We trap our souls in our possessions to remind us of our past. Photos coated in dust line the walls. That moth-eaten jacket that hangs at the back of the wardrobe. They are doomed to sit for eternity because we cling to the memory they instil. We fear losing the item will result in us losing part of our soul. An anchor to the past that doesn’t let us find a new future.

Stella lay back on her couch running the chain holding her engagement ring through her fingers. She stared at a line of ads on the TV when it flickered before going black. The room fell dark at that same moment when the lights died.

Another bloody blackout.  Getting to her feet, the smell of burning plastic grew stronger. She peered out the kitchen window.

The neighbours have power.  A hallway fire alarm rang out an ear-piercing echo. She coughed as the air got thicker with smoke. Looking down the hall, a flame darted from her bedroom. She broke out in a cold sweat as a sharp pain stabbed her chest.

Fire!

Her heart raced as she grabbed her handbag from the kitchen table and bolted for the door. She turned around to see the top-floor windows glowing with flickering shades of orange. A crash inside resulted in flames leaping from the openings. It didn’t take long for the whole house to become a bonfire. Neighbours came running with their phones to their ears. Stella stared back at the flames in disbelief as the fire trucks arrived.

Jill, her closest neighbour, placed her hand on Stella’s shoulder, “Are you injured?” Stella dropped her face onto Jill’s shoulder as the tears welled in her eyes. The comforting arms of Jill could not take away the shock of losing everything in an instant. The fire Captain approached, “How many people were in the house?” “She lived alone,” Jill replied. My ring!  Stella grabbed her necklace, sighing when she felt the cold diamond in her hand.

Thank God.  Gripping the ring tightly, she stared back at her long-departed husband's keepsakes crumbling to ashes. A stillness came over the street as the last flames died and most of the trucks left. The flickering lights on the houses were replaced with darkness.  Sitting on Jill’s porch, Stella sipped her glass of cold water when her best friend Sue pulled up on the edge of the tape barricade. She stood with mouth open gazing at the mess that was once a house.

“Sue, I’m over here.” Sue rushed to the front steps, “Are you all right? I didn’t believe your message.” “Yeah, I got out before it went up. But I have lost everything.” She dropped her chin to her chest as the pain returned. “You can stay with me.” Sue leaned over with a warm hug. Travelling down the highway Sue asked, “Do you have insurance?” “Yes, but it can’t replace all my memories,” tears rolled down Stella’s cheeks, “I lived there for nineteen years.” She held up her ring, “This is all I have to remind me of Paul.” “You still have your memories. No fire can take them.” The following morning, Stella hung up the phone, the stress of dealing with police, fire inspectors and the insurance agents had drained her energy. She curled up on the couch and turned on the TV.

Tell me it will be all right Paul. *** It had been a week since the fire and Stella had only left the house to go to work. Sue grabbed the TV control and turned it off. “Get up we are going out for a drink.” After some debate, Sue dragged Stella out to the bar. The dim lighting made hiding in the corner easier for Stella. Sue was off socialising and dancing while Stella stared blankly at people passing her by.

Paul didn’t like dancing. He didn’t like bars; the loud music used to give him headaches. Sue bounced up to the table with a stranger beside her. “Stella, this is Andrew.”  Another bloke walked over, “And this is Harper.” He had a more mature persona. His face was warm and welcoming. Is she trying to find me a boyfriend?  Stella had a second look at Harper.

There is something familiar about him.  “Hi.”

“We are getting a drink, what do you want?” Sue asked. “White wine will do.” Harper returned alone with a glass of wine. “Can I join you?” She ran her eyes up his body. His friendly smile accented the sparkle in his warm hazel eyes. She nodded, “Sure. Thanks for the drink.” Taking a sip of her wine, “What do you do?” “You don’t recognise me. I was the fire Captain at your house fire. We spoke on the street.” He remembered me.  She locked eyes with him for a moment before dropping her gaze. “Everything was dark against the fire.” “I’m sorry for your loss. It never gets easier attending those jobs.” He took a mouthful of beer, “Do you have somewhere to stay?” “Sue’s place,” Stella looked across the dance floor to Sue jigging away. “The fire took hold fast. I was lucky to get out when I did.” “Was your husband away?” What?  Her chest tightened as she pulled back in the seat. “How do you know about my husband?” “The property description on the incident report said Mr P and Mrs S Wilson,” he straightened his posture, “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to pry.” Taking hold of her ring, she sighed lifting her eyes, “Paul died in a workplace accident seven years ago.” Harper’s smile vanished as his shoulders dropped, “Oh, I’m sorry.” He glanced away briefly, “I can leave if you want to be alone.” She reached out placing her hand on his, “No, it’s OK. It’s good to have a friendly face to talk to.” “Do you want another drink?” “Water would be good. Thanks.” Her eyes followed him across the bar.

Fireman. That explains the short haircut and those muscly shoulders.  Her thoughts returned to the night of the fire, his face and physique partly hidden in that firefighting protective suit. She rolled the ring in her fingers as her nerves grew. As the night went on, they continued talking and getting to know each other. Sue wandered over and stood at the end of the table looking worse for wear. “It’s time I went home.” Looking at her phone, “Yeah, it’s getting late. It was nice meeting you, Harper.” Stella held out her hand to say goodbye. “Do you want to catch up again?” His handshake was warm and gentle. “I’ll have to check my calendar.” He handed her his business card, “Call me when you do.” *** The following morning Stella sat on the patio in a daze staring at her cup of coffee. Sue’s dog would occasionally run past and hit Stella’s leg. Thoughts of her discussions with Harper ran around her head; she reached for her engagement ring. Her feelings for Paul pulled her back to her past, their fun together outdoors hiking, sailing and enjoying his company. Her mind was elsewhere when Sue sat down across from her. “Wake up.” “Morning.” “You seemed to hit it off with Harper. When are you seeing him again?” Stella looked at the dog running around, “I’m not.” Sue jolted forward over the table, “Why? He’s a hotty.” “I’m not ready,” she mumbled. “It’s been seven years. You could have married and divorced multiple guys in that time.” “It wouldn’t be fair on Paul.” “Bull.” Stella’s face reddened as tears welled in her eyes.  “I lost everything in that fire. All my memories of our life together,” she held up the ring, “He gave me this. I can’t forget what we had together by running off with someone else.” “Hey. I’m not saying forget Paul. But he wouldn’t want you wallowing in sorrow for the rest of your life. He would want you to get out and enjoy yourself.” “You didn’t know him.” Stella rose and stormed off into the house. Laying on her bed still fuming from Sue’s comments, Stella removed her engagement ring from her chain. She went to slide it on her ring finger but it was tight, so she slipped it onto her little finger. Staring up at the ceiling she rotated the stone around her finger.

Harper is nice but what if it doesn’t work out with him? He’s a fireman, that is a dangerous job.  Holding her hand up the ring lacked lustre. The gold band was scuffed and the stone needed a polish. Its sparkle had gone, like her memories of Paul, they had dulled with time. Her eyes grew heavy as she drifted off to sleep. Later that night Stella was awoken with a slam of the front door. Pulling her robe tight she staggered into the kitchen for a drink. Sue approached smelling of smoke and alcohol. “Harper asked where you were tonight.” “He would have found someone else to party with,” Sue filled her glass from the tap before returning to her room. Stella tossed and turned, her stomach was in knots. She wanted to see Harper again but she didn’t want to forget her past. As the hours ticked by, she removed her chain and ring placed them on the nightstand and rolled over to get some sleep. The following morning, she grabbed her coffee and went to the deck. Holding up her phone Harper's business card poked out the back of the cover. Pulling it out, she stared at it for a while.

Oh, what the hell.  She started dialling. “Hi Harper, it’s Stella. Do you want to catch up for a coffee?” *** Flicking her hair over her shoulder she paused on the footpath checking her reflection in the café window. Stepping up the counter she scanned the room. Harper rose from a corner table and headed towards her. His dark blue shirt and slacks looked fancy for coffee.  She placed her order as Harper handed his bank card to the attendant. Walking back to the table, she muttered, “I could have paid.” “You need your money to rebuild.” “The insurance is satisfied with the fire inspector's findings. They are processing the claim now.” He slid into the seat across from her, “What did they find?” “The fire started at a faulty downlight in my ensuite.” “Downlights. That’s common.” She shuffled in her seat, “It would have been good to know that before they installed them.” He reached out his hand, “That’s enough talk about work. How are you travelling?” “I’m good.” “I looked for you at the bar last night.” “I’m not into bars, I would rather get out in nature.” His face lit up, “I’m going canoeing on the weekend. You’re welcome to come along.” Go out into the wilderness with someone I barely know. He’s a firefighter, he seems trustworthy.  Sue’s words came back, get out and enjoy yourself.

I haven’t canoed for years. “That would be nice. Do you have another canoe?” She looked up as the waiter placed their order on the table. “Yeah, I have everything you will need.” The chatter went on for hours when her phone buzzed. “Sue is checking up on me.” He rose, “I have to get ready for work.”

“Thanks for the coffee, I’ll see you on the weekend.”

“I’ll call later,” he reached forward with a friendly hug. Back home, “I need a shower,” she grabbed her casual clothes and reached up to remove her necklace. Her heart skipped a beat, and she gasped.

Where is my ring?  Her eyes ran over to the bedside table, the ring and chain sat under the lampshade where she left them last night . I forgot to wear it.  Her heart felt heavy as she sat on the side of the bed with the chain in her hand.

The fire was a turning point, it is time to move on. I was blessed with Paul’s life but it’s time to let someone else into my life. *** Up early she was packed ready for a day on the river. Her phone buzzed.

A text from Harper.  “Do you want me to pick you up?” “No, I’ll meet you at your place. I have something to do first.” The birds were chirping in the trees overhead. A light breeze swept a few hairs across her face. Stella stood over Paul’s grave; she brushed the fallen leaves off his headstone. Placing a fresh bunch of flowers in the vase she stood silent.

