I awoke this morning with the words “thank you” on my lips. This occurrence has been going on for at least the last fifty years. I’ve experienced joys and sorrows like most humans I know. With all of these experiences, there have been lessons taught and learned; sometimes repeated. Yes, I have found it is possible to learn from sorrows, as well as joys. I have come to believe that such learning is why I am living my life here on planet Earth. Here and now is where the potential to gain greater understanding is rife in every human experience we have. Understanding of our experiences helps us to expand our consciousness of what it means to be a human being, and apply that understanding to the choices we make using our God-given free will all along the way. When I look back, I can see choices I made at junctures along the way that brought me to where I am today. Most importantly, I am grateful for the roads I’ve chosen to travel that have made all the difference with respect to learning and growing as a member of the human species. I wish to share some of lessons I’ve learned for which I am eternally grateful. First and foremost, I have learned about the power of unconditional love. I am grateful for my parents who were role models for me, because their love was never based on conditions they could’ve, but didn’t, place on me. They practiced unconditional love all their lives. I am grateful for the tools and freedom they gave me to explore and learn. These tools were encouraging curiosity, perseverance, patience, courage, forgiveness, mercy, understanding, and love, always love, both as a noun and a verb. They instilled in me one simple rule to guide my behavioral choices toward others: “Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.” In each chapter of my life, I have used these tools and still do in my striving to grow and learn. So, I greet each morning with gratitude for their unconditional love and wisdom. My parents fell in love in the midst of WWII. I am grateful they met before Pearl Harbor, and weathered the war with their love sustaining them. How they met was a consequence of a choice that seemed ordained by fate. Here’s how that meeting happened. My mother was attending a small co-ed college in Conway, Arkansas. My father was in-between jobs. He had finished a flight training school because he dreamed of flying airplanes since he was a young boy. He and a buddy were adventuring, hitchhiking north to visit the Great Lakes because they had never seen them. Just outside Conway, Arkansas, one ride dropped them off. They discussed whether to stick their thumbs out for another ride or go into town to get something to eat. The decision was made with the toss of a coin. Heads continue to hitchhike and tails go into town. Tails it was. A local pharmacist directed them to the student union on campus because that was where young people gathered. At the student union, my handsome smiling father noticed three young women sitting at a table in the midst of a card game of bridge, which his older sister had taught him to play, so he walked up to them and asked if they needed a fourth. They said they did and asked him to join the game. He thanked them and sat down across from the woman who became my mother. He always said, he fell in love at that very moment. Mother always said it took her a little longer for her, but it happened. Then came Pearl Harbor, and my father volunteered immediately. Because he already knew how to fly planes, he became part of the Army Air Corps, which eventually became the US Air Force. In 1943, they married. The war ended. He continued to serve in the Air Force. I was born after the war ended. We moved around a bit the first seven years of my life. When I was seven, Mother and Daddy settled down in a little town north of San Francisco. They shared an abiding love of God although they did not share a similar religious background. They searched for a church among the town’s many churches that worked for them both. They settled on a little white church of no particular denomination that they found peaceful, uplifting, and provided them with new friends. That is where I went to Sunday School and later, as I grew older, I attended services after Sunday School. I loved the services because they were heavy on hymn singing and light on preaching. I loved the hymn singing most of all. To this day, I have my favorites like “There Is A Balm in Gilead,” “I’ll fly Away,” and “Amazing Grace.” Then, when I was approaching my twelfth birthday, I was suddenly presented with a conundrum. My parents told me that when I was thirteen, I would have to go through a ceremony to formally become a member of our church. I was stunned since I thought I was already a member. They patiently explained it all to me. Now, they had taught me to be as informed as I could be whenever I found myself confronted with a problem involving a choice. The first step in finding a solution was to talk to God in the language of my heart and see what answer came. So, after their explanation about the upcoming church membership question, I said, “I will talk to God about this.” They nodded. That night in my bed, before sleep, I talked to God. I asked Him what to do. I fell asleep and dreamed vividly. I was shown a path. In the dream, I saw myself visiting other churches that existed in our little town. When I awoke, the message imprinted in my mind was like a telegram from God: “Seek and ye shall find.” At breakfast, I told my parents my dream. They looked at one another and spoke in unison, “What do you want to do?” I told them, “I want to spend the whole year I’m twelve going to any church here in town as I wish, as well as any town I may visit. I want to explore and experience other churches.” I paused and continued, “I don’t know enough to make a choice. I want to seek.” My parents took this all in, looked at each other, and agreed to my proposal, as long as I went to church somewhere every Sunday and kept a notebook of my thoughts and feelings related to my experiences. I loved writing, and so that was easy for me to agree to do that.  I had one question, “Will you drive me if I need a ride?” “Of course,” Daddy said, as Mother nodded her agreement. Thus, began my year of seeking. My search was limited by the fact that in my hometown there were only various denominations of Christian churches at that time. I did not have the opportunity to explore religions other than Christianity. Nevertheless, it was amazing to me how much variety there was among those denominations. Later in my life as a young adult, I would explore more. However, that year I was twelve sanctioned by my parents’ trust in God’s message to me in my dream and their commitment to the value of exploratory gathering of data to make an informed choice, I did so seek. I realize now that seeking was key to my development in becoming the person I am today. At the end of my twelfth year, I reviewed my notebooks and realized that the little white nondenominational church of my parents suited me best at the time. My chief reason was simple and true. At the little white church, the congregation sang more during their services than any of the other churches. For me, music was a direct connection to God. Also, that church echoed and emphasized the Golden Rule imprinted on my heart of “doing unto others as I would have others do unto me.” So, I joined the church when I turned thirteen and sang with gusto. Later that year I even sang with the choir and learned Handel’s Messiah, singing the Hallelujah Chorus with all my heart and strength. I am also grateful to my parents for bringing the love of reading and telling stories into my life. As Strickland Gillilan says in his poem The Reading Mother : “You may have tangible wealth untold; Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold. Richer than I you can never be – I had a Mother who read to me.” I also had my father who enchanted and entertained me with stories of his boyhood and beyond; thus, building my love for storytelling. After I left home and began seeking beyond Christianity, I found my way through books to the teachings of Eastern spiritual traditions of Buddhism, Hinduism, and Taoism. These opened my mind and heart ever wider until one day after again talking to God seeking His guidance on learning how to meditate, I happened upon the book Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda. I read it avidly, hooked from page 1. I wrote away for the lessons and studied them. I knew I had found a guide to meditation and the most inclusive path to God I had ever encountered. I’d found what I had started seeking as a twelve- year-old. My parents respected my choice of this spiritual path completely. My father did ask one question: “Is God in your yogi book the same one I know?” “Oh yes, Daddy,” I replied continuing, “as I understand it, there is only one.” He beamed his love with a wide grin from ear to ear. Completely at ease, he never asked another question. Mother never asked a single question. As always, she trusted and supported my choice unquestioningly, unconditionally. In 2005, my parents died three weeks apart. Though I miss them still, I carry their unconditional love inside me always. That gift only fueled our love to grow stronger with the passing years, and I was given the opportunity to give unconditional love back to them freely until they both left this Earth. Mother died first and Daddy followed after her since being on Earth without her was untenable for him. I saw her a day before she died and held her hand singing her favorite hymn, “I’ll Fly Away,” to her. I was by Daddy’s side when he died. He had been dozing, and suddenly woke up looking at the blinds over his hospital window. I knew how much he always loved to fly in the clear blue sky, so I asked if he wanted to see the sky. He nodded. I raised the blinds and the brilliant blue sky greeted our eyes. I held his hand. Within an hour without any struggle, he took his last breath literally flying away. Being a loving witness to their final days was a gift. Without a doubt, the unconditional love given to me by my parents throughout our shared time on Earth is something for which I remain deeply, truly grateful.


