The cold shoulder  Harv grabbed a handful of wheat with his offhand. With his other hand, a quick swoop of his sickle the wheat came free of the ground that birthed it. He released. The wheat floated to the ground. Harv grabbed another handful. Cutting wheat was hard work. Especially this wheat. The wheat in Harv’s land grew short. One had to bend in order to get low enough to cut the short wheat. That bend had to be at the waist, not the knees, in order to move fast enough to cut the wheat in time. If the wheat wasn’t cut in time, the cold and the rain would destroy it and many in Lowville would go hungry or starve. Harv wouldn’t have it. He grabbed another handful of wheat. Calling it Harv’s land, was not technically incorrect, but it was misleading. In the town of Lowville, everyone owned the land together. Everyone planted together. Everyone harvested together. It was backbreaking work. Not that Harv minded. Another handful of wheat. Another swoop of his sickle. Always away from his body. The sickle was sharp enough to take a finger as easily as a grain of wheat. Harv had no desire for that. He liked the way things felt in his fingers. Harv stood and put his knuckles into the small of his back. They massaged and worked out the soreness to the extent possible. Everyone always had muscle tenderness in their backs and the backs of their legs for at least a couple of days. Sometimes, for a week. This was a good year for harvest. Tonight’s celebration would be one to remember. He turned side to side, scanning the fields. A hundred other men, of all ages, separated wheat from the land. A hundred women, of all ages, bundled the wheat and tied them together into sheaves, using straw. Harv didn’t pay attention to any of them, except for one. Sonpra sheaved as fast as Harv cut. Her golden hair spilled about her shoulders. Over the summer, the sun had burned her skin red before settling into a light bronze. Like everyone else in town, Harv couldn’t relate. His hair was black, and his skin stayed bronze year-round. They were made for each other. Tonight, he would tell her how he felt. Harv looked around some more. Sonpra’s father cut at a good pace for a man of his years. His hair was also black and his skin bronzed. He was not really Sonpra’s father. No one knew who her parents were, but the man had raised her as if she were from his own seed. It wasn’t the first time Harv had worked alongside the old man. Earlier in the summer, he had helped re-thatch Sonpra’s roof which was also a lot of hard work. He had said he had done it out of the goodness of his heart, but really, he had just wanted to be closer to Sompra. They were meant to be together. Harv looked around some more. Chad was the last person to catch Harv’s eye. Not a fortnight ago, if you asked anyone in Lowville, they’d bet the entire village harvest that Chad and Sonpra would be betrothed in time for a spring wedding. Within the last week, that had all changed. Rumors circled that Sonpra’s parents were not human. Harv didn’t believe that nonsense, but Chad did. It was enough for Chad to sever any involvement with Sonpra as easily as Harv’s sickle severed the wheat from the ground. Harv had been there as a shoulder to cry on. They were meant to be together. Shortly before the sunset, the cutting finished. There was still some sheaving to do, but that work was done by the women and Harv needed to appear as manly as possible tonight at the feast. After one last glance at Sonpra, he headed home for a nap. That night with the harvest behind them, the people of Lowville celebrated. Harv had overslept and by the time he arrived the harvest festival was in full swing. He had to be the last person to arrive. A great fire, fifty paces in diameter and a hundred paces high, lit the otherwise night sky. Accompanied by the music of the lute and drums, the fire danced, and the villagers danced in step. Mugs of fermented drink were passed around. A couple of people offered the drink to Harv, but he declined. He needed a clear head tonight. Although, the drink would help with his courage. Chad was there. It boggled Harv’s mind that Chad believed the nonsense about Sonpra being the spawn of a non-human. Oh well, Chad’s loss and Harv’s gain. Sonpra’s dad was there too, but not for long. Harv waited until the old man left the festival to retire for the evening. A day of work that hard was enough to exhaust a man of his years. For a young man like Harv, it energized him. Then he spotted her. Sonpra wasn’t dancing. She wasn’t drinking either. She didn’t even appear to hear the music. With her ankles crossed and her hands clasped around her knees, she sat and stared into the fire. It mesmerized and terrified her. Harv could tell by the look on her face. Harv sat between the fire and Sonpra, facing her. He crossed his ankles and clasped his hands around his knees, mirroring her position. He studied her blue eyes and curled up lips. She was perfect. They were meant to be together. Harv took a deep breath then let it all out. Everything. He professed his love or her, how he had always loved her, and how he would always love her. Sonpra’s eyes went wide. The silence was too discomforting. Harv filled it with babble. He explained how he had helped her father repair the roof so he could be close to her. How he had been there for her when her relationship with Chad went sour. Sonpra was as still as a statue, her eyes so wide they nearly went out of her head and her mouth was agape. Harv elaborated how he had been hoping that Chad and she wouldn’t last. How he had been elated when they separated. How he had been waiting for his chance to be with her. Sonpra stood then walked away. Harv was stunned. He jumped to his feet and chased after her, all the while professing how good he would treat her, unlike Chad. Sonpra picked up the pace of her walk. She asked him to leave her alone. Harv had to jog to catch up with her. He told her how he knew she would be so happy with him. Sonpra warned him not to touch her then ran from him. Harv broke into a run to catch her. He yelled to her that he deserved to be with her. That he had earned it. He caught up to her and grabbed the back of her shoulder. Harv dropped in pain. A pain so great it knocked him unconscious for a minute. His hand throbbed and his other hand caressed it. It was as frozen as if he touched the skin of Mendax. In the light of the fire, his hand was as white as snow. A stark contrast to the bronzed skin of his other hand. Sonpra was nowhere in sight. Harv wobbled home, ashamed and confused. His hand stopped hurting. It stopped everything. He could feel nothing at all. When he awoke his hand had returned to normal, except his palm and fingertips were black. The black parts of his hand could feel nothing. Harv could use the hand, but never regain feeling in it. He also never went near Sonpra again.


According to a contract I signed in the year 2012, everything you are about to hear is completely prohibited. As an ex-editor for a well-known special effects studio, I would like to remain anonymous. That is why you may notice I refrain from using people’s names or places where “The Incidents” took place, for the sake of keeping my identity hidden. I am taking a huge risk here leaking this information online, but the public deserves to know. We are unwittingly crossing into territory never meant for the living, and messing with forces that we don’t yet understand. All for the sake of entertainment. We should have left well enough alone. What’s dead, should stay dead. As many of you may remember fans and attendance witnessed a surprise performance by none other than Tupac Shakur. The long-dead legendary rapper blew fans minds with his lifelike appearance. Its interactions with Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg almost seemed too real to be just a hologram. Long-time fans had tears in their eyes as if they relived their earlier years in the 90s. Through the miracle of technology, we were able to bring back the voice and embodiment of a musician who hasn’t been alive since 1996. People were blown away by the performance and thanks to media coverage and social media, word of Holographic Performances spread like a wildfire. Soon enough, “An old Dirty Bastard” from the Wu-Tang Clan appeared on the stage in New York, almost a decade after his death. A year later Michal Jackson moonwalked across the stage at the Billboard music awards. None of us will ever forget when Prince appeared during the super bowl halftime show. It wouldn’t be long before the first hologram musical would go on tour. That being said, these performances received mixed reviews by both fans and critics alike. Although the sound quality and visual effects were impressive, some people reported a strange feeling they had while watching the hologram, some felt a strong feeling of discomfort and couldn’t exactly explain why. Some researchers have come out and tried to explain that this is due to a phenomenon that is known as the “Uncanny Valley”. The Uncanny Valley is a theory that hypothesizes there is a relationship with how human something can act and our reaction to that object. For example, when we see something that strongly resembles a human but is slightly off, we are repulsed by it, and for some, the illusions of these holograms trigger these same feelings. I am here to tell you today, that there is so much more to these feelings that science can't even begin to explain. At the time I worked for Digital Domain, the special effects production company behind the Tupac Shakur hologram. During early tests and reviews, things seemed pretty normal. It was after that one night weeks before Coachella where things took a strange and unsettling turn. Myself, as well as the rest of the editing crew, were working late to fix a few subtle glitches in the images. During our last review, we caught a few frames where the hologram's eyes moved in different directions and split frames where his lips didn’t match up with thy lyrics. None of us thought anything of it and were working late to make sure it was lifelike as possible for the big stage. After the first few attempts things got even stranger. At one point in the middle of “Keep Ya Head Up”, the hologram stopped dead in its tracks. It stood there ridged, eyes facing forward with a forlorn look on its face. Some began to search furiously to find out what frame we were stuck on but my eyes never left the Hologram. Then seemingly out of nowhere his lips began to move. I got out of my seat and leaned in close to try to make out what words the lips were forming. Then to my absolute horror, two holes appeared in the holograms chest, then one in the arm and another in the thigh. I fell back into my chair as the appearance of blood began to seep from the wounds. The holograms face never changed. Then for the first time since its lips began to move one word came through our speakers, “Mama”? The hologram's eyes than rolled back and the mouth opened wide and then just like that, it stopped. The image of Tupac went back to his performance and the lyrics of the song continued. The bleeding bullet holes were gone. There were many reactions from the crew that night. Some claimed they didn’t see it, others claimed they saw the bullet holes but didn’t hear the words, and others outright claimed it was nothing more than a glitch. One thing was for certain though, the show must go on. Days after the incident, I went back through every single frame and couldn’t find a single one that showed me the image I saw that night. There was no way that what we saw that night was a simple glitch. What are the odds that an image would appear in the exact same manner the rapper was left after being gunned down 23 years ago? Although soon after the incident, every single member of the crew was approached by studio executives who strong-armed us into signing a non-disclosure agreement that prevented us from ever talking about “The Incident”. Rumors spread fast through the special effects studios. I have heard from an Ex-soundman who helped work on the Roy Orbison, and Buddy Holly Hologram tour, that his department also had their own incident. During the test performance, Buddy Holly's hologram also froze partway through “Rave On”, leaving the hologram crouched over with his head between his knees and his hands over his head. He also claimed that he heard the words “We’re going down, we’re going down” were repeated by the hologram over and over again with his tone growing more and more frantic. Then just like that, it continued to perform just the way it did before. The studios head CEO assumed this was a prank made by the editing crew made in poor taste at the deceased musician's expense. Buddy Holly as some of you may not know was the victim of a plane crash in 1959. Everyone in the editing department was fired without further investigation or notice and were also made to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Not much later I caught wind of rumors of a severe incident during the makings of the Michael Jackson performance. Many of you may not know that originally before the Michael Jackson hologram appeared briefly on the stage during the Billboard music awards, our studio was tasked with the editing of what was supposed to be an entire concert of some Micheal Jackson greatest hits. After this particular incident the whole project was scrapped, save the frames later on salvaged for his performance of “Slave to the Rhythm” later on that year. Here were the details of the incident as follows. During the editing of Michal Jackson's song “Smooth Criminal,” the hologram began acting erratically. Sometimes portions of the holograms body like his legs and torso would freeze as if stuck in place while the rest of its body continued to move unnaturally. Soon they began to notice they could hear strange whispers over the original audio of the song in Jackson's voice. No one could understand the words as they almost sounded like they were being spoken backward like a voice recording being played in reverse. Then a power surge caused the entire studio to blackout, every single light and computer monitor screen went dark and the speakers went silent. Then to everyone's shock, the hologram kept moving. Its limbs began to bend at unnatural angles the facial expressions began to change between looks of abject horror, anguish, amusement, sadness, and anger. Some witnesses said they began to smell sulfur in the air. Others claim the smell was more like rotten meat. Some witnesses began to hear whispers in many voices around them. Sometimes behind them. Sometimes in front of them. Sometimes they sounded as if they were being whispered right into their ears. The hologram began to bleed from its eyes, ears, and mouth and its eyes somehow seemed to look into the eyes of the witnesses all at once. Its mouth began to open impossibly wide as a desperate wail erupted from its holographic vocal cords. The hologram than vanished as the recording of the evil laugh from Jackson's music video for “Thriller” boomed from the speakers. After this incident non-disclosures and hush money were not even needed. The few witnesses all recessed into different states of silence. The least extreme case being driven into insanity. The most extreme case being suicide. The higher-ups in the studio expressed that the results were caused due to the extreme pressure the staff was working under and the unfortunate negative effects flashing lights in the studio had on the human mind. The only reason I found out about this incident myself was that one of my co-workers who I will not name was asked by one of the witnesses to scrub some of the audio to see what he could make of it. After listening briefly to the strange words being spoken by the hologram, he then played it in reverse to find the words that were being spoken backward in Jackson's voice. In an almost robotic monotone, his words were clear, “Can you feel them? Can you smell them? Can you hear them? They are close. They are near.” Then after a long pause. “They… are… here.” Before he was able to share these findings with the witness, he found out that the same man's mind had recessed back into a blank state, that was said to have been caused by a nervous breakdown soon after the incident. Although not soon afterward I was laid off due to our special effects production company filing for bankruptcy after some “copyright lawsuits.” Part of me was relieved when I received the news, knowing that the tampering with the unknown that was causing these incidents would finally stop. Sadly, as the popularity of Holographic Performances continues to grow, nothing will stop these companies from “Digging up the dead” and disturbing the likes of whatever abysmal beings tend to the souls of the deceased. Who will be next? David Bowie? Freddy Mercury? Kurt Cobain? I don’t know exactly how it happened, perhaps the likeness of the musicians bore so much resemblance to their counterparts that their disembodied spirit was able to temporarily speak through their image. Or perhaps whatever unearthly beings who were tasked to tend to the souls of the dead suspected a resurrection and attempted to break into our realm to claim it back. Whatever it is, our human brains cannot comprehend it, it drives men mad from the briefest exposure. I even find myself falling into depression and anxiety, self-medicating so that I may temporarily forget about what I saw that night in the studio. What if the next incident occurred in a stadium or a concert hall in front of hundreds of people? The effects would be catastrophic. There is nothing I can do about it except warn you. Please, if you value your life and your sanity, never attend a holographic concert. Remember the artists for who they were in life, and let them rest in peace. Let them live on through our hearts and their music, not through some perverse reincarnation made with technology. Let what is dead, stay dead.