Do it. She took a deep sigh, crouched down, “It’s time I moved on dear.” Pulling out a trowel from her pocket she unearthed a clod of grass and buried her engagement ring in front of his headstone. Replacing the grass, she muttered a prayer before silently returning to her vehicle. Pulling into Harper’s driveway, his four-wheel drive was packed. Canoes and paddles were tied to the roof rack. He pulled his front door closed, skipped down the stairs greeting her with a smile and a warm hug. “Ready for a day on the river.” “Let’s go,” she smiled as he opened the passenger door and placed her backpack on the back seat. Her mood lifted with the warm sun on her face. Taking a deep breath, the aroma of fresh forest filled the air.

I’m going to enjoy today's adventure.  The river flowed gently; the ripples sparkled from the sun’s rays. Easing into her canoe, she ran her hand through the water.

It’s not too cold.  She casually paddled along beside Harper enjoying the wilderness. The odd dead tree needed navigating and rocks broke the flow in places. A small blue kingfisher landed on the front of her canoe looking back at her for a moment before flying off. The sheen on its feathers glowed in the sunlight. She smiled.

This is a sign from Paul. He is happy I’m out enjoying herself again. The weight of the stress she had built up over the last seven years lifted from her shoulders, she turned to Harper, “I’ll race you to the next bend.” She started swinging the paddle as fast as she could. Sprays of water rained down as Harper powered past her swinging around in front of her.

Bugger, I’m out of practice.  Pushing the paddle to brake, she continued the stroke splashing water over him.

“Oh, you want to play.” He swung his paddle flicking water back at her.

A water fight broke out, and Stella took a big swipe of her oar over balancing and flipping her canoe. “Stella,” he called out beaching his canoe, before diving into the water. She rose beside the canoe, taking a deep breath.

He rose to the surface in front of her. “Are you OK?” Wiping the water from his eyes, he reached out grabbed the canoe with one hand and took hold of her waist with the other pulling her body closer to his.

Pushing her hair out of her face, she nodded.  That water is refreshing.

His head was above the water line looking back at her. Face to face she looked deeply into his eyes. Her pulse raced as she moved closer, closing her eyes as her lips met his. The moment's warmth was interrupted when her canoe caught the flow and tapped the back of his head. Looking back with a warm smile, Harper swung the canoe closer to the bank, “Let’s get you ashore and have a break.” Sitting on the bank, arm in arm his touch was as warm as the sun’s rays on her back.

The flow in the river was ever-changing bringing new surprises, blink and miss the fish jumping. So many things I have missed in recent years. New memories and experiences didn’t erase the past but added to my life story. The End


Jesus Nieves word count:2793 jnieves6556@gmail.com DRAW WHAT YOU SEE BY JESUS NIEVES It's 3 am and Trevor can't sleep. He sits in his drawing-room; thinking of what to draw, for his next graphic novel. Trevor turns on his TV, hoping to get inspiration. He watches a documentary about serial killers. A light bulb goes off in his head, what if he created a character who is a serial killer. This killer is an artist, his art does the killing for him instead of using his bare hands.

The killer draws out the murder scene of how he imagines killing his victims. Trevor runs to his drawing-room. He plans out the character’s look and motives for killing. Trevor decides to base the killer on him, a comic artist who struggles with life. A New Yorker who struggles to pay his bills. He has a boss who looks for any reason to fire him, and a landlord who harasses him about the rent.

His girlfriend cheated on him with his brother on his birthday. The character has all the motives he needs. The next day, Trevor sits at his desk. A coffee cup slams right in front of him. He looks up, it’s his boss, Jake. Trevor wipes clean the coffee splats on his drawing board. Jake chews his donut, spitting chunks of it on Trevor, “nothing new I see” Jake says.

Trevor, annoyed by Jake's very existence, replies “actually, I do”. Jake is in shock, “oh, what is it?” He says. Trevor spills the details. Jake loves it, pushing it because he has his bosses wanting new content that sells. “Go home, come back Friday morning with my issue,” he says. The pressure is on, Trevor has to finish a comic in three days.

It’s 2:57 am, it’s pouring, only the sounds of rain kept him up. Trevor questions who he would kill as his character, Trent. He uses Jake as a character, who is killed in his office by drinking coffee mixed with hydrofluoric acid. It was easy, Jake would always carry his plastic tumbler. The setup would be Jake going to the bathroom, the killer will pour acid into the cup, letting Jake kill himself. Trevor, excited that he finally has the motivation, titles the graphic novel “one cup too many”.

He finally gets to sleep when he hears knocking at his door, he opens the door groggy from being up late. It's Richard, the landlord, who always nags about rent but never kept the building livable or safe. Richard looked like the building itself, disgusting and unbearable. Trevor holds his breath from not swallowing the horrible stench that radiates from the man. Richard smiles, “two weeks and no rent, where’s my money?” He says. Trevor hated the fact that he had no heat and the bathtub is clogged for more than a month. He couldn’t stand his landlord, “you’ll get your money Friday, I promise” he says.

Richard peeks in past Trevor, looking around the apartment. “In A space like this, I could get more than what you're paying for” he hints. Trevor restrains himself from saying what he really felt, “understood, I don’t want any trouble, you will have your money” he says. Richard takes a moment to think, “make it double… for making me wait” he says mockingly. Trevor wanted to burst in rage, the nerve of this man wanting and not fixing anything. He knew he had to suck it up because he had no other place to go. “Fine, … double,” he says.

Richard loved the power of threatening someone's livelihood, and Trevor knew it. Richard leaves, Trevor slams his door shut. Trevor now has the second victim for his character, his landlord. He finds it perfect, what person doesn’t fantasize about ridding the world of slumlords. Trevor sits in his room, drawing the next victim for his character. He draws the landlord watching TV in his basement apartment. The landlord hears a knock on his door. He gets up to answer, noticing water rushing into the apartment.

The landlord, alarmed, goes to check where the water is coming from. The landlord notices a pipe cracked letting the water run, filling the hallway with water almost knee-high. He turns the water off from the main switch. He returns to his apartment to grab his tool belt, but is shocked to see a man wearing tall rubber boots. The landlord also notices the man wearing a black trench coat, hooded and wearing a Guy Fawkes mask. The outfit didn’t strike fear in the landlord’s heart, it was the fact that the man had his TV in hand.

The landlord tries to run wearing flip-flops. He falls to the ground, soaking his whole body. The killer didn’t give him a chance, he smashes the TV on the ground next to the landlord. Instantly, the landlord is fried by the electrical current from the TV. Trevor is spooked when he sees his lights flicker, but continues to finish his issue. Falling asleep on his desk, Trevor wakes to a loud knocking on his door.

He opens the door, groggy from working late. Now wide awake, he sees two detectives standing in front of him. The detectives introduce themselves as Santiago and Davis. The two looked intense, like all work and no play. Santiago pulls out a notepad, he reads “you are Trevor miller, right?”, Trevor nods his head. Davis scoffs, “is that a yes or no?” he says. Trevor replies, “yes, what’s going on?”.

The detectives look at each other, Santiago says, “did you notice or hear anything last night?”. Trevor replies, “no, I was drawing all night”. The two detectives chuckle, Davis says, “drawing?”. Trevor replies, “yes, am a comic artist…why?”. Santiago says, “it’s about your landlord… he was found dead by his apartment, one of your neighbors found him lifeless in a puddle of water”. Trevor feels his heart dropping to his feet, he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The detectives wait for Trevor to get himself together, Davis says, “if you remember anything or notice anything odd, give us a call”, he hands Trevor a card.

The detectives leave Trevor to think about what they said. Trevor closes his door in disbelief that his landlord died the same way he illustrated in his issue. He runs to the bathroom, throwing up last night’s Chef Boyardee. Trevor rinses his face, trying to calm the anxiety he was feeling. He took a moment to look at himself in the mirror, but something in him felt different, his reflection was not him, instead, it was Trent, the killer looking back at him. The reflection smiled at him, Trevor knew what it meant.  They are the same person, Trevor can kill and get away with it. At that moment, he didn’t feel bad for Richard. It was like a heavy weight lifted off his shoulders, knowing that Richard couldn't harass him anymore, made him feel powerful. Trevor’s phone buzzes, he answers it. His co-worker gives him the news of Jake being murdered at the office. Trevor gives his best performance, pretending he was devastated.  The co-worker also tells him he is taking Jake's place until the board can make it final. Trevor's life has changed in two days, he doesn't have to worry about rent for the time being and is promoted with better pay. It's Friday morning, Trevor now sits in his office, which was previously occupied by Jake. Suddenly, he begins getting an intense headache. Trevor's mind shoots flashes of Jake and Richard dying. He snaps out of it to see on the wall a mirror, the killer is the reflection, looking back at him with the mask on.

The killer removes the mask revealing Trent is Trevor, he can see the killer walking out of the mirror standing right in front of him. The two look each other up and down, mimicking each other's actions. They lock eyes, Trevor can see the darkness in Trent. The two smile at each other in a chilling, sinister kind of way, coming into the realization of becoming one. Trevor is interrupted by an employee, “sir, are you ok?” Trevor turns to look at the employee. He could see the man in fear by the way Trevor looked at him, and he loved every second of it, “yes?” He says. “The head honchos love the samples you sent, they want you to finish the issue,” the employee timidly says.

Trevor could hear the voice of Trent, “let the terror begin” Trent says. Trevor sits in his office, he notices detectives Santiago and Davis questioning the employees. He felt confident to inquire about their visit. “ Detectives, what brings you here?” he says. The detectives look at each other, shocked to see Trevor in Jake’s office, “I thought you were just a comic artist?” Davis says sarcastically. Trevor sparingly smiles, not intimidated by the detectives. “I was promoted due to the tragic passing of Jake, as you already know,” he says.

The detectives can see that Trevor didn't seem sympathetic about the death. “You seem unaffected by two deaths close to you, and now a promotion…looks like death has blessed you,” Santiago says. Trevor replies, “Death affects us all, good or bad, detective”. Santiago reads his notepad, “when was the last time you spoke with Jake?” He says. Trevor, knowing that he could never be caught, answers, “we spoke about a new graphic novel that had to be done by today, which explains my promotion” he says. Davis chuckles, “what a coincidence that your comic book is called one cup too many, odd, almost a reference,” he says.