The lights turned off, leaving the entire seventeenth floor of the office complex in darkness, except for the computers with their screensavers showing exotic locations. Swearing loudly, Maggie staggered out of her chair, it’s wheels squeaking on the scratched lino, and flicked on one of the desk lamps. It’s yellow light shone over her desk, illuminating the pile of papers she’d neatly placed after completion, and casting shadows across the surrounding cubicles. Shivering, Maggie wrapped her coat around more tightly. “Why the hell is it so cold in here?” she muttered to herself, as she gently blew on her fingertips. “ They must turn the heating off, or something.” Casually, she checked her mobile. No missed calls. No texts. Full signal. Had no one even noticed she hadn’t gone home? Maybe they were all stranded as well? Yes, that’d be the answer, she thought. She glanced at the time. Midnight. “Well, time for a snack,” she said loudly, making herself jump. Sadly, she looked around at all the empty desks. It felt weird to be the only person there. The rest of them must have made it home, she thought. Thick snow fell past the window in clumps, the glass frosted. Sighing, Maggie looked down at the street, far below. She couldn’t see any lights from the traffic. The office buildings around her were all dark. “I could be the last person alive,” she whispered to herself. A shiver travelled down her spine. The thought was too creepy. The vending machine was still fully stocked with calorie laden sweet treats. She spent some time deciding between two chocolate bars before choosing both. “How often am I stuck in a blizzard?” she said aloud, as she moved back to her desk, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, and propped both feet up on her desk. Munching on one bar, a trickle of melted chocolate running unnoticed down her chin, she didn’t notice at first, the far door click open until a beam of light shone brightly onto the nearest cubicle. “Hello?” Maggie called out, sitting up hastily and wiping her hand across her face. “Is there anybody there?” Throwing the empty wrappers into a bin, Maggie slowly walked towards the door, weaving her way between the scattered desks, as she sipped the last of her drink. “Hello?” she asked again as she reached the door. Mr Daniels. Vice President, was etched in fine writing across the front. “Mr Daniels?” Maggie whispered as she gently pushed the door open further and poked her head around. There was nobody there. The office was empty, ready for the next day’s work with a file placed in the center of the desk, the far wall lined with an old fashioned bookcase crammed with dusty books. Maggie shook her head, “I must be going mad.” Reaching out to switch off the lamp, her gaze wandered to the title sprawled across the file. Top secret. Her fingers hesitated for a second. What if some one came in and saw her? She could be fired, or killed, if it really was top secret! Don’t be stupid, she reminded herself, you’re the only one here. Quickly, she flicked it open, her eyes horrified at what she read. “Oh no, this can’t be for real,” she whispered. This is why no one is allowed in here, she thought, so no one can find out. The main lights in the offices flickered on. Maggie froze as she heard a man talking and laughing. Mr Daniels. What was he doing here? Closing the file, she looked round for a hiding spot, her empty cup left on the desk. That was the problem with a neat and tidy office, there was nowhere to hide. Mr Daniels was moving closer, his mobile clutched to his ear. Maggie could feel the sweat beading on her forehead. She raced to the book shelves. Maybe he’d believe she was just tidying? she thought. She pulled out a random book. The wall behind the shelving clicked and groaned, before part of it slid to one side revealing a wooden door. Maggie felt her lower jaw drop. “What is this place?” she whispered. Mr Daniels reached the door to his office, she could see his shadow on the floor. She had no choice. Throwing herself into the space behind the shelves, the door slammed behind her. Maggie held her breath in the darkness, her eyes scrunched tight as she imagined Mr Daniels looking around his office with his eyes narrowed into slits, and his hands on his hips. The wooden door groaned and clicked and slid to one side. Maggie blinked in the light as she stared at Mr Daniels. “Maggie?” he asked in surprise. “What are you doing in here?” “Would you believe me if I said I was tidying?” He frowned as he shook his head, “Well, I’ll admit, this could have been worse. Thought you were a spy.” He moved towards his desk, giving Maggie space to move away from behind the shelving. “You aren’t a spy, I take it?” he asked. “Me? As if!” “And what have you seen?” “Nothing.” The answer was too quick, even Maggie realized it as she said it. Mr Daniels glanced down at his desk where her cup still sat, her lipstick against the rim, next to the top secret file. ‘Really? You’ve seen nothing?” His voice was soft and quiet. Maggie felt the shiver run down her spine again. Slowly, Mr Daniels strolled around his desk and shut the door. “You know, there’s a camera in here, don’t you?” he asked, quietly. Maggie felt her stomach drop. Of course there would be a camera. “Oh alright, I had a quick look through the file,” she said, holding her hands against her thighs to stop them shaking. “And I found your secret hiding spot. But that’s it, I swear.” Mr Daniels shrugged,” It’s enough.” “What are you going to do? Fire me?” Mr Daniels shook his head. “You’re not going to kill me, are you?” Maggie whispered, nervously licking her lips. “Well actually, I was looking for an assistant,” Mr Daniels said, smiling.


When I was brought into the world, novice and all, it was assigned to me a family of five turned six when chogo (lastborn) was born five years later after I. Life was big when I was small: our small kibanda (hut) near the never not smelly river seemed a mansion. The large population from non-stop procreation in the area allowed me to have as many alter egos; not being aware of what they called such places – rookeries, even worse, jhuggi. All houses, though we rambled on and on about living in the big city, were made of matope (mud). The only exception was the church, which was made of corrugated mabati. That was enough to make the pastor toot his own horn and throw around pieces of sardonic humor every now and then. Which one would you prefer, a house of mud or one of iron sheets and God’s presence? The pews in the center column of that ‘extravagant’ house of God were the first to always get filled; especially during the summer. The ones near the ‘walls’ were never rather seldom got filled. None was ready to sacrifice themselves for the other and be burnt by the blazing mabati during the sermon, which often taught about loving others more than we. Nobody prayed for rain, not even the pigs. However, the clouds can’t hold in pee forever, they also need to ease themselves. During my entire childhood, I have had three of “This is my worst day” days and on all of them, it was raining. When it rained, the lavatories would be washed, the drainage system, if any, would overflow, the nobody washes me market would be sparkling, and all that would be pushed into the river by the rain. If you can remember, we live on the river – in the river – just centimeters away from the river. With all this chaos, my parents could still afford to entertain guests. On every New Year’s Eve, my grandmama from my dad’s side would visit. It’s not like my dad was an only child or something; she had her own schemes. Apparently, my dad and mum’s mutwaano (marriage) was not a fruitful one according to grandmama. We are four girls and no boy- child. If you know anything about archaic cultures which are still alive and kicking somewhere in the world, you would remember that boys were what we call children, the fruit of the wombs. Girls, well women, were considered as wealth… {a for apple, boy is child, girl is a joke and women are wealth} … But this is not about that. At least, she brought us sukari ngutu (jaggery) which she claimed had a lot of health benefits listing them as: improving digestion, building immunity, cleansing the body, weight loss (as she looked at me furtively and I in likewise manner) – FYI I was a very chubby toddler; and maybe help someone conceive a male child? The amounts she would make my mum eat; I pitied her. New Year’s Eve is always fun, sorely filled with glee; that's if it didn’t rain. We enjoyed mouthwatering delicacies prepared by chef mum. Afterwards we would entertain ourselves with our 2-years to live TV, and just before the countdown, we would pray for the future which is beyond each one’s ken. My sisters and I would then join the entire neighborhood in counting, “3, 2, 1… yea… yea… Happy New Year.” I would then dash outside our abode to see the sky on the other side aglow. Just next to our neighborhood, there was another neighborhood. They were different from us though all are human. Later on, my mum would accompany my grandmama to where she would go to bye-byes. She would always spend the night in our next-door neighbor’s house. Mama Awuori and her had formed a good relationship over the years. I once heard her frivolously saying to Mama Awuori, who was a single mum of one daughter and two sons, that she would like it very much if dad would take her as a second wife – “you seem to have good genes.” I always thought it weird that apart from grandmama, all the other guest we had always squeezed and fitted in our kibanda for the night. When I asked the couple concerning their guest, my mum said, “It’s a bad omen for her to sleep in her sons house.” Why exactly? She didn’t know? “It’s tradition! It has been a custom from time immemorial.” Since grandmama was the one with the most tradition, I took it upon me to ask her when she came the next year. As we were feasting during this story-filled New Year’s Eve, I placed my color-matching plastic plate, which contained a huge piece of fleshy fried fish on one side; some kales (greens are good for ya) and a gigantic slice of ugali – just in case a fish bone would decide to stick in my throat, on the ground next to where I was sitting as I prepared myself to speak. “Grandmama, why don’t you sleep in our house every time you visit us?” I asked gingerly.  “I-s i-t bec-aus-e Mama Awuori has good genes?” Her eyes dilated, her lips fell and she almost chocked on her food. “It’s tradition… didn’t I already explain this to you?” Mum said. “No!” back at her “Our house is too small for her and she doesn’t like mum”, my sister born just 5-years before me conspiratorially whispered in my right ear, generously smearing fishy oil on me. “Long ago when I was slightly older than you, the teachers of the law of the community taught us this. They did not give us any reasons for it. We were just expected to follow or face the music from the gods. No one cracks jokes with the gods.” Dad finished as he shuddered. “But the gods are dead and know we believe in God alone; we are taught that in Sabbath school. Why do we still follow this immemorial customs?” ……….. (Silence) ………. (Silence)……. “Nyara, chiko it (My child, get ready to listen)”, she said, bobbing her hand every now and then to ease her itchy scalp. She went on to confirm that what my parents had said was correct; it was tradition. She explained that before God, was the gods, who ruled the land with an iron fist. The gods imposed heavy taxes and created a lot of rules. “We are lucky God has only 10,” she paused, strenuous swallowing the pool of saliva that had collected in her mouth. She explained that, to enable a married couple enjoy their marriage – especially at night, and procreate without any disturbance, they had to sleep in a different house from their parents. If both the couple and the parents rejected this rule: the gods would not bless the marriage and the parent(s) might die, depending on the moods of the gods that day. “The gods, as your father said, are not people; no one could crack a joke with them, not even the priests they appointed forcefully. We are glad God overthrew them.  But the fear they instilled is still present.”