I take in a much needed deep breath, standing up straight and wiping sweat off my brow. I squint towards where the sun is halfway across the sky, hours from setting. This is the last car, I promise myself.

“Hey!” The driver of the car dips his sunglasses at me. “Hurry up and dry those tires. I’ve got places to be, you know.”

I sigh before getting on my knees and snatching the rag from my bucket. “Of course, mister.”

The driver groans, laying back in his seat and crossing his arms. If you didn’t want to wait for someone, you should’ve gone to an automatic car wash. Then again, I am grateful that he didn’t think to go to an automatic. With his fancy sunglasses and convertible, it’s obvious he’s loaded . . . or drowning in debt.

“There you go, sir,” I say, scrambling to my feet, taking a look at my work. I plaster a kind smile on my face before holding out my hand to the man. “That’ll be fifteen dollars.”

He scowls. “Worst fifteen dollars I’ll ever spend.” He scoffs before turning his car into drive from park and taking off down the road.

I let my smile slip before collapsing into my camping chair. “So hot . . .” I murmur to no one, taking in another deep breath. It’s the first day of summer today, and the sun has decided to prove to me that it can get a lot hotter than ninety here on the east coast. Not to mention the humidity.

Forcing myself to stand, I fold up my chair and sling the strap across my chest. Then I pick up the blue Lowe’s bucket that I use to carry all of my supplies before making my way down the street towards home. It’ll feel nice to be in air conditioning again.

The streets of Cape Charles are bustling with people this evening. People scroll on their phones, seemingly unaware of their surroundings, while others walk their children home from school. None of them seem to be uncomfortable in the heat. Then again, it probably doesn’t help that I came straight from Alaska. Virginian heat and humidity was not something I was prepared for when I moved here.

“Hey, mister!” A small hand grabs onto my shorts, and I’m quick to turn around and face the little girl. Her dark hair is braided over her shoulder, her ears sticking out harshly. Her cheeks and face are red from the heat, freckles dotting her cheeks and arms exposed by her unicorn tank-top. “You look like you could use a drink!”

“Samantha!” An older girl, maybe in her junior or senior year, takes hold of the small girl. Auburn curls are tied into a fierce ponytail as she scoops up the small girl. She smiles apologetically at me. “I’m so sorry. She’s just trying to sell some lemonade.”

“Yeah!” Samantha wriggles out of her grasp, running over to a small table beside the sidewalk. “You want some? It’s really good!” She hurries behind the stand, taking a red SOLO cup into her hands.

“She’s quite the saleswoman,” I say. “You know what? I’d love some lemonade.”

The older girl laughs. “Mom was right about you after all, Sam. Who could resist the charm of a six-year-old?”

“Nobody!” she exclaims, grinning as her sister pours a cup for me. “Try it! Try it!” Samantha holds it up for me.

I smile and take a sip. It’s cool and refreshing against the heat. Not too sweet, but not too tart or sour, either.

“Mm,” I murmur, rummaging through my pocket. “How much?”

“Nothing! It’s free!” Samantha practically bounces up and down. “You’re our first customer, so Brigette decided that we should just give it away since no one would buy it.”

My easy smile slips off my face. “That’s not fair. You two spent all this money and time on making the stand, and you get nothing for it?”

“I just like serving people,” Samantha says quickly. “Do you like it? Is it good?”

“It’s great! That’s why I just don’t think it’s fair that I pay you nothing.”

Brigette holds out her hands as I hold out a dollar bill. “Oh, no, it’s alright, really! As Samantha said, we’re not looking for money.”

I click my tongue. “Please, just take it. If I pay you nothing, it’ll be on my conscience.”

Samantha and Brigette both look at each other, hesitating for a moment too long.

“Here, just take the dollar for now, and I’ll exchange it for fifty cents later. Fifty cents for lemonade seems fair, hm?” I slide the dollar across the table. “Here, give me that paper. I’ll write down my number.”

Brigette hands over a pen along with the paper, and I write down my number. As she takes it back, Samantha asks, “What’s your name?”

“My name is Pakak. ” Both of the girls stare at me with confusion. I have to laugh. “It means ‘one who gets into everything’ in my native language. I’m from Alaska.” I hold out my hand to shake. “But here, I’ve decided to go by Peter.”

Brigette takes my hand, offering a firm handshake. “Well, welcome to America. I’m sure the heat is new?”

I sigh, taking a sip of the lemonade. “Oh, yes. Our summer is a lot like your fall.” I look down at my watch as it beeps. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have to go.” I look up at the girls. “I’ll exchange fifty cents for that dollar as soon as I can.”

I turn around and walk down the sidewalk. Glancing back, I see Samantha grinning as she waves goodbye. Smiling, I do the same.

It’s as Brigette said. Who can resist the charm of a six-year-old? *** I step onto the porch of the small house, the messaged address of Brigette and Samantha. Checking the address again, I knock on the door.

A woman with grey streaks in her dark hair opens the door. Her eyes are red and puffy, tear streaks lining her cheeks.

“Can I help you?” She sniffles.

“Um, I bought lemonade from your daughter the other day. I gave her a dollar, and—”

“Oh, Peter!” Brigette appears at the door. Her eyes are red too, but she’s quick to wipe her remaining tears away. “I’ll go get a dollar.” When Brigette disappears, I turn to who I assume is her mother.

“I know it’s none of my business, but is everything alright?”

The woman’s face seems to sag, her frown deepening. “Please, come in.”

I step inside, walking into the living room. Everything is tidy, but oddly quiet. “Is Samantha at school?”

“I homeschool both Brigette and Samantha,” she says. “But, no, Samantha isn’t here right now.” The topic of Samantha seems to trouble her.

I lower myself onto their couch. “Is there something wrong with Samantha?”

Silence lingers for a few moments. “She was diagnosed with leukemia yesterday.”

Each individual word drops like a stone. I imagine Samantha, the small, joyful girl in her unicorn top smiling up at me. She seemed perfectly fine a week ago. So what happened?

“Are the doctors sure?” My voice is weak.

All Samantha’s mother can do is nod; any words she has die on her lips.

Brigitte comes back downstairs, a dollar in hand. She smiles as she hands it to me. "How come you came all the way here to give me fifty cents for a dollar, anyway?"

I blink, not quite understanding what she means. "Uhm, to exchange fifty cents for a dollar?"

Samantha's mother laughs. "Fifty cents? Was that really worth your time coming here?"

They're both laughing now, smiling at me. Expecting me to laugh along with them? I don't know. How can I laugh along with them while still confused as I am?

