and his cheek is rubbed raw and bloody on one side. His breathing is hoarse and scratchy, but even. His body will need time to heal, but he will survive. *Or he would have, anyway,* I think to myself wryly. When I had first been summoned to lure an escaped soul, I had felt sick with remorse at what I was compelled to do. But after decades of service to the old god, I no longer feel horror and regret over my murderous deceit. In answering my plea to save my beloved son, my master had remade me into the perfect aquatic huntress – an immortal instrument to feed his insatiable hunger. Unlike the nymph, who had served him out of duty and was rapidly approaching the end of her very long lifespan, I am nothing more than an extension of my master’s will – unsuited to any other purpose and nonviable without his interference. There is balance in all things, and knowing my Joshua lives and breathes is all the comfort I need to silence the faint voice of my conscience. Readying myself, I sense the ocean’s song go silent as the old god waits for his meal. I begin to sing from below the water’s surface, the high, clear notes carried to the brown-eyed man by whatever magic it is that sustains me. He stirs on the chunk of hull, the unearthly tone of my voice waking him despite how badly his body needs to recuperate. As he regains consciousness, he instinctively begins to look for the source of the singing. Anticipation suffuses me as I hold his lover’s face in my mind and feel the transformation beginning to take place. I rise from the water, my tail propelling my head and shoulders into the air. As my skull breaks the surface, I feel long reddish-blonde hair cascading down to brush against my shoulders and back, smooth white skin replacing pale blue flesh and iridescent scales. “Meredith?” The man’s voice is hoarse and disbelieving. I smile at him, singing my siren’s song from the shallows. His eyes drink in the sight of me, fragile hope blossoming in his gaze. My master’s need is a physical weight pressing against my back; a gaping maw eager to devour the sailor whole. “It is me, my darling.” My voice is not my own, stolen as is the face I wear. Plucked from the desperate prayers of a dying man; his damnation wearing the face of salvation. “I don’t understand. How is this possible? You said you never wanted to see me again after...” He trails off, tears in his eyes. “It’s why I left. To honour that request.” The man looks lost and unsure but he is stepping closer to the waterline even as he questions my sudden appearance. The old god growls at his approach, barely restrained hunger in his tone. “I can explain everything my love. But first, come take a swim with me. The water is calm and it would feel so nice.” I smile at him from Meredith’s face, letting my magic lull him into complacency. On the shoreline beyond us, the other survivors are beginning to stir. Though they are not the target of my song, they cannot help but hear it. The old god snarls with displeasure, sensing their awareness as well. The magic is less effective on them, increasing the chances they will realize what I am and break the spell before I can drag the brown-eyed man under. I am running out of time and my master is not the forgiving type. The man wavers and I know I must seal the deal. My tail paddles below me, propelling me upwards and revealing my bare breasts, skin glowing in the pale moonlight. I sing, high and sweet, sending him an alluring smile as I push myself backwards, leading him into the shallows. “I’ve missed you, darling.” I purr, lifting one hand – no webbing between the digits, tipped with blunt nails instead of claws – and crook my finger at him. Aching desire fills the man’s eyes as he follows me into the water. The ocean’s song grows louder in my ears and my master rumbles his approval as he samples the man’s loss. It is an irresistible bouquet for him, flavoured with the agony of the sailor’s loneliness. I see what’s left of his crewmates running from the jagged shadows of the wreck, screaming the man’s name, but it is too late for him. The brown-eyed sailor is up to his waist now, splashing through the shallow water with rapid, clumsy steps. I smile and close the gap between us with a single stroke of my tail, coming almost close enough to touch him. He stops where he is, eyes locked on mine and filled with desperate hope and love. He is blind to the impossibility of Meredith’s presence here, to the trap he has walked into so willingly. Blind even to my true nature, lurking just