#What’s New This Week I have made significant changes to the ranking system, which will go into effect this week. See below for an exact breakdown.   *** #Welcome to the Micro Monday Challenge! Hello writers! Welcome to Micro Monday! I am excited to present you all with a chance to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic? I’m glad you asked! Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! Each week, I’ll give you a single constraint or jumping-off point to get your minds working. It might be an image, a theme word, a sentence, or a simple writing prompt. You’re free to interpret the prompt how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.** Remember, feedback matters! And don’t forget to upvote your favorites and nominate them via message here on reddit or a DM on discord!   *** #This week’s challenge: **Theme: Reflection** **“Life is only a reflection of what we allow ourselves to see.” -Trudy Vesotsky** *Bonus constraint (worth extra pts.): A discovery is made.* This week’s challenge is to use the theme of ‘reflection’ in your story. It should appear in some way within the story. You can use the quote as additional inspiration. You may include the theme words if you wish, but it is not necessary. The bonus constraint is not required. You may interpret the theme any way you like, as long as the connection is clear and you follow all sub and post rules.   *** #How It Works: - **Submit one story between 100-300 words** in the comments below, by the following Sunday at midnight, EST. No poetry. One story per author. - **Use to check your word count.** The title is not counted in your final word count. Stories under 100 words or over 300 will be disqualified from campfire readings and rankings. - **No pre-written content allowed.** Submitted stories should be written for this post exclusively. - **Come back throughout the week, upvote your favorites and leave them a comment with some actionable feedback.** Do not downvote other stories on the thread. Vote manipulation is against Reddit rules and you will be reported. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Please be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here, as we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. - **Send your nominations for favorites each week to me, via DM, on Reddit or Discord by Monday at 2pm EST. - If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail. *Top-level comments are reserved for story submissions.* - And most of all, be creative and have fun!   *** #Campfire and Nominations - On Mondays at 12pm EST, I hold a Campfire on the discord server. We read all the stories from that week’s thread and provide verbal feedback for those authors that are present. Come join us to read your own story and listen to the others! You can come to just listen, if that’s more your speed. You don’t even have to write to join in. Don’t worry about being late, just join! Everyone is welcome. - You can nominate your favorite stories each week, by sending me a message on reddit or discord. You have until 2pm EST on Monday (or about an hour after Campfire is over). You do *not* have to write or attend Campfire to submit nominations!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied I have made some significant changes in the ranking system. We’ll see how this works over the next few weeks and make changes where necessary. Here is a current breakdown: - **Use of Constraint:** 5 points - **Upvotes:** 5 points each - ***Actionable* Feedback** 5 points each (up to 25 pts.) - **User nominations:** 10 points each (no cap) - **Bay’s nomination:** 30 pts for first, 20 pts for second, and 10 pts for third - **Bonus:** Up to 5 pts. (This applies to things like bonus constraints, making user nominations, etc.)   *** #Rankings: This Past Week - - Submitted by u/katherine_c   - - Submitted by u/jimiflan   - - Submitted by u/stickfist   - - Submitted by u/katpoker666   *** ###Subreddit News - Try your hand at serial writing with - Have you ever wanted to write a story with another writer? Check out our brand new weekly feature on r/WritingPrompts - You can now post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.


J walked west. J loved his mother and respected his father. Everything he did, he did for the love of his mother. He learned many languages, his mother spoke many. He smoked the occasional tobacco leaf because he believed it delivered him a small sense of peace. His mother smoked. J came from a small town in a country riddled with crime and struggles of power, but that never affected his lifestyle. He grew up powerful. An excellent student with ultimate focus. He learned languages and skills growing up. Traveled to distant lands to learn about their cultures. He was on a quest west. His quest was in search for the truth. Not a truth about a crime, or a truth about anything in particular but rather, the only truth. He wished to find the truth of man. His quest was to give him answers to the unanswerable. Death. J knew his mother would not be with him his whole life and that is the only pain that he bore. He was not entertained by small temptations such as money or women. He traveled the world ate delicacies from different cultures, scaled mountains and floated rivers, learned different styles of combat and mastered foreign music. Though he was never satisfied. He didn’t value the material, he rarely even valued experience. He valued the truth. He clawed at every chance to find the most obscure of religions to find what is the purpose in hopes to tie it all together. He searched for prophets and scholars to find the purpose, but he never could find it. No matter who he talked to, he saw only the things he wanted to see. His mother. The farther west he went the less he could feel his mother’s love. He meditated and saw nothing but her and when he opened his eyes his pain came back. It was not a gruesome pain, fore no one else would ever notice it. But a pain that ate away at his soul as every second passed by that he was not with her. He knew his mother’s demise would come but he also knew she did not want him home. She wanted more for her boy, but that boy would never let go of the thought of her. Because he couldn’t have her the chase continued. He traveled more and more west circumnavigating the globe impressing beautiful women of all nations with his intelligence and poise. He traveled to another land and as his quest continued, he heard of a book. A book written by a blind man in a language only the blind man knew. This gave J an idea. He believed that because the blind man has never seen the world for as it really is, he must be seeing the truth of humanity. The blind man’s book was now the chase. J scoured even farther to find the blind man’s book, one not influenced by temptation. A book written about what the mind sees when no thoughts of women, money, greed, pain, and lust are there. J believed this book may find these seeds to his happiness, that is of course after his mother. J followed prophets and poets, philosophers and scientist to find something that didn’t exist. While this chase was occurring he received a letter from his father. His mother has gotten terribly ill and he needs to return to his home country as soon as possible. He traveled home. After only a few days J had traveled across nations to see his mother again. He saw her laying in bed with his father and family around her and he immediately shed tears. He felt powerless. He told his mother he came as soon as he could. His mother responded telling him that it is going to be ok. She tells him one last time she loves him. He watches her take her last breath. J watches as her eyes roll back as his body quivers and tears stream down his face while he stares at her. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Everything he has ever loved and lived for had disappeared. His father grabs his shoulder but he is quick to brush it off. He doesn’t want comfort from others. He doesn’t want a father. He wants his mom. J walks outside as his tears have stopped and stands on the front steps of his family’s home. He stares out at the country, but to him he sees nothing. Nothings has value to him anymore. The land that once fed him is now just space that take up his vision where his mother should be. The mountains disgust him as he wishes they could be his mother’s smile. He stops shaking. J gets an idea. His mother is now gone and he has lost the will for life. He tries to think of something that made him feel that life is worth living and he reminds himself of the book. The book written by the blind man in a language he can only understand. But J knows that book does not exist. He has seen every country and talked to every prophet and preacher. The book has never existed. If a blind man wrote it in a language that only he can understand, he has been searching for something that will give him no answers. He must write it. He realizes his mother’s death does not stop him from finding that truth. He can have it. He can write the book. His only plight is now sight. His realization and thirst for a purpose has now left him in a cold sweat. He shivers on the front steps. His father exits the building to see his son and ask him if he is ok. His son runs to the nearest town. J runs to the library sweating and inspired. He grabs empty pages and a pencil. The librarian asks what he is doing but he doesn’t respond. He climbs to the roof of the building with two pages and a pencil. Enough for him to paint what is in his mind. He looks at the paper and pencil and hesitates but thinks of his mom and realizes what he has to do. He picks up the pencil and stabs his own eye. He pulls out the pencil with it comes blood and puss from his left eye, he screams in pain. The librarian has notified the town and his father. But it is too late. He stands on top of the building by himself and gouges out his other eye. Hindering himself from any perceptions of the world. Temptation he sees it as. As blood drips from both sockets he then picks up the pencil. He begins writing on the pages. He doesn’t know what he is writing but he loves it. He smiles as he cries blood. He finishes his book. He realizes he has drawn and written all he knows as a blind man. He cries out in joy. His masterpiece is finished. He runs his hands across it to see what he has written but he realizes he cannot understand it. It is written in a language he cannot read without vision. He realizes what he has done. He has created what he had searched for because it is what he cannot have. His tears of blood have stopped. He stands there motionless, as if he was frozen in time. His want to see it is more painful than the lead that filled his eyes. It is more painful than watching his mother pass. The pain he feels is beyond comprehension. He jumps. Hours later his body is found with two destroyed eyes. The townspeople cry for him and still see him as the young boy who his mother saw him as. Later in the day city officials climbed to the roof to investigate and there they found something that was so terrible and beautiful at the same time. On the pages was the most real drawing they have ever seen. It was his mother. Not just a picture or sketch. But in detail. Every scar and wrinkle, every tooth and strand of hair all crafted by her blind son. Signed by him with tears of blood.