I decide to shake the topic. "I'd like to ask if I can help."

I don't need to specify. Samantha's mother's eyes snap to mine. I can already see the newfound pain swimming in them. "I couldn't ask that of you, Mr . . . uh."

"Peter suits me fine," I say quickly. "And I want to help. Please. "

I understand how she feels, not wanting anyone to help her in such a situation. But accepting help got me here, to Virginia. Maybe if I can help her like my village helped me, I can put her in a better place than she is.

Her gaze wavers. She blinks a few times, holding back the tears that pool at the bottom of her eyes. "I won't accept any money, Peter."

"And I wasn't going to offer any." I can already feel a vision building in my head. "I say we fundraise. Start something that people are going to love and give to."

"And what exactly could we start?" Brigette hasn't said anything since she came downstairs, but now, she smiles from her seat across the room.

It doesn't take long for me to think. "A business. How about a bakery? People love those. And I've always loved to bake. Especially if it's a recipe that's been passed down my family."

Brigette looks about ready to bounce up and down in her seat. "An Alaskan bakery? Thanks sounds amazing!"

"But the cost—"

Hesitantly, gently, I lay a hand on the middle-aged woman’s arm. Her eyes meet mine, and I offer her my kindest smile. "Let me worry about the money." I look at Brigette, who has now fallen silent, the ghost of a smile on her face. " You two focus on Samantha. Sound like a deal?"

"Why are you being so kind to us?" Brigette's mother's voice is but a whisper. Maybe to hide how it waivers.

"It’s God's miracle," Brigette murmurs, and both of our heads whip around to look at her. "God delivers. He takes care of us and gives us what we need. Even when it seems impossible." Brigette breaks her gaze from me to look at her mother. "The sermon last week, remember?"

Her mother's eyes snap to mine, and suddenly I feel as if I'm being examined like a fish at the market. "Thank you, Lord" is what I think she murmurs under her breath.

Weirded out, I stand from my spot on the couch. "I should be going."

"My name is Genevieve," Brigette's mother erupts from the couch. "Genevieve Gurr."

"It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Gurr—"

"Please, Genevieve serves me fine," she says quickly, her eyes sparkling with . . . admiration? Or maybe it's just tears. I'm not sure.

"Alright." My voice comes out tight and strained. Brigette just looks from me to her mother, intrigued but oddly disgusted.

"I'll get the door," Brigette finally says when her mother doesn't move from her seat. Genevieve nods, smiling softly at me.

Once we're outside, Brigette closes the door behind us. "How old are you, exactly?"

"Thirty-five," I answer automatically. Then my eyebrows furrow. "Why?"

She narrows her eyes. "Don't you think you're a bit . . ." She stops, her expression dripping off her face. "Oh. My mom's thirty-three."

I raise my eyebrows, still confused. "Alright . . . I'll see you later, Brigette."

As I turn away, making my way towards the driveway and my car, she calls "thanks for everything" after me. *** The next morning, I get right to work. I don't know how much time Samantha may have, so I waste none of it. I start by making a Facebook page, which I've never done before. But, texting back and forth with Brigette, she thinks it's a great place to start.

And in the first, painfully long hour, we make fifty dollars on something called a Go-Fund-Me . The support makes my heart lurch, so much so that I scroll through my computer for hours, looking at places around town for lease.

Somehow, I find the perfect place. I do as Brigette instructs, clicking the blue button here and typing in some information there. I'm grateful for her help, because without it, surely I would be lost in pages and pages of screen.

Things just seem to fall into place after that. We rent out a place, someone donates furniture to us. Better yet, the wood is pine—straight from the area around my home village. Everything couldn't be more perfect.

I took care of the shop, getting it fixed up and moving things in with some help from Genevieve. Brigette took care of advertising, online and outside the shop. She stood outside the shop for hours without end, turning the sign around and talking to possible customers.

And then I baked. Genevieve sometimes found the time to help, arguing her way into the kitchen with me. After all, she would come straight to the bakery after work, insisting that she help me. I've never been good at arguing, so in the end, I caved and let her help me.

With everyone pulling their weight, things started to brighten. Samantha was able to get the treatment she needed, enough to get some of her strength back. She had wanted so badly to see the bakery where we were making the money for her, and so Brigette and a few of our sponsors got together to surprise her.

The bakery was decorated with unicorns. The streamers were every color, and Genevieve had even made her daughter a unicorn cake.

I almost stuffed the whole cake in her face, if only to get her to gain some weight. She was all skin and bones it seemed. She might have been getting treatment, but it didn't seem to be enough. *** I lay a hand on Brigette's shoulder. She hasn't bothered to wear makeup. Smart of her. If she did, her mascara would've smeared from all the tears rolling down her face.

I open my arms, and she falls into them, sobbing. I look into the casket, my eyes falling on the skeleton wrapped in a thin layer of skin. Even under so much makeup to make her skin seem normal, she still looks dead. Beyond death.

Genevieve takes my arm. "She would've been seven today," she murmurs, her voice shaky. She keeps her eyes on my face instead of on her daughter's body.

"I'm so sorry." I meet her eyes. "I tried. We all did."

"It's alright, Peter. Everything happens for a reason." Finally, she lets her eyes fall on Samantha; her carcass. I know enough to know that her spirit is gone. "God took her home for a reason. She was suffering. And now she's not."

Brigette breaks out into even more tears, falling instead in her mother's arms rather than mine.

"Does this mean you'll close down the bakery?" Genevieve murmurs over Brigette's greif.

I roll back on my heels. "I'm not sure." I look at the body, wondering what Samantha would say if she were here. I know exactly what. "I don't think she would've wanted me to." I look at Genevieve, and Brigette, who's stopped crying to listen. "And I think she would've wanted me to stick around you two for a little while longer, too." I wrap an arm around their shoulders, smiling.

Genevieve blushes, tipping her head up so that Brigette doesn't see. "If that's what you think she would've wanted." She fights a smile as we walk out of the room, and into the sunlight of the outside.

"Of course." I look at Brigette, whose auburn hair glitters in the light of the sun. "After all, who can resist the charm of a six-year-old?"


Luna Whitemoon stood in front of the two doors. Both stood over ten feet tall and were made out of pure water. Shimmering waves of crystal clear blue shone on one, while dark, abyssal waves, with the rumbling of thunder, were the other. It appeared to be an easy decision. The clear one reminded Luna of her home on the small islands away from Falconus. She and her village always swam in the clear waters of a continent-less earth, as the warm sun sent rays of light into the sandy bottom of the oceans. Fish of illustrious colors dazzled under the light as Luna remembered that time. She stared into that door. Dark faint shapes, like feathers in wind called to her, urged her forward into the door. She stopped herself. It would be so easy. The House of Waves made this Luna’s test. Stand in front of two doors. Whichever one you chose determined whether you would be their champion. She was lost in thought, swimming through her memories before she smiled and went through a door. As a child, the world always appeared like one thing. With the sun, stark white sandy beaches, and the warm wind whispering with the laughter of children, the world appeared to be a paradise. To the children, it would last forever. It was their parents' job to keep that vision alive. Until it was too late. Luna remembered her days as a child well. To her, it seemed ordinary, but to others, remembering what you ate and the exact words you asked your mother when the stars fell from the sky on every full moon, was a gift. The gift of memory. The total recall was a gift she would use well in her years studying under the House of Waves. Learning, reading, a small scholar with cloud white hair, becoming an encyclopedia of knowledge about the oceans, about the lakes, and streams, waterfalls, and rain around her. Everything that had to do with water, was in her library of a mind.

So much so, she wanted to become water. The teachers for the House taught her and other students the way of water, not only a style of combat but a way to channel your own inner waters to maintain balance in your life and in turn, keep the balance of the world, because to let your own inner water flow out into the world in a way where you flooded it with poison, was as much of a sin as a man thinking he was a god ruling the planet with a malevolent fist. As the years went by, she remembered the word of the atrocities, of the death surrounding the land of Falconus. She remembered being thankful, of being grateful that she didn't have to see the carnage from the god’s elementals storming cities and enslaving others. Her family was safe, and so was she. That’s all that mattered. Yet like that God’s hand of power, reality came striking into her world. She knew the emotional world of anger rarely on occasion, sometimes when she would fail in a sparring session with another student or when her mother urging her to leave the House Of Waves behind, to be wife to a man that would only show her off as a trophy as the white-haired islander who talked to the moon. That’s where her name- Whitemoon came from. She was as dark as her brothers and sisters, yet her hair flowed like the moonlight under its home and shone in the sunlight. It was hard for her to hide from the stares in her earlier years, but she learned to be like water: to just flow with it. Eventually the flow changes. The flow changed the night, the god of Power struck down on her home. She was in the moonlit night, feeling the glowing radiance of the moon absorb into her hair, illuminating it in a ghostly light. She remembered the feeling of the cooling sand and how it stuck to her feet as the water sent chills down her calves. She loved it this way. Although her mother and villagers went against swimming in the water in the dark, instead of the fear others felt from it, she welcomed the solitude.

Over time, the dark depths changed. She learned over time to appreciate the light in the darkness. Because the dark wasn't always bad. It could be warm and could drift her into the light. She remembered the cooling waves under wrap her in its soft grasp. She turned and looked up from the dark depths up to the moon. It told her of one thing: to trust in the waves. Even in chaos, even in unpredictability, the waves would lead you through. Luna just wished it would lead her back home when the stars started to rain down once again. Only this time, the shooting stars were actually heated chunks of diamond in space, crashing down as fireballs. She felt the thundering boom along with the muffled voices of panic. Keep going….just keep going…this is only a test. Luna swam, deeper into the dark depths, further away from the moon, deeper to the source, as the second door, the one of the dark and thundering unknown was starting its challenge. She didn't expect the door to do this. She thought the mysterious leviathans of the ocean of the tentacled creatures in the underwater caverns would test her, but not her own memories. Not her own nightmares she was experiencing every night before this test. A part of her wanted to, so badly, swim back up to the surface, to the moon, to crash back into reality and see, see the smoke and flames after the colossal shockwaves sending tsunamis across the planet. She so badly wanted to breathe cool rushing air, and swim, with all her strength back to the remnants of her home island, find her mother, find her sister, her teachers, her classmates, save them, help them anything! But like water, the past is unavoidable. It's uncontrollable. You can bottle it up, but it only forms, and always finds a way out. Maybe as vapor, but eventually it comes back as rain, ready to come down slightly, then crash down upon you until you’re soaked. Luna sank deeper into the abyss, until the pleading sounds of her mother, of her family, were gone, and only the beating of her heart remained. Her heart beat, faster and faster, with it, came the rumbling of something around her. S if she was in the bowels of a dark beast, the waters around her rumbled, growling, hungry for its next dinner. She could feel the panic set in, all the terror, something she didn't feel until that day. On that day, Luna eventually did return to the surface, after the crashing waves, the mouth of the twin gods of the Seas swallowing any land there was over. She didn't know it was angry then. She felt it as grief. As pure anguish. The hole of loss within her was so great, greater than a lagoon. She searched around her, across the dark and moonlit night, only to find no light, no source of home. Home was gone.