Trevor and Davis stare at each other for a moment, Trevor chuckles, “what are you trying to say?, Death by comic book, that sounds insane, detective” he says sarcastically. Davis, not liking the sarcasm, moves forward to strike Trevor but is stopped by Santiago. Santiago whispers in his partner's ear, telling him to walk away. Trevor in full confidence has seen enough cop shows to know what comes next. Santiago approaches Trevor, “Mr. Miller, we will stay in touch,” he says. Trevor nods his head, as Santiago walks away, he says “I hope you catch your guy!”. Santiago replies, “you can bet on it, Mr. Miller”. Trevor sits in his drawing-room trying to come up with new ideas for the closing of his issue. He paces back and forth, thinking of what to draw next. Trevor looks through his desk drawer for inspiration. He finds an old photo, in it was Trevor, his ex-girlfriend, and best friend. He is reminded of painful memories. Rapid Flashes of his girlfriend Ashley cheating on him with his friend Barry. Trevor starts throwing things, filled with rage. He smashes his coffee mug at a mirror he uses for reference, to see Trent staring back at him. Trevor knew what Trent was telling him, that look meant that Ashley and Barry are next. Detectives Santiago and Davis sit in a room with a computer tech who reviews CCTV footage for crime scenes. The tech says, “well guys, your killer is either stupid or crazy”. Santiago and Davis are puzzled, “why do you say that?” Santiago says. The tech types in keys to access footage of Jake's office, “here the killer is masked until he reaches the staircase, although no cameras by the stairs, you can see the killer removing his mask before the door closes shut”. The tech can see he has their attention, “what about the landlord who was murdered?” Davis says. The tech chuckles, “that was easy, even though there's no camera in a basement apartment, I figured why not pull up footage from across the street, which a corner bodega has a Camera'' he says. The footage shows the killer walking up steps from the basement apartment, removing his mask, then entering the building. The detectives watch the footage with their eyes wide, confirming their number one suspect. Santiago grabs a phone nearby, he dials and lets it ring, “captain, we're gonna need a warrant, asap” he says.

Trevor begins illustrating the climax to his graphic novel, fighting off an excruciating headache. He knows how his character will kill next. He met his ex through Liz, she works with him and happens to be Ashley’s best friend. Trevor overheard Liz talk about Ashley and Barry celebrating their anniversary this weekend. Liz avoided talking about them, but couldn't help herself gush over their romance. She mentioned Ashley wanting Liz to pick up a cake for the occasion. Liz arrives, she knocks on the couple's door. Ashley, stuck in the kitchen, yells to Barry, “babe, could you get the door?” She shouts. Barry comes out of the bedroom, “I got it!” He says. Barry looks through the peephole and sees Liz with the cake. He opens the door, “let me help you with that” he says. Barry's eyes bulge out, looking down at his stomach to see he's been stabbed. He realizes the killer was hiding behind Liz's dead body, stabbing him from under her arms. The killer drops Liz, then stabs Barry several times. Barry falls to the floor, trying to warn Ashley, but dies before uttering a word. The pasta is ready, Ashley walks to grab a strainer, she drops it when she sees the killer standing over Barry's body. Ashley cries out in horror, noticing he killed Liz too. She runs to the bedroom, locking herself in, she tries dialing 911 but panics when there's no dial tone. She pauses when hearing her name, confused by the familiar voice, “tre-trevor?” She says. The killer yells, “Ashley, I’m here to celebrate your anniversary,” he says. Paralyzed in fear, “why?! Why did you kill them!?” She says hysterically.

All is silent, Ashley panting, “Trevor?” She says. The door bursts open, she sees the killer with his mask. He removes the mask revealing Trevor's face, sunken eyes with dark circles. “Am here now, to make it go away” he whispers. Ashley can see Trevor kept rubbing his head as if he had a bad migraine. Ashley’s heart drops, seeing him walking towards her. Trevor grabs her by the neck, he tightens his grip, causing her to fight for air. “With this knife, I've drawn out a better life, and I can give you that second chance,” he says. Ashley, unable to speak, knows that she is going to die like Barry and Liz. Ashley closes her eyes, accepting what comes next. Santiago and Davis have done their research. The detectives know who their killer is, so they looked into the next possible victims. They knew Trevor would come for Ashley and Barry, Liz told them that Trevor went through a horrible breakup due to Ashley’s infidelity. The detectives exit the elevator leading to Ashley's apartment. They notice Liz dead, quickly drawing their weapons. The detectives enter the apartment, noticing Barry in a pool of blood, lying lifeless. Davis checks for a pulse, with his hand, gestures that Barry is gone. Trevor sits his weight on Ashley with one hand choking her. He gestures as of drawing over Ashley with his knife, “now I finish my graphic novel” he says. Trevor, with the knife, raises his hand to kill Ashley. Trevor faces the doorway, he stops when he sees Santiago and Davis, with their guns drawn on him. He snickers, “detectives, you're here to finish my graphic novel,” he says. Santiago and Davis inch closer, “we got you, cameras got you, nowhere to run,” Davis says.

Santiago could see Ashley looking seconds away from dying, “if she dies, you have five murders, there’s no way out of this. Let us help you, Trevor” he says. “Help? I helped myself draw the life I always wanted… to draw what I see” Trevor says. Davis knows in his gut Trevor is going for the kill, “he's gonna do it, he's gonna kill her” Davis says. Santiago locks his eyes on Trevor, seeing that he is far gone. He gestures his head nodding no to Trevor, “don't do it, Trevor” he says.

Trevor smiles in a chilling manner, “actually, call me Trent” he says. He goes for the kill, “no, no, no!” Santiago yells. Not having any other choice, The detectives load Trevor with bullets, causing Trevor to crash through a window behind him. Davis runs to Ashley, she gasps for air, coughing violently. “Are you ok?” He says, she nods her head, yes, holding her tender neck. Santiago checks to see where Trevor fell. Trevor lies dead, impaled by the sharp-edged front gate. Santiago looks back at his partner, “it’s over?” Davis says. Santiago replies, “death by comic book, the story ends”.


Chaos is a friend of mine. A man smashes his fist on the desk in front of me knocking the pens down onto the floor,

"I need to see the manager NOW!" A woman yanks the computer screen off the front desk smashing it underneath her feet. Screaming child tugs onto a man,

"Mom fainted!" "Ron!",

howling I scan for the red-golden uniform. There he is landing his muscular arm right in the face of some guy trying to manhandle him. Footsteps are scampering down the staircase others are marching out of the elevator. Some are mad, some are scared, some are calm but more importantly, all are angry. Soon there will be police hollering down the entire hotel taking statements from the witnesses. People will get to know our real faces - the dark face. The mask is falling off bit by bit. I can picture myself in the orange jumpsuit behind the bars enjoying a book over a cup of cold tasteless tea. Uh-oh! What have I done! My cheeks burn as glance at the manager fighting his way out of the crowd circling him. This all would have been avoided if that fat cat had not walked in. The fat cat that was never fat. *An hour ago* My fingers drum against the desk silently as I mumble some song lyrics. Behind me, the hotel's name shines in all its glory against the black ceramic tiles. The shimmering wall fountain diffracts the lights. I spin my chair around. My eyes settle on Sasha's mobile screen. It's five in the morning. The halls are empty. Sasha beside me yawns placing her coffee on the desk. Through the glass doors, I can see the silence on the road. The calm wind brushing against the palm trees at the entrance. The screech of a car startles me. A few people lazily step out of the car. "Sweet! Did I spot some FAT CATS here?",

we both jump out of our chairs straightening ourselves. "Guess you did!",

I whisper my eye locked at the entrance. "Play this off well!",

she taps my shoulder.

I wink,

"Of course! After all, I am the mastermind!",

I laugh sending strands of my hair dancing in the air. She smirks and leaves the front desk. "Stay in there! Guys! I said. Stay. In. There.",

a man screams as he walks through the glass gates. He turns around to shoot his eyes at his friends or whoever they are but they have already wandered off to somewhere. He rolls his eyes cursing as he approached the front desk. Lackadaisical, he places his hand on the desk. I stiffen a small smile. Sasha is right as always. Fat cat. Crispy navy blue suit, spotless white shirt, and a leather brown belt with Gucci's double GG glistening. "Good morning, sir.",

I fight the urge not to glare down his suit. What is he? Apollo? "Cole.",

he passes an eerie smile. "Sorry? I didn't quite catch that.",

I bite my smirk.

"You can call me Cole." "Mr. Cole... How can I help you? You have any reservations?" "No... Ummm... I heard there is an offer today?" Now we are speaking! "Uh.",

he passes me a coy smile running his fingers through his pitch-black hair. "Yes, of course.",

I bat my eyelashes at him,

"A free night stay for today if you book for at least two nights." "With you?",

he places his hand on the desk and leans closer. I want to roll my eyes so hard that they pop out of the sockets and bounce right into his face knocking him down - HOWEVER - I must refrain from unleashing my inner dog and be professional,

"Sorry Cole but we don't lend people. Just rooms and a few other services." "Few other services...",

he wriggles his eyes at me,

"What services are we talking about?" "Spa, jacuzzi, poolside bar, and few other things.",

this guy is getting on my last nerves. "Shisha service?",

he raises an eye at me. I nod. "Are you ready to book?",

I clasp my hands together putting on my best poker face. But God knows on inside, the soul is itching to spank him for eating my time. "Honey! What's the rush?!",

he straightens and presses his finger against the earpiece and mutters under his breath,

"Here goes nothing." "Sorry?" "Nothing.",

he passes a fake smile and yawns,

"Just my partners - er- friends. Where are they?",

he turns around narrowing his eyes, and speaks softly in the earpiece,

"Then I shall see you around." "I guess you will see the room service around more often." He slams his ID and credit card. I look at the cards on the desk then at him,

"Three suites for three nights.",

he states firmly. The ring of his mobile startles him. He rushes out of the lobby,

"Book my rooms, I'll be back! There's an emergency." "Wow! That was worth it! Ass!",

I glare as he leaves. A smirk crawls its way on my face as my gaze shift to the cash register,

"Skimmer, skimmer, skimmer!",

I dance my way to it,

"Happy April Fools' Day, Cole!" But wait... No, it can't be! This account is frozen. I dash to the front desk. Grasping the ID with shaky hands I turn it to see the name HAPPY APRIL FOOLS' DAY. The blue marker smeared across it. My eyes rush to the glass walls and the door Cole had left open. In the distance my eyes catch an SUV making its way away.

