The Talking Door This is story of a boy named Joy. He used to live with his mother and father next to Petersberg also known as Stromberg. Stromberg is a mountain in the Siebengebrige mountain range near Bonn, Germany. They were a small and content family who were very hard-working, including Joy. Mrs. Jhonna, Joy's mother, was a production manager at a chocolate factory and his father Mr. Jacob ran a shop which was at a distance from their house. The family had a fixed routine. They were early risers. They’d wake up, get ready for work, and get Joy ready for his school, and leave the house by 8 am. They used to walk together till the main street, and from there, Jhonna would kiss Joy goodbye and hug her husband and take on her path to work. From there, Joy and his father would continue walking together, to their destination. Joy’s school was on the way to his father’s shop. While walking down the street, Jacob used to wave and greet at shop mirrors since all those shopkeepers were his friends, and he was a well-known person in the area for his ancestors were the ones who had built the very first house down the lane in Petersberg. Joy was just 10 years old, but he would notice each and every inch of his step, and was always cautious. He was a person to never question any doubt that occured to his mind. He would just think about it to himself about it, but never ask anyone. He was an introvert, and did not like to interact with people. He was always found daydreaming and would often be in his own fantasy world. He was an average student in school. While walking to school, he would notice everything that happened around him. How his father smiled through the windows, how other people on the street were busy walking, some to their jobs, some to school and some to keep themselves fit. Despite the daily ruckus around him, he would be lost in his own thoughts. One day on the way to school, Joy noticed a tiny shack that had a huge vintage lock hanging on it’s door. Just outside that shack was an old single seater bench. This shack and the bench got Joy curious. Jacob would drop Joy at the school gate, and go to work. But that day, Joy was still lost in thought about that shack. After school, Joy walked back home with his friends everyday. While walking back home from school that day, Joy’s eyes again rolled towards the shack and his gaze was hooked at the huge lock hanging on the door. Years passed by, and Joy’s journey to school was just the same. But he couldn’t muster up the courage to go closer to the shack. Joy was now in college, and his curiosity shot up. He would get terrified every time he walked past the shack. Life was good, but he would often get upset, because he wasn’t a bright student. His friends were scholars. But he was never pressurized by his parents. He’d be alone at home for hours because his parents were busy working and had no time, they even got promoted and got increments at their workplaces, which led to bigger responsibilities and more workload. They would get back late from their jobs, when Joy would be busy with his homework and assignments. One such evening, while completing his assignment, the shack struck his mind, and in that moment he felt a little helpless because he never usually shares what is on his mind. That evening, he decided to go and see what’s behind the door of that shack and why it bothered him. And he murmurs to himself, “I’ll go there after my college, tomorrow”. The rest of the day was very hard for him, he couldn’t complete his assignment because of the thoughts that caught him off guard early that evening. He was upset after college the next day and didn’t want to go home, so he aimlessly started walking and got tired by his thoughts, and sat on a bench wondering about his life. While he was in deep thought, he happened to turn around and see that shack right behind him. He was unknowingly sitting on that bench outside the shack. He was shaking and shivering and started sweating, but this time his curiosity was above his fear. He was shaking, but he continued to sit there. While his thoughts started to take a toll on him again, he heard a voice that asked, “What has happened? Why are you so quiet? What are you wondering?”. He was terrified by the voice and those questions. He stood up, and within the blink of an eye, turned around and stood facing the shack. He saw no one, got confused and sat back. Just as he settled, the same voice repeated the questions asked before. This time, he chose to reply, and even though he doesn’t open up to any other human being, he thought of talking to the voice. He whispered, “I am scared of you, but I just want to confess that I am someone who keeps pressuring myself, and often asking myself, why can’t my thoughts be subtle? Why am I like this?”. To this, the voice replied, “You always try to be what you are not. You try to compare yourself and your abilities to others.” This way, the conversation goes on and on. During the conversation, Joy didn’t care about how he was reacting, he was so indulged in the conversation that he cried, he laughed and he smiled like he had never before. He may have been a fool to the people who were walking by, but time flew and soon he realized that it was evening and the sun had gone down. He abruptly ended the joyous conversation and said, “Bye, I have to go!”. Joy started running back home. The same night, while lying in bed, he started to wonder about the heartwarming conversation, he had at the shack. Following that day, all his fears faded away, he gave his thoughts some rest, and started to understand his worth. Life was back on track. He fearlessly passed the shack everyday. Joy soon graduated, and scored more than he expected. He got a job offer from Berlin, which was a 4 hours drive from his home. He was now a confident man with a good job and wise thoughts. He lived a beautiful and content life, in a small house, but missed his parents, and could not visit them often due to work. One fine evening, when he was planning to visit home, his thoughts took him back to the shack, and to the voice that made him an independent and wise person. He thought about what was inside the shack, and if there was anyone in it. It was strange to him how he thought about the shack after years. He wondered why he never tried knocking on the door. He was curious to know if there was anyone inside. He planned to pay a visit to his parents, and took this chance to drop by at the shack as well. He applied for his leave and left from Berlin. While driving back home, he was constantly torn between, hoping for the shack to be there and asking himself, “What if the shack is not there anymore?”. He reached home and spent some precious time with his parents. Jhonna cooked his favourite dinner. Even after dinner, no one left the table. They were chatting and catching up. Time was flying, and just like that, it was midnight. Jacob said, “Come on now, let us all sleep. You must be tired after a long drive, Joy.” Joy’s parents went to their room, and Joy went to his. After about an hour, when Joy's parents were fast asleep, Joy quietly sneaked out. He chose to walk, rather than take his car. He walked briskly till he reached the main street, from where he could see the shack. A gush of excitement rushed through him as he was getting closer to it. Nothing had changed, not even the bench. The huge vintage lock was more rusted. He walked closer, his fingers getting stiff, it was freezing out there, but his body was sweating. He finally touched the door and tried to pull it, but it did not move. He pushed it, kicked it, but nothing worked. He sat down after the struggle. Just beside the bench he was sitting on, he saw a big rock. He gathered all the strength he had left in him, grabbed the rock, and threw it on the rusted lock. The lock broke and fell down, the door opened on the inside. He touched the door and pushed it slowly. What he saw next, left him astonished. He saw himself. It was nothing, but a tall mirror standing in front of him. THE END Moral of my story: The truth is that there was no one inside that shack. The voice which he talked to was the voice of his own mind. It is just that we are living in an era, where we want to hear our capabilities, our abilities, and praises from others. We don’t even try to motivate or uplift ourselves, we want someone to talk to, someone who can remind us who we are. We constantly seek validation and tend to rely on others. We start doubting our own decisions, based on how others will react. We forget about the power of our mind. If you are stuck, if you get abandoned by people, if you are lost in thoughts or questions, no one can answer them, except your own mind. The only one who can truly understand you, is you, your inner you. Try having a word with your mind. At least once. It can probably be your life changing moment! Thank you.


The days felt long. The end of the first chapter of her life began at the ripe age of seventeen. She met a boy. She knew this was it because she could see her future in his eighteen year old eyes. However after joining the Army, they sent him far away. She couldn't go. She prayed, she begged and she cried thousands of tears. She pleaded with God to bring him safely back to her. She impatiently waited for each passionate love letter to arrive in the mail. She kept each letter and pored over each word countless times. The days were torturously long before God answered her prayers, but what she didn't know is that they weren't all that long. The days were actually very short. The days felt long. During the next chapter of life she married the love of her life. She didn't spend much time with him though. She spent her time alone taking care of their first born child, a handsome son named after his father. Her husband had been called to duty in France. She couldn't go this time. Devastated she stayed by herself hundreds of miles away from home faithfully waiting for his return. She passed her days living off the pennies he received for pay. She boiled bottles, washed soiled diapers, sang to her son and rocked him to sleep. When he slept, she wrote long letters to the man she loved. The lonely days seemed excruciatingly long, but they weren't really all that long. The days were actually very short. The days felt long. During the next chapter of her life, their second born child was born. She gave birth to a beautiful daughter. Now at the young age of twenty two, she spent her days taking care of her small family. There was no doubt, she loved her little family beyond measure, but something felt so wrong. She wasn't sure this is what she wanted to do with the rest of her life, She spent her time at home, cooking, cleaning and caring for her children. She wanted more. Her daily life at home felt like a chore and made her days feel long. The days were actually very short. The days felt long. She was twenty five during the next chapter of life. It was a blistering, steamy southern summer, and the humidity drew sweat just from the thought of it. She had given up the stay at home lifestyle and now worked full time. With two munchkins pulling at the hem of her skirt already, her belly stretched and protruded beyond any other body part she owned again. Working full time, pregnancy and summer heat felt like the opposite of heaven. Every day felt like forever, however the moment she looked into the eyes of another beautiful daughter, she knew time wasn't really all that long. The days were actually very short. The days felt long. The next chapter held a surprise in store. She hadn't planned this moment in her life. She thought she was finished, but God had different plans. Her fourth child, another lovely daughter entered this world early in April one year. She had been blessed to this point in her life with healthy children who rarely needed a doctor's care, but this child would prove to be different for her. She returned many times to spend long hours or days and even sometimes weeks in the hospital caring for this fourth angel she had been blessed to raise. The days seemed to drag on, but in reality they didn't. The days were actually very short. The days felt long. The following chapter was filled with children who were honestly easy and well behaved kids, but the responsibilities of a working Mom with four children to care for as well, made her feel like she could never possibly get it all done. She worked until five everyday, picked the children up from her parent's house, drove home to cook dinner, call out spelling words, wash dishes and do laundry while she waited for a husband struggling with alcoholism to make it safely home before she managed a few hours of sleep so she could do it all over again. Considering everything she had to get done during the waking hours, the days weren't that long in reality. The days were actually very short. The days felt long. The next chapter included an unusually cold winter for the south. Heavy coats rarely used were pulled from storage bins and worn for weeks on end. Her daughter now featured a stretched, protruding belly herself. On the January due date, the weather man predicted 3 inches of snow. Far more snow than people in the south knew how to handle. If it snowed, everything would close from schools, daycares, banks and doctor offices. She prayed God would postpone the snow or the baby would wait until the roads cleared. The baby didn't wait, but God granted her prayer. After a safe drive to the hospital, a twelve hour labor followed. The day seemed to drag on as she watched her daughter in pain, but the moment she laid eyes on her first grand child, she knew the days weren't really that long. The days were actually very short. The days felt long. During this chapter of life, she was now retired from her busy career. Her grown children were busy with careers, spouses and children of their own. Her husband of over forty years became sick. His illness took many years to develop into what would be his last days. Every emergency led to a worsening diagnosis. Every hospital trip led to more debilitating symptoms to deal with at home. She did her best, despite the difficult times in her marriage, to give him the very best care she could possibly manage. Though the days felt long as a full time caregiver to a man who wasn't easy to care for anyway, they were really not all that long. Sooner than expected, her husband passed. The days were actually very short. The days felt long. This chapter brought a loneliness she had never experienced. Since her first and only husband had passed, she wasn't sure what to do with herself anymore. Worst of all, she struggled to remember everything she knew she should know. She did her very best to hide her frustrations from her grown children who now lived that same busy lifestyle she remembered from the past, but as the days passed, it became harder to pretend anymore. Eventually, she couldn't pretend anymore. She forgot how to make meals she had made thousands of times. She struggled to keep appointments. She often found overdue bills in the mail. She wore the same clothes for days in a row. Confusion caused her days to seem much longer than they were in reality. The days were actually very short. The days felt long. In this chapter, she didn't know where she was anymore. Her own home felt unfamiliar to her, but she recognized the faces looking back at her. These were the faces of the people she loved most in her life. She could no longer remember what was wrong with her. It had been years since she felt like herself. It had been months since she received the diagnosis. It had been weeks since she managed a bite of food. It had been days since she tolerated a sip of water. It had been hours since she opened her eyes. It would only be minutes before she drew her last breath. She focused on the sweet sound of the voices singing softly in her ear. For a short moment her life flashed before her eyes and she remembered these sweet voices. They belonged to the people she loved the most in this world, her children. For a few seconds, as she drew her last breath, she knew the days had actually been so very short.