She searched that entire night for survivors, but the only thing she could find was remnants of homes, and the lifeless bodies of people she once knew. Their eyes told it all. They thought it was another shower, another light show, then before the full horror could come, their world was flooded. Who knew once warm, nurturing water could turn on the people so quickly? Luna didn't know until that day. The day when she felt alone, truly for the first time. She was lost in that void of a night until the morning, where she spent three more nights, searching, hoping, yearning for her family. She never found her mother’s remains. Whether it was the fish or hungry carnivores sharing the depths with her or just the other gods deciding to spare her the mercy of more pain, Luna Whitemoon’s life changed. She was found by a messenger ship, sent originally to spread news, but now to look for any survivors. They thought of her as an omen, a sign from the god of power himself that he was not to be trifled with. The sailors kept their distance, until when they met the land of Falconus, then sent her off, alone, in an unknown land she only heard about, that was suffering from the same god’s might. Now she could see firsthand the destruction and misery she tried to ignore for so long. It's why she chose the door of dark waters. It's the door anybody would avoid. We try to hide, to look away, to ignore, and be oblivious to the world around us. Luna did that once, and it cost her her world. Now here she was, back in her memories, swimming in deep dark waters to something… It started off as a twinkle, an illusion from her oxygen-deprived mind until it grew. It grew until the warmness soothed across her frozen skin, bringing her back to life. As the light grew, so did the gulping of air. It should have been water flooding her encapsulated lungs, instead, air entered. The most interesting thing was, she never opened her mouth and sucked in water. She could feel more air fill her body until the blinding light sucked her into somewhere... What stood out to her first were the pillars of bright water surrounding her. On top of them figures barely corporeal staring down at her. She looked down and watched in awe as a pillar of water formed around her knees and became solid. She opened her mouth to speak, but the figures spoke, in unison first. They pounded like the gentle waves of her home island. If the ocean could speak it spoke through them. She knew who they were: The House of Waves. Luna Whitemoon...chaos you have seen peace. Through destruction, did you truly value creation. Through darkness did you find the light. The ever-changing waves have called to you. And you have answered. You realize that through madness and pain can you make it to acceptance and peace. You have a light inside of you. Like the Lunar Goddess’ gift to you in your outsider of an appearance, you have been chosen by The House of Waves... The pillar rose until she was closer, at level with the figures. They circled around her, drawing nearer until the center of the figure stepped forward, and like an invisible wall of water, the figure’s translucent appearance disappeared and a woman nodded to Luna. She was tall, appearing young, but Luna, knowing better, was thousands of years old. The woman’s hair was stark white, like hers, and her eyes were the brightest blue she saw. Her ebony skin stood out the most. She reminded Luna so much like herself, she could be looking into a mirror and wouldn't know. “You’ve seen and felt the God Vukon’s wrath. The man turned god has proclaimed himself ruler and tyrant of this planet. In order to defeat him, we need a worthy warrior. And we have chosen you. Only you, with the calming but crashing waves of our sanction, can help lead the rest of the champions and yourself to Vukon’s defeat. Have you accepted?” Luna Whitemoon shuddered. Were there others like her? Of course, there were! All the years of training, of meditation, of reading, all came to this point, and she forgot one thing: other champions from the other houses were out there, waiting, searching for the others to come together and defeat Vukon. The woman let out her hand and a stream of energy flowed towards Luna. Luna let out a hand and the powers of The water sanction formed a fist in her hands. The watery hand changed. It rounded, softened until flower petals appeared. With peace, there is its opposite war. With darkness comes light. With vengeance comes justice. Luna knew all these things. She had vengeance in her. She only wanted to strike back at Vukon for what he did to her and her people. She also knew the compassion and fairness that came to justice. To rightfully set balance back to the scales of Falconus. The land called to her pleaded to her for her help. She wasn't going to fail again. She wasn't going to swim away from the challenge. She was a tsunami, storming across the seas towards it.


I’d been collecting old cameras for as long as I could remember, but none caught my interest quite like the one I found at the dusty corner of an estate sale. It was a classic—a 1950s Leica, its black body still gleaming under the layers of age and neglect. What sealed the deal was the roll of undeveloped film still nestled inside. I was ecstatic about the find. As I developed the film in my darkroom, the photographs emerged slowly, revealing what seemed to be ordinary family portraits. There was a woman with perfectly curled hair and a bright smile, a man with a stern look softened by the child he held in his arms. All perfectly normal—if it weren’t for the subtleties. In the first photo, the family was lined up by an old oak tree, the father’s eyes not on the camera, but staring off to something just out of frame. His expression was one of disquiet. The next photo showed the child, her eyes wide and tearful, looking not at the camera but at the same unseen point, her small body tense as if ready to run. Each successive photo told a similar story. The family, always in different settings—their quaint living room, a local park, their dining room—always with their attention directed at something just beyond the picture's edge. A creeping unease settled over me. The last photo on the roll was different. It was taken inside the house, in what looked like the living room. All three were in the frame as though someone else had taken the photo. They weren’t smiling. Instead, they stood close together, the father holding a baseball bat, the mother clutching the child so tightly it must have hurt. All of them stared directly at the camera, or rather, through it. Their faces pleading with me, begging me for help. I shook off the initial shock, rationalizing that it was a staged series of photos meant to spook whoever developed them. Yet sleep eluded me that night. Every creak and sigh of my house sounded like stealthy footsteps, every shadow seemed to conceal a lurking figure. The next morning, driven by morbid curiosity, I decided to find out more about the camera’s previous owners. My search led me to an old newspaper article about the Delaney family who had vanished in the late 50s, leaving their home undisturbed, dinner still on the table, the TV still on. They were never found, and no explanation ever fit the scene. As I read the article, the room chilled. The feeling of being watched crept over me, the hairs on my neck standing on end. Reluctantly, I turned to look behind me, half-expecting to see the family standing there, still begging for help. There was nothing, of course. Just the shadows. But sometimes, late at night, I swear I can hear the faint click of a camera shutter and the quiet whispers of a family, stuck forever just out of sight.


“Let’s go Robert, you need to leave” the robot said to the old man, his mechanical voice box creating an almost realistic empathetic voice . “Can it, Tin Man!” the old man angrily replied, unwillingly hopping off the brown, frozen bench The thin snow layer on the cold winter’s afternoon, buckled under the robots mechanical heel. Machines had no need for clothes or rest. The robot couldn’t understand the man’s need to revisit this place once a week. Death was death. Deactivation. No longer existing. To revisit a place of death again and again, always bringing 2 roses. The old unshaven man, now painfully standing and grunting, his calloused hands struggling with his old blue jumper zipper began slowly limping towards the car, placing his old woollen cap on his head, hopping in the passenger side, looking more fidgety than usual. The single scarlet rose twiddling in his fingers. Suddenly then man grew angry, huffing and puffing his chest. His hands fidgeting more and more, the rose in an iron vice in his hands. The old man reached for the steering wheel, yanking it to the side in the way of the graffitied wall to the left. However, he was old and couldn’t so much as change lanes. He cursed loudly and reclined into his seat. “Why do you try Robert? That was the 3rd attempt this month. 11th ?attempt to injure yourself this week“. The robot said softly , the plastic flaps and mechanism moving to seem sad and concerned. The old man paid no heed to the pouting robot “Do you believe I want - “ “WANT...BELIEVE?!” the old man interjected. “You can’t want or believe!. You're a thing, a bunch of ones and zeros in a box!” his screaming silencing the old radio playing what he called “rock” “We do believe Robert, no in the way humans do, but our sensors and ‘zeroes and ones’ work in ways that enable efficiency and fulfilment. Your rules, implemented in us a birth - ” “You know nothing of birth or life or living” he interjected, yanking at the locked door handle in vain, then reclining in defeat “ I know that it is my job to babysit you and make sure you're healthy and alive, in compliance with the laws of humans, on robots. I do not want to be here. I was built as a surgeon, to save one another from deactivation. Being here is a waste of my capabilities ” “Can’t you see keeping me alive is torture?” his eyes, dark grey and suffering, filled with the pain of 200 years of existence” “I must, I’m sorry Robert, you’re the last human. We must protect humans” the plastic flaps and synthetic, stringy fibers contorting back into a deadpan expression, both sets of ‘eyes’ on the dead road ahead. “You’re a monster….” Robert weakly rebutted. “And yet humans are the ones who killed and fought and destroyed one another. You’ve been killing each other from the beginning with Cain and Abel. You built faster, better, easier ways to kill one another, all you’ve ever done is kill, kill, kill” the mechanical voice box whirring, straining against the torrent of thoughts and words. “I keep you alive, feed you pills, drive you around, do everything for you…..to help you”. As quiet filled the car, the gravely, unkempt roads almost bucking under the car filled the air, while Robert sat up, head down in what looked to be anger and hate. The scarlet rose now crushed and picked apart, leaving only thorns. “Now tell me who’s the real monster here?”  P.