"Hey!",

I hurtle outside. The sun peaks out of the white cotton clouds splashing the colors across the sky. The flock of birds circling the trees within the thermal. A few pigeons snuggling in the depression of the building's architect coo. Spat! A green-white fluid roll down my black padded shoulder. I am still mourning for my lost deal and pooped coat when the fire alarm unnerves whatever courage was left in me. Sasha strides down towards me,

"Security alert! We have been attacked!",

she trips over her foot. "Shh! What happened? Are you serious! What if people hear you.",

pressing my finger against my lips I walk towards her to lend her a hand but she gags staring at my coat. "They know! They all know! The people used the jammers to sneak in and master to key to get into the rooms! They robbed our customers!", clutching my arm firmly she hisses.

"Who... who were they?",

a small voice escapes my mouth. "They ran away in SUV. I saw them with these sinful eyes",

she points at her eyes getting up, and walks down to the front desk. "Cole!",

I slam my hand on the desk,

"That scumbag!" "What are we gonna do?!" "Well...",

I bat my eyes at her,

"Feels like they all have been fooled twice!",

I wink. She rolls her eyes at me opening the cash register. Pulling all the dollar bills from each slot she stuffed them in her butt pocket. "What the F are you doing?",

I hiss hurling a coffee cup in her direction. It hit the tiles midway between us. She glances at me her fingers still busy stuffing all the cash. I charge at her but my feet slip over the spilled coffee sending me skidding across the floor. My confidence drowns into the flood of adrenalin and cortisol surging out of the adrenal glands. "Fool you twice, shame on you!",

she walks out of the hotel with no one there to stop her.


When I was young, we used to spend at least a few hours almost every day at the beach. My father worked long hours, but my family had the privilege of having one parent make enough money that the other could stay home. So whenever the weather was halfway decent, and even sometimes when it wasn't, my mother would pack up our minivan with towels and sunscreen and an umbrella and a beach ball and some buckets and a cooler full of drinks and snacks and in that cramped and overcrowded space she would buckle my sister and me into our seats, and we would drive the five miles to the Pacific Way Park beach. Now this beach was gravelly and not well maintained and the water was usually cold and there were hardly ever other families there because there were other beaches not too much farther down the road that excelled in all the ways our beach lacked. You might say that these other beaches were objectively better, and maybe you'd be right. But to me, our beach was the best beach in the world. Maybe the best place, period. Subjective experience can, and often enough does trump objective fact. Our beach was better not because anything tangible was better about it, but because the time we spent there shaped it in our minds into something it had never really been. Even now, when I look back on that beach, I remember the bright, warm glow of the sun, the feeling of pristine white sand between my toes, the blue waves lapping lackadaisically against the shore. And none of these things ever really happened, not all at once, anyway. But I also remember my little sister running and screaming with joy, my mother's face staring lovingly down at me, my father laughing hysterically as we frantically tried to chase down a towel being stolen by the wind on one of the rare occasions he was able to meet us there after work. And all of these memories are real. These events happened, and now I am the sole keeper of them. I am their historian, their guardian. My parents are gone. My sister was taken by childhood leukemia a tragically short number of years after her smooth, unburdened face lit up our beach in the clearest, happiest memory I have of her. So no one knows now about our beach but me. I guess that makes it my beach. That doesn't feel right. I put all of this down as a sort of preamble to give context to the thing I'm really dwelling on and that's the fact that within days or weeks I will no longer have a husband. And the way I feel about my beach is the way I'm already starting to feel about him. He's not even gone yet and already my memories of him are turning into the warmer, brighter versions of reality, sprinkled here and there with things he really said, and moments we really shared. It's not that I'll forget about his imperfections any more than I've forgotten that my beach was actually cold and gray, but those things just sort of stop meaning anything in light of the fact that soon I won't have his imperfections or his perfections anymore. I won't have any part of him. Last night he said something to me that I'll attempt to put down for posterity. I won't quote him directly because the way he stumbled over his words and kept circling around the point he was trying to make would be a great disservice to the deep and unsettling meaning he conveyed to me. He said that tiredness can be such a different experience depending on its context. He said that sometimes, like when you're a child and your parents carry you in their arms to bed as you slowly drift off, or when you're just lazing around on a quiet Sunday with nothing to do and nowhere to be, tiredness can be this peaceful, warm thing; a blanket you wrap around yourself and let yourself melt into. But that same tiredness, the exact same physiological thing, can be a stressful, terrifying thing to endure if it comes upon you while you're at work or otherwise occupied, already overwhelmed with all the things you must do and the endless thoughts racing in your mind. Then it's this cold, harsh thing whose edges cut at you. It actively keeps you from finding peace. All of this I agreed with. I even laughed a bit at how philosophical he was being. "So deep," I think I said, almost brushing him off. But he chuckled too, so it was okay. But then the smile faded from his too thin, hairless visage and he hit me with his revelation: There is another circumstance that changes what tiredness means and how it feels, and that's dying. He told me that he feels tired now at all times, and sleep doesn't begin to touch it. He has nowhere to be, nothing to do. Sleep is a blanket, sure, but it's wearing thin. And he can't find lasting peace in rest though he rests all day. He is tired now of living. He confessed he's scared to die. He confessed he doesn't want to go, but he's too exhausted to stay. This kind of tiredness, he told me, he hopes neither me nor our son ever have to feel. I hope so too. I'm struck by something he told me shortly after our wedding when I asked him why it had taken him so long to propose when we both already knew I would say yes. He told me about his best friend John and his ex-wife Laureline. He told me how deeply and passionately in love they had once seemed and how it hadn't saved their marriage from ending. He said that he was terrified that if their love could come to an end, then anyone's could, even ours. He didn't want things to end that way. Well, they're not ending that way, but they are ending. When we said "'til death do us part," neither of us had imagined that it really would. He spent years afraid of what might happen if we got married and the thought of it ending like this had never even crossed his mind. I'm sitting here and writing all this down partly so I remember this feeling someday when I look back on these words and partly because I promised our son that I would soon return to his room with an answer to his question, and I really don't want to return to his room and answer that question. "Mommy, will daddy go to heaven when he dies?" he had asked me, so innocently, so devastatingly. We didn't raise him in a religious home. We never mentioned heaven or hell to him, but how can you keep a kid from encountering those concepts? I wonder how much happier I'd be if I had that unshakeable faith I sometimes witness in others; if I knew with certainty that his father would go to heaven, and so would he and so would I. But I don't know that. I don't know anything. "Karen," I hear my husband's feeble voice half calling and half whispering from the bed. I look over at him and he smiles. "It's okay," he says, as if he knows what I'm thinking about. I smile back and I get up and walk to our son's room. He's playing with his toys on the floor next to his bed and for all you could tell from the outside, he's perfectly content. Even though he asked such a direct question about death, I can tell that he doesn't really comprehend the reality of it. God, does anyone, really? He looks up at me with his eyes bright and I can't help but feel a tiny resentment toward him. Not for anything he's said or done but because he looks so much like his father and every time I look in his eyes from now on, I will be destroyed by the emptiness in my life that his father has filled. But at the same time, I feel much more strongly this feeling of gratitude to him for carrying a little piece of my husband in him. More than a little piece, really. Probably all the best bits. And I am grateful too that as long as he and I are both around, neither of us will be the sole guardian or the lonely keeper of the memories of his father. It's a burden and a blessing we'll share. As he looks at me with those bright eyes and that wide smile, I feel briefly hopeful that maybe he's already forgotten his earlier question. "Well," he says, "where will daddy go when he dies? And I respond in the only truthful way I can. "Well honey, I don't really know.