below the water’s surface – iridescent scales shimmering silver in the light of the moon. He doesn’t even fight as my arms go around him, nor when they turn hard and strong, dragging him down to the deep water. As the liquid hits my head and chest they revert back to my true form, sleek and smooth like the aquatic creature I am. My master roars with triumph, tasting the heaviness of the man’s soul as he enters the old god’s realm. It’s only when the sailor sees my true face that he begins to panic, thrashing and pulling against me – prey that has realized the trap too late. He opens his mouth to scream and water rushes in, forcing precious air from his lungs as I pull him deeper and deeper, where the shadows are purple and blue beneath the shifting waves. I feel him drowning as we descend, just as I had drowned in the witch’s well all those decades ago. Even after all these years, I am not entirely used to the feeling of the water filling his chest – that burning, choking sensation as his body screams for air. It is a temporary discomfort though, for I know it will end when his soul departs his body. Which would be right around ... *now.* I sense him let go, his body now an empty vessel. I release my hold and he drifts away, eyes wide and sightless, mouth open in a silent scream. A sacrifice to the ocean from which he’d escaped. My master lets out a satisfied grumble, releasing his own hold on me at last. Immediately, the magnetic pull fades away, leaving me as free as my servitude ever permits. Free to return to my home – the only place I find any rest. On my stomach, a burning spot about the size of a thimble appears, just right of my navel. I pay it no mind, more than accustomed to that particular sensation, and begin the journey back to my wellhouse. It’s always the same kind of pain when my hunt is over, even after the very first time I had offered a soul to the old god. Memories of that night flood my mind as I swim back up the river, its song muted and its water calm around me, sated by my hunt. How shocked I’d been all those years ago, when I’d forced myself to breathe in the well water. I had expected my vision to fade to black but instead, I had been transformed. The water had boiled around me, my skin searing as the old god remade me, accepting the sacrifice of my willing drowning. I had watched as my hair fell away in clumps, my skin darkening to an inhuman mottled blue and my legs fusing together, feet elongating and flattening into a tail. Claws erupted from my fingertips as the digits splayed out in an automatic reaction to the pain. I felt a strange tugging sensation between my fingers and realized that there was skin between them – a thin blue membrane decorated with delicate veins. I had screamed in agony under the tumultuous waves, drawing in liquid and receiving life-giving air – no longer a creature of land but one of the sea. Bound to the water, as all my master’s creatures were. As the agony all over my body faded away, a single spot about the size of my thumb directly over my heart continued to burn. It had swelled and hardened, turning shiny and iridescent as the pain finally receded, leaving me with a mark to remember my sacrifice. *A scale for a soul,* my new master had whispered directly into my mind, laughing with a rumble like the roaring ocean. *A soul for a soul,* I had thought to myself, picturing Joshua’s cherubic face – a perfect blend of William’s features and my own. Back in my well, I lie facing the ceiling of my decrepit abode, cradled in the gently lapping waters. My eyes are heavy from the exertion of my hunt – the old god’s call is powerful and always leaves me drained afterwards. He murmurs praise into my head as the quiet song of the water soothes me, like a gentle lullaby in my ears. I breathe slow and deep, the soft flow of water in and out of my lungs calming me as I stroke the smooth surface of my newest scale. The hundreds of others decorating my body like a patchwork mosaic glimmer in the dim moonlight, faint rays reaching down into the well through holes in the roof. I close my eyes to the tapestry of my enslavement and allow myself to drift back to the ether, once again awaiting my master’s call. \~\~\~ Author's Note: I wrote this story after listening to Water Witch by the Secret Sisters and Brandi Carlile. It is based off their lyrics but they are not affiliated with it. This story is my personal property and I do not consent for it to be shared, duplicated or used in any manner without my express permission.