(WP) A Bitter Feud She didn’t know just how many times she’d told her children no. To hell with the life-saving, advanced medicine and drugs they were always trying to push into her body. Why didn’t everyone understand how tired she was? This was not a life, not even a pale imitation of it. Stuck in a hospital bed, plugged in to machines, unable to hold down more than a few bites of food. Evelyn wouldn’t have wished this life on her worse enemies, and there had been many. But even now, close to death, she couldn’t make herself regret it. That wasn’t her style. Bitterness crested in her throat, as sour and familiar as bile. Was it so hard to understand, wanting to move on? Evelyn was broken out of her angry thoughts by the arrival of her nurse, Holly, with someone following in her wake. “Miss Eve,” Holly said, smiling warmly, “You have a visitor today!” Evelyn had to resist pulling her face into a scowl; she *hated* being called Eve, and what was worse, Holly knew it. It brought back unpleasant memories. But perhaps the nurse was torturing her. Some people got their kicks by being shitty to the infirm and elderly. Holly smiled and checked her vitals, then left her with her visitor. It was Evelyn’s only son, Charles, and she shook her head before he even opened his mouth. “I said no, and that isn’t going change any time soon, Charles. It’s not when you were little, when you could flash those dimples at me and get whatever you want—” This diatribe was followed by a harsh, wracking coughing fit, and she covered her mouth, ignoring the tiny dots of red that covered her palm. “If you’re not careful, Ma, you’re going to hurt yourself, going on like that,” Her son replied, mildly enough, but his eyes, dark like hers, flashed with silent anger and hurt. “I brought you lunch.” *What’s the use if I’m just going to throw it all up in an hour, if I’m lucky?* But she didn’t say anything; she was sure that he could see what she was thinking, anyway. Without another word, Charles walked to the chair that was next to Evelyn’s bed and sat down. He took out a picnic basket, and then put paper plates in front of them, along with paper cups, which he filled with sweet, tart apple cider. “Why are you doing this, Charles?” “You’re our mother and we love you,” Charles said, still mildly. “We don’t want you to die—” “You and your sisters are so foolish,” Evelyn snapped, interrupting him, watching as he divided the food into two equal portions: half a ham sandwich, slathered with mustard and garnished with bright tomatoes and Swiss cheese, and a bowl of soup, her favorite: borscht, made from her own recipe. To anyone else, this would’ve looked like a gesture of goodwill, of love. But Evelyn knew better. It was a bribe from her own children, to stay in this miserable existence.


 It is cold and there is no avoiding that. No longer a chance of denying it. I cover myself in layer upon layer of clothing, donning thick jackets and sweatshirts, pants with thermal lining and tight-fitting boxers with the same. Mom taught me to leave no room for wind or air or breathing or any stray snowflake to enter into my little mobile cocoon. I wouldn’t be out of place in one of those Arctic Research stations. Smiling to myself, I wondered if I looked like the Michelin Man or perhaps a resurrected mummy. I hoped that Brendan Fraser wouldn’t pop out of one of the snowbanks that flanked the driveways and sidewalks of the city, intent on uncovering my treasure and healing my curse.

Something rustled as the wind blew and I froze, almost literally, scanning the white-capped trash cans that the sound had come from. A cat skittered out, sliding across the icy road on his way home. I breathed a sigh of relief, pushing mist like a dragon through my scarf. As I watched, the cat clambered onto a porch and disappeared through a little door.

“Good. It’s too cold for you,” I said to myself, resuming my solemn march. My little toy watch read 8:31 PM. The weatherman had said it was 14 degrees with a wind chill of 7 degrees. Shuddering, I pulled my heavy coverings tightly around me, burying my gloved hands into big pockets.

It’d been a couple miles since I left my home.

I wasn’t going back either.

This Christmas had started off badly. Charlie Mercher, the horrid father that he is, had lost himself to a bottle of caramel whiskey in the early evening. The rest of the night, which was usually reserved for celebration, had been a violent flurry of harsh words and frightening promises. Mary Mercher, my sweet old lady, wouldn’t let me near him. I’m not sure what the fight was about this time, but I’m pretty sure that momma is my momma and that dad may not be my dad.

I didn’t know what to think of that.

I didn’t want to think about it either.

I share my momma’s nose, small and with a wide bridge. I’ve got her brown hair and her brown eyes. We’ve got the same sense of humor and the same freckles and the same favorite foods but . . . the only thing that I share with my dad is my last name. I preferred my first name anyways; Thomas sounds much better than Mercher. What did Mercher even mean anyways? Angry? Drunk?

Unfaithful? My younger brother Michael liked his last name.

But he couldn’t speak yet. He’d just throw his little chubby arms up gleefully when I’d say it.

He had dad’s eyes.

I didn’t.

My heart was cool with guilt, but what was I supposed to do? There’s no way little Michael would survive out in this cold. My only chance as a ten-year-old is to march forward.  I’ll send help when I find it.

And I will find it. Well, I hope I will.

Just me and my cold coats.

There was a fire department somewhere nearby. I knew it was childish, but they’d always been my heroes. They’d rush into frigid fires to save people from their untimely doom. Modern day knights in shining armor! I always thought that those flaming houses I’d see on the news looked like dragons. Their doors were mouths that breathed fire and consumed families. The kids in my class laughed at me when I told them that I wanted to be a firefighter when I grew up.

“That’s so childish!” “You’re too skinny!” And all the laughter a young man could endure.

I’d do it anyway.

 Heat flushed my face at the memory, thawing my icy cheeks for a moment before succumbing to the screaming cold.

It hurt and I couldn’t find the fire station.

I searched for some time, following the moon through a curtain of fluffy white. The houses on either side of the street were alive with light, the silhouettes of happy families and normal lives performed a play for me beyond sheltered, warm curtains. A young boy spotted me while he stood by a brightly decorated tree, his window curtains drawn to let in the night's winter beauty. I stopped and stared at him for a while, and he returned the favor. I waved. He waved. I opened my mouth to say something, but a woman appeared. She scolded the boy, ignoring his protests, and closed the curtains.

I wondered, had my parents been any different, if I’d be on the other side of that window too.

Shaking the thought, I marched on, a cool chill finally piercing my layers of protection.

After what seemed like a very long time, a town broke through the suburbs. Tall buildings rose on either side of me like giants decorated in bright lights. The spectacle seemed a stark contrast to the icicles that hung from their roofs. As I crossed the street, a man dressed in a black suit stopped me.

“Hey, kiddo! What’re you doing out in the cold so late?” He smiled warmly.

I shrunk away from him. “None of your business,” I grumbled, hiding my face behind my scarf.

His smile didn’t fade. “I didn’t mean to offend you, son.” He lifted his eyes, gazing behind me as if looking for someone. I followed his stare into the blizzard that followed me. “It’s getting pretty bad out here. Do you have somewhere warm to stay?” I shook my head.

“I see. Where are your parents?” I didn’t answer.

“Hmm. Do you need help?” I shook my head again.

“I got you. Well,” he gestured to a tall, brightly lit building behind him. The doors were open to the cold, the inside of which was lined in benches filled with well-dressed people. “If you need somewhere warm to shelter, you’re welcome here. We have hot cocoa!”  There was cheerful singing coming from the building. It sounded like a particular type of celebration. “Are you having a birthday party?” I asked.

He chuckled, following my eyes to the building. “Actually, yes! I suppose we are!” The man saw my expression. “Oh, don’t worry, they may not sing well, but you know what they say, joyful noise and all that!” He laughed heartily. I smiled along with him. The man appeared friendly enough and the building looked warm and inviting but . . . “No thank you,” I said. “I’m on a mission.” “Oh yeah? Can I ask you what your mission is?” I thought for a moment. Distrustfully, I responded, “I’m trying to save someone.” My little brother needs help . I wanted to say, but the knot in my throat nearly choked me. Between it and the cold, I struggled to move. My bones hurt. Hot cocoa sounded really good. I wouldn’t mind singing either. Part of me hoped that they had a birthday cake as well. I couldn’t remember the last time that I’d celebrated a birthday, but my friends at school would tell me about theirs all the time.

“Save someone? Who?” I didn’t respond.

After a moment, he continued. “Well, you’re in luck, son! I just so happen to know a Man who’s in the business of saving people!” He grew excited.

I didn’t respond.

“I could introduce you, if you’d like. Maybe He could help save whoever you’re trying to help as well.” “Are they a firefighter?” I asked.

“Hah! A firefighter? I suppose so! But He fights the kind of fire that lasts an eternity. Actually, He’s already defeated it.” “He must be very brave then.” “Oh, He was .” “Was?” “Mhm,” the man smiled solemnly. “He died, nailed to that up there by the very same people that He fought the fire for.” He pointed to a giant cross on the pointy part of the building.

“How could they do that? Wait, He died up there?!” I exclaimed.

“Oh! No, not that exact one. That’s just a copy.” “Why is it on your building then--if it killed such a brave man?” My imagination swam with the idea of a yellow-clad firefighter hanging from those pieces of wood.

“That’s a good question, son. We put it there to remember Him and what He did. But do you want to know the best part?” He asked. I nodded, intrigued.

“He rose again three days after His death. He used His blood to put out the fire!” My eyes grew wide, welcoming the sting of the bitter wind. “He must’ve had a lot of blood . . .” The man chuckled. “Enough to cover everyone who was on fire and doesn’t want to burn anymore . . . including you and me.” We stood in silence for a moment, the howling wind tossed my scarf wildly.

I’m on fire? I wondered. “Would you like to come inside?” “He’s in there?!” “Mhm. Well, He’s everywhere, but we can talk about that later.” “I–” The biggest part of me wanted to go in with the man. To sing. To eat. To meet this mysterious firefighter who defeats eternal fire with His blood. I wanted to shake His hand. To tell Him about mom being mom and dad being maybe dad. I wanted Him to save my little brother, to take him with Him to whatever firehouse He served at.

But dad had warned me about buildings like this. He’d told me to watch out for the people under the cross. He told me they were judgmental and mean and that they’d always make promises that they didn’t intend to keep. Fear ran rampant in my heart.

I shook my head. “No, thank you.” And I ran, my feet crunching through the snow. The man called out after me, panic in his voice. I thought he’d come after me, so I picked up the pace.

Focus! Find the firehouse! Send help to little brother! It didn’t take much more wandering before I realized just how lost I was. Turning back, the man and building were nowhere to be seen. Did I take a left to get here? No, a right and then a left! No, no, that can’t be right. Continuing onward, I stumbled into a large field with a sign that read “ Calvary Park .” My legs were soaked through with slush, refreezing and melting with the cyclic heating and cooling of my movement. I could no longer feel my face. I tried to touch my nose, wondering if it was still there, but couldn’t tell. I sniffed a few times, filling my lungs with an aching coolness. I fought the panic that icicles might form inside me.