As I looked out from the bow of the boat, I could see Kadear Coalfields - or Pomafauc Reset as it was now known. The last time I saw this view, I was desperately rowing - fleeing. Back before I was picked up by Kedrick and met Alessia, before the library, before Deer Drum, before Sannaz, before meeting and losing Lachlann. Back when everything was different. Still, I could recognize it as my home. The hills that rose in steps from the ocean and the tall deciduous forests with their tightly packed trees that hugged the white-walled Citadel. Even from a kilometre out, I could make out the boats lined up on the sand, and the rows of small single-storey homes that overlooked the beach. Alessia walked up beside me. “What’s the plan?” I turned and chuckled. “I feel like that’s something I usually ask you.” She smirked. “Not here. You know this place. I’ve never set foot past the beach.” I looked back at the island. My life here may have gone, but she was right. I still knew every building, every path, every inch. “Sannaz spoke to people about me, right? There’s not that many people who know me that well round here.” “Surprised.” Alessia folded her arms. “Can’t get you to shut up these days.” I extended an arm and gently shoved her to one side as she laughed mockingly. “Too busy chasing the citadel to make friends.” I shook my head at my own former foolishness. “So who does know you?” “Two people we should find. First is Thomas. Old friend of mine. We used to work in the same office. Other guy is Jacob. He was one of the prisoners with me at the Citadel. He was the only one I told about my plan to escape. He was in on it too.” “No ex-lovers we’ve got to have awkward conversations with?” Alessia said, raising an eyebrow. I cocked my head. “Sorry to disappoint you.” I shrugged. “Never really got around to it…” “Yeah, yeah. I get it. Only girl you’ve ever fancied was the Citadel.” Alessia snorted at her own joke. I looked back at the island growing steadily larger in view and gritted my teeth. “You have no idea what happened here in the past six months?” Alessia pursed her lips and shook her head. “I know there was some chaos. Fewer traders came here during that. Then it changed its name. But, other than that…” “I left a fugitive. That might still be the case. They may have orders to shoot me on sight.” I took a deep breath as the words left my mouth, pretending they hadn’t been scary to say. “We need to put a sack over your head or something?” I pointed to myself. “We should be good as long as we’re quiet. Doubt anyone would recognize me.” Six months away had given me a leaner, skinnier frame, a sprouting beard and hair just long enough for my natural curls to show. “If they’re looking for me and they squint, we're in trouble. Otherwise we should be fine.” “So you’re not Ferdinand returning to claim his homeland then?” “No.” I smiled. “Just another trader.” I looked back out at the sea. My eyes thinned, and my mouth frowned - a face that kept returning over the voyage. Alessia leaned in, stretching out an arm and placing it on my shoulder. “How are you holding up?” “I’ve seen enough crap on the Archipelago. But. Lachlann… I can’t let it go.” I looked down at the light blue seas, and listened to the soft splash of water against the hull, losing myself in that same familiar noise. “I know what you said, about me not being able to do anything. But I’ll always wish I’d done something - anything so that he was still with us. you know?” Alessia nodded. “That’s natural.” “I feel like he’d want me to be positive and keep doing what we were doing. Be good people, spread happiness, try and make the Archipelago a better place. So I’m trying to do that.” Alessia blinked. “Sounds like an excellent plan.” “But, it’s hard.” I said, turning to her. “How are you holding up?” Alessia scoffed. “I think I’ve seen enough to push it to one side a bit. I’ll grieve. But, maybe once this is all over.” I stared into her eyes, checking for the emotions she wasn’t showing. “You know you’re allowed to feel too, right?” A smile flickered across her lips. “I know. And I promise you - when I’m ready I will.” ————————————————— An hour later the boat wedged itself against the sand, using the natural friction to keep us in place. Alessia disembarked and ran the anchor out the front. I lingered, standing at the side of the boat, looking down at the sand below. When I left, I had disowned these shores, marked them as a place I could not tread. And now, I was staring down, unsure if it was even possible to land on them. “You coming?” Alessia called out from the beach. I swallowed and jumped down, feeling my feet cushion into the damp and coarse beach. Once more, I was back on Kadear. Rationally, the sand here would feel no different to any other island. Yet, as I caught up to Alessia I could still sense a familiarity about the ground beneath me. My feet remembered their home soil. My soles had moulded to the gritty grains, my cadence adjusted to the loose texture. These shores had left an indelible print on me. As we reached the top of the beach I turned back and looked to the far end. Workers brought bags of coal down the beach in hessian sacks, lugging them down to the boats before lifting them up to the waiting shiphands. Meanwhile, traders waved their arms in grand gestures as they negotiated their price. I caught myself twitching a smile at the old song and dance. Buyers pretended to turn away from the offered rate before sellers reached out a hand to offer a compromise. Arms were folded. Lips pursed. Heads shook. Until eventually, inevitably, the parties agreed on a rate. Yet, still. The beach looked quieter than I remembered. The flow of sacks was not quite as constant. The island’s merchants too seemed slightly more agitated, their motions twitchy and uncertain. I was interrupted by a voice from behind me. “Good day.” I turned around to see a short woman walking towards us. “Have you come to Pomafauc to sell?” Pomafauc felt strange to hear. I had to suppress an instinct to correct her. “Nothing to sell. Just visiting. Getting a feel for what’s on offer.” Alessia responded. The woman turned to me, her eyes narrowing. “First time here?” “Yes,” I replied quickly. “Well, welcome. If you do decide you’ve got something to sell, be sure to find me. I’ll make sure you get the best deal on the island.” “Thank you,” I replied, trying to force confidence into my voice. The woman paused, nodded, and then walked past us back down the beach. “You know her?” Alessia whispered as we continued walking. “We’ve met a few times.” “Well she looked right through you. Seems we're safe.” I nodded, and we began walking up the hill. As we reached the top, my eyes were caught by another old memory. To the side of the path, the wall curved briefly away. On any good day, I would cycle up this hill and sit on that wall, staring down at the cove below. It was where my dreams of travelling the Archipelago were born: watching the traders in their differing outfits, bringing their own unique wares to the island. It was my taste of a world outside my own, the little spark that made me fascinated by what else lay out there. It was also where Thomas found me on my last free day on Kadear. It was the last place we spoke as colleagues and friends. “You okay?” Alessia asked. “Yeah.” I forced my feet onwards, but my eyes glanced back at that old spot. I wondered, if I could go back to that moment and change things, would I? Did I still want to be on that wall thinking of the world beyond these beaches, or was I better off now despite everything I had faced. “This place was always too small for you,” Alessia muttered. “What?” “I’m guessing that’s what’s on your mind. Being back here.” She nodded to the ground by our feet. “Your hand was forced. But you always would’ve left eventually.” I forced a chuckle. “Maybe. The citadel though. I was so determined.” Alessia twitched her nose. “From what you’ve told me, despite what a fool you think you were, you always had eyes on another dream. You would’ve gone chasing it eventually.” She paused. “You might’ve been seventy and your brittle bones would’ve given out half a mile to sea, but you’d have made it.” She turned to me with the tip of her tongue caught in her teeth. I laughed, shaking my head as we descended into the town. I began looking for signs of change, but everything seemed oddly similar. The homes were still the same pastel colours of white and beige brick. The people wore the same clothes. The shops and offices had the same signs above their entrance. I had left Kadear with the Citadel on fire. Yet, as I stared down the street, it was as if it had never happened. I leaned over to Alessia. “Everything’s exactly how it was.” Alessia looked at me with a raised brow. “You were expecting your face on a giant mural?” “No.” I sighed, irritation in my voice. “But… what if nothing changed?” “What?” “What if nothing changed? They covered it all up. The same people still rule the island. Everything I did and everything I went through, what if Kadear stayed the same?” Alessia scrunched her face. “Didn’t you see people arrive, see the fake buildings?” “Yes, but…” My voice trailed off, as I restlessly rolled my head. “Can you speak to someone? Ask them?” “Ask them what?” I swallowed a lump in my throat. “Does the Citadel still stand?” She let out a slow exhale. “I’ll be back in a second.” She stood for a second, eyeing up the passers by, before focusing in on a man stepping out of one of the nearby homes. I watched the conversation out of the corner of my eye. I saw the man scrunch his face. Then he shook his head. Alessia replied with something. The man turned and pointed to the north, back towards where the citadel stood. Alessia said something more. The man laughed. Alessia turned from the man with a grin on her face. It became a flat line again as soon as she saw me. I bit my lip, feeling tension in my arms. “So?” Alessia shook her head. “Said the Citadel is gone. The buildings that didn’t burn down are still there, but apparently it’s a town square or something now. Some kind of public space.” “It’s gone.” I sighed with relief, as though feeling a tumour removed. “Yeah.” My feet kicked into gear and I headed down a small side street. “I need to see if something else has changed.” “What?” Alessia asked, catching up with me. “My home. I need to know what’s there now.” Alessia followed me as I weaved back and forth between the tightly packed houses, until we came out on another street. The plots here were wider, each with their own small gardens, and the buildings a few rooms bigger. I counted the doors, walking past the houses of my former neighbours, until I turned one last corner and found my old home. The thread connecting me to my old life pulled once more and I felt a small pang in my chest, my ribs drawn towards the dull walls and the memories they held. I leaned against one of the mesh screens and looked through. It had all gone. The furniture had been removed, the plates on the counter replaced with a dark shade of green, the shelves now holding new books. However, above all else, I stared at the now blank wall where my old map used to be. It was there I had pinned up a huge cloth and etched out my rudimentary understanding of the Archipelago, trying to match it to the old world. I had learned so much since then, enough that I knew much of that map was terribly wrong. But still, it was lost, replaced with emptiness. I never loved this home. It was always a placeholder, a temporary shelter until I got to my real home. But it held so much of my life and who I was. The possessions that formed the person that I was were all inside these four walls. I knew I could never go back to Kadear. But until now, I had assumed that was because of circumstance; physical and legal barriers. Now, as I stared into that home, I realised that there was no old life to ever go back to. I, or who I was, had gone forever. A voice broke me from my contemplative trance. “Excuse me. Ferdinand?” I turned to see a woman and three other people standing a few metres away. I didn’t recognize any of the faces, but I knew the uniform - that of the guards at the Citadel. “I’m sorry…” I stuttered. “I think you might be mistaken.” “Ferdinand,” the woman repeated. “And I assume you are Alessia.” Alessia nodded. “Would you please follow us? We’ve been ordered to take you to Citadel Park.” “I’m sorry. But..” I felt a dryness in my mouth at the thought of going back to that place. “By whom?” The woman responded as though she were recalling a script. “We’re operating by order of the Government and the office of the new Premiere.” \ Next chapter March 24th.