Henry Carson was the best of the best. Everybody knew it. When the private dick was on your case, you would be caught and wind up in a cell or a body bag. The legends honestly turned his stomach a little bit. Truth was he had failed to apprehend plenty of crooks in his time. But people are only too happy to remember the successes and write off the failures if you've got the mantle of a hero. The shimmering light reflected off your crown blinds people to your failures. And its beam is one hell of a bar to live up to. Eventually, the drive to attain that level of legendary perfection leads men down dark paths. It was no different for Henry Carson. No different at all. It was mid-October in a dive bar on the edge of town. The brick building was mostly boarded up, but the ground level was one of the seedier joints a person could find themselves. The hole in the wall was called The Viper's Pit, and while it usually boasted a raucous crowd of ruffians, it was strangely calm that night. The bartender, Mr. Morgan, was an elderly fellow who had run it into the ground over the last ten years. He had to sell his house to keep the place afloat, and so he lived in a single room just above the pub. It was a rough life that gave the old cuss a bad attitude and very little patience for unwarranted social interaction. The codger slung drinks and occasionally gave bitter life advice to the younger patrons. Henry was not young enough to merit the fruits of his wisdom, nor wealthy enough to deserve transactional kindness. The detective slunk into the pit, trenchcoat soaking wet from the deluge outside. Taking a seat at the bar, he slapped a dollar onto the counter and demanded a shot of whiskey. “Rough night?” Mr. Morgan asked, with all the gentle delicacy of sandpaper. “Getting rougher,” Henry barked back. “A double. The buck should cover it.” The bartender reached for one of the bottles on his back wall, but Henry tapped him delicately on the shoulder. “I wonder if you would humor me and use this one right here,” Henry explained, tapping his finger on a thin brown bottle on the other side of the bar from him. Mr. Morgan sighed. “Customer's always right.” He poured the brown liquor and watched as Henry swallowed it in one stoic gulp. It barely crossed his eyes, which were bloodshot and cradled in deep dark bags. Something was unnerving about the flatfoot. His reputation preceded him and he didn't go anywhere without a purpose. The man was always on the hunt. “Anything else I can get you?” Mr. Morgan tapped the counter impatiently. “I'm meeting three men here tonight,” Henry began, his voice cracked and rough. “One of them is a murderer. You're going to help me figure out who it is.” The bartender took a moment to process what Henry had just said. Not another soul was in the house tonight, and the splintered wooden tables sat unoccupied. The lights were dim, the flickering neon was the only sound as even the jukebox no longer worked in this place. And apparently, it was now going to play host to this man's private courtroom. “What the hell gives you the right?” Mr. Morgan protested. “You think I want some hoodlum in here wrecking up my pub?” “You'll be compensated. I needed an out-of-the-way location, and this worked well enough,” Henry explained. “All you have to do is serve them all a drink.” “I don't understand-” “You do your job and I'll do mine. There's $500 in it for you if I catch my man, so just play your part,” Henry ordered. Before Mr. Morgan could say anything else, the door creaked open, giving a brief glimpse of the torrential downpour outside. The man entering was some sort of construction worker, dressed in navy overalls, and holding his hard hat under his left arm. The rain had soaked his thin layer of dark brown hair, which was nearly the same shade as the dirt that covered his face. “Andrew Kelstrom?” Henry inquired, wheeling around on his stool to greet the newcomer. “Yeah,” Andrew replied curtly. His words were coated in a thick New Englander accent. “You must be that dick that everybody talks about.” “People have a lot of names for me,” Henry shrugged. “Have a drink on me. Try the whiskey.” Mr. Morgan, despite wanting nothing to do with this shady ordeal, poured a double shot courtesy of Henry's liberal coinage. Four quarters hit the countertop, and Mr. Morgan poured diligently. As Andrew swallowed his courtesy drink, the door opened once more. The second guest was a fish out of water. The jacket of his suit alone must have been worth a month's rent. The tan ensemble was highlighted with a gaudy yellow tie. Mr. Morgan would have guessed car salesman at first glance, but as soon as he opened his mouth it became apparent the boy had not a whit of a charisma. “Uh... excuse me, I think, er,” the young man stumbled over his words, running his hand through his blonde hair. “Is this the place to meet a Mr. Henry Carson?” “Right on time, James Bartley,” Henry replied, gesturing towards an empty seat next to Andrew. “Though I gather from your line of work punctuality is a chief virtue.” “Um, yes, I s-suppose so,” James stuttered. “I, um, hope I c-can help.” “This kid even old enough to drink?” Andrew scoffed. “Barely,” Henry said while sliding a few more quarters in the direction of Mr. Morgan. “Double-shot of whiskey, on me.” “Oh, I uh, I'm not much of a d-drinker,” James stammered, raising his hand as though he were in school. “You are tonight,” Henry said with unyielding finality. “You need some hair on that chest anyway.” The youth had no will to fight any further. He gave a tentative sip and pulled a face, turning towards Henry for any sign of acquiescence. There was none, and with effort, James finished the drink. “Kids a little green in the gills,” Mr. Morgan said. “You need some water, son?” “He can't have any. Not yet,” Henry interrupted. “Oh, be reasonable now. What's the harm in giving the boy a little chaser?” Mr. Morgan argued. “It will all make sense in a moment. Now, Mr. Morgan, I need you to drink a double of your own,” Henry ordered. “Excuse me? I don't drink on the job, pal,” Mr. Morgan bristled slightly and he defiantly placed the stopper back in the bottle. “I don't think you understand what is happening here,” Henry said, his bloodshot eyes piercing through Mr. Morgan's soul. “I told you I was meeting three men here. Can you count?” Once again, Mr. Morgan was dumbstruck. After a second he took Henry's meaning. “Oh, I'm the third suspect in this little freakshow of yours?” Mr. Morgan grunted. “I'm calling the real cops, buddy.” Mr. Morgan slowly moved over to the hanging rotary phone on his back wall. Before he was able to lift the receiver, a shot rang out, and a bullet shattered the base. The rotary fell to pieces and Mr. Morgan stumbled back against the wall, knocking a few glasses off the shelves behind him. In Henry's hand was a smoking .38 revolver, but the man himself showed no emotion whatsoever. This was the same reality he had been living in all night. But now it was revealed to the three of them in extravagant fashion. “Now, Mr. Morgan. Your shot, please,” Henry ordered, every syllable cold and deliberate. Mr. Morgan turned to the shelf to grab a nearby bottle, his hands shaking uncontrollably. The bartender was too old for all this excitement. Too old, his heart too frail. “Use the same bottle as these two,” Henry explained. “There's a method to my madness, and still $500 in it for you if things go well. Minus the cost of repairing that phone, mind you.” Mr. Morgan nearly dropped the bottle in his haste to comply. Andrew and James, for their part, had moved against the back wall in a vain effort to put as much distance between them and the raving lunatic as possible. “Hey, mac,” Andrew began. “Look I got a family at home, don't do nothing stupid now, you hear?” James was hyperventilating and quite unable to form a complete sentence. “Only one of you is going to die tonight. As I told our kind host, Mr. Morgan, I'm looking for a murderer, and I have narrowed the search to one of you three,” Henry explained. “Mr. Morgan, that shot, please.” Mr. Morgan had been fumbling with the stopper, but finally managed to pry it out of the bottle. He poured himself a double and downed it without further fuss. “There we are. And I've had my shot before you two arrived. Isn't that right Mr. Morgan?” Henry asked. The bartender's hands were white-knuckled, and the alcohol sat hard on his stomach. It looked like he wanted to vomit, but was afraid of doing anything to agitate the detective further. “I said, isn't that right, Mr. Morgan?” Henry demanded. “Yes, that's right sir,” Mr. Morgan spat out. “Double of whiskey, just like all of us.” “Thank you,” Henry nodded. “So as you can see we are all in the same boat.” Henry reached into an inner pocket of his trenchcoat and produced a small photograph of a young woman. She wasn't much older than James and were the image in color her striking blonde hair would have been more apparent. “Sarah Wilkins. Pretty young thing. Just turned twenty last August. Pity that we found her body halfway up the canal,” Henry explained, waving the photograph around. “Now our medical examiner ruled the cause of death as drowning. That's modern medicine for you. But I've been operating under a different theory.” Henry reached into the same pocket, this time revealing a few crumpled papers of an official-looking nature. “I've taken a few statements from her friends and family. And it turns out she wasn't much of an angel. Hung out with some bad people. Doesn't mean she deserved to die for it though,” Henry continued. He then pointed an accusatory finger at each of the men in sequence. “James, you should recognize this girl well. Considering you used to date her before she dumped your ass back at the start of the Fall Semester. Young man can take rejection real hard, especially if it's his first.” “Now wait just a minute!” James protested. Henry lifted a hand to silence him and then turned it towards the next suspect. “Then again, Andrew, I think you also recognize her as well. You're best friends with her father after all. I wonder if James knows about how intimately you got to know her following their breakup.” “You don't know what you're talking about,” Andrew growled. “Don't listen to him, kid, he's a crackpot.” James' fists were clenched in anguish, but he was far too timid to do anything about it. He would certainly not stand up to a man twice his age and size, and far less so anybody with a gun. Henry just let the two of them stew for a moment, while he continued his argumentation. “And you, Mr. Morgan. Well, you should know her too, considering she came in here every night to drink. Of course, you knew she was underage, but you've been pretty hard up on cash and weren't about to turn away a paying customer. In fact, you've seen her in here with both of these men and never said a peep about it to anybody.” “You gonna take my liquor license then?” Mr. Morgan grunted. “I didn't kill anybody, now are you planning on making an arrest or are we continuing this stupid game of yours?” “Did I not tell you that you would be instrumental in helping me determine the identity of the killer?” Henry asked pointedly. “You see it all comes down to the whiskey.” Henry reached into his coat pocket a final time to produce a different report from a medical examiner, or rather a copy of one that had been neatly folded into a square. Along with it was a small vial of clear liquid. He unfolded the report and began to elaborate. “I'm not going to try and pronounce the name of the actual drug, I failed Latin in high school, but in a word, she was poisoned. The drug is interesting, it's basically harmless by itself, but when combined with ethanol it's pretty potent stuff. Which immediately led me to assume she was poisoned by a drink,” Henry pointed to the bottle once more. “Wait, you mean-” Mr. Morgan put a hand to his lips, and felt a knot tighten in his stomach. “I didn't get there all at once mind you,” Henry continued. “First I had to track down what bar she frequented – your little establishment – and then I had to deduce her favorite drink. After a rather long series of interrogations I found that she drank whiskey sour like her old man and that she was seen here with – depending upon the informant – either a young college boy or a man old enough to be her father.” James was now taking deep gasping breathes and buckled over in his chair in pain. Andrew was stoic but gave a concerned glance to the kid. Mr. Morgan reached over the bar to try and comfort the boy. “You have to stop this now,” he said, firmly. “The kid's nerves are gonna kill him before your gun does.” “Oh, that's not nerves,” Henry explained. “That's the poison. You see, earlier tonight when you turned your back on me, I slipped a bit of the stuff in the bottle. And that's what this little game is all about. You see that vial contains the antidote, and I'll gladly administer it to us all once I get a confession from one of you. Either the murderer goes to jail, or we all die here together.” “You're crazy,” Andrew spat, standing up to his full height. “Give me that vial or I'll take it from you!” “You forgot who has the gun in this situation,” Henry reminded tactfully. “P-please,” James sputtered. “I don't w-wanna-” “What if you're mistaken and ain't none of us done anything wrong? We all gonna die because you decided to play a game with our lives?” Andrew shouted. “Death or prison, the choice is obvious and the killer will make it,” Henry insisted, raising his revolver. “Think about it. Even the most deranged madman has a survival instinct and this killer is no lunatic. He was thoughtful, decisive and he planned out every stage of the murder of this innocent young woman. Poison that could be mixed into her favorite drink, and one so subtle that it was almost missed by the medical examiner. Or rather was until I pressed the point and made him look again. The killer planned everything to a tee, they have no deathwish.” “I'm sick of listening to you blabber!” Andrew shouted, making a lunge for the pistol. A reflexive shot rang out from Henry's gun, but the bullet ricocheted off the back wall missing all of them. Andrew's meaty fist made contact with Henry's right cheek as the two grappled over the firearm. Three more shots shattered the glasses on the countertop, but the last bullet in the revolver went through Andrew's shoulder, knocking him to the floor. Henry lay near motionless for his battering, face covered in blood and head swimming from the assault. James was on the floor, crying and close to vomiting from the ordeal. As for Mr. Morgan, he stood behind the bar, casually turning the vial around in his hand. “What are you doing?” Henry asked weakly, attempting to get to his feet. “This is the antidote, you said?” Mr. Morgan asked. He casually removed the stopper and knocked it back like a shot. “No!” Andrew bellowed, before coughing out a bit of blood. “Why?” Henry asked, running a hand along his face to mop away sweat. “Why did you do it?” “There wasn't really a reason, I guess,” Mr. Morgan said, flatly. “I don't plan these things, as you claimed. I just find something that I want, and I take it. I never dreamed you would hand me an opportunity like this to watch two of the people she cared about die as well.” “No reason? There's always a reason. It always makes sense somehow,” Henry grunted. “Call it hunter's instinct if you want to attribute some reason to it. I'm not young enough to kill in my preferred methods, but slipping a little poison to an unsuspecting bit of prey and watching them writhe in agony before the life finally fades out of their eyes,” Mr. Morgan let out a dreamy sigh. “There's nothing in the whole world like it. And now I'll get to watch you die as well.” Henry slowly stood to his feet and began to chuckle darkly. “You're right. I was wrong. I didn't understand a damn thing about you.” “You were very close to solving it if it's any consolation,” Mr. Morgan smirked. “Want a last drink? There's still a bit of whiskey left in the bottle. It might speed things up a little. Save you some of the agony?” James lay motionless on the floor, but he was still breathing. Andrew could not move and was nursing his gunshot wound while trying to drag himself towards the door. “I don't think that will really help any,” Henry exhaled, sitting down on the stool just across from Mr. Morgan. “No, I suppose not,” Mr. Morgan nodded. “Oh not for the reason you think,” Henry explained. “You see, I made a promise that only one person was going to die tonight, and I keep my promises. You're right that I was making some bad guesses. In fact, my initial plan was a crapshoot. My Plan A's always needed a little bit of work. But my contingencies are rock-solid.” “What the devil are you talking about?” Mr. Morgan asked with an amused smile. “Getting us all to drink put us all in the same boat and it was my hope that little mind game would coerce a confession out of somebody. If that didn't work, I could count on the madman doing anything to keep themselves 'alive'. So you see the whiskey served two purposes,” Henry explained. James slowly began to stir. Andrew had made it to his feet and stumbled out the door towards the street, immediately screaming for aid. The three men who had entered Mr. Morgan's bar were very inconveniently alive. “The poison wasn't in the whiskey, you fool. It was in that vial.