At least I have my nose.

A bench sat beneath a quaint street post, bathed in its soft light and covered in a layer of fluffy powder. My body ached and burned with a violent numbness. I yawned, finally slowing down enough to realize just how tired I really was. It wouldn’t hurt to sit down for a while, would it? I plopped down onto the bench, sending an avalanche off its sides. Leaning back, I stared into the silent sky. It was pitch black.

No, my eyes were just closed. I forced them back open. The darkened sky erupted with sparkling lights above me, only partially shrouded by the lazy drifting of snowflakes, all illuminated by the gentle moon. As I lay there, my strength abating, my breathing slowing, I listened to the intense nothingness.

How can a world be so active and yet so quiet? I wondered.

There was a sudden bout of panic as I fought the urge to sleep.

No. Don’t close your eyes!  But they’re so . . . heavy.

They almost closed. “ Help!” I called out to the darkening heavens. “Timothy!” “H-huh?” I groaned.

Someone was rushing toward me. They spoke my name with a voice that I recognized but had never heard before. They wrapped me in a thick blanket and scooped me up from the bench. I opened my eyes dreamily, fluttering as their heat seared my body.

“G-uh?” I grumbled.

“Shhh, son. I have you.”

He wore a yellow and tan coat. I brushed my hand against it. It was cold, like mine.

“C-old,” I struggled to speak.

He grabbed my fingers with a gloved hand. “Shhh, son. I know. I’ll get you somewhere warm.” He ran through the streets, carrying me like a little child. I wanted to protest. To remind him that I am ten and not a kid. To tell him to go rescue my younger brother, the one who really needs it. As my eyes slowly regained focus, my body warmed by the man, I realized something about Him . . . “Fire . . . fighter?” I whispered weakly.

The man smiled a glorious smile. One that instantly warmed my body and something much, much deeper. “Of sorts, yes. Be still, son. It’s my birthday today, did you know that?” His hair was fluffy, spilling out from under a fireman’s helmet. I touched it. It felt like sheep’s wool. I remembered the feeling from a field trip last year in Ms. Hooley’s class. We visited a farm. I liked petting the animals, even though I wasn’t supposed to, but there was one animal that was softer than all the others . . .

A lamb. “Birthday? I met a man earlier who was celebrating a birthday too . . .” “Is that so? Well, we should go,” He said, setting me down on some steps. “Are you alright?” He asked, concerned.

There was warmth in me now where there had been only ice before. “I-I am. Thank you.” I looked up into the man’s big, green eyes in bewilderment.

This man is a firefighter! A hero! My hero. I knew someone who needed a hero. “My-” “Your brother, right?” He interrupted.

I opened my mouth to speak but couldn’t.

“Don’t worry, son, I’ve got him covered,” He winked, “I’ve got you too. It’s going to be all right, trust me.”

“Th-thank you.” Somehow and for some reason, those words felt more concrete to me than even the hardest stone. I believed that this firefighter could quench any fire. I thought back to the man from earlier and the weird conversation that we had shared. “Am I on fire?” I asked.

“Hah!” The man smiled brightly. “Not anymore, Thomas.” “You know my name?” He nodded. “And many others. Regardless, you’re not on fire outwardly, Thomas, and I do not fight outward fires. I leave that to men like you.” “I-I don’t understand,” I responded. “Most people don’t,” the stranger replied, “but I know someone who can teach you about it.” He stood from where He had laid me down and walked toward an open door, banging on its wood loudly. I realized that there had been singing before, behind the wonder and chilly fuzz in my ears, but it stopped at His beckoning.

“Oh my gosh!” “Is he okay?”

There were suddenly a lot of well-dressed people surrounding me. The man from earlier, the one who spoke in strange riddles of an everlasting firefighter, helped me to my feet and brought me inside.

“Are you okay?” They asked.

“Get him some hot cocoa and a change of clothes!” “Oh Lord, please don’t let him have hypothermia!” “Should we call 911, Pastor Michael?” “No,” the man, Pastor Michael, responded. “He’s not hypothermic, but he got pretty darn close. Son, what happened?” “I-I-” With so many faces around me, each twisted with worry, words became very hard to find. “I was so cold, but He–” I pointed to where the firefighter had been, but no one was there. “He saved me . . .” “Who saved you?” Pastor Michael followed my fingers, confused. “The firefighter. Didn’t you see him?” He looked at me now, his brow furrowed. “Firefighter?” “I didn't see anyone.” “Are you sure he's okay?” “Maybe he’s delirious?” The congregation chattered on and on, but the Pastor simply stared at me. We had a silent conversation, one that only he and I understood.

I had been put out.

I wasn’t on fire-even on the inside–anymore.

Not in the way that I had been.

That night was full of fear and worry but ended in warmth and good conversation. Pastor Michael listened to my story about dad and about mom, calling someone who could help. They took my little brother and I away, putting us in a new home with a couple from the congregation. They were friendly, protective, and never missed a church meeting. We celebrated every birthday, every holiday, and I had my fill of a blessed life–not to mention birthday cake.

And whenever someone would ask about my understanding of Jesus Christ, I’d tell them, quite plainly and quite simply, with the same bewilderment that I felt as a child, that Christ had saved me twice that night.

Once from the searing cold. And once when He put out the fire that consumed my soul.


Autumn in Canada is my favorite time of the year. How everything around us becomes beautiful and cooler, providing us a relief from the heat. The beautiful transformation of tree leaves in stunning shades of yellow, orange, red and brown blows my mind. Currently sitting in a coffee shop which have just introduced a new line of autumnal drinks, having a hot chocolate. Trying to make my sullen mood a little better. “Good evening.” A old lady nearly in her 70's stood in front if my table. “Good evening.” I said “Can I sit with you, if you don’t mind. I was seeing you from a while and you seem a little sad to me. So I thought you would like to have some company.” She said giving me a wrinkled smile. “I won’t mind, please take a seat.” I said and thanking me she sat comfortably in front of me.

“Oh how rude of me, I am Luna by the way. Nice to meet you.” She said taking her hand out for handshake. “Hailey, nice to meet you too.” I said copping her actions. She looked at my almost finished hot chocolate before saying, “They have just introduced a new line of autumnal drinks. They are amazing, have you tried any?” she asked “Um, no I haven’t. But-" she cut me off “Ah! You should try their classic pumpkin spice latte. Wait I will order them for both of us.” She said and immediately ordered for us. I smiled at her ebullient nature. She had pale and wrinkled skin but her eyes and smile shined bringer than the sun. “You have the same smile like my granddaughter.” Her eyes twinkled when she talked about her grand daughter.

“Do I?” I asked with a smile. "Yes, you know once Charlie Chaplin said 'You will find that life is still worthwhile, if you just smile'." She said and I nodded “You should meet her some day. You both must be of same age. She is a lawyer in New York, what is your profession?” she continued “I am a CA, Chartered accountant.”

“Oh that’s amazing, your parents must be proud of you.” She said and I nodded my head as yes. Our conversation was cut off by the waitress who bought our ordered drinks. Their latte had two difference from others which was they used honey instead of sugar and using more pumpkin which added a good different taste. "Isn't it amazing?" Luna asked "Absolutely amazing." I said and we both smiled. “Why were you sad Hailey?”

"Just had a bad day." I said trying to drop the topic. "You can tell me the reason for your bad day, if you don't mind." She said looking calculatively in my eyes. I took a deep death before speaking, “I.. I had a argument with my mother this morning.” I said looking at my latte as tears started to well up in my eyes. “Talk to me, share with me. They say sharing with the strangers makes you feel a little better.” She said, giving her a week smile I told her, “Me and my mom had a fight this morning. She wants me to go back to Italy and help her with her boutique. She wants me to leave this job as a CA and help her with her work. But I don’t want to leave my job and go there. I love my job, but she doesn’t understand. Infact she doesn’t want to understand.” I exhaled deeply. Luna took my hand in her fragile hands saying, “Do you want to know Luna's autumn theory?” she said and I was confused. "Luna's autumn theory?" I asked “Its my autumn theory.” She said smiling at me. Before I could even reply she continued. "I don't really care what your answer is. I was going to tell you anyways." She said and we both laughed. “Autumn season is know for its beautiful change which it brings with it. The weather getting colder; changes of green leaves into yellow, orange, red and brown shades; days become shorter and nights becomes longer. It’s the season of changes, maybe for good or bad its up to you. If your mom doesn’t understand or don’t want to, you change your style of explaining her. Make her realize what you really want to do. Autumn teaches us to change. Change you ways my child, and everything changes.” She said and I was speechless. I was just staring at her with a smile. She is right, I need to change my ways of explaining my mom and she will understand me hopefully. Luna's phone vibrated, looking at the screen she smiled and looked at me. “Its my time to go. Have a good day my child. God bless you and smile more often. You have a beautiful smile.” She said and my smile widened. Hugging me goodbye she left the coffee shop. Meeting Luna in this coffee shop and her telling me ‘Luna's autumn theory’ was a life changing event for me.

Sometimes things happen which we don't even expect. When we think all the doors are closed and we don't have any choice, maybe the closed doors aren't locked and waiting for a knock. Maybe we just have to knock the doors and seek for a perfect solution. Maybe what seems so difficult isn't that difficult. Maybe its just your power of not losing hope and keep trying. Deciding to change my way of telling my mom what I want, I smiled. I have an idea how to explain her. Victor Hugo a French poet, prose writer, dramatist, essayist and politician once said, 'There is nothing more powerful in the world than the idea that came in time.' This autumn have bought a change in me which is a life time lesson. I took out my phone, dialing my mom's number I waited for her to pick up my call. After a few rings she picked up the call. “Hey mom" “Hello" “Mom, next week I will be coming home for a few days.”