“My name is Aubrey Rose McCallum.” She told me on the first day of class, “And I am autistic.” Now I want you to see something.

Please, follow me.

It’s on the north wall of the gymnasium.

Right there.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

It took her over a semester and a lot of spray paint, but it is a true work of art, don’t you think so?

As you can see, Aubrey used such

brilliant colors to transform that plain, dull brick wall into this striking figure of a heavenly angel with both wings and arms spread out welcoming those who seek guidance and direction, is to say the very least, quite inspirational, don’t you think? As with every true life miracle, there is a story that goes with this wonderfully depicted mural and if you have a few minutes, I’d love to tell you her story.

“You have Aubrey Rose McCallum.

I pity you.” Mrs. Komstock shook her head, “Had her last year.

She was a real problem child.” “Comes with the territory.” I commented as I tried to find a five letter word for emotionless in the crossword puzzle I had almost completed. “She tore all of the posters down from the walls when she threw a fit.” Mrs. Komstock sighed. “I don’t usually put posters up in my classroom.” I smacked my lips after sipping my hot coffee. “What do you do?” She gave me a complete expression of derision. “Art work.” I answered with a pleasant smile.

Dealing with Cynthia Komstock required complete diplomacy and careful navigation through social norms and customs.

“Some of the students can’t draw a straight line.” She laughed. “So I put up whatever kind of lines they are capable of drawing.” I put down the word “stoic” which fits into the blank spaces of the crossword puzzle.

“Mr. Dorsey, you are a different breed, that’s for sure.” She purses her lips as she walks out of the teacher’s lounge.

When I moseyed into the classroom ten minutes early, I wrote the date on the whiteboard and “Welcome Back” underneath.

Starting my fifteenth year of teaching, I have developed a process, as they call it, or routine as I call it, because my methods have stood the test of time with my special students who have discovered the traditional methods don’t work for them as they have for the other four hundred “normal” kids who attend Woodrow Wilson Middle School. My classroom isn’t as big as the general education classrooms or the classrooms where the normal students go.

I have stashed a lot of plastic toys known as manipulatives in the spare spaces that I will use to help determine physical dexterity and cognitive developmental progress.

There is also an element of social dimension, in case I forget to mention it.

When the bell rings in a few minutes, I will have twelve students who will wander in provided all of them are present on the first day.

As it turned out, I had eleven students seated in the classroom as the bell rang.

One by one I called out their names, but found that Aubrey Rose McCallum was absent. “She don’t come to school unless her mom wakes her up on time.” Eric informed me.

Eric Schueller had Aubrey in his class for seven years and knew her quite well.

“Very well.” I sniffed, “Let’s stand and say the Pledge.”

The eleven present did as they were told and we said the Pledge of Allegiance which was punctuated when Aubrey walked into the classroom announcing, “I am Aubrey Rose McCallum. I have autism.”

“Welcome Aubrey.” I nodded. “Sorry I’m late.” She said in a voice that was a few disciples above an appropriate classroom tone, “Are you Mr. Dorsey?”

“I am.” I nodded. “Are you nice?” She asked as she put her finger in her nose. “For the most part.” I shrugged. “Aubrey, please take your seat.” “And where might that be?” “Right over there.” I pointed to the only empty desk in my classroom.

Without hesitation, Aubrey plopped herself down in the empty chair and put her backpack on the back of her chair just like everyone else had.

The morning routine went smoothly and I began to wonder in what way Aubrey was a behavioral problem. Very often teachers would talk in the lounge about students who presented difficult behaviors and I would laugh to myself knowing that each student in my classroom had some form of behavioral shortcomings.

Six students, presently in my classroom, were not able to sit in a regular classroom for more than fifteen minutes tops. We had started out talking about the day and our schedule and then we got out a piece of paper to draw on.

This was supposed to be an icebreaker, but it also was a valuable exercise into some of their inner processing.

As I collected their papers while they went to Mrs. Walnut's music class, I saw Aubrey’s paper.

On her paper was a picture of an angel, much like the one she would later paint on her mural.

The angel had a very welcoming expression on her face.

I had assumed the figure was female. When they filed in from music class, I made it a point to talk to Aubrey. “It’s my mother.” She informed me quite matter-of-factly.

“You mother?” I asked, holding the drawing. “Yes, she died when I was little.” She explained. “I’m sorry.” I said with genuine sympathy. “It’s okay.

She looks down on me from up there.” She pointed to the ceiling.

Later, her father Roger McCallum came to pick her up from school. “Are you Aubrey’s father?” I asked. “Yes, yes I am.” He smiled, but then his smile quickly faded, “Did she do something wrong?”

“No, no.” I could tell he was used to hearing reports of her poor behavior from previous teachers. “I’m Shawn Dorsey, her teacher.” “Pleasure, Mr. Dorsey.” He shook my hand with a firm grip. “She is a challenging young lady.” “I’m sure she will be, but I have had my share of students with behavioral challenges.” He pulled me aside where no one else could hear us.

Aubrey was playing on the monkey bars with her classmates.

“She can be challenging from both a physical and emotional perspective.” He explained using an undertone, “She is angry her mother is gone and she hates her grandmother. I have taken her to some of the best child psychiatrists, but we have not been able to solve her anger issues.” “She has autism, right?” “Yes, yes, but if that’s all you know, you will mark it all up to her autism.” He shrugged, “It’s not only that, it’s much deeper.” “She drew this.” I showed him the picture. “That’s her mother.” He recognized it immediately. “She is in Heaven.

Her grandmother takes her to church where she learned about angels and now this is her mother.” “You sound dubious.” I noted. “Her mother, Angie, took a bottle full of antidepressants. By the time they got to her, she was already gone.” He sighed, “Her mother, Anne, told Aubrey that her mother will rot in Hell.”

“That’s not something you should tell a child.” I shook my head. “Yea, that’s what I said, but Anne can be quite dominating.” He glanced around as if Anne might suddenly appear. “Just keep in mind, Anne is not a very loving person.

When Angie went on the medication, Anne told her she was a weak person for having to rely on pills.”

“I think this picture is quite lovely.” I held it up again. “Glad you think so.” He smiled a forced smile, “If I were to take this home, I’d have some issues with Anne, I’m afraid.”

A few weeks later, Anne came to school to drive Aubrey home, but Aubrey ran out of the classroom screaming.

“Go find that child, Mr. Dorsey.” She demanded. I found the small child hiding in the janitor’s closet. “I don’t want to go home with her.” She sniffed. “You have to.” I told her. “I want to go home with you, Mr. Dorsey.” She grabbed a hold of my arm.

“You can’t.” I shook my head. “Why not?” She had tears running down her cheeks.

“Mr. Dorsey, are you in there?” It was Mrs. Komstock rapping on the closed door.

“Yes.”

“You’d better come out.

Aubrey’s grandmother is here to take her home.” She said, “I don’t wanna go home.

I wanna stay here.” She cried. “You don’t have a choice.” Her grandmother sounded quite cross.

“Pleeeeaaaassseeee.” She grabbed my arm again, but the door came open and both Mrs. Komstock and her grandmother were standing there. “Let me have a moment with her.” I asked Anne. “Not on your life.

I won’t have you do bad things to her behind closed doors.”