I watched Papa kill Mama on a summer’s night, and he knew I had seen. His demon eyes saw me as Mama’s lifeless form fell to the floor and just before he sent me back to bed. I clutched Margaret to my chest tightly as I ran back up the stairs to my room. I locked my door and hide under my covers, hoping he wouldn’t be able to find me. I felt like I would cry or vomit, but I was only silent with shivers. I couldn’t unsee Mama’s once dark blue eyes turn that horrible shade of dull, dead blue; just like Margaret’s. That morning, Papa told us at breakfast that Mama had left to visit her family in the next village over, and I couldn’t say anything. He just looked at me with sharp copper eyes, eyes that gleamed in the light, but fear of what he might do kept me silent. I thought he would keep glaring my way until he could maybe dispose of me, but my silence must have appeased him somehow because he only smiled and turned to the paper he had in his left fist. Only Justine noticed the strange look Papa gave me, and she looked at me once he finally looked away, searching my face for an answer I couldn’t give. Justine was the oldest of us all, and she looked most like Mama. She was already fifteen and her dark hair shined brightly in the sun, matched by her dark indigo eyes and full mouth. Justine was like moonlight where I was sunshine, and she died under the moon’s awful light. Justine took over Mama’s responsibilities in the house by watching us all. She made sure we were all up for breakfast, attended our tutoring times and nagged Simon and Ronan to finish their cursive. Samuel never wanted to eat, stuck in his five-year-old tantrums, and Lily and Stella were much too stubborn to listen. I tried to help with Christopher, but since I was only ten there was still only so much I could do. Justine tried to be a good mom to us, but she couldn’t understand where Mama had gone. After the first week, she only asked twice for when Mama would be back, and Papa said in a fortnight. So by the third week, Justine asked Papa five times when Mama would be back and Papa told her in a month. Then when the month passed, she asked again, but Papa never gave her a response. It was then that Justine started to ask more questions, and Papa needed to make her stop. I was playing with Margaret, plaiting her hair like mine and making her a new dress out of Lily’s too small summer dress. I had taken to doing my work on the table in the dining area after breakfast, but Justine always tried to make me leave early so she could set up lunch places. I hated having to move, she could never just let me stay in one spot. I had the scissors in my hand, ready to start cutting the outlines for Margaret’s Aline skirt just when she picked up my things and threw them on the side table. She didn’t even place it softly so all my pins fell out of the pattern I had formed from the bunched up fabric. “Why do you continue to play with dolls like a child, Annabelle?” asked Justine condescendingly. I loved my sister, but my disdain for her sometimes overshadowed my love for her. “Margaret needs a new dress for next season. Since Mama’s not here I have to do it.” Justine looked at me sternly. “So it’s true then? Did mama leave Papa without taking any of us? That’s why he won’t tell us where she really is?” I thought about telling her the truth of Mama’s disappearance, but for one reason or another, I didn’t want to warn my overly pretentious sister of anything. Instead, I shrugged in her direction and picked up Margaret from the table with her lifeless eyes, all while humming to myself as I left the room. “You are such a spoiled child, Anna! No wonder mother didn’t take you with her!” yelled Justine. I thought about yelling the same point in kind, but the truth of the matter made me giddy; to know something Justine did not. After dinner that night, Justine and I put all the younger children to sleep, but when we went into our rooms to prepare for bed Justine seemed so distracted. She didn’t change out of her day clothes but told me to sleep without her. It was when I heard the fifth step of the stairs creak that I knew she was going to confront Papa, and I couldn’t help my own curiosity. I grabbed Margaret and followed after Justine. Papa was downstairs, sitting in Mama’s armchair by the fireplace when Justine approached him. I was once again hiding at the base of the stairs, a scene before me that was all too familiar. “Father, where is Mama? Please just tell me the truth. I've heard rumors in town, the other women are saying that Mama just left. That can’t be true, right?” Asked Justine. Papa looked at her then, blinking his gaze slowly but his copper eyes seemed to pierce into her very soul. “Please, I need to know. That just can’t be true!” Justine yelled then. Papa stood, and I feared he would lunge towards Justine and her dead body would fall to the ground, but instead, he grabbed her arm violently as he dragged her outside. Papa dragged her from the house under the moon’s beam and I couldn’t help but think Justine looked like a stray black cat being dragged back outside. I stood at the window to watch, too afraid to interfere. Papa dragged Justine across the dirt of the field, her tears drying on her face in black streaks from the dust flying up. I could see Justine’s dress ripping the further he took her into the open land and her blood stained the fabric has her skin broke open from the exposed rocks. Finally, Papa stopped when he reached the chopping block for the firewood. I don’t know why I didn’t shout for help, I’m sure Ronan and Simon could have saved Justine that night, but I only watched. Justine’s face was twisted by horror and pain as Papa held her left leg over the block, her other failing about as she tried to fight back. Papa ignored her attempts to fight him off, holding her leg with his left hand as he grabbed the ax with his right, moving his arm up to arc it back down and into Justine’s leg. He wiggled the ax out of the bloodied flesh only to bring the ax back over his head and back down in an arc until the bottom half of Justine's was completely severed from the rest. Justine should have screamed, I swore I could see her mouth opening and her throat tightening as if the sound were emitted, but I heard nothing. Her other leg and arms went much the same way, cut just at the joints, but no sound came from Justine. Papa dragged her body into the shed after that and I was too afraid to get caught again so I ran back upstairs with Margaret and wept myself to sleep. The next morning Justine wasn’t in her bed and I panicked with thought of where she could be, memories of Mama’s dead body falling to the floor replayed in my mind. I dressed quickly and ran downstairs, ready to warn my siblings of the evil man disguised as our father, but Justine was sitting in her chair across from mine. She seemed fine but inside I knew she must already be dead. Papa came into the room then, taking his seat at the head of the table. Because of Justine's silence, Simon started asking when Mama would be back five minutes into breakfast, but it was Justine that answered him. “Mama will be back soon, she’s just visiting Aunt Nora until winter.


It took me since the bang of our universe to fall in love, but it took the shortest of a second to completely and utterly lose my common sense. My fingers lingered the glowing backlit keyboard. On the screen flashed a simple confession and I exhaled both in relief and disbelief. What was I even doing? My feelings were like a language I didn’t speak. Yet these feelings were unreasonably potent and dangerously persistent. This whole thing started as a half-hearted excuse to touch the waters of online dating. That's what led me to Flame; a cyber playground for the lonely and hopeful. When prompted for a bio I chose a straightforward approach, simply stating: "Searching for a pen-pal." A few matches poked fun at it, but one gentleman took me seriously. Instead of engaging in typical small talk, he left his email address along with a cliffhanger: he’d pull back from our match and wait for my email. Under the strict condition of no online sleuthing. He didn’t sign his name to the message, actually it was lacking any formalities, ending with a straightforward “Email me”. Eager not to test his patience and fueled by curiosity I made a new e-mail address, using my Flame alias: GingerSpice. I wasn't feeling particularly creative or inspired when I set up my account. Reflecting on it, the choice of name seemed juvenile now. Or maybe I felt that way because of his gaze.

Date: Wednesday, February 14, 2024, 06:45 AM To: MisterR@planet.org From: GingerSpice@wave.org Subject: Interesting 😊 To MisterR, To be honest, I wasn’t expecting this at all, but I do appreciate it. So, yeah, I'm in. I'm curious about where this will lead, about you, and about what stories we'll end up sharing. I paused, unsure how to continue. It felt like there should be more to say. In an effort to keep the conversation going, I decided to share something personal—a new recipe I'd been experimenting with that I called “Sweet Eggs”. It was a simple concoction of three eggs, heavy coconut cream, apples, and a dash of cinnamon. I hoped for nothing and pressed send. Date: Friday, February 16, 2024, 08:45 PM To: GingerSpice@wave.org From: MisterR@planet.org Subject: RE: Certainly 😊

Dear GingerSpice, Happy to have surprised you. Just out of curiosity, were you planning on snooping around online? And may I ask, why they are called ‘Sweet Eggs” without sugar? Until the next letter, MisterR And so it began. He remained an enigma throughout the exchange that followed and I was cautious not to probe too deeply. The ones I did ask, he answered sparsely. One time I did push him a little. I asked him about his name. We had yet to share identifiable details that would allow us to trace each other. The no-sleuthing rule still applied. He sidestepped the question about his name, deftly changing the subject. For an inquisitive soul like me, this was like catnip. Another thing I came to know is that he's not a morning person. He never responded before noon and often replied late at night. This tiny piece of information, as trivial as it may seem, lent a peculiar intimacy to our budding connection. But factually, I was holding on to nothing. His persistent reference to our emails as ‘letters’ somewhat annoyed me—they were clearly not letters. He's been doing this since the first exchange and hasn't deviated since. I kept my irritation to myself, though I was tempted to correct him. I even fantasized about telling him so in person. I wanted to tell him that while touching him. That was the first time I was terribly aware of the limits of our E-mail agreement.

I remember the time when we were exchanging emails, and I wasn't consumed with thoughts of him. I can't identify the exact moment of change, but it occurred in the shortest of a second.  Suddenly, I found myself thinking of him at the most random times, the frequency and intensity of these thoughts gradually escalating. The fantasies spicing up. Twice he had allured to fantasies about me as well. We hadn’t shared pictures, only descriptions. He was tall, blond and had several forearm tattoos. From what I gathered about his schedule, he sometimes worked night shifts, though not regularly, and his job required him to travel often. Unfortunately for me, I had started to care for this onion of a man. My heart was a battleground for two impulses: one that longed for his touch and kiss, while the other urged me to run away and never look back. But, from what? A shadow of my own making, a delusion of my own conjuring? As weeks turned into a blur of emails and daydreams, I found myself in a curious state of calm. The storm of my emotions had settled into something resembling clarity. Maybe, I realized, it had really been too long since I had felt the touch of a lover or even the thrill of sexual tension. What kept nagging me was that he didn’t strike me as the man who’d spend time emailing some stranger without also having some stake in the matter. The effort was there, but for what reason? He has a way of making me laugh, a genuine charm that I couldn't attribute to any ordinary online facade. Somehow, he'd cracked the code, letting me ramble in lengthy emails while offering back his succinct, yet impactful, replies. Still, I occasionally remind myself that he might just be a guy named Frank, sending emails from his mother's basement, surrounded by sour cream Doritos and the scent of canned mushroom soup. But, out of convenience I sidestepped skepticism for the sake of romance. After all, isn't there a saying that the most compelling romances involve a dash of danger? Truthfully, I'm no expert in matters of the heart. I just find myself hopelessly in love with someone whose real identity remains a complete mystery to me. With absolutely no guarantee that he's truly the person he claims to be. It did strike me as interesting that it lingered on. He had never outright ignored my detailed emails, which often contained several sections. Even though his replies had been short, from what I could tell was that he had read them, and more importantly had given what I told him some thought. That must mean someone was somewhat invested in what was going on. But why continue? Our discussions were not exceptional, sometimes even dubious. It was the underlying current beneath our casual comments and risky remarks what kept me coming back. But I was left wondering what kept him engaged.