The drain had been blocked for two hours, but after the third she’d managed to clear it. She fell back, stood up over the basin and waited. It had congealed but finally it caught suction, slurping away. The cleaning fluid she’d used tempted her sinuses, but her eyes were already starting to dry. When she was sure it was all gone, she stripped and stood under a warm stream. In the shower, the residue was scrubbed off of her body. It clung to the creases in her hands and the beds of her nails, but it came away. Exiting the bathroom, she bagged the soiled garments in preparation for later disposal, slammed the door on the stench and escaped into the bedroom. She dried off and then doused the air with new spicy smells. The lit candles emptied her mind, and the lotion soothed her muscles and she lingered just for a moment longer to enjoy the air and relish in her accomplishment. When she opened her eyes again, she shifted her focus and recalled the task that laid ahead of her; the task of tonight. Then turning, she snuffled out each flame with her fingers. She was ready. With a newfound energy, she pranced about, pushing furniture against one side of the wall. And then at the other, she zipped up and slipped off dresses to a playlist of drums. Footwear, however, was a problem; it was always a problem. She considered going barefoot. But then she remembered that the downstairs floor in this new place was laminate. Slippery. Shoes; she decided. The jewellery box was then ransacked. She untangled her infamous pair of gold infinities and fed them through her earlobes. Her signature look. When she was done shoving the furniture back in place having worked up a tear of perspiration, she headed to the lower floor. The air con, in no time, cooled her damp forehead. She watched MasterChef whilst reaching for cupboards and selecting equipment. But food of that magnitude, of that calibre terrified her. She skidded around the kitchen islands; her feet clattered in the heels that had won the toss. A deer on ice. But it was getting late now, it was almost time. The smoke alarm was set off by burning. A dishcloth was found, balled up and flung. And when it was silent again, she went to collect the wine. The glasses were set down with a bit too much pressure. The red was poured and the leftovers; necked. The splashes of red on the pale counter triggered the thought that perhaps a darker dress would have been better for tonight. But it was almost time. She stood back and panned the scene. The kitchen had become hers, her creation. And she decided; it was good. Her iPhone pinged. The phone was grabbed, unlocked, and read. 15 minutes. The lasagne started to puff in the hot oven. It rose, then fell and the cheese bubbled, erupting molten gold all over the Pyrex. The steam from the oven almost blinded her. She cursed the mist, sucking scolded skin. Then the lettuce was shredded, and the carrots grated. She pushed the wine glasses in closer. Dinner was for two. Everything was in place. For the task ahead. At the mirror above the mantlepiece, she twisted her hair into a chignon. Her faithful infinities glittered back at her reflection. And as she was mouthing her mantras, the bell was pressed. He was young. Younger than hoped, younger than expected. He stared at her for too long when she received the bouquet. He stared at her back, her hair, her hands when she cut the stems. Snap. Snap. He complimented her earrings. The knot was unusual. He asked what it meant. She shrugged knowingly; the loops jostled on her collarbone. He took a sip from his glass sitting at the island. The wine is good; he held it up swirling the liquid inside. He waited for her response, but she had become engaged. He stood up. She stopped sawing. A strand of hair fell loose beside her infinity. She asked if he wanted another glass. He told her no. The knife was placed back on the board. He slid beside her and reminded her they had not yet exchanged names. Whatever she told him now wouldn’t matter later anyway. And when she gave him what he wanted, she looked at him for the first time. His face was one that she could study and still not know what he looked like a moment later. He was pleased with her name; his shoulders slacked, relaxed. He sat back down. The wine flowed. And then the room started to swell with his voice and his laughter. The knife felt weighty. Her fingers curled tighter around it. He asked if she'd heard his joke. But she hadn’t. When the lasagne arrived, he lunged at it like a famished dog. She watched his head of thick wavy hair duck and dive, the cutlery chimed as he ate. And she just sauntered around him, a smile fixed on her painted lips. But then he swallowed and cleared his throat; So…. She was asked what she did for a living. The question caught her off guard and she froze, poised above him. And then she remembered why she didn’t usually agree to the young ones. They asked too many questions. He wasn’t pleased this time. But then he was immediately grinning at the sight of dessert. He mentioned that apple pie, one mouthful, was his favourite, another mouthful. I know; she said simply. She had made it her job to know. He glanced up at her, surprised. She speaks; he laughed incredulously; what happened to your playing hard to get game? The game’s changed. Ooo; his tone was mocking, She thought about it. When he lifted the next spoonful, she would do it. Quick. But he was unpredictable; he was not like the others. The plate had already been licked clean. Dinner was good; he complimented with a burp. And then he asked where the toilet was. Her face shot up over the countertop. She had been loading the dishwasher, fingers selecting her tool. A stool was pushed back, and she saw his brown loafers fly past the island. She grabbed the one she had just cleaned and stalked after him. He was asked where he was going. Don’t worry, I won’t look around; he assured her. The corridor was long and dark, but he managed to find the WC. She slowed behind him to keep her balance. Her heel click was hollow, the floor here was much smoother than the kitchen. The WC was the size of a shoe cupboard. He turned around and, seeing her watching, he laughed. Are you coming in with me? She refused politely and waited until she heard the lock slide. And then she aligned herself flat against the wall and flexed her fingers. Sliding it out from behind her, she raised her clasped hand above her ear, twisting her chin towards the door. He had played right into her hands. Another lamb. Another slaughter. It was a smaller space, but she was going to work with it. It would be swift and she hoped cleaner. Three hours; the last one had set a new record. The lavatory chain was pulled. Then the tap started to gush. But there was a thinner noise coming from inside. He was whistling. It was getting late now. But she had learned not to look at the clock. The whistling was increasing; the tap was whining. Her raised arm started to quiver; it had remembered this position. From thousands of times before. But this time, it didn’t want to remember. Not again. But, yes again! Again, and again. Nothing and no one could stop it, the endless loop. But she was getting older. And slower. She was getting careless. Suddenly, the lock. She straightened up, cracked her neck. Then the adrenaline was pouring through her, the shine of the metal just outside of her blind spot. The tip was an arrow; a directive, Strike there, and there, and… The door shifted and she revolved. The arrow launched but got caught. And the thwack of her head cut the life from her pained scream. The knife was flipped across the floor in a cartwheel of steel, gold filigree and red. And he was emerging from the bathroom, shaking. He had been armed with ammonia but hadn’t needed it. She’d done it to herself. But he stood over the splatter and waited. And then when he was sure she was gone, he stumbled away without looking back. He spied the knife she’d tried to stab him with ahead and avoided it, but his shoe crunched on something else. It was only when he stopped to catch his breath outside under a streetlight, he saw it pierced to his sole. It had been a delicate thing. It had been twisted. Like the number eight. But now it was broken, a bloodied ensemble. He recognised it was hers but did not recognise what it had and now symbolised. His escape was a privilege. Her life had ended. And the loop had been broken. He resolved, as he hurried away, to take up online dating instead. “Entering her house leads to death… The man who visits her is doomed…” -Proverbs 2:18-19-


THE OLD MAN AND THE CHALET [Note: Two sounds predominate in this story: the crackling of the fire inside the house and the howling of the wind outside the house. They also predominated during the writing of the story: the fire at Relaxing Fireplace Sounds - Burning Fireplace & Crackling Fire Sounds (NO MUSIC) - Bing video ; and the wind at Whining Wind Sound Effects | Soundsnap . The reader might find the reading of the story enhanced by doing the same.] The chalet stood in a small clearing, dwarfed by tall pines. It was an A-frame, so that the snow, instead of piling up on the roof, slid down its steep sides and gathered on top of the flakes already packed on each other, rising ever higher from the ground.