She reached out and grabbed Aubry by her hand, yanking her out of the closet and dragging her against her will, down the hall. “She was molested by a teacher.” Mr. Wilcox, my principal, explained a few days later after Aubrey had been absent from class.

“I would never-” “I understand that, but still the fear remains with Anne Mullenson.” He sighed. “Autistic children are vulnerable, as you well know.

Now she has come to our district schools with the same result.

Not a single teacher has been able to control her behavior.”

“What if it’s not a question of control?” I asked. “What do you mean?” He eyed me suspiciously. “What if instead of controlling her, we find what makes her tick?” I nodded. “Mr. Dorsey, our job is to prepare these kids for adult lives.

Get them ready to lead productive lives in our community.”

“And what if we find the hidden talent?” I asked. “Hidden talent?”

“Yes, students with autism have hidden talents, but no one bothers to look for them.” I shrugged.

“We don’t have time for that.” Wilcox turned his head. “What if I was willing to take the time?”

“You are wasting your time.” He laughed, “Until two years ago, she never even spoke.

She just threw tantrums in her classroom and caused damage to herself or the other students.

She is on her last chance.

If she does not show academic progress, we will have to place her in a more restrictive learning environment.”

Now aware I was put on a time constraint with her, I began desperately searching for something that would prove academic development. It seemed the more I pushed for results, the worse her behavior became.

One of our fall field trips was to a horse ranch in the local area where the kids could ride horses with adult guides helping out.

Every time we went there, I came back with some positive outcomes. “Her grandmother has refused.” Mr. Wilcox informed me a few days before the field trip. “What do you mean?” “Aubrey can’t go.” He finally told me. “If she can’t go, then I won’t go.” I was angry. “You have to go.

You are the teacher.” He shook his head. Behavior got worse after the field trip to the point where I had to ask for help restraining her for the safety of the other eleven students in my classroom.

One day she ran from the classroom with a bottle of oil paint I had locked up in my closet.

In the few minutes that door was open, she managed to grab the bottle.

She ran to the playground behind the gymnasium and before two classroom aides were able to retrain her, she threw the contents of the bottle against the brick wall.

It was violet and left a splatter pattern against the dirt red bricks. When she saw what she had done, she smiled as she watched the violet streaks run down the rough red brick. “We can’t wash that off.” Principal Wilcox ranted when he saw it. “What if we paint a mural over it?” I asked. “A what?

You want graffiti on a school building?” His face was all red at this point. “No, a piece of art.” I shook my head. “And who will do this work of art?” His voice was raspy. “Aubrey Rose McCallum.” I answered. “Sure, let the vandal herself do the artwork.” Wilcox stormed off. I explained what I wanted to her and she seemed really eager to do it. “I will make a picture of my mama.” She agreed. I made the paint available along with one of my two classroom aides. When asked for a scaffold, I made sure some of the janitorial staff could be there to help her. “Are you crazy?

Have you completely lost your mind?” Mrs. Komstock ranted when she saw me up on the scaffold with Aubrey. “If Anne Mullenson gets wind of this, I’d hate to be you.”

And that was the point.

As long as we abide by the rules, nothing happens, but the minute someone suggests coloring outside the lines, the whole world goes berserk.

Meanwhile Aubrey Rose McCallum happily spent long hours painting her mural. Principal Wilcox would not guarantee that once completed, Aubrey would have demonstrated adequate academic progress, but all I knew was something had awakened inside of her and for the first time she did not throw any dangerous tantrums or display any other negative behavioral outcomes. “Mr. Dorsey, are you going to go out with Aubrey today?” Eric asked when class began.

I was worried, because the fall weather would quickly turn to winter and we still had some work to do. “Yes, I suppose.” I answered. “Can we all go, too?” He asked as the other ten students bobbed their heads. “You would be willing to go out and help?” I asked. “We sure would.” Eric answered for the rest. That day, all twelve students, two classroom aides and I painted the mural of the angel with the open wings and arms on the side of the gymnasium wall.

As we did, the rest of the student body wandered out to watch us.

Some of them took brushes and began helping out.

As it turned out this would continue for four days until the mural was nearly complete just as the winter weather began sending big old snowflakes down.

The angel stood there and welcomed the snowflakes with open arms. “You should be fired.

Dismissed.” Anne Mullenson hissed when she saw the mural for the first time. “Did you tell Aubrey her mother was an angel?” “I said nothing.” I shook my head. “For what she did, she will spend eternity in Hell.” Anne slammed her hand against the wall. “I want this whole thing painted over.” “No grandma.” Aubrey stepped forward, her hazel eyes met her grandmother’s eyes.

“We talked about this…” Her voice caught in her throat. “I know she’s watching me.” Aubrey’s voice did not waiver.

“She took those pills, because she was weak.” Anne turned her head away. “No.” Roger spoke up, “She took those pills, because she was sad and nothing could make her feel happy again.” “And whose fault was that?” Anne closed her eyes. “It's all our fault.” Roger answered. “Except Aubry, but when the doctor told Angie that her daughter had brain damage, she had no hope.”

“She does have brain damage.” Anne looked at Roger. “No, she has autism.” Roger stomped his foot. “Same thing.” Anne shrugged. “No it’s not.” Roger’s voice cracked, “I wish people would quit treating her as if it is her fault she has autism. Mr. Dorsey is the only person who saw possibilities where everyone else didn’t.”

“How can you look at Aubry and not see something is wrong with her?” Anne blurted out. “I see it.” I pointed to the angel. “As do I.” Roger took his daughter’s hand, “And I am very proud of what I am looking at.”

“Do you like it daddy?” She asked as she looked up at him. “Yes, I do and it’s beautiful.” There were tears in his eyes. Father and daughter went walking together as the big old snowflakes continued to fall, turning the ground white.

So now you know the story.

I have decided to retire this year.

I have learned that Aubrey Rose graduated from college, got married and had two children with a husband who thinks the sun rises and sets because of her.

In my tenure at Woodrow Wilson Middle School, we have been blessed with that angel she left behind to keep an eye on us all.


The legend of the Black Silk Kimono It was many years ago. When Higoshi Chayagai in the east was most popular with dance and song. The noble district bursted with travellers from all parts of the land and see. To see the Geisha of Higashi Chayagai. In a popular tea house, the world outside it burnt to the ground. The people said the fire burnt so hot that the sky would not dare let water fall because the fire reigned supreme. So that summer there was no rain, the crops suffered, as did it's people. While other districts had suffered with flooding. Many said witches and sha men tried to rebalance the land but to no avail. Every person who came forward had left empty handed of gold and full of shame.None showed their faces again. They simply vanished. After the fire became weak enough, or had its fill and died, the water did not fall still. But one thing did happen. Again the District of Higashi Chayagai found themselves in need of Geisha and industry workers. As they would again find themselves in less than 20 years. Every District in Japan was ordered to send 1 girl to Higoshi Chayagai, to help rebuild the economy and bring money back. That is where the story begins, with a girl, young and beautiful, Geisha. When she had fled from the fires that cursed her district for the second time. Confirming that the land was cursed. This girl was always odd, an outcast, did not like to talk, did not show the talent to become a typical Geisha. Yet, she became the most popular Geisha of all across Japan for the rest of days. She had no family, and as a baby she was in turn one of the girls given to Higoshi District to a Geisha house. The girls family had been field workers Mother had been told, sent across the water to help build a new land. Upon sailing back her father had fallen overboard in a storm in efforts to keep the ship from capsizing, he could not swim. He drowned. Her mother was a very different story. As she walked through forest she had fallen through a hole in the ground. Missing for 5 days, she sat in the dark, ill from a bite she had gotten from something she could not see and received when she fell. The blood flow never stopped but kept a slow flowing pace for all those days. The workers who had slowly been dying off felt the land cursed. Their screams echoed in the forest and the carcass always replaced back by morning.