This story is for the WP 2021 Secret Santa Story Exchange Constraints given by /u/xacktar: **Includes:** an animal in the story, have something colored red and white, have a fir tree / **Character:** have an elderly person as a character, **Time:** have it set in winter / **Action:** have a character kiss someone on the cheek **Word Count:** 791 ### Begin Again The morning sun glared off the snow in the East. Julia loved to watch the powdery drift flowing off the tips of the snow dunes as the sun rose. Each glittery swirl reminded her of simpler times; times when she believed in magic. A gentle creak from behind pulled her from the moment. “Good morning, Grandma!” Her grandson wore a grin as bright as the sunrise. “Good morning, sweetheart!” She never could help herself from returning his enthusiasm. “Would you like some pancakes for breakfast?” “Why don’t you keep enjoying the sunrise, and I’ll make *you* pancakes?” Wren made his way to his grandma’s rocking chair and wrapped the red and white afghan around her. He kissed her on the cheek before she could answer. It was already decided. Wren bounced to the kitchen to get started and Julia’s gaze was drawn back outside to the wintery landscape. She watched snow blow around on the dunes, fall in clumps off the firs, and little creatures scamper around narrowly avoiding being buried in the tiny avalanches. Two squirrels found shelter under the boughs of a nearby tree. They huddled over some food or nut treasure that had miraculously appeared in the frozen tundra. They chittered loudly at one another, appearing to argue over who gets to keep it. Wren announced breakfast, so Julia once again pulled herself from the scene to join him at the table. “Absolutely delicious!” “Thanks, Grandma.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but didn’t continue. They enjoyed the rest of breakfast in comfortable silence. Wren led his grandmother back toward her rocking chair, supporting her with a strong elbow crooked for her grip. However, in the middle of the living room, instead of turning toward the bay window, she tugged him toward the front door. “Where are you going?” “I have to show you something. Get your boots and coat on.” She wrestled with her own snowboots that came halfway up her calves and wrapped herself in her fluffy winter coat. He gazed at her in confusion but did as he was told. Once outside, Julia led her grandson through the snow, past the back yard, beyond the covered vegetable garden, and through a clearing in the trees. They were nearing the edge of the property farthest from other signs of civilization. The wilds. Julia didn’t slow down until she reached the wall of a cliff. There, she felt the rock face and walked a few steps from their original path. She pushed aside dormant vines and leaves crackled and fell to the ground. A short opening appeared and she slipped into it. Wren followed, speechless. It wasn’t dark inside the tiny grotto. Light emanated from a babbling spring in the center. Cushions and mementos surrounded the water as if people had sat around it like a campfire. “This is the last place I saw your grandfather. It probably will seem crazy to you, but…” Her grandson was leaning closer to the water, hand reaching out… “Wren! Wait. Please.” His hand snapped back to his side and he looked at her with wide eyes. “It looks like…” he chuckled to himself. “It looks like magic.” “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It *is* magic. But, magic isn’t always good. This spring will rejuvenate anyone that drinks from it, no matter age or illness.” Her eyes were fixed hard on his; she would not let him take this lightly. “Your grandfather is not dead.” “What!” She gave him a moment to process the information before continuing. “I know, we had the funeral and… I know! It’s crazy! Just listen, please.” “I don’t understand, Grandma.” There was pain on his face now, grin lines turned to frown lines in one secret sentence. “He drank. We lived here our whole married lives and agreed that when our kids and our grandkids were old enough to be left to live their lives, we’d start ours over. But, I changed my mind. I couldn’t bear to leave you and the rest of the family. He still drank. He left.” “Oh, Grandma. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe any of this. It’s all insane and just, god. You must be hurting so much right now.” He had stepped closer and took Julia in his arms. She patted him on the back as she told him, “I know it was the right thing to do. I’m not sad.” He pulled away enough to look at her face, and sure enough, she was happy. Not a tear welled in her eyes. “I just knew it was time to pass along the secret since I don’t know how much time I have left. I hope you will find someone to share this one with.