From his shabby armchair in front of the crackling fire in the hearth, the old man could see the relentless snowflakes driven before the howling wind as they landed on their cousins already lying against the windows. He feared that at any moment they could burst through the flimsy panes, drip through the weathered holes or even burst the rickety frames.   The eaves were not wide enough to prevent the blizzard from blowing the snow in under them, but at least those flakes with their noses pressed against the glass were not as elevated as those on the open ground beyond, ground buried in metre-high days of snowfall. The grizzly fellow stared into the warmth of the fire, raised his eyes to see the cold outside, then stared back into the fire again. The flames snarled in the large, open hearth. The menacing whine of the blizzard swirled around the angles of the house and moaned past the gaps in the building like an evil flautist playing discords. The warmth in the interior and the freeze outside matched the awareness in the brain that lay behind the straggly eyebrows and the crumpled cheeks. The inner self of the man dwelt in a fragile security. There was peace of a kind, but there was also the threat of that peace being invaded or disturbed. Outside him, at least outside his house, the cold ruled and danger threatened. Hostile forces mocked him. He sensed himself as besieged. Even though it was relatively warm inside the house, the old man was wearing his customary layers of indoor clothing to prevent his body heat from draining away. His arm and leg hairs were no longer as numerous as they once were, and their supporting muscles could not raise those hairs as effectively, to trap the air next to his skin and lower his outflow of warmth. The blood coursing through his capillaries did not react as efficiently as it used to, in reducing the loss of heat through his skin.

Under his trousers, he wore a pair of full length, thermal leggings and thick warm socks. Even his pants had a thermal lining. On his torso, he had donned first a sleeveless vest, then a long-sleeved one. Two woollen jerseys over his thick shirt and a black knitted band of wool he used in his cycling days around his neck, completed his protection. Outside, the wind continued to whirl around the dwelling demanding entry, every now and again increasing in intensity, increasingly grumpy at having that demand refused. It could easily have been a giant cat yowling at the moon. The loose window at the top of the landing added its tac-a-tac every now and again when the air current came at it from a particular angle, adding a sinister, decadent air to the texture of sound at his ears. He rose from his armchair and went over to the hob in the kitchen. Filling the kettle with water from the sink, he lit the gas and waited for it to boil. The light was fading and the snow on the far mountains through the back window of his modest abode glowed pink from the reflected sky. As he picked up the kettle to pour the steaming water on to the teabag in his mug, a shadow passed the kitchen window so fleetingly that he could not even make out its shape.

The instant alarm he felt, the fight-or-flight reaction in his gut, rooted him at the gas flame for a moment before he expunged it. As he turned to go back to his seat at the fire, the sensation gradually subsided, although it still disturbed him, even after he had finished his tea. What could the shape have been? A tree branch perhaps, torn off by the wind and blown along? A wolf, maybe even a grizzly, chasing through the clearing between the window and the silent army of swaying pines? Some metaphysical ectoplasm? Or was he imagining things, with his neurons becoming sluggish and his memory defective? He stared again into the fire.  Not at it, but into it. It sounded like eggs frying in a pan. There was also an underlying exhaling of breath as air rushed up the flue, an understated whoosh, but then whether the flames brought it about as they danced upwards or the agonised air outside was making the moan, he could not tell. He studied the fire more closely, taking note of what he could see. He noticed the layers, the hierarchy of hearth-fire society: the black burnt-out ash underneath that would be grey in the light of morning; the red glowing coals in the middle, abandoned by the flames but still basking in the afterglow of their magic spell; the logs lying on top in various stages of combustion as the flames gyrated over them. The heat formed patterns of grey squares and rectangles and irregular shapes, with black lines between them, as the logs grumbled under the red and orange spirits prancing over them, devouring without ever touching. The window on the landing rattled more insistently than before. Was something trying to get in? The stooped figure grunted, rose from his armchair stained by hands resting on its arms for longer than he could remember, shuffled across the floor to the base of the stairs and began to ascend one laborious step at a time. Reaching for breath, he paused briefly to allow his heartbeat to steady. Arriving at the landing, he noticed that the window was slightly unlatched. There was also a distinct scratch on the green outer paintwork that he had not noticed before. Quite a conspicuous scratch. Strange that it had not attracted his attention on his nightly pilgrimage to bed. Frowning, he re-latched the errant window as firmly as he was able. He stood for a while, staring at the scratch, not knowing quite what to make of it, not knowing what to do. One thing he knew, though: he did not like the look of it. It was menacing, like the sound of the wind outside. He did not like all this menace. He had come to this place to avoid menace. He had come here so many years ago to find peace. It seemed as if menace might finally have found him out, learnt where he was, and come to haunt his last living moments. Then, of course, they could all just be illusions, the shape at the kitchen window, the rattle and the scratch here on the landing. He was probably imagining things, a touch of delusion perhaps, the bewilderment of an old man, alone and lonely, losing touch with the world. Outside it had become completely dark. He would not have been able to see the scratch had it not been for the light on the landing. The bulb had been sizzling and flickering for some time. Soon it would cease its sizzles, and its flickering would end in darkness. He would have to wait for the summer before he could take the journey to the village and get a replacement. He had left a solitary light burning downstairs for comfort, a sentinel that would safeguard his hegemony over that part of his domain, in defiance of the total blackness surrounding it. Moving on past the landing, he completed his needs in the bathroom, shed his outer clothes, threw back the duvet, climbed in between it and the sheet underneath and drew it up to his chin. He was thankful that his leggings insulated his lower limbs from the cold of the bed. He surveyed the clutch of books stacked on the small table beside him, musing at them before selecting one.  He settled on Michelle Paver’s Dark Matter.

He hadn’t dipped into it for a while and so read the blurb to refresh his memory of the book to avoid it from being strange when he continued reading: A group set up camp in a remote bay, but as the polar winter and endless night close in around them, they realise they are not alone … As he started reading, he heard a tapping on the steeply sloping roof. It sounded like something trying to chip away at one of tiles near the top. Who could climb up there without a ladder? It could of course be that spruce tree he had planted too near the house. It needed trimming now and again to keep the branches away, to prevent them from tapping the roof as they swayed to the wind. Or was it an old man’s illusion? Something he was imagining? A figment of his fading mind? He reached out to where his shotgun leant against the wall between the bed and his little mini-library of the books he was reading. His read books graced the bookshelves in his den downstairs. He climbed out of his bed, took the weapon and made to go and investigate. Hardly had he taken a step, when the tapping stopped, almost as if whatever was causing it had seen him coming. He stood where he was for some minutes, his head cocked to listen for the sound above the roar of the wind. There was nothing. He turned back to the bed, slowly leaning the gun against the wall next to him before clambering back under the duvet. He began to read, although what he would do if he loosed both barrels and the thing kept coming, he didn’t know.

After 20 minutes of this, during which there were no more taps that he could hear  above the wailing of the wind, he laid down the book, turned away from the lamp at his bedside, and closed his eyes. Normally he would switch the light off, but there was something about tonight that made him want to leave it on. At about ten past three, when he had wafted in and out of a fitful sleep for about five hours and could stand it no longer, he sat up with a sigh, swung his legs out of the bed, slid his feet into his slippers and trudged carefully downstairs in his dressing gown. As a precaution, he took the shotgun with him. He returned to his home-within-home, his stained old armchair, and sat down before the cooling embers of the fire, placing the shotgun across his lap. The occasional lick of flame gave life to the grate. He could still feel the caressing heat on his wrinkled hands with their knobbly knuckles. The remnants left behind after the flames’ fandango still glowed and faded intermittently in the hearth with a sound something like the slow, crumpling of paper in a fist. He closed his eyes and slouched back, allowing his mouth to fall into a gape. The grandfather clock in the corner of the room gave out a loud tick at each sideways swing of its pendulum, marking each implacable unit of time as it passed never to return. The faded factory rug, with a design copied from Isfahan, lay on the old floorboards seeming somehow incomplete without the shaggy Labrador who had lain there until a few months before. The dining room table, faithfully attended by its high-backed chairs standing to attention on either side, awaited guests that would never arrive, for a meal that would never be served.

As the fire continued to deepen into blackness, its occasional crackle fading hour by hour, the old man’s body, too, grew imperceptibly still and itself began to grow cold.

For the rest, everything was as before.