I remained patient and clueless, until I received a message where he did reveal more about himself. It was late on a Saturday night, and I guessed that a few drinks had led to his unexpected openness. Surprisingly, this made me less wary. Date: Friday, February 24, 2024, 02:45 AM To: GingerSpice@wave.org From: MisterR@planet.org Subject: I must admit that…

"Would you take the risk again? It seems your main issue is not pursuing what you truly want. Perhaps that's what's holding you back, and everything else is merely a haze. Try to look past it. But, what do I know about anything. I can't even bring myself to admit how much I enjoy our conversations. Do you see what I'm trying to do here? You do, I'm sure. If there's one thing I admire about you, it's your cunning nature. Never lose that, no matter what comes next. Do you see what I'm trying to do here? You do, I'm sure. If there's one thing I admire about you, it's your cunning nature. Never lose that, no matter what comes next. Until the next letter, MisterR Someone’s got to draw first blood now and ask the other out, especially after such a confession. It was the only way to get a good reading from him. Meeting in person was the only way to separate reality from fantasy, and I desperately needed to know what was real and what was imaginary. It wasn’t going to be me, oh no. Hell would have to freeze over before I’d do that. No matter the amount of implicit encouragement or absence of rejection. I wondered, what I’d say if he’s start probing. Asking me to confess up. I doubt I'd lie. "What am I to you?" he might ask. "My surrogate boyfriend. When you've never met, by necessity, that's all there is to it." I'd say, half-joking. hoping he'd rise to the challenge. "Then, I want to surrogate-break up," he'd counter. “I'll pass it on to the projection room, but I doubt they'll listen.” Too scared, or too scarred to let my fantasy reciprocate my wishes I recognized the folly of my attachment and felt a new low. I couldn’t continue with this. I am only going to hurt myself in this confusion; falling for someone based on a fantasy, communicating through a medium that distorts reality. I replayed our conversations in my mind, trying to discern what I truly knew about him. An annoying issue that kept coming back was that I knew very little. It seemed deliberately done by him. Time passed as I mulled over our situation; was he simply satisfied with what we had? Playful flirtatiously by plain text. Back and forth, a few times a week. A reliable trickle of attention, but nothing more. Downplaying his confession, that I didn’t dare to reply to. I convinced myself that my hormones and desires were deceiving me. That was all there was to it, and nothing more. This reasoning sufficed for a while, yet it didn't calm the turmoil within. Which left me to the only way I knew how to cope with the feelings: confess. Starting with admitting it to myself. Because frankly I had been running in circles from the beginning. In my journal I drafted a confession not meant for his eyes, but mine alone. "I confess that I have fallen for the daydream I've conjured up." Well, that was the first step. The next step was talking about it to. ‘Put it out in the universe’ my friend had told me. I’d playfully added ‘and out of my head’ to her mantra. But, maybe I should toy with idea of telling him? And deal with the root of the disturbance in the force. I imagined him knocking on my door, I’d open up and say: "I find myself in a perplexing state, realizing my feelings for you are as deep as they are frightening to me, yet also knowing you deserve far more affection than what I’m able to give." And in my mind that would work. Entangled up more than ever. I silently pleaded for Cupid’s intervention; to strike us both down. Double arrows please. Maybe even Cupid was tired of my pining? Because something did happen. It wasn't a grand gesture or a dramatic declaration, but it shifted everything. An E-Vite popped into my inbox, a simple yet bold move from MisterR, inviting me for what would be our first date. He did label the E-Vite as a ‘Date’. This time, it felt real—no longer just words on a screen but a step into the world I’d so cautiously avoided. After a moment of contemplation I wrote: "I look forward to it. Before we set this date in stone, may I know your name?" For the first time he responded immediately, a response that came before eight A.M as well. Which I took as a positive sign. “My name is Frank. See you soon.” He accepted. And with that, this was really happening. I found myself smiling at my screen, bewildered by the whirlwind. My mind was barely processing what was happening. Escape was not an option. Friday loomed over me, equally exhilarating and terrifying. It had indeed been a while since I'd engaged in anything like this. So much time had passed that I had moved beyond feeling insecure about my relative inexperience in love. A vulnerability I had shared with him and he had respectfully acknowledged. For now that was all the assurance I needed to leap into the unknown.


The exposed ankle in the gap between my rolled-up jeans and the top of my sneakers is freezing, and it’s all I can think about as I hurry home under street lamps dimmed by snowflakes. It’s times like these, when the air is wet and cold and seems to encase you in the thinnest layer of ice, that I wish for the hearth of my childhood home in Maine. It was the perfect sort of place to camp out in a snowstorm: a log cabin with a crackling fireplace, stocked with canned soup and packets of hot cocoa and puzzles, not to mention a sizable collection of worn paperbacks. But all I’ve got to look forward to when I return to my cramped apartment is a rattling, wheezing radiator, a bare pantry, and a shower of roughly the same temperature and water pressure as a summer drizzle. I think I’ll skip the shower tonight; I’d rather not get hypothermia.

I’ve turned a corner and my building’s in sight when I hear something, a sort of sniffle, from the alley to my left. Cold ankles forgotten, I peer into the shadows, streaked grey-white with falling snow. The darkness presses in, and the cold does too; I’d just decided I was imagining things when I hear the sound again. I take a step forward, and a feeble ray of light from the nearest streetlamp finds a small face, blue-eyed and framed by wispy brown hair. It’s a girl, maybe five years old, huddled in the shelter between two buildings, wrapped in several layers of oversized sweaters. Her nose is pink, but not from the cold; her eyes are swollen and her cheeks are wet with tears. It’s no wonder. Tonight is the worst night for a kid to be lost. “Hey,” I say, and she jumps. “No, no, it’s okay,” I tell her, but her eyes have widened, and she’s on her feet. “Did you get separated from your parents?” I kneel down, so we’re eye level. “Could you tell me—” I shuffle forward, and extend my hand to take hers, “—where you last saw—?” Big mistake. She takes off down the alley, sweaters trailing behind her. “No! Wait!” I run after her, but she slips easily through gaps I can’t quite fit into, and by the time I come out on the other side, she’s vanished behind a curtain of snow and shadow. I wait there on the sidewalk for a half hour, calling the police station and squinting into the storm. But eventually, after I’ve left a description of the girl and the last place I saw her, I realize she’s not coming back, so I retreat into the alley and continue on my way home.

I worry as I climb the stairs to my third-floor apartment. I worry as I unlock my door and shed my winter jacket. I worry as I unpack my satchel bag and spread papers on my bed, and I worry as I organize them in neat, binder-clipped piles.

At best, that little girl is returned to her parents soon, maybe frostbitten but mostly okay. At worst… I shudder, and opening the bottom drawer of my bedside cabinet, I pull out an old quilt and wrap myself in it. I climb into bed and try to focus on the papers in front of me, but I can’t. That little girl, out there all alone, in the cold and the dark… So I pull open the top drawer of the cabinet next to me and pull out a weathered copy of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. It’s been my favorite book since I was little and my parents were reading me a chapter of it every night before bed. I used to carry it around with me just to feel the thin pages and wrinkled spine, its very presence a reassurance to me. I remember one day we came home after grocery shopping and we couldn’t find it anywhere. I was distraught; and when Mom wondered aloud if I’d brought it to the grocery store and dropped it in the parking lot, I ran right out into a blizzard to look for it. It turned up eventually, which was good; back then, I could hardly sleep without it. It always soothed me, even after I grew up, to read back the familiar words and imagine my father’s deep, slow voice. So I open the book to the first page and begin to read, eyelids growing heavy…. *** Inside these walls we will stay safe and warm, As the snow swirls all around us. Inside these walls we will weather the storm, As the world spins all around us. Drift off to sleep, light as a snowflake Let the silent storm carry you. Drift off to sleep, and when you awake The world that you see will be new. I wake as suddenly as if I’ve been doused in cold water. I sit up, a few sheets of paper sliding off the bed to the floor. The sky is a flat, bright grey, illuminating the whole apartment; outside the window, the city has been transformed. Snow kisses the rooftops and piles up between the plowed streets and shoveled sidewalks. It clings to railings and window ledges, a fine, smooth dusting on every surface. Like icing , I think. I’ve always loved how the snow makes every building into a gingerbread house.