Waking up, Cassidy was unaware of her surroundings. She looked left into the empty nothingness; she looked right and again just a baron wasteland. But where was she? She kept thinking to herself. How did she get here? She was all alone in a land of nothing. Cassidy tried to get up from the icy ground, she felt the arctic chill in the air but still she didn’t know where she was. Her arms were weak and hardly managed to pick up her own body. At the age of only 8 years old, she was scared, frozen in place, unable to stand. However, after a few agonising minutes, she managed to bring herself to her feet. Yet under unstable legs, every step was a struggle and a pain. She walked for what seemed to be an endless number of hours, yet she still only saw nothing. Another few hours of walking and still nothing and Cassidy had started to feel the effects of the cold; her whole body was shaking; she felt her hair turn hard under the influence of the ice in the air and her legs and arms were beginning to give way. Night began to fall, and Cassidy knew that if she didn’t find shelter any time soon, she would be in trouble. Yet all around her was still an empty, chilling hell. But then in the corner of her eye, she saw something move under the pearlescent snow. She stopped dead in her tracks. She tried reassuring herself that it was fine. Perhaps it was just a mouse on the ground or maybe just the wind blowing the snow. She calmed herself down but just as she began thinking that it was just her mind playing tricks on her, she saw it move again, whatever it was. She turned slowly in the direction she had just come from to try not to make her presence known to whatever she had seen under the frozen surface. Her movements were slow and gentle and as she started to walk away, she felt something grab her ankle in a weak grip. That was when she knew she had to run. She was sprinting at full speed into the dark, frozen night, away from something that could have just been her imagination. She needed to take a break to catch her breath, trying to reinforce her idea that there was nothing in this empty land of ice. Again, she started to believe she had just imagined the whole scenario, but just as she began to relax slightly, she felt a hand on her left ankle again. But this time the grip was stronger. Cassidy tried to scream out for help, but no sound escaped, not that it would have made a difference. She tried kicking her foot in order to escape the grip and after a thrash of panic, she managed to free her leg. She began to sprint again. There was now no sign of any light and Cassidy couldn’t even see her own hand in front of her face. She was out of breath and had to stop. Her legs felt weak once again and she couldn’t stand. As she fell to the ground, she felt like she had been to that exact spot before, a sense of déjà vu came across her. She began to close her eyes, giving in to her surroundings, knowing deep down that no matter how hard she tried to get away, she wouldn’t make the morning. As her eyes closed, she felt the hand again, but this time on her arm, pulling her over onto her side. Cassidy then decided not to scream or run, but this time to open her eyes and look. What she saw didn’t seem to surprise her though. Lying down beside Cassidy and grabbing a hold of her was in fact her. However, she looked pale and cold, weak and thin. That’s when Cassidy realised where she was. She was back where she woke up. But seeing this other version of herself, she realised that this was in fact her true body. Cassidy never woke up. She had been dead to begin with.