A shoe goes sailing through the air and crashes through a wall and into the coat closet behind. It doesn't take much; the wall is just a thin layer of sheet rock with unimaginative paper covering it. The sound of it rattles the whole place. I just sit on the couch and listen. My brother screams from his room less than two feet away. His small arm stretched out from under the door; his tiny fingers pulling at the medium length brown carpet. He cries out “why momma” as he pulls. I can tell he has snot running out of his nose and tears rolling down his cheeks, just from the sound of his voice. I just stand in the hall and listen. The phone rings, it’s my mother again. She asks in a manic voice why I’m punishing her. She tells me I don’t deserve her love. She pleads to know why I don’t love her back. I can hear the addict she is sleeping with in the back ground coughing; it’s the cough of too much cheap beer and even cheaper cigarettes. I just hold the phone and listen. I hear the voice of Tim Allen coming from the television behind me. The taste of Tuna Helper turns my stomach. I have tears running down my face. My father stands in the kitchen. He stops his lecture on starving children long enough to take a pull of his beer. I count the silence, almost four seconds. He must be mad at her again. She and my step brother laugh from the living room. I just lie on the table bench and listen. I ride with my grandmother in the Ram Charger. She smokes long skinny cigarettes with the windows rolled up. I love her, but I hate smell. I hold the button to roll my window down. She quickly rolls it back up. “The a/c is running,” she says. I feel a bit dizzy from the bluish smoke; I’ll probably have a headache soon. My brother sits in his booster seat behind us calling out truck each time he sees one. My grandmother speaks between draws from her cigarette to tell me she loves my brother, but that his mother is a whore. I just hold my breath and listen. The sun hasn’t gone down yet but I’m in bed. My step-mother is going out and my father has unhooked the ignition coil from the engine. It won’t run. She screams why, it sounds like my brother. He laughs and tells her he hasn’t done anything. I wonder if she is a whore as I spy and listen. I stand in the shower. The water is as hot as I can take. I gently squeeze the bottle of V05 and breathe it in. I hear my his alarm going off repeatedly. I know I need to get out, but he is vomiting violently into the toilet just on the other side of the glazed shower door. The water is turning cold. I begin to shiver as I listen. Chris Cornell’s voice pleads for a black hole sun through the small speakers of the Zenith tv. I see the headlights through the living room windows. I count the foot falls as they climb the steep steps to the trailer door. I can hear someone fumbling a key into the lock. She stumbles through first. “He drank too much tequila,” she says as she makes her way past me and down the hall. He claws his way in like a zombie and falls to the floor, the screen door slamming just shy of his feet. He is snoring before Chris is done. I bob my head and listen. The engine of the Honda screams for relief. The tires squeal as we barely make the deep curve of the small country road. “Your grandmother found your grandfather not breathing on the porch,” she says. I wonder if the car will fly off the road at the next turn, it’s sharper than the last. My mother tries to navigate at 90 and light a Virginia Slim at the same time. I light one for her. She doesn’t take her eyes off the road. Eric Clapton moans for Layla on the radio. I hold tight and listen. The ICU is cold and quiet. I watch the lines on the small monitor bounce to the rhythm of my grandfather’s heart. “He’s woken once,” my grandmother says to my great aunt. “He was talking to his mother.” She died when I was four, I think to myself. My mother walks in and hands my grandmother a styrofoam cup of sweet tea. I can hear the ice slide together as she takes a sip and hands the cup to me. I take my turn; it taste of earth and sugar. She smiles at me and gives me a peppermint. I save it for later. The three of them begin to make plans for if he doesn’t wake back up. I squeeze the peppermint and listen. The wind roars past my ears as I sit in the front seat of the boat. I take in a deep breath as my father slides the boat around an ox bow in the river. I let my vision soften as I stare at the reflection of the sky in the water. I raise my arm and point to a deadhead sticking just above the surface. I feel the boat shift just in time as my father pulls the tiller handle and deftly dodges the stump. He opens the throttle on the two stroke Mercury as we enter a straight part of the river. I close my eyes and pretend to fly as I listen.


Got bored, wrote a thingy Alliterating Absurdity It’s dark here... I can see only about a few meters. Every direction is just pathed stone, uneven but easy to walk on. I’m unsure if I’m outside or inside, I see no stars or moon but I feel small gusts of wind randomly. I remember, easily actually, clearly walking into the nearby park to clear my head. My hood up and head downtrodden I never new how long I had been wandering, if long at all. ... It’s not cold anymore but not exactly comfortable enough to shed the light jacket that protects me from the anything in the dark. ... Walking in one direction with no point of reference is confusing, horrifying, ... simple? I knew the second I saw no sides to the path bleeding away into grass and found no stars, at least silently standing by as sentinels, that there was no possible way I was still wandering the small greenway. Hysteria, ... what I expected, ... never set in while wandering around in the paved murk. Just an amalgamation of feelings dominated by a confused curiosity. We all get to a point where we feel the prank can’t really go on any longer, but no suspicious person casually strolled by and pointed out the cameraman or the ... comfortable audience revealed behind some large fake wall, just the sounds of normal foot falls on smooth stones dominated the dark. I knew fear would escalate when the mind tricks started preying on the empty sensory input abundant in the area around me. I think I switch directions, I wander to my left from the path I perceived I was walking. Noises and shapes dancing and peaking from the perceived sphere of light my eyes can see, real or misplaced imagination, ... does it matter? It’s all unknown, the prank and the lost scenarios now discarded for a growing sense of insanity. My watch says it’s only been fifteen minutes in this place, it feels like more but I think the watch is a little more concrete then just human time keeping. I’m not insane and if I am ... then I hope someone finds me before I leave. The watch. I can hear the tick, a hand-me-down from my father, not a present or gift but just a watch, use or don’t he gave me his watch and replaced it with one exactly the same. Why not give me that one? Too late, don’t care. .... tick .... That click wasn’t from my watch, my shoes maybe? I stop, peer around and what the hell else did I expect to see, just dark and stones. I do the stereotypical drop to the floor and inspect it like some answer to the insane minds enigma. I find a fetal position after internally laughing at imitating insanity. The sound of sharp speedy steps stops my self solace. A person ... just outside of my periphery ponders poking into my stone polka dotted palace of self pity. I wait, wanting and wishing for the wisp to whisk me away from this wobbly world. The tick tock clock clicks and I’m back in the park. Street lamps bathe a nearby bench. And I go home to sleep swathed in my soft smooth shelter. English is my first language but I’m just shit at grammar and general English mojo / spelling. Came from my head but could be influenced by well known stories I forgot I read.


Yes, I wish I’d held on to my morals. If I did, I would have still been on one of the modern cruise ships on my way to Cancun. A hollow coconut shell would have easily found its resting position in my hand, flaunting its tiny Hawaiian inspired umbrella and an “adult” cherry floating on a bright blue cheap alcohol. My Vitamin D demanding skin would have been tanned and not burnt, my new aviators would have been put to use, and my effort would be well on trying to gracefully flirt with the muscular server who would offer me pea-sized hors d'oeuvres every five minutes or so. Well, while I’m busy fantasizing on what would have happened, it’s far from reality, so far, that you couldn’t even see it from a telescope.                    ꧁꧂ I unwillingly felt the dense, frosty water quickly rush through my reluctant lungs without a second thought. Automatically, I unfastened my weak jaw about 180 degrees to gasp for some required oxygen, only to affectionately invite more unwanted water into my shattered body. I perceived the clearest of panic attacks creeping through the surreal corridors of my mind. I sensed it lurking. Knowing that I would be swallowed by the dark cloud of trepidation did not make too much of a difference as I voluntarily let it happen. The darkness overcame my body; I could’ve been frantically drowning in the icy waters but I was supposedly floating amongst the other surfacing debris. No one will ever have the privilege of knowing my state of being, not even myself, any memory of this incident was completely and utterly forgotten. I don’t recall I was conscious at the time.

The vivid blue, cloudless sky housed a radiant sun which dazzled its glistening rays upon my senseless body. I was greeted with about six Great Egrets circling me in a flawless unison as I aggressively spat out the grainy sand out of my parched mouth. I was supposedly washed up on the uninhabited regions on Cozumel, an small island right off the Mexican coastline; about a fourty-five minute ride from Cancun. Little did I know that on the other side of the island from where I was washed up, was a small business of hotels and restaurants bustling with clients coming for a well-deserved vacation. Being way too weak for exploring, I would have never known. I was too dehydrated to think clearly and standing up so abruptly was an imprudent mistake. Dazed and disoriented, I stumbled and vigorously fell to my knees right where I was washed up in the first place. All my middle school knowledge about never to drink sea water left a blank mark in my memory as swallowed gulps after gulps of it. It did leave a rather bitter taste but I couldn’t care less. I looked back almost unintentionally and noticed a relatively large waterproof duffel bag; then it hit me. My memory steadily began returning. Remembering brief parts of what had happened, helped piece the complex puzzle together, into what seemed to be an unlikely story which wouldn’t receive an excessive amount of empathy.

It was all planned out; every single possibility of what could or could not go wrong was written on those precious A4 papers back at home. Odette and I were entirely sure the heist would lay out perfectly infront of our eager eyes. Blueprints upon blueprints of the cruise ship’s hidden vents and vaults unavoidably piled themselves up on my chaotic desk. The exceptionally large cork-board which overflowed with elaborate notes, pins and strings, all lead to this one heist; a heist that Odette and I have been persistently planning for about two aching years now. We agreed to the fair deal that she would forage for all the required sources and classified information whilst I perform this rather intricate money heist. But all went burning into high blue flames. I got caught in the act, red handed, in flagrante delicto whatever you’d like to call it, but I was frozen clenching the duffle bag filled with money in my trembling hands. When flustered, one’s rational reasoning transforms into a ludicrous one beyond description. I bolted through the back door and hurled myself into the Caribbean, facing the deserved consequences of a 72 meter fall ahead of me.

That was what I now call my quick sniff of death, yet I didn’t die. I have no objective as to why I voluntarily agreed to being a crucial part of this scheme, I had no reason to. Odette did find me in a rather vulnerable state of mind and promptly took advantage of my situation. After my mother died a sincerely tragic death, Odette invited herself back into my life after a few years of distance. She cautiously used her well-trained manipulatory skills to draw me into the center of her trap. I was fairly financially stable at the time and committing such a felony was an unconditionally foolish and an unnecessary act; but she promised, she promised that all this would get my mind off the tension, strain, and malevolence of the outside world. I cluelessly believed her. I eagerly poured out my heart and soul to her; I found comfort in an old friend, and to know that what she’s done for me was all for her personal benefit, crushes my core to pieces. I just shouldn’t have been so naive. As nightfall drew and my senses began slightly returning, my attention turned to the glaring lights shooting across the horizon. Many boats sped through the water and the deafening helicopters which spoilt the sweet stillness of the Mexican air, shone their overwhelming lights directly down at me and that’s when I truly realized that this was at long last, the end. Inevitably, I was subconsciously sure that I could never get away with such an offense; I didn’t have the finesse and mastery of a thief and I could never obtain it. It wasn’t in my nature. I heartily acknowledged and valued one last state of absolute calmness as I focused on the shimmering stars which reminded me of my beloved mother who always told me that everything will always find its course.