The People said the curse had the power of sleep in order to take those it needed and then to return. Once the child's mother was returned 5 days later, the bodies of the dead burnt, her wounds tended to. The remaining set upon the water again back home. Where there were still many curses. It was on the boat that had made it back. That the crew and passengers were all found dead found dead. Except one tiny baby, born after the mother had died. She was tiny, premature but strong . Her lungs wailed, but the sound was baritone and soft. The people called her Kotone after the sound of a harp, and dropped off at a house of Geisha where the little Kotone could make a life for herself. As Kotone grew she was quiet, but when she spoke her voice was soft and whispered. Like her voice carried on the wind and circled encompassing you.Her hair long and black, her skin almost white. Her eyes however glowed so amber they often were considered red like the flame. The Geisha house Kotone had been given to, was the most popular in the district. When Kotone was at the age she went with the other girls to train in dance and music. Kotone knew no other family but the geisha house. So Kotone wanted to indeed make mother proud, however, though graceful, could not remember the steps to the dances and did not excel in an instrument, as well, fans and the art of using them. She was clumsy in her dances taught, Yet could just dance freely, showing a talent for movement. Mother made her practice everyday until her fingers and toes, arms and legs, could no longer move. As time went by a team of females came to Higashi District and stayed in a small bedroom off the house. Here the women were seen with beautiful silks of patterns and bright colours. Paints and strings of the same variety littered the floor. Kotone would sit in and watch these women weave and paint on silk and she played an instrument. After practice Kotone would take tiny pieces of silk and gracefully run the piece over her skin. She loved the way the silk made her skin cool like the fire inside her extinguishing. She loved how it felt smooth and loved the smell of the fabric. Even Mother could see the girls' budding love for the Kimono. Mother at her request asked the lead maker to take on Kotone and allow her to train in embroidery and painting. Tho highly irregular of Geisha to not learn dance and song. It was sometimes those who showed aptitude for something unique who became most famous of all Geshias. So Kotone no longer needed to study instruments and dance. Her talent laid in needle, thread and a brush. 10 Years pass. Kotone had grown and found solace and love for the thread and was in and out of the silks into beautiful picturesque paintings. Across the yard of colourful fabrics. Her kimono had become a sensation throughout the district and mother had sold them to bring honour to the house of Geisha. By 15 Kotone was known over half of Japan for her patterns of snakes and flowers, water and fish. Eventually Kotone was of age and ready to become an apprentice Geisha. Her 15 birthday was to be her debut. Mother had taught Kotone to be a great Geisha and must become one of a kind. So Kotone in the dark of night spun her own Kimono . The days were even longer, prep and tradition must be completed. Blessing and ceremonies, hair transformations into the traditional peach with red ribbon that told everyone she was now an apprentice. May 10th Kotone woke up, her birthday the first day of her life. She sipped her green tea and set to finishing her Kimono. Now days were her own and nights she went out to entertain and mingle in hopes she get a good price for her virginity and honour her house. All Kotone heard was the distant sound of a radio and the pull of thread on silk. Until the obi man came to call. The man stopped in the room when he saw the kimono. There in the candle light was a pure black kimono. So delicate in the silk you could see in black paint and thread the web that spanned the silk and on the right side climbing up the leg was a giant black widow with a small red patch on the back. It was a sight to behold. The piece to be worn almost should have been taken away and put on display. “My, I have to say that I have worked with you kimono before and I would be lying if I said I was excited to see what you would wear tonight, but this is a piece of art! Most beautiful” Kotone nodded as mother stared awestruck. Powdered red lips and perfume applied. The man put on the robe and the sash and obi. The obi was black, as well had had delicate woven features along the edges. “Thank you” she said in a whisper. She was taken to the tea ceremony where mother and her new big sister, an vetted Geisha, would be band together and given a new name to signify her new life. “Ayano” is your new name, it means colourful woven silk for your love and work on kimonos. “Ayano bowed low and as she left a spark was lit at her back for good luck and ate an apple slice for prosperity. They headed for the tea house where other apprentices, Geishas, buzzed and stood shocked at the new geisha apprentice who did not have to serve tea and dance to show their talents to the men in the room. Did not play instruments or make jokes and witty talk. Instead in walked Ayano, a stunning, pale, soft spoken girl who seemed to glide like a whisper in the wind. Almost as if she walked on water, but eyes that burned of fire. The great never seen all black kimono had stopped all talk and everyone silently and simply looked at her. No one had ever seen a geisha in all black but here was a girl elegant and moved in movements like a flame, licking the air. The tea house was quiet but sold out of seats and people had stood at the walls to watch the girl who sang breathlessly to no one but to the silk in her hands sewing and painting tenderly. She was said she only loved and would only ever love the art of kimono. That Ayano made love to the silk with thread and ink. Her song was her movements and how delicately she held her tools to see the picture being made from hand, had people in trance. Hours, people watched Ayano. Drinking tea and sake, no one making a sound but the song of the thread puncturing and penetrating the kimono, the thread dully pulled. Hearing the silk breathe was romantic. What the people in the tea house did not know was that Ayano was not singing any songs. That she was instead web spinning a web and spinning them as they caught on it. Her song, a spell of sleep, evidently in time laying the people down to rest. Her eyes red, fire inside burning, the skin black. She was the black widow on her kimono. After the spell was complete Ayono had sung the song of fire and the silk fabric turned black with death. She got up and walked on fire allowing the house to catch on fire. The fire that would spread over a district, a city, and homes. She would set off across the sea to where her parents lived and where she was created. Not by humans, but by the creature who invenomated her Mother when she had fallen down that spider’s lair when she had been pregnant with Ayano.

The magical venom seeping in her veins in the womb, giving birth to a creature that could spin her own silk and weave her own designs and capture you with her spell.

In the room Ayano slept, where no one ever went being in the attic of the house where she disrupted no one.

Hung so many webs that it made the room dark when the remaining people went to investigate Ayano.

The house was burnt and the stairs hard to get up, but the webs stood strong and had not burnt.

 When people retell the story she is not known as Ayano or Kontone, she is Burakku Shi, the Black Widow woman who became, now just a story that people tell their kids or a movie. Higashi became cursed land. It stayed charred and black. It is said that the Burakku Shi spread her spider kimono over the land and blanketed it in evil. No one can live there, there is no song, no dance, no light, just a story of a spider.