“Jennifer, hurry you’re going to miss your flight!” Mom shouted up. Mom, I thought and let those words sink in. I was nineteen and my Mom was my rock, best friend and confidant. It made this trip hard. We talked and talked till the early hours sharing our thoughts, she understood, she always did. Yet I know she feared losing me and however much I tried to reassure her and no matter how much she professed her understanding, there was that look of doubt and uncertainty which pained me no end. I ran down the stairs with my luggage almost toppling over. Mom was standing at the bottom smiling but her face showed her true emotions. “Dad is in the car.” She said like this was a trip to the supermarket but this was no ordinary trip. As I opened the front door Dad ran from the car to take my bags. “I have them princess.” he said. I had always been his princess. Thinking about that I felt the tears well up, when I was a freshman in high school, I was embarrassed when he called me princess in front of my friends. Dad being Dad shrugged it off and for a long time never called me his princess. Then my boyfriend broke up with me and I remember Dad coming to my room with my favorite chocolates, Rolos! “For my princess.” He said and I just fell in his arms and wept buckets. “Are you sure about me going?” I asked as we loaded the car. “Of course you must go.” My dad told me. “You are the only ones I will ever think of as Mom and Dad.” I said, again probably for the hundredth time. “Jennifer, we have talked about this and of course you want to meet her. That is why we remained in contact with her through Mother Lee.” Mom replied pragmatically. I hugged her inhaling her scent and got in the car. In my worry of hurting my parents I had pushed away the excitement and trepidation of this trip. My parents had always wanted to take me to Vietnam but it had never happened but now I was going there to meet my biological mother. She had been so young, younger than I was now and thanks to my parents’ openness and honesty I bore no resentment. There was the natural response of feeling abandoned and unloved but my Mom had always been quick to point out that leaving me in the orphanage was simply an act of love and the hardest thing any woman could do. Vietnam, I thought, my mother had always talked about it. Her best friend Aunt Felicity, my Godmother, was totally obsessed with the place and it was her who had told my Mom about the orphanage. I was surprised Aunt Felicity was not coming with me to Nam as she liked to call it. Mom and Dad had talked about coming but I needed to do this alone and besides they had my siblings to think about. After years of infertility, they finally got pregnant after my adoption. I never felt less loved or wanted when their “own” children came along but there is always the curiosity. The missing jigsaw piece that I needed to make me whole. Aunt Flick had told me Nam was an infectious place and I would never be the same again. “Nam will get you Jenny, she will cast her spell and you will be mesmerized by her.” Over the years she had bought me everything Vietnamese. I had an Áo dài (in every color imaginable). These are made of silk and are the national dress consisting of a long tunic with slits up the side worn over pants. Aunt Flick gave me the full history lesson one time going back to the Ming dynasty. I wondered if the Vietnamese would think it odd that I did not speak much Vietnamese and the little I did speak was not great.  I was Vietnamese yet I was not. Who was I then? The seeds that were planted within were germinating and suddenly I felt so unsure of myself. “Jenny, did you hear a word I said?” I jolted back to the present. “Sorry Mom I was .” She cut me off and finished my sentence. “Daydreaming.” With that we both laughed, it was a common occurrence! “I was checking you have everything we are nearly there.” “It’s all here. Did you put the extra suitcase in for the orphanage.” “Yes I did. It’s probably overweight, Aunt Flick kept adding more things.” We chatted some more as we walked to the check in desk and I was already dreading saying goodbye. I promised myself not to cry but Mom and I set each other off and I watched Dad wipe a tear. I went through security and waved at them until they were out of sight. I breathed a deep breath as I embarked on the journey to my Motherland. It was a long journey giving me time to think and dwell on what I was about to encounter. I realized I was fortunate to be able to meet my birth mother. Many of the orphans never had any details of their parents as they were often abandoned. My mother had sought out Mother Lee in her late pregnancy, the nun had provided her with a safe refuge. I was excited that I would be meeting Mother Lee, she had sent me a Birthday and Christmas card every year and I in turn had written to her over the years. Aunt Flick had warned me she was getting frail. She still lived in the orphanage but it was now run by a young woman who had grown up there but had never been adopted. She had one arm and was left on the orphanage when she was a few days old, unwanted because of what she was lacking. As we touched down in Hanoi, I surveyed all the surroundings. Aunt Flick had told me about the war bunkers and she was right! A reminder of the past. I headed towards immigration to the foreigner line and was stopped by an official wearing what seemed like military uniform. My heart went into my mouth as he rambled on in Vietnamese. He