He reached into the jar of seeds, slowly moving his hand through to feel them on every part of his hand. The feeling relaxed him, as did the sound of the seeds moving around the open spaces, softly colliding with each other. When he lifted his hand out it was covered in the particles and dust residing throughout the jar. Reaching back in he stopped just short of submerging his fingertips beneath the top seeds and grabbed a pinch of the seeds, rolling them between his fingers together until there was only one left. He placed it into his coat pocket, then reached in two more times. Three seeds today. It had been over a month since he needed more than one. He grabbed his trowel and a watering can, pushed open the doors from his shed and started making his way to the street. Cars were at a standstill in the middle of the street all honking in concert with each other. Some people even had their windows rolled down, fists out and shaking at the cars in front of them as if their sheer yelling power would free up the traffic jam. He considered grabbing a fourth seed, but instead chose to put his head down and continue walking. The sun warmed his back as he passed a couple holding hands, an old woman walking a dog seemingly twice her weight, and some children kicking a can down the sidewalk, laughing as they nearly barreled into him. Once he reached the park he filled the watering can and went to the corner of the park that he always did. As he approached, the smell of blooming flowers reached him in a gust of wind. He put the watering can down briefly, closed his eyes, and deeply breathed in and out. A smile crept onto his face as he reveled in his hard work from previous days, weeks, years. A swath of the park nearly half an acre was covered in flowers of different colors and sizes. The striking purple from the Provence lavenders competed with the dark blue of the Anchusas, and both vied for attention from the pink of the primroses. All swayed in the wind together as one. He moved to the section he left a few days ago at the end of the spiral, the seeds not yet budding whereas the ones next to it were just starting to poke through the surface. The man shoved the trowel into the ground, pulled it out and repeated the motion in a cone shape before pulling out the whole section of dirt. Worms and beetles crawled as quickly as they could to escape the sudden removal of their homes. The man wondered how long beetles lived and whether or not his father ever saw the same ones he did. Maybe the same beetles kept having their homes ripped out from above them from the same general area. Maybe it’s time to move farther away little buddies, he laughed, placing the chunk of dirt softly down next to him. “Are you crazy?” a young girl’s voice startled him, making him nearly throw his trowel in defense. He looked up to see a little girl, likely around five or six years old, wearing pink overalls with a massive Hello Kitty printed on the front. Her hair was done in ponytails with a red ribbon on top nearly falling off in her loose hair. She brushed her hair aside, moving the bow farther from the center. “Excuse me?” “My brother says crazy people laugh when no one says anything. Are you crazy?” The man laughed at the absurdity, thinking about all of the times he laughed at his own thoughts. “I sure hope not. It’s good to laugh, even when you’re by yourself. Especially when you’re by yourself.” The girl laughed and jumped, knocking the bow free from her hair to fall gently to the ground. She bent over, stumbling a bit as she grabbed the bow and tried placing it back into her hair. About twenty yards behind the girl stood a man wearing khaki slacks and a white button down shirt. He uncrossed his arms and waved when the man made eye contact with him. He reflexively waved back. “Your father?” he said, nodding toward the man in the khakis. “Yes,” she said, “he brings me here once a week. I like the flowers. The pink ones are my favorite.” She bent her knees then jumped as far as she could toward the flowers, missing by quite a long distance, and stumbled again, the bow falling once more onto the ground in front of her. She giggled and placed it back into her hair as if it would finally stick for good that time. The man filled the hole with a little bit of soil. “I like them too,” the man said. He looked at the pink flowers near the little girl, planted nearly two years ago after his sister blamed him for his father’s death. “I think they’re all my favorite, though.” “They can’t all be your favorite,” the girl laughed. She walked closer to him and sat down by the newest flowers. “We see you here sometimes. How big are you going to make these?” “How big?” “Yeah!” the girl exclaimed. “Will you cover the whole park?” The man laughed and waved his hand, imagining the park covered in flowers with no room to walk around. “No, not the whole park. That would take too long since I only plant a few at a time.” He looked around himself imagining how far the flowers would go - he never thought about when he would stop, or even if he would stop. No one at the park told him he couldn’t plant, and most people knew to leave him alone by this point. They liked the flowers there, and so did he. “Why only a few?” the girl asked, confused by the inefficiency. “I’m not planting for the park,” the man answered. “My father used to always come out here once I was grown up. He would plant a seed every now and then back when there were no flowers.” The man looked toward the center of the spiral of flowers and remembered when his father started planting them. The man dove head first into alcoholism a decade prior when his girlfriend at the time, whom he believed to be the love of his life, broke up with him. His father, as a coping mechanism, would take seeds out to this spot to plant them, one seed any time the man’s alcoholism negatively affected others. A seed for yelling obscenities during minuscule arguments. A seed for vomiting on the carpet once again. The man detested the flowers back when his father was alive, a constant reminder of his failures as a human and a son. In a drunken tirade he once ran to the flowers and ripped them all from the ground. His father, saying nothing, took a single seed the next day and planted it in the center of the ruined flowerbed. “Why are you doing this to me?” the man asked his father through tears. “I’m not doing anything to you,” his father replied. “I do it *for* you. Those seeds represent something beautiful. This world can be wholly awful at times, but I can take those awful things and literally turn them into beauty that others can enjoy.” “That’s stupid,” the man said, already drunk. His father frowned. “I don’t think so.” “I do.” His father stood quiet for a moment, then said “I hope you find beauty in those flowers someday.” And someday he did find those flowers beautiful. After his father died the flowers became a sort of memorial to him. They helped him overcome his alcoholism when he forced himself to come to the flowers anytime he wanted a drink. Over time he realized what his father was trying to do for him, so he continued planting seeds in the spirit of turning bad things into something beautiful. A seed for strangers being rude. A seed for a hurtful comment from a loved one. “I plant a seed when I see something bad in this world,” the man said to the girl, “as a way to turn it into beauty instead.” The girl looked back at him, confused. “You plant them when bad things happen? That’s silly.” He cocked his head at the girl, thinking he didn’t appropriately convey the emotion behind his planting. “Silly?” “Yeah,” the girl replied. “When you look at the flowers you remember the bad things. I want to remember good things when I see flowers!” The man looked back at the spiral of flowers. All these years of planting these seeds to turn bad to good and no one asked him about it. She was right - there was always a tiny sense of dread hiding in the corners of his mind when he came here. The weight of his father’s tradition and the obligation of adding beauty to the world kept him going, but he was always reminded of the reasons for coming out here in the first place, the shadow constantly following him that he only planted because something bad happened. The girl jumped up and, without noticing that her bow flew off again, ran to her father. After a moment, the man in the khakis reached into his shirt pocket and took something out, placing it into the girls hand. She ran back to the man, arms flailing and a smile stretching across her face. She went to the hole that the man dug for his first seed and dropped to her knees. The girl opened her hand, and in the center of her tiny palm was a seed. “This is for meeting you,” she said, turning her hand and dropping the seed into the hole. The man watched the seed fall into the hole in slow motion, a seed that so opposed the whole meaning of this garden but what he so desperately knew needed to be done. “I’m Catriona,” the girl said. “My friends call me Cat.” “Hi Cat,” the man said. “I’m Chris. My friends call me Chris,” he joked. Cat giggled and waved her tiny hand at him. “Hi Chris.” She turned and ran once more to her father, then the both of them held hands and walked away. Chris watched as the two of them turned a corner around a building out of sight. He looked back at the flowers and realized the girl’s bow was still on the ground. With no chance of catching up to them he picked it up and looked at it. He put the bow in his pocket knowing he would keep it for the girl until she came back. He would show her all of the new flowers he planted that reminded him of the beauty that was already present in the world. He filled the rest of the hole with soil and watered it, then reached into his pocket to pull out the three seeds he brought with him. Each one represented something he planned to turn into beauty that day, but he couldn’t in good conscience plant them knowing what they represented. He put them back in his pocket, then picked up the trowel and watering can and walked home. He came back the next day with two new seeds. A seed for a girl that brought light to his life. A seed for the man he had become. He looked once more at the spiral of flowers, knowing his father would be proud of him.