Rome A.D. 222 Well, let me just begin by saying that I never imagined that this day would go as anyone would’ve thought it would. Why in the world do we make expectations and then become angry because they didn’t result as expected? I’m no Athenian philosopher, but I think it’s one of the reasons that today I did something I know I will live to regret…that is, if I live. For anyone who ends up reading this in one hundred years from now—which I will not be surprised if no one ever does—my name is Cyprian Justus Aurelius, an aspiring officer in the Roman army. Not that anyone would care. ‘An aspiring officer in the Roman army’—what a title that can be used for so many people! Take Cato Cassius for example, the most ridiculous man, you can be sure. Once, when I asked him how he would handle a mutiny if he ever was promoted to commander, he turned and told me straight-on that he would rather be killed. Be killed! ‘Hah, man, you will be killed!’ I retorted with a laugh without thinking. ‘Do you think mutinies end in treaties, Cato?’ I asked him. Well, at least now I know that mocking your superiors can result in flogging. As if I hadn’t ever witnessed it before! For whatever reason, I was invited to the palace just last week, and my heart stood immediately still within me when I received the letter, if truth be told. My mind instantly went over the previous week’s events…no, I had not done anything that merited punishment. That is, other than my regular barrage of jokes and questions put to the men in the army. I clear my throat here; my ‘jokes’ are enough to turn my predecessors over in their graves. After much consideration and contemplation, I decided to accept the invitation. After all, it isn’t every day that the Roman emperor requests your presence at his palace, and I thought that at least maybe I’d get a decent meal out of it. Maybe there would even be a few presents, I surmised. If only there weren’t too many guests invited, it might actually be a pleasant occasion. This morning, I dressed with much consideration, hoping maybe to impress the emperor with my military uniform. After all, if his first impression of me was a military one, he would most likely assume I was a loyal Roman citizen, and there would be absolutely no reason for him to punish me. I hate to find myself ever in a people-pleasing way of mind, but when it comes to your emperor—maybe one’s life is worth more than one’s pride. When I had arrived at the palace, I was escorted into the dining chamber where I found myself in the company of many—no! While I had been expecting to see maybe ten other guests gathered, and stood there staring around the room for any others, all I could see was this thin boy standing over among the pillars staring up at the ceiling. What a simpleton! I told myself. Moreover, he was wearing pure silk and a golden wreath about his head as if he were the emperor himself. The fool, I thought as I rolled my eyes and rubbed my neck in discomfort. What an awkward way to be found when the emperor finally did arrive for supper. Suddenly, I found myself being grasped by the hand by the young simpleton, a broad smile transforming his face as he pulled me over toward the semicircular table. ‘Hello, hello!’ said he, continuing to clasp my hand in both of his. ‘Welcome to supper! We have twenty-two courses coming on, and I—’ ‘I think we had best wait—’ I began. ‘Wait for what?’ he demanded, brows drawing together in confusion. ‘Why wait when there are so many things to be done? What especially with twenty-two courses to be served and then amusements afterward?’ And with that, he threw himself down onto what appeared to be a solid silver couch and rested a hand behind his head as if he was wearied already. Thoroughly confused, I stood there staring until he finally looked up and nodded resolutely. ‘Ah, I must apologize. I don’t think we’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting before.’ A smile spread across his face as he sat up straight on the couch and extended a white, bejeweled hand. ‘I am Emperor Heliogabalus, but of course, you know that already.’ It took nearly all my power to control my face, but I could feel a strange look coming over it nevertheless. True, I had never seen the emperor with my very eyes, but never, ever would I have guessed that this boy, who could be no older than I was, was my leader. Finally, a group of men wandered into the room, and I started, staring hard at them and unbelieving as to how all of them had chanced to come to the same supper. ‘Oh, my servants in togas!’ exclaimed the emperor as he held out his arms as if to welcome them all and then gestured to the table that I was standing beside. He turned to me, face impish and eyes narrowed and sparkling as he slid to the edge of his couch. ‘The senators do not care for the nickname, but I find it so droll! Yes, my servants, come around and be seated.’ In discomfort—or perhaps it was embarrassment—all eight of the men crowded round to the seats opposite the emperor’s couch. Having all but one eye, many times they ran into one another or jostled the other out of the way as they tried to be seated. At length, when all were comfortable, I sat down also, closest to the emperor, and tried to do anything but stare at the gaping holes in their faces. ‘First course is flamingo brain accompanied by partridge eggs and watercress,’ Emperor Heliogabalus explained from the other side of the table as the servants brought in the trays and laid them out across the table among the bowls of grapes and apples. With a ravenous appetite, he began to devour the food laid out in front of him, steadily looking on at his subjects and pointing to their own silver plates. ‘Eat it.’ I considered the plate in front of me and shook my head. ‘If I want to be sick,’ I muttered under my breath. ‘We—we can’t eat it,’ voiced one of the men aloud from to my right as he looked down at his own plate where a painting of a sumptuous feast rested. ‘Eat it,’ insisted the emperor, his brown eyes growing wider as he pointed a thin forefinger at the plate. Hesitantly, the men lifted the paintings to their mouths and lightly bit at different corners. He is mad, I told myself, shaking my head as a burst of laughter erupted from the other side of the table. ‘Oh-oh, so droll,” he laughed, ending with a deep sigh. ‘Alright, enough with that. Take a grape or two and try some of the partridge eggs.’ I reached for a grape and popped in into my mouth, a terrible shiver racing through my body as my teeth came down with a hard crunch and the bitter taste of lead paint filled my mouth. ‘Eat it,’ smiled Heliogabalus encouragingly. ‘The very best from Apamea.’ My heart thumped in my chest as I blankly stared back at him. What a man. ‘It’s a rock,’ I stated flatly. ‘I’m not mad.’ Another eruption of laughter echoed through the banquet hall, and Emperor Heliogabalus shook his head, taking one of the grapes on his own plate and tossing it into his mouth. ‘These are delicious,’ he remarked with a smile as he gestured to his full plate. ‘Real grapes from Apamea, I’m telling you. Try a partridge egg if you don’t prefer the grapes.’ ‘Probably another rock,’ I retorted angrily, releasing the breath I had been holding. Amongst the general chatter that had eventually arisen after the other guests had reluctantly pushed back their plates, the emperor began a lively discourse with one of the servants standing nearby. Although I hadn’t been paying the most attention, it had sounded as if Heliogabalus had asked something of the servant. ‘I said a thousand pounds of spider silk,’ repeated Heliogabalus with a raise of one brown eyebrow. ‘W-where are we supposed to get one thousand pounds of it?’ faltered the servant as bewilderment lined every line in his face. ‘I don’t know, but I do know that it’s your job to get it for me,’ answered the emperor coolly, tacking on another of his smooth smiles. The he added in a slightly singsong voice, ‘Maybe I’ll even throw in a present…that reminds me. Guests.’ He turned to us all and sat up straighter in his chair. ‘I have something for you before you leave, so don’t forget to remind me.’ Murmurs of ‘alright’ rejoined the emperor’s request, but I didn’t say anything. I only placed the smooth, hard, white orb of a partridge egg back onto the second plate beside me. I would preserve my teeth…and my tongue. ‘What on earth!’ I suddenly exclaimed, finding my chair slowly sinking out from under me. Mirth almost overfilled the emperor’s sparkling eyes as he scrunched up his face and laughed so heartily that he looked as if about to pass out. Gripping his sides, Heliogabalus shook his head back and forth and then placed a hand to his chest as if to still his heart. ‘By Caligula’s consul, I haven’t thought anything so hilarious in years! Your face! Oh, Cyprian, you take everything so seriously!’ ‘And you are mad!’ I exclaimed hotly as I stood up and stared down at him. ‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but you are certainly not impressing me or anyone else here!’ There was silence for a moment, and I was on the verge of grabbing my satchel to leave when he also stood up and grasped my arm. Looking earnestly into my face, Heliogabalus seemed on the verge of breaking down into laughter when he suddenly stepped back and caught his breath in surprise when he recognized the anger in my eyes. ‘It was just air in your seat,’ he faltered in surprise. ‘Only a joke…’ ‘Please accept my apology, Emperor,’ I said as a wave of guilt washed over me. What was happening to my manners? How could I act as if this were just another one of the men from the army? Surely, he would have my head decorating his next supper table for this. ‘I wish for all of you to accompany me to the balcony,’ Heliogabalus said serenely, as if nothing had happened. The light patter of footsteps against the marble floor echoed throughout the airy palace, and I couldn’t help but to let my attention wander to the milk-white statues populating the halls and the beautiful frescoes and mosaics dancing across the walls. Extravagance bespoke everywhere my eyes landed. Finally, we reached the balcony hidden just beyond a small alcove and found it to be a surprisingly sunny platform and rather spacious. ‘Why are all these people gathered?’ I asked hesitantly as I gave a start, seeing the thousands of eyes directed up at us. ‘My people of Rome!’ shouted Heliogabalus with an overjoyed smile enlightening his face. ‘You’ve guessed it…’tis time for the Lottery!’ A huge applause greeted the emperor’s words, and he stood soaking it all in for a moment, just as a lizard on a garden wall would soak in the sunshine. When the crowd had somewhat quieted, Heliogabalus folded his thin, white arms and slightly angled his tousled head. ‘In exactly three seconds, you could be the proud owner of a new home or a slave or even—’ here he paused dramatically, reveling in the suspense of his own silence, ‘—a prize of three-thousand sesterces! And I mean you , yes you, my dear Roman subject.’ With that, the air below suddenly clouded with thousands of pieces of paper fluttering to the ground like snowflakes. Among the whiteness, I thought my eyes caught a few rope-like items streaking through the sky. A shriek pierced through the air and sent chills skittering down my spine. Grasping the balcony edge, I peered down into the cloud of descending lottery tickets. ‘Snakes!’ came more terrified screams from the mob. I jerked back from leaning over the balcony and stared again at Heliogabalus who was looking out over the crowd with such an amused expression on his face he seemed to be about to go into another laughing fit. ‘Did you put snakes in the catapults?’ I demanded in incredulity. ‘Not just any ordinary snakes,’ Heliogabalus replied with a grin. ‘Poisonous ones. Now, if you will all come back inside, I would love to have you open your gifts from me. No mere lottery tickets for my friends.’ When we were all once again in the banquet hall, he motioned to his servants to bring in the gifts. My stomach growling in dissatisfaction and my ears still ringing with the horrified screaming of the commoners, I flung myself down onto a sofa beyond the table. The eight one-eyed men stood standing in a cluster, their eyes continually darting to the growing pile of boxes in the middle of the floor. ‘There, I think that’s all of them,’ announced one of the servants to Heliogabalus. ‘Very good. Cyprian—’ ‘Here,’ I said shortly, my mouth pressed into a thin line. ‘This one is for you!’ Reluctantly, I stood up and walked over to where the emperor stood beside the mound of boxes, one of his white, ringed hands resting on top of a good-sized package. ‘You’re too kind,’ I said dryly as I knelt down beside the box. ‘You’re welcome!’ smiled Heliogabalus pleasantly. Then, growing more serious, he let his gaze rove the expansive room and then come back to rest on me. ‘I hate this…hate keeping all this wealth for just me. I won’t use it all, that’s for certain, and I just thought that you would at least appreciate a little something to help further you with your valiant ambitions in the army.’ Taken aback, I knelt there looking up at him for a moment before reaching for the latch on the box. In a moment, I had lifted it and bent to look inside. Within the smallest second, I was up on my feet and rushing toward the door, an intense burning feeling repeated in thousands of places on my body. Where was the door? I frantically demanded of myself while furtively glancing behind me at the angry, black cloud of charging bees. The roar of buzzing resounded in my ear, and I caught Heliogabalus standing by the boxes, laughing his royal head off. Without a second thought, I rushed for him and tackled him to the floor, knocking the air well out of his body. Struggling to regain his breath, he sat up, and I jerked him to his feet and shoved him into the hundreds of bees. ‘Get me out of here!’ shrieked the emperor as he fell to his knees and covered his face with his arms. I could see the lumpy welts rising up on the fair skin of his arms already as the bees crowded round their victim. Too terrified to jump in and put a halt to the fracas, the servants hung back, and the one-eyed men were making for the door. After a few solid minutes, I leapt into the mass of bees and dragged the emperor’s limp body out of the cloud, across the floor, and into a different room where I laid him on the floor. I had but instants to escape and make for the haven of my own home deep in the city.

Now, I find that it is only a temporary haven. A letter was just delivered to me from my brother who lives closer to the palace than I do, letting me know that he had already heard what occurred this afternoon. Now, I sit here at my table with this old book before me, knowing quite well that this could very well be my last entry. Now that it is all over, I see that my outspokenness in both word and deed might very well be my fall. A sigh escapes my lips, and I stare out my window into the darkening dusk of the street, wondering why on earth I would feel it my liberty to say and do such things in the emperor’s palace. They are at my door; I hear the tramping of their nailed sandals on the stones of the street. The scarlet torches send glowing sparks up into the night air, and the soldiers are halting at the door. My fellow soldiers. My friends. My brothers. They are entering. My heart is wrenched with true guilt over my rashness, not merely because of the consequences. I did the wrong thing, and I deserve what is coming to me. Here, I am laying down my quill and standing. Mea culpa. Through my fault.