was pointing to something and I looked to see it was the Vietnamese lines which were empty. In my limited Vietnamese I told him I was American and showed him my passport. He smiled broadly and spoke “But you Vietnamese this way.” “I have American passport.” I exclaimed. “No you Vietnamese, come.” I had no choice but to follow him to a desk with no line. The officer at the desk said “You American passport but you Vietnamese. First time Hanoi?” “Thank you, yes it’s my first time to Vietnam since I left as a baby.” “You one of us, we happy you come.” I smiled at the broken English aware of how much better it was than my Vietnamese. This was the Nam way Aunt Flick had described. Instantly I felt like I belonged here, a place where everyone was like me except for the language barrier. Mother Lee had arranged transport to take me to the hotel and as I made my way to arrivals I saw a sign with my name. I made my way to a man not much older than myself; he was incredibly good looking. “Jennifer.” He said in his accented voice. I nodded and he started to talk in Vietnamese and I realized this was going to be a thing for the whole trip and wished I had paid better attention to the lessons my parents had made me take. It turned out his English was superb and we chatted like old friends all the way to the hotel. Aunt Flick for my graduation had paid for me to stay in the Hotel Metropole, an old French hotel. We pulled up and I was overcome with the grandeur and fairytale feel of the place. My driver took my bags and gave me his card to call if I needed anything, otherwise he would be back the day after tomorrow to take me to the orphanage. It was there I would meet Mother Lee and my birth mother. I was excited but scared all at once. I thanked him then checked in and was shown to the most beautiful room which was so Parisian yet full of Indochina charm. I was suddenly very weary and realized it was 5am back home. It was 4pm here and I knew if I could just stay awake for a few hours I could crash for the night. I was ravenous, I took a quick shower and put on some fresh clothes and headed out to the streets of Hanoi and was just charmed. The smell of French bread mingled with, what was that dreadful smell? Drains it was the infamous drain smell Aunt Flick had warned me about!  I settled on some local food. I was familiar with Vietnamese food and could cook many dishes. I ordered some Pho with my limited Vietnamese. They blurted back in full speed Vietnamese and I had to recoil. Thankfully they spoke some English. My Pho came and it was the most heavenly thing I have tasted and I wondered what the secret was! I paid the bill and wondered around for a little longer just soaking in the fact that I was in Nam. There was something very transient about it and although I had never been here it evoked such familiarity. I went back to the hotel, showered, texted my parents as it was still early but they called immediately. I should have known they would have been waiting. We chatted briefly and then I had to go as I could barely keep my eyes open! I slept like a baby and awoke at about 9am. I wondered where I was but then remembered Nam! I dressed quickly and went down to breakfast. I took a table at the window and watched the bicycles and motorbikes pass by, often with a whole family on them and all their shopping!  Some would gaze in and wave so I waved back. Breakfast was divine with exquisite French pastries that just melted and the best coffee I have ever tasted. After breakfast I decided to go to Old Quarter and then wanted to go and see Uncle Ho in his mausoleum. I was fascinated by Ho Chi Minh and Aunt Flick had told me it was a must. I hailed a cyclo and in my limited Vietnamese asked to go there. When I got there, I thought I was in Moscow. The beautiful French architecture was replaced by a cold bland grey square. Uhm not sure Uncle Ho would have liked this! Sadly, I got there to find out he had been sent to Russia for embalming. I shuddered it was a weird concept of keeping someone on show like this! At that I saw my cyclo driver as he had stopped to talk with someone and I asked if he could take me to Uncle Ho’s stilt house. He kindly obliged and chatted the whole way there telling me all about the revered Uncle Ho. I enjoyed seeing his house and hearing the propaganda, here in the North he was of course a hero. My cyclo driver had offered to wait and I found him talking to someone, the Nam way! I wanted to see the Hoan Kiem lake so he took me there, from there I knew I could walk back to the hotel. The lake was beautiful evoking a dreamlike feeling. I learnt of the story of the famous sword and turtle and loved the Turtle Tower. By the time I got to St Joesph’s cathedral - where I had to pinch myself as I thought it was Notre Dame, I was ravenous. I found a little cafe and sat outside and started thinking about tomorrow. Going to the orphanage where I was born was an odd feeling and I had no idea what to expect. Obviously, I had no memory of the place I was barely six months old when I left. I wondered how my birth mother would feel meeting me there. Was that a little cruel for her to go back to the place she had to leave me or would it provide the closure she needed. I am sure Mother Lee would have thought it through, she was astute and tuned in and according to Aunt Flick the most Christlike and amazing person you would ever meet. I was lost in my thoughts when the waitress came and gave me my check.