I stepped into the small elevator. Generic music played from the small speakers in the corner of the elevator car. I selected twenty-two from the keypad. As the doors closed, a petite figure slipped in. She fell into me then shot back up. “I’m so sorry!” she brushed off her navy blue pencil skirt. “It’s alright,” I replied. “You work here?” she asked. “Yeah, I work on twenty-two in management. Do you work here?” “Yes I work on thirty,” she nodded. I didn’t mean to stare, but she was beautiful. Her hair was dark brown and her eyes blue. “What? Is there something on my face?” she touched a hand to her cheek. “No, you’re just…really pretty,” I stuck my hands in my pockets. “Oh well thank you,” she did a mini curtsy. “I’m Charlie,” I took a hand from my pocket and offered it to her. She shook it. “Like Charlie Brown,” she laughed. Her laugh was like music. It wasn’t forced or overly obnoxious. She was perfect. She looked at the floor indicator. “Seems we have seventeen floors left to learn everything about each other,” she smiled. “That’s not much time,” I looked to see that we were on floor five. “Well, how boring are you?” “I like to think I’m an average guy,” I shrugged. “Then we should have plenty of time.” So we talked. I told her everything about my averagely boring life. My job, my apartment, my friends. I still hadn’t gotten her name but it was too late to ask. I asked about her life and she simply answered, “Heavenly and divine,” with a smile. The elevator came to floor twenty one. “We should go out for coffee sometime,” I suggested. “I would like that,” she glanced down. I pulled a post-it pad from my pocket and wrote my number on it. I gave it to her and she smiled again. That angelic smile. The elevator pinged as we reached floor twenty-two. “This was lovely,” she smiled again. “That it was.” “See you around, Charlie,” she waved as I exited. I walked over to my desk. “You look unusually happy,” my co-worker, Peter said. “I just met the most perfect human being,” I sunk into my chair. “Where? The elevator?” “Yep, she works on thirty. It’s weird, I’ve never seen her around,” I spun around in the chair. Peter’s face twisted from happy to concerned. “Charlie, are you feeling okay, man?” he walked over and put a hand on my shoulder. “Never better, why?” I looked up at him. “There are only twenty-five floors in the building. The top five floors were burned down after that accident,” Peter gestured upwards. “But, that’s impossible, I just met this girl,” I was confused. “You should go home for the day, get some rest,” Peter said. “No seriously, I’m fine,” I moved away from his hand. I stood and rushed to the elevator. I searched the buttons, but twenty-six to thirty had tape over them with the words, “OUT OF ORDER” scrawled in permanent marker. I frantically pressed twenty-five. As the elevator came to a stop, I ran out and searched the cubicles for the beautiful girl I had met before, but she wasn’t there. I ran to the stairs and practically slid down them. I rushed out to the street to see if she was there, but I didn’t see anyone nearly as perfect as her. I rushed out into the street as an eighteen-wheeler flew down the street, running me over in the process. “Hello,” a voice floated through my ears. I opened my eyes. All I could see was this bright light, like the sun. I looked for the voice and saw her. Standing right in front of me. She was dressed in a white dress. “Welcome,” she smiled. She offered me a hand and pulled me up. “Where am I?” I looked around, but I saw nothing but light. “Where you belong,” she took my hand. I pulled it away. “I- I can’t be here, I have a job, a life.” “Charlie, you didn’t survive that crash,” she looked me in the eye, her face sympathetic. “No, no this can’t be happening, I’m only twenty-seven, I have a whole life ahead of me,” I was freaking out. “Charlie, listen to me, there’s only one thing that can be done now,” she said. “What is it? I’ll do anything.” “You must find someone willing to give you their life. You will have the same body and soul, but I warn you, it is quite difficult to find someone willing.” “I’ll at least try,” I answered. “Wait, Charlie, I know someone,” she grabbed my hand and looked me in the eye once again. “Who?” I asked. “Me,” she replied. She held my face in her hands and closed her eyes. “Wait! Before you do this, please, tell me your name,” I begged. She opened her eyes and smiled. She whispered her name in my ear. It was as beautiful as she was. She took my hands and closed her eyes again. Everything glittered and shone and suddenly, I was back on the sidewalk. I went back into the building and pressed button twenty-two.


Have you ever lived a day that stretched on past the usual twenty-four hours? I'm not talking about one of those days at work that seem to last forever. No. I'm talking about a day that goes on for weeks, months, and even a full rotation around the sun. Oh, it's impossible? Obviously you must not remember June 20th. At least, not the June 20th that I just lived through. It began innocently enough. It was a Sunday this year, and also fell on Father's Day... not that that detail matters too terribly for the sake of this story, just a pointless fact. Typically the summer solstice has little say so in my daily life. I never would have thought about it if it hadn't been mentioned on the morning news that we may just get a little extra sunlight today. Whatever. I planned on spending the majority of my Sunday inside, anyway. Truth be told, I had no use with interaction today. Mornings were the hardest, usually the first hour or two until I was fully awake. I had another dream of him again. It happens every single night... and I am just exhausted. I suppose my subconscious enjoys torturing me with hypotheticals and sweet nonsense. No matter what I do, no matter what I think before finally allowing myself to drift off, I am once again transported into that world where even the worst of days are made lighter because I have him there, by my side. It has happened nightly for nearly a month and a half, seemingly out of nowhere. I will wake up in the dreamworld, finding myself in a long-term relationship with a man that I've fallen head over heels in infatuation with in the real world. Only on this side it all feels... well, so real. We wake up and make coffee to be sipped together in a kitchen with dishes needing washed and a garbage can needing to be emptied. It is raining outside so he offers to give me a ride in his truck, which I jokingly refuse because I'm sure it would probably fall apart before reaching our destination. Apparently in this world we are engaged because once in a while amidst the random chatterings we discuss wedding plans. We talk about making my niece the flower girl and his niece the ring bearer. We argue over the venue and he voices his disgust with wearing a tux. At the end of each day we either sit together on the front porch talking softly while watching the stars, or we dance in the kitchen to anime intros while making cheese omelettes at midnight. Then we fall asleep side by side... and I wake up in the real world alone. They say a dream like this every once in a while is natural. But nightly and with such vivid detail? I knew better. And it was slowly making living in the real world a sad chore. Why on earth would I want to participate in this place when I could be back in the other world with literally the man of my dreams? Friends and family have noticed that I've become reclusive. I leave their texts on read and the calls go unanswered. Is it so bad to want to process things alone? Sometimes I just wish that I could just be forgotten, just for a little while. That way I can process this entire ordeal and make sense of it. And that was exactly my plan for the day - to get to the bottom of these dreams. Except, well, I didn't get the chance. I heard my front door lock click and I nearly jumped out of my skin as my door opened. The only person with a key was my brother, and he always knocked before he would ever use it. I watched from my kitchen, shaking as a tall figure stepped into the living room. The door closed and the intruder dropped the keys on the table. I listened as he took his shoes off. That was a strange thing for an intruder to do. I finally gathered the courage to step into the hall and my stomach rolled into a tight knot when the sunlight streamed through the window illuminated his face. It was him. Standing in my living room, wearing anime-themed socks and holding a box of what looked like donuts. He smiled at me and did a clumsy twirl, as if he were dancing with the box. "Happy Father's Day! They're raspberry filled. Aren't those your dad's favorite?" he asked. I was frozen. This... this can't be real. "W-what are you doing here?" I breathed. I watched his smile fade after a moment, as if he were truly confused. "Well... last time I checked, I live here," he chuckled nervously. "No. No you don't." "Hon, are you okay? Your face... it's really pale." He set the box down on the coffee table and approached me. I backed away. "What's gotten into you? I told you I was going to grab the donuts and be right back," he said softly and didn't move. I could feel my heart thudding, sweat pouring. This was impossible! "I'm not dreaming. What are you doing here?" "Of course you're not dreaming. It's nearly eleven. Is your blood sugar okay? Come on and sit down, you really aren't looking too good," he said and tried moving toward me again. "You - you can't be real! Why are you here?" I could feel the tears, the tightness in my throat, as I let him take my hands and gently pull me into the living room to the couch. I just knew that I was awake! I had to be awake... "I don't know what's going on, but talk to me. Why do you keep saying that? I must have moved in a year and a half ago. You know this... right?" "No! This has to be another weird dream! We aren't together in real life. You're... you are with somebody else." I didn't care anymore. I let the tears fall. Who cared at this point whether I looked crazy? "Really? You think I'm with someone else? Who else would I be with?" I heard him chuckle. "Stop making fun of me. Those were just dreams. You'd never actually date someone like me. You would rather be with that cute blonde..." He chuckled again. "Writers and their wild imaginations. Honey, you know we aren't dating, right?" I fixed my sight on his face, with his stupid, perfect grin. He nodded down and took my hand. Sitting there, on my left ring finger, was the brightest fire opal set in rose gold. I had to force myself to breathe again. "We are engaged. I'd say that's a little more than just dating, right?" he asked. "Did I ever wake up? Or... is this just a dream in a dream?" I asked out loud. He stretched and shrugged. "I don't know, but if this was a dream, wouldn't we just be married by now? Maybe dream that my truck is fixed. That would help me out a little, you know," he laughed and patted my leg before standing. "Now come on - I want to help your dad eat these before they get soggy!" So, the day went on. We went to my parents' house together. My brother and his family were there by the time we arrived. We shared the donuts and they ordered pizza. We played board games and talked about politics and theater going-ons in the community. It was all... normal. It was a perfect mesh of reality and dream. Somehow I had transplanted my dream man into the real world. But, I knew better. This simply had to be a continued dream. He couldn't really be here. But the day continued. After the party we decided to take a walk around the trail at Spring Hill. The weather was glorious: a warm summer breeze with just enough cloud coverage to make it enjoyable. Soon enough, I finally let myself calm down. "Do you promise that you are really here?" I asked. It was a silly request, I admit. But something inside of me just needed to hear his answer. I watched him raise his eyebrow and shake his head. "You have been acting really weird today, you know that?" "Answer me! Are you actually here right now?" I demanded. He rolled his eyes and turned to face me. "I promise you that I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. This time next month we will be married and even then I won't be going anywhere. Is that why you've been acting this way? Are you afraid I'm going to run off?" I thought about his words. Could that really be it? What if... what if this entire time I have been mistaken? What if reality was really the time spent with him, and the sad world without him was my dreamland? Perhaps dreams of being alone was my brain's way of attempting to overcome my insecurities of marrying the man of my dreams and somehow... somehow I had allowed myself to confuse reality? Lord knows I will always feel some extent of insecurity by marrying him after my own extensive traumatic past. This just might have been my own way of attempting to protect myself from repressed issues. I took his hand and held it tight. I could feel his callouses and heat. He was real. This was real. "Don't answer that. I know the truth. Sorry... I guess I'm just still struggling a little," I declared. Finally, I felt comfortable again. Just like in every dream before. Well, not a dream. It would be a challenge to remember that life could truly be this perfect. That night, we talked more about the song choices for the wedding. Our friend would play a beloved classic on the violin as I walk down the aisle. My brother would be my Maid of Honor and his brother would be his Best Man. I giggled at what he wanted to include on the menu. It was a relaxing evening and when we finally went to bed, I felt normal once again. Waking up the next morning was slow and expected. I washed my face, combed my hair, swallowed my multi-vitamin with lukewarm water, and turned on my laptop to begin my long day of taking calls for work. Of course he did not wake up next to me. My left ring finger was bare. It was Monday. It was June 21st. The day after the longest day of the year.