The tip of the syringe plummets into my skin, a sharp pinch clenching where the needle hits, I bring my thumb down on the plunger, forcing the chemicals into my body. Suddenly all the pain goes away, and my body is reduced to numbness, I feel outside of myself, a simple spirit being whisked away by the soft breeze flowing through my open window. It's beautiful. Uplifting, I don't know how I could live without it. Some may call this an addiction. Sure, I've lost friends to this, but they just don't understand how great it makes me feel. The chemicals spinning inside my bloodstream, lifting me out of all the pain from this world. They don't understand... Three years ago, depression and suicide was the world's biggest problem-And seller-Outnumbering all causes of death by a mile. years ago, when the average rate of suicide was a mere one every forty seconds, it climbed to one every twenty worldwide. Using this knowledge, corporate companies specialising in drugs skyrocketed as the demand of stronger antidepressants were increasing by the millions, so the companies decided to take a more illegal route, and started creating drugs that were less about reversing depression and more about distracting the users of the substance from it briefly. But each time you lost your high, you hit an extremely bad low, causing you to give into the drug another time, therefore creating addiction, and boosting the sales by the millions. The drug is called uplift, and is a hallucinogen, it takes you 'out of your body', and into a world of your own making, of course it was against the law though, so in a knee-jerk reaction, the UN condoned it as an illegal substance, and production of the drug was ceased. However, it found a way and is now the most used drug in all of history, there have been countless side effects listed, and still countless to be found. This is why my body is lying in a dry bathtub, my clothes soaked in sweat, and my sprit drifting off into another world. One of the effects that uplift has is to make you hallucinate an entirely different world than that of yours. It blurs the lines between imagination and fiction, creating the person of your dreams per se, or taking you to a place of your own creation. Right now, as I gaze upon my passed out body, I feel the hairs on my neck stand up, I glance behind me to see an open field of corn, crows squawk in the distance, circling a lone scarecrow, its tattered coat rising in the soft breeze. I slowly walk up to the scarecrow, stealing a quick glance behind me, only to see my bathroom replaced with an infinite abyss of corn fields. I've had many experiences with this drug, probably more than I should have, but this is unlike anything I've ever had, it feels so real. I cautiously walk up to the scarecrow, the sockets in its face stare into my very being, making me shiver. beside the mess of straw and rags is a small coffee table with a knife on top. its blade beckons me, mocks me, its shiny surface tempting me. my hand reaches for the hilt of the knife, it's hilt, cold under my skin. It's so real. I weigh the knife in my hand and look at it longingly, suddenly the blade takes control of my hand, and slowly edges itself until the tip of the knife lightly stops at the torso of the scarecrow. The urge becomes too great for me to handle. I bring the knife back beside my face. I know this isn't real, but something feels so wrong. Before I could give it a second thought, my eye catches that of the scarecrow's, it speaks to me, do it. I drive the knife into it's torso, suddenly a sharp pain shoots through my side, my hands try to grasp the pain, but they do not move, the scarecrow speaks to me again. More. I twist the knife inside its stomach, retrieving a feeling of twisting pain deep inside my own stomach in return. It hurts so bad. But I can't stop. I need more. I slide the knife out of the ragged beast, and am rewarded with a sight of blood gleaming from the silver blade. A grin spreads across my face. Again and again and again I drive the knife into it's stomach, ignoring the constant pain erupting all throughout mine, specks of blood fly all around me, I catch some in my mouth, the metallic taste fuelling my bloodlust evermore. I hurl the knife into its stomach again, and am rewarded with yet another stab of pain, I let out a cry as I finally fall to my knees. I continue smiling through the pain. The voice echoes through my mind again. Finish it. I look up to the scarecrow's chest, and feel the pulsing of its heart as if it's my own. "Yes" I say, a sudden wave of twisted joy washing through my entire being. I rise the knife to its chest and let out a final scream, plummeting it into the soft skin of the scarecrow's rags. Suddenly the world goes blank. The last thing I see is my limp body on the kitchen floor, soaked in blood with my hands clamped around the knife implanted in my chest, the grin still printed on my face.


Gratitude So, the touchy-feely person in Human Resources sends me to a therapist to resolve my anger issues. I’m not angry, I’m just fed up with everyone. They are all such busy bodies and pretend all this interest in everyone else. I don’t think they care one way or the other. (Including my boss who ordered me to go.) He is so worried about saving his own job that he caves in to every ridiculous rule the management team creates. They are all worried someone’s feelings will get hurt. Don’t say this, don’t say that, brother! Anyway, I am explaining why I feel so frustrated with my office and the shrink says, ‘There must be something you are grateful for. Why don’t you keep a journal for ten days about what makes you grateful? See if your attitude towards things changes.” I’m grateful I only have to do this for ten days. Day 1 What am I grateful for today? Well, it is the weekend, so I’m grateful I don’t have to see all those phonies at work. And I’m grateful I don’t have to ride that crowded, filthy train. Of course, the mail was late and I have a package that the carrier would not leave. Now I have to go online and request that it be left at my door on Monday. What a hassle. Day 2 I went to church this morning. There was hardly anyone there. It’s not like everyone in the congregation doesn’t need a good sermon, and I am grateful that the sermon was good. It was about charity and walking in the other man’s shoes. How often does anyone do that for me? An it is definitely charity letting some of these people sing. Maybe next week we can have a sermon on the widow’s mite for some of these cheapskates. I am grateful that one of our members who had been really sick was back and looking much better. I missed her and her good singing. I probably should have gone to see her in the hospital. Day 3 Back to work. I’m grateful that I found a good parking spot at the train station, for once. The train was packed and both stations were madhouses. The Human Resources woman had to meet with me to confirm that the therapist was acceptable. I said he was, and am grateful I don’t have to start this business all over again. I noticed Frank was out today and Karla, the woman in the office next to him said his son had been in an accident. He was going to be okay but Frank was going to stay overnight in the hospital with him. I’m grateful for that. I am ashamed that Karla had to remind me of the boy’s name. The package was waiting inside the screen door when I got home. I’m grateful no porch pirates stole it. It was a picture of my daughter and her husband and their new baby. I’m grateful the baby doesn’t look like her father. He could be I the circus. But he is a good man and good husband. I am very grateful for that. Day 4 The train was better today. I had to park at the end of the lot though. Frank was back at work, said his son would be alright. I’m grateful for that and that Frank will be okay too. I didn’t realize how much I relied on him being here every day. He looked like he had not slept in days, poor guy. I know how you worry when one of your kids is hurt. Why aren’t drivers more careful? I should also be grateful that nothing that bad has happened to me. Day 5 The weather was nicer today. That meant there were more panhandlers at the station. I gave them all my cash and didn’t have any left for my coffee. Ah well, I should just be grateful I have a job and have any extra cash at all. The boss announced that the office staff has to be reduced. That means the newest hires will have to start looking for new jobs. I should write a reference letter for my new assistant. I am grateful I am not being let go. I worried about those young people on the ride home. At least our HR department is setting up a job and resume posting site. Day 6 There was no ice on the road today. I was grateful not to slide once on the way to the station. Frank decided to transfer to the New Mexico office. He doesn’t want any more icy winters. I will be sorry to see him go. I’m grateful I got to work with him for so many years.

With Frank leaving, that means one less person will be let go. But we will lose all that experience. To save money, the boss will keep the newest kid. The police found a homeless man dead outside the train station. They had removed the body by the time my train got there. I offered a word of gratitude that I am not in such a sad situation. Day 7 It’s Friday and I am grateful that I am going to make it through another week. It has been a difficult one. I am grateful for Karla; she is arranging Frank’s going away in addition to helping with the resume workshop for the kids we are letting go. I volunteered to pitch in with that. She seemed glad for the help. There was a woman with a dead battery at the train station. She was very upset. She didn’t have jumper cables and her phone was dead. We texted her family from my phone and I got out my jumper cables. Unfortunately, she was parked right next to a light pole and the cables wouldn’t reach. Luckily, another fellow gave her a push to an open space and together we got her on her way. I was really grateful for the help that man gave us. There still are kind people around. Day 8 Yahoo, the weekend. I was grateful for a beautiful morning and a full pot of coffee. I was grateful for a good porch, a comfy chair and the singing birds. I still had chores and errands and the storm windows to take down. I didn’t look forward to climbing up and down that ladder. Charles from next door saw me hauling it out. He hollered, “Hey Ben, you are too old to be on that ladder.” I hollered back, “Who else is gonna do this?” “Henry’s kid, Ashton, took all mine down for forty bucks.” “That’s a lot for a few windows.” “Cheaper than a hospital bill.” I paid Ashton forty bucks and was grateful to have somebody else do that chore. I am grateful for a neighbor like Charles. Day 9 I skipped yesterday and am writing this from my hospital bed. On the way home from church, I was in a bad accident. The other driver lost control of his car and hit me broadside. Sadly, he was not wearing his seatbelt and did not survive. I must remember to send his family my sympathies.

Laying here, I am grateful for so many things. I’m grateful for the EMTs, the emergency room staff and the person who invented seat belts. I am really grateful that I am not mangled. But my head did hit the window pretty hard and I can’t seem to hear. The doctor said, rather wrote a note, that my hearing may return. Oddly enough the sermon at church was about counting your blessings. Maybe I should think about that while I am waiting to be released. Day 10 This is my last required gratitude entry. I have decided to keep journaling every, well almost every day. My neighbor Charles brought me home and got me settled. We had a one-sided conversation about the instructions from the doctor and when he would check on me. Some members of the church brought a weeks’ worth of food. Ashton gathered my newspaper and mail today. My daughter and the baby will be here tomorrow. While I was sitting on the porch this evening, grateful to be alive and whole, I heard a mockingbird singing just for the joy of it. I have a lot to be grateful for. That shrink knew what he was talking about.


My fingertips were numb as I stood under a busstop shelter with 6 more poor bastards waiting to take the same ride into town as I. They were seasoned visitors, most of which probably lived less than a mile from the rickety shelter we now stood. I was tired. I leaned up against a supporting beam, my legs weak and probably trembling. I had been walking all week. No luck with hitchhiking. Apparently I used up the rest of my luck on my last ride when he didn't kill me or sell my internal organs. I know my legs must have been trembling because a nice older women asked me if I wanted to sit, and she offered me her seat. I told her I would be alright and thanked her anyways. She reverberated what I remember from my catholic alter boy youth vividly as a Bible verse from Deuteronomy. "You shall also love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt." She said referring to me as the stranger. Her offer was tempting but I couldn't take a seat away from such a sweet lady. We talked more. She sure knew her text. She kept notice of my shaky legs and finally she said to me "The Lord watches over the strangers; he upholds the orphan and the widow." And gestured to the seat. I finally agreed to take her seat, as I was near about to fall over and the offer felt well-timed. Maybe the Lord was looking over my shoulder after all. I was so tired. "Could you watch my bag while I shut my eyes ma'am. And wake me up if Bus 33 shows up. I would appreciate it." "Why of course," she responded. She was happy to help. I rested my head on the wall and shut my eyes. I must've dozed because I woke up and it was dark. I was cold and shaking even worse than before, only this time it was my whole body. I was vibrating like a cell phone. A wave of confusion flushed over me. My lack of understanding was short lived as I looked to my right and the lady, as well as my belongings, were nowhere to be seen and probably miles away by now. "Goddamnit!" That lady spoke like a priest and went on to rob me blind! And worse yet, all those people there watched it all go down and payed no mind to even wake me before my bus arrived or to let me know I'd been fucking robbed. Luckily my bus fare was in my pocket so I still had a ride into the city. I caught the next bus, but fuck me if I don't miss my fucking tent right about now. How can someone who's read so much of the bible act so vile? Was it all bullshit, I pondered. Did she even believe the words she spoke or was it all just a gimmick to let my guard down? Maybe. Or perhaps it's those wayward sons and daughters that need God the most. Maybe she was tricking herself more than she was I. I hope she sleeps well tonight. And she will. That was a really nice tent. Hey, thanks for reading! If you enjoyed the story then gimme a follow. This is my first posted short story. Don't hesitate to give criticism or grammar corrections.