I check the time: seven thirty-two. Now I’m really awake; I’m supposed to be at work by seven forty-five. I jump out of bed and begin stuffing piles of papers back into my bag. I change my shirt to a sweater—hopefully no one will notice I’m wearing yesterday’s jeans—grab my bag and a granola bar, and race out the door at top speed. I barely notice my surroundings as I walk to work in the stream of the usual commuters, but when I look ahead to the other sidewalk to cross the street, I forget how late I am. A familiar figure is on the opposite street corner, faintly resembling a ghost; she’s draped in the same flowing sweaters and her skin is so pale she seems to shine in the morning light. I stare, and hurry across the street toward her, but then something yellow and blurry appears in the corner of my eye— “Watch it, lady!” I skid to a stop and so does a taxi, a few feet from where I would have stood if I had kept running. In my mind, I’m shaking, astonished at how close that had been. But my heart is telling me to find the girl. I try to look for her, but the taxi’s already rushing by me, obstructing my view. By the time it’s cleared away, she’s gone.  I’m left with no choice but to continue my walk to work, though now I keep scanning the crowds, searching for the tail of a sweater or trailing brown hair. Had I imagined her? It’s possible. I’d been dwelling on her all night, and maybe now I was seeing things in my exhausted state. I try to puzzle it out all the way to work, still watching for the girl, but when I arrive at the office my efforts were fruitless on both fronts. I slip past the secretary, who gives me a stern look, and head to my desk, glancing at the clock as I go. 7:51—not too bad. I begin pulling manuscripts from my bag—I’m an editor—organizing them by deadline and stacking them neatly in my in-tray. As I pull out the last two packets and I notice something wedged between them: a book. With a jolt, I realize it’s my copy of The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe. I must have shoved it in the bag in my hurry this morning without realizing. I turn it over in my hands wonderingly. It was the only thing I took from my house after my mother died a few years ago. My father had gone the year before, so it was bittersweet; it makes me happy to imagine them back together again. So the house went to me. All of my clothes and essential belongings hadn’t lived there since I left for college, so I didn’t think I’d need anything left in the cabin. But when I revisited it after the funeral, I couldn’t leave the book there. Most of my childhood memories are attached to it in some way. I took the book, and then I put the house up for sale, fully furnished, and a few weeks later it was bought. I went back one last time, not to visit, just to see, and a young couple with a baby had moved in. It made me smile to see new life in my old house. My attention returns to the book on my lap, and then, as if I could see the lyrics etched on the faded cover, I remember the song my mother used to sing to me during snowstorms. I’d forgotten in my whirlwind of a morning, but I think I heard that song in my dream last night… “Morning, Hanna,” says Mrs. Tweedie, my boss, as she passes my desk. I shove the book back into my bag. “Have you almost finished with Leighton’s edits?” “Yes, nearly,” I lie, because it’s not due until tomorrow and I can stay up all night if I need to. She gives me a stiff nod, and returns to her office. You do not want to cross Mrs. Tweedie. So I spend the morning on Leighton’s manuscript, because he’s almost as disagreeable as Tweedie, and I make good progress. I decide to take lunch early after such a pitiful breakfast, so by eleven-thirty, I’m passing the secretary again (she gives me another disapproving look) and heading into the bright, white, snow-capped world. I nearly always go to lunch at the same café—Lola’s—because the soup there is as cheap as it is delicious. It’s a quiet sort of place, with lots of small tables tucked in nooks and a forest of potted plants, some hanging from the ceiling, others spilling out from the corners or perched on countertops. It’s also about halfway between my house and the office, so I eat dinner there almost as frequently as lunch. A few blocks away I stop at a crosswalk and pull out Mr. Leighton’s packet. If I work on it over lunch, I could finish before the workday’s end, and then I’ll be free to spend tonight getting ahead on the next assignment.

I’ve tucked the papers under my arm when something makes me freeze, my other hand inches from the clasp on my bag. Slowly, I look to the right, and there she is again: the lost girl. Her back is to me, and she’s at the far end of the street, walking up the sidewalk towards where I saw her last night. I only hesitate for a second. Grabbing the papers out from under my arm, I run after her as they flap wildly in the wind. My bag slips from my shoulder but I catch it in the crook of my arm, and I must look crazy as I plunge through the crowd coming towards me. I nearly lose the papers in my hand trying to push through, and when I emerge on the other side, she’s turned the corner and is out of sight. I hurry to the top of the street and stand where she was when I first spotted her, looking left and right, but once again, she’s disappeared.

I seriously question my own sanity as I take a left on the back route to Lola’s, wondering if what I’ve been seeing is a girl or a ghost or a product of my own delirium. I wonder if I’ve seen her only once, and the next two times were wishful thinking; and I wonder if there are any parents calling the police station, looking for their little girl, or if no one’s missing and even our first meeting was a fallacy, a manifestation of stress or something similar. Rubbing my eyes, I do up the clasp to my bag and take another left through an alley, popping out on the crosswalk right in front of Lola’s. As I enter, a dusty bell rings, and the green of the shop washes over me. Faded green walls against vibrant green plants. It makes me feel a little better, as does the smell of french-onion soup, today’s lunchtime special. “The usual?” asks Lola, as I approach the counter. “No, I think today I’ll have the special,” I say back. I normally have cheddar-broccoli, but the french onion smells too good today. I settle into a world of hot soup, warm, buttered bread, and Leighton’s pages, and for nearly an hour, I forget about the sweatered girl who may or may not exist. At first, the soup revives me a bit, but as time wears on and Leighton’s writing gets duller, I become drowsy. After having read the same sentence several times without the slightest idea of its meaning, I decide to return to work, hoping the walk back in the chill air will energize me. I open my bag and tuck the manuscript back inside, but something about it nags at me. Aside from the pages I just put away, there’s nothing in the bag. I left all my other assignments in the in-tray… Then it hits me. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe . It’s gone. My heart does a funny spasm, like I’d just tripped and barely recovered. I think back to an hour earlier when I was on my way here, and in my mind’s eye I see myself running, bag jostled behind me against the people I’d brushed by, wide open with the clasp undone… I stand abruptly, pay Lola, and hurry outside and down the street. I cross the road onto the sidewalk where I’d first spotted the girl, and I can see something on the ground in the distance. I break into a jog towards it, and then several things happen at once. First, I get a surge of déjà vu so strong, I have to shut my eyes and lean against the building next to me. Against the dark of my eyelids, I see, like a video played back at 10x the normal speed, unfamiliar streets and alleys rushing by me. Snow falls so rapidly it’s just white streaks, and all of a sudden, I’m frightened. When I finally force my eyes open, there she is—and I can hardly believe it, but the small figure of a brown-haired someone is emerging from an alley and happening upon the book on the ground. I can see, in my head, the cover of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, and I can feel my fingers close around it, its weight so familiar in my hand, and at the same time I watch the little girl pick up the book, an object just as lost and as cold as she is. “Hey, wait!” I call, and start running again, down the street towards her or my book, I’m not sure which. She whips around, brown hair whirling and twisting in the wind, and then she runs, too. I give chase down the street and skid around the corner, just catching a flap of fabric disappearing down an alley. I follow her around barrels and over crates, through a left and then a right, and past my own apartment building. A few blocks later I take a right out of a different alley and stop on a street corner, peering up the street she must’ve taken, but there’s nobody there. I lean against the nearest building, my breath coming fast and making the air as cloudy as my thoughts. My brain feels like it’s been split in two, like half of it belongs to someone else; someone I once knew, but have forgotten. I realize that I’m on a street I normally take to work, nearly to the office, in fact. I know I should go back, but the idea of trying to work in my current state makes me nauseous. I push off against the wall unsteadily, and as I do, I notice the door just a few feet to my right is ajar. It’s bright red, like holly berries, and oddly familiar, even though I’ve never noticed it on my walk to work before. Curious, I push it slowly open. Warmth floods me, sinks into my skin, the warmth of a hot bath and Lola’s soup, the warmth of a roaring fire. It’s dark, but silhouetted by flickering light, I can see three figures. And when my eyes finally adjust and I can make out their features, everything comes clear, and my mind mends itself so that it’s whole again. It’s the young couple that moved into the cabin, older now, a little more lined and a little more tired, but happier than ever. They’re hugging the little girl, kissing her cheeks and smoothing her hair, and she’s laughing and holding up The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe , proud as anything. As I watch, the father takes the book and opens it to a dog-eared chapter, and the mother begins to sing: Inside these walls we will stay safe and warm, As the snow swirls all around us. Inside these walls we will weather the storm, As the world spins all around us. Drift off to sleep, light as a snowflake Let the silent storm carry you. Drift off to sleep, and when you awake The world that you see will be new.


“You really don’t want to buy this,” the teenage cashier of Jackpot’s Pawn said. “We looked into them; they weren’t any good. Just a Beetles wanna be band. They only ever got this record posted, not even sure how they pulled that off” he said. Bob glanced down at the vinyl, sliding his wrinkled fingers across the band’s name. Yellow and Blue, and odd name to be sure. “I think I do actually,” he said, pulling out his wallet and sliding out a crisp ten from it. He slid the money across the counter to the cashier but he didn’t take it. The teen sighed, glancing around nervously. “Listen, we’re really not supposed to do this, but ten bucks is way too much for that. If you really want it, just give me three and I’ll pay for the rest okay?” he said, pushing the money back to him, his antsy brown eyes finally meeting Bobs. Bob just smiled at him kindly. “That’s very kind of you, but I think I want to pay the full price,” he said. The kid sighed, taking the money, and typing something into the register. “Totals ten sixty-five,” he said. Ben went for his wallet, but the cashier already had slipped a dollar from his own. “I’ll let this place screw you over if you really want, but I’m not letting the government do it to” “Thank you, young man,” Ben said with the same kind smile as he held the record up. The cover art was faded, and even in the best of shape was clearly designed by someone who had little to no artistic talent. His smile widened, and he turned to leave the shop. “Have a nice day sir?” The cashier said, turning back to his computer. “Likewise,” Bob said as he pushed the door open. He walked to his bright red Chevrolet Corvair, its paint job looking brand new even though it was over half a decade old. He sat into the driver seat and gently laid the record next to him in the passenger seat. He slid the key into its slot and cranked it. The engine roared to life before calming to a soft purr. Even to this day, that sound made him smile. He pulled out of the parking lot, and into the road. The whole drive he drove five miles under the speed limit, the window down, and the radio off. He was the only one on the road, of course, so he could enjoy this simple pleasure without guilt. Finally, he reached his humble little home and pulled into the driveway which looked a little more homely now that a car was in it. For a moment longer Bob just sat in his car, enjoying the cool spring air. He picked up the vinyl careful to not bend or scratch it any further and walked inside. His armchair didn’t make a sound as he sat in it. It had none of the gadgets of a modern recliner, nor was at as fluffy as them. He found that most recliners looked uncomfortable, and depressing, and preferred a normal chair thank you very much. He admired the unsightly yellow and blue mesh that was the cover. He thought it looked good back in the day. Bob gently pulled the record from, careful not to smudge or scratch it, and placed it in the record player next to his chair. A scratchy sound emanated from the speaker as the record began to slowly spin. The scratchy sound faded, and his brother Bills' voice came through, singing a slow song. Moments later a younger version of Bob's voice joined Bills as the song sped up a little. And as their voices fell silent, the lovely voice of Lane Adams took their place. Bob closed his eyes and smiled as he was serenaded by her wonderful singing. She was good, too good to have any right to be singing with him and his brother. If she hadn’t insisted on sticking with his and his brothers little band she’d probably have made something of herself, but as the memory of her lips mouthing the words of their songs, and the way her blue eyes shone like glitter and confetti when she sang played before him, he found himself selfishly glad that his first love decided to stay with them.