I walked back to the hotel and went for a quick swim then ordered some sandwiches.  I called my parents who were excited to hear about my day, I showered and barely remembered my head hitting the pillow. I awoke to my alarm, dressed and went to breakfast and waited for my driver with trepidation.

In the car we chatted and he told me all about Mother Lee and the orphanage. How it was run down but illuminated by love which is what Aunt Flick had told me. As Hanoi went out of sight, paddy fields became the scenery with water buffalo. It was picturesque and I was mesmerized. Finally, we pulled up to some old wrought iron gates in dire need of painting. As we approached children appeared and an older child opened the gate. We drove through slowly with children chasing us and waving. The orphanage was a large building but it was almost dilapidated. As we approached a young woman with one arm who I deduced was the person who now ran the place, she had the most beautiful smile. She hugged me and then shuffling slowly I saw Mother Lee. Something jolted inside, this woman had saved me she had a presence I could not describe almost saintly and I was in awe. “My child, look at you, I am so happy to see you.” She held her arms out and I ran into them and wept. Some internal mechanism recognized this embrace. I looked at her face and saw her tears, her love radiating out of her, just so pure and it was all I could do not to cry again. “I am so happy to see you Mother Lee.”  Mother Lee I realized was like saying motherly I had not noticed that before, how appropriate. “Come child let’s go to my study, there is someone waiting to meet you.” I tensed and Mother Lee sensed my mood. “Would you prefer look around first.” She asked kindly. “No, we have waited both waited long enough.” I followed her noticing how run down the place was. I was glad of her slow pace to give my stomach time to settle. I peered in through open doors and saw a room with a row of cribs and tiny babies. It was hard to think of me there. There was an older child attending to a crying baby shushing her gently. Mother Lee saw me looking in. “It is an act of love when a mother gives up her child, it is not an easy decision.” I smiled and nodded my agreement. She stopped at that and took my hands into her frail liver spotted hands, “Your mother had no choice; she came to me and I helped her she was fifteen. Several times a year she comes here to hear the news of you and see your photos. She has waited for this moment to reunite with you since she left you here, you were barely a week old. She has never once forgotten you.” Tears sprung in my eyes and once she embraced me in that familiar way that made me yearn. “Come child let’s not keep her waiting any longer.” I followed her once more as she opened a creaky door. A woman got to her feet and I froze. I was just like her, there was no mistaking my mother. We locked eyes and ran to each other amid sobs and tears. We never noticed Mother Lee slip out. “My baby, forgive me.” She said in amazingly good English. I looked at her. “There is nothing to forgive.” And with that we both started to cry once more. A few minutes later there was a knock and Mother Lee had returned with tea and cookies, carried by one of the older children. We sat and chatted easily without any inhibitions. She told me how grateful she was to Mother Lee and my parents. She also went on to tell me she was married with two sons, eight and nine. My brothers I thought. We spent the rest of the afternoon together and I told her if she wanted to meet again before I left, I would like that. She of course did and asked if I would like to meet my brothers. I was leaving to see Saigon or Ho Chi Minh City as it was now known but Aunt Flick had told me it was sacrilege to call it anything but Saigon. I was also going to Nha Trang then returning to Hanoi. I could have got a flight from Saigon but there was a part of me that had hoped my birth mother would want to see me again. I decided to change my flight and leave a few days later so we could spend more time and she had insisted that I stay with them. It felt natural and right and for the first time in my life I finally felt whole. Aunt Flick had been right I was totally in love and besotted with Nam. I belonged here, a belonging I never knew existed deep within my soul.