40 years from today, less than 2 weeks before I would be 77, life was interrupted a bit earlier than expected.  My husband walks into my office quietly. he looks around at the only room in our home mostly unchanged through our many years. Evidence of our lives together filled every corner of the room in photos, children's drawings, and keepsakes from our adventures. Suddenly so many happy memories in this room flash through his mind.  He imagines me sitting here at the desk the night we found each other. Laughing, drunk, playing video games together from ten thousand miles apart. Neither of us held a clue about the lives we were about to lead together. The night he FINALLY touched down from Australia to the United States, we didn't sleep for days because we were so scared of missing any time. Our years of joy and sorrow and chaos. Our years of nonstop laughter.  He recalls standing quietly in the doorway listening to me sing softly as I rock our baby back to sleep. I never noticed him there because I was entirely wrapped up in the small sleepy breaths of our tiny girl. He chuckles to himself as he remembers this because he knows how much I hate people hearing me sing.  Our children, running in and out around his legs as he brings me coffee because... just one more game. Me, sitting in the chair at my desk. Rummaging through drawers for a bandaid. The tender way I kiss our daughter's booboo. The way I reassure her she's ok, she's strong just like her daddy. The pride he felt in that moment comes flooding back as he remembers the way our little girl wiped her tears through the pain and stood up straight. She's strong like her daddy.  Standing hand in hand, behind the chair of the desk. Both of us, filled with hope and a just little panic. Glancing over at each other while our son anxiously refreshes the computer screen. Silently pleading with the universe to show him he was accepted into the school of his dreams.  The way he would always somehow know from the other end of the house that I was at the desk, worrying about the bills piling up, trying to make the dollars stretch as far as we could. To keep the dream school possible. The way he'd swoop in almost silently and gently move my tense hands from even more tense temples. Hand on my chin he would softly make me look at him and reassure me "We've got this Bubs, yeah? We always have and we always will". The way he felt like he was never ready to let go every time I melted into him to steady me.  Suddenly overcome with emotion he sits down at the desk. He places his hands for just a moment on the cool, worn-out wood, needing to steady himself. A few deep breaths. No tears. He's the strong one. He's always been the strong one. He's ready. He looks around at a picture of us from one of our many beach days, so many years back, and spots what he came in for just behind it. He grabs the car keys. Touches the photo of us in the sunshine for a split second then turns and walks out.  "Ready?" I ask. He grins at me with that wide stupidly boyish for his age grin. "I was waiting on you Bubs, whatdya mean?" he teases back. I poke my tongue out at him and He reaches for my hand like he does every time we're near one another. We head out the door together to meet our strong daughters son. Born today, just a bit earlier than expected.


“You built it right before… I did my best but-“ the cage swung softly from side to side. The men behind the wheels didn’t give the process a second thought. They lowered and raised cages, that was their job; what was in the cage was someone else’s job. Cleaning the cage was someone else’s job as well. Today under the blazing sun, I became what was in the cage and I prayed I wouldn’t be cleaned out of it. “The event will start once both cages hit the bottom of the pit,” the announcement echoed off the walls of the pit, followed by cheers from the lips of people who had nothing better to do with their day than to come to the market and watch a fool die. “Do you remember this? I finished it for you,” I whispered the words into existence and glanced at the opposite cage lowering beside my own. It held a man, which meant if people were betting, it would be for him. Women usually do not come out of the pit alive when they go in with men. He was glaring at me, ever since they closed the cage doors. I wonder what he saw. Was he scared? Maybe worried I was more than I appeared or was I just a fool standing between him and his prize. The cage touched the bottom of the pit and as he swung his door wide open I knew I would soon find out. “Come on out, don’t make this any harder,” He said. My fingers rested on the hot metal door and it squeaked as it slowly opened. His hand went out toward me and in another life I would think it was to help me, but I know why we’re here. I stepped out unassisted. “Do you have family?” he asked. “No, do you,” I replied and he gazed up at the top of the pit at a woman and two little boys. I took them in for a moment before the sight of zombies, with spray painted numbers on their chest, grabbed my attention as they were tossed in. He took a quick jab at my face. My head flung back. I stumbled for a moment. Cheers drowned out the sound of the zombies smacking into the ground. Some were still, killed on impact. Others crawled, spines shattered. And, then there were the ones that ran, unphased by the trauma. His boot connected with my gut and my body hurled back into the cage. The man grabbed me, like a butcher would a slab of meat, without care. He reached back and swung. Another jab to my face, there was blood, but from where I didn’t know. Another jab. More blood. He reached back once again preparing for another blow and then warm rain hit my face. I could see through my eye two fuzzy figures. “Oh God!” He shouted. I cleared the blood from my left eye. The right stung as I attempted to do the same. Only one of them was useful. It allowed me to see the zombie ripping into the man’s bloody arm. Flesh hung from its lips and instead of feasting on its victory, greed drove it to tear more. Grimy jagged teeth, with maggots jammed between them, ripped into the man’s open wound. They were huddled on each other, bent over the cage’s doorway. His fingers tightened around my shirt. I felt my body being dragged closer to the carnage, “Help!” He screamed. I touched the hot metal of the cage door, it was slick from the blood. I pulled it in as hard as I could, pinning them between the bars and the door. I stood up, shirt tearing underneath his grip and I slammed my boot down into the zombie’s neck. I raised my boot and slammed it. I raised it for a third time and then I felt it. The man’s bloody fingers warped around my ankle. “Please-“ So, I stomped down on him next. I kicked and stomped. Kicked and stomped until there was nothing but flesh and gore under my boots… and I kept stomping. It wasn’t until I felt arms pulling me from the cage that I realized they raised me to the top. There were cheers, boos from lost bets and tears from his family, but none of those things stood between me and my prize. People fought at the market table to buy supplies and zombies; some used them as pets, labor and slaves, “Well look at our little winner, so what do you want?” “I want a car and a zombie,” I said. “You get one prize for the pit,” he replied. “I killed a man and a zombie, that’s two deaths… one prize per death, those are the rules,” I said. “Zombies don’t count as a death,” he snapped back. “I just need an old car and an old zombie,” I said. The man combed his fingers through his thinning hair and sighed, “Alright, what kind of car? And, you can have one of the pit zombies.” “Don’t care what kind and I need number 87,” I said. “87? That’s a low number, I might not have it-“ “I went to four markets and they said you have the lowest numbers, can you check?” I pleaded. “Fine,” he said, “Just keep the collar on it or it’ll go rabid.” An hour later we were on the road. He said the car wouldn’t get me far but we didn’t have far to go. The tires rolled up the old driveway. I popped the truck to see you lying there, staring into nothingness. The bright green light blinking on your collar, keeping you simple and dull. It was one slow step after another until we were in the backyard. “You remember the birdhouse, Daddy? You were building it when…” I stopped and slowly loaded two bullets into the revolver, “ I finished it for you.


“Ashley, wait!”

There was no way I was going to give her the satisfaction of turning around. There was nothing left to explain. “Ashley, you bitch, I know it’s you!” I grabbed my apartment keys and gripped them tightly between my pointer and middle finger – just like my older sister had taught me in middle school. “Always go for the eyeballs or nuts,” she had told me, although I knew if she caught up to me my keys wouldn’t do a damn thing. I turned up Market Street and started walking faster. A group of tech bros were taking up the entire sidewalk and I pushed my way past them, knocking one into the other. “What the hell?” They yelled after me but I didn’t care. I broke out into a sprint. “Ashley, you need to stop right now!” She was gaining on me. I needed to think fast.

How the hell was this happening? How did she find me? And more importantly, where the hell were the others?

The karaoke bar my co-workers had talked about hitting up was close by. If I could just get there, they could protect me. There was power in numbers, right? Wait, that’s exactly what got me into this mess in the first place. I turn down an alleyway and started sprinting as fast as I could.

This was getting to be ridiculous. Was I going to spend my entire life running from them? They would never stop until they got what they wanted.

I slowed down to catch my breath. Tears streamed down my face. When did I start crying? What was going on? Why did she still have this effect -- this power -- on me after all these years? “Ashley, it’s time to pay for what you did." And then she was there in front of me, looking exactly like I remembered her.  The rockabilly wig was gone and her natural blonde hair cascaded down over her shoulders. God, she had always been so beautiful. "Ashley, it’s time to come home.”

*** The night had started in predictable fashion. The team had met up for drinks at the Mexican restaurant across the street from the office before people started closing their tabs or breaking off into smaller and smaller groups to figure out where to go next.

I was already three Rosarita Red margaritas in – Tio Johnny’s signature drink – and there was no way I was planning on heading home to my apartment anytime soon. Thankfully it appeared Jim, Laurel, and Brent from accounting weren’t ready to call it a night either. It was a motley crew, no doubt. I don’t think I had ever said more than five sentences to Brent before this evening but he seemed down and, more importantly, that he wouldn’t rat to HR in the morning should the night take a turn.

We were still trying to agree on a place to go next when my phone lit up. Derek was down at Lucky 13 with a crew and wanted to know if I wanted to roll by. Of course I wanted to roll by. I always wanted to roll by when it came to Derek. Derek. What the heck were we even doing? Why was I entertaining the thought of meeting with him and his pretentious band friends. “That chick I want you to meet is here,” he texted. I left Tio’s without saying good-bye. ***** The familiar smell of whiskey and popcorn hit my nostrils the minute I walked in. I found Derek out on the patio and went up to him and gave him an awkward half hug. A girl with blunt Bettie Paige bangs and too much eyeliner was standing next to him. Ugh, definitely his type. Why did I agree to meet her? Why was I torturing myself? “Liv, this is Ash,” he said. She looked me dead in the eyes. No fucking way.

“I think we’ve met before," she said with a smirk. My heart dropped. "Wait, what? Wild!" Derek said, oblivious to the tension between us. "I swear this city gets smaller and smaller." "Are you sure?" I said, trying to keep my cool. "People tell me I have a familiar-looking face all the time." "Oh I'm sure," she said. "You said it's Ashley, right?" "Her name is Liv," Derek said with a slight laugh. But I was already out the door before I could correct him. ***** I never wanted to be an Ashley. Growing up I would beg my mom again and again to call me Kelly, after my favorite afternoon TV alter-ego, but she wouldn’t budge. “I don’t want to be an Ashley anymore,” I would whine from the backseat of our beat up Plymouth Voyager, my older sister sitting next to me.

“Why?” she would sign. “All of your friends are Ashleys and you love your friends.” My mom was a lot of things, but creative wasn’t one of them. There were four other Ashleys in my class – seven in my grade alone. Who knew how many hundreds of others were out there. It was the most popular baby girl’s name of 1988 after all. But I didn't love them. I was scared of them. “Fine,” she would finally say. “What if we called you Ash?” Ashley Donte had already claimed Ash as her own. I wasn’t about to cross Ash Donte even if she was my best friend. You never wanted to cross Ash.

As I grew older I resigned myself to the fact that this sequence of letters was me, my identity. I was an Ashley – I was one of them – whether I liked it or not.

Until I wasn’t. Until they forced Ashley into hiding and Liv emerged. Liv was everything Ashley was not. Most importantly, she was free of the others and what they represented. Liv was alive. I moved across the country. I found a new job. New friends. A new life. The Ashleys couldn’t get to me. At first the hairs on the back of my arms would bristle when I would hear my former name. At Starbucks, in a bar. Until one day it didn’t mean anything. I was Liv. I was okay. They couldn’t make me do those things anymore. They couldn't hurt me. They say there's power in numbers, but I had found my strength all on my own.


DELAWARE UNDER COVER Delaware became a high schooler to the nth degree long before she had a clue what that meant. Her math and physics teacher had a knowledgeable hunch that this girl was going places far beyond the average person in the room. He made sure to remind her at every opportunity to keep up and not give up. In her shyness, she could only smile, and nod to thank him for his confidence in her abilities. She never, ever, made herself the center of any conversation or the one to be singled out in class with having the right answer, which she always had without fail. Some days were so obvious especially in her physics class. The instructor would present a complicated question about something so simple in her mind. But she kept quiet to let others attempt the outcome. After class, her instructor would, on occasion, motion for her to stay. He grinned and asked, “You knew all along how this was going to end. Right?” Delaware shrugged and smiled her answer. Her family always knew and told her that she was gifted, but those ‘presents’ were ones she kept wrapped up and only for her to open on occasion. Math and science, physics and engineering, were the cast of characters in her quiet world. She called on them at all times and they pulled through with an insurmountable level of learned knowledge and a sure fire way to offer a solution to a problem. Sometimes, it was an unavoidable predicament, when she was asked in class to respond and she presented her answer with as few words as possible. She kept a quiet demeanor with an unassumingly soft manner at all times towards the others in the classroom.  A note to the teacher after class seemed the best way for her to not be rude. Then there were the others in the room who brashly took center stage with bravado, because they could, and with that claim to fame, ran with it. If she was like them in the real world, that she so dreamed of one day, then she would step up and challenge them to a ‘battle of the brains’. But, for now, she stayed stuck in her chair while certain ones flashed their popularity badges, as a reminder to one and all, who the most important person was in the room. If Delaware stood up to the minions, what a day that would be! There were only a few friends who really knew the real Delaware. She was happy with those girls because they were the same. No show offs or big pretenders, just real people. Sometimes at lunchtime they would try to get her to speak up over the chatter in the room to let everyone hear her speech of the day. “Please, please, please!” they prompted her but it was so out of character that she told them that was not her, and she couldn’t stoop to that level. Delaware did promise her friends, that maybe someday soon, she would have the guts to be loud and proud.  That would really be something. Something that she could leave behind before the year ended and to change the way others looked to her, at her, and spoke about her in the background with the others.

Today was the last day of the school week and Delaware was counting down the minutes for the sound of the bell to signify the end of the day, the week and the month, in that order. She couldn’t wait to get to her job and the new offer they asked her to take the lead in. Her real joy and happy place was as a volunteer in a position that she happened upon a year ago. Her family took her for a surprise birthday visit and outing. It was a mystery ride that took them just outside the city. As soon as they arrived, Delaware was smitten with the place. The sign said it all; Noah’s Ark Animal Sanctuary. She was so happy and in awe, and couldn’t have been more excited to visit. She stuttered for a moment in pure joy and tried to think of the best way to thank her parents. They could see her personality change and hoped that this would be a day to remember. How did they know? Delaware wanted to ask . This was a treasure beyond anything she had ever received. Animals were her passion; drawing their pictures, and reading so many stories and books with animals as the main characters. The world was opening up to her happy place. They exited the car, and before proceeding to the gate, Delaware threw her arms around her Mom and Dad. She sniffled a bit and whispered a quiet thank you. They looked to one another, then to their daughter, smiled, and knew this was it. This would make a difference in her life. Back to the moment and the school bell rang. The door opened and a crowd of students, quite thankful the day was over, stampeded out. The mini-van, and her ride to the Ark, was always parked away from the entrance. No one seemed aware, even with the logo on the side, of her stepping inside the vehicle or if they did, it was of no big deal because no one asked, since most were too busy on their phones. Talking their ears off about where she spent her off time would be her new claim to fame, when and if that day ever came. The driver, who always chatted with her and made her feel special, dropped her off at the front gate and she skipped into the main building, so happy to be here! She waved to security and they gave her a thumbs up to proceed and she happily went to change into her work outfit. A quick look in the mirror and off she went to find her mentor, Jody, and the job assignment of the day. “Someone seems very happy today!” Delaware couldn’t contain her bright mood and answered with glee, “YES, I am!” Jody asked her to have a seat while she went over the latest and newest and currently the most asked about event. “Delaware,” she began, “I have something to offer and I know you’re a good fit. What would you say about working with Picasso, our Bengal Tiger?” The information Jody presented was beyond an exciting moment for Delaware. She knew she needed to be quiet for a moment and nodded in understanding her role. Did Jody know of her passion with animals as she drew them in her daily journal and the tons of books she’s read with illustrations of every animal on the planet? “Before we proceed, please go on your walk about to see which animals need food and water. If you notice anything else, please make a note of it.” As she busied herself with filling their needs, Delaware could not keep quiet. The animals were her best friends who showed no judgment to her at all. Well, only if she had treats for them and took too long to toss them. Each alpaca, sheep, goat, miniature pony and potbellied pig had a name. She made sure she addressed each one, because by now she had a loyal following and most of them knew their names and would come when called. Well, except for the potbellied pig. His name was Sir Galahad and it seemed he would not come to the call of a lowly peasant, even one with a treat.  He only snorted, digging a new hole in the dirt and tossed the used tire a few times, reminding everyone of his regal upbringing. The conversations she had with them were priceless. She could only imagine what they thought of humans when they visited and wandered around the sanctuary. Alpacas: “Hey, man, got any weed? Been needing some more to make my day!” Sheep: “I only want to pull the wool over your eyes! Heh, heh.” Goats: “Ask me no questions, or I’ll butt you to the sky!” Miniature Ponies: “Don’t even ask me if I provide an UBER service. Sheesh!” Potbellied Pig: “To be or not to be, that is my question as thou am more noble than you!” She finished her chores and went to visit with Picasso. They had a very intense conversation, growled, and together came up with a plan. She would set up an area, visible from a distance for visitors as it would be a work area for the artist. Flinging paint was his game. And so it began. Picasso drew visitors and tourists from far and wide who took were in awe seeing the amazing art pieces created by a tiger! It was only one way that the sanctuary used creative means to garner donations. As the summer months brought more and more people, news media and TV people wanted to contribute their advertising ways to aid the cause and bring more awareness of the need for donation help. Jody asked Delaware to be prepared for this to happen. And that’s when she panicked. Her old self was now in competition with her new self. Before this was to happen, the two worked together to offset a potential setback. Jody totally got this young person’s vibe and they came up with a clever way to get around this moment. The news vehicles arrived and set up their cameras and lights. The animals were on edge with the attention of this caliber of noise. But it took a calm Delaware calling out each of their names to start this new adventure, with her mentor following behind, only to provide moral support if necessary. As cameras followed along, walking the various areas of Noah’s Ark Animal Sanctuary, the news person would ask questions and the answers would be as if answered straight from the animal’s mouths. It was hysterically funny, yet serious in the answers to those questions. The pressure was off and the final question to end the moment was asked straight to Delaware and not an animal. “What makes you want to help these animals when you could be doing something else?” All lights were on her and a moment of silence hung in the air. She could have gone on and on about her life and the ones who made her feel insignificant or pushed her aside over and over to reach a higher branch, but instead, she smiled and said, “Because animals make us human.”