I’m not what you would call the adventurous sort. I have a very logical view of the world. The laws of nature can be described by calculable equations and repeatable experiments. However, I have learned that this way of thinking just doesn’t contain the full story. I was never very superstitious, but once I described the past few days, that’s the only logical conclusion. I could not deny the power of this divine beast.

It was just two days ago that I had seen her for the first time. Nudging around the alley trash cans, her coat was jet black, and not filthy at all, the way you would expect a stray to look. I had been on a smoke break at the restaurant I cook at, and my second cigarette had expired already, so I had to go back in. I honestly didn’t think anything of it, because, with a coat that clean, I was sure someone was searching for it. When my shift ended, I wasn’t surprised to see that the cat was gone.

I started on my way home which was a few blocks away, and I swear shadowy figures were following me. I told myself it was all in my head, but that didn’t calm the beating of my heart. I was speed walking before I realized, and out of breath soon afterward. I leaned against a streetlight to try and center myself, and admittedly, the light would block the shadows. No, not on this night. Not this time. This time, the figure of a horned creature began to wriggle itself to form under the light.

I wanted to run so badly but couldn’t catch my breath. It was like trying to breathe through an IV. Just as the creature was going to reach me, the cat appeared from nowhere and landed directly between the shadow creature and myself, and just as it landed the creature dissipated as if it were vapor. Now I’m hyperventilating and am scratching at the edges of my consciousness trying to explain this phenomenon. The strange thing turned and looked me in the eye as if to show discontent.

“Get ahold of yourself, Master!”

The sun crept in through the curtain, casting a cone of light on my face. I’m lying in bed, let out a yawn, and sit up. I’m sweaty, so sweaty that I soaked through my pillow and covers and saturated the mattress. Confused, I roll out of bed, and head to the shower, while peeling my shirt off my back, like a banana. I started remembering what had happened and wrote it off as a bad dream. Once I was showered and dressed, I grabbed my work gear and headed out the front door, but when I opened the door, the cat was sitting there in the middle of my welcome mat. I feel this pressure on myself as I get dragged backward, stiff as a redwood, by nothing. The creature walked in, slowly, waving its tail back and forth. The door shut and I was laid gently on the floor. The cat jumped onto its perch on my chest and peered into my soul.

“Why does your heartbeat so frantically? Such a being as yourself should never fear magic.” For what seemed like an eternity, I stared blankly into its eyes. They were human eyes, not the slit feline eyes that should be there. As if sensing my thoughts, they transformed immediately. “I understand now. You never knew of your gifts. You never discovered who you are truly meant to be. No matter, we must get you to safety, and then all else will follow.”

“How are you speaking to me, you are a cat. How did your eyes change? How are you doing all of this!” The feline paid him no mind though and continued to babble to himself quiet curses about my apparent ignorance. “Let me go! I dema-”, suddenly my mouth was sealed shut by some unseen force.

“I really must concentrate; I hadn’t expected you to be void of all knowledge. You were meant to hold the Great Knowledge; you didn’t have any materials I needed for our quick return. Truly, you don’t even remember me?” I had no idea what to say. It just wasn’t logical; it made no sense. The magic cat, the changing eyes, the forces being used on me. But, if all that was real, what about those shadowy things? I wanted to scream, I wanted to run away and hide. This could not be reality. “Well, I know this all must be pretty stressful to take in, but- oh goodness,” at that moment the pressure released off my body. “See, I am not here to hurt you. You really must come with me; I promise I will explain everything just as soon as we are safe.

I looked at the door and decided escape was futile. This thing would just pin me down with his magic. I pointed to my mouth to indicate my need to speak. With just a blink, the Cat released my lips as well. “Before we go anywhere, I need to know who you are, and how you came to be. I have a life; I can’t just go hang out with some illusion my mind created.”

“Master, surely your closest ally, and student, does not strike you as mere illusory tricks. This must be some kind of spell.”

“I have never met you before, much less, experienced anything half so crazy as these last 12 hours.”

“Look, I’m sorry, but I insist you come with me.,” with that she spoke a few syllables, and suddenly we were pulled upward in a spiral. I saw the full spectrum of color stretch out and lose pigment. The very fabric of reality was coming apart and flowing back together violently. My stomach felt like we were falling from the top of the roller coaster. I was freezing at one moment, hot the next, and yet this all took place in fractions of a second. The Cat landed on its feet suddenly, too suddenly. I hadn’t expected the floor and came tumbling down hard and rolled a few yards. “Here, in my realm, I can certainly feel the dark energy cast on you. Come with me, hopefully, we can undo this sorcery.”

I barely gained my bearings again, but the cat, whose name was Midnight, was quite insistent that we move forward. He seemed uneasy about the source of this spell he was convinced I was under. We traversed a great desert of this odd-smelling sand. It was a dull grey color and rocky. Something was familiar about that, but I couldn’t quite place it, so I tried to forget about it. Midnight directed my attention to the tower, and I stopped in my tracks. There was something far too weird about the way it was designed, and I don’t know what came over me, I pounced on the cat.

“What the hell is that tower; where are we!” Midnight began opening her mouth, but all that came out were meows. Everything went black, except Midnight. Midnight was turning a deep crimson red with bright yellow eyes, and she grew to be enormous instantly. She lifted a huge paw with impossibly sharp talons fully exposed and swiped at me, except before she could tear through me, I fell through the ground as if the Earth tore apart under my feet. I began squeezing my fists and my eyes shut tightly and let out a blood-curdling scream. At that moment, I knew I was going to die, and so I continued to scream until blood flowed from my mouth.

Once again, I sat up in bed covered in a pool of sweat, only this time my cat, Midnight, was standing atop her scratching tower, where her food tray was bare. I had been in a nightmare. My face fell into my hands, at the edge of tears and I just let reality wash out the taste of the nightmare left on my body. I brushed the blankets aside and swung my feet out to the side of the bed. I chuckled to myself while I considered the absurdity of my dream. With a big grin, I jumped out of bed, and I felt it between my toes. It was cold and crunchy, and I opened my eyes wide, and let out a huge grunt. I jumped right into the used kitty litter, and I wished I returned to the nightmare.


The old woman stood at the glass case, thumbing a folded up five dollar bill in her hand. At last the line had moved forward enough for her to see half-gone trays of pastry delights, all neatly labeled with colorful cards and cheerful designs. So many options to choose from, but she knew what she wanted. She let out a sigh of relief to see there were still a few of her choice left, all pink and red frosting with heart sprinkles. “Hello ma’am, what can I get you?” The cashier barely looked at her, but she didn’t mind. The little shop was packed near to bursting for the grand opening. “I’ll take the romance cookie, please!” It was then that the cashier fully noticed Rose, the little woman bundled up in her threadbare housecoat and silk headscarf. “Ma’am, can I interest you in a Youth Pop?” “No thank you, sir, just the cookie please!” She replied with more grace than she felt. Young people. They always thought old people wanted to feel young again. Maybe some did. Not her. There was only one thing she wished she could feel again. “It’s my anniversary,” she whispered, but the cashier had already taken her money and bustled away to the far case. When he returned she thanked him with more sweetness than he deserved. With the craft paper package in hand, Rose navigated through the throng of incoming customers to the street again. Her feet ached, but the fresh air was a nice change from being cooped up inside like she usually was around this time of year. April was the month Marty had died, five years ago almost to the day. Usually she spent the month in isolation. If she was honest with herself she spent most months in isolation, but this year she felt… different. Instead of turning on Memorial Street, like she usually did every April, Rose paused and looked up at the street sign. A little further down was another street, one she hadn’t visited in a long time. Perhaps she would. With joints that protested every step, she couldn’t decide if haste made her little trip worse or better. Maybe she should have gotten that Youth Pop at the shop after all. With a determined grimace she powered on. Garden Street soon came into view. It’s tall lamp post street sign hadn’t been replaced since the first time she’d seen it, nearly fifty years before. She followed the sidewalk until her destination finally came into view. City Arboretum. Memories rushed back to her in a flood, sweet memories of springs that weren’t as lonely as they were now. White blossoms littered the lush lawns, kites billowed up in the breeze, and young families picnicked on heirloom blankets. It was just as she remembered it. So happy. So full of love. It took some time to find their old bench, but she did. New paths had been paved, and new benches put in, too, but despite years of wear she still found it. Marty’s carved handi work was mostly filled in now with grime and dirt, but it was still there on the back of the slatted bench. *M+R FOREVER.* She ran her fingers over it cautiously, feeling a wave of unexpected emotions as tears sprang to her eyes. For a moment her feet started to point towards the exit again seemingly of their own accord. She stopped. Her knees ached. Her feet protested. Begrudgingly Rose sat down. Despite fighting the aches of her walk, she couldn’t help but smile. So many beautiful memories of the old bench came back to her. It was then she realized she didn’t need to feel young again, nor did she need the little cookie she’d ventured out just especially to get. She could celebrate her wedding anniversary without it. Hours passed. The cookie remained untouched. Rose stayed, happily soaking in the rays of the sun for the first time in what seemed years. She said hello to every passer-by, and pet each cute little doggie that reminded her of dogs long passed. No one noticed when the kindly old lady with the silk headscarf never opened her brown paper bagged treat. “It’s my anniversary,” she told every young couple. They cooed and congratulated her, but never asked what anniversary it was. No one stayed to listen. No one noticed when her eyes shut, a gentle smile on her face. In her daydreaming Marty sat next to her, holding her hand just like the old days. She re-lived the time they snuck through the arboretum at night and canoodled, trading boozy kisses far past curfew. She couldn’t think of this place without remembering taking their wedding photos in the spring blossoms, and bringing their first puppy to play with the other neighborhood dogs at this same bench. This time she didn’t fight tears. She embraced the simple joy of living in those moments for a last time. No one noticed when Rose breathed her final breath of sweet, fresh air, but that was alright. It’d been the best day she